Datasets:

matthh

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gutenberg-poetry-corpus

like 6

A collection of A B C, Tumble down D A Diller, a Dollar, a Ten o'Clock Scholar A Farmer went Trotting upon his Grey Mare A little Boy went into a Barn A little Cock Sparrow sat on a Tree A Man went Hunting at Reigate A-milking, a-milking, my Maid As I was going along, long, long As I was going up Pippin Hill As I was going up Primrose Hill As I was going to St. Ives As I went to Bonner At the Siege of Belleisle I was there all the while Away, Birds, away! Baa, baa, Black Sheep (_Music_) Barber, Barber, shave a Pig Bat, Bat, come under my Hat Bless you, bless you, bonny Bee Blow, Wind, blow, and go, Mill, go Bow-wow-wow Boys and Girls, come out to Play Brow, brow, brinkie Charley, Charley, stole the Barley Come, let's to bed, says Sleepy-Head Cross-Patch, draw the Latch Curly-Locks, Curly-Locks, wilt thou be mine? Daffy-Down-dilly has come up to Town Dame Duck's Lessons to her Ducklings Dance to your Daddy Death and Burial of poor Cock Robin Deedle, deedle, Dumpling, my Son John Doctor Foster went to Glo'ster For every Evil under the Sun Four and Twenty Tailors went to kill a Snail Frog he would a-wooing go Frog's (The) Chorus Go to Bed first, a Golden Purse Handy, Spandy, Jack-a-Dandy Hark, hark, the Dogs do bark Here am I, little Jumping Joan He that would Thrive Hey, diddle, diddle High diddle doubt, my Candle's out Hush-a-bye, Baby Hush-a-bye, Baby, lie still with thy Daddy Hush Baby, my Doll, I pray you don't cry If all the World were Water If Wishes were Horses, Beggars would ride I had a little Dog, they called him Buff I had a little Hen, the prettiest ever seen I had a little Hobby-Horse I had a little Husband no bigger than my Thumb I had a little Pony I have a little Sister they call her Peep, Peep I'll tell you a Story I love Sixpence I saw a Ship a-sailing Is John Smith within? Jack and Jill went up the Hill (_Music_) Jack Sprat could eat no Fat Jack Sprat's Pig Jacky, come give me thy Fiddle Jenny shall have a new Bonnet John Cook he had a little Grey Mare Leg over Leg "Let us go to the Woods," says this Pig Little Blue Betty lived in a Lane Little Boy, pretty Boy, where were you born? Little Girl, little Girl, where have you been? Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a Rail Mary had a pretty Bird Mary, Mary, quite contrary Molly, my Sister, and I fell out My little Old Man and I fell out Old Woman, Old Woman, shall we go a-Shearing? One misty, moisty Morning One, Two, buckle my Shoe Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, Baker's Man Peter White will ne'er go right Pit, pat, well-a-day! Please to remember the Fifth of November Queen Anne, Queen Anne, she sits in the Sun Rain, Rain, go away Robin and Richard were two pretty Men See a Pin and pick it up See-saw, Margery Daw See, see, what shall I see? Snail, Snail, come out of your Hole Snail, Snail, come put out your Horn Some little Mice sat in a Barn Swan, Swan, over the Sea The Barber shaved the Mason The Cat sat asleep by the side of the Fire The Cock doth Crow The Cuckoo's a bonny Bird The great Brown Owl The House that Jack built The King of France went up the Hill The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the Crown The North Wind doth blow The Old Woman must stand at the Tub, Tub, Tub There was a little Man and he had a little Gun There was a Monkey climbed up a Tree There was an Old Woman, and what do you think? There was an Old Woman as I've heard tell There was an Old Woman called Nothing-at-all There was an Old Woman lived under a Hill There was an Old Woman tossed up in a Basket There was an Old Woman who lived in a Shoe There was an Owl lived in an Oak There was a Rat, for want of Stairs There were Three Crows sat ona Stone The Rose is Red, the Violet's Blue The Turtle Dove's Nest The Waves on the Sea-shore Thomas a Tattamus took two T's Three Children sliding on the Ice To make your Candles last for aye To Market, to Market, a gallop, a trot Tommy kept a Chandler's Shop Tom Thumb's Alphabet Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son (_Music_) Twinkle, twinkle, little Star Two Legs sat upon Three Legs Up Hill and down Dale Up Hill, spare me We'll go a-shooting What's the News of the Day? When I was a Bachelor, I lived by myself When Little Fred went to Bed Where are you going to, my pretty Maid? Who Stole the Bird's Nest? Willy Boy, Willy Boy, where are you going? Young Lambs to sell, Young Lambs to sell You shall have an Apple OLD Mother Goose, when She wanted to wander, Would ride through the air On a very fine gander. Mother Goose had a house, 'Twas built in a wood, Where an owl at the door For sentinel stood. A plain-looking lad, He is not very good, Nor yet very bad. She sent him to market, A live goose he bought, "Here, mother," says he, "It will not go for nought." Jack's goose and her gander Grew very fond, They'd both eat together, Or swim in one pond. Jack found one fine morning As I have been told, His goose had laid him An egg of pure gold. Jack rode to his mother, The news for to tell, She called him a good boy And said it was well. Jack sold his gold egg Who cheated him out of The half of his due. Then Jack went a-courting A lady so gay, As fair as the lily, And sweet as the May. Came behind his back, And began to belabour The sides of poor Jack. And then the gold egg Was thrown into the sea, When Jack he jumped in, And got it back presently. Which he vowed he would kill, Resolving at once His pockets to fill. Jack's mother came in, And caught the goose soon, And mounting its back, Flew up to the moon. BOYS and girls, come out to play, The moon does shine as bright as day, Leave your supper, and leave your sleep, And meet your playfellows in the street; Come with a whoop, and come with a call, And come with a good will, or not at all. Up the ladder and down the wall, A halfpenny loaf will serve us all. You find milk and I'll find flour, And we'll have a pudding in half an hour. who shot at a frog.] who had a great dog.] all covered with lace.] who played with a grace.] with pride on his brow.] who followed the plough.] who had but ill-luck.] who hunted a buck.] who had a white mouse.] who built up a house.] so mighty and grand.] who had a white hand.] who hoarded up gold.] gallant and bold.] who played for his bread.] of bad boys the dread.] who would not bow down.] who prowled about town.] who spent all he got.] who mended a pot.] with dunces severe.] who never knew fear.] with dinners in store.] and so became poor.] who did not like school.] who looked a great fool.] THE sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!" The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly. Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it _would_ be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. "O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view? "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer there came none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. A man went hunting at Reigate, And wished to jump over a high gate; Says the owner, "Go round, With your horse and your hound, For you never shall leap over my gate." Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; All the king's horses, and all the king's men, Couldn't set Humpty Dumpty up again.] There was an Owl lived in an oak, And all the words he ever spoke A sportsman chanced to come that way, Says he, "I'll shoot you, silly bird, WHEN good King Arthur ruled this land, He was a goodly King; He bought three pecks of barley-meal, To make a bag-pudding. A bag-pudding the King did make, And stuffed it well with plums, And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs. The King and Queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The Queen next morning fried. To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, Home again, home again, jiggety jig. To market, to market, to buy a fat hog, Home again, home again, jiggety jog. Hot cross buns, hot cross buns, One a penny, two a penny, Hot cross buns. If your daughters don't like them, Give them to your sons, One a penny, two a penny, Hot cross buns. TO-WHIT! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made? Not I, said the cow, moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, But did not take your nest away; Not I, said the cow, moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. Now, what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree to-day? Not I, said the dog, bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean, I vow. I gave some hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take; Not I, said the dog, bow-wow! I would not be so mean, I vow. Coo-coo! coo-coo! coo-coo! Let me speak a word or two: Who stole that pretty nest From little Robin Redbreast? Not I, said the sheep; oh, no, I would not treat a poor bird so; I gave the wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! baa! said the sheep; oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. Caw! caw! cried the crow, I should like to know What thief took away A bird's-nest to-day. Chuck! chuck! said the hen, Don't ask me again; Why, I haven't a chick Would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together. I'd scorn to intrude On her and her brood. Chuck! chuck! said the hen, Don't ask me again. Chirr-a-whirr! chirr-a-whirr! We will make a great stir. Let us find out his name, And all cry--For shame! A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed; For he stole that pretty nest From little Robin Redbreast; And he felt so full of shame He did not like to tell his name. There was a jolly miller Lived on the river Dee: He worked and sang from morn till night, No lark so blithe as he. And this the burden of his song For ever used to be-- I care for nobody--no! not I, Since nobody cares for me. The pig flew up in the air; The man in brown soon brought him down, Molly, my sister, and I fell out, And what do you think it was about? She loved coffee, and I loved tea, And that was the reason we couldn't agree. Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean; And so betwixt them both, you see, They licked the platter clean. As I went to Bonner, I met a pig Without a wig, Upon my word and honour. Hush, baby, my doll, I pray you don't cry, And I'll give you some bread, and some milk by-and-by; Then to either you are welcome, with all my heart. Shoe the wild colt; Here a nail, And there a nail, Brow, brow, brinkie, Eye, eye, winkie, Mouth, mouth, merry, Cheek, cheek, cherry, Chin chopper, chin chopper, If you are to be a gentleman, as I suppose you'll be, You'll neither laugh nor smile for a tickling of the knee. "Where are you going to, my pretty maid?" "I am going a-milking, sir," she said. "May I go with you, my pretty maid?" "You're kindly welcome, sir," she said. "What is your father, my pretty maid?" "My father's a farmer, sir," she said. "What is your fortune, my pretty maid?" "My face is my fortune, sir," she said. "Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid." "Nobody asked you, sir," she said. The barber shaved the mason, And as I suppose Cut off his nose, And popped it in the basin. Went to the cupboard, To get her poor Dog a bone; But when she came there The cupboard was bare, And so the poor Dog had none. She went to the baker's To buy him some bread, But when she came back The poor Dog was dead. She went to the joiner's To buy him a coffin, But when she came back The poor Dog was laughing, She took a clean dish To get him some tripe, But when she came back He was smoking a pipe. She went to the alehouse To get him some beer, But when she came back The Dog sat in a chair. She went to the tavern For white wine and red, But when she came back The Dog stood on his head. She went to the hatter's To buy him a hat, But when she came back He was feeding the cat. She went to the barber's To buy him a wig, But when she came back He was dancing a jig. She went to the fruiterer's To buy him some fruit, But when she came back He was playing the flute. She went to the tailor's To buy him a coat, But when she came back He was riding a goat. She went to the cobbler's To buy him some shoes, But when she came back He was reading the news. She went to the sempstress To buy him some linen, But when she came back The Dog was a-spinning. She went to the hosier's To buy him some hose, But when she came back He was dressed in his clothes. The Dame made a curtsey, The Dog made a bow; The Dame said, "Your servant," The Dog said, "Bow wow." This wonderful Dog Was Dame Hubbard's delight; He could sing, he could dance, He could read, he could write. She gave him rich dainties Whenever he fed, And erected a monument When he was dead. Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, Eating a Christmas pie; He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum, And said, "What a good boy am I!"] There was a monkey climbed up a tree; When he fell down, then down fell he. There was a crow sat on a stone; When he was gone, then there was none. There was an old wife did eat an apple; When she ate two, she had ate a couple. There was a horse going to the mill; When he went on, he didn't stand still. There was a butcher cut his thumb. When it did bleed, then blood it did run. There was a jockey ran a race; When he ran fast, he ran apace. There was a cobbler, clouting shoon; When they were mended, then they were done. There was a navy went into Spain; When it returned, it came back again. ROLL on, roll on, you restless waves, That toss about and roar; Why do you all run back again When you have reached the shore? Roll on, roll on, you noisy waves, Roll higher up the strand; How is it that you cannot pass That line of yellow sand? "We may not dare," the waves reply: "That line of yellow sand Is laid along the shore to bound The waters and the land. "And all should keep to time and place, And all should keep to rule, Both waves upon the sandy shore, And little boys at school." IT was on a merry time, When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she danced, And so sweetly as she sung,-- Robin Redbreast lost his heart: He was a gallant bird; He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said: "My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry-pie, And drink nice currant-wine. "I'll dress you like a goldfinch, Or like a peacock gay; So if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day." Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob,-- I take your offer kind; "Cherry-pie is very good, So is currant-wine; But I'll wear my russet gown, And never dress too fine." Robin rose up early, At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house, To sing a roundelay. And bade the Cock declare, This was his wedding-day With Jenny Wren the fair. The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbours know This was Robin's wedding-day, And they might see the show. At first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band; And one of Mother Hubbard's books He held within his hand. Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be the clerk At Cock Robin's wedding. He sang of Robin's love And when he came unto the end, Then he began again. The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the Bride; The Linnet, being bridesmaid, Walked by Jenny's side; And as she was a-walking, Said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock Robin Is a very pretty bird." And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet "jug" sweetly echoes Through every grove and dale; And many more, were there; All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren the fair. The Bullfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say, "Pray mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch dressed so gay: "What though her gay apparel Becomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and look Must bear away the bell." Then came the Bride and Bridegroom; Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks were As red as Robin's breast. But Robin cheered her up; "My pretty Jen," said he, "We're going to be married, And happy we shall be." "Oh, then," says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay: "Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside: Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!" "And will you have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life!" "And you will have him, Jenny, Your husband now to be?" "Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily!" Then on her finger fair Cock Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says Parson Rook, While the Lark aloud did sing: "Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride! And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide!" The birds were asked to dine, Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had Cock Robin known. They had a cherry-pie, Besides some currant-wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine. Now they all sat or stood, To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think. They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair, Cock Robin the bridegroom, And Jenny the fair. The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place Near a mile round to ring. The concert it was fine; And every bird tried Who best should sing for Robin, And Jenny Wren the bride. When in came the Cuckoo, And made a great rout; He caught hold of Jenny, And pulled her about. Cock Robin was angry, Who fetched in a hurry His bow and his arrow. His aim then he took, But he took it not right; His skill was not good, Or he shot in a fright; For the Cuckoo he missed, But Cock Robin he killed!-- And all the birds mourned That his blood was so spilled. WHO killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin. With his bow and arrow. Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, With my little eye, I saw him die. This is the little Fly Who saw Cock Robin die. Who caught his blood? I, said the Fish, With my little dish, I caught his blood. That held the dish. Who'll make his shroud? I, said the Beetle, With my thread and needle, I'll make his shroud. With his thread and needle. Who'll dig his grave? I, said the Owl, I'll dig his grave. Who'll be the Parson? I, said the Rook, With my little book, I'll be the Parson. Reading his book. Who'll be the Clerk? I, said the Lark, If it's not in the dark, I'll be the Clerk. Saying "Amen" like a clerk. Who'll carry him to the grave? I, said the Kite, If it's not in the night, I'll carry him to the grave. About to take flight. Who'll carry the link? I, said the Linnet, I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link. And a link with fire in it. Who'll be chief mourner? I, said the Dove, For I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner. Who Cock Robin did love. Who'll sing a psalm? I, said the Thrush, As she sat in a bush, I'll sing a psalm. Singing psalms from a bush. Who'll toll the bell? I, said the Bull, Because I can pull; So, Cock Robin, farewell! Who the bell-rope did pull. All the birds of the air Fell a-sighing and sobbing, When they heard the bell toll FREDDIE saw some fine ripe cherries Hanging on a cherry-tree, And he said, "You pretty cherries, Will you not come down to me?" "Thank you kindly," said a cherry, "We would rather stay up here; If we ventured down this morning, You would eat us up, I fear." One, the finest of the cherries, Dangled from a slender twig; "You are beautiful," said Freddie, "Red and ripe, and oh, how big!" "Catch me," said the cherry, "catch me, Little master, if you can." "I would catch you soon," said Freddie, "If I were a grown-up man." Freddie jumped, and tried to reach it, Standing high upon his toes; But the cherry bobbed about, And laughed, and tickled Freddie's nose. Simple Simon met a pieman, Going to the fair; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware." Says the pieman to Simple Simon, "Show me first your penny." Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Indeed I have not any."] And thought he could not fail, Because he'd got a little salt To put upon his tail. He went to take a bird's nest, Was built upon a bough: A branch gave way, and Simon fell Into a dirty slough. He went to shoot a wild duck, But wild duck flew away; Says Simon, "I can't hit him, Because he will not stay." Simple Simon went a-hunting, For to catch a hare, He rode an ass about the streets, But couldn't find one there. Simple Simon went a-fishing For to catch a whale; All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail. He went for to eat honey He bit his tongue until he cried, That was all the good he got. He went to ride a spotted cow, That had a little calf, She threw him down upon the ground, Which made the people laugh. Once Simon made a great snowball, And brought it in to roast; He laid it down before the fire, And soon the ball was lost. He went to slide upon the ice, Before the ice would bear; Then he plunged in above his knees, Which made poor Simon stare. He washed himself with blacking-ball, Because he had no soap; Then said unto his mother, "I'm a beauty now, I hope." Simple Simon went to look If plums grew on a thistle; He pricked his fingers very much, Which made poor Simon whistle. He went for water in a sieve, But soon it all ran through; And now poor Simple Simon Bids you all adieu. Willy boy, Willy boy, where are you going? I will go with you, if I may. I am going to the meadows, to see them mowing, I am going to see them make the hay. Away, Birds, away! Take a little, and leave a little, And do not come again; For if you do, I will shoot you through, And then there will be an end of you. I had a little dog, they called him Buff, I sent him to the shop for a hap'orth of snuff; But he lost the bag, and spilt the snuff, So take that cuff, and that's enough. The Cock doth crow To let you know, If you be wise, 'T is time to rise. Had a cat, It had but one ear, It went to buy butter, When butter was dear. The King of France went up the hill, With twenty thousand men, The King of France came down the hill, And ne'er went up again. A carrion crow sat on an oak, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, Watching a tailor shape his coat; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do! Wife, bring me my old bent bow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, That I may shoot yon carrion crow; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do! The tailor shot, and he missed his mark, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, And shot the miller's sow right through the heart; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do! Wife! oh wife! bring brandy in a spoon, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, For the old miller's sow is in a swoon; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do! Mary had a pretty bird, Feathers bright and yellow, Slender legs--upon my word, He was a pretty fellow. The sweetest notes he always sung, Which much delighted Mary, And near the cage she'd ever sit, To hear her own canary. Little Blue Betty lived in a lane, She sold good ale to gentlemen: Gentlemen came every day, And Little Blue Betty hopped away; She hopped upstairs to make her bed, And she tumbled down, and broke her head. In a white petticoat, With a red nose; The longer she stands, The shorter she grows. A FROG he would a-wooing go, Heigho, says Rowley, Whether his mother would let him or no. With a rowley powley, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! So off he set with his opera hat, Heigho, says Rowley, And on the road he met with a rat. With a rowley powley, &c. "Pray, Mr. Rat, will you go with me, Heigho, says Rowley, Kind Mrs. Mousey for to see?" With a rowley powley, &c. When they came to the door of Mousey's hall, Heigho, says Rowley, They gave a loud knock, and they gave a loud call. With a rowley powley, &c. "Pray, Mrs. Mouse, are you within?" Heigho, says Rowley, "Oh, yes, kind sirs, I'm sitting to spin." With a rowley powley, &c. "Pray, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us some beer? Heigho, says Rowley, For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer." With a rowley powley, &c. "Pray, Mr. Frog, will you give us a song? Heigho, says Rowley, But let it be something that's not very long." With a rowley powley, &c. "Indeed, Mrs. Mouse," replied the Frog, Heigho, says Rowley, "A cold has made me as hoarse as a hog." With a rowley powley, &c. "Since you have caught cold, Mr. Frog," Mousey said, Heigho, says Rowley, "I'll sing you a song that I have just made." With a rowley powley, &c. But while they were all a merry-making, Heigho, says Rowley, A cat and her kittens came tumbling in. With a rowley powley, &c. The cat she seized the rat by the crown; Heigho, says Rowley, The kittens they pulled the little mouse down. With a rowley powley, &c. This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright; Heigho, says Rowley. He took up his hat, and he wished them good night. With a rowley powley, &c. But as Froggy was crossing over a brook, Heigho, says Rowley, A lily-white duck came and gobbled him up. With a rowley powley, &c. So there was an end of one, two, and three, Heigho, says Rowley, The Rat, the Mouse, and the little Frog-gee! With a rowley powley, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! I SAW a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea; And, oh! it was all laden With pretty things for thee! There were comfits in the cabin, And apples in the hold; The sails were made of silk, And the masts were made of gold. The four and twenty sailors That stood between the decks, Were four and twenty white mice, With chains about their necks. The captain was a duck, With a packet on his back; And when the ship began to move, The captain said, "Quack! quack!" Tom, Tom, was a pi per's son, He learn'd to play when he was young; But the only tune that he could play, Was "Over the hills and far away." Tom with his pipe made such a noise, That he pleased both the girls and boys; They'd dance and skip while he did play, "Over the hills and far away."] Tom with his pipe did play with such skill, That those who heard him could never keep still; As soon as he play'd they began for to dance, Even pigs on their hind-legs would after him prance. He met Old Dame Trot with a basket of Eggs-- He used his pipe and she used her legs; She danc'd about till her eggs were all broke, She began for to fret, but he laugh'd at the joke. And as Dolly was milking her cow one day,] Tom took out his pipe and began for to play; So Doll and the cow they danc'd a lilt, Till the pail fell down and the milk was all spilt. Tom saw a cross fellow was beating an ass, Heavy laden with pots, pans, dishes, and glass; He took out his pipe and he play'd them a tune, And the poor donkey's load was lighten'd full soon.] THERE was an old woman, as I've heard tell, She went to market her eggs for to sell; She went to market all on a market day, And she fell asleep on the King's highway. There came by a pedlar, whose name was Stout, He cut her petticoats all round about; He cut her petticoats up to the knees, Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze. When the little old woman first did wake, She began to shiver and she began to shake; She began to wonder, and she began to cry, "Lauk a mercy on me, this can't be I! But if it be I, as I hope it be, I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me; If it be I, he'll wag his little tail, And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail." Home went the little woman all in the dark, Up got the little dog, and he began to bark; He began to bark, so she began to cry, "Lauk a mercy on me, this is none of I!" _High_ diddle ding, Did you hear the bells ring? The Parliament soldiers are gone to the King! Some they did laugh, some they did cry, To see the Parliament soldiers pass by. Three wise men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl had been stronger My story had been longer. Little Boy Blue, come, blow me your horn; The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn. Where's the little boy that looks after the sheep? He's under the haycock, fast asleep. Two Robin Redbreasts built their nests Within a hollow tree; The hen sat quietly at home, The cock sang merrily; And all the little young ones said, One day (the sun was warm and bright, And shining in the sky), Cock Robin said, "My little dears, 'T is time you learn to fly;" And all the little young ones said, I know a child, and _who she is_ I'll tell you by-and-by, When Mamma says, "Do this," or "that," She says, "What for?" and "Why?" She'd be a better child by far If she would say "I'll try." THERE was an old woman Lived under a hill, And if she's not gone, She lives there still. We are all in the dumps, For diamonds are trumps, The kittens are gone to St. Paul's, The babies are bit, The moon's in a fit, And the houses are built without walls. AS I was going along, long, long, A-singing a comical song, song, song, The lane that I went was so long, long, long, And the song that I sung was so long, long, long, And so I went singing along. A-milking, a-milking, my maid, "Cow, take care of your heels," she said; "And you shall have some nice new hay, If you'll quietly let me milk away." Old father Grey Beard, Without tooth or tongue, If you'll give me your finger, I'll give you my thumb. Dance a baby diddit, What can his mother do with it, But sit in a lap, And give him some pap? Dance a baby diddit. Snail, snail, come out of your hole, Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal. At the siege of Belleisle I was there all the while, All the while, all the while, at the siege of Belleisle. Bye, baby bunting, Father's gone a-hunting, Mother's gone a-milking, Sister's gone a-silking, Brother's gone to buy a skin To wrap the baby bunting in. Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell; If I had as much money as I could tell I never would cry young lambs to sell, Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell, I never would cry, young lambs to sell. Come, let's to bed, says Sleepy-head; Tarry a while, says Slow; Put on the pan, says Greedy Nan, Let's sup before we go. To make your candles last for aye, You wives and maids give ear-o! To put them out's the only way, Says honest John Boldero. THE Brown Owl sits in the ivy-bush, And she looketh wondrous wise, With a horny beak beneath her cowl, And a pair of large round eyes. She sat all day on the selfsame spray, From sunrise till sunset; And the dim grey light, it was all too bright For the Owl to see in yet. "Jenny Owlet, Jenny Owlet," said a merry little bird, "They say you're wondrous wise; But I don't think you see, though you're looking at ME With your large, round, shining eyes." But night came soon, and the pale white moon Rolled high up in the skies; And the great Brown Owl flew away in her cowl, With her large, round, shining eyes. Sings for his supper: What shall he eat? White bread and butter. How shall he cut it Without e'er a knife? How can he marry Without e'er a wife?] Four and twenty tailors went to kill a snail, The best man amongst them durst not touch her tail. She put out her horns, like a little Kyloe cow, Run, tailors, run, or she'll kill you all just now. Doctor Foster went to Glo'ster, In a shower of rain; He stepped in a puddle, up to the middle, And never went there again. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? Silver bells and cockle-shells, And pretty maids all in a row. The man in the moon Came tumbling down, And asked the way to Norwich; He went by the south, And burnt his mouth With eating cold pease porridge. Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a rail, Niddle, naddle, went his head, wiggle, waddle, went his tail; Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a bridle, With a pair of speckle legs, and a green girdle. Pit, pat, well-a-day! Little Robin flew away; Where can little Robin be, But up in yon cherry-tree? Ding, dong, darrow, The cat and the sparrow; The little dog has burnt his tail, And he shall be whipped to-morrow. OLD MOTHER DUCK has hatched a brood Of ducklings, small and callow: Their little wings are short, their down Is mottled grey and yellow. There is a quiet little stream, That runs into the moat, Where tall green sedges spread their leaves, And water-lilies float. Close by the margin of the brook The old Duck made her nest, Of straw, and leaves, and withered grass, And down from her own breast. And there she sat for four long weeks, In rainy days and fine, Until the Ducklings all came out-- Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. One peeped out from beneath her wing, One scrambled on her back: "That's very rude," said old Dame Duck, "Get off! quack, quack, quack, quack!" "'T is close," said Dame Duck, shoving out The egg-shells with her bill, "Besides, it never suits young ducks To keep them sitting still." So, rising from her nest, she said, "Now, children, look at me: A well-bred duck should waddle so, From side to side--d'ye see?" "Yes," said the little ones, and then She went on to explain: "A well-bred duck turns in its toes As I do--try again." "Yes," said the Ducklings, waddling on. "That's better," said their mother; "But well-bred ducks walk in a row, Straight--one behind another." "Yes," said the little Ducks again, All waddling in a row: "Now to the pond," said old Dame Duck-- Splash, splash! and in they go. "Let me swim first," said old Dame Duck, "To this side, now to that; There, snap at those great brown-winged flies, They make young ducklings fat. "Now when you reach the poultry-yard, The hen-wife, Molly Head, Will feed you, with the other fowls, On bran and mashed-up bread; "The hens will peck and fight, but mind, I hope that all of you Will gobble up the food as fast As well-bred ducks should do. "You'd better get into the dish, Unless it is too small; In that case, I should use my foot, And overturn it all." The Ducklings did as they were bid, And found the plan so good, That, from that day, the other fowls Got hardly any food. Is John Smith within? Yes, that he is. Can he set a shoe? Ay, marry, two. Here a nail, there a nail, Tick, tack, too. John Cook he had a little grey mare, hee, haw, hum; Her legs were long and her back was bare, hee, haw, hum. John Cook was riding up Shooter's Bank, hee, haw, hum; The mare she began to kick and to prank, hee, haw, hum. John Cook was riding up Shooter's Hill, hee, haw, hum; His mare fell down and made her will, hee, haw, hum. The bridle and saddle were laid on the shelf, hee, haw, hum; If you want any more, you may sing it yourself, hee, haw, hum. Was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; And he called for his pipe And he called for his glass, And he called for his fiddlers three! B bit it. C cut it. D dealt it. E eat it. F fought for it. G got it. H hid it. J jumped for it. K kept it. L longed for it. M mourned for it. N nodded at it. O opened it. P peeped at it. Q quartered it. R ran for it. S stole it. T tried for it. V viewed it. Amperse-and, All wished for A piece in hand. Oh, the rusty, dusty, rusty miller, I'll not change my wife for gold or siller. There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, And he found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile; He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house. High diddle doubt, my candle's out, My little maid is not at home; Saddle my hog and bridle my dog, And fetch my little maid home. Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full: One for my master, one for my dame, And one for the little boy that lives in our lane. Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.] Barber, barber, shave a pig. How many hairs will make a wig? Four and twenty; that's enough. Give the poor barber a pinch of snuff. The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown, The Lion beat the Unicorn all round about the town. Some gave them white bread, some gave them brown, Some gave them plum-cake, and sent them out of town. Thomas a Tattamus took two T's To tie two tups to two tall trees, To frighten the terrible Thomas a Tattamus. Tell me how many T's there are in all THAT. They were two bonny lasses, They built a house upon the lea, And covered it o'er with rashes. Bessy kept the garden gate, And Mary kept the pantry; Bessy always had to wait, While Mary lived in plenty. LITTLE boy, pretty boy, where were you born? In Lincolnshire, master; come, blow the cow's horn. Hey, diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed to see such sport, And the dish ran after the spoon. DID you ever see the nest When the little downy birds Are lying snugly in it, Gaping wide their yellow mouths For something nice to eat? Caterpillar, worm, and grub, They reckon dainty meat. When the mother-bird returns, And finds them still and good, She will give them each, by turns, A proper share of food. She has hopped from spray to spray, And peeped with knowing eye Into all the folded leaves Where caterpillars lie. She has searched among the grass, And flown from tree to tree, Catching gnats and flies, to feed Her little family. I have seen the Linnets chirp, And shake their downy wings: They are pleased to see her come, And pleased with what she brings. But I never saw them look Impatient for their food: _Somebody_, at dinner-time, Is seldom quite so good. See-saw, Margery Daw, Jenny shall have a new master; She shall have but a penny a day, Because she can't work any faster. DANCE to your daddy, My little babby; Dance to your daddy, My little lamb. You shall have a fishy, In a little dishy; You shall have a fishy, When the boat comes in. Queen Anne, Queen Anne, she sits in the sun, As fair as the lily, as white as the swan: I send you three letters, so pray you read one. I cannot read one unless I read all; So pray, Master Teddy, deliver the ball. Little girl, little girl, where have you been? Gathering roses to give to the Queen. Little girl, little girl, what gave she you? She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe. There was an old woman tossed up in a basket, Ninety times as high as the moon; And where she was going, I couldn't but ask it, For in her hand she carried a broom. Old woman, old woman, old woman, quoth I, O whither, O whither, O whither so high? To sweep the cobwebs off the sky! Shall I go with you? Ay, by-and-by. When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself, And all the meat I got I put upon a shelf; The rats and the mice did lead me such a life, That I went to London, to get myself a wife. The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so narrow, I could not get my wife home without a wheelbarrow, The wheelbarrow broke, my wife got a fall, Down tumbled wheelbarrow, little wife, and all. Robin and Richard were two pretty men, They lay in bed till the clock struck ten; Then up starts Robin and looks in the sky, "Oh, brother Richard, the sun's very high! You go on with bottle and bag, And I'll come after with jolly Jack Nag." Blow, wind, blow, and go, mill, go, That the miller may grind his corn; That the baker may take it, And into rolls make it, And bring us some hot in the morn. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, And Jack jump over the candlestick. Ride a cock-horse To see a fine lady Upon a white horse. Rings on her fingers, Bells on her toes, She shall have music Wherever she goes. A FOX jumped up on a moonlight night, The stars were shining, and all things bright; "Oh, ho!" said the Fox, "it's a very fine night For me to go through the town, heigho!" The Fox when he came to yonder stile, He lifted his ears, and he listened awhile; "Oh, ho!" said the Fox, "it's but a short mile From this unto yonder town, heigho!" The Fox when he came to the farmer's gate, Whom should he see but the farmer's Drake; "I love you well for your master's sake, And long to be picking your bones, heigho!" The grey Goose ran right round the haystack. "Oh, ho!" said the Fox, "you are very fat; You'll do very well to ride on my back, From this into yonder town, heigho!" The farmer's wife she jumped out of bed, And out of the window she popped her head; "Oh, husband! oh, husband! the Geese are all dead, For the Fox has been through the town, heigho!" The farmer he loaded his pistol with lead, And shot the old rogue of a Fox through the head; "Ah, ha!" said the farmer, "I think you're quite dead, And no more you'll trouble the town, heigho!" PEASE pudding hot, Pease pudding cold, Pease pudding in the pot, Nine days old. Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, Nine days old. Curly-locks, Curly-locks, wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine; But sit on a cushion, and sew a fine seam, And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream. Margery Mutton-pie, and Johnny Bo-peep, They met together in Gracechurch Street; In and out, in and out, over the way, Oh! says Johnny, 'tis Chop-nose Day. There was a Rat, for want of stairs, Went down a rope to say his prayers. Snail, snail, come put out your horn, To-morrow is the day to shear the corn. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, If turnips were watches, I would wear one by my side. Hark, hark, The dogs do bark, The beggars are coming to town; Some in jags, Some in rags, And some in velvet gown. One, two, buckle my shoe; Three, four, shut the door; Five, six, pick up sticks; Seven, eight, lay them straight; Nine, ten, a good fat hen; Eleven, twelve, dig and delve; Thirteen, fourteen, maids a-courting; Fifteen, sixteen, maids in the kitchen; Seventeen, eighteen, maids in waiting; Nineteen, twenty, my plate is empty. I had a little husband, no bigger than my thumb; I put him in a pint pot, and there I bid him drum. I bought a little horse that galloped up and down; I saddled him, and bridled him, and sent him out of town. I gave him some garters, to garter up his hose, And a little pocket-handkerchief to wipe his pretty nose. I have a little sister; they call her Peep, Peep, She wades the water, deep, deep, deep; She climbs the mountains, high, high, high. Poor little thing! she has but one eye. Goosey, goosey, gander, whither shall I wander, Up stairs, and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber. There I met an old man, who would not say his prayers, I took him by his left leg, and threw him down the stairs.] Handy Spandy, Jack-a-dandy, Loves plum-cake and sugarcandy; He brought some at a grocer's shop, And out he came, hop-hop-hop. If all the world were water, And all the water were ink, What should we do for bread and cheese? What should we do for drink? Hey, my kitten, my kitten, Hey, my kitten, my deary; Such a sweet pet as this Was neither far nor neary. Here we go down, down, down; Here we go backwards and forwards, And here we go round, round, round. I had a little pony; They called him Dapple-grey. I lent him to a lady, To ride a mile away. She whipped him, she slashed She rode him through the mire; I would not lend my pony now, For all the lady's hire. See, see. What shall I see? A horse's head where his tail should be. I've been to London to look at the Queen. I frightened a little mouse under the chair. Lived in a little house; He caught fishes In other men's ditches. This is the MALT That lay in the house that Jack built. That ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the CAT, That killed the rat, That ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the DOG, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the COW with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the MAIDEN all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the MAN all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, That killed the rat, that ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the PRIEST all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, That killed the rat, that ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the COCK that crowed in the morn, That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, That killed the rat, that ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the FARMER who sowed the corn, That kept the cock that crowed in the morn, That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, That killed the rat, that ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built. Old mother Widdle Waddle jumped out of bed, And out of the casement she popped her head, Crying, "The house is on fire, the grey goose is dead, And the fox has come to the town, oh!" Two legs sat upon three legs, With one leg in his lap; In comes four legs, And runs away with one leg; Up jumps two legs, Catches up three legs, Throws it after four legs, And makes him bring one leg back. A little boy went into a barn, And lay down on some hay; An owl came out and flew about, And the little boy ran away. As I was going up Primrose Hill, Primrose Hill was dirty; There I met a pretty Miss, And she dropped me a curtsey. Little Miss, pretty Miss, Blessings light upon you; If I had half-a-crown a day, I'd spend it all upon you. I had a little Hen, the prettiest ever seen, She washed me the dishes and kept the house clean; She went to the mill to fetch me some flour, She brought it home in less than an hour; She baked me my bread, she brewed me my ale, She sat by the fire and told many a fine tale. There was a little man, and he had a little gun, And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead; He shot Johnny King through the middle of his wig, And knocked it right off his head, head, head. Three straws on a staff, Would make a baby cry and laugh. Multiplication is vexation, Division is as bad; The Rule of Three perplexes me, And Practice drives me mad. Daffy-down-Dilly has come up to town, In a yellow petticoat and a green gown. She made some tarts All on a summer's day; He stole those tarts, And took them clean away. Called for the tarts, And beat the Knave full sore; Brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more. There were three crows sat on a stone, Fal la, la la lal de, Two flew away, and then there was one, Fal la, la la lal de, The other crow finding himself alone, Fal la, la la lal de, He flew away, and then there was none, Fal la, la la lal de. To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after. As fast as he could caper; Dame Jill had the job to plaister his knob, With vinegar and brown paper. To see his paper plaister, Mother vex'd did whip her next, For causing Jack's disaster.] When the wind is in the East, 'Tis neither good for man nor beast; When the wind is in the North, The skilful fisher goes not forth; When the wind is in the South, It blows the bait in the fishes' mouth; When the wind is in the West, Then 'tis at the very best. Cry, baby, cry, Put your finger in your eye, And tell your mother it wasn't I. VERY high in the pine-tree, The little Turtle-dove Made a pretty little nursery, To please her little love. She was gentle, she was soft, And her large dark eye Often turned to her mate, Who was sitting close by. "Coo," said the Turtle-dove, "Oh, I love thee," said the Turtle-dove. "And I love THEE." In the long shady branches Of the dark pine-tree, How happy were the Doves In their little nursery! The young Turtle-doves Never quarrelled in the nest; For they dearly loved each other, Though they loved their mother best. "Coo," said the little Doves. And they played together kindly In the dark pine-tree. In this nursery of yours, Little sister, little brother, Like the Turtle-dove's nest-- Do you love one another? Are you kind, are you gentle, As children ought to be? Then the happiest of nests Is your own nursery. Will ne'er go right, Would you know the reason why? He follows his nose Wherever he goes, And that stands all awry. He that would thrive, Must rise at five; He that hath thriven, May lie till seven; And he that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive. Hush-a-bye, baby, Daddy is near; Mamma is a lady, And that's very clear. There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do She gave them some broth, without any bread, She whipped them all round, and sent them to bed. One, two, three, I love coffee, And Billy loves tea, How good you be. One, two, three, I love coffee, And Billy loves tea. There was an old woman called Nothing-at-all, Who lived in a dwelling exceedingly small; A man stretched his mouth to its utmost extent, And down at one gulp house and old woman went. I had a little hobby horse, And it was dapple grey, Its head was made of pea-straw, Its tail was made of hay. I sold it to an old woman For a copper groat; And I'll not sing my song again Without a new coat. Eggs, butter, cheese, bread, Stick, stock, stone, dead, Stick him up, stick him down, Stick him in the old man's crown. Said the croaking voice of a Frog: "A rainy day In the month of May, And plenty of room in the bog." Said the Frog as it hopped away: "The insects feed On the floating weed, And I'm hungry for dinner to-day." Said the Frog, as it splashed about: "Good neighbours all, When you hear me call, It is odd that you do not come out." Said the Frogs; "it is charming weather; We'll come and sup, When the moon is up, And we'll all of us croak together." What's the news of the day, Good neighbour, I pray? They say the balloon Is gone up to the moon. Draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin; Take a cup, And drink it up, And call your neighbours in. Sat upon a clod. There's an end of my song, That's very odd. Who pulled her out? Little Tommy Trout. What a naughty boy was that, A was the Archer who shot at a frog. B was Bo-peep, with her crook and her dog. C was the Cow that jumped over the moon. D was the Dish that ran off with the spoon. F was the Forest where stood the bird's-nest. G Gaffer Longlegs; downstairs he'd a fall. H Humpty Dumpty that sat on the wall. I was that "_I_" who was going to St. Ives. J Jacky Horner, on plum-pie he thrives. K was King Cole with his fiddlers three. L Little Gold-Hair, peeping, you see. M Mother Hubbard who thought her dog dead. N Little Netticoat, with a red head. O the old Woman "upon market day;" P was the "Pedlar" who passed by that way. Q was the Queen of Hearts, tartlets she makes. R was Red Riding Hood carrying the cakes. S Simple Simon, the pieman beside. T Tommy Tucker, for supper who cried. U was the Unicorn, "beat round the town;" V was Victoria--she fought for her crown. W Whittington, who turned again, Over great London as Lord Mayor to reign. X is a letter that here we can spare. Y "Yankee Doodle," that went to the fair; Z is the Zany who laughed at him there. Swan, swan, over the sea; Swim, swan, swim. Swan, swan, back again; Well, swan, swam. One misty moisty morning, When cloudy was the weather, I met a little old man, Clothed all in leather, Clothed all in leather, With a strap below his chin. How do you do? and how do you do? And how do you do again? Deedle, deedle, dumpling, my son John, He went to bed with his stockings on; One shoe off, and one shoe on, Deedle, deedle, dumpling, my son John. The old woman must stand at the tub, tub, tub, The dirty clothes to rub, rub, rub; But when they are clean, and fit to be seen, I'll dress like a lady, and dance on the green. Hickety, pickety, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen; Gentlemen come every day To see what my black hen doth lay. I'll tell you a story, About John-a-Nory: And now my story's begun. I'll tell you another, About Jack and his brother: And now my story's done. I LOVE sixpence, pretty little sixpence, I love sixpence better than my life; I spent a penny of it, I spent another, And took fourpence home to my wife. Oh, my little fourpence, pretty little fourpence, I love fourpence better than my life; I spent a penny of it, I spent another, I spent a penny of it, I spent another, And I took nothing home to my wife. Oh, my little nothing, my pretty little nothing, What will nothing buy for my wife? I have nothing, I spend nothing, I love nothing better than my wife. Who was smoking one sunshiny day, When a bird called a Snipe flew away with his pipe, Which vexed the fat man of Bombay. Sing a song of sixpence, A bag full of rye; Four and twenty blackbirds; Baked in a pie; When the pie was open'd, The birds began to sing, Was not that a dainty dish To set before the king?] THE King was in his counting-house, Counting out his money; The Queen was in the parlour, Eating bread and honey; The maid was in the garden, Hanging out the clothes; By came a little bird, And snapt off her nose. Sate among the cinders Warming her pretty little toes! Her mother came and caught her, And whipped her little daughter, For spoiling her nice new clothes. Great A, little A, The cat's in the cupboard, And she can't see. Poor old Robinson Crusoe! poor old Robinson Crusoe! They made him a coat of an old Nanny goat, I wonder how they could do so! With a ring-a-ting-tang, and a ring-a-ting-tang, Bat, bat, come under my hat, And I'll give you a slice of bacon, And when I bake I'll give you a cake, If I am not mistaken. The North Wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then? Poor thing! He will hop to a barn, And to keep himself warm, Will hide his head under his wing, Poor thing! "Dog, dog, bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." But the dog would not. She went a little farther, and she met a stick. So she said-- "Stick, stick, beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night." But the stick would not. She went a little farther, and she met a fire. So she said-- "Fire, fire, burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." But the fire would not. She went a little farther, and she met some water. So she said-- "Water, water, quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." But the water would not. She went a little farther, and she met an ox. So she said-- "Ox, ox, drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." But the ox would not. She went a little farther, and she met a butcher. So she said-- "Butcher, butcher, kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." But the butcher would not. She went a little farther, and she met a rope. So she said-- "Rope, rope, hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." But the rope would not. She went a little farther, and she met a rat. So she said-- "Rat, rat, gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." "Cat, cat, kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." "Cow, cow, give me a saucer of milk; Cat won't kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." "Haymakers, give me a wisp of hay; Cow won't give me milk; Cat won't kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night." The cat began to kill the rat; The rat began to gnaw the rope; The rope began to hang the butcher; The butcher began to kill the ox; The ox began to drink the water; The water began to quench the fire; The fire began to burn the stick; The stick began to beat the dog; The dog began to bite the pig; The little pig in a fright jumped over the stile; And so the old woman got home that night. The mouse ran up the clock; The clock struck one, and down the mouse ran, A diller, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar, What makes you come so soon? You used to come at ten o'clock, But now you come at noon. Jacky, come give me thy fiddle, If ever thou mean to thrive. Nay, I'll not give my fiddle To any man alive. If I should give my fiddle, They'll think that I'm gone mad; For many a joyful day My fiddle and I have had. Tommy kept a chandler's shop, Richard went to buy a mop, Tommy gave him such a whop, That sent him out of his chandler's shop. See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck. See a pin and let it lay, Bad luck you'll have all the day. Please to remember the fifth of November, The Gunpowder treason plot; I see no reason why Gunpowder treason, Should ever be forgot. A stick and a stake for Victoria's sake, Hollo, boys! hollo, boys! God save the Queen. Leg over leg, As the dog went to Dover, When he came to a stile, Jump he went over. Fly away home, Your house is on fire, Your children will burn. I caught a hare alive; I let her go again. This is the way the ladies go-- Nim, nim, nim. This is the way the gentlemen go-- Trot, trot, trot. This is the way the hunters go-- Gallop, gallop, gallop. Who lived on rice, gruel, and sago; Till, much to his bliss, His physician said this-- "To a leg, sir, of mutton you may go." She sat on a tuffett, Eating of curds and whey; There came a little spider, Who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffett away. Were walking out one Sunday, Wilt marry me on Monday? The cat sat asleep by the side of the fire, The mistress snored loud as a pig, Jack took up his fiddle by Jenny's desire, And struck up a bit of a jig. Little jumping Joan, When nobody's with me, I'm always alone. OH! thank you, good Dobbin, you've been a long track, And have carried papa all the way on your back; You shall have some nice oats, faithful Dobbin, indeed, For you've brought papa home to his darling with speed. The howling wind blew, and the pelting rain beat, And the thick mud has covered his legs and his feet, But yet on he galloped in spite of the rain, And has brought papa home to his darling again. The sun it was setting a long while ago, And papa could not see the road where he should go, But Dobbin kept on through the desolate wild, And has brought papa home again safe to his child. Now go to the stable, the night is so raw, Go, Dobbin, and rest your old bones on the straw; Don't stand any longer out here in the rain, For you've brought papa home to his darling again. JOHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he, Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. "To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair All in a chaise and pair. "My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we." He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. "I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find, That though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad! The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again. For saddletree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came downstairs, "The wine is left behind!" "Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise." Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat. "So, fair and softly!" John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got, Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin--who but he? His fame soon spread around: "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!" And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike-men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made the horses flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house!" They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired;" But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?--his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly--which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's, His horse at last stood still. The calender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him: "What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall-- Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?" Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke: "I came because your horse would come: And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in; Whence straight he came with hat and wig, A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit, "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. "But let me scrape the dirt away, That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, "It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine." Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why--they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half-a-crown; And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the "Bell," "This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry. "Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike-gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up, He did again get down. Now let us sing, Long live the King, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high. Like a diamond in the sky. When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. Then the traveller in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark: How could he see where to go, If you did not twinkle so? In the dark blue sky you keep, Often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye, Till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveller in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star. Charley, Charley, stole the barley Out of the baker's shop; The baker came out, and gave him a clout, And made poor Charley hop. A, B, C, tumble down D, The cat's in the cupboard and can't see me. They all went together to seek a bird's nest, They found a bird's nest with five eggs in; They all took one, and left four in. Up hill and down dale, Butter is made in every vale; Is a good girl, She shall have a spouse, And make butter anon, Before her old grandmother Grows a young man. To market, to market, a gallop, a trot, To buy some meat to put in the pot; Threepence a quarter, fourpence a side, If it hadn't been killed it must have died. Apple-pie, pudding, and pancake, All begins with A. My little old man and I fell out; I'll tell you what 'twas all about,-- I had money and he had none, And that's the way the noise begun. Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, Kiss'd the girls and made them cry. When the girls came out to play, Georgie Porgie ran away.] And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm. I'll sit by the fire, and give her some food, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house, And stole a leg of beef. I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house And stole a marrow-bone. I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed; I took the marrow-bone, And broke Taffy's head. A farmer went trotting upon his grey mare, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! With his daughter behind him so rosy and fair, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! A raven cried croak! and they all tumbled down, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! The mare broke her knees, and the farmer his crown, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! The mischievous raven flew laughing away, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! And vowed he would serve them the same the next day, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! Lost her holiday shoe, What can little Betty do? Give her another To match the other, And then she may walk in two. Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still with thy daddy, Thy mammy is gone to the mill, To get some meal to bake a cake, So pray, my dear baby, lie still. You shall have an apple, You shall have a plum, You shall have a rattle-basket, When papa comes home. A MAN of words and not of deeds Is like a garden full of weeds; And when the weeds begin to grow, It's like a garden full of snow; And when the snow begins to fall, It's like a bird upon the wall; And when the bird away does fly, It's like an eagle in the sky; And when the sky begins to roar, It's like a lion at the door; And when the door begins to crack, It's like a stick across your back; And when your back begins to smart, It's like a penknife in your heart; And when your heart begins to bleed, You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed. Ran off with all his might, Because the cat was after him, Ran off with all her might, Because the dog was after her, As I was going up Pippin Hill, Pippin Hill was dirty, There I met a pretty miss, And she dropped me a curtsey. Early to bed, and early to rise, Is the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise. Old woman, old woman, shall we go a-shearing? Speak a little louder, sir, I am very thick o' hearing. Old woman, old woman, shall I kiss you dearly? Thank you, kind sir, I hear very clearly. The Cuckoo's a bonny bird, She sings as she flies, She brings us good tidings, And tells us no lies. She sucks little birds' eggs, To make her voice clear, And never cries "Cuckoo!" Till spring-time of the year. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, Bake me a cake as fast as you can; Prick it and pat it, and mark it with G; And put it in the oven for Teddy and me. Mamma stood by, and cried, "Oh, fie! Why did you eat the dumplings?" Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries his trouble begins. For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, try and find it; If there be none, never mind it. Three children sliding on the ice, All on a summer's day, As it fell out they all fell in, The rest they ran away. Now had these children been at home, Or sliding on dry ground, Ten thousand pounds to one penny They had not all been drowned. You parents all that children have, And you, too, that have none, If you would have them safe abroad, Pray keep them safe at home. AS I was going to Derby all on a market day, I met the finest ram, sir, that ever was fed upon hay; Upon hay, upon hay, upon hay; I met the finest ram, sir, that ever was fed upon hay. This ram was fat behind, sir, this ram was fat before; This ram was ten yards round, sir; indeed he was no more; No more, no more, no more; This ram was ten yards round, sir; indeed he was no more. The horns that grew on his head, sir, they were so wondrous high, The sky, the sky, the sky; As I've been plainly told, sir, they reached up to the sky. The tail that grew from his back, sir, was six yards and an ell; And it was sent to Derby to toll the market bell; The bell, the bell, the bell; And it was sent to Derby to toll the market bell. Went round about the house, to find She tried the keyhole in the door, She tried the crevice in the floor, And drove the chimney soot in. And then one night when it was dark, She blew up such a tiny spark, That all the house was pothered; From it she raised up such a flame As flamed away to Belting Lane, And White Cross folks were smothered. And thus when once, my little dears, A whisper reaches itching ears, The same will come, you'll find; Take my advice, restrain your tongue, Remember what old Nurse has sung Of busy Lady Wind. Whose dog art thou? Little Tom Tucker's dog. Let us go to the woods, says this pig. What to do there? says this pig. To seek mamma, says this pig. What to do with her? says this pig. To kiss her, to kiss her, says this pig. JENNY shall have a new bonnet, And Jenny shall go to the fair, And Jenny shall have a blue ribbon To tie up her bonny brown hair. And why may not I love Jenny? And why may not Jenny love me? And why may not I love Jenny, As well as another body? And here's a leg for a stocking, And here is a leg for a shoe, And she has a kiss for her daddy, And two for her mammy, I trow. And why may not I love Jenny? And why may not Jenny love me? And why may not I love Jenny, As well as another body? Nievie, nievie, nicknack, Which hand will ye tak'? Tak' the right, or tak' the wrang, I'll beguile ye, if I can. Oh, mother, I'm to be married to Mr. Punchinello; Rain, rain, go to Spain, And never come back again. Up hill spare me, Down hill 'ware me, On level ground spare me not, And in the stable forget me not. When little Fred went to bed, He always said his prayers; He kissed mamma, and then papa, And straightway went upstairs. Bless you, bless you, bonny bee: Say, when will your wedding be? If it be to-morrow day, Take your wings and fly away. Jack Sprat's pig, He was not very little, Nor yet very big; He was not very lean, He was not very fat, He'll do well for a grunt, Says little Jack Sprat. Rain, rain, Go away, Come again April day; Wants to play. A little cock sparrow sat on a tree, Looking as happy as happy could be, Till a boy came by with his bow and arrow, Says he, I will shoot the little cock sparrow. His body will make me a nice little stew, And his giblets will make me a little pie, too. Says the little cock sparrow, I'll be shot if I stay, So he clapped his wings, and flew away. The rose is red, the violet's blue; The pink is sweet, and so are you. "We'll go a-shooting," says Robin to Bobbin, "We'll go a-shooting," says Richard to John; "We'll go a-shooting," says John, all alone; "We'll go a-shooting," says every one. Curl your locks as I do mine; Two before and two behind; Good morrow to you, Valentine. Mr. Isbister, and Betsy his sister, Resolve upon giving a treat; So letters they write, Their friends to invite To their house in Great Camomile Street. Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And cannot tell where to find them; Leave them alone, and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them.] Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke she found it a joke, For still they all were fleeting. Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found 'em indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left their tails behind 'em. It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray Unto a meadow hard by, There she espied their tails, side by side, All hung on a tree to dry. Then she heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And ran o'er hill and dale-o, And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should, To tack to each sheep its tail-o. As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Every wife had seven sacks, Every sack had seven cats, Every cat had seven kits. Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were there going to St. Ives? Go to bed first, a golden purse; Go to bed second, a golden pheasant; Go to bed third, a golden bird. There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink; Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet, Yet the plaguey old woman would never be quiet. She went to the baker's to buy some bread; And when she came home her husband was dead. She went to the clerk, to toll the great bell; And when she came back, her husband was well. Some little mice sat in a barn to spin, "Shall I come in and cut your threads off?" "Oh, no, kind sir, you will snap our heads off."

William U. Moulton

The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern

Come, let us go and be glad again together Where of old our eyes were opened and we knew that we were free! Come, for it is April, and her hands have loosed the tether That has bound for long her children.--who her children more than we? Hark! hear you not how the strong waters thunder Down through the alders with the word they have to bring? Even now they win the meadow and the withered turf is under, And, above, the willows quiver with foreknowledge of the spring. Yea, they come, and joy in coming: for the giant hills have sent The hills that guard the portal where the South has built her throne: Unloitering their course is,--can wayside pools content them, Who were born where old pine forests for the sea forever moan? And they, behind the hills, where forever bloom the flowers, So they ever know the worship of the re-arisen Earth? Do their hands ever clasp such a happiness as ours, Now the waters foam about us and the grasses have their birth? Fair is their land,--yea fair beyond all dreaming,-- With its sun upon the roses and its long summer day; Yet surely they must envy us our vision of the gleaming Of our lady's white throat as she comes her ancient way. For their year is never April--Oh what were Time without her! Yea, the drifted snows may cover us, yet shall we not complain: Knowing well our Lady April--all her raiment blown about her-- Will return with many kisses for our unremembered pain! O come! Is it not surely May? The year is at its poise today. Northward, I hear the distant beat Of Spring's irrevocable feet: Tomorrow June will have her way. O tawny waters, flecked with sun, Come: for your labours all are done. The grey snow fadeth from the hills; And toward the sound of waking mills Swing the brown rafts in, one by one. O bees among the willow-blooms, Forget your empty waxen rooms Awhile, and share our golden hours! Will they not come, the later flowers, With their old colours and perfumes? O wind that bloweth from the west, Is not this morning road the best? --Let us go hand in hand, as free And glad as little children be That follow some long-dreamed-of quest! "It well may be just as you say, Will Carver, that your tales are true; Yet think what I must put away, Will Carver, if sail with you." "If you should sail with me (the wind Is west, the tide's at full, my men!) The things that you have left behind Will be as nothing to you then." "Inland, it's June! And birds sing Among the wooded hills, I know; Between green fields, unhastening, The Nashwaak's shadowed waters flow. "What know you of such things as these Who have the grey sea at your door,-- Whose path is as the strong winds please Beyond this narrow strip of shore?" "_Your_ fields and woods! Now, answer me: Up what green path have your feet run So wide as mine, when the deep sea Lies all-uncovered to the sun? And down the hollows of what hills Have you gone--half so glad of heart As you shall be when our sail fills And the great waves ride far apart?" "O! half your life is good to live, Will Carver; yet, if I should go, What are the things that you can give Lest I regret the things I know! "Lest I desire the old life's way? The noises of the crowded town? The busy streets, where, night and day, The traffickers go up and down?" "What can I give for these? Alas, That all unchanged your path must be! Strange lights shall open as we pass And alien wakes traverse the sea; "Your ears shall hear (across your sleep) New hails, remote, disquieted, For not a hand-breadth of the deep But has to soothe some restless dead. "These things shall be. And other things, I think, not quite so sad as these! --Know you the song the rigging sings When up the opal-tinted seas "The slow south-wind comes amorously? The sudden gleam of some far sail Going the same glad way as we, Hastily, lest the good wind fail? "The dreams that come (so strange, so fair!) When all your world lies well within The moving magic circle where The sea ends and the skies begin?"...... ......"What port is that, so far astern, Will Carver? And how many miles Shall we have run ere the tide turn? --And is it far to the farthest isles?" Just where the field becomes the wood I thought I saw again Her old remembered face--made grey As it had known the rain. The trees grow thickly there; no place Has half so many trees; And hunted things elude one there Like ancient memories. The path itself is hard to find, And slopes up suddenly; --In the old days it was a path None knew so well as we. The path slopes upward, till it leaves The great trees far behind; --I met her once where the slender birch Grow up to meet the wind. Where the poplars quiver endlessly And the falling leaves are grey, I saw her come, and I was glad That she had learned the way. She paused a moment where the path Grew sunlighted and broad; Within her hair slept all the gold Of all the golden-rod. And then the wood closed in on her. And my hand found her hand; She had no words to say, yet I Was quick to understand. I dared to look in her two eyes; They too, I thought, were grey: But no sun shone, and all around Great, quiet shadows lay. Yet, as I looked, I surely knew That they knew nought of tears,-- But this was very long ago, --A year, perhaps ten years. All this was long ago. Today, Her hand met not with mine; And where the pathway widened out I saw no gold hair shine. I had a weary, fruitless search, --I think that her wan face Was but the face of one asleep Who dreams she knew this place. O gold is the West and gold the river-waters Washing past the sides of my yellow birch canoe, Gold are the great drops that fall from my paddle, The far-off hills cry a golden word of you. I can almost see you! Where its own shadow Creeps down the hill's side, gradual and slow. There you stand waiting; the goldenrod and thistle Glad of you beside them--the fairest thing they know. Down the worn foot-path, the tufted pines behind you, Grey sheep between,--unfrightened as you pass; Swift through the sun-glow, I to my loved one Come, striving hard against the long trailing grass. Soon shall I ground on the shining gravel-reaches: Through the thick alders you will break your way: Then your hand in mine, and our path is on the waters,-- For us the long shadows and the end of day. Whither shall we go? See, over to the westward, An hour of precious gold standeth still for you and me; Still gleams the grain, all yellow on the uplands; West is it, or East, O Love that you would be? West now, or East? For, underneath the moonrise, Also it is fair; and where the reeds are tall, And the only little noise is the sound of quiet waters, Heavy, like the rain, we shall hear the duck-oats fall. And perhaps we shall see, rising slowly from the driftwood, A lone crane go over to its inland nest: Or a dark line of ducks will come in across the islands And sail overhead to the marshes of the west. Now a little wind rises up for our returning; Silver grows the East as the West grows grey; Shadows on the waters, shaded are the meadows, The firs on the hillside--naught so dark as they. Yet we have known the light!--Was ever such an August? Your hand leave mine; and the new stars gleam As we separately go to our dreams of opened heaven,-- The golden dawn shall tell you that you did not dream. How shall I greet thee, Autumn? with loud praise And joyous song and wild, tumultuous laughter? Or unrestrained tears? Shall I behold only the scarlet haze Of these thy days That come to crown this best of all the years? Or shall I hear, even now, those sad hours chime-- Those unborn hours that surely follow after The shedding of thy last-relinquished leaf-- Till I, too, learn the strength and change of time Who am made one with grief? For now thou comest not as thou of old Wast wont to come; and now mine old desire Is sated not at all With sunset-visions of thy splendid gold Or fold on fold Of the stained clouds thou hast for coronal. Still all these ways and things are thine, and still Before thine altar burneth the ancient fire; The blackness of the pines is still the same, And the same peace broodeth behind the hill Where the old maples flame. I, counting these, behold no change; and yet, To-day, I deem, they know not me for lover, Nor live because of me. And yesterday, was it not thou I met, Thy warm lips wet And purpled with wild grapes crushed wantonly, And yellow wind-swept wheat bound round thy hair, Thy brawn breast half set free and half draped over With long green leaves of corn? Was it not thou, Thy feet unsandaled, and thy shoulders bare As the gleaned fields are now? Yea, Autumn, it was thou, and glad was I To meet thee and caress thee for an hour And fancy I was thine; For then I had not learned all things must die Under the sky,-- That everywhere (a flaw in the design!) Decay crept in, unquickening the mass,-- Creed, empire, man-at-arms, or stone, or flower. In my unwisdom then, I had not read The message writ across Earth's face, alas, But scanned the sun instead. For all men sow; and then it happeneth-- When harvest time is come, and thou are season-- Each goeth forth to reap. "This cometh unto him" (perchance one saith) "Who laboreth: This is my wage: I will lie down and sleep."-- He maketh no oblation unto Earth. Another, in his heart divine unreason, Seeing his fields lie barren in the sun, Crieth, "O fool! Behold the little worth Of that thy toil hath won!" And so one sleepeth, dreaming of no prayer; And so one lieth sleepless, till thou comest To bid his cursing cease; Then, in his dreams, envieth the other's share. Whilst, otherwhere, Thou showest still thy perfect face of peace, O Autumn, unto men of alien lands! Along their paths a little while thou roamest. A little while they deem thee queenliest, And good the laying-on of thy warm hands,-- And then, they, too, would rest. They, too, would only rest, forgetting thee! But I, who am grown the wiser for thy loving, Never may thee deny! And when the last child hath forsaken me, And quietly Men go about the house wherein I lie, I shall lie glad, feeling across my face Thy damp and clinging hair, and thy hands moving To find my wasted hands that wait for thine Beneath white cloths; and, for one whisper's space, Autumn, thy lips on mine! If she would come, now, and say, _What will you Lover?_-- She who has the fairest gifts of all the earth to give-- Think you I should ask some tremendous thing to prove her, Her life, say, and all her love, so long as she might live? Should I touch her hair? her hands? her garments, even? Nay! for such rewards the gods their own good time have set! Once, these were _all_ mine: the least, poor one was heaven: Now, lest she remember, I pray that she forget. Merely should I ask--ah! she would not refuse them Who still seems very kind when I meet with her in dreams-- Only three of our old days, and--should she help to choose them Would the first not be in April, beside the sudden Once, upon a morning, up the path that we had taken, We saw Spring come where the willow-buds are grey; Heard the high hills, as with tread of armies, shaken; Felt the strong sun--O, the glory of that day! And then--what? one afternoon of quiet summer weather O, woodlands and meadow-lands along the blue St. John, My birch finds a path--though your rafts lie close together-- Then O! what starry miles before the grey o' the dawn!........ I have met the new day, among the misty islands, Come with whine of saw-mills and whirr of hidden wings, Gleam of dewy cobwebs, smell of grassy highlands.-- Ah! the blood grows young again thinking of these things. Then, last and best of all! Though all else were found hollow Would Time not send a little space, before the Autumn's close, And lead us up the road--the old road we used to follow Among the sunset hills till the Hunter's Moon arise?...... Then, Home through the poplar-wood! damp across our faces The grey leaves that fall, the moths that flutter by: Yea! this for me, now, of all old hours and places, To keep when I am dead, Time, until she come to die. Are those her feet at last upon the stair? Her trailing garments echoing there? The falling of her hair? About a year ago I heard her come, Thus; as a child recalling some Vague memories of home. O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes! I saw them open, and grow wise: No questions, no replies. And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain. The wet boughs reach against the pane In the same way, again. In the old way I hear the moaning wind Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,-- Blind as the stars are blind. --She may come in at midnight, tired and wan, Yet,--what if once again at dawn I wake to find her gone? Is it very long ago things were as they are Now? or was it ever? or is it to be? Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far? Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily? O, the way was good to tread! Up hill and down; Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains; Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town, Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains. Strange and evil things we met--but what cared we, Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance? Battles by the countless score, red blood running free-- Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance. Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us? They were weak--we were strong--health we held to yet: Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,-- Then to the road again, striving to forget. Once again upon the road! The seasons passed us by-- Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall, Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,-- One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all. O, the countries that we found in our wandering! Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam, Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,-- We might tarry but a while, far away from home. Far away the home we sought,--soon we must be gone; The old road, the old days, still we clung to those; The dawn came, the noon came, the dusk came, the dawn-- Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose. Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far, Yesterday,--last year--a million years ago? Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star Hangs above the hidden hills--white and very low. Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep; All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air; --Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep; Just beyond the turn o' the road,--surely Peace is thee! At last we reached the pointed firs And rested for a little while; The light of home was in her smile And my cold hand grew warm as her's. Behind, across the level snow, We saw the half-moon touch the hill Where we had felt the sunset; still Our feet had many miles to go. And now, new little stars were born In the dark hollows of the sky:-- Perhaps (she said) lest we should die Of weariness before the morn. Once, when the year stood still at June, At even we had tarried there Till Dusk came in--her noiseless hair Trailing along a pathway strewn With broken cones and year-old things, But now, tonight, it seemed that She Therein abode continually, With weighted feet and folded wings, And so we lingered not for dawn To mark the edges of out path; But with such home a blind man hath At midnight, we went groping on. --I do not know how many firs We stumbled past in that still wood: Only I know that once we stood Together there--my lips on her's. Between the midnight and the dawn We came out on the farther side; --What if the wood _was_ dark and wide? Its shadows now here far withdrawn, And O the white stars in the sky! And O the glitter of the snow!-- Henceforth we know our feet should know Fair ways to travel--she and I-- For One--Whose shadow is the Night-- Unwound them where the Great Bear swung And wide across the darkness flung The ribbons of the Northern Light. What! and do you find it good, Sitting here alone with me? Hark! the wind goes through the wood And the snow drifts heavily, When the morning brings the light How know I you will not say, "What a storm there fell last night, Is the next inn far away?" How know I you do not dream Of some country where the grass Grows up tall around the gleam Of the milestones you must pass? Even now perhaps you tell (While your hands play through my hair) Every hill, each hidden well, All the pleasant valleys there, That before a clear moon shines You will be with them again! --Hear the booming of the pines And the sleet against the pane. Wake, and look upon the sun, I awoke an hour ago, When the night was hardly done And still fell a little snow, Since the hill-tops touched the light Many things have my hands made, Just that you should think them right And be glad that you have stayed. --How I worked the while you slept! Scarcely did I dare to sing! All my soul a silence kept-- Fearing your awakening. Now, indeed, I do not care If you wake; for now the sun Makes the least of all things fair That my poor two hands have done. No, it is not hard to find. You will know it by the hills-- Seven--sloping up behind; By the soft perfume that fills (O, the red, red roses there!) Full the narrow path thereto: By the dark pine-forest where Such a little wind breathes through; By the way the bend o' the stream Takes the peace that twilight brings: By the sunset, and the gleam Of uncounted swallows' wings. --No, indeed, I have not been There: but such dreams I have had! And, when I grow old, the green Leaves will hide me, too, made glad. Yes, you must go now, I know. You are sure you understand? --How I wish that I could go Now, and lead you by the hand. High above the trees, swinging in across the hills, There's a wide cloud, ominous and slow; And the wind that rushes over sends the little stars to cover And the wavering shadows fade along the snow. Surely on my window (Hark the tumult of the night!) That's a first, fitful drop of scanty rain; And the hillside wakes and quivers with the strength of newborn rivers Come to make our Northland glad and free again. O remember how the snow fell the long winter through! Was it yesterday I tied your snowshoes on? All my soul grew wild with yearning for the sight of you returning But I waited all those hours that you were gone, For I watched you from our window through the blurring flakes that fell Till you gained the quiet wood, and then I knew (When our pathways lay together how we revelled in such weather!) That the ancient things I loved would comfort you. Now I knew that you would tarry in the shadow of the firs And remember many winters overpast: All the hidden signs I found you of the hiding life around you, Sleeping patient till the year should wake at last. Here a tuft of fern underneath the rounded drift: A rock, there, behind a covered spring; And here, nowhither tending, tracks beginning not nor ending,-- Was it bird or shy four-footed furry thing? And remember how we followed down the woodman's winding trail! By the axe-strokes ringing louder, one by one, Well we knew that we were nearing now the edges of the O the gleam of chips all yellow in the sun! But the twilight fell about us as we watched him at his work; And in the south a sudden moon, hung low, Beckoned us beyond the shadows--down the hill--across the meadows Where our little house loomed dark against the snow. And that night, too--remember?--outside our quiet house, Just before the dawn we heard the moaning wind: Only then its wings were weighted with the storm itself created And it hid the very things it came to find. In the morn, when we arose, and looked out across the fields, (Hark the branches! how they shatter overhead!) Seemed it not that Time was sleeping, and the whole wide world was keeping All the silence of the Houses of the dead? Ah, but that was long ago! And tonight the wind foretells (Hark, above the wind, the little laughing rills!) Earth's forgetfulness of sorrow when the dawn shall break tomorrow And lead me to the bases of the hills: To the low southern hills where of old we used to go-- (Hark the rumour of ten thousand ancient Springs!) O my love, to thy dark quiet--far beyond our North's mad riot-- Do thy new Gods bring remembrance of such things? written by Francis Sherman and privately printed in Havana is issued at Christmastide M.C.M.

Stratton D. (Stratton Duluth) Brooks

Brooks's Readers: First Year

1869

Watching the tremulous flicker of the green Against the open quiet of the sky, I hear my ancient way-fellows convene In the great wood behind me. Where I lie They may not see me; for the grasses grow As though no foot save June's had wandered by; Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know, As I have waited them, they yearn for me To lead them whither they are fain to go. Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee! Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring, Gather about thy wall and would be free! With wounded feet we cease from wandering, And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate; And thou,--thou hast no thought of opening, And from thy peace are we still separate. Yet, comrades, though ye come together there, And search across the shadows for my face, Until the pines murmur of your despair, I think I shall not tell my hiding-place, For ye know not the path ye would pursue, And it is late our footsteps to retrace. Too weak am I, and now not one of you-- So weary are ye of each ancient way-- Retaineth strength enough to seek a new; And ye are blind--knowing not night from day; Crying at noontime, "Let us see the sun!" And with the even, "O for rest, we pray!" O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have won At last this little portion of content, Yield all to be with you again undone? Because ye languish in your prisonment Must I now hearken to your bitter cry? Must I forego, as ye long since forewent, My vision of the far-off open sky? Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give; And though to-day your laboring souls would die, From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live. O covering grasses! O Unchanging trees! Is it not good to feel the odorous wind Come down upon you with such harmonies Only the giant hills can ever find? O little leaves, are ye not glad to be? Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind, That falls at noon-time over you and me? O gleam of birches lost among the firs, Let your high treble chime in silverly Across the half-imagined wind that stirs A muffled organ-music from the pines! Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines Till the young maples are no longer gray, And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day, And purpler swell the cones hung overhead, Until the sound of their far feet who About the wood, fades from me; and, instead, I hear a robin singing--not as one That calls unto his mate, uncomforted-- But as one sings a welcome to the sun. Not among men, or near men-fashioned things, In the old years found I this present ease, Though I have known the fellowship of kings And tarried long in splendid palaces. The worship of vast peoples has been mine, The homage of uncounted pageantries. Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vine Have humble folk been proud to bring to me; And woven cloths of wonderful design Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea, Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails. Long caravans have toiled on wearily-- Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales-- Across wide sandy places, glad to bear Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales, Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen's hair, Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust, Deeming that I would find their offerings fair. --O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rust And food for moths! O half-remembered things Once altar-set!--I think when one is thrust Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings Close to the newly-dead, among the dead Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings. The color of her eyes, her hair outspread In the moist wind that stifles ere it blows, Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knows The gracious odors that her garments shed. And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise, Follows a little while her devious way Across the twilight; where no voice replies When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day Is even as yesterday and all days were. Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray. Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir The hangings of unhaunted passages; Until she surely knows only for her Has this House hoarded up its silences Since the beginning of the early years, And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease And grow forgetful of its ancient fears In some long-kept, unviolated room. And so the quiet city no more hears Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume. But what have I to do with her and death Who hold these living grasses in my hands,-- With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth? (For it shall chance, however close the bands Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless She must remember alway the old lands She wandered in, and their old hollowness.) --Awaiting here the strong word of the trees, My soul leans over to the wind's caress, One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea's Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet It has no yearning to remix with these. For the pines whisper, lest it may forget, Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies On it forever; and of its edges, set With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise, The alder trees bend over, until one Forgets the color of the unseen skies And loses all remembrance of the sun. No echo there of the sea's loss and pain; Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain; Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawn Comes in with quiet covering of rain: Only, all day, the shadow of peace upon The pool's gray breast; and with the fall of even, The noiseless gleam of scattered stars--withdrawn From the unfathomed treasuries of heaven. And as the sea has not the strength to win Back to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye-- In the wood lost, and seeking me therein-- Are not less impotent than all the sea! My soul at last its ultimate house hath won, And in that house shall sleep along with me. Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun, To day and night alike indifferent, Aware and unaware if Time be done. Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent, For our old love I pass Earth's message on: "In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content? "Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawn To sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace? Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone "The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty cease Upon my face because thy face grows gray? Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease, "And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I say This thing there is to learn ere thou must go: _Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way_ "_Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall know_ _The old glad things and sorrowful its share_ _Until at last Time's legions overthrow_ _The House thy days have builded unaware._" Now therefore am I joyful who have heard Earth's message plain to-day, and so I cry Aloud to you, O Comrades, her last word, That ye may be as wise and glad as I, And the long grasses, and the broad green leaves That beat against the far, unclouded sky: _Who worships me alway, who alway cleaves_ _Close unto me till his last call rings clear_ _Across the pathless wood,--his soul receives_ _My peace continually and shall not fear._

Franklin Matthews

With the Battle Fleet Cruise of the Sixteen Battleships of the United States Atlantic Fleet from Hampton Roads to the Golden Gate, December, 1907-May, 1908

1858

I marked the slow withdrawal of the year, Out on the hills the scarlet maples shone-- The glad, first herald of triumphant dawn. A robin's song fell through the silence--clear As long ago it rang when June was here. Then, suddenly, a few grey clouds were drawn Across the sky; and all the song was gone, And all the gold was quick to disappear, That day the sun seemed loth to come again; And all day long the low wind spoke of rain, Far off, beyond the hills; and moaned, like one Wounded, among the pines: as though the Earth, Knowing some giant grief had come to birth, Had wearied of the Summer and the Sun. I watched the slow oncoming of the Fall. Slowly the leaves fell from the elms, and lay Along the roadside; and the wind's strange way Was their way, when they heard the wind's far call. The crimson vines that clung along the wall Grew thin as snow that lives on into May; Grey dawn, grey noon,--all things and hours were grey, When quietly the darkness covered all. And while no sunset flamed across the west, And no great moon rose where the hills were low, The day passed out as if it had not been: And so it seemed the year sank to its rest, Remembering naught, desiring naught,--as though Early in Spring its young leaves were not green. A little while before the Fall was done A day came when the frail year paused and said: "Behold! a little while and I am dead; Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?" Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun Shone always, and the roses all were red; Far off, the great sea slept, and overhead, Among the robins, matins had begun. And I knew not at all it was a dream Only, and that the year was near its close; Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose, The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam Of all the unvext sea, a little space Were as a mist above the Autumn's face. And in this garden sloping to the sea I dwelt (it seemed) to watch a pageant pass,-- Great Kings, their armour strong with iron and brass, Young Queens, with yellow hair bound wonderfully. For love's sake, and because of love's decree, Most went, I knew; and so the flowers and grass Knew my steps also: yet I wept Alas, Deeming the garden surely lost to me. But as the days went over, and still our feet Trod the warm, even places, I knew well (For I, as they, followed the close-heard beat Of Love's wide wings who was her sentinel) That here had Beauty built her citadel And only we should reach her mercy-seat. And ye, are ye not with me now alway?-- Thy raiment, Glauce, shall be my attire! East of the Sun I, too, seek my desire! My kisses, also, quicken the well-wrought clay! And thou, Alcestis, lest my little day Be done, art glad to die! Upon my pyre, O Brynhild, let thine ashes feed the fire! And, O thou Wood Sun, pray for me, I pray! Yea, ye are mine! Yet there remaineth one Who maketh Summer-time of all the year, Whose glory darkeneth the very sun. For thee my sword was sharpened and my spear, For thee my least poor deed was dreamed and done, Then, suddenly, I was awake. Dead things Were all about me and the year was dead. Save where the birches grew, all leaves were shed And nowhere fell the sound of song or wings. The fields I deemed were graves of worshipped Kings Had lost their bloom; no honey-bee now fed Therein, and no white daisy bowed its head To harken to the wind's love-murmurings. Yet, by my dream, I know henceforth for me This time of year shall hold some unknown grace When the leaves fall, and shall be sanctified: As April only comes for memory Of him who kissed the veil from Beauty's face That we might see, and passed at Easter-tide. These six sonnets IN MEMORABILIA MORTIS, written at Fredericton, New Brunswick, on the third day of October, MDCCCXCVI, by Francis Sherman, are privately printed at the University Press, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, early in December of the same year.

J. J. (John Jennings) Moorman

A Guide to the Virginia Springs Giving, in addition to the routes and distances, a description of the springs and also of the natural curiosities of the state

1802

the destroyer This edition first published 1991 by Thalba the destroyer 1801.--(Revolution and Printed and bound in Great Britain by to doxan to poiete.] _Lucian, Quomodo Hist. scribenda._ The second Book The third Book The fourth Book The fifth Book How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air, No mist obscures, no little cloud Breaks the whole serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory the majestic moon Rolls thro the dark blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night! Who at this untimely hour Wanders o'er the desert sands? No station is in view, No palm-grove islanded amid the waste. The mother and her child, The widow and the orphan at this hour Wander o'er the desert sands. Alas! the setting sun Saw Zeinab in her bliss, Hodeirah's wife beloved. Alas! the wife beloved, The fruitful mother late, Whom when the daughters of Arabia named They wished their lot like her's; She wanders o'er the desert sands A wretched widow now, The fruitful mother of so fair a race, With only one preserved, She wanders o'er the wilderness. No tear relieved the burthen of her heart; Stunned with the heavy woe she felt like one Half-wakened from a midnight dream of blood. But sometimes when her boy Would wet her hand with tears, And looking up to her fixed countenance, Amid his bursting sobs Say the dear name of MOTHER, then would she Utter a feeble groan. At length collecting, Zeinab turned her eyes To heaven, exclaiming, "praised be the Lord! "He gave, he takes away, "The Lord our God is good!" "Good is he?" cried the boy, "Why are my brethren and my sisters slain? "Why is my father killed? "Did ever we neglect our prayers, "Or ever lift a hand unclean to heaven? "Did ever stranger from our tent "Unwelcomed turn away? "Mother, he is not good!" Then Zeinab beat her breast in agony, "O God forgive my child! "He knows not what he says! "Thou know'st I did not teach him thoughts like these, "O Prophet, pardon him!" She had not wept till that assuaging prayer.... The fountains of her eyes were opened then, And tears relieved her heart. She raised her swimming eyes to Heaven, "Allah, thy will be done! "Beneath the dispensation of thy wrath "I groan, but murmur not. "The Day of the Trial will come, "When I shall understand how profitable "It is to suffer now." Young Thalaba in silence heard reproof, His brow in manly frowns was knit, With manly thoughts his heart was full. "Tell me who slew my father?" cried the boy. Zeinab replied and said, "I knew not that there lived thy father's foe. "The blessings of the poor for him "Went daily up to Heaven, "In distant lands the traveller told his praise. "I did not think there lived "Hodeirah's enemy." "But I will hunt him thro' the earth!" Young Thalaba exclaimed. "Already I can bend my father's bow, "Soon will my arm have strength "To drive the arrow-feathers to his heart." Zeinab replied, "O Thalaba, my child, "Thou lookest on to distant days, "And we are in the desert far from men!" Not till that moment her afflicted heart Had leisure for the thought. She cast her eyes around, Alas! no tents were there Beside the bending sands; No palm tree rose to spot the wilderness. The dark blue sky closed round And rested like a dome Upon the circling waste. She cast her eyes around, Famine and Thirst were there. Then the mother bowed her head, And wept upon her child. ... Sudden a cry of wonder From Thalaba aroused her, She raised her head, and saw Where high in air a stately palace rose. Amid a grove embowered Stood the prodigious pile, Trees of such ancient majesty Towered not on Yemen's happy hills, Nor crowned the stately brow of Lebanon. Fabric so vast, so lavishly enriched, For Idol, or for Tyrant, never yet Raised the slave race of men In Rome, nor in the elder Babylon, Nor where the family of Greece Here studding azure tablatures And rayed with feeble light, Star-like the ruby and the diamond shone: Here on the golden towers The yellow moon-beam lay; Here with white splendour floods the silver wall. Less wonderous pile and less magnificent Sennamar built at Hirah, tho' his art Sealed with one stone the ample edifice And made its colours, like the serpents skin Play with a changeful beauty: him, its Lord Jealous lest after-effort might surpass The now unequalled palace, from its height Dashed on the pavement down. They entered, and through aromatic paths Wondering they went along. At length upon a mossy bank Beneath a tall mimosa's shade That o'er him bent its living canopy, They saw a man reclined. Young he appeared, for on his cheek there shone The morning glow of health, And the brown beard curled close around his chin. He slept, but at the sound Of coming feet awakening, fixed his eyes In wonder, on the wanderer and her child. "Forgive us," Zeinab cried, "Distress hath made us bold. "Relieve the widow and the fatherless. "Blessed are they who succour the distrest "For them hath God appointed Paradise." He heard, and he looked up to heaven, And tears ran down his cheeks: "It is a human voice! "I thank thee, O my God! "How many an age has past "Since the sweet sounds have visited mine ear! "I thank thee, O my God, "It is a human voice!" To Zeinab turning then he cried "O mortal who art thou "Whose gifted eyes have pierced "The shadow of concealment that hath wrapt "These bowers, so many an age, "From eye of mortal man? "For countless years have past "And never foot of man "The bowers of Irem trod. "Save only I, a miserable wretch "From Heaven and Earth shut out!" Fearless, and scarce surprized, For grief in Zeinab's soul All other feebler feelings overpowered, She answered, "Yesterday "I was a wife beloved, "The fruitful mother of a numerous race. "I am a widow now, "Of all my offspring this alone is left. "He gave, he takes away!" Then said the stranger, "Not by Heaven unseen "Nor with unguided feet "Thy steps have reached this secret place "Nor for light purpose is the Veil, "That from the Universe hath long shut out "These ancient bowers, withdrawn. "Hear thou my words, O mortal, in thy heart "Treasure the wonders I shall tell; "And when amid the world "Thou shall emerge again "Repeat the warning tale. "Why have the Fathers suffered, but to make "The Children wisely safe?" "The Paradise of Irem this, "And that the palace pile "Which Shedad built, the King. "Alas! in the days of my youth "The hum of the populous world "Was heard in yon wilderness waste! "O'er all the winding sands "The tents of Ad were pitch'd; "Happy Al-Ahkaf then, "For many and brave were her sons, "Her daughters were many and fair. "My name was Aswad then. "Alas! alas! how strange "The sound so long unheard! "Of noble race I came, "One of the wealthy of the earth my Sire, "An hundred horses in my father's stalls "Stood ready for his will; "Numerous his robes of silk, "The number of his camels was not known. "These were my heritance, "O God! thy gifts were these; "But better had it been for Aswad's soul "To have asked alms on earth, "And begged the crumbs that from his table fell, "So he had known thy word. "Boy who hast reached this solitude, "Fear the Lord in the days of thy youth! "My knee was never taught "To bend before my God, "My voice was never taught "To shape one holy prayer. "We worshipped Idols, wood and stone, "The work of our own foolish hands "We worshipped in our foolishness. "Vainly the Prophet's voice "Its frequent warning raised, "We mocked the messenger of God, "We mocked the Lord, long-suffering, slow to wrath. "A mighty work the pride of Shedad planned, "Here in the wilderness to form "A garden more surpassing fair "Than that before whose gate, "The lightning of the Cherub's fiery sword "Waves wide to bar access "Since Adam, the transgressor, thence was driven. "Here too would Shedad build "A kingly pile sublime, "The palace of his pride. "For this exhausted mines "Supplied their golden store, "For this the central caverns gave their gems; "For this the woodman's axe "Opened the cedar forest to the sun; "The silkworm of the East "Spun her sepulchral egg; "The hunter African "Provoked the danger of the elephant's wrath; "The Ethiop, keen of scent "Detects the ebony, "That deep-inearthed, and hating light, "A leafless tree and barren of all fruit, "With darkness feeds her boughs of raven grain.... "Such were the treasures lavished in yon pile; "Ages have past away "And never mortal eye "Gazed on their vanity. "The garden's copious springs "Blest that delightful spot, "And every flower was planted here "That makes the gale of evening sweet. "He spake, and bade the full-grown forest rise "His own creation; should the King "Wait for slow Nature's work? "All trees that bend with luscious fruit, "Or wave with feathery boughs, "Or point their spiring heads to heaven, "Or spreading wide their shadowy arms "Invite the traveller to repose at noon, "Hither, uprooted with their native soil, "The labour and the pain of multitudes, "Mature in beauty, bore them. "Here, frequent in the walks "The marble statue stood "Of heroes and of chiefs. "The trees and flowers remain "By Nature's care perpetuate and self-sown. "The marble statues long have lost all trace "Of heroes and of chiefs, "Huge shapeless stones they lie "O'er-grown with many a flower. "The work of pride went on.... "Often the Prophet's voice "Denounced impending woe.... "We mocked at the words of the Seer. "We mocked at the wrath of the Lord. "A long continued drought first troubled us, "Three years no cloud had formed, "Three years no rain had fallen. "The wholesome herb was dry, "The corn matured not for the food of man, "The wells and fountains failed. "O hard of heart, in whom the punishment "Awoke no sense of guilt! "Headstrong to ruin, obstinately blind, "To Idols we applied for aid; "Sakia we invoked for rain, "We called on Razeka for food.... "They did not hear our prayers, they could not hear! "No cloud appeared in Heaven, "No nightly dews came down. "Then to the place of concourse, messengers "Were sent to Mecca, where the nations came, "Round the Red Hillock, kneeling, to implore "God in his favoured place, "We sent to call on God; "Ah fools! unthinking that from all the earth "The heart ascends to him. "We sent to call on God; "Ah fools! to think the Lord "Would hear their prayers abroad "Who made no prayers at home! "Meantime the work of pride went on, "And still before our Idols, wood and stone, "We bowed the impious knee. "Turn men of Ad, and call upon the Lord," "The Prophet Houd exclaimed. "Turn men of Ad and look to Heaven, "And fly the wrath to come. "We mocked the Prophet's words; "Now dost thou dream old man. "Or art thou drunk with wine? "Future woe and wrath to come, "Still thy prudent voice forebodes; "When it comes will we believe, "Till it comes will we go on "In the way our fathers went. "Now are thy words from God? "Or dost thou dream, old man, "Or art thou drunk with wine?" "So spake the stubborn race "The unbelieving ones, "I too of stubborn unbelieving heart "Heard him and heeded not. "It chanced my father went the way of man, "He perished in his sins. "The funeral rites were duly paid, "We bound a camel to his grave "And left it there to die, "So if the resurrection came "Together they might rise. "I past my father's grave, "I heard the Camel moan. "She was his favourite beast, "One that carried me in infancy, "The first that by myself I learnt to mount. "Her limbs were lean with famine, and her eyes "Looked ghastlily with want. "She knew me as I past, "She stared me in the face, "My heart was touched, had it been human else? "I thought no eye was near, and broke her bonds, "And drove her forth to liberty and life. "The Prophet Houd beheld, "He lifted up his voice, "Blessed art thou, young man, "Blessed art thou, O Aswad, for the deed! "In the day of visitation, "In the fearful hour of judgment, "God will remember thee!" "The day of visitation was at hand, "The fearful hour of judgment hastened on. "Lo Shedad's mighty pile complete, "The palace of his pride. "Would ye behold its wonders, enter in! "I have no heart to visit it! "Time hath not harmed the eternal monument, "Time is not here, nor days, nor months, nor years, "An everlasting NOW of misery!... "Ye must have heard their fame, "Or likely ye have seen "The mighty Pyramids, "For sure those mighty piles shall overlive "The feeble generations of mankind. "What tho' unmoved they bore the deluge weight, "Survivors of the ruined world? "What tho' their founder filled with miracles "And wealth miraculous their ample vaults? "Compared with yonder fabric, and they shrink "The baby wonders of a woman's work! "Her emerald columns o'er the marble courts "Fling their green rays, as when amid a shower "The sun shines loveliest on the vernal corn. "Here Shedad bade the sapphire floor be laid, "As tho' with feet divine "To trample azure light, "Like the blue pavement of the firmament. "Here self-suspended hangs in air, "As its pure substance loathed material touch, "The living carbuncle; "Sun of the lofty dome "Darkness has no dominion o'er its beams; "Intense it glows, an ever-flowing tide "Of glory, like the day-flood in its source. "Impious! the Trees of vegetable gold, "Such as in Eden's groves "Yet innocent it grew, "Impious! he made his boast, tho' heaven had hidden "So deep the baneful ore, "That they should branch and bud for him, "That art should force their blossoms and their fruit, "And re-create for him, "Whate'er was lost in Paradise. "Therefore at Shedad's voice "Here towered the palm, a silver trunk, "The fine gold net-work growing out "Loose from its rugged boughs. "Tall as the Cedar of the mountain, here "Rose the gold branches, hung with emerald leaves, "Blossomed with pearls, and rich with ruby fruit, "O Ad! my country! evil was the day "That thy unhappy sons "Crouched at this Nimrod's throne, "And placed him on the pedestal of power, "And laid their liberties beneath his feet, "Robbing their children of the heritance "Their fathers handed down. "What was to him the squandered wealth? "What was to him the burthen of the land, "The lavished misery? "He did but speak his will, "And like the blasting Siroc of the East, "The ruin of the royal voice "Found its way every-where. "I marvel not that he, whose power "No earthly law, no human feeling curbed, "Mocked at the living God! "And now the King's command went forth "Among the people, bidding old and young, "Husband and wife, the master and the slave, "All the collected multitudes of Ad, "Here to repair, and hold high festival, "That he might see his people, they behold "Their King's magnificence and power. "The day of festival arrived, "Hither they came, the old man and the boy, "Husband and wife, the master and the slave, "Hither they came. From yonder high tower top, "The loftiest of the Palace, Shedad looked "Down on his tribe: their tents on yonder sands "Rose like the countless billows of the sea. "Their tread and voices like the ocean roar, "One deep confusion of tumultuous sounds. "They saw their King's magnificence; beheld "His Palace sparkling like the Angel domes "Of Paradise; his garden like the bowers "Of early Eden, and they shouted out "Great is the King, a God upon the earth! "Intoxicate with joy and pride "He heard their blasphemies, "And in his wantonness of heart he bade "The Prophet Houd be brought, "And o'er the marble courts, "And o'er the gorgeous rooms "Glittering with gems and gold, "Is not this a stately pile?" "Cried the Monarch in his joy. "Hath ever eye beheld, "Hath ever thought conceived, "Place more magnificent? "Houd, they saw that Heaven imparted "To thy lips the words of wisdom! "Look at the riches round "And value them aright, "If so thy wisdom can." "The Prophet heard his vaunt "And answered with an aweful smile, "Costly thy palace King! "But only in the hour of death "Man learns to value things like these aright. "Hast thou a fault to find "In all thine eyes have seen? "Again the King exclaimed. "Yes!" said the man of God; "The walls are weak, the building ill secured. "Azrael can enter in! "The Sarsar can pierce thro', "I was beside the Monarch when he spake.... "Gentle the Prophet spake, "But in his eye there dwelt "A sorrow that disturbed me while I gazed, "The countenance of Shedad fell, "And anger sate upon his paler lips. "He to the high tower top the Prophet led, "And pointed to the multitude, "And as again they shouted out "Great is the King! a God upon the Earth!" "Turned with a threatful smile to Houd, "Say they aright, O Prophet? is the King "Great upon earth, a God among mankind?" "The Prophet answered not, "His eye rolled round the infinite multitude, "And into tears he burst. "Sudden an uproar rose, "A cry of joy below, "The Messenger is come! "Kail from Mecca comes, "He brings the boon obtained!" "Forth as we went we saw where overhead "There hung a deep black cloud, "On which the multitude "With joyful eyes looked up "And blest the coming rain. "The Messenger addrest the King "And told his tale of joy. "To Mecca I repaired, "By the Red Hillock knelt "And called on God for rain. "My prayer ascended and was heard; "Three clouds appeared in heaven. "One white, and like the flying cloud of noon, "One red as it had drunk the evening beams, "One black and heavy with its load of rain. "A voice went forth from heaven "Chuse Kail of the three!" "I thanked the gracious Power, "And chose the black cloud, heavy with its wealth." "Right! right! a thousand tongues exclaimed, "And all was merriment and joy. "Then stood the Prophet up and cried aloud, "Woe, woe, to Irem! woe to Ad! "DEATH is gone up into her palaces! "Woe! woe! a day of guilt and punishment, "A day of desolation!" "As he spake "His large eye rolled in horror, and so deep "His tone, it seemed some Spirit from within "Breathed thro' his moveless lips the unearthly voice. "All looks were turned to him. "O Ad!" he cried, "Dear native land, by all rememberances "Of childhood, by all joys of manhood dear; "O Vale of many Waters! morn and night "My age must groan for you, and to the grave "Go down in sorrow. Thou wilt give thy fruits, "But who shall gather them? thy grapes will ripen, "But who shall tread the wine-press? Fly the wrath, "Ye who would live and save your souls alive! "For strong is his right hand that bends the Bow, "The Arrows that he shoots are sharp, "And err not from their aim!" "With that, a faithful few "Prest thro' the throng to join him. Then arose "Mockery and mirth; "go bald head!" and they mixed "Curses with laughter. He set forth, yet once "Looked back,--his eye fell on me, and he called "Aswad!" again he called,... and I almost "Had followed him. O moment fled too soon! "O moment irrecoverably lost! "The shouts of mockery made a coward of me; "He went, and I remained, in fear of MAN!" "He went, and darker grew "The deepening cloud above. "At length it opened, and.... O God! O God! "There were no waters there! "There fell no kindly rain! "The Sarsar from its womb went forth, "They fell around me, thousands fell around, "The King and all his People fell. "All! all! they perished all! "There came a Voice to me and said, "In the fearful Hour of Judgement, "God hath remembered thee." "When from an agony of prayer I rose "And from the scene of death "Attempted to go forth, "The way was open, I beheld "No barrier to my steps. "But round these bowers the Arm of God "Had drawn a mighty chain, "A barrier that no human force might break. "Twice I essayed to pass. "With that the voice was heard, "O Aswad be content, and bless the Lord! "One righteous deed hath saved "Thy soul from utter death. "O Aswad, sinful man! "When by long penitence "Thou feelest thy soul prepared, "Breathe up the wish to die, "And Azrael comes, obedient to the prayer." "A miserable man "From Earth and Heaven shut out, "I heard the dreadful voice. "I looked around my prison place, "The bodies of the dead were there, "Where'er I looked they lay. "They mouldered, mouldered here,... "Their very bones have crumbled into dust, "So many years have past! "So many weary ages have gone by! "And still I linger here! "Still groaning with the burthen of my sins "Have never dared to breathe "The prayer to be released." "Oh! who can tell the unspeakable misery "Of solitude like this! "No sound hath ever reached my ear "Save of the passing wind.... "The fountain's everlasting flow; "The forest in the gale, "The pattering of the shower, "Sounds dead and mournful all. "No bird hath ever closed her wing "Upon these solitary bowers, "No insect sweetly buzzed amid these groves, "From all things that have life, "Save only me, concealed. "This Tree alone that o'er my head "Hangs, down its hospitable boughs, "And bends its whispering leaves "As tho' to welcome me, "Seems to partake of life; "I love it as my friend, my only friend! "I know not for what ages I have dragged "This miserable life, "How often I have seen "These antient trees renewed, "What countless generations of mankind "Have risen and fallen asleep, "And I remain the same! "My garment hath not waxed old, "Nor the sole of my shoe hath worn. "I dare not breathe the prayer to die, "O merciful Lord God!... "But when it is thy will, "But when I have atoned "For mine iniquities, "And sufferings have made pure "My soul with sin defiled, "Release me in thine own good time,... "I will not cease to praise thee, O my God!" Silence ensued awhile, Then Zeinab answered him. "Blessed art thou, O Aswad! for the Lord "Who saved thy soul from Hell, "Will call thee to him in his own good time. "And would that when my heart "Breathed up the wish to die, "Azrael might visit me! "Then would I follow where my babes are gone, "And join Hodeirah now!" She ceased, and the rushing of wings Was heard in the stillness of night, And Azrael, the Death-Angel stood before them. His countenance was dark, Solemn, but not severe, It awed but struck no terror to the heart. "Zeinab, thy wish is heard! "Aswad, thy hour is come!" They fell upon the ground and blest the voice, And Azrael from his sword Let drop the drops of bitterness and death. "Me too! me too!" young Thalaba exclaimed: As wild with grief he kissed His Mother's livid hand, His Mother's quivering lips, "O Angel! take me too! "Son of Hodeirah!" the Death-Angel cried, "It is not yet the hour. "Son of Hodeirah, thou art chosen forth "To do the will of Heaven; "To avenge thy Father's death, "The murder of thy race, "To work the mightiest enterprise "That mortal man hath wrought. "Live! and remember Destiny "Hath marked thee from mankind!" He ceased, and he was gone. Young Thalaba looked round,... The Palace and the groves were seen no more, He stood amid the Wilderness, alone. Not in the desert Wert thou abandoned! The coexistent fire, That in the Dens of Darkness burnt for thee, Burns yet, and yet shall burn. In the Domdaniel caverns Before them in the vault, Blazing unfuelled from the floor of rock, Ten magic flames arose. "Burn mystic fires!" Abdaldar cried, "Burn whilst Hodeirah's dreaded race exist. "This is the appointed hour, "The hour that shall secure these dens of night." "Dim they burn," exclaimed Lobaba, "Dim they burn, and now they waver! "Okba lifts the arm of death, "They waver,... they go out! "Curse on his hasty hand!" Khawla exclaimed in wrath, The woman-fiend exclaimed, "Curse on his hasty hand, the fool hath failed! "Eight only are gone out." A Teraph stood against the cavern side, A new-born infant's head, That Khawla at his hour of birth had seized And from the shoulders wrung. It stood upon a plate of gold, An unclean Spirit's name inscribed beneath. The cheeks were deathy dark, Dark the dead skin upon the hairless skull; The lips were bluey pale; Only the eyes had life, They gleamed with demon light. "Tell me!" quoth Khawla, "is the Fire gone out "That threats the Masters of the Spell?" The dead lips moved and spake, "The Fire still burns that threats "Curse on thee, Okba!" Khawla cried, As to the den the Sorcerer came, He bore the dagger in his hand Hot from the murder of Hodeirah's race. "Behold those unextinguished flames! "The fire still burns that threats "Okba, wert thou weak of heart? "Okba, wert thou blind of eye? "Thy fate and ours were on the lot, "And we believed the lying stars "That said thy hand might seize the auspicious hour! "Thou hast let slip the reins of Destiny,... "Curse thee, curse thee, Okba!" The Murderer answering said, "O versed in all enchanted lore, "Thou better knowest Okba's soul. "Eight blows I struck, eight home-driven blows, "Needed no second stroke "From this envenomed blade. "Ye frown at me as if the will had failed, "As if ye did not know "My double danger from Hodeirah's race, "The deeper hate I feel, "The stronger motive that inspired my arm! "Ye frown as if my hasty fault, "My ill-directed blow "Had spared the enemy, "And not the stars that would not give, "And not your feeble spells "That could not force, the sign "Which of the whole was he! "Did ye not bid me strike them all? "Said ye not root and branch should be destroyed? "I heard Hodeirah's dying groan, "I heard his Children's shriek of death, "And sought to consummate the work, "But o'er the two remaining lives "A cloud unpierceable had risen, "A cloud that mocked my searching eyes. "I would have probed it with the dagger-point, "The dagger was repelled, "A Voice came forth and cried "Son of Perdition, cease! thou canst not change "What in the Book of Destiny is written." Khawla to the Teraph turned, "Tell me where the Prophet's hand "Hides our destined enemy?" The dead lips spake again, "I view the seas, I view the land, "I search the ocean and the earth! "Not on Earth his steps are seen." "A mightier power than we," Lobaba cried, "Protects our destined foe! "Look! look! one fire burns dim! "It quivers! it goes out!" It quivered, it was quenched. One flame alone was left, A pale blue flame that trembled on the earth, A hovering light upon whose shrinking edge The darkness seemed to press. Stronger it grew, and spread Its lucid swell around, Extending now where all the ten had stood, With lustre more than all. At that protentous sight, The children of Evil trembled And Terror smote their souls. Over the den the fire Its fearful splendour cast, The broad base rolling up in wavy streams, Bright as the summer lightning when it spreads Its glory o'er the midnight heaven. The Teraphs eyes were dimmed, That like two twinkling stars Shone in the darkness late. The Sorcerers on each other gazed, And every face all pale with fear, And ghastly in that light was seen Like a dead man's by the sepulchral lamp. Even Khawla fiercest of the enchanter brood Not without effort drew Her fear suspended breath. Anon a deeper rage Inflamed her reddening eye. "Mighty is thy power, Mohammed!" Loud in blasphemy she cried, "But Eblis would not stoop to man "When Man fair statured as the stately palm, "From his Creator's hand "Was undefiled and pure. "Thou art mighty, O Son of Abdallah! "But who is he of woman born "That shall vie with the might of Eblis? "That shall rival the Prince of the Morning?" She said, and raised her skinny hand As in defiance to high Heaven, And stretched her long lean finger forth And spake aloud the words of power. The Spirits heard her call, And lo! before her stands "Spirit!" the Enchantress cried, "Where lives the Boy coeval with whose life "Yon magic fire must burn?" Mistress of the mighty Spell, Only eyes that view Allah's glory throne, See his hiding-place. From some believing Spirit, ask and learn. "Bring the dead Hodeirah here," Khawla cried, "and he shall tell." The Demon heard her bidding, and was gone. A moment passed, and at her feet Hodeirah's corpse was laid. His hand still held the sword he grasped in death, The blood not yet had clotted on his wound. The Sorceress looked and with a smile That kindled to more fiendishness Her hideous features, cried, "Where Hodeirah is thy soul? "Is it in the Zemzem well? "Is it in the Eden groves? "Waits it for the judgement-blast "In the trump of Israfil? "Is it plumed with silver wings "Underneath the throne of God? "Even if beneath his throne "Hodeirah, thou shalt hear, "Thou shalt obey my voice!" She said, and muttered charms that Hell in fear And Heaven in horror heard. Soon the stiff eye-balls rolled, The muscles with convulsive motion shook, The white lips quivered. Khawla saw, her soul Exulted, and she cried, "Prophet! behold my power! "Not even death secures "Thy slaves from Khawla's Spell! "Where Hodeirah is thy child?" Hodeirah groaned and closed his eyes, As if in the night and the blindness of death He would have hid himself. "Speak to my question!" she exclaimed, "Or in that mangled body thou shall live "Ages of torture! answer me! "Where can we find the Boy?" "God! God! Hodeirah cried, "Release me from this life, "From this intolerable agony!" "Speak!" cried the Sorceress; and she snatched A Viper from the floor, And with the living reptile lashed his neck. Wreathed, round him with the blow, The Reptile tighter drew her folds And raised her wrathful head, And fixed into his face Her deadly teeth, and shed Poison in every wound. In vain! for Allah heard Hodeirah's prayer, And Khawla on a corpse Had wrecked her baffled rage. The fated fire moved on And round the Body wrapt its funeral flames. The flesh and bones in that portentous pile Consumed; the Sword alone, Circled with fire was left. Where is the Boy for whose hand it is destined? Where the Destroyer who one day shall wield The Sword that is circled with fire? Race accursed, try your charms! Masters of the mighty Spell, Mutter o'er your words of power! Ye can shatter the dwellings of man, Ye can open the womb of the rock, Ye can shake the foundations of earth, But not one letter can ye change Of what his Will hath written! Who shall seek thro' Araby Hodeirah's dreaded son? They mingle the Arrows of Chance The lot of Abdaldar is drawn. Thirteen moons must wax and wane Ere the Sorcerer quit his quest. He must visit every tribe That roam the desert wilderness, Or dwell beside perennial streams; Nor leave a solitary tent unsearched Till he has found the Boy, The hated Boy whose blood alone Can quench that dreaded fire. A crystal ring Abdaldar bore, The powerful gem condensed Primeval dews that upon Caucasus Felt the first winter's frost. Ripening there it lay beneath Rock above rock, and mountain ice up-piled On mountain, till the incumbent mass assumed, So huge its bulk, the Ocean's azure hue. With this he sought the inner den Where burnt the eternal flame. Like waters gushing from some channelled rock Full thro' a narrow opening, from a chasm The eternal flame streamed up. No eye beheld the fount Of that up-flowing flame, That blazed self-nurtured, and for ever, there. It was no mortal element: the Abyss Supplied it, from the fountains at the first Prepared. In the heart of earth it lives and glows Her vital heat, till at the day decreed, The voice of God shall let its billows loose, To deluge o'er with no abating flood The consummated World; That thenceforth thro' the air must roll, The penal Orb of Fire. Unturbaned and unsandalled there, Abdaldar stood before the flame, And held the Ring beside, and spake The language that the Elements obey. The obedient flame detatched a portion forth, That, in the crystal entering, was condensed, Gem of the gem, its living Eye of fire. When the hand that wears the spell Shall touch the destined Boy, Then shall that Eye be quenched, And the freed Element Fly to its sacred and remembered Spring. Over the sands of the scorching Tchama, Over the waterless mountains of Naid, In Arud pursue him; and Yemen the happy, And Hejaz, the country beloved by believers. From tribe to tribe, from town to town, From tent to tent, Abdaldar past. Him every morn the all-beholding Eye Saw from his couch, unhallowed by a prayer, Rise to the scent of blood, And every night lie down. That rankling hope within him, that by day Goaded his steps, still stinging him in sleep, And startling him with vain accomplishment From visions still the same. Many a time his wary hand To many a youth applied the Ring, And still the dagger in his mantle hid Was ready for the deed. At length to the cords of a tent That were stretched by an Island of Palms In the desolate sea of the sands, The weary traveller came. Under a shapely palm, Herself as shapely, there a Damsel stood. She held her ready robe And looked towards a Boy, Who from the tree above With one hand clinging to its trunk, Cast with the other down the clustered dates. The Wizard approached the Tree, He leaned on his staff, like a way-faring man, And the sweat of his travel was seen on his brow. He asks for food, and lo! The Damsel proffers him her lap of dates. And the Stripling descends, and runs into the tent And brings him forth water, the draught of delight. Anon the Master of the tent, The Father of the family Came forth, a man in years, of aspect mild. To the stranger approaching he gave The friendly saluting of peace, And bade the skin be spread. Before the tent they spread the skin, Under a Tamarind's shade, That bending forward, stretched Its boughs of beauty far. They brought the Traveller rice, With no false colours tinged to tempt the eye, But white as the new-fallen snow, When never yet the sullying Sun Hath seen its purity, Nor the warm Zephyr touched and tainted it. The dates of the grove before their guest They laid, and the luscious fig, And water from the well. The Damsel from the Tamarind tree Had plucked its acid fruit And steeped it in water long; And whoso drank of the cooling draught He would not wish for wine. This to the guest the Damsel brought, And a modest pleasure kindled her cheek, When raising from the cup his moistened lips The Stranger smiled, and praised, and drank again. Whither is gone the Boy? He had pierced the Melon's pulp And closed with wax the wound, And he had duly gone at morn And watched its ripening rind, And now all joyfully he brings The treasure now matured. His dark eyes sparkle with a boy's delight. As he pours out its liquid lusciousness And proffers to the guest. Abdaldar ate, and he was satisfied: And now his tongue discoursed Of regions far remote, As one whose busy feet had travelled long. The Father of the family, With a calm eye and quiet smile, Sate pleased to hearken him. The Damsel who removed the meal, She loitered on the way And listened with full hands A moment motionless. All eagerly the Boy Watches the Traveller's lips, And still the wily man With seemly kindness to the eager Boy Directs his winning tale. Ah, cursed man! if this be he, If thou hast found the object of thy search, Thy hate, thy bloody aim, Into what deep damnation wilt thou plunge Thy miserable soul! Look! how his eye delighted watches thine! Look! how his open lips Gasp at the winning tale! And nearer now he comes To lose no word of that delightful talk. Then, as in familiar mood, Upon the Stripling's arm The Sorcerer laid his hand, And the fire of the Crystal fled. Whilst the sudden shoot of joy Made pale Abdaldar's cheek, The Master's voice was heard: "It is the hour of prayer,... "My children, let us purify ourselves "And praise the Lord our God!" The Boy the water brought, After the law they purified themselves, And bent their faces to the earth in prayer. All, save Abdaldar; over Thalaba He stands, and lifts the dagger to destroy. Before his lifted arm received Its impulse to descend, The Blast of the Desert came. Prostrate in prayer, the pious family Felt not the Simoom pass. They rose, and lo! the Sorcerer lying dead, Holding the dagger in his blasted hand. Oneiza, look! the dead man has a ring,... Should it be buried with him? A wicked man! all that he has must needs Be wicked too! But see,... the sparkling stone! How it has caught the glory of the Sun, And streams it back again in lines of light! Why do you take it from him Thalaba?... And look at it so near?... it may have charms To blind, or poison ... throw it in the grave!... I would not touch it! And around its rim Strange letters,... It is not written as the Koran is; Some other tongue perchance ... the accursed man Said he had been a traveller. MOATH. _coming from the tent._ What hast thou there? A ring the dead man wore, Perhaps my father, you can read its meaning. No Boy,... the letters are not such as ours. Heap the sand over it! a wicked man Wears nothing holy. Nay! not bury it! It may be that some traveller who shall enter Our tent, may read them: or if we approach Cities where strangers dwell and learned men, They may interpret. It were better hid Under the desert sands. This wretched man, Whom God hath smitten in the very purpose And impulse of his unpermitted crime, Belike was some Magician, and these lines Are of the language that the Demons use. Bury it! bury it ... dear Thalaba! Such cursed men there are upon the earth, In league and treaty with the Evil powers, The covenanted enemies of God And of all good, dear purchase have they made Of rule, and riches, and their life-long sway, Masters, yet slaves of Hell. Beneath the Roots Of Ocean, the Domdaniel caverns lie: Their impious meeting; there they learn the words Unutterable by man who holds his hope Of Heaven, there brood the Pestilence, and let The Earthquake loose. And he who would have killed me Was one of these? I know not, but it may be That on the Table of Destiny, thy name Is written their Destroyer, and for this Thy life by yonder miserable man So sought; so saved by interfering Heaven. His ring has some strange power then? Every gem, So sages say, has virtue; but the science Of difficult attainment, some grow pale Conscious of poison, or with sudden shade Of darkness, warn the wearer; same preserve From spells, or blunt the hostile weapon's edge. Some open rocks and mountains, and lay bare Their buried treasures; others make the sight Strong to perceive the presence of all Beings Thro' whose pure substance the unaided eye Passes, like empty air ... and in yon stone I deem some such misterious quality. My father, I will wear it. In God's name, and the Prophet's! be its power Good, let it serve the righteous: if for evil, God and my trust in him shall hallow it. So Thalaba drew on The written ring of gold. Then in the hollow grave They laid Abdaldar's corpse, And levelled over him the desert dust. The Sun arose, ascending from beneath The horizon's circling line. As Thalaba to his ablutions went, Lo! the grave open, and the corpse exposed! It was not that the winds of night Had swept away the sands that covered it, For heavy with the undried dew The desert dust was dark and close around; And the night air had been so moveless calm, It had not from the grove Shaken a ripe date down. Amazed to hear the tale Forth from the tent came Moath and his child. Awhile the thoughtful man surveyed the corpse Silent with downward eyes, Then turning spake to Thalaba and said, "I have heard that there are places by the abode "Of holy men, so holily possessed, "That if a corpse be buried there, the ground "With a convulsive effort shakes it out, "Impatient of pollution. Have the feet "Of Prophet or Apostle blest this place? "Ishmael, or Houd, or Saleh, or than all, "Mohammed, holier name? or is the man "So foul with magic and all blasphemy, "That Earth like Heaven rejects him? it is best "Forsake the station. Let us strike our tent. "The place is tainted ... and behold "The Vulture hovers yonder, and his scream "Chides us that we still we scare him from his banquet. "So let the accursed one "Find fitting sepulchre." Then from the pollution of death With water they made themselves pure, And Thalaba drew up The fastening of the cords, And Moath furled the tent, And from the grove of palms Oneiza led The Camels, ready to receive their load. The dews had ceased to steam Towards the climbing Sun, When from the Isle of Palms they went their way. And when the Sun had reached his southern height, As back they turned their eyes, The distant Palms arose Like to the top-sails of some far-off fleet Distinctly seen, where else The Ocean bounds had blended with the sky. And when the eve came on The sight returning reached the grove no more. They planted the pole of their tent, And they laid them down to repose. At midnight Thalaba started up, For he felt that the ring on his finger was moved. He called on Allah aloud, And he called on the Prophet's name. Moath arose in alarm, "What ails thee Thalaba?" he cried, "Is the Robber of night at hand?" "Dost thou not see," the youth exclaimed, Moath looked round and said, "The moon beam shines in the Tent, "I see thee stand in the light, "And thy shadow is black on the ground." Thalaba answered not. "Spirit!" he cried, "what brings thee here? "In the name of the Prophet, speak, "In the name of Allah, obey!" He ceased, and there was silence in the Tent. "Dost thou not hear?" quoth Thalaba. The listening man replied, "I hear the wind, that flaps "The curtain of the Tent. "The Ring! the Ring!" the youth exclaimed. "For that the Spirit of Evil comes, "By that I see, by that I hear. "In the name of God, I ask thee "Who was he that slew my Father?" Master of the powerful Ring! Okba, the wise Magician, did the deed. Where does the Murderer dwell? In the Domdaniel caverns Why were my Father and my brethren slain? We knew from the race of Hodeirah The destined destroyer would come. Bring me my father's sword. A fire surrounds the fated-sword, No Spirit or Magician's hand Can pierce that guardian flame. Bring me his bow and his arrows. Distinctly Moath heard his voice, and She Who thro' the Veil of Separation, watched All sounds in listening terror, whose suspense Forbade the aid of prayer. They heard the voice of Thalaba; But when the Spirit spake, the motionless air Felt not the subtle sounds, Too fine for mortal sense. On a sudden the rattle of arrows was heard, And the quiver was laid at the feet of the youth, And in his hand they saw Hodeirah's Bow. He eyed the Bow, he twanged the string, And his heart bounded to the joyous tone. Anon he raised his voice, and cried "Go thy way, and never more, "Evil Spirit, haunt our tent! "By the virtue of the Ring, "By Mohammed's holier might, "By the holiest name of God, "I adjure and I command "Never more to trouble us!" Nor ever from that hour Did rebel Spirit on the Tent intrude, Such virtue had the Spell. And peacefully the vernal years Of Thalaba past on. Till now without an effort he could bend Hodeirah's stubborn Bow. Black were his eyes and bright, The sunny hue of health Glowed on his tawny cheek, His lip was darkened by maturing life; Strong were his shapely limbs, his stature tall; He was a comely youth. Compassion for the child Had first old Moath's kindly heart possessed, An orphan, wailing in the wilderness. But when he heard his tale, his wonderous tale, Told by the Boy with such eye-speaking truth, Now with sudden bursts of anger, Now in the agony of tears, And now in flashes of prophetic joy. What had been pity became reverence, And like a sacred trust from Heaven The old man cherished him. Now with a father's love, Child of his choice, he loved the Boy, And like a father to the Boy was dear. Oneiza called him brother, and the youth, More fondly than a brother, loved the maid, The loveliest of Arabian maidens she. How happily the years Of Thalaba went by! It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven That in a lonely tent had cast There might his soul develope best Its strengthening energies; There might he from the world Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate, Till at the written hour he should be found Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled In that beloved solitude! Is the morn fair, and does the freshening breeze Flow with cool current o'er his cheek? Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore With lids half closed he lies, Dreaming of days to come. His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, Now licks his listless hand, Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye Courting the wonted caress. Or comes the Father of the Rains From his Caves in the uttermost West, Comes he in darkness and storms? When the blast is loud, When the waters fill The Travellers tread in the sands, When the pouring shower Streams adown the roof, When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds, When the outstrained tent flags loosely, Comfort is within, The embers chearful glow, The sound of the familiar voice, The song that lightens toil. Under the common shelter on dry sand The quiet Camels ruminate their food; From Moath falls the lengthening cord, As patiently the old Man Intwines the strong palm-fibers; by the hearth The Damsel shakes the coffee-grains, That with warm fragrance fill the tent; And while with dextrous fingers, Thalaba Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake! Or when the winter torrent rolls Down the deep-channelled rain-course, foamingly, Dark with its mountain spoils, With bare feet pressing the wet sand There wanders Thalaba, The rushing flow, the flowing roar, Filling his yielded faculties; A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. ... Or lingers it a vernal brook Gleaming o'er yellow sands? Beneath the lofty bank reclined, With idle eye he views its little waves, Quietly listening to the quiet flow; While in the breathings of the stirring gale The tall canes bend above, Floating like streamers on the wind Their lank uplifted leaves. Nor rich, nor poor, was Moath; God had given Enough, and blest him with a mind content. No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams; But ever round his station he beheld Camels that knew his voice, And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call, And goats that, morn and eve, Came with full udders to the Damsel's hand. Dear child! the Tent beneath whose shade they dwelt That was her work; and she had twined His girdle's many-hues; And he had seen his robe Grow in Oneiza's loom. How often with a memory-mingled joy That made her Mother live before his sight, He watched her nimble finders thread the woof! Or at the hand-mill when she knelt and toiled, Tost the thin cake on spreading palm, Or fixed it on the glowing oven's side With bare wet arm, in safe dexterity. 'Tis the cool evening hour: The Tamarind from the dew Sheaths its young fruit, yet green. Before their Tent the mat is spread, The old man's aweful voice Intones the holy Book. What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, Its marble walls bedecked with flourished truth, Azure and gold adornment? sinks the Word With deeper influence from the Imam's voice, Where in the day of congregation, crowds Perform the duty task? Their Father is their Priest, The Stars of Heaven their point of prayer, And the blue Firmament The glorious Temple, where they feel The present Deity. Yet thro' the purple glow of eve Shines dimly the white moon. The slackened bow, the quiver, the long lance, Rest on the pillar of the Tent. Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow The dark-eyed damsel sits; The Old Man tranquilly Up his curled pipe inhales The tranquillizing herb. So listen they the reed of Thalaba, While his skilled fingers modulate The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones, Or if he strung the pearls of Poetry Singing with agitated face And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, A tale of love and woe; Then, if the brightening Moon that lit his face In darkness favoured her's, Oh! even with such a look, as, fables say, The mother Ostrich fixes on her egg, Till that intense affection Kindle its light of life, Even in such deep and breathless tenderness Oneiza's soul is centered on the youth, So motionless with such an ardent gaze, Save when from her full eyes Quickly she wipes away the gushing tears That dim his image there. She called him brother: was it sister-love That made the silver rings Round her smooth ankles and her twany arms, Shine daily brightened? for a brother's eye Were her long fingers tinged, As when she trimmed the lamp, And thro' the veins and delicate skin The light shone rosy? that the darkened lids Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye? That with such pride she tricked Her glossy tresses, and on holy day Wreathed the red flower-crown round their jetty waves? How happily the years Of Thalaba went by! Yet was the heart of Thalaba Impatient of repose; Restless he pondered still The task for him decreed, The mighty and mysterious work announced. Day by day with youthful ardour He the call of Heaven awaits, And oft in visions o'er the Murderer's head He lifts the avenging arm, And oft in dreams he sees The Sword that is circled with fire. One morn as was their wont, in sportive mood The youth and damsel bent Hodeirah's bow, For with no feeble hand nor erring aim Oneiza could let loose the obedient shaft. With head back-bending, Thalaba Shot up the aimless arrow high in air, Whose line in vain the aching sight pursued Lost in the depth of heaven. "When will the hour arrive," exclaimed the youth, "That I shall aim these fated shafts "To vengeance long delayed? "Have I not strength, my father, for the deed? "Or can the will of Providence "Be mutable like man? "Shall I never be called to the task?" "Impatient boy!" quoth Moath, with a smile: "Impatient Thalaba!" Oneiza cried, And she too smiled, but in her smile A mild reproachful melancholy mixed. Then Moath pointed where a cloud Of Locusts, from the desolated fields Of Syria, winged their way. "Lo! how created things "Obey the written doom!" Onward they came, a dark continuous cloud Of congregated myriads numberless, The rushing of whose wings was as the sound Of a broad river, headlong in its course Plunged from a mountain summit, or the roar Of a wild ocean in the autumn storm, Shattering its billows on a shore of rocks. Onward they came, the winds impelled them on, Their work was done, their path of ruin past, Their graves were ready in the wilderness. "Behold the mighty army!" Moath cried, "Blindly they move, impelled "By the blind Element. "And yonder Birds our welcome visitants, "Lo! where they soar above the embodied host, "Pursue their way, and hang upon their rear, "And thin their spreading flanks, "Rejoicing o'er their banquet! deemest thou "The scent of water, on the Syrian mosque "Placed with priest-mummery, and the jargon-rites "That fool the multitude, has led them here "From far Khorasan? Allah who decreed "Yon tribe the plague and punishment of man, "These also hath he doomed to meet their way: "Both passive instruments "Of his all-acting will, "Sole mover he, and only spring of all." While thus he spake, Oneiza's eye looks up Where one towards her flew, Satiate, for so it seemed, with sport and food. The Bird flew over her, And as he past above, From his relaxing grasp a Locust fell.... It fell upon the Maiden's robe, And feebly there it stood, recovering slow. The admiring girl surveyed His out-spread sails of green. His gauzy underwings, One closely to the grass green body furled, One ruffled in the fall, and half unclosed. She viewed his jet-orbed eyes His glossy gorget bright Green-glittering in the sun; His plumy pliant horns That, nearer as she gazed, Bent tremblingly before her breath. She viewed his yellow-circled front With lines mysterious veined; "And knowest thou what is written here, "My father?" said the Maid. "Look Thalaba! perchance these lines "Are in the letters of the Ring, "Nature's own language written here." The youth bent down, and suddenly He started, and his heart Sprung, and his cheek grew red, For the mysterious lines were legible, And Moath looked, and read the lines aloud; The Locust shook his wings and fled, And they were silent all. Who then rejoiced but Thalaba? Who then was troubled but the Arabian Maid? And Moath sad of heart, Tho' with a grief supprest, beheld the youth Sharpen his arrows now, And now new-plume their shafts, Now to beguile impatient hope Feel every sharpened point. "Why is that anxious look," Oneiza cried, "Still upwards cast at noon? "Is Thalaba aweary of our tent?" "I would be gone," the youth replied, "That I might do my task, "And full of glory to the tent return "Whence I should part no more." But on the noontide sun, As anxious and as oft Oneiza's eye Was upward glanced in fear. And now as Thalaba replied, her cheek Lost its fresh and lively hue, For in the Sun's bright edge She saw, or thought she saw, a little speck. The sage Astronomer Who with the love of science full Trembled that day at every passing cloud, He had not seen it, 'twas a speck so small. Alas! Oneiza sees the spot increase! And lo! the ready Youth Over his shoulder the full quiver slings And grasps the slackened bow. It spreads, and spreads, and now Has shaddowed half the Sun, Whose crescent-pointed horns Now momently decrease. The day grows dark, the Birds retire to rest; Forth from her shadowy haunt Flies the large-headed Screamer of the night. Far off the affrighted African, Deeming his God deceased, Falls on his knees in prayer, And trembles as he sees The fierce Hyena's eyes Glare in the darkness of that dreadful noon. Then Thalaba exclaimed, "Farewell, "My father! my Oneiza!" the Old Man Felt his throat swell with grief. "Where wilt thou go my Child?" he cried, "Wilt thou not wait a sign "To point thy destined way?" "God will conduct me!" said the noble youth, He said and from the Tent In the depth of the darkness departed. They heard his parting steps, The quiver rattling as he past away. Whose is yon dawning form, That in the darkness meets The delegated youth? Dim as the shadow of a fire at noon, Or pale reflection on the evening brook Of Glow-worm on the bank Kindled to guide her winged paramour. A moment, and the brightening image shaped His Mother's form and features. "Go," she cried, "To Babylon, and from the Angels learn "What talisman thy task requires." The Spirit hung towards him when she ceased, As tho' with actual lips she would have given A mother's kiss ... his arms outstretched, His body bending on, His lips unclosed and trembling into speech He prest to meet the blessing,... but the wind Played on his cheek: he looked, and he beheld The darkness close. "Again! again!" he cried, "Let me again behold thee!" from the darkness His Mother's voice went forth; "Thou shall behold me in the hour of death." Day dawns, the twilight gleam dilates, The Sun comes forth and like a God Rides thro' rejoicing heaven. Old Moath and his daughter from their tent Beheld the adventurous youth, Dark moving o'er the sands, A lessening image, trembling thro' their tears. Visions of high emprize Beguiled his lonely road; And if sometimes to Moath's tent The involuntary mind recurred, Fancy, impatient of all painful thoughts Pictured the bliss should welcome his return. In dreams like these he went, And still of every dream Oneiza formed a part, And Hope and Memory made a mingled joy. In the eve he arrived at a Well, The Acacia bent over its side, Under whose long light-hanging boughs He chose his night's abode. There, due ablutions made and prayers performed, The youth his mantle spread, And silently produced His solitary meal. The silence and the solitude recalled Dear recollections, and with folded arms, Thinking of other days, he sate, till thought Had left him, and the Acacia's moving shade Upon the sunny sand Had caught his idle eye, And his awakened ear Heard the grey Lizard's chirp, The only sound of life. As thus in vacant quietness he sate, A Traveller on a Camel reached the Well, And courteous greeting gave. The mutual salutation past, He by the cistern too his garment spread, And friendly converse cheered the social meal. The Stranger was an antient man, Yet one whose green old age Bore the fair characters of temperate youth. So much of manhood's strength his limbs retained, It seemed he needed not the staff he bore. His beard was long, and grey, and crisp; Lively his eyes and quick, And reaching over them The large broad eye-brow curled.... His speech was copious, and his winning words Enriched with knowledge, that the attentive youth Sate listening with a thirsty joy. So in the course of talk The adventurer youth enquired Whither his course was bent; The Old Man answered, "to Bagdad I go." At that so welcome sound a flash of joy "And I too," he replied, "Am journeying thitherward, "Let me become companion of thy way!" Courteous the Old Man smiled, And willing in assent.... Son, thou art young for travel. I never past the desert boundary. It is a noble city that we seek. Thou wilt behold magnificent palaces, And lofty obelisks, and high-domed Mosques, And rich Bazars, whither from all the world Industrious merchants meet, and market there The World's collected wealth. Near to the site of ancient Babylon And Nimrod's impious temple? From the walls 'Tis but a long day's distance. And the ruins? A mighty mass remains; enough to tell us How great our fathers were, how little we. Men are not what they were; their crimes and follies Have dwarfed them down from the old hero race To such poor things as we! I have heard the Angels expiate their guilt, 'Tis a history Handed from ages down; the nurses make it A tale to please their children, And as their garrulous ignorance relates We learn it and believe ... but all things feel The power of Time and Change! thistles and grass Usurp the desolate palace, and the weeds Of Falshood root in the aged pile of Truth. How have you heard the tale? Thus ... on a time The Angels at the wickedness of man Expressed indignant wonder: that in vain Tokens and signs were given, and Prophets sent,... Strange obstinacy this! a stubborness Of sin, they said, that should for ever bar The gates of mercy on them. Allah heard Their unforgiving pride, and bade that two Of these untempted Spirits should descend, Judges on earth. Haruth and Maruth went, The chosen Sentencers; they fairly heard The appeals of men to their tribunal brought, And rightfully decided. At the length A Woman came before them ... beautiful Zohara was, as yonder Evening star, In the mild lustre of whose lovely light Even now her beauty shines. They gazed on her With fleshly eyes, they tempted her to sin. The wily woman listened, and required A previous price, the knowledge of the name Of God. She learnt the wonder-working name And gave it utterance, and its virtue bore her Up to the glorious Presence, and she told Before the aweful Judgement-Seat, her tale. I know the rest, the accused Spirits were called: Unable of defence, and penitent, They owned their crime and heard the doom deserved. Then they besought the Lord that not for ever His wrath might be upon them; and implored That penal ages might at length restore them Clean from offence, since then by Babylon In the cavern of their punishment they dwell, Runs the conclusion so? So I am taught. The common tale! and likely thou hast heard How that the bold and bad, with impious rites Intrude upon their penitence, and force, Albeit from loathing and reluctant lips, The sorcery-secret? Is it not the truth? Son, thou hast seen the Traveller in the sands Move in the dizzy light of the hot noon, Huge as the giant race of elder times, And his Camel, than the monstrous Elephant, Seem of a vaster bulk. A frequent sight. And hast thou never in the twilight, fancied Familiar object into some strange shape And form uncouth? Aye! many a time. Things viewed at distance thro' the mist of fear, In their distortion terrify and shock The abused sight. But of these Angels fate Thus in the uncreated Book is written. Wisely from legendary fables, Heaven Inculcates wisdom. How then is the truth? Is not the dungeon of their punishment By ruined Babylon? Haruth and Maruth may be found. And there Magician learn their impious sorcery? Son what thou sayest is true, and it is false. But night approaches fast; I have travelled far And my old lids are heavy ... on our way We shall have hours for converse, let us now Turn to our due repose. Son, peace be with thee! So in his loosened cloak The Old Man wrapt himself And laid his limbs at length: And Thalaba in silence laid him down. Awhile he lay and watched the lovely Moon, O'er whose broad orb the boughs A mazy fretting framed, Or with a pale transparent green Lighting the restless leaves, The thin Acacia leaves that played above. The murmuring wind, the moving leaves Lulled him to sleep with mingled lullabies. Not so the dark Magician by his side, Lobaba, who from the Domdaniel caves Had sought the dreaded youth. Silent he lay, and simulating sleep, Till by the long and regular breath he knew The youth beside him slept. Carefully then he rose, And bending over him, surveyed him near And secretly he cursed The dead Abdaldar's ring, Armed by whose amulet He slept from danger safe. Wrapped in his mantle Thalaba reposed, His loose right arm pillowing his head. Whose crystal gem returned A quiet, moveless light. Vainly the Wizard vile put forth his hand And strove to reach the gem, Charms strong as hell could make them, made it safe. He called his servant fiends, He bade the Genii rob the sleeping youth. By the virtue of the Ring, By Mohammed's holier power, By the holiest name of God, Had Thalaba disarmed the evil race. Baffled and weary, and convinced at length, Anger, and fear, and rancour gnawing him, The accursed Sorcerer ceased his vain attempts. Content perforce to wait Temptations likelier aid. Restless he lay, and brooding many a wile, And tortured with impatient hope, And envying with the bitterness of hate The innocent youth, who slept so sweetly by. The ray of morning on his eye lids fell, And Thalaba awoke And folded his mantle around him, And girded his loins for the day; Then the due rites of holiness observed. His comrade too arose, And with the outward forms Of righteousness and prayer insulted God. They filled their water skin, they gave The Camel his full draught. Then on their road while yet the morn was young And the air was fresh with dew, Forward the travellers went, With various talk beguiling the long way. But soon the youth, whose busy mind Dwelt on Lobaba's wonder-stirring words, Renewed the unfinished converse of the night. Thou saidest that it is true, and yet is false, That men accurst, attain at Babylon Forbidden knowledge from the Angel pair.... How mean you? All things have a double power, Alike for good and evil, the same fire That on the comfortable hearth at eve Warmed the good man, flames o'er the house at night Should we for this forego The needful element? Because the scorching summer Sun Darts fever, wouldst thou quench the orb of day? Or deemest thou that Heaven in anger formed Iron to till the field, because when man Had tipt his arrows for the chase, he rushed A murderer to the war? What follows hence? That nothing in itself is good or evil, But only in its use. Think you the man Praiseworthy who by painful study learns The knowledge of all simples, and their power Healing or harmful? All men hold in honour The skilful Leech. From land to land he goes Safe in his privilege; the sword of war Spares him, Kings welcome him with costly gifts, And he who late had from the couch of pain Lifted a languid look to him for aid, Views him with brightened eyes, and blesses him In his first thankful prayer. Yet some there are Who to the purposes of wickedness, Apply this knowledge, and from herbs distil Poison to mix it in the trusted draught. Allah shall cast them in the fire Whose fuel is the cursed! there shall they Endure the ever-burning agony Consuming still in flames, and still renewed. But is their knowledge therefore in itself That were foolishness to think. O what a glorious animal were Man, Knew he but his own powers! and knowing gave them Room for their growth and spread! the Horse obeys His guiding will, the patient Camel bears him Over these wastes of sand, the Pigeon wafts His bidding thro' the sky: and with these triumphs He rests contented! with these ministers, When he might awe the Elements, and make Myriads of Spirits serve him! But as how! By a league with Hell, a covenant that binds The soul to utter death! Accurst of God? yet to his talismans Obedient, o'er his throne the birds of Heaven Their waving wings his sun-shield, fanned around him The motionless air of noon: from place to place, As his will reined the viewless Element He rode the Wind: the Genii reared his temple, And ceaselessly in fear while his dead eye O'erlooked them, day and night pursued their toil, So dreadful was his power. But 'twas from Heaven His wisdom came; God's special gift ... the guerdon Of early virtue. Learn thou, O young man! God hath appointed Wisdom the reward Of study! 'tis a spring of living waters, Whose inexhaustible bounties all might drink But few dig deep enough. Son! thou art silent,... Perhaps I say too much,... perhaps offend thee. Nay, I am young, and willingly as becomes me, Hear the wise words of age. Is it a crime To mount the horse, because forsooth thy feet Can serve thee for the journey? is it sin Because the Hern soars upward in the sky Above the arrow's flight, to train the Falcon Whose beak shall pierce him there? the powers which All Granted to man, were granted for his use; All knowledge that befits not human weakness Is placed beyond its reach.... They who repair To Babylon, and from the Angels learn Mysterious wisdom, sin not in the deed. Know you these secrets? I? alas my Son My age just knows enough to understand How little all its knowledge! later years Sacred to study, teach me to regret Youth's unforeseeing indolence, and hours That cannot be recalled! something I know: The properties of herbs, and have sometimes Brought to the afflicted comfort and relief By the secrets of my art; under His blessing Without whom all had failed! Also of Gems I have some knowledge, and the characters That tell beneath what aspect they were set. Belike you can interpret then the graving Around this Ring? My sight is feeble, Son, And I must view it closer, let me try! The unsuspecting Youth Held forth his linger to draw off the spell. Even whilst he held it forth, There settled there a Wasp, And just above the Gem infixed its dart. All purple swoln the hot and painful flesh Rose round the tightened Ring. The baffled Sorcerer knew the hand of Heaven, And inwardly blasphemed. Ere long Lobaba's heart, Fruitful in wiles, devised new stratagem. A mist arose at noon; Like the loose hanging skirts Of some low cloud that, by the breeze impelled, Sweeps o'er the mountain side. With joy the thoughtless youth That grateful shadowing hailed; For grateful was the shade, While thro' the silver-lighted haze Guiding their way, appeared the beamless Sun. But soon that beacon failed; A heavier mass of cloud Impenetrably deep, Hung o'er the wilderness. "Knowest thou the track?" quoth Thalaba, "Or should we pause, and wait the wind "To scatter this bewildering fog?" The Sorcerer answered him "Now let us hold right on,... for if we stray "The Sun tomorrow will direct our course." So saying, he towards the desert depths Misleads the youth deceived. Earlier the night came on, Nor moon, nor stars, were visible in Heaven; And when at morn the youth unclosed his eyes He knew not where to turn his face in prayer. "What shall we do?" Lobaba cried, "The lights of Heaven have ceased "To guide us on our way. "Should we remain and wait "More favourable skies? "Soon would our food and water fail us here! "And if we venture on, "There are the dangers of the wilderness!" "Sure it were best proceed!" The chosen youth replies. "So haply we may reach some tent, or grove "Of dates, or stationed tribe. "But idly to remain "Were yielding effortless, and waiting death." The wily Sorcerer willingly assents, And farther in the sands, Elate of heart, he leads the credulous youth. Still o'er the wilderness Settled the moveless mist. The timid Antelope that heard their steps Stood doubtful where to turn in that dim light, The Ostrich, blindly hastening, met them full. At night again in hope, Young Thalaba laid down; The morning came, and not one guiding ray Thro' the thick mist was visible, The same deep moveless mist that mantled all. Oh for the Vulture's scream That haunts for prey the abode of humankind! Oh for the Plover's pleasant cry To tell of water near! Oh for the Camel-driver's song! For now the water-skin grows light, Tho' of the draught, more eagerly desired, Imperious prudence took with sparing thirst. Oft from the third night's broken sleep, As in his dreams he heard The sound of rushing winds, Started the anxious youth, and looked abroad, In vain! for still the deadly calm endured. Another day past on, The water-skin was drained, But then one hope arrived For there was motion in the air! The sound of the wind arose anon That scattered the thick mist, And lo! at length the lovely face of Heaven! Alas ... a wretched scene Was opened on their view. They looked around, no wells were near, No tent, no human aid! Flat on the Camel lay the water-skin, Over hot sands and under the hot sun, Dragged on with patient pain. But oh the joy! the blessed sight! When in the burning waste the Travellers Saw a green meadow, fair with flowers besprent, Azure and yellow, like the beautiful fields Of England, when amid the growing grass The blue-bell bends, the golden king-cup shines, In the merry month of May! Oh joy! the Travellers Gaze on each other with hope-brightened eyes, For sure thro' that green meadow flows The living stream! and lo! their famished beast Sees the restoring sight! Hope gives his feeble limbs a sudden strength, He hurries on! The herbs so fair to eye Were Senna, and the Gentian's blossom blue, And kindred plants that with unwatered root Fed in the burning sand, whose bitter leaves Even frantic Famine loathed. In uncommunicating misery Silent they stood. At length Lobaba cried, "Son we must slay the Camel, or we die "For lack of water! thy young hand is firm, "Draw forth the knife and pierce him!" Wretch accurst, Who that beheld thy venerable face, Thy features fixed with suffering, the dry lips, The feverish eyes, could deem that all within Was magic ease, and fearlessness secure, And wiles of hellish import? the young man Paused with reluctant pity: but he saw His comrade's red and painful countenance, And his own burning breath came short and quick, And at his feet the gasping beast Lies, over-worn with want. Then from his girdle Thalaba took the knife With stern compassion, and from side to side Across the Camel's throat, Drew deep the crooked blade. Servant of man, that merciful deed For ever ends thy suffering, but what doom Waits thy deliverer! "little will thy death "Avail us!" thought the youth, As in the water-skin he poured The Camel's hoarded draught: It gave a scant supply, The poor allowance of one prudent day. Son of Hodeirah, tho' thy steady soul Despaired not, firm in faith, Yet not the less did suffering Nature feel Her pangs and trials, long their craving thirst Struggled with fear, by fear itself inflamed; But drop by drop, that poor, That last supply is drained! Still the same burning sun! no cloud in heaven! The hot air quivers, and the sultry mist Floats o'er the desert, with a show Of distant waters, mocking their distress! The youth's parched lips were black, His tongue was dry and rough, His eye-balls red with heat. His comrade gazed on him with looks That seemed to speak of pity, and he said "Let me behold thy Ring, "It may have virtue that can save us yet!" With that he took his hand And viewed the writing close, Then cried with sudden joy "It is a stone that whoso bears "The Genii must obey! "Now raise thy voice, my Son, "And bid them in his name that here is written "Preserve us in our need." "Nay!" answered Thalaba, "Shall I distrust the providence of God? "Is it not He must save? "If Allah wills it not "Vain were the Genii's aid." Whilst he spake Lobaba's eye Full on the distance fixed, Attended not his speech. Its fearful meaning drew The looks of Thalaba. Columns of sand came moving on, Red in the burning ray Like obelisks of fire They rushed before the driving wind. Vain were all thoughts of flight! They had not hoped escape Could they have backed the Dromedary then Who in his rapid race Gives to the tranquil air, a drowning force. High ... high in heaven upcurled The dreadful columns moved, Swift, as the whirlwind that impelled their way, They rushed towards the Travellers! The old Magician shrieked, And lo! the foremost bursts, Before the whirlwind's force, Scattering afar a burning shower of sand. "Now by the virtue of the Ring "Save us!" Lobaba cried. "While yet thou hast the power "Save us. O save us! now!" The youth made no reply, Gazing in aweful wonder on the scene. "Why dost thou wait?" the Old Man exclaimed, "If Allah and the Prophet will not save "Call on the Powers that will!" "Ha! do I know thee, Infidel accurst?" Exclaimed the awakened youth. "And thou hast led me hither, Child of Sin! "That fear might make me sell "My soul to endless death!" "Fool that thou art!" Lobaba cried, "Call upon him whose name "Thy charmed signet bears, "Or die the death thy foolishness deserves!" "Servant of Hell! die thou!" quoth Thalaba. And leaning on his bow He fitted the loose string, And laid the arrow in its resting-place. "Bow of my Father, do thy duty now!" He drew the arrow to its point, True to his eye it fled, And full upon the breast It smote the wizard man. Astonished Thalaba beheld The blunted point recoil. A proud and bitter smile Wrinkled Lobaba's cheek, "Try once again thine earthly arms!" he cried. "Rash Boy! the Power I serve "Abandons not his votaries. "It is for Allah's wretched slaves, like thou, "To serve a master, who in the hour of need "Forsakes them to their fate! "I leave thee!"... and he shook his staff, and called Swift as the viewless wind, Self-moved, the Chariot came, The Sorcerer mounts the seat. "Yet once more weigh thy danger!" he exclaimed, "Ascend the car with me, "And with the speed of thought "We pass the desert bounds." The indignant youth vouchsafed not to reply, And lo! the magic car begins its course! Hark! hark!... he screams.... Lobaba screams! What wretch, and hast thou raised The rushing Terrors of the Wilderness To fall on thine own head? Death! death! inevitable death! Driven by the breath of God A column of the Desert met his way. When Thalaba from adoration rose, The air was cool, the sky With welcome clouds o'ercast, That soon came down in rain. He lifted up his fevered face to heaven, And bared his head and stretched his hands To that delightful shower, And felt the coolness flow thro' every limb Freshening his powers of life. A loud quick panting! Thalaba looks up, He starts, and his instinctive hand Grasps the knife hilt: for close beside A Tyger passes him. An indolent and languid eye The passing Tyger turned; His head was hanging down, His dry tongue lolling low, And the short panting of his fevered breath Came thro' his hot parched nostrils painfully. The young Arabian knew The purport of his hurried pace, And following him in hope Saw joyful from afar The Tyger stoop and drink. The desert Pelican had built her nest In that deep solitude. And now returned from distant flight Fraught with the river stream, Her load of water had disburthened there. Her young in the refreshing bath Sported all wantonness; Dipt down their callow heads, Filled the swoln membrane from their plumeless throat Pendant, and bills yet soft, And buoyant with arched breast, Plied in unpractised stroke The oars of their broad feet. They, as the spotted prowler of the wild Laps the cool wave, around their mother croud, And nestle underneath her outspread wings. The spotted prowler of the wild Lapt the cool wave, and satiate from the nest, Guiltless of blood, withdrew. The mother bird had moved not But cowering o'er her nestlings, Sate confident and fearless, And watched the wonted guest. But when the human visitant approached, The alarmed Pelican Retiring from that hostile shape, Gathers her young, and menaces with wings, And forward thrusts her threatening neck, Its feathers ruffling in her wrath, Bold with maternal fear. Thalaba drank and in the water-skin Hoarded the precious element. Not all he took, but in the large nest left Store that sufficed for life. And journeying onward blest the Carrier Bird, And blest in thankfulness, Their common Father, provident for all. With strength renewed and confident in faith The son of Hodeirah proceeds; Till after the long toil of many a day, At length Bagdad appeared, The City of his search. He hastening to the gate Roams o'er the city with insatiate eyes, Its thousand dwellings o'er whose level roofs Fair cupolas appeared, and high-domed mosques And pointed minarets, and cypress groves Every where scattered in unwithering green. Thou too art fallen, Bagdad! City of Peace, Thou too hast had thy day! And loathsome Ignorance and brute Servitude Pollute thy dwellings now, Erst for the Mighty and the Wise renowned. O yet illustrious for remembered fame, Thy founder the Victorious, and the pomp Of Haroun, for whose name by blood defiled, Jahia's, and the blameless Barmecides', Genius hath wrought salvation; and the years When Science with the good Al-Maimon dwelt; So one day may the Crescent from thy Mosques Be plucked by Wisdom, when the enlightened arm Of Europe conquers to redeem the East. Then Pomp and Pleasure dwelt within her walls Met in her arched Bazars; All day the active poor Showered a cool comfort o'er her thronging streets; Labour was busy in her looms; Thro' all her open gates Long troops of laden Camels lined her roads, And Tigris on his tameless current bore Armenian harvests to her multitudes. But not in sumptuous Caravansary The adventurer idles there, Nor satiates wonder with her pomp and wealth; A long day's distance from the walls Stands ruined Babylon! The time of action is at hand, The hope that for so many a year Hath been his daily thought, his nightly dream, Stings to more restlessness. He loathes all lingering that delays the hour When, full of glory, from his quest returned, He on the pillar of the Tent beloved Shall hang Hodeirah's sword. The many-coloured domes Yet wore one dusky hue, The Cranes upon the Mosque Kept their night-clatter still, When thro' the gate the early Traveller past. And when at evening o'er the swampy plain The Bittern's Boom came far, Distinct in darkness seen Above the low horizon's lingering light Rose the near ruins of old Babylon. Once from her lofty walls the Charioteer Looked down on swarming myriads; once she flung Her arches o'er Euphrates conquered tide, And thro' her brazen portals when she poured Her armies forth, the distant nations looked As men who watched the thunder-cloud in fear Lest it should burst above them. She was fallen, The Queen of Cities, Babylon was fallen! Low lay her bulwarks; the black scorpion basked In the palace courts, within her sanctuary The She Wolf hid her whelps. Is yonder huge and shapeless heap, what once Had been the aerial Gardens, height on height Rising like Medias mountains crowned with wood, Work of imperial dotage? where the fame Of Belus? where the Golden Image now, Which at the sound of dulcimer and lute, Cornet and sackbut, harp and psaltery, The Assyrian slaves adored? A labyrinth of ruins, Babylon Spreads o'er the blasted plain: The wandering Arab never sets his tent Within her walls; the Shepherd eyes afar Her evil Towers, and devious drives his flock. Alone unchanged, a free and bridgeless tide Euphrates rolls along, Eternal Nature's work. Thro' the broken portal, Over weedy fragments, Thalaba went his way. Cautious he trod, and felt The dangerous ground before him with his bow. The Chacal started at his steps, The Stork, alarmed at sound of man, From her broad nest upon the old pillar top, Affrighted fled on flapping wings. The Adder in her haunts disturbed Lanced at the intruding staff her arrowy tongue. Twilight and moonshine dimly mingling gave An aweful light obscure, Evening not wholly closed, The Moon still pale and faint. An aweful light obscure, Broken by many a mass of blackest shade; Long column stretching dark thro' weeds and moss, Broad length of lofty wall Whose windows lay in light, And of their former shape, low-arched or square, Rude outline on the earth Figured, with long grass fringed. Reclined against a column's broken shaft, Unknowing whitherward to bend his way He stood and gazed around. The Ruins closed him in, It seemed as if no foot of man For ages had intruded there. Soon at approaching step Starting, he turned and saw A warrior in the moon beam drawing near. Forward the Stranger came And with a curious eye Perused the Arab youth. "And who art thou," he cried, "That at an hour like this "A way-bewildered traveller, seekest thou "The ruinous shelter here? "Or comest thou to hide "The plunder of the night? "Or hast thou spells to make "These ruins, yawning from their rooted base "Disclose their secret wealth?" The youth replied, "nor wandering traveller "Nor robber of the night "Nor skilled in spells am I. "I seek the Angels here, "Haruth and Maruth. Stranger in thy turn, "Why wanderest thou in Babylon, "And who art thou, the Questioner?" The man was fearless, and the tempered pride That toned the voice of Thalaba Displeased not him, himself of haughty heart. Heedless he answered, "knowest thou "Their cave of punishment?" Vainly I seek it. Art thou firm of foot To tread the ways of danger? Point the path! Young Arab! if thou hast a heart can beat Evenly in danger, if thy bowels yearn not With human fears, at scenes where undisgraced The soldier tried in battle might look back And tremble, follow me!... for I am bound Into that cave of horrors. Gazed on his comrade, he was young, of port Stately and strong; belike his face had pleased A woman's eye, yet the youth read in it Unrestrained passions, the obdurate soul Bold in all evil daring; and it taught, By Nature's irresistible instinct, doubt Well timed and wary. Of himself assured, Fearless of man, and confident in faith, "Lead on!" cried Thalaba. Mohareb led the way; And thro' the ruined streets, And thro' the farther gate They past in silence on. What sound is borne on the wind? Is it the storm that shakes The thousand oaks of the forest? But Thalaba's long locks Flow down his shoulders moveless, and the wind In his loose mantle raises not one fold. Is it the river's roar Dashed down some rocky descent? Along the level plain Euphrates glides unheard. What sound disturbs the night, Loud as the summer forest in the storm, As the river that roars among rocks? And what the heavy cloud That hangs upon the vale, Thick as the mist o'er a well-watered plain Settling at evening, when the cooler air Lets its day-vapours fall; Black as the sulphur-cloud That thro' Vesuvius, or from Hecla's mouth Rolls up, ascending from the infernal fires. From Ait's bitumen lake That heavy cloud ascends; That everlasting roar From where its gushing springs Boil their black billows up. Silent the Arab youth, Along the verge of that wide lake, Followed Mohareb's way Towards a ridge of rocks that banked its side. There from a cave with torrent force, And everlasting roar, The black bitumen rolled. The moonlight lay upon the rocks. Their crags were visible, The shade of jutting cliffs, And where broad lichens whitened some smooth spot, And where the ivy hung Its flowing tresses down. A little way within the cave The moonlight fell, glossing the sable tide That gushed tumultuous out. A little way it entered, then the rock Arching its entrance, and the winding way, Darkened the unseen depths. No eye of mortal man If unenabled by enchanted spell, Had pierced those fearful depths. For mingling with the roar Of the portentous torrent, oft were heard Shrieks, and wild yells that scared The brooding Eagle from her midnight nest. The affrighted countrymen And ever when their way leads near They hurry with averted eyes, And dropping their beads fast Pronounce the holy name. There pausing at the cavern mouth Mohareb turned to Thalaba, "Now darest thou enter in?" "Behold!" the youth replied, And leading in his turn the dangerous way Set foot within the cave. "Stay Madman!" cried his comrade. "Wouldst thou rush "Headlong to certain death? "Where are thine arms to meet "The Guardian of the Passage?" a loud shriek That shook along the windings of the cave Scattered the youth's reply. Mohareb when the long reechoing ceased Exclaimed, "Fate favoured thee, "Young Arab! when she wrote upon thy brow "The meeting of to-night; "Else surely had thy name "This hour been blotted from the Book of Life!" So saying from beneath His cloak a bag he drew; "Young Arab! thou art brave," he cried, "But thus to rush on danger unprepared, "As lions spring upon the hunter's spear, "Is blind, brute courage. Zohak keeps the cave, "Giantly tyrant of primeval days. "Force cannot win the passage." Thus he said And from his wallet drew a human hand Shrivelled, and dry, and black, And fitting as he spake A taper in its hold, Pursued: "a murderer on the stake had died, "I drove the Vulture from his limbs, and lopt "The hand that did the murder, and drew up "The tendon-strings to close its grasp, "And in the sun and wind "Parched it, nine weeks exposed. "The Taper,... but not here the place to impart, "Nor hast thou done the rites, "That fit thee to partake the mystery. "Look! it burns clear, but with the air around "Its dead ingredients mingle deathiness. "This when the Keeper of the Cave shall feel, "Maugre the doom of Heaven, "The salutary spell "Shall lull his penal agony to sleep "And leave the passage free." Thalaba answered not. Nor was there time for answer now, For lo! Mohareb leads, And o'er the vaulted cave Trembles the accursed taper's feeble light. There where the narrowing chasm Rose loftier in the hill, Stood Zohak, wretched man, condemned to keep His Cave of punishment. His was the frequent scream Which far away the prowling Chacal heard And howled in terror back: For from his shoulders grew Two snakes of monster size, That ever at his head Aimed eager their keen teeth To satiate raving hunger with his brain. He in the eternal conflict oft would seize Their swelling necks, and in his giant grasp Bruise them, and rend their flesh with bloody nails, And howl for agony, Feeling the pangs he gave, for of himself Inseparable parts, his torturers grew. To him approaching now Mohareb held the withered arm The Taper of enchanted power. The unhallowed spell in hand unholy held Now ministered to mercy, heavily The wretche's eyelids closed, And welcome and unfelt Like the release of death A sudden sleep fell on his vital powers. Yet tho' along the cave Lay Zohak's giant limbs, The twin-born serpents kept the narrow pass, Kindled their fiery eyes, Darted their tongues of terror, and rolled out Their undulating length, Like the long streamers of some gallant ship Buoyed on the wavy air, Still struggling to flow on and still withheld. The scent of living flesh Inflamed their appetite. Prepared for all the perils of the cave Mohareb came. He from his wallet drew Two human heads yet warm. O hard of heart! whom not the visible power Of retributive Justice, and the doom Of Zohak in his sight, Deterred from equal crime! Two human heads, yet warm, he laid Before the scaly guardians of the pass. They to their wonted banquet of old years Turned eager, and the narrow pass was free. And now before their path The opening cave dilates; They reach a spacious vault Where the black river fountains burst their way. Now as a whirlwind's force Had centered on the spring, The gushing flood rolled up; And now the deadened roar Echoed beneath them, as its sudden pause Left wide a dark abyss, Adown whose fathomless gulphs the eye was lost. Blue flames that hovered o'er the springs Flung thro' the Cavern their uncertain light Now waving on the waves they lay, And now their fiery curls Flowed in long tresses up, And now contracting glowed with whiter heat. Then up they poured again Darting pale flashes thro' the tremulous air; The flames, the red and yellow sulphur-smoke, And the black darkness of the vault Commingling indivisibly. "Here," quoth Mohareb, "do the Angels dwell, Then raised his voice and cried, "Haruth and Maruth, hear me! not with rites "Accursed, to disturb your penitence "And learn forbidden lore, "Repentant Angels, seek I your abode. "Me Allah and the Prophet mission here, "Their chosen servant I. "And dost thou think" "Mohareb cried, as with a scornful smile He glanced upon his comrade, "dost thou think "To trick them of their secret? for the dupes "Of human-kind keep this lip-righteousness! "'Twill serve thee in the Mosque "And in the Market-place, "But Spirits view the heart. "Only by strong and torturing spells enforced, "Those stubborn Angels teach the charm "By which we must descend." "Descend!" said Thalaba. But then the wrinkling smile Forsook Mohareb's cheek, And darker feelings settled on his brow. "Now by my soul," quoth he, "and I believe "Some camel-kneed prayer-monger thro' the cave! "What brings thee hither? thou shouldest have a hut "By some Saint's grave beside the public way, "There to less-knowing fools "Retail thy Koran scraps, "And in thy turn, die civet-like at last "In the dung-perfume of thy sanctity!... "Ye whom I seek! that, led by me, "Feet uninitiate tread "Your threshold, this atones! "Fit sacrifice he falls!" And forth he flashed his scymetar, And raised the murderous blow. Then ceased his power; his lifted arm, Suspended by the spell, Hung impotent to strike. "Poor Hypocrite!" cried he, "And this then is thy faith "In Allah and the Prophet! they had failed "To save thee, but for Magic's stolen aid; "Yea, they had left thee yonder Serpent's meal, "But that, in prudent cowardice, "The chosen Servant of the Lord came in, "Safe follower of my path!" "Blasphemer! dost thou boast of guiding me?" Kindling with pride quoth Thalaba, "Blindly the wicked work "The righteous will of Heaven. "Sayest thou that diffident of God, "In magic spell I trust? "Liar! let witness this!" And he drew off Abdaldar's Ring And cast it in the gulph. A skinny hand came up And caught it as it fell, And peals of devilish laughter shook the Cave. Then joy suffused Mohareb's cheek, And Thalaba beheld The blue blade gleam, descending to destroy. The undefended youth Sprung forward, and he seized Mohareb in his grasp, And grappled with him breast to breast. Sinewy and large of limb Mohareb was, Broad-shouldered, and his joints Knit firm, and in the strife Of danger practised well. Time had not thus matured young Thalaba: But now the enthusiast mind, The inspiration of his soul Poured vigour like the strength Of madness thro' his frame. Mohareb reels before him! he right on With knee, with breast, with arm, Presses the staggering foe! And now upon the brink Of that tremendous spring, There with fresh impulse and a rush of force He thrust him from his hold. The upwhirling flood received Mohareb, then, absorbed, Engulphed him in the abyss. Thalaba's breath came fast, And panting he breathed out A broken prayer of thankfulness. At length he spake and said, "Haruth and Maruth! are ye here? "Or has that evil guide misled my search? "Invoke you. Hear me Angels! so may Heaven "Accept and mitigate your penitence. "I go to root from earth the Sorcerer brood, "Tell me the needful Talisman!" Thus as he spake, recumbent on the rock Beyond the black abyss, Their forms grew visible. A settled sorrow sate upon their brows, Sorrow alone, for trace of guilt and shame No more remained; and gradual as by prayer The sin was purged away, Their robe of glory, purified of stain Resumed the lustre of its native light. In awe the youth received the answering voice, "Son of Hodeirah! thou hast proved it here; to doxan to poiete.] _Lucian, Quomodo Hist. scribenda._ The sixth Book The seventh Book The eighth Book The ninth Book The tenth Book The eleventh Book The twelfth Book So from the inmost cavern, Thalaba Retrod the windings of the rock. Still on the ground the giant limbs Of Zohak were outstretched; The spell of sleep had ceased And his broad eyes were glaring on the youth: Yet raised he not his arm to bar the way, Fearful to rouse the snakes Now lingering o'er their meal. Oh then, emerging from that dreadful cave, How grateful did the gale of night Salute his freshened sense! How full of lightsome joy, Thankful to Heaven, he hastens by the verge Of that bitumen lake, Whose black and heavy fumes, Surge heaving after surge, Rolled like the billowy and tumultuous sea. The song of many a bird at morn Aroused him from his rest. Lo! by his side a courser stood! More animate of eye, Of form more faultless never had he seen, More light of limbs and beautiful in strength, Among the race whose blood, Pure and unmingled, from the royal steeds Of Solomon came down. The chosen Arab's eye Glanced o'er his graceful shape, His rich caparisons, His crimson trappings gay. But when he saw the mouth Uncurbed, the unbridled neck, Then flushed his cheek, and leapt his heart, For sure he deemed that Heaven had sent The Courser, whom no erring hand should guide. And lo! the eager Steed Throws his head and paws the ground, Impatient of delay! Then up leapt Thalaba And away went the self-governed steed. Far over the plain Away went the bridleless steed; With the dew of the morning his fetlocks were wet, The foam frothed his limbs in the journey of noon, Nor stayed he till over the westerly heaven The shadows of evening had spread. Then on a sheltered bank The appointed Youth reposed, And by him laid the docile courser down. Again in the grey of the morning Thalaba bounded up, Over hill, over dale Away goes the bridleless steed. Again at eve he stops Again the Youth descends. His load discharged, his errand done, Then bounded the courser away. Heavy and dark the eve; The Moon was hid on high, A dim light only tinged the mist That crost her in the path of Heaven. All living sounds had ceased, Only the flow of waters near was heard, A low and lulling melody. Fasting, yet not of want Percipient, he on that mysterious steed Had reached his resting place, For expectation kept his nature up. The flow of waters now Awoke a feverish thirst: Led by the sound, he moved To seek the grateful wave. A meteor in the hazy air Played before his path; Before him now it rolled A globe of livid fire; And now contracted to a steady light, As when the solitary hermit prunes His lamp's long undulating flame: And now its wavy point Up-blazing rose, like a young cypress-tree Swayed by the heavy wind; Anon to Thalaba it moved, And wrapped him in its pale innocuous fire: Now in the darkness drowned Left him with eyes bedimmed, And now emerging spread the scene to sight. Led by the sound, and meteor-flame Advanced the Arab youth. Now to the nearest of the many rills He stoops; ascending steam Timely repels his hand, For from its source it sprung, a boiling tide. A second course with better hap he tries, The wave intensly cold Tempts to a copious draught. There was a virtue in the wave, His limbs that stiff with toil, Dragged heavy, from the copious draught received Lightness and supple strength. O'erjoyed, and deeming the benignant Power Who sent the reinless steed, Had blessed the healing waters to his use He laid him down to sleep; Lulled by the soothing and incessant sound, The flow of many waters, blending oft With shriller tones and deep low murmurings That from the fountain caves In mingled melody Like faery music, heard at midnight, came. The sounds that last he heard at night Awoke his sense at morn. A scene of wonders lay before his eyes. In mazy windings o'er the vale Wandered a thousand streams; They in their endless flow had channelled deep The rocky soil o'er which they ran, Veining its thousand islet stones, Like clouds that freckle o'er the summer sky, The blue etherial ocean circling each And insulating all. A thousand shapes they wore, those islet stones, And Nature with her various tints Varied anew their thousand forms: For some were green with moss, Some rich with yellow lichen's gold, Or ruddier tinged, or grey, or silver-white, Or sparkling sparry radiance to the sun. Here gushed the fountains up, Alternate light and blackness, like the play Of sunbeams, on the warrior's burnished arms. Yonder the river rolled, whose bed, Their labyrinthine lingerings o'er Received the confluent rills. This was a wild and wonderous scene, Strange and beautiful, as where By Oton-tala, like a sea of stars, The hundred sources of Hoangho burst. High mountains closed the vale, Bare rocky mountains, to all living things Inhospitable, on whose sides no herb Rooted, no insect fed, no bird awoke Their echoes, save the Eagle, strong of wing, A lonely plunderer, that afar Sought in the vales his prey. Thither towards those mountains, Thalaba Advanced, for well he weened that there had Fate Destined the adventures end. Up a wide vale winding amid their depths, A stony vale between receding heights Of stone, he wound his way. A cheerless place! the solitary Bee Whose buzzing was the only sound of life Flew there on restless wing, Seeking in vain one blossom, where to fix. Still Thalaba holds on, The winding vale now narrows on his way, And steeper of ascent Rightward and leftward rise the rocks, And now they meet across the vale. Was it the toil of human hands That hewed a passage in the rock, Thro' whose rude portal-way The light of heaven was seen? Rude and low the portal-way, Beyond the same ascending straits Went winding up the wilds. Still a bare, silent, solitary glen, A fearful silence and a solitude That made itself be felt. And steeper now the ascent, A rugged path, that tired The straining muscles, toiling slowly up. At length again a rock Stretched o'er the narrow vale. There also was a portal hewn, But gates of massy iron barred the way, Huge, solid, heavy-hinged. There hung a horn beside the gate, Ivory-tipt and brazen mouthed, He took the ivory tip, And thro' the brazen mouth he breathed; From rock to rock rebounding rung the blast, Like a long thunder peal! The gates of iron, by no human arm Unfolded, turning on their hinges slow, Disclosed the passage of the rock. He entered, and the iron gates Fell to, and closed him in. It was a narrow winding way, Dim lamps suspended from the vault Lent to the gloom an agitated light. Winding it pierced the rock, A long descending path By gates of iron closed; There also hung the horn beside Of ivory tip and brazen mouth, Again he took the ivory tip And gave the brazen mouth his voice again. Not now in thunder spake the horn, But poured a sweet and thrilling melody: The gates flew open, and a flood of light Rushed on his dazzled eyes. Was it to earthly Eden lost so long, The youth had found the wonderous way? But earthly Eden boasts No terraced palaces, No rich pavilions bright with woven gold. Like these that in the vale Rise amid odorous groves. The astonished Thalaba Doubting as tho' an unsubstantial dream Beguiled his passive sense, A moment closed his eyes; Still they were there ... the palaces and groves, And rich pavilions glittering golden light. And lo! a man, reverend in comely age Advancing meets the youth. "Favoured of Fortune," he exclaimed, "Go taste the joys of Paradise! "The reinless steed that ranges o'er the world "Brings hither those alone for lofty deeds "Marked by their horoscope; permitted here "A foretaste of the full beatitude, "That in heroic acts they may go on "More ardent, eager to return and reap "Endless enjoyment here, their destined meed. "Favoured of Fortune thou, "Go taste the joys of Paradise!" This said, he turned away, and left The Youth in wonder mute; For Thalaba stood mute And passively received The mingled joy that flowed on every sense. Where'er his eye could reach Fair structures, rain bow-hued, arose; And rich pavilions thro' the opening woods Gleamed from their waving curtains sunny gold; And winding thro' the verdant vale Flowed streams of liquid light; And fluted cypresses reared up Their living obelisks; And broad-leaved Zennars in long colonades O'er-arched delightful walks, Where round their trunks the thousand-tendril'd vine Wound up and hung the bows with greener wreaths, And clusters not their own. Wearied with endless beauty did his eyes Return for rest? beside him teems the earth With tulips, like the ruddy evening streaked, And here the lily hangs her head of snow, And here amid her sable cup Shines the red eye-spot, like one brightest star The solitary twinkler of the night, And here the rose expands Her paradise of leaves. Then on his ear what sounds Of harmony arose! Far music and the distance-mellowed song From bowers of merriment; The waterfall remote; The murmuring of the leafy groves; The single nightingale Perched in the Rosier by, so richly toned, That never from that most melodious bird, Singing a love-song to his brooding mate, Did Thracian shepherd by the grave Of Orpheus hear a sweeter song; Tho' there the Spirit of the Sepulchre All his own power infuse, to swell The incense that he loves. And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale Scatters from jasmine bowers. From yon rose wilderness, From clustered henna, and from orange groves That with such perfumes fill the breeze, As Peris to their Sister bear, When from the summit of some lofty tree She hangs encaged, the captive of the Dives. They from their pinions shake The sweetness of celestial flowers, And as her enemies impure From that impervious poison far away Fly groaning with the torment, she the while Inhales her fragrant food. Such odours flowed upon the world When at Mohammed's nuptials, word Went forth in Heaven to roll The everlasting gates of Paradise Back on their living hinges, that its gales Might visit all below; the general bliss Thrilled every bosom, and the family Of man, for once partook one common joy. Full of the joy, yet still awake To wonder, on went Thalaba; On every side the song of mirth, The music of festivity, Invite the passing youth. Wearied at length with hunger and with heat He enters in a banquet room, Where round a fountain brink, On silken carpets sate the festive train. Instant thro' all his frame Delightful coolness spread; The playing fount refreshed The agitated air; The very light came cooled thro' silvering panes Of pearly shell, like the pale moon-beam tinged; Or where the wine-vase filled the aperture, Rosy as rising morn, or softer gleam Of saffron, like the sunny evening mist: Thro' every hue, and streaked by all The flowing fountain played. Around the water-edge Vessels of wine, alternate placed, Ruby and amber, tinged its little waves. From golden goblets there The guests sate quaffing the delicious juice Of Shiraz' golden grape. But Thalaba took not the draught For rightly he knew had the Prophet forbidden That beverage the mother of sins. Nor did the urgent guests Proffer a second time the liquid fire For in the youth's strong eye they saw No moveable resolve. Yet not uncourteous, Thalaba Drank the cool draught of innocence, That fragrant from its dewy vase Came purer than it left its native bed. And he partook the odorous fruits, For all rich fruits were there. Water-melons rough of rind, Whose pulp the thirsty lip Dissolved into a draught: Pistachios from the heavy-clustered trees Of Malavert, or Haleb's fertile soil, And Casbin's luscious grapes of amber hue, That many a week endure The summer sun intense, Till by its powerful fire All watery particles exhaled, alone The strong essential sweetness ripens there. Here cased in ice, the apricot, A topaz, crystal-set: Here on a plate of snow The sunny orange rests, And still the aloes and the sandal-wood From golden censers o'er the banquet room Diffuse their dying sweets. Anon a troop of females formed the dance Their ancles bound with bracelet-bells That made the modulating harmony. Transparent garments to the greedy eye Gave all their harlot limbs, That writhed, in each immodest gesture skilled. With earnest eyes the banqueters Fed on the sight impure; And Thalaba, he gazed, But in his heart he bore a talisman Whose blessed Alchemy To virtuous thoughts refined The loose suggestions of the scene impure. Oneiza's image swam before his sight, He rose, and from the banquet room he rushed, And tears ran down his burning cheek, And nature for a moment woke the thought And murmured, that from all domestic joys Estranged, he wandered o'er the world A lonely being, far from all he loved. Son of Hodeirah, not among thy crimes That murmur shall be written! From tents of revelry, From festal bowers, to solitude he ran, And now he reached where all the rills Of that well-watered garden in one tide Rolled their collected waves. A straight and stately bridge Stretched its long arches o'er the ample stream. Strong in the evening and distinct its shade Lay on the watry mirror, and his eye Saw it united with its parent pile One huge fantastic fabric. Drawing near, Loud from the chambers of the bridge below, Sounds of carousal came and song, And unveiled women bade the advancing youth Come merry-make with them. Unhearing or unheeding, Thalaba Past o'er with hurried pace, And plunged amid the forest solitude. His soul returned to you. He cast himself upon the earth And closed his eyes, and called The voluntary vision up. A cry as of distress Aroused him; loud it came, and near! He started up, he strung his bow, He plucked the arrow forth. Again a shriek ... a woman's shriek! And lo! she rushes thro' the trees, Her veil all rent, her garments torn! He follows close, the ravisher.... Even on the unechoing grass She hears his tread, so close! "Prophet save me! save me God! "Help! help!" she cried to Thalaba, Thalaba drew the bow. The unerring arrow did its work of death. He turned him to the woman, and beheld From fear, amazement, joy, At length the Arabian Maid recovering speech, Threw around Thalaba her arms and cried, "My father! O my father!" Thalaba In wonder lost, yet fearful to enquire, Bent down his cheek on hers, And their tears mingled as they fell. At night they seized me, Thalaba! in my sleep,... Thou wert not near,... and yet when in their grasp I woke, my shriek of terror called on thee. My father could not save me,... an old man! And they were strong and many,... O my God, The hearts they must have had to hear his prayers, And yet to leave him childless! We will seek him. We will return to Araby. We should not find him, Thalaba! our tent Is desolate, the wind hath heaped the sands Within its door, the lizard's track is left Fresh on the untrodden dust; prowling by night The tyger, as he passes hears no breath Of man, and turns to search its solitude. Alas! he strays a wretched wanderer Seeking his child! old man, he will not rest,... He cannot rest, his sleep is misery, His dreams are of my wretchedness, my wrongs.... O Thalaba! this is a wicked place! Let us be gone! But how to pass again The iron doors that opening at a breath Gave easy entrance? armies in their strength, Would fail to move those hinges for return! But we can climb the mountains that shut in This dreadful garden. Are Oneiza's limbs Equal to that long toil? Oh I am strong Dear Thalaba! for this ... fear gives me force, And you are with me! So she took his hand, And gently drew him forward, and they went Towards the mountain chain. It was broad moonlight, and obscure or lost The garden beauties lay, But the great boundary rose, distinctly marked. These were no little hills, No sloping uplands lifting to the sun Their vine-yards, with fresh verdure, and the shade Of ancient woods, courting the loiterer To win the easy ascent: stone mountains these Desolate rock on rock, The burthens of the earth, Whose snowy summits met the morning beam When night was in the vale, whose feet were fixed In the world's foundations. Thalaba surveyed The heights precipitous, Impending crags, rocks unascendible, And summits that had tired the eagle's wing; "There is no way!" he cried. Paler Oneiza grew And hung upon his arm a feebler weight. But soon again to hope Revives the Arabian maid, As Thalaba imparts the sudden thought. "I past a river," cried the youth "A full and copious stream. "The flowing waters cannot be restrained "And where they find or force their way, "There we perchance may follow, thitherward "The current rolled along." So saying yet again in hope Quickening their eager steps They turned them thitherward. Silent and calm the river rolled along, And at the verge arrived Of that fair garden, o'er a rocky bed Towards the mountain base, Still full and silent, held its even way, But the deep sound, the dash Louder and louder in the distance rose, As if it forced its stream Struggling with crags along a narrow pass. And lo! where raving o'er a hollow course The ever-flowing tide Foams in a thousand whirlpools! there adown The perforated rock Plunge the whole waters, so precipitous, So fathomless a fall That their earth-shaking roar came deadened up Like subterranean thunders. "Allah save us!" Oneiza cried, "there is no path for man "From this accursed place!" And as she spake her joints Were loosened, and her knees sunk under her. "Cheer up, Oneiza!" Thalaba replied, "Be of good heart. We cannot fly "The dangers of the place, "But we can conquer them!" And the young Arab's soul Arose within him; "what is he," he cried, "Who has prepared this garden of delight, "And wherefore are its snares?" The Arabian Maid replied, "The Women when I entered, welcomed me "To Paradise, by Aloadin's will "Chosen like themselves, a Houri of the Earth. "They told me, credulous of his blasphemies, "That Aloadin placed them to reward "His faithful servants with the joys of Heaven. "O Thalaba, and all are ready here "To wreak his wicked will, and work all crimes! "How then shall we escape?" "Woe to him!" cried the Appointed, a stern smile Darkening with stronger shades his countenance, "Woe to him! he hath laid his toils "To take the Antelope, "The Lion is come in!" She shook her head, "a Sorcerer he "And guarded by so many! Thalaba,... "And thou but one!" He raised his hand to Heaven, "Is there not God, Oneiza? "I have a Talisman, that, whoso bears, "Of Evil can cast down. "Hath marked me from mankind! "Now rest in faith, and I will guard thy sleep!" So on a violet bank The Arabian Maid lay down, Her soft cheek pillowed upon moss and flowers. She lay in silent prayer, Till prayer had tranquillized her fears, And sleep fell on her. By her side Silent sate Thalaba, And gazed upon the Maid, And as he gazed, drew in New courage and intenser faith, And waited calmly for the eventful day. Loud sung the Lark, the awakened Maid Beheld him twinkling in the morning light, And wished for wings and liberty like his. The flush of fear inflamed her cheek, But Thalaba was calm of soul, Collected for the work. He pondered in his mind How from Lobaba's breast His blunted arrow fell. Aloadin too might wear Spell perchance of equal power To blunt the weapon's edge! Beside the river-brink, Rose a young poplar, whose unsteady leaves Varying their verdure to the gale, With silver glitter caught His meditating eye. Then to Oneiza turned the youth And gave his father's bow, And o'er her shoulders slung The quiver arrow-stored. "Me other weapon suits;" said he, "Bear thou the Bow: dear Maid! "The days return upon me, when these shafts, "True to thy guidance, from the lofty palm "Brought down the cluster, and thy gladdened eye "Exulting turned to seek the voice of praise. "Oh! yet again Oneiza, we shall share "Our desert joys!" So saying to the bank He moved, and stooping low, With double grasp, hand below hand, he clenched And from its watry soil Uptore the poplar trunk. Then off he shook the clotted earth, And broke away the head And boughs and lesser roots, And lifting it aloft Wielded with able sway the massy club. "Now for this child of Hell!" quoth Thalaba, "Belike he shall exchange to day "His dainty Paradise "For other dwelling, and the fruit "Of Zaccoum, cursed tree." With that the youth and Arab maid Towards the garden centre past. It chanced that Aloadin had convoked The garden-habitants, And with the assembled throng Oneiza mingled, and the appointed youth. Unmarked they mingled, or if one With busier finger to his neighbour notes The quivered Maid, "haply," he says, "Some daughter of the Homerites, "Or one who yet remembers with delight "Her native tents of Himiar!" "Nay!" rejoins His comrade, "a love-pageant! for the man "Mimics with that fierce eye and knotty club "Some savage lion-tamer, she forsooth "Must play the heroine of the years of old!" Radiant with gems upon his throne of gold Aloadin sate. O'er the Sorcerer's head Hovered a Bird, and in the fragrant air Waved his winnowing wings, A living canopy. Large as the plumeless Cassowar Was that o'ershadowing Bird; So huge his talons, in their grasp The Eagle would have hung a helpless prey. His beak was iron, and his plumes Glittered like burnished gold, And his eyes glowed, as tho' an inward fire Shone thro' a diamond orb. The blinded multitude And bent the knee before him, And shouted out his praise, "Mighty art thou, the Bestower of joy, Aloadin waved his hand, In idolizing reverence Moveless they stood and mute. "Children of Earth," he cried, "Whom I have guided here "By easier passage than the gate of Death, "The infidel Sultan to whose lands "My mountains reach their roots, "Blasphemes and threatens me. "Strong are his armies, many are his guards, "Yet may a dagger find him. "Children of Earth, I tempt you not "With the vain promise of a bliss unseen, "With tales of a hereafter Heaven "Whence never Traveller hath returned! "Have ye not tasted of the cup of joy, "That in these groves of happiness "For ever over-mantling tempts "The ever-thirsty lip? "Who is there here that by a deed "Of danger will deserve "The eternal joys of actual Paradise? "I!" Thalaba exclaimed, And springing forward, on the Sorcerer's head He dashed the knotty club. He fell not, tho' the force Shattered his skull; nor flowed the blood. For by some hellish talisman His life imprisoned still Dwelt in the body. The astonished crowd Stand motionless with fear, and wait Immediate vengeance from the wrath of Heaven. And lo! the Bird ... the monster Bird Soars up ... then pounces down To seize on Thalaba! Now Oneiza, bend the bow, Now draw the arrow home! It fled, the arrow from Oneiza's hand, It pierced the monster Bird, It broke the Talisman. Then darkness covered all,... Earth shook, Heaven thundered, and amid the yells Of Spirits accursed, destroyed At last the earth was still; The yelling of the Demons ceased; Opening the wreck and ruin to their sight The darkness rolled away. Alone in life Amid the desolation and the dead They looked around, the rocks were rent, The path was open, late by magic closed. Awe-struck and silent down the stony glen They wound their thoughtful way. Amid the vale below Tents rose, and streamers played And javelins sparkled in the sun, And multitudes encamped Swarmed, far as eye could follow, o'er the plain. There in his war pavilion sate In council with his Chiefs Before his presence there a Captain led Oneiza and the appointed Youth. "Obedient to our Lord's command," said he, "We past towards the mountains, and began "The ascending strait; when suddenly Earth shook, "And darkness like the midnight fell around, "And fire and thunder came from Heaven "As tho' the Retribution day were come. "After the terror ceased, and when with hearts "Somewhat assured, again we ventured on, "This youth and woman met us on the way. "They told us that from Aloadin's haunt "They came on whom the judgement-stroke has fallen; "He and his sinful Paradise at once "Destroyed by them, the agents they of Heaven. "Therefore I brought them hither, to repeat "The tale before thy presence; that as search "Shall prove it false or faithful, to their merit "Thou mayest reward them." "Be it done to us," Thalaba answered, "as the truth shall prove!" The Sultan while he spake "Fixed on him the proud eye of sovereignty; "If thou hast played with us, "By Allah and by Ali, Death shall seal "The lying lips for ever! if the thing "Be as thou sayest it, Arab, thou shalt stand And hark! the cry The lengthening cry, the increasing shout Of joyful multitudes! Breathless and panting to the tent The bearer of good tidings comes, "O Sultan, live for ever! be thy foes "Like Aloadin all! "The wrath of God hath smitten him." Joy at the welcome tale Shone in the Sultan's cheek "Array the Arab in the robe "Of honour," he exclaimed, "And place a chain of gold around his neck, "And bind around his brow the diadem, "And mount him on my steed of state, "And lead him thro' the camp, "And let the Heralds go before and cry "Thus shall the Sultan reward "The man who serves him well!" Then in the purple robe They vested Thalaba. And hung around his neck the golden chain, And bound his forehead with the diadem, And on the royal steed They led him thro' the camp, And Heralds went before and cried "Thus shall the Sultan reward "The man who serves him well!" When from the pomp of triumph And presence of the King Thalaba sought the tent allotted him, Thoughtful the Arabian Maid beheld His animated eye, His cheek inflamed with pride. "Oneiza!" cried the youth, "The King hath done according to his word, "And made me in the land "Next to himself be named!... "But why that serious melancholy smile? "Oneiza when I heard the voice that gave me "Honour, and wealth, and fame, the instant thought "Arose to fill my joy, that thou wouldest hear "The tidings, and be happy." Thou wouldest not have me mirthful! am I not An orphan,... among strangers? But with me. Nay be comforted! last night To what wert thou exposed! in what a peril The morning found us! safety, honour, wealth These now are ours. This instant who thou wert The Sultan asked. I told him from our childhood We had been plighted;... was I wrong Oneiza? And when he said with bounties he would heap Our nuptials,... wilt thou blame me if I blest His will, that bade me fix the marriage day! In tears Oneiza?... Hath marked thee from mankind! Perhaps when Aloadin was destroyed The mission ceased, else would wise Providence With its rewards and blessings strew my path Thus for accomplished service? Or if haply not, yet whither should I go? Is it not prudent to abide in peace Till I am summoned? But Moath is not there; and wouldest thou dwell In a Stranger's tent? thy father then might seek In long and fruitless wandering for his child. Take me then to Mecca! There let me dwell a servant of the Temple. Bind thou thyself my veil,... to human eye It never shall be lifted. There, whilst thou Shalt go upon thine enterprize, my prayers, Dear Thalaba! shall rise to succour thee, And I shall live,... if not in happiness; Surely in hope. Oh think of better things! The will of Heaven is plain: by wonderous ways It led us here, and soon the common voice Shall tell what we have done, and how we dwell Under the shadow of the Sultan's wing, So shall thy father hear the fame, and find us What he hath wished us ever.... Still in tears! Still that unwilling eye! nay ... nay.... Oneiza.... Has then another since I left the tent.... With song, with music, and with dance The bridal pomp proceeds. Following on the veiled Bride Fifty female slaves attend In costly robes that gleam With interwoven gold, And sparkle far with gems. An hundred slaves behind them bear Vessels of silver and vessels of gold And many a gorgeous garment gay The presents that the Sultan gave. On either hand the pages go With torches flaring thro' the gloom, And trump and timbrel merriment Accompanies their way; And multitudes with loud acclaim Shout blessings on the Bride. And now they reach the palace pile, The palace home of Thalaba, And now the marriage feast is spread And from the finished banquet now The wedding guests are gone. Who comes from the bridal chamber? Go not among the Tombs, Old Man! There is a madman there. Will he harm me if I go? Not he, poor miserable man! But 'tis a wretched sight to see His utter wretchedness. For all day long he lies on a grave, And never is he seen to weep, And never is he heard to groan. Nor ever at the hour of prayer Bends his knee, nor moves his lips. I have taken him food for charity And never a word he spake, But yet so ghastly he looked That I have awakened at night With the dream of his ghastly eyes. Now go not among the Tombs, Old Man! Wherefore has the wrath of God So sorely stricken him? He came a Stranger to the land, And did good service to the Sultan, And well his service was rewarded. The Sultan named him next himself, And gave a palace for his dwelling, And dowered his bride with rich domains. But on his wedding night There came the Angel of Death. Since that hour a man distracted Among the sepulchres he wanders. The Sultan when he heard the tale Said that for some untold crime Judgement thus had stricken him, And asking Heaven forgiveness That he had shewn him favour, Abandoned him to want. A Stranger did you say? An Arab born, like you. But go not among the Tombs, For the sight of his wretchedness Might make a hard heart ache! Nay, nay, I never yet have shunned A countryman in distress: And the sound of his dear native tongue May be like the voice of a friend. The Woman pointed out, Old Moath bent his way. By the tomb lay Thalaba, In the light of the setting eve. The sun, and the wind, and the rain Had rusted his raven locks, His checks were fallen in, His face bones prominent, By the tomb he lay along And his lean fingers played, Unwitting, with the grass that grew beside. The Old man knew him not, And drawing near him cried "Countryman, peace be with thee!" The sound of his dear native tongue He raised his countenance And saw the good Old Man, And he arose, and fell upon his neck, And groaned in bitterness. Then Moath knew the youth, And feared that he was childless, and he turned His eyes, and pointed to the tomb. "Old Man!" cried Thalaba, "Thy search is ended there!" The father's cheek grew white And his lip quivered with the misery; Howbeit, collecting with a painful voice He answered, "God is good! his will be done!" The woe in which he spake, The resignation that inspired his speech, They softened Thalaba. "Thou hast a solace in thy grief," he cried, "A comforter within! "Moath! thou seest me here, "A God-abandoned wretch." The Old Man looked at him incredulous. "Nightly," the youth pursued, "Thy daughter comes to drive me to despair. "Moath thou thinkest me mad,... "But when the Cryer from the Minaret "Proclaims the midnight hour, "Hast thou a heart to see her?" The clang of clarions and of drums Accompanied the Sun's descent. "Dost thou not pray? my son!" The white flag waving on the neighbouring Mosque; Then Thalaba's eye grew wild, "Pray!" echoed he, "I must not pray!" And the hollow groan he gave Went to the Old Man's heart, And bowing down his face to earth, In fervent agony he called on God. A night of darkness and of storms! To roof him from the rain. A night of storms! the wind Swept thro' the moonless sky And moaned among the pillared sepulchres. And in the pauses of its sweep They heard the heavy rain Beat on the monument above. In silence on Oneiza's grave The Father and the Husband sate. The Cryer from the Minaret Proclaimed the midnight hour; "Now! now!" cried Thalaba, And o'er the chamber of the tomb There spread a lurid gleam Like the reflection of a sulphur fire, And in that hideous light Oneiza stood before them, it was She, Her very lineaments, and such as death Had changed them, livid cheeks, and lips of blue. But in her eyes there dwelt Brightness more terrible Than all the loathsomeness of death. "Still art thou living, wretch?" In hollow tones she cried to Thalaba, "And must I nightly leave my grave "To tell thee, still in vain, "God has abandoned thee?" "This is not she!" the Old Man exclaimed, "A Fiend! a manifest Fiend!" And to the youth he held his lance, "Strike and deliver thyself!" "Strike HER!" cried Thalaba, And palsied of all powers Gazed fixedly upon the dreadful form. "Yea! strike her!" cried a voice whose tones Flowed with such sudden healing thro' his soul, As when the desert shower From death delivered him. But unobedient to that well-known voice His eye was seeking it, When Moath firm of heart, Performed the bidding; thro' the vampire corpse He thrust his lance; it fell, And howling with the wound Its demon tenant fled. A sapphire light fell on them, And garmented with glory, in their sight Oneiza's Spirit stood. "O Thalaba!" she cried, "Abandon not thyself! "Wouldst thou for ever lose me?... go, fulfill "Thy quest, that in the Bowers of Paradise "In vain I may not wait thee, O my Husband!" To Moath then the Spirit Turned the dark lustre of her Angel eyes, "Short is thy destined path, "O my dear father! to the abode of bliss. "There with the thought of death. "Comfort thy lonely age, "And Azrael the Deliverer, soon "Shall visit thee in peace." They stood with earnest eyes And arms out-reaching, when again The darkness closed around them. The soul of Thalaba revived; He from the floor the quiver took And as he bent the bow, exclaimed, "Was it the over-ruling Providence "That in the hour of frenzy led my hands "Instinctively to this? "To-morrow, and the sun shall brace anew "The slackened cord that now sounds loose and damp, "To-morrow, and its livelier tone will sing "In tort vibration to the arrow's flight. "I ... but I also, with recovered health "Of heart, shall do my duty. "My Father! here I leave thee then!" he cried, "And not to meet again "Till at the gate of Paradise "The eternal union of our joys commence. "We parted last in darkness!"... and the youth Thought with what other hopes, But now his heart was calm, For on his soul a heavenly hope had dawned. The Old Man answered nothing, but he held His garment and to the door Of the Tomb Chamber followed him. The rain had ceased, the sky was wild Its black clouds broken by the storm. And lo! it chanced that in the chasm Of Heaven between, a star, Leaving along its path continuous light, Shot eastward. "See my guide!" quoth Thalaba, And turning, he received Old Moath's last embrace, And his last blessing. It was eve, When an old Dervise, sitting in the sun At his cell door, invited for the night The traveller; in the sun He spread the plain repast Rice and fresh grapes, and at their feet there flowed The brook of which they drank. So as they sate at meal, With song, with music, and with dance, A wedding train went by; The veiled bride, the female slaves, The torches of festivity, And trump and timbrel merriment Accompanied their way. The good old Dervise gave A blessing as they past. But Thalaba looked on, And breathed a low, deep groan, and hid his face. The Dervise had known sorrow; and he felt Compassion; and his words Of pity and of piety Opened the young man's heart And he told all his tale. "Repine not, O my Son!" the Old Man replied, "That Heaven has chastened thee. "Behold this vine, I found it a wild tree "Whose wanton strength had swoln into "Irregular twigs, and bold excrescencies, "And spent itself in leaves and little rings, "In the vain flourish of its outwardness "Wasting the sap and strength "That should have given forth fruit. "But when I pruned the Tree, "Then it grew temperate in its vain expence "Of useless leaves, and knotted, as thou seest, "Into these full, clear, clusters, to repay "The hand whose foresight wounded it. "Repine not, O my Son! "In wisdom and in mercy Heaven inflicts, "Like a wise Leech, its painful remedies." Then pausing, "whither goest thou now?" he asked. "I know not," answered Thalaba, "Straight on, with Destiny my guide." Quoth the Old Man, "I will not blame thy trust, "And yet methinks thy feet "Should tread with certainty. "In Kaf the Simorg hath his dwelling place, "The all-knowing Bird of Ages, who hath seen "The World, with all her children, thrice destroyed. "Long is the thither path, "And difficult the way, of danger full; "But his unerring voice "Could point to certain end thy weary search." Easy assent the youth Gave to the words of wisdom; and behold At dawn, the adventurer on his way to Kaf. And he has travelled many a day And many a river swum over, And many a mountain ridge has crost And many a measureless plain, And now amid the wilds advanced, Long is it since his eyes Have seen the trace of man. Cold! cold! 'tis a chilly clime That the toil of the youth has reached, And he is aweary now, And faint for the lack of food. Cold! cold! there is no Sun in heaven But a heavy and uniform cloud And the snows begin to fall. Dost thou wish for thy deserts, O Son of Hodeirah? Dost thou long for the gales of Arabia? Cold! cold! his blood flows languid, His hands are red, his lips are blue, His feet are sore with the frost. Cheer thee! cheer thee! Thalaba! A little yet bear up! All waste! no sign of life But the track of the wolf and the bear! No sound but the wild, wild wind And the snow crunching under his feet! Night is come; no moon, no stars, Only the light of the snow! But behold a fire in the cave of the hill A heart-reviving fire; And thither with strength renewed Thalaba presses on. He found a Woman in the cave, A solitary Woman, Who by the fire was spinning And singing as she spun. The pine boughs they blazed chearfully And her face was bright with the flame. Her face was as a Damsel's face And yet her hair was grey. She bade him welcome with a smile And still continued spinning And singing as she spun. The thread the Woman drew Was finer than the silkworm's, Was finer than the gossamer. The song she sung was low and sweet And Thalaba knew not the words. He laid his bow before the hearth, For the string was frozen stiff. He took the quiver from his neck, For the arrow plumes were iced. Then as the chearful fire Revived his languid limbs, The adventurer asked for food. The Woman answered him, And still her speech was song, "The She Bear she dwells near to me, "And she hath cubs, one, two and three. "She hunts the deer and brings him here, "And then with her I make good cheer, "And she to the chase is gone "And she will be here anon." She ceased from her work as she spake, And when she had answered him, Again her fingers twirled the thread And again the Woman began In low, sweet, tones to sing The unintelligible song. The thread she spun it gleamed like gold In the light of the odorous fire, And yet so wonderous thin, That save when the light shone on it It could not be seen by the eye. The youth sate watching it, And she beheld his wonder. And then again she spake to him And still her speech was song, "Now twine it round thy hands I say, "Now twine it round thy hands I pray, "My thread is small, my thread is fine, "But he must be "A stronger than thee, "Who can break this thread of mine!" And up she raised her bright blue eyes And sweetly she smiled on him, And he conceived no ill. And round and round his right hand, And round and round his left, He wound the thread so fine. And then again the Woman spake, And still her speech was song, "Now thy strength, O Stranger, strain, "Now then break the slender chain." Thalaba strove, but the thread Was woven by magic hands, And in his cheek the flush of shame Arose, commixt with fear. She beheld and laughed at him, And then again she sung, "My thread is small, my thread is fine, "But he must be "A stronger than thee "Who can break this thread of mine." And up she raised her bright blue eyes And fiercely she smiled on him, "I thank thee, I thank thee, Hodeirah's Son! "I thank thee for doing what can't be undone, "For binding thyself in the chain I have spun!" Then from his head she wrenched A lock of his raven hair, And cast it in the fire And cried aloud as it burnt, "Sister! Sister! hear my voice! "Sister! Sister! come and rejoice, "The web is spun, "The prize is won, "The work is done, "For I have made captive Hoderiah's Son." Borne in her magic car The Sister Sorceress came, Khawla, the fiercest of the Sorcerer brood. She gazed upon the youth, She bade him break the slender thread, She laughed aloud for scorn, She clapt her hands for joy. The She Bear from the chase came in, She bore the prey in her bloody mouth, She laid it at Maimuna's feet, And she looked up with wistful eyes As if to ask her share. "There! there!" quoth Maimuna And pointing to the prisoner youth She spurned him with her foot, And bade her make her meal. But soon their mockery failed them And anger and shame arose, For the She Bear fawned on Thalaba And quietly licked his hand. The grey haired Sorceress stamped the ground And called a Spirit up, "Shall we bear the Enemy "To the dungeon dens below?" Woe! woe! to our Empire woe! If ever he tread the caverns below. Shall we leave him fettered here With hunger and cold to die? Away from thy lonely dwelling fly! Here I see a danger nigh That he should live and thou shouldst die. Whither must we bear the foe? To Mohareb's island go, There shalt thou secure the foe, There prevent thy future woe. Then in the Car they threw The fettered Thalaba, And took their seats, and set Their feet upon his neck, Maimuna held the reins And Khawla shook the scourge And away! away! away! They were no steeds of mortal race That drew the magic car With the swiftness of feet and of wings. The snow-dust rises behind them, The ice-rocks splinters fly, And hark! in the valley below The sound of their chariot wheels And they are far over the mountains. Away! away! away! Shout their joy as the Sisters pass, The Ghosts of the Wicked that wander by night Flit over the magic car. Away! away! away! Over the hills and the plains Over the rivers and rocks, Over the sands of the shore; The waves of ocean heave Under the magic steeds, With unwet hoofs they trample the deep And now they reach the Island coast, And away to the city the Monarch's abode. Open fly the city gates, Open fly the iron doors The doors of the palace court. Then stopt the charmed car. The Monarch heard the chariot wheels And forth he came to greet The Mistress whom he served. He knew the captive youth, And Thalaba beheld Mohareb in the robes of royalty, Whom erst his arm had thrust Down the bitumen pit. "Go up, and read the stars!" Lo! on the terrace of the topmost tower She stands; her darkening eyes, Her fine face raised to heaven, Her white hair flowing like the silver streams That streak the northern night. They hear her coming tread, They lift their asking eyes, Her face is serious, her unwilling lips Slow to the tale of ill. "What hast thou read? what hast thou read?" Quoth Khawla in alarm. "Danger ... death ... judgement!" Maimuna replied. "Is that the language of the lights of Heaven?" Exclaimed the sterner Witch. "Creatures of Allah, they perform his will. "And with their lying menaces would daunt "Our credulous folly.... Maimuna, "I never liked this uncongenial lore! "Better befits to make the sacrifice "Of Divination; so shall I "Be mine own Oracle. "Command the victims thou, O King! "Male and female they must be, "Thou knowest the needful rites. "Meanwhile I purify the place." The Sultan went; the Sorceress rose, She faced the points of Heaven, And ever where she turned She laid her hand upon the wall, And up she looked and smote the air, And down she stooped and smote the floor, "To Eblis and his servants "I consecrate the place, "Let none intrude but they! "Whatever hath the breath of life, "Whatever hath the sap of life, "Let it be blasted and die!" Now all is prepared; Mohareb returns, The Circle is drawn, The Victims have bled, She in the circle holds in either hand Clenched by the hair, a head, The heads of the Youth and the Maid. "Go out ye lights!" quoth Khawla, And in darkness began the spell. With spreading arms she whirls around Rapidly, rapidly Ever around and around; And loudly she calls the while Loudly, incessantly, Still she calls "Eblis! Eblis!" Giddily, giddily, still she whirls, Loudly, incessantly, still she calls; The motion is ever the same, Ever around and around; The calling is still the same And her voice is a shapeless yell, And dizzily rolls her brain, And now she is full of the Fiend. She stops, she rocks, she reels! Look! look! she appears in the darkness! Her flamy hairs curl up All living, like the Meteor's locks of light! Her eyes are like the sickly Moon! It is her lips that move, Her tongue that shapes the sound, But whose is the Voice that proceeds? "Ye may hope and ye may fear, "The danger of his stars is near. "Sultan! if he perish, woe! "Fate has written one death-blow "Triumph! triumph! only she "That knit his bonds can set him free." She spake the Oracle, And senselessly she fell. They knelt in care beside her, They sprinkled her palms with water, They wetted her nostrils with blood. She wakes as from a dream, She asks the uttered Voice, But when she heard, an anger and a grief Darkened her wrinkling brow. "Then let him live in long captivity!" She answered: but Mohareb's quickened eye Perused her sullen countenance That lied not with the lips. A miserable man! What boots it, that, in central caves The Powers of Evil at his Baptism pledged His death secures them now. What boots it that they gave Abdaldar's guardian ring, When thro' another's life The blow may reach his own? He sought the dungeon cell Where Thalaba was laid. 'Twas the grey morning twilight, and the voice Of Thalaba in prayer, With words of hallowed import, smote The King's alarmed sense. The grating of the heavy hinge Roused not the Arabian youth; Nor lifted he his earthward face At sound of coming feet. Nor did Mohareb with unholy voice Disturb the duty: silent, spirit-awed, Envious, heart-humbled, he beheld The dungeon-peace of piety Till Thalaba, the perfect rite performed, Raised his calm eye; then spake the Island-Chief. "Arab! my guidance thro' the dangerous Cave, "Thy service overpaid, "An unintended friend in enmity. "The hand that caught thy ring "Received and bore me to the scene I sought. "Now know me grateful. I return "That amulet, thy only safety here." Artful he spake, with show of gratitude Veiling the selfish deed. Locked in the magic chain The powerless hand of Thalaba Received again the Spell. Remembering then with what an ominous faith First he drew on the gem, The Youth repeats his words of augury; "In God's name and the Prophet's! be its power "Good, let it serve the holy! if for evil "God and my faith shall hallow it. "Blindly the wicked work "The righteous will of Heaven!" So Thalaba received again The written ring of gold. Thoughtful awhile Mohareb stood And eyed the captive youth. Then, building skilfully the sophist speech, Thus he began. "Brave art thou, Thalaba! "And wherefore are we foes!... for I would buy "Thy friendship at a princely price, and make thee "To thine own welfare wise. "Hear me! in Nature are two hostile Gods, "Makers and Masters of existing things, "Equal in power:... nay hear me patiently!... "Equal ... for look around thee! the same Earth "Bears fruit and poison; where the Camel finds "His fragrant food, the horned Viper there "Sucks in the juice of death; the Elements "Now serve the use of man, and now assert "Dominion o'er his weakness; dost thou hear "The sound of merriment and nuptial song? "From the next house proceeds the mourner's cry "Lamenting o'er the dead. Sayest thou that Sin "Entered the world of Allah? that the Fiend "Permitted for a season, prowls for prey? "When to thy tent the venomous serpent creeps "Dost thou not crush the reptile? even so, "Besure, had Allah crushed his Enemy, "But that the power was wanting. From the first, "Eternal as themselves their warfare is, "To the end it must endure. Evil and Good.... "What are they Thalaba but words? in the strife "Of Angels, as of men, the weak are guilty; "Power must decide. The Spirits of the Dead "Quitting their mortal mansion, enter not, "As falsely ye are preached, their final seat "Of bliss, or bale; nor in the sepulchre "Sleep they the long long sleep: each joins the host "Of his great Leader, aiding in the war "Whose fate involves his own. "Woe to the vanquished then! "Woe to the sons of man who followed him! "They with their Leader, thro' eternity, "Must howl in central fires. "Thou Thalaba hast chosen ill thy part, "If choice it may be called, where will was not, "Nor searching doubt, nor judgement wise to weigh. "Hard is the service of the Power beneath "Whose banners thou wert born; his discipline "Severe, yea cruel; and his wages, rich "Only in promise; who has seen the pay? "For us ... the pleasures of the world are ours, "Riches and rule, the kingdoms of the Earth. "We met in Babylon adventurers both, "Each zealous for the hostile Power he served: "We meet again; thou feelest what thou art, "Thou seest what I am, the Sultan here, "Abandon him who has abandoned thee, "And be as I am, great among mankind!" The Captive did not, hasty to confute Break of that subtle speech, But when the expectant silence of the King Looked for his answer, then spake Thalaba. "And this then is thy faith! this monstrous creed! "This lie against the Sun and Moon and Stars "And Earth and Heaven! blind man who canst not see "How all things work the best! who wilt not know "That in the Manhood of the World, whate'er "Of folly marked its Infancy, of vice "Sullied its Youth, ripe Wisdom shall cast off, "Stablished in good, and knowing evil safe. "Sultan Mohareb, yes, ye have me here "In chains; but not forsaken, tho' opprest: "Cast down, but not destroyed. Shall danger daunt, "Shall death dismay his soul, whose life is given "For God and for his brethren of mankind? "Alike rewarded, in that noble cause, "The Conquerors and the Martyrs palm above "Beam with one glory. Hope ye that my blood "Can quench the dreaded flame? and know ye not "That leagued against you are the Just and Wise, "And all Good Actions of all ages past, "Yea your own Crimes, and Truth, and God in Heaven!" "Slave!" quoth Mohareb, and his lips Quivered with eager wrath. "I have thee! thou shalt feel my power, "And in thy dungeon loathsomeness "Rot piece-meal, limb from limb!" And out the Tyrant rushes, And all impatient of the thoughts That cankered in his heart, Seeks in the giddiness of boisterous sport Short respite from the avenging power within. So wrinkled and old, That goes to the wood? She leans on her staff With a tottering step, She tells her bead-strings slow Thro' fingers dulled by age. The wanton boys bemock her. The babe in arms that meets her Turns round with quick affright And clings to his nurse's neck. Hark! hark! the hunter's cry Mohareb gone to the chase! The dogs with eager yell Are struggling to be free; The hawks in frequent stoop Token their haste for flight; And couchant on the saddle-bow, With tranquil eyes and talons sheathed The ounce expects his liberty. Propt on the staff that shakes Beneath her trembling weight, The Old Woman sees them pass. Halloa! halloa! The game is up! The dogs are loosed The deer bounds over the plain, The lagging dogs behind Follow from afar! But lo! the Falcon o'er his head. Hovers with hostile wings, And buffets him with blinding strokes! Dizzy with the deafening strokes In blind and interrupted course, Poor beast be struggles on; And now the dogs are nigh! How his heart pants! you see The panting of his heart; And tears like human tears Roll down, along the big veins, fever-swoln; And now the death-sweat darkens his dun hide! His fear, his groans, his agony, his death, Are the sport and the joy and the triumph! Halloa! another prey, The nimble Antelope! The Ounce is freed; one spring And his talons are sheathed in her shoulders, And his teeth are red in her gore. There came a sound from the wood, Like the howl of the winter wind at night Around a lonely dwelling, The Ounce whose gums were warm in his prey He hears the summoning sound. In vain his master's voice No longer dreaded now, Calls and recalls with threatful tone. Away to the forest he goes, For that Old Woman had laid Her shrivelled finger on her shrivelled lips, And whistled with a long, long breath, And that long breath was the sound Like the howl of the winter wind at night Around a lonely dwelling. Mohareb knew her not, As to the chase he went, The glance of his proud eye Passing in scorn o'er age and wretchedness. She stands in the depth of the wood, And panting to her feet Fawning and fearful creeps the charmed ounce. Well mayst thou fear, and vainly dost thou fawn! Her form is changed, her visage new, Her power, her heart the same! It is Khawla that stands in the wood. She knew the place where the mandrake grew, And round the neck of the ounce, And round the mandrake's head She tightens the ends of her cord. Her ears are closed with wax, And her prest finger fastens them, Deaf as the Adder, when with grounded head And circled form, her avenues of sound Barred safely, one slant eye Watches the charmer's lips Waste on the wind his baffled witchery. The spotted ounce so beautiful Springs forceful from the scourge: The dying plant all agony, Feeling its life-strings crack, Uttered the unimaginable groan That none can hear and live. Then from her victim servant Khawla loosed The precious poison, next with naked hand She plucked the boughs of the manchineel. Then of the wormy wax she took, That from the perforated tree forced out, Bewrayed its insect-parent's work within. In a cavern of the wood she sits And moulds the wax to human form, And as her fingers kneaded it, By magic accents, to the mystic shape Imparted with the life of Thalaba, In all its passive powers Mysterious sympathy. She builds her pile accurst. She lays her finger to the pile, And blue and green, the flesh Glows with emitted fire, A fire to kindle that strange fuel meet. Before the fire she placed the imaged wax, "There waste away!" the Enchantress cried, "And with thee waste Hodeirah's Son!" Fool! fool! go thaw the everlasting ice, Whose polar mountains bound the human reign. Blindly the wicked work The righteous will of Heaven! The doomed Destroyer wears Abdaldar's ring! Against the danger of his horoscope Yourselves have shielded him! And on the sympathizing wax The unadmitted flames play powerlessly, As the cold moon-beam on a plain of snow. "Curse thee! curse thee!" cried the fiendly woman, "Hast thou yet a spell of safety?" And in the raging flames She cast the imaged wax. It lay amid the flames, Like Polycarp of old, When by the glories of the burning stake O'er vaulted, his grey hairs Curled, life-like, to the fire That haloed round his saintly brow. "Wherefore is this!" cried Khawla, and she stamped Thrice on the cavern floor, Thrice on the floor she stamped, Then to the rocky gateway glanced Her eager eyes, and Maimuna was there. "Nay Sister, nay!" quoth she, "Mohareb's life "Is linked with Thalaba's! "Nay Sister, nay! the plighted oath! "The common Sacrament!" "Faith kept with him were treason to the rest. "Why lies the wax, like marble, in the fire? "What powerful amulet "Protects Hodeirah's son?" Cold, marble-cold, the wax Lay on the raging pile, Cold in that white intensity of fire. The Bat that with her hooked and leathery wings Clung to the cave-roof, loosed her hold, Death-sickening with the heat; The Toad who to the darkest nook had crawled Panted fast with fever pain; The Viper from her nest came forth Leading her quickened brood, Who sportive with the warm delight, rolled out Their thin curls, tender as the tendril rings, Ere the green beauty of their brittle youth Grows brown, and toughens in the summer sun. Cold, marble-cold, the wax Lay on the raging pile, The silver quivering of the element O'er its pale surface shedding a dim gloss. Amid the red and fiery smoke, Watching the strange portent, The blue-eyed Sorceress and her Sister stood, Seeming a ruined Angel by the side Of Spirit born in Hell. At length raised Maimuna her thoughtful eyes, "The work of the worm, or the bee? "Nay then I marvel not! "It were as wise to bring from Ararat "The fore-world's wood to build the magic pile, "And feed it from the balm bower, thro' whose veins "The Martyr's blood sends such a virtue out, "That the fond Mother from beneath its shade "Wreathes the Cerastes round her playful child. "This the eternal, universal strife! "There is a grave-wax,... I have seen the Gouls "Fight for the dainty at their banquetting."... "Excellent witch!" quoth Khawla; and she went To the cave arch of entrance, and scowled up, Mocking the blessed Sun, "Shine thou in Heaven, but I will shadow Earth! "Thou wilt not shorten day, "But I will hasten darkness!" Then the Witch Began a magic song, One long low tone thro' teeth half-closed, Thro' lips slow-moving muttered slow, One long-continued breath, Till to her eyes a darker yellowness Was driven, and fuller swoln the prominent veins On her loose throat grew black. Then looking upward thrice she breathed Into the face of Heaven, The baneful breath infected Heaven; A mildewing mist it spread Darker and darker; so the evening sun Poured his unentering glory on the mist, And it was night below. "Bring now the wax," quoth Khawla, "for thou knowest "The mine that yields it!" forth went Maimuna, In mist and darkness went the Sorceress forth. And she has reached the place of Tombs, And in their sepulchres the dead Feel feet unholy trampling over them. Thou startest Maimuna, Because the breeze is in thy lilted locks! Is Khawla's spell so weak? Sudden came the breeze and strong; The mist that in the labouring lungs was felt So heavy late, flies now before the gale, Thin as an Infant's breath Seen in the sunshine of an autumn frost. Sudden it came and soon its work was done, And suddenly it ceased; Cloudless and calm it left the firmament, And beautiful in the blue sky Arose the summer Moon. She heard the quickened action of her blood, She felt the fever in her cheeks. Daunted, yet desperate, in a tomb Entering, with impious hand she traced Circles, and squares, and trines, And magic characters, Till riven by her charms the grave Yawned and disclosed its dead, Maimuna's eyes were opened, and she saw The secrets of the grave. There sate a Spirit in the vault, In shape, in hue, in lineaments like life, And by him couched, as if intranced, The hundred-headed Worm that never dies. "Nay Sorceress! not to-night!" the Spirit cried, "The flesh in which I sinned may rest to-night "From suffering; all things, even I to-night, "Even the Damned repose!" The flesh of Maimuna Crept on her bones with terror, and her knees Trembled with their trembling weight. "Only this sabbath! and at dawn the Worm "Will wake, and this poor flesh must grow to meet "The gnawing of his hundred poison-mouths! "God! God! Is there no mercy after death?" Soul-struck she rushed away, She fled the place of Tombs, She cast herself upon the earth, All agony and tumult and despair. And in that wild and desperate agony Sure Maimuna had died the utter death, If aught of evil had been possible On this mysterious night; For this was that most holy night When all created things know and adore The Power that made them; insects, beasts, and birds, The water-dwellers, herbs and trees and stones, Yea Earth and Ocean and the infinite Heaven With all its worlds. Man only does not know The universal sabbath, does not join With Nature in her homage. Yet the prayer Flows from the righteous with intenser love, A holier calm succeeds, and sweeter dreams Visit the slumbers of the penitent. Therefore on Maimuna the elements, Shed healing; every breath she breathed was balm. Was not a flower but sent in incense up Its richest odours, and the song of birds Now, like the music of the Seraphim, Entered her soul, and now Made silence aweful by their sudden pause. It seemed as if the quiet moon Poured quietness, its lovely light Was like the smile of reconciling Heaven. Is it the dew of night That down her glowing cheek Shines in the moon-beam? oh! she weeps ... she weeps And the Good Angel that abandoned her At her hell-baptism, by her tears drawn down Resumes his charge, then Maimuna Recalled to mind the double oracle; Quick as the lightening flash Its import glanced upon her, and the hope Of pardon and salvation rose, As now she understood The lying prophecy of truth. She pauses not, she ponders not, The driven air before her fanned the face Of Thalaba, and he awoke and saw The Sorceress of the silver locks. One more permitted spell! She takes the magic chain. With the wide eye of wonder, Thalaba Watches her snowy fingers round and round Wind the loosening chain. Again he hears the low sweet voice, The low sweet voice so musical, That sure it was not strange, If in those unintelligible tones Was more than human potency, That with such deep and undefined delight, Filled the surrendered soul. The work is done, the song is ceased; He wakes as from a dream of Paradise And feels his fetters gone, and with the burst Of wondering adoration praises God. Her charm has loosed the chain it bound, But massy walls and iron gates Confine Hodeirah's son. Heard ye not, Genii of the Air, her spell, That o'er her face there flits The sudden flush of fear? Again her louder lips repeat the charm, Her eye is anxious, her cheek pale, Her pulse plays fast and feeble. Nay Maimuna! thy power has ceased, And the wind scatters now The voice that ruled it late. "Pray for me, Thalaba," she cried, "For death and judgement are at hand!" All night in agony, She feared the instant blow of Hell's revenge. At dawn the sound of gathering multitudes Led to the prison bars her dreading eye. What spectacle invites The growing multitude, That torrent-like they roll along? Boys and grey-headed age; the Mother comes Leading her child, who at arm's length Outstripping her, looks back And bids her hasten more. Why does the City pour her thousands forth? What glorious pageantry Makes her streets desolate, and silences Her empty dwellings? comes the bridal pomp, And have the purveyors of imperial lust Torn from their parents arms again The virgin beauties of the land? Will elephants in gilded cages bear The imprisoned victims? or may yet their eyes With a last look of liberty, behold Banners and guards and silk-arched palanquins. The long procession, and the gorgeous pomp Of their own sacrifice? On the house tops and in the windows ranged Face above face, they wait The coming spectacle; The trees are clustered, and below the dust Thro' the thronged populace Can find no way to rise. He comes! the Sultan! hark the swelling horn, The trumpet's spreading blair, The timbrel tinkling as its silver bells Twinkle aloft, and the shrill cymbal's sound, Whose broad brass flashes in the morning sun Accordant light and music! closing all The heavy Gong is heard, That falls like thunder on the dizzy ear. On either hand the thick-wedged crowd Fall from the royal path. Recumbent in the palanquin he casts On the wide tumult of the waving throng A proud and idle eye. Now in his tent alighted, he receives Homage and worship. The slave multitude With shouts of blasphemy adore Him, father of his people! him their Lord! Great King, all-wise, all-mighty, and all-good! Whose smile was happiness, whose frown was death, Their present Deity! With silken cords his slaves Wave the silk fan, that waving o'er his head Freshens the languid air. Others the while shower o'er his robes The rose's treasured sweets, Rich odours burn before him, ambergrese, Sandal and aloe wood, And thus inhaling the voluptuous air He sits to watch the agony, To hear the groan of death. At once all sounds are hushed, All eyes take one direction, for he comes, The object he of this day's festival, Of all this expectation and this joy, The Christian captive. Hark! so silently They stand, the clanking of his chain is heard. And he has reached the place of suffering now. And as the death's-men round his ancles bind The cords and to the gibbet swing him up, The Priests begin their song, the song of praise, The hymn of glory to their Devil-God. Then Maimuna grew pale, as thro the bars She saw the Martyr pendant by the feet, His gold locks hanging downwards, and she cried, "This is my Sister's deed! "Not for his faith the red-haired Christian dies. "She wants the foam that in his agony, "Last from his lips shall fall, "The deadliest poison that the Devils know. "Son of Hodeirah, thou and I "Shall prove its deadly force!" And lo! the Executioners begin And beat his belly with alternate blows. And these are human that look on;... The very women that would shrink And shudder if they saw a worm Crushed by the careless tread, They clap their hands for joy And lift their children up To see the Christian die. Convulsing Nature with her tortures drunk Ceases to suffer now. His eye-lids tremble, his lips quake, But like the quivering of a severed limb Move no responsive pang. Now catch the exquisite poison! for it froths His dying lips,... and Khawla holds the bowl. Enough the Island crimes had cried to Heaven, The measure of their guilt was full, The hour of wrath was come. The poison burst the bowl, It fell upon the earth. The Sorceress shrieked and caught Mohareb's robe And called the whirlwind and away! For lo! from that accursed venom springs, Alone, beside a rivulet it stands Thro' barren banks the barren waters flow, The fish that meets them in the unmingling sea Floats poisoned on the waves. Tree grows not near, nor bush, nor flower, nor herb, The Earth has lost its parent powers of life And the fresh dew of Heaven that there descends, Steams in rank poison up. Before the appointed Youth and Maimuna Saw the first struggle of the dying throng, Crash sunk their prison wall! The whirlwind wrapt them round; Ere there was time to fear, their way was past, And lo! again they stand In the cave-dwelling of the blue-eyed Witch. Then came the weakness of her natural age At once on Maimuna; The burthen of her years Fell on her, and she knew That her repentance in the sight of God Had now found favour, and her hour was come. Her death was like the righteous; "Turn my face "To Mecca!" in her languid eyes. The joy of certain hope Lit a last lustre, and in death The smile was on her cheek. No faithful crowded round her bier, No tongue reported her good deeds, For her no mourners wailed and wept, No Iman o'er her perfumed corpse, For her soul's health intoned the prayer; No column raised by the way side Implored the passing traveller To say a requiem for the dead. Thalaba laid her in the snow, And took his weapons from the hearth, And then once more the youth began His weary way of solitude. The breath of the East is in his face And it drives the sleet and the snow. The air is keen, the wind is keen, His limbs are aching with the cold, His eyes are aching with the snow, His very heart is cold, His spirit chilled within him. He looks on If ought of life be near, But all is sky and the white wilderness, And here and there a solitary pine, Its branches broken by the weight of snow. His pains abate, his senses dull With suffering, cease to suffer. Languidly, languidly, Thalaba drags along, A heavy weight is on his lids, His limbs move slow with heaviness, And he full fain would sleep. Not yet, not yet, O Thalaba! Thy hour of rest is come; Not yet may the Destroyer sleep The comfortable sleep, His journey is not over yet, His course not yet fulfilled;... Run thou thy race, O Thalaba! The prize is at the goal. It was a Cedar-tree That woke him from the deadly drowsiness; Its broad, round-spreading branches when they felt The snow, rose upward in a point to heaven, And standing in their strength erect, Defied the baffled storm. He knew the lesson Nature gave, And he shook off his heaviness, And hope revived within him. Now sunk the evening sun, A broad, red, beamless orb, Adown the glowing sky; Thro' the red light the snow-flakes fell, like fire. Louder grows the biting wind, And it drifts the dust of the snow. The snow is clotted in his hair, The breath of Thalaba Is iced upon his lips. He looks around, the darkness, The dizzy floating of the snow, Close in his narrow view. At length thro' the thick atmosphere a light Not distant far appears. He doubting other wiles of enmity, With mingled joy and quicker step, Bends his way thitherward. It was a little, lowly dwelling place, Amid a garden, whose delightful air Felt mild and fragrant, as the evening wind Passing in summer o'er the coffee-groves Of Yemen and its blessed bowers of balm. A Fount of Fire that in the centre played, Rolled all around its wonderous rivulets And fed the garden with the heat of life. Every where magic! the Arabian's heart Yearned after human intercourse. A light!... the door unclosed!... All silent ... he goes in. There lay a Damsel sleeping on a couch, His step awoke her, and she gazed at him With pleased and wondering look, Fearlessly, like a yearling child Too ignorant to fear. With words of courtesy The young intruder spake. At the sound of his voice a joy Kindled her bright black eyes; She rose and took his hand, But at the touch the smile forsook her cheek, "Oh! it is cold!" she cried, "I thought I should have felt it warm like mine, "But thou art like the rest!" Thalaba stood mute awhile And wondering at her words: "Cold? Lady!" then he said; "I have travelled long "In this cold wilderness, "Till life is almost spent!" Art thou a Man then? I did not think Sorrow and toil could so have altered me, That I seem otherwise. And thou canst be warm Sometimes? life-warm as I am? As others are, I am, to heat and cold Subject like all, you see a Traveller, Bound upon hard adventure, who requests Only to rest him here to-night, to-morrow He will pursue his way. Oh ... not to-morrow! Not like a dream of joy, depart so soon! And whither wouldst thou go? for all around Is everlasting winter, ice and snow, Deserts unpassable of endless frost. He who has led me here will still sustain me Thro' cold and hunger. "Hunger?" Laila cried; She clapt her lilly hands, And whether from above or from below It came, sight could not see, So suddenly the floor was spread with food. Why dost thou watch with hesitating eyes The banquet? 'tis for thee! I bade it come. Whence came it? Matters it from whence it came My father sent it: when I call, he hears. Nay ... thou hast fabled with me! and art like The forms that wait upon my solitude, Human to eye alone;... thy hunger would not Question so idly else. I will not eat! It came by magic! fool to think that aught But fraud and danger could await me here! Let loose my cloak!... Begone then, insolent! Why dost thou stand and gaze upon my face? Aye! watch the features well that threaten thee With fraud and danger! in the wilderness They shall avenge me,... in the hour of want Rise on thy view, and make thee feel How innocent I am: And this remembered cowardice and insult With a more painful shame will burn thy cheek Than now beats mine in anger! Many and restless are my enemies; My daily paths have been beset with snares Till I have learnt suspicion, bitter sufferings Teaching the needful vice, if I have wronged you, And yours should be the face of innocence, I pray you pardon me! in the name of God, And of his Prophet, I partake your food. Lo now! thou wert afraid of sorcery, And yet hast said a charm! A charm? And wherefore? Is it not not delicate food? what mean thy words? I have heard many spells and many names That rule the Genii and the Elements, But never these. How! never heard the names Again that troubled eye? thou art a strange man And wonderous fearful ... but I must not twice Be charged with fraud! if thou suspectest still, Depart and leave me! And you do not know The God that made you? Made me, man! my Father Made me. He made this dwelling, and the grove, And yonder fountain-fire, and every morn He visits me, and takes the snow, and moulds Women and men, like thee; and breathes into them Motion, and life, and sense,... but to the touch They are chilling cold, and ever when night closes They melt away again, and leave me here Alone and sad. Oh then how I rejoice When it is day and my dear Father comes, And chears me with kind words and kinder looks! My dear, dear, Father! were it not for him, I am so weary of this loneliness, That I should wish I also were of snow That I might melt away, and cease to be. And have you always had your dwelling here Amid this solitude of snow? I think so. I can remember with unsteady feet Tottering from room to room, and finding pleasure In flowers and toys and sweetmeats, things that long Have lost their power to please; that when I see them Raise only now a melancholy wish I were the little trifler once again That could be pleased so lightly! Then you know not Your Father's art? No. I besought him once To give me power like his, that where he went I might go with him: but he shook his head, And said it was a power too dearly bought, And kist me with the tenderness of tears. And wherefore has he hidden you thus far From all the ways of humankind? 'Twas fear, Fatherly fear and love. He read the stars And saw a danger in my destiny, And therefore placed me here amid the snows, And laid a spell that never human eye, If foot of man by chance should reach the depth Of this wide waste, shall see one trace of grove, Garden, or dwelling-place, or yonder fire, That thaws and mitigates the frozen sky. And more than this, even if the enemy Should come, I have a guardian here. A guardian? 'Twas well that when my sight unclosed upon thee There was no dark suspicion in thy face. Else I had called his succour! wilt thou see him? But if a Woman can have terrified thee, How wilt thou bare his unrelaxing brow And lifted lightnings? Lead me to him, Lady! She took him by the hand And thro' the porch they past. Over the garden and the grove The fountain streams of fire Poured a broad light like noon. A broad unnatural light That made the Rose's blush of beauty pale, And dimmed the rich Geranium's scarlet blaze. The various verdure of the grove Now wore one undistinguishable grey, Checqured with blacker shade. Suddenly Laila stopt, "I do not think thou art the enemy," She said, "but He will know! "If thou hast meditated wrong "Stranger, depart in time.... "I would not lead thee to thy death!" The glance of Laila's eye Turned anxiously toward the Arabian youth. "So let him pierce my heart," cried Thalaba, "If it hide thought to harm you!" 'Tis a figure, Almost I fear to look at!... yet come on. 'Twill ease me of a heaviness that seems To sink my heart; and thou mayest dwell here then. In safety;... for thou shalt not go to-morrow, Nor on the after, nor the after day, Nor ever! it was only solitude That made my misery here,... And now that I can see a human face, And hear a human voice.... Oh no! thou wilt not leave me! Alas I must not rest! The star that ruled at my nativity Shone with a strange and blasting influence. O gentle Lady! I should draw upon you A killing curse. But I will ask my Father To save you from all danger, and you know not The wonders he can work, and when I ask It is not in his power to say me nay. Perhaps thou knowest the happiness it is To have a tender father? He was one Whom like a loathsome leper I have tainted With my contagious destiny. At evening He kist me as he wont, and laid his hands Upon my head, and blest me ere I slept. His dying groan awoke me, for the Murderer Had stolen upon our sleep! for me was meant The midnight blow of death; my father died, The brother play-mates of my infancy, The baby at the breast, they perished all, All in that dreadful hour: but I was saved To remember and revenge. She answered not, for now Emerging from the o'er-arched avenue The finger of her upraised hand Marked where the Guardian of the garden stood. It was a brazen Image, every limb And swelling vein and muscle, true to life: The left knee bending on, The other straight, firm planted, and his hand Lifted on high to hurl The Lightning that it grasped. When Thalaba approached, The charmed Image knew Hodeirah's son, And hurled the lightning at the dreaded foe. The Ring! the saviour Ring! Full in his face the lightning-bolt was driven, The scattered fire recoiled. Like the flowing of a summer gale he felt Its ineffectual force, His countenance was not changed, Nor a hair of his head was singed. He started and his glance Turned angrily upon the Maid, The sight disarmed suspicion ... breathless, pale, Against a tree she stood. Her wan lips quivering, and her eye Upraised, in silent supplicating fear. She started with a scream of joy Seeing her Father there, And ran and threw her arms around his neck, "Save me!" she cried, "the Enemy is come! "Save me! save me! Okba!" "Okba!" repeats the youth, For never since that hour When in the Tent the Spirit told his name, Had Thalaba let slip The memory of his Father's murderer; "Okba!"... and in his hand He graspt an arrow-shaft. And he rushed on to strike him. "Son of Hodeirah!" the Old Man replied, "My hour is not yet come." And putting forth his hand Gently he repelled the Youth. "My hour is not yet come! "But thou mayest shed this innocent Maiden's blood, "That vengeance God allows thee." Around her Father's neck Still Laila's hands were clasped. Her face was turned to Thalaba, A broad light floated o'er its marble paleness, As the wind waved the fountain fire. Her large, dilated eye in horror raised Watched his every movement. "Not upon her," said he, "Not upon her Hodeirah's blood cries out "For vengeance!" and again his lifted arm Again withheld it felt The barrier that no human strength could burst. "Thou dost not aim the blow more eagerly," Okba replied, "than I would rush to meet it! "But that were poor revenge. "Wreaks on the innocent head "His vengeance;... I must suffer in my child! "Why dost thou pause to strike thy victim? Allah "Permits, commands the deed." "Liar!" quoth Thalaba. And Laila's wondering eye Looked up, all anguish to her Father's face, "By Allah and the Prophet," he replied, "I speak the words of truth. "Misery, misery, "That I must beg mine enemy to speed "The inevitable vengeance now so near! "I read it in her horoscope, "Her birth-star warned me of Hodeirah's race. "I laid a spell, and called a Spirit up. "He answered one must die "Accursed Spirit! even in truth "Giving a lying hope! "Last, I ascended the seventh Heaven "And on the everlasting Table there "In characters of light, "I read her written doom. "The years that it has gnawn me! and the load "Of sin that it has laid upon my soul! "Curse on this hand that in the only hour "The favouring stars allowed "Reeked with other blood than thine. "Still dost thou stand and gaze incredulous? "Young man, be merciful, and keep her not "Longer in agony!" Thalaba's unbelieving frown When in the air the rush of wings was heard And Azrael stood among them. In equal terror at the sight The Enchanter, the Destroyer stood, And Laila, the victim maid. "Son of Hodeirah!" said the Angel of Death, "The accursed fables not. "When from the Eternal Hand I took "The yearly scroll of fate, "Her name was written there. "This is the hour, and from thy hands "Commissioned to receive the Maid I come." "Hear me O Angel!" Thalaba replied, "To avenge my Father's death, "To work the will of Heaven, "To root from earth the accursed sorcerer race, "I have dared danger undismayed, "I have lost all my soul held dear, "I am cut off from all the ties of life, "Unmurmuring; for whate'er awaits me still, "Pursuing to the end the enterprize, "Peril or pain, I bear a ready heart. "But strike this Maid! this innocent! "Angel, I dare not do it." "Remember," answered Azrael, "all thou sayest "Is written down for judgement! every word "In the balance of thy trial must be weighed!" "So be it!" said the Youth. "He who can read the secrets of the heart "Will judge with righteousness! "This is no doubtful path, "The voice of God within me cannot lie.... "I will not harm the innocent." He said, and from above, As tho' it were the Voice of Night, The startling answer came. "Son of Hodeirah, think again! "One must depart from hence, "She dies for thee, or thou for her, "It must be life for life! "Son of Hodeirah, weigh it well, "While yet the choice is thine!" He hesitated not, But looking upward spread his hands to Heaven, "Oneiza, in thy bower of Paradise "Receive me, still unstained!" "What!" exclaimed Okba, "darest thou disobey, "Abandoning all claim "To Allah's longer aid?" The eager exultation of his speech Earthward recalled the thoughts of Thalaba. "And dost thou triumph, Murderer? dost thou deem "Because I perish, that the unsleeping lids "Of Justice shall be closed upon thy crime? "Poor, miserable man! that thou canst live "With such beast-blindness in the present joy "When o'er thy head the sword of God "Hangs for the certain stroke!" "Servant of Allah, thou hast disobeyed, "God hath abandoned thee, "This hour is mine!" cried Okba, And shook his Daughter off, And drew the dagger from his vest. And aimed the deadly blow. All was accomplished. Laila rushed between To save the saviour Youth. She met the blow and sunk into his arms, And Azrael from the hands of Thalaba Received her parting soul. O fool to think thy human hand Could check the chariot-wheels of Destiny To dream of weakness in the all-knowing Mind That his decrees should change! To hope that the united Powers Might blot one letter from the Book of Fate, Might break one link of the eternal chain! Thou miserable, wicked, poor old man, Fall now upon the body of thy child, Beat now thy breast, and pluck the bleeding hairs From thy grey beard, and lay Thine ineffectual hand to close her wound. And call on Hell to aid, And call on Heaven to send Its merciful thunderbolt! The young Arabian silently Beheld his frantic grief. The presence of the hated youth To raging anguish stung The wretched Sorcerer. "Aye! look and triumph!" he exclaimed, "This is the justice of thy God! "A righteous God is he, to let "His vengeance fall upon the innocent head! "Curse thee, curse thee, Thalaba!" All feelings of revenge Had left Hodeirah's son. Pitying and silently he heard The victim of his own iniquities, Not with the busy hand Of Consolation, fretting the sore wound He could not hope to heal. So as the Servant of the Prophet stood, With sudden motion the night air Gently fanned his cheek. 'Twas a Green Bird whose wings Had waved the quiet air. On the hand of Thalaba The Green Bird perched, and turned A mild eye up, as if to win The Adventurer's confidence. Then springing on flew forward, And now again returns To court him to the way; And now his hand perceives Her rosy feet press firmer, as she leaps Upon the wing again. Obedient to the call, By the pale moonlight Thalaba pursued O'er trackless snows his way; Unknowing he what blessed messenger Had come to guide his steps, That Laila's Spirit went before his path. Brought up in darkness and the child of sin, Yet as the meed of spotless innocence, Just Heaven permitted her by one good deed To work her own redemption, after death; So till the judgement day She might abide in bliss, Green warbler of the Bowers of Paradise. The morning sun came forth, Wakening no eye to life In this wide solitude; His radiance with a saffron hue, like heat, Suffused the desert snow. The Green Bird guided Thalaba, Now oaring with slow wing her upward way, Descending now in slant descent On out-spread pinions motionless, Floating now with rise and fall alternate, As if the billows of the air Heaved her with their sink and swell. And when, beneath the noon, The icey glitter of the snow Dazzled his aching sight, Then on his arm alighted the Green Bird And spread before his eyes Her plumage of refreshing hue. Evening came on; the glowing clouds Tinged with a purple ray the mountain ridge That lay before the Traveller. Ah! whither art thou gone, Guide and companion of the youth, whose eye Has lost thee in the depth of Heaven? Why hast thou left alone The weary wanderer in the wilderness? And now the western clouds grow pale And Night descends upon his solitude. The Arabian youth knelt down, And bowed his forehead to the ground And made his evening prayer. When he arose the stars were bright in heaven, The sky was blue, and the cold Moon Shone over the cold snow. A speck in the air! Is it his guide that approaches? For it moves with the motion of life! Lo! she returns and scatters from her pinions Odours diviner than the gales of morning Waft from Sabea. Hovering before the youth she hung, Till from her rosy feet that at his touch Uncurled their grasp, he took The fruitful bough they bore. He took and tasted, a new life Flowed thro' his renovated frame; His limbs that late were sore and stiff Felt all the freshness of repose, His dizzy brain was calmed. The heavy aching of his lids At once was taken off, For Laila from the Bowers of Paradise Had borne the healing fruit. So up the mountain steep With untired foot he past, The Green Bird guiding him Mid crags, and ice, and rocks, A difficult way, winding the long ascent. How then the heart of Thalaba rejoiced When bosomed in the mountain depths, A sheltered Valley opened on his view! It was the Simorg's vale, The dwelling of the ancient Bird. On a green and mossy bank. Beside a rivulet The Bird of Ages stood. No sound intruded on his solitude, Only the rivulet was heard Whose everlasting flow From the birth-day of the world had made The same unvaried murmuring. Here dwelt the all-knowing Bird In deep tranquillity, His eyelids ever closed In full enjoyment of profound repose. Reverently the youth approached That old and only Bird, And crossed his arms upon his breast, And bowed his head and spake. "Earliest of existing things, "Earliest thou, and wisest thou, "Guide me, guide me, on my way! "I am bound to seek the caverns "Underneath the roots of Ocean "Where the Sorcerer brood are nurst. "Thou the eldest, thou the wisest, "Guide me, guide me, on my way!" The ancient Simorg on the youth Unclosed his thoughtful eyes, And answered to his prayer. "Northward by the stream proceed, "In the fountain of the rock "Wash away thy worldly stains, "Kneel thou there, and seek the Lord "And fortify thy soul with prayer. "Thus prepared ascend the Sledge, "Be bold, be wary, seek and find! "God hath appointed all." The ancient Simorg then let fall his lids Returning to repose. Northward along the rivulet The adventurer went his way, Tracing its waters upward to their source. Thou hast not left the youth;... With slow associate flight She companies his way, And now they reach the fountain of the rock. There in the cold clear well Thalaba washed away his earthly stains, And bowed his face before the Lord, And fortified his soul with prayer. The while upon the rock Stood the celestial Bird, And pondering all the perils he must pass, With a mild melancholy eye Beheld the youth beloved. And lo! beneath yon lonely pine, the sledge.... And there they stand the harnessed Dogs, Their wide eyes watching for the youth, Their ears erected turned towards his way. They were lean as lean might be, Their furrowed ribs rose prominent, And they were black from head to foot, Save a white line on every breast Curved like the crescent moon. And he is seated in the sledge, His arms are folded on his breast, The bird is on his knees; There is fear in the eyes of the Dogs, There is fear in their pitiful moan, And now they turn their heads, And seeing him there, Away! The Youth with the start of their speed Falls back to the bar of the sledge, His hair floats straight in the stream of the wind Like the weeds in the running brook. They wind with speed the upward way, An icey path thro' rocks of ice, His eye is at the summit now, And thus far all is dangerless, And now upon the height The black Dogs pause and pant, They turn their eyes to Thalaba As if to plead for pity, They moan and moan with fear. Once more away! and now The long descent is seen, A long, long, narrow path. Ice-rocks aright and hills of snow, Aleft the giddy precipice. Be firm, be firm, O Thalaba! One motion now, one bend, And on the crags below Thy shattered flesh will harden in the frost. Why howl the Dogs so mournfully? And wherefore does the blood flow fast All purple o'er their sable hair? His arms are folded on his breast, Nor scourge nor goad has he, No hand appears to strike, No sounding lash is heard: But piteously they moan and moan And track their way with blood. And lo! on yonder height A giant Fiend aloft Waits to thrust down the tottering Avalanche! If Thalaba looks back he dies, The motion of fear is death. On ... on ... with swift and steady pace Adown that dreadful way! The youth is firm, the Dogs are fleet, The Sledge goes rapidly, The thunder of the avalanche Re-echoes far behind. On ... on ... with swift and steady pace Adown that dreadful way! The Dogs are fleet, the way is steep The Sledge goes rapidly, They reach the plain below. A wide, wide plain, all desolate, Nor tree, nor bush, nor herb! On go the Dogs with rapid step, The Sledge slides after rapidly, And now the Sun went down. They stopt and looked at Thalaba, The Youth performed his prayer; They knelt beside him as he prayed They turned their heads to Mecca And tears ran down their cheeks. Then down they laid them in the snow As close as they could lie, They laid them down and slept. And backward in the sledge The Adventurer laid him down, There peacefully slept Thalaba, Lay in his bosom warm. The Dogs awoke him at the dawn, They knelt and wept again; Then rapidly they journeyed on, And still the plain was desolate, Nor tree, nor bush, nor herb! And ever at the hour of prayer They stopt, and knelt, and wept; And still that green and graceful Bird Was as a friend to him by day, And ever when at night he slept Lay in his bosom warm. In that most utter solitude It cheered his heart to hear Her soft and soothing voice; Her voice was soft and sweet, It swelled not with the blackbird's thrill, Nor warbled rich like the dear bird, that holds The solitary man A loiterer in his thoughtful walk at eve; But if no overflowing joy Spake in its tones of tenderness They soothed the softened soul. Her bill was not the beak of blood; There was a human meaning in her eye, Its mild affection fixed on Thalaba Woke wonder while he gazed And made her dearer for the mystery. Oh joy! the signs of life appear, The first and single Fir That on the limits of the living world Strikes in the ice its roots. Another, and another now; And now the Larch that flings its arms Down arching like the falling wave; And now the Aspin's scattered leaves Grey glitter on the moveless twig; The Poplar's varying verdure now, And now the Birch so beautiful, Light as a Lady's plumes. Oh joy! the signs of life! the Deer Hath left his slot beside the way; The little Ermine now is seen White wanderer of the snow; And now from yonder pines they hear The clatter of the Grouse's wings: And now the snowy Owl pursues The Traveller's sledge in hope of food; And hark! the rosy-breasted bird The Throstle of sweet song! Joy! joy! the winter-wilds are left! Green bushes now and greener grass, Red thickets here all berry-bright, And here the lovely flowers! When the last morning of their way arrived, After the early prayer, The Green Bird fixed on Thalaba A sad and supplicating eye, And with a human voice she spake, "Servant of God, I leave thee now. "If rightly I have guided thee, "Give me the boon I beg!" "O gentle Bird," quoth Thalaba, "Guide and companion of my dangerous way, "Friend and sole solace of my solitude, "How can I pay thee benefits like these! "Ask what thou wilt that I can give, "O gentle Bird, the poor return "Will leave me debtor still!" "Son of Hodeirah!" she replied, "When thou shalt see an Old Man crushed beneath "The burthen of his earthly punishment, "Forgive him, Thalaba! "Yea, send a prayer to God on his behalf!" A flush o'erspread the young Destroyer's cheek, He turned his eye towards the Bird As if in half repentance; for he thought Of Okba; and his Father's dying groan Came on his memory. The celestial Bird Saw and renewed her speech. "O Thalaba, if she who in thine arms "Received the dagger-blow and died for thee, "Deserve one kind remembrance ... save, O save "The Father that she loved from endless death!" "Laila! and is it thou?" the youth replied: "What is there that I durst refuse to thee? "This is no time to harbour in my heart "One evil thought ... here I put off revenge, "The last rebellious feeling ... be it so! "God grant to me the pardon that I need "As I do pardon him! "But who am I that I should save "The sinful soul alive?" "Enough!" said Laila. "When the hour shall come "Remember me! my task is done. "We meet again in Paradise!" She said and shook her wings, and up she soared With arrow-swiftness thro' the heights of Heaven. His aching eye pursued her path, When starting onward went the Dogs, More rapidly they hurried on In hope of near repose. It was the early morning yet When by the well-head of a brook They stopt, their journey done. The spring was clear, the water deep, A venturous man were he and rash That should have probed its depths, For all its loosened bed below Heaved strangely up and down, And to and fro, from side to side It heaved, and waved, and tossed, And yet the depths were clear, And yet no ripple wrinkled o'er The face of that fair Well. And on that Well so strange and fair A little boat there lay, Without on oar, without a sail, One only seat it had, one seat As if for only Thalaba. And at the helm a Damsel stood A Damsel bright and bold of eye, Yet did a maiden modesty Adorn her fearless brow. She seemed sorrowful, but sure More beautiful for sorrow. To her the Dogs looked wistful up, And then their tongues were loosed, "Have we done well, O Mistress dear! "And shall our sufferings end?" The gentle Damsel made reply, "Poor Servants of the God I serve, "When all this witchery is destroyed "Your woes will end with mine. "A hope, alas! how long unknown! "This new adventurer gives: "Now God forbid that he, like you, "Should perish for his fears! "Poor Servants of the God I serve "Wait ye the event in peace." A deep and total slumber as she spake Seized them. Sleep on, poor sufferers! be at rest! Ye wake no more to anguish. Ye have borne The Chosen, the Destroyer! soon his hand Shall strike the efficient blow, Soon shaking off your penal forms shall ye With songs of joy amid the Eden groves Hymn the Deliverer's praise! "The morn is young, the Sun is fair "And pleasantly thro' pleasant banks "The quiet brook flows on.... "Wilt thou embark with me? "Thou knowest not the water's way, "Think Stranger well! and night must come,... "Wilt thou embark with me? "Thro' fearful perils thou must pass,... "Stranger, the oppressed ask thine aid! "Thou wilt embark with me!" She smiled in tears upon the youth,... What heart were his who could gainsay That melancholy smile? "Sail on, sail on," quoth Thalaba, "Sail on, in Allah's name!" He sate him on the single seat, The little boat moved on. Thro' pleasant banks the quiet brook Went winding pleasantly; By fragrant fir groves now it past, And now thro' alder-shores, Thro' green and fertile meadows now It silently ran by. The flag-flower blossomed on its side, The willow tresses waved, The flowing current furrowed round The water-lilly's floating leaf, The fly of green and gauzy wing Fell sporting down its course. And grateful to the voyager The freshness of the running stream, The murmur round the prow. The little boat falls rapidly Adown the rapid brook. But many a silent spring meantime, And many a rivulet Had swoln the growing brook, And when the southern Sun began To wind the downward way of heaven, It ran a river deep and wide Thro' banks that widened still. Then once again the Damsel spake, "The stream is strong, the river broad, "Wilt thou go on with me? "The day is fair but night must come.... "Wilt thou go on with me? "Far far away the mourner's eye "Is watching; for our little boat.... "Thou wilt go on with me!" "Sail on, sail on," quoth Thalaba, "Sail on, in Allah's name!" The little boat falls rapidly Adown the river-stream. A broader and a broader stream. That rocked the little boat! The Cormorant stands upon its shoals, His black and dripping wings Half opened to the wind. The Sun goes down, the crescent Moon Is brightening in the firmament; And what is yonder roar That sinking now and swelling now, But roaring, roaring still, Still louder, louder, grows? The little boat falls rapidly Adown the rapid tide, The Moon is bright above, And the wide Ocean opens on their way! Then did the Damsel speak again "Wilt thou go on with me? "The Moon is bright, the sea is calm "And I know well the ocean-paths;... "Wilt thou go on with me? "Deliverer! yes! thou dost not fear! "Thou wilt go on with me!" "Sail on, sail on!" quoth Thalaba "Sail on, in Allah's name!" The Moon is bright, the sea is calm, The little boat rides rapidly Across the ocean waves; The line of moonlight on the deep Still follows as they voyage on; The winds are motionless; The gentle waters gently part In murmurs round the prow. He looks above, he looks around, The boundless heaven, the boundless sea, The crescent moon, the little boat, Nought else above, below. The Moon is sunk, a dusky grey Spreads o'er the Eastern sky, The Stars grow pale and paler; Oh beautiful! the godlike Sun Is rising o'er the sea! Without an oar, without a sail The little boat rides rapidly;... Is that a cloud that skirts the sea? There is no cloud in heaven! And nearer now, and darker now.... For yonder are the rocks that rise Dark in the reddening morn, For loud around their hollow base The surges rage and roar. The little boat rides rapidly, And now with shorter toss it heaves Upon the heavier swell; And now so near they see The shelves and shadows of the cliff, And the low-lurking rocks O'er whose black summits hidden-half The shivering billows burst. And nearer now they feel the breaker's spray. Then spake the Damsel, "yonder is our path "Beneath the cavern arch. "Now is the ebb, and till the ocean-flow "We cannot over-ride the rocks. "Go thou and on the shore "Perform thy last ablutions, and with prayer "Strengthen thy heart.... I too have need to pray." She held the helm with steady hand Amid the stronger waves, Thro' surge and surf she drove, The adventurer leapt to land. Then Thalaba drew off Abdaldar's ring, And cast it in the sea, and cried aloud, "Thou art my shield, my trust, my hope, O God! "Behold and guard me now, "Thou who alone canst save. "If from my childhood up, I have looked on "With exultation to my destiny, "If, in the hour of anguish, I have felt "The justice of the hand that chastened me, "If, of all selfish passions purified, "I go to work thy will, and from the world "Root up the ill-doing race, "Lord! let not thou the weakness of my arm "Make vain the enterprize!" The Sun was rising all magnificent, Ocean and Heaven rejoicing in his beams. Performed his last ablutions, and he stood And gazed upon the little boat Riding the billows near, Where, like a sea-bird breasting the broad waves, It rose and fell upon the surge; Till from the glitterance of the sunny main He turned his aching eyes, And then upon the beach he laid him down And watched the rising tide. He did not pray, he was not calm for prayer; His spirit troubled with tumultuous hope Toiled with futurity. His brain, with busier workings, felt The roar and raving of the restless sea, The boundless waves that rose and rolled and rocked; The everlasting sound Opprest him, and the heaving infinite, He closed his lids for rest. Meantime with fuller reach and stronger swell Wave after wave advanced; Each following billow lifted the last foam That trembled on the sand with rainbow hues; The living flower, that, rooted to the rock, Late from the thinner element Shrunk down within its purple stem to sleep, Now feels the water, and again Awakening blossoms out All its green anther-necks. Was there a Spirit in the gale That fluttered o'er his cheek? For it came on him like the gentle sun That plays and dallies o'er the night-closed flower, And woos it to unfold anew to joy; For it came on him as the dews of eve Descend with healing and with life Upon the summer mead; Or liker the first sound of seraph song And Angel hail, to him Whose latest sense had shuddered at the groan Of anguish, kneeling by his death bed-side. He starts and gazes round to seek The certain presence. "Thalaba!" exclaimed "Father of my Oneiza!" he replied, "And have thy years been numbered? art thou too A second and a dearer voice repeats, "Go in the favour of the Lord "My husband. I have drest our bower of bliss. "Go and perform the work, "Let me not longer suffer hope in heaven!" He turned an eager glance towards the sea, "Come!" quoth the Damsel, and she drove Her little boat to land. Impatient thro' the rising wave He rushed to meet its way, His eye was bright, his cheek was flushed with joy. "Hast thou had comfort in thy prayers?" she cried, "Yea," answered Thalaba, "A heavenly visitation." "God be praised!" She uttered, "then I do not hope in vain!" And her voice trembled, and her lips Quivered, and tears ran down. "Stranger," quoth she, "in years long past "Was one who vowed himself "The Champion of the Lord like thee "Against the race of Hell. "Young was he, as thyself, "Gentle, and yet so brave! "A lion-hearted man. "Shame on me, Stranger! in the arms of love "I held him from his calling, till the hour "Was past, and then the Angel who should else "Have crowned him with his glory-wreath, "Smote him in anger ... years and years are gone.... "And in his place of penance he awaits "Thee the Deliverer, surely thou art he! "It was my righteous punishment "In the same youth unchanged and changeless love, "And fresh affliction and keen penitence "To abide the written hour when I should waft "The doomed Destroyer and Deliverer here. "Remember thou that thy success involves "No single fate, no common misery." As thus she spake, the entrance of the cave Darkened the boat below. Around them from their nests, The screaming sea-birds fled. Wondering at that strange shape Yet unalarmed at sight of living man, Unknowing of his sway and power misused; The clamours of their young Echoed in shriller yells That rung in wild discordance round the rock. And farther as they now advanced The dim reflection of the darkened day Grew fainter, and the dash Of the out-breakers deadened; farther yet And yet more faint the gleam, And there the waters at their utmost bound Silently rippled on the rising rock. They landed and advanced, and deeper in Two adamantine doors Closed up the cavern pass. Reclining on the rock beside Sate a grey-headed man Watching an hour-glass by. To him the Damsel spake, "Is it the hour appointed?" the old man Nor answered her awhile, Nor lifted he his downward eye, For now the glass ran low, And like the days of age With speed perceivable, The latter sands descend: And now the last are gone. Then he looked up, and raised his arm, and smote The adamantine gates. The gates of adamant Unfolding at the stroke Opened and gave the entrance. Then She turned To Thalaba and said "Go in the name of God! "I cannot enter,... I must wait the end "In hope and agony. "God and Mohammed prosper thee, "For thy sake and for ours!" He tarried not,... he past The threshold, over which was no return. All earthly thoughts, all human hopes And passions now put off, He cast no backward glance Towards the gleam of day. There was a light within, A yellow light, as when the autumnal Sun Through travelling rain and mist Shines on the evening hills. Whether from central fires effused, Or if the sunbeams day by day, From earliest generations, there absorbed, Were gathering for the wrath-flame. Shade was In those portentous vaults; Crag overhanging, nor the column-rock Cast its dark outline there. For with the hot and heavy atmosphere The light incorporate, permeating all, Spread over all its equal yellowness. There was no motion in the lifeless air, He felt no stirring as he past Adown the long descent, He heard not his own footsteps on the rock That thro' the thick stagnation sent no sound. How sweet it were, he thought, To feel the flowing wind! With what a thirst of joy He should breathe in the open gales of heaven! Downward and downward still, and still the way, The long, long, way is safe. Is there no secret wile No lurking enemy? His watchful eye is on the wall of rock,... And warily he marks the roof And warily surveyed The path that lay before. Downward and downward still, and still the way, The long, long, way is safe; Rock only, the same light, The same dead atmosphere, And solitude, and silence like the grave. At length the long descent Ends on a precipice; No feeble ray entered its dreadful gulphs, For in the pit profound Black Darkness, utter Night, Repelled the hostile gleam, And o'er the surface the light atmosphere Floated and mingled not. Above the depth four overawning wings, Unplumed and huge and strong, Bore up a little car; Four living pinions, headless, bodyless, Sprung from one stem that branched below In four down-arching limbs, And clenched the car-rings endlong and aside With claws of griffin grasp. But not on these, the depths so terrible, The wonderous wings, fixed Thalaba his eye, For there upon the brink, With fiery fetters fastened to the rock, A man, a living man, tormented lay, The young Othatha; in the arms of love, He who had lingered out the auspicious hour Forgetful of his call. In shuddering pity Thalaba exclaimed "Servant of God, can I not succour thee?" He groaned and answered, "Son of Man, "I sinned and am tormented; I endure "In patience and in hope. "The hour that shall destroy the Race of Hell, "That hour shall set me free." "Is it not come?" quoth Thalaba, "Yea! by this omen." And with fearless hand He grasped the burning fetters, "in the name "Of God!" and from the rock Rooted the rivets, and adown the gulph Hurled them. The rush of flames roared up, For they had kindled in their fall The deadly vapours of the pit profound, And Thalaba bent on and looked below. But vainly he explored The deep abyss of flame That sunk beyond the plunge of mortal eye, Now all ablaze as if infernal fires Illumed the world beneath. Soon was the poison-fuel spent, The flame grew pale and dim, And dimmer now it fades and now is quenched, And all again is dark, Save where the yellow air Enters a little in and mingles slow. Meantime the freed Othatha clasped his knees And cried, "Deliverer!" struggling then With joyful hope, "and where is she," he cried, "Whose promised coming for so many a year...." "Go!" answered Thalaba, "She waits thee at the gates." "And in thy triumph," he replied, "There thou wilt join us?" the Deliverer's eye Glanced on the abyss, way else was none.... The depth was unascendable. "Await not me," he cried, "My path hath been appointed, go ... embark! "Return to life,... live happy!" That thro' the nations we may blazon it, That we may bless thee. Then Thalaba pronounced the name of God And leapt into the car. He neither breathes nor sees; His eyes are closed for giddiness His breath is sinking with the fall. The air that yields beneath the car Inflates the wings above. And was the Simorgh with the Powers of ill Associate to destroy? And was that lovely mariner A fiend as false as fair? For still he sinks down ... down.... But ever the uprushing wind Inflates the wings above, And still the struggling wings Repel the rushing wind. Down ... down ... and now it strikes. He stands and totters giddily, All objects round, awhile, Float dizzy on his sight. Collected soon he gazes for the way. There was a distant light that led his search; The torch a broader blaze, The unpruned taper flames a longer flame, But this was fierce as is the noon-tide sun, So in the glory of its rays intense It quivered with green glow. Beyond was all unseen, No eye could penetrate That unendurable excess of light. It veiled no friendly form, thought Thalaba, And wisely did he deem, For at the threshold of the rocky door, Hugest and fiercest of his kind accurst, Fit warden of the sorcery gate A rebel Afreet lay. He scented the approach of human food And hungry hope kindled his eye of flame. Raising his hand to save the dazzled sense Onward held Thalaba, And lifted still at times a rapid glance. Till, the due distance gained, With head abased, he laid The arrow in its rest. With steady effort and knit forehead then, Full on the painful light He fixed his aching eye, and loosed the bow. An anguish yell ensued, And sure no human voice had scope or power For that prodigious shriek Whose pealing echoes thundered up the rock. Dim grew the dying light, But Thalaba leapt onward to the doors Now visible beyond, And while the Afreet warden of the way Was writhing with his death-pangs, over him Sprung and smote the stony doors, And bade them in the name of God give way. The dying Fiend beneath him at that name Tossed in worse agony, And the rocks shuddered, and the rocky doors Rent at the voice asunder. Lo ... within.... The Teraph and the fire, And Khawla, and in mail complete Mohareb for the strife. But Thalaba with numbing force Smites his raised arm, and rushes by, For now he sees the fire amid whose flames On the white ashes of Hodeirah lies Hodeirah's holy Sword. He rushes to the fire, Then Khawla met the youth And leapt upon him, and with clinging arms Clasps him, and calls Mohareb now to aim The effectual vengeance. O fool! fool! he sees His Father's Sword, and who shall bar his way? Who stand against the fury of that arm That spurns her to the earth? She rises half, she twists around his knees, A moment ... and he vainly strives To shake her from her hold, Impatient then into her cursed breast He stamps his crushing heel, And from her body, heaving now in death Springs forward to the Sword. The co-existent flame Knew the Destroyer; it encircled him, Rolled up his robe and gathered round his head, Condensing to intenser splendour there, His crown of glory and his light of life Hovered the irradiate wreath. The moment Thalaba had laid his hand Upon his Father's Sword, The Living Image in the inner cave Smote the Round Altar. The Domdaniel rocked Thro' all its thundering vaults; Over the surface of the reeling Earth The alarum shock was felt: The Sorcerer brood, all, all, where'er dispersed, Perforce obeyed the summons; all, they came By Hell compelled to keep Their baptism-covenant, And with the union of their strength Oppose the common danger; forced by Heaven To share the common doom. Vain are all spells! the Destroyer Treads the Domdaniel floor. They crowd with human arms and human force To crush the single foe; Vain is all human force! He wields his Father's Sword, The vengeance of awakened Deity! But chief on Thalaba Mohareb prest, The language of the inspired Witch Announced one fatal blow for both, And desperate of self-safety, yet he hoped To serve the cause of Eblis, and uphold His empire true in death. Who shall withstand his way? Scattered before the sword of Thalaba The sorcerer throng recede And leave him space for combat. Wretched man What shall the helmet or the shield avail Against Almighty anger! wretched man, Too late Mohareb finds that he has chosen The evil part! he rears his shield To meet the Arabian's sword,... Under the edge of that fire-hardened steel The shield falls severed; his cold arm Rings with the jarring blow,... He lifts his scymetar, A second stroke, and lo! the broken hilt Hangs from his palsied hand! And now he bleeds! and now he flies! And fain would hide himself amid the throng, But they feel the sword of Hodeirah, But they also fly from the ruin! And hasten to the inner cave, And fall all fearfully Around the Giant Idol's feet, Seeking salvation from the Power they served. Of magic hands of flesh and bones composed, And human blood thro' veins and arteries That flowed with vital action. In the shape Of Eblis it was made, Its stature such and such its strength As when among the Sons of God Pre-eminent, he raised his radiant head, Prince of the Morning. On his brow A coronet of meteor flames, Flowing in points of light. Self-poised in air before him, Hung the Round Altar, rolling like the World On its diurnal axis, like the World Checquered with sea and shore, The work of Demon art. For where the sceptre in the Idol's hand Touched the Round Altar, in its answering realm Earth felt the stroke, and Ocean rose in storms, And ruining Cities shaken from their seat Crushed all their habitants. His other arm was raised, and its spread palm Up-bore the ocean-weight Whose naked waters arched the sanctuary, Sole prop and pillar he. Fallen on the ground around his feet The Sorcerers lay. Mohareb's quivering arms Clung to the Idol's knees; The Idol's face was pale And calm in terror he beheld The approach of the Destroyer. Sure of his stroke, and therefore in pursuit Following, nor blind, nor hasty on his foe, Moved the Destroyer. Okba met his way, Of all that brotherhood He only fearless, miserable man, The one that had no hope. "On me, on me," the childless Sorcerer cried, "Let fall the weapon! I am he who stole "Upon the midnight of thy Father's tent, "This is the hand that pierced Hodeirah's heart, "That felt thy brethren's and thy sister's blood "Gush round the dagger-hilt. Let fall on me "The fated sword! the vengeance hour is come! "Destroyer, do thy work!" Nor wile, nor weapon, had the desperate wretch, He spread his bosom to the stroke. "Old man, I strike thee not!" said Thalaba, "The evil thou hast done to me and mine "Brought its own bitter punishment. "For thy dear Daughter's sake I pardon thee, "As I do hope Heaven's pardon. For her sake "Repent while time is yet! thou hast my prayers "To aid thee; thou poor sinner, cast thyself "Upon the goodness of offended God! "I speak in Laila's name, and what if now "Thou canst not think to join in Paradise "Her spotless Spirit,... hath not Allah made "Al-Araf in his wisdom? where the sight "Of Heaven shall kindle in the penitent "The strong and purifying fire of hope, "Till at the day of judgement he shall see "The Mercy-Gates unfold." The astonished man stood gazing as he spake, At length his heart was softened, and the tears Gushed, and he sobbed aloud. Then suddenly was heard The all-beholding Prophet's aweful voice, "Thou hast done well, my Servant! "Ask and receive thy reward!" A deep and aweful joy Seemed to distend the heart of Thalaba; With arms in reverence crost upon his breast, Upseeking eyes suffused with transport-tears He answered to the Voice, "Prophet of God, "Holy, and good, and bountiful! "One only earthly wish have I, to work "Thy will, and thy protection grants me that. "Look on this Sorcerer! heavy are his crimes, "But infinite is mercy! if thy servant "Have now found favour in the sight of God, "Let him be touched with penitence, and save "His soul from utter death." "The groans of penitence," replied the Voice "Never arise unheard! "But for thyself prefer the prayer, "The Treasure-house of Heaven "Is open to thy will." "Prophet of God!" then answered Thalaba, "I am alone on earth. "Thou knowest the secret wishes of my heart! "Do with me as thou wilt! thy will is best." There issued forth no Voice to answer him, But lo! Hodeirah's Spirit comes to see His vengeance, and beside him, a pure form Of roseate light, the Angel mother hangs. "My Child, my dear, my glorious, blessed Child, "My promise is performed ... fufil thy work!" Thalaba knew that his death-hour was come, And on he leapt, and springing up, Into the Idol's heart Hilt-deep he drove the Sword. The Ocean-Vault fell in, and all were crushed. In the same moment at the gate Of Paradise, Oneiza's Houri-form Welcomed her Husband to eternal bliss. La mer n'est plus qu'un cercle aux yeux des Matelots, Ou le Ciel forme un dome appuye sur les flots. The magnificent Mosque Tauris is faced with varnished bricks of sumptuously builded and gilt." A waste of ornament and labour characterises all the works of the translation. As soon as Kail arrived in the valley of Magaith, a part of the Al-Ahkaf signifies the Winding Sands. _Pausanias, translated by Taylor._ The Adites worshipped four Idols, Sakiah the dispenser of rain, Some of the Pagan Arabs when they died, had their Camel tied by their sepulchre, and so left without meat or drink to perish, and "She stared me in the face." necessary to insert some of the preceding stanzas. The title is _Old Poulter's mare._ At length old age came on her And she grew faint and poor, Her master he fell out with her And turned her out of door, Saying, if thou wilt not labour, I prithee go thy way,-- And never let me see thy face Until thy dying day. These words she took unkind And on her way she went, For to fulfill her master's will Always was her intent, The hills were very high The vallies very bare, The summer it was hot and dry,-- It starved Old Poulter's Mare. Old Poulter he grew sorrowful And said to his kinsman Will, I'd have thee go and seek the Mare O'er valley and o'er hill, Go, go, go, go, says Poulter, And make haste back again, For until thou hast found the Mare In grief I shall remain. Away went Will so willingly, And all day long he sought: Till when it grew towards the night, He in his mind bethought, He would go home and rest him And come again to-morrow, For if he could not find the Mare His heart would break with sorrow. He went a little farther And turned his head aside, And just by goodman Whitfield's gate Oh there the Mare he spied. He asked her how she did, _She stared him in the face, Then down she laid her head again,-- She was in wretched case._ Concerning the Pyramids, "I shall put down, says Greaves, that which is confessed by the Arabian writers to be the most probable _Greaves's Pyramidographia._ certain _sigilla_ or _amuleta_, made under such and such an aspect, or configuration of the stars and planets, with several characters accordingly inscribed. precious stone; and therefore in Abulfeda it is joined with _yacut_, a ruby. I imagine it here to signify some magical spell, which it may be was engraven on this stone. Adam, says a Moorish Author, after having eaten the forbidden A great number of stringy fibres seem to stretch out from the Shedad was the first King of the Adites. I have ornamented his Las horrendas palabras parecian salir por una trompa resontane, y que los yertos labios no movian. The manner how the Teraphim were made is fondly conceited thus _Godwyn's Moses and Aaron._ In _Rabbi Eleazar_ it is said to be the head of a child. The Devil, whom Mohammed names Eblis, from his dispair, was once These lines contain the various opinions of the Mohammedans respecting the intermediate state of the Blessed, till the Day of Excepting in this line I have avoided all resemblances to the powerful poetry of Lucan. Aspicit astantem projecti corporis umbram, Exanimes artus, invisaque claustra timentem Carceris antiqui, pavet ire in pectus apertum, Visceraque, et ruptas letali vulnere fibras. Ah miser, extremum cui mortis munus iniquae Eripitur, non posse mori! miratur Erichtho Has fatis licuisse moras, irataque morti Verberat immotum vivo serpente cadaver. Protinus astrictus caluit cruor, atraque fovit Vulnera, et in venas extremaque membra cucurrit. Percussae gelido trepidant sub pectore fibrae; Et nova desuetis subrepens vita medullis, Miscetur morti, tunc omnis palpitat artus; Tenduntur nervi; nec se tellure cadaver Paulatim per membra levat, terraque repulsum est, Erectumque simul. Distento lumina rictu Nudantur. Nondum facies viventis in illo, Jam morientis erat; remanet pallorque rigorque, Et stupet illatus mundo. Brebeuf was a man of genius. The Pharsalia is as well told in his Physician of Pisaro, dedicated to Caesar Borgia._ With the Arabs either a round skin is laid on the ground for a 'Tis the custom of Persia to begin their feasts with fruits and The Tamarind is equally useful and agreable, it has a pulp of a l'aspect imprevu de tant de Castillans, D'etonnement, d'effroi, The Arabians divide their day into twenty four hours, and reckon _Kinocetus_ is a stone not wholly useless--since it will cast out Giafar, the founder of the Barmecides, being obliged to fly from self-destruction in case he had been taken by his enemies. In the country called Panten or Tathalamasin, "there be canes Matthew of Westminister says the history of the Old Woman of The Turks report, as a certain truth, that the corps of Heyradin _Morgan's History of Algiers._ _Hondtsdam_, that is to say, _a dog's sluce_; _Dam_ in Flemish _Grimestone's Historie of the Netherlands_, 1608. The Vulture is very serviceable in Arabia, clearing the earth of The Arabs call the West and South West winds which prevail from November to February, _the fathers of the rains._ "We passed two of those vallies so common in Arabia, which when The simplicity, or, perhaps, more properly, the poverty, of the If mine heart have been deceived by a woman, or if I have laid wait at my neighbour's door. Then let my wife grind unto another. The Mosques, which they pronounce Mesg jid, are built exactly in _Russel's Aleppo._ felicity, is the ancient Keabe of Mecca, which according to tradition, was taken up into heaven by the Angels at the deluge, where it was placed perpendicularly over the present sanctuary. to be placed on the ninth, which is the higher of the firmaments. _Morgan's Hist. of Algiers._ _Morgan's Hist. of Algiers._ _Morgan's Hist. of Algiers._ deliveries." _Sir W. Jones. Essay on the Poetry of the Eastern nations._ In Mr. Carlyle's translations from the Arabic, a Poet says of his The silken thread on which they lie. It seems the Arabs are still great rhymers, and their verses are _Vanslebe. Harris's Collection._ His fingers, in beauty and slenderness appearing as the _Yed This unnatural fashion is extended to animals. Ali the Moor, to whose capricious cruelty Mungo Park was so long The blackened eye-lids and the reddened fingers were Eastern The Mimosa Selam produces splendid flowers of a beautiful red colour with which the Arabians crown their heads on their days of The large locusts, which are near three inches long, are not the _Niebuhr. Desc. de l'Arabie._ An Arabian expression from the Moallakat. "She turns her right side, as if she were in fear of some large-headed Screamer of the The Mussulmans are immutably prepossessed, that as the Earth _Morgan's Hist. of Algiers._ The story of Haruth and Maruth as in the Poem, may be found in The Ism-Ablah--The Science of the Name of God. They pretend that There are some Mohammedans who shut themselves up in a dark place One of these _Hykes_ is usually six yards long and 5 or 6 foot If thou at all take thy neighbour's raiment to pledge, thou shalt Fear the fire whose fuel is men, and stones prepared for the unbelievers. The Arabians attribute to Solomon a perpetual enmity and warfare Anchieta was going in a canoe to the mouth of the river Aldea, a Hesperii peterent cum barbara littora mystae, Et sociis aeger pluribus unus erat, Ille suum extincto, Phoebi quia lampadis aestu Occultoque uri, questus ab igne caput Quaesiit in prora, si quam daiet angulus umbram, Nulla sed in prorae partibus umbra fuit. Quaesiit in puppi, nihil umbrae puppis habebat, Summa sed urebant solis, & ima faces. His cupiens Anchieta malis succurrere, solam Aera per medium tendere vidit avem. Vidit, ei socias, ait, i, quaere cohortes Aliger atque redux cum legione veni. Dicta probavit avis, celerique citatior Euro, Cognatum properat, quaerere jussa gregem. Milleque mox sociis comitata revertitur alis, Mille sequi visae, mille praeire ducem. Mille supra, & totidem, juxtaque, infraque volabant, Omnis ad Anchietae turba vocata preces. Et simul expansis facta testudine pennis, Desuper in tostas incubuere rates. Et procul inde diem, & lucem pepulere diei, Debile dum molis conderet umbra caput. Scilicet haec fierent, ut canopea repente Anchieta artifices, esse coegit aves. Father Simam de Vasconcellos probably stole this miracle from the The most quaint account of Solomon's wisdom is in Du Bartas. Whether the Heavens sweet-sweating kisse appear To be Pearls parent, and the Oysters pheer, And whether, dusk, it makes them dim withall, Cleer breeds the cleer, and stormy brings the pale: Whether from sea the amber-greece be sent, Or be some fishes pleasant excrement. He knowes why the Earth's immoveable and round, The lees of Nature, center of the mound; Hee knows her mesure: and hee knows beside How _Coloquintida_ (duely apply'd) Within the darknesse of the Conduit-pipes, Amid the winding of our inward tripes, Can so discreetly the _white humour_ take. _Sylvester's Du Bartas._ servant. _Morgan's Hist. of Algiers._ No creature seems so peculiarly fitted to the climate in which it "I pushed on as fast as possible, in hopes of reaching some approaching. Here then, thought I, after a short but ineffectual struggle, terminate all my hopes of being useful in my day and resolution, and determined to make another effort to prolong my _Park's Travels in the Interior of Africa._ All the time I was in Barbary I could never get sight of above _Morgan's History of Algiers._ "The royal couriers in Persia wear a white sash girded from the persuasion of this rivetted me as if to the spot where I stood. _Smellie's Philosophy of Natural History._ The mosques, the minarets, and numerous cupolas form a splended _Russel's Nat. Hist. of Aleppo._ appearance would immediately disperse them. Instead of this they Almanzor signifies the Victorious. The houses in Persia are not in the same place with their shops, On the other side of the river towards Arabia, over against the drowned. At Bagdad are many cranes who build their nests upon the tops of _Chandler's Travels in Asia Minor._ Whose large inclosure the rude hind, or guides His plough, or binds his sheaves, while shepherds guard Their flocks, secure of ill: on the broad top Six chariots rattle in extended front. Each side in length, in height, in solid bulk, Reflects its opposite a perfect square; Scarce sixty thousand paces can mete out The vast circumference. An hundred gates Of polished brass lead to that central point Where thro' the midst, bridged o'er with wondrous art Euphrates leads a navigable stream, Branch'd from the current of his roaring flood. _Roberts's Judah Restored._ Within the walls Of Babylon was rais'd a lofty mound Where flowers and aromatic shrubs adorn'd The pensile garden. For Nebassar's queen, Fatigued with Babylonia's level plains, Sigh'd for her Median home, where nature's hand Had scoop'd the vale, and cloath'd the mountain's side With many a verdant wood; nor long she pin'd Till that uxorious monarch called on art To rival nature's sweet variety. Forthwith two hundred thousand slaves uprear'd This hill, egregious work; rich fruits o'er hang The sloping walks and odorous shrubs entwine Their undulating branches. _Roberts's Judah Restored._ Our early Travellers have given us strange and circumstantial accounts of what they conceive to have been the Temple of Belus. regularity; in some places it rises in points, is craggy and appointed by God as places of punishment for Harut and Marut, two _Pietro delle Valle. Universal Hist._ Eight towers arise, Each above each, immeasurable height, A monument at once of eastern pride And slavish superstition. Round, a scale Of circling steps entwines the conic pile; And at the bottom on vast hinges grates Four brazen gates, towards the four winds of heaven Placed in the solid square. _Roberts's Judah Restored._ And Babylon the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldees excellency shall be as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah. It shall never be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in from The stupid superstition of the Turks with regard to hidden treasures is well known, it is difficult or even dangerous for a traveller to copy an inscription in sight of those barbarians. Search for it; despair not: Nay despair; do not search. So of the ruines of ancient Tubuna. The Mussulmanns use, like the Roman Catholics, a rosary of beads berries, coral, or glass beads. "The Mahummedans believe that the decreed events of every man's Zohak was the fifth King of the Pischdadian dynasty, lineally "I shall transcribe a foreign piece of Superstition, firmly No nation in the world is so much given to superstition as the In the Vision of Thurcillus Adam is described as beholding the The arabian horses are divided into two great branches; the uncontaminated nobility. Corpusanse[i] by the mariners. whence our Hummums. In the place where the Whang-ho rises, there are more than an _Gaubil. Astley's Collect. of Voy. and Travels._ Among the mountains of the _Beni Abbess_, four leagues to the In 1568 the Persian Sultan gave the Grand Seigneur two most Major Scott informs us that scars and wounds by Persian writers "We pitched our tents among some little hills where there was a This was an expression of Ariosto in one of his smaller poems, I The Thracians say that the nightingales which build their nests about the Sepulchre of Orpheus sing sweeter and louder than other Gongora has addressed this Bird with somewhat more than his usual Con diferencia tal, con gracia tanta Aquel Ruisenor llora, que sospecho, Que tiene otros cien mil dentro del pecho, Que alternan su dolor por su garganta. With such a grace that Nightingale bewails That I suspect, so exquisite his note, An hundred thousand other Nightingales Within him, warble sorrow thro' his throat. Nuptials of Mohammed and Cadijah.--Dum autem ad nuptias Sclymus 2. received the Embassadors sitting upon a pallat which On the way from Macao to Canton in the rivers and channels there They have no English glasse; of slices of a rocke In pretie order like to panes, to serve their present need. No other glasse, good faith, doth give a better light, And sure the rock is nothing rich, the cost is very slight. The Indians of Malabar use mother of pearl for window panes. The King and the great Lords have a sort of cellar for The Cuptzi, or King of Persia's merchant, treated us with a collation, which was served in, in plate vermilion-gilt. _Ambassador's Travels._ At Ispahan the King's horses were watered with silver pails thus coloured. Mohammedes vinum appellabat _Matrem peccatorum_; cui sententiae Hafez, Anacreon ille Persarum, minime ascribit suam; dicit autem Illide ignem illum nobis liquidum, Hoc est, ignem illum aquae similem affer. They export from Com earthen ware both white and varnished, and Casbin produces the fairest grape in Persia, which they call Dr. Fryer received a present from the Caun of Bunder-Abassae of Apples candied in snow. Of the Indian dancing women who danced before the Ambassadors at At Seronge a sort of cloth is made so fine, that the skin may be I came to a Village called Cupri-Kent, or the Village of the The most magnificent of these bridges is the Bridge of Zulpha at singular assemblage which is _not void of beauty_. These lines are feebly adapted from a passage in Burnet's Theory The Zaccoum is a tree which issueth from the bottom of Hell: the When the sister of the famous Derar was made prisoner before pallaces, and beautifull damosells, richly attired, and called it circumstances more probable. Travelling on further towards the south, I arrived at a certaine As the celestial Apostle, at his retreat from _Medina_, did not This declaration must be the same for each of the five canonical In the Meidan, or Great Place of the city of Tauris, there are En tede thapsai paida.] Demoniack is said to have _his dwelling among the tombs_. white-washed and beautified, they continue, to this day, to be an _Chandler's Travels in Asia Minor._ insensible. From these signs they concluded him to be a notorious In a certain town of _Hungary_, which is called in Latin _Oppida seventeen persons of all ages and sexes died of Vampirism, some incredulity, and strove to prove that there were such things as Some Citizens, that were most zealous for the good of the public, Notwithstanding these wise reflections, they remained in as much In these lines I have versified a passage in Bishop Taylor's My readers will recollect the Lenora. The unwilling resemblance How came Mohareb to be Sultan of this Island? Every one who has read Don Quixote knows that there are always Islands to be had by In this valley, we found plenty of provender for our cattle: The hawk is used at Aleppo in taking the hare. "As soon as the _Jackson's Journey over Land._ I saw this appearance of death at a bull-fight--the detestable A serpent which that aspidis Is cleped, of his kinde hath this, That he the stone noblest of all The whiche that men carbuncle call, Bereth in his head above on high. For whiche whan that a man by slight The stone to wynne, and him to dante, With his carecte him wolde enchante, Anone as he perceiveth that He leyth downe his one ear all plat Unto the ground, and halt it fast, And eke that other eare als faste He shoppeth with his taille so sore, That he the wordes, lasse or more Of his enchantement ne hereth. And in this wise himself he skiereth, So that he hath the wordes wayved, And thus his eare is nought deceived. As for the wax it is the finest and whitest that may be had tho' It being notorious that fire enters into the composition of a Devil, because he breathes smoke and flames, there is an obvious propriety in supposing every Witch her own tinder-box, as they approximate to diabolic nature. I am sorry that I have not the The Moors interpreted one of these phosphoric miracles with equal A well known ceremony of witchcraft, old as classical superstition, and probably not yet wholly disbelieved. A thicket of balm trees is said to have sprung up from the blood _Treasury of ancient and modern Times._ The common people of England have long been acquainted with this _Chenier. additional chapt. by the Translator._ The Mohammedan tradition is even more horrible than this: The corpse of the wicked is gnawed and stung till the resurrection of _Sale's preliminary discourse._ The night Leileth-ul-cadr is considered as being particularly In Persia, when the King is in his _Megeler_, that is in his A Physician of Ragusa was deputed by that little Republic to In this volume the pleadings of the Mother against the Ragusan _Garcilasso's Royal Commentaries of Peru._ Hasta los hombros pende su cabello Mas que el oro de Arabia roxo y bello. Cada ano qual renuevo lo cortava A damas se vendia para ornato. Adown his shoulders his long tresses roll'd, More beautiful and red than Eastern gold, And annual as he cropt, the envied hair Was yearly sold to ornament the fair. The Cameleon, or Indian Salamander, otherwise called Gekko. When any person is to be buried, it is usual to bring the corpse Neque harum, quas colis, arborum, Te, praeter invisas cupressus, Ulla brevem dominum sequetur. The Turks bury not at all within the walls of the city, but the A strange account of the Cedars of Lebanon is given by De la tribusque & ultra, mensibus mordaciter dominatur. Cedri in altum It is well known how much the Orientalists are addicted to this "Sephie-Mirza was born in the year of the _Egire_ 1057. For the We have now to refute their errour who are persuaded that Brazen This Table is suspended in the Seventh Heaven, and guarded from They celebrate the night Leileth-ul-beraeth on the 15th of the The Balance of the Dead is an article in almost every creed. "For take thy Ballaunce, if thou be so wise, "And weigh the winde that under heaven doth blow; "Or weigh the light that in the East doth rise: "Or weigh the thought that from man's mind doth flow "But if the weight of these thou canst not show, "Weigh but one word which from thy lips doth fall." This double meaning is in the spirit of oracular prediction. The The Souls of the Blessed are supposed by some of the Mohammedans To this there is an allusion in the Moallakat. "Then I knew with _My beating Bosom is a well-wrought cage, Whence that sweet Gold-finch Hope shall ne'er elope!_ When Hosein the son of Ali was sick of a grievous disorder, he Maracci after detailing and ridiculing the Mohammedan miracles, These, says Maracci, are _miracula perseverantia_, permanent In the Bahar-Danush the Simorg is mentioned as a genus--not an The Simorg is a monstrous Bird like a Griffin; in _the History of Araf is a place between the Paradise and the Hell of the Engravings, price 10s. 6d. in Boards. In a few Days will be published, POEMS, partly in the Scottish Dialect; by _Hector Macneill, Esq._

Alphonse de Lamartine

Cours familier de Littérature - Volume 14

1790

_By the same Author, 6s. each_. The Potter's Thumb Miss Stuart's Legacy _All rights reserved_ Shah Sujah's Mouse. Cotton-picking Song. atmosphere. remind the inhabitants that their origin was dust, their end the grave. He drew a long breath that was half a sigh. A stir in the thorn enclosures where the cattle were folded for the night caught his turban and the lank folds of white drapery falling from his high entrance. Gunesh stood still and called, "Mother! mother!" The old woman's face shone with delight. "A ewe lamb! 'Tis another omen; and there is luck in the house "And--and--Veru?" he asked, somewhat sheepishly. "Yea, mother," he answered, meekly, "and sure the firstling shows "With the dawn," he muttered--"it will come with the dawn." should be? Gunesh Chund felt himself mean and spiritless as he He went over to her and touched her on the arm. "Mother!" he called. "Is--is it pretty, mother?" he asked, sheepishly, after a while. The old lady eyed him with suspicious scorn. "See for thyself, ninny," she replied, shortly. She laughed, still in the same short and scornful fashion. He did not hear the latter sentence. Accustomed in all things to "Ho! ho! Look, mother, look!" "And Veru? How is she?" This was too much. The stern old lady rose to her full height and As Gunesh crept out of the house feeling small, despite his great into retaliating rays. A few flat baskets of sweets, covered with The infant, to whom the name of Nihali had been given, lay in her little silk trousers on the bandy legs, a tinsel-decorated muslin disposed over the round skull-cap where a black fringe of wool observation, she would weep salt tears over its unconscious face. was by had not been a very difficult one. But now the every-day life was beginning again, and it would be harder to keep up the He came in before going to his afternoon's work in the fields to "Ho! ho! ho! Grandmother, see what a figure Veru hath made of the "True, mother, true," he assented happily, as he went to the door mother! A good harvest and new dresses--" She checked him. "Nay, Gunesh, there is the new wife to think of first. Good harvest days are good wedding days." "Time!" she echoed. "Time, indeed! 'Tis not time, but will, is wanting. Get thee gone to thy fields--thank Heaven thou art not a Gunesh tried to frown as he stood irresolute, but his mild face refused the task. "I could wish none better." Foiled by his gentleness, she watched his tall figure go down the hungry eyes. "I scarce liked to bring Shivu here to-day," quoth the latter, "Guneshwa looked but ill at ease, it struck me. No doubt the new settlement in the village gives him trouble." "What new settlement?" asked Veru, sharply. enemies. This went too far for her mother-in-law. At the risk of Kishnu's delectation, she lost patience. "Girls are every whit as good as boys. The great Queen--" "Pshaw! I am sick of the great Queen! Why did she come to breed dissension, and teach young women to mock at the old? Though, for "So may Nihali in her time." "She wants to bring another wife home even now. She will not have He looked at the mother and child with kindling eyes. She turned on him fiercely, perhaps from a feeling of pity. Whether Gunesh Chund's mother, when she prophesied evil to little The man broke into a sob and turned away. "Mother, canst thou do nothing?" he asked, in all the wistful Gunesh Chund lingered, hesitating. "Nay, mother! I did but suggest. Veru--" "O Veru! Veru! I am sick of the name. 'Tis she who hath bewitched He interrupted her fiercely, seizing her by the wrist. "Peace, I say, mother! Peace! I will not hear such words." "They are true for all that. She _hath_ bewitched thee!" They stood for a moment face to face, so like each other in their Meanwhile Veru, with empty arms and nervous fingers twisting and threshold. What had happened? He repeated the call louder. "Veru!--Mother! Is there no one in the house?" strong-seated stool, in full blaze of the fire-light, while the From the dense yellow smoke enveloping poor little Nihali came a feeble, gasping cry. "Mother!" pleaded the man, hiding his face. A fainter cry came, echoed in a shriek from the door, where Veru "I gave her to Guneshwa! Where is he?" dressed in her fine clothes, with bandy legs straightened and ready, like a true woman, to sacrifice herself unconditionally in "Here," she whispered, and the others nodded. "Thus we drive you forth, O daughter! Come not back, but send a brother." They waited listening. "Now may the omen be good!" said one. presence? Who could tell? As for the casting out of the demon which had hurried on the Or he would take his pipe down to the village _dharmsala_, where "A man without a son hath one life; a man rejoicing in a son hath Then another took up the parable. "Aye! and four hands to boot, wherewith to root out weeds." "The hundredfold wheat hath more stems than one," quoth a third. "And a toddling child can drive bullocks," put in a fourth. "O my son! O Guneshwa!" cried the old woman, flinging her arms His mother laughed scornfully. "So soon!" he exclaimed, dismally. "O mother, take care! Sure the The crops were fast turning russet and gold under the glare of sunlight succeeding to the monsoon rains, when Gunesh Chund said That same afternoon, Veru, unwilling to relax any of her efforts Hastily, yet carefully, lest evil should befall from any lack of "The jackals have sent thee a present, grandmother." Seizing Veru by the wrist, she dragged her across the court-yard, expectant mother haunted the house? Veru must not die--should not die; so the old woman nursed her "I _will_ die," was the only response; "I will die and become a ghost! I will! I will!" "None--that--thou--wouldst--give," came the reply, with a strange The moon shone brightly as Gunesh Chund rode through the village _lumberdar's_ pony picked its way unerringly, true as the needle, sleeping-place. The night passed, the dawn lightened into sunshine; yet still he A sad amaze, an almost pitiful resignation, followed the first thought returned to him. "I thought of building her a new house for peace' sake," he said, "Thou takest no rest, Gunesh Chund," exclaimed his mother, "Not suit me--I'd like to know--" The _lumberdar's_ face assumed a startled, alarmed look. His mother could have bitten her tongue out for her inadvertence. curses in death. And see," she added, hastily, in the hope of diverting his eager anxiety, "I have found what thou wert asking "See, there is a new one; that one, may be; 'tis cleaner than the "And wherefore should I try? I tell thee, Guneshwa, that we beyond. Writing is no good except for certificates. There is Devi "What ails thee, then, Guneshwa?" The man sat up amid his heavy wrappings and looked at her without "Thou knowest, mother; thou knowest it well." Her heart throbbed, but her voice was steady as she replied: "What do I know, O Gunesh Chund?" A shivering hand reached out towards her. "Hush, mother! I have had enough of curses to-day." The mild reproof made her forget her anger in thoughts for him. "She hath returned already." The old woman rose with a gesture of despair. She kept her word; though, as the days passed on, even her wilful For all the courage of his words, a conviction that he was doomed restlessness. placid face. "I might have saved him," she said to herself with infinite sonless, hopeless. "Willie," Mark Twain tells us, "had a purple monkey climbing up a The following story shows the effect that a blue monkey on a gilt awaiting him at the boundary, consisting of _sowars_ on leave from various regiments (with their horses), a contingent of "_pinson-wallahs_" in nondescript uniform on broodmares, and Khan When it was over, and he dozed, wearied out by the unaccustomed hereditary money-lender of Jehadpore, was able to send his son, Hunuman Sing, to college and make a pleader of him. The ex-_rissaldar_, with two sons and three grandsons in the old element the latter represented in Jehadpore. The fact that the virtuous tolerance which allowed a most modest and retiring Hindu Even when he put a gilt spike on the top they spoke of it in idolatrous spike under my eyes, and so I will tell Mool Raj. Let The usurer came back from his interview with his patron quite resigned. To tell the truth, he himself was not much set on these success, does not do it with his eyes open to the inevitable gulf But, though Hunuman cared not at all for the blue monkey god, he worshipped liberty--especially his own; and he preferred it, if Little Mool Raj, who seemed to shrivel smaller as he grew older, "God and his Prophet," yelled Azmutoollah, "it is a conch!" If the opponents had been better matched, there would have been Even Azmutoollah's indignation could not withstand it. "By the faith, he speaks well! 'Tis a pity his shoulders are so narrow," remarked a trooper, carelessly, as he strolled away to a "Kill him? Look you, Allah Baksh--there was not enough of him to And a chuckle ran round the assembly. "It's an ill burd that files his ain nest, but for religious into-lerance give me Scotland. Aw'm no saying ut'll hold as a "A bell! Heaven be praised! the very thing." "A bell is not a conch," remarked the assistant. So the precedent of a far-away cathedral, whose schismatic chime The courteous old gentleman smiled. honour. Now, though Mool Raj's name was duly entered in the file as complainant, the affair had long ago passed out of his hands and become a real, solid, Heaven-sent grievance to a small knot of advanced young pleaders. Indeed, the old man was so distinctly The fierce old Mohammedan's very lips turned pale. He never even A knot of young men in patent-leather shoes, standing by the blue "Brothers and sisters," called one, in the polished, curiously however, though admirable, proved somewhat superfluous. The first "By the Prophet," cried Rahmat Ali, "I swear it had a look of old Khan Azmutoollah Khan let off a detonating _roulade_ of Arabic anathema as a _Te Deum_. rather to their surprise, by the usual escort. The leader of the hint--which British majesty gave in the interests of law and condition!" "By the Lord Harry," shrieked the policeman, as the figure on the Then a roar of inextinguishable laughter played the mischief with Then Hunuman Sing swore. That evening the deputy commissioner held a friendly inquiry, and So Jehadpore brought up its troopers, and paid or did not pay its It sounds idyllic viewed from our standpoint. From his, with that "'Mid pleasures and palaces." "'Mid pleasures and palaces." ill-humoured fruit, after all that beauty of blossom! perfume. And Sonny had been out all day alone, under the hot sun, "Thath way, manth." "O Mummie, Mummie, he'th got 'quilth!'" "_Ayah!_" cried the mother, clasping her darling tighter as by instinct. "Who--what is he? Ask him--ask him about it all." "Can't _you_ make out _any_thing, dear?" asked Mummie, almost There was no help for it, however; though, just for the sake of tempting. "O Mummie, he had 'quilth'--lovely, lovely 'quilth.' Whereth he "Sonny, the 'quilth'-man has come. Dada has brought him." He wanted to be carried out in those brown arms as before, and "Now, manth! if l'oo pleath," murmured Sonny. And, as before, he "I know," whispered Mummie, touching Dada on the arm. "He means squirrels. How stupid of me! Look!" "Lovely, lovely 'quilth.'--Go on, pleath, manth." Nearer and nearer; a dozen or more sitting up with the scattered Sonny's grew heavier and heavier. gymnastics with the bars, he made up his mind that there could be indignant, asked what was to be done about the _janowar_. inspection. As the gate swung open, they paused again, not at the "Who's that?" cried the doctor, sharply. "The poor beggar seems starved, and yet he had this and--he was The doctor, being orthodox, paused. "I hope to God it is!" said Dada, fervently. suspiciously. Then another with bushy tail erect came hopping fearlessly over the grass-- Dada closed the gate softly. "Lovely, lovely 'quilth,'" he murmured to himself. But they neither of them said anything about the other _janowar_. A grove of date-palms; each cluster of carved stems set in its feathery crown and base, separated from its neighbours by sandy wildly. perhaps a heartless truism, considering her company. But then Shahbash was bucklered against bitter thoughts by an "'Twere better they were sharp enough to see through dust," she "Aye, but how long can they be kept? If the saint dies without Suttu laughed. "So are others that be not pock-marked and one eye to boot." She interrupted him remorselessly. "'Tis safe for me, anyhow. The Shahbash wrinkled his hideous face to an appalling frown. Then, her _role_ of hostess being over, she walked away to the leaf-cups. Beyond this was a golden sunrise, cloudless, serene. Suttu, seated on the edge of grass which grew just as far as the moisture filtered through the sand, and no farther, nodded at the A kingfisher flashed down into the water like a sapphire, and her She leaped to her feet, confronting the Kazi's son in real wrath. The Kazi's son drew a step nearer. intrigue, and its defiance of conventionalities set his pulses throbbing. "Yonder beans look ripe," she murmured, "and they would eke out a attracting the swift swooping of the bronze-winged fly-catchers. "That is all," he cried; "by the faith of my fathers, six ells of _kunker_ soil. God and his Prophet! why didst not send them to be Suttu smiled as she stooped to wring the water from her scant petticoat. He scratched his thick grey hair, on which he wore no turban, doubtfully. themselves. The former, according to tradition, had lived for ten practically it was not so impressive. Gold! If report said true, golden indeed with other records of tears, the pilgrims counted their third-class return tickets as offerings to the shrine, and the traffic department charged dead bought the child back, with bribes, to keep him company, and down--well, as a leopardess might settle in its cage. As he set to work on a baby's grave, he went on grumbling and Suddenly the thought came that perhaps now--this moment or the "Well! did he tell you?" "Come outside, daughter," he said, with a curse; "one cannot hear family, Suttu." "Whose family--mine or thine?" she asked, scornfully. "'Tis the same. Lo, is not Murghub thy brother, since he is thy mother's son, though he be but a poor natural?" "What gold? I know of none. I have seen none." indicated her meaning. "Nay, he gave it." Her tone was still mocking, the grasp on his wrist firm but not "I bore a son to your son, anyhow," she retorted quickly, and her "If thou wilt but listen--" "Not till I have laid this offering in the saint's hand," she The accountant leaned over to her eagerly. "Halves--halves in everything save liberty. That is all thine own." For an instant she felt tempted. Then her natural waywardness returned. "And if I claim the whole?" "War! And that to a woman without gold--" The great moment was upon them! This thought came first to both spectators; and they were too uncultured to conceal it. "Tell us where!" cried Suttu, as she stood. "Yea, tell us ere you die!" echoed the accountant as he lay. Not a very warm welcome back to life, but the old man, though he "Gone!" he whispered, "gone--yea, gone forever!" But the look of life in his face had carried Suttu back to her "It is the last chance!" he whispered, after a time. "I care not." Suddenly the bald head fell back on Suttu's breast. The chance was over. They sat all through the night waiting for a sign, and none came. And Shahbash, disconsolate over the cold curry he had actually forgotten to eat in the hope of hearing his old master speak once Incredulous of her own sight, she roused Shahbash, who still lay snoring on the raised platform of the tomb. formally bought the crop from one Hussan the accountant. "_Wah! wah!_" assented the clingers, "but see us safe first, O He was a small, fair English lad, put in charge--with many instructions to telegraph to headquarters if he saw signs of the translation of her _patois_ petition. Suttu's apparent triumph, however, dwindled in Shahbash's eyes to ludicrous spectacle of woe; yet there was tragedy in the comedy. handkerchief--both of which he hid carefully. All that day he did Shahbash gave a rumble of despair, and bolstered up his uneasy He disappeared into the soft, balmy darkness, grumbling and thought of those cries when the Kazi and his friends came was neighbours--names, that is to say, which by the values of the "_Wah!_ if she were really, after all, a pious one, and not a bad to-night. That is woman's way." nothing more serious than a failure to fulfil the duties of her Thud! thud! Suttu's respect for her henchman increased at every charm--for mercy--for help--for anything. "Thou!" she cried, "thou! What dost here?" She knew well enough, and she thrust him back savagely. He sank down helpless, foaming at the mouth from abject fear. Suttu paused. There was something in that view of the case. If The pot was full of farthings--nothing but farthings. She sat and Undoubtedly; for all that, it was only a farthing. His face fell. What was that echoing among the palms? Surely, surely, it was her gambolling towards her, uttering little cries of joy. "The treasure! Thou hast found it?" cried the _fakeerni_, paling "The saint's treasure--lakhs on lakhs! Listen, O incredulous! O "May I eat dirt if it be not true! Then, towards morning, being Suttu could not resist a smile. "But the treasure, fool--the treasure?" "Only a farthing!" echoed Shahbash, ironically. "Hark to the "Dost mean they put farthings in place of gold?" His mirth left Suttu smileless. "Art going to bury a saint, O Shahbash?" she asked, with a broad smile. wayfarer on the adjoining path had flung aside. peach-stone dropped here, snatched up there, now in this one's Suttu stood up, clapping her hands. "_Shahbash! Shahbash!_" she cried. The dwarf stuck his head out of the grave. "Well, _mai_ Suttu, what is it now?" It was ten years after these events that the English boy, who had consideration of a monthly pension of ten rupees. "And you had no difficulty in persuading your father-in-law?" "None, _Huzoor!_ God gave the bait, the fool swallowed it. The perquisites have gone up again, so he hath lost nothing." A big, broad smile came to her face. "May the Lord have the _Huzoor_ in his keeping ever!" she said, That was my last sight of Suttu. It was a large, square block of a building, which had once been education was really at last beginning to leaven the mass of deplorable female ignorance in India. chaperons until four o'clock chimed from a hundred gongs in the city. Then they earned a monthly pay from the Government by carrying the climbers of the ladder back to their homes in decent claimants to genteel seclusion who were comfortably carried by a "Fatma! Fatma! The baby is awake." Her hard tones echoed up the arcades, but the sing-song went on "Where is Peru?" she began shrilly, still coming down the stairs. "_Ai, teri nani!_ 'Tis thy baby, I suppose--not mine." "_Tobah!_ but she hath a tongue," murmured another lounger. "_One and one make two--oo--oo, One and one make two--oo--oo_," chanted the infant classes in full choir over their first table. Fatma, out of breath, said nothing, but leaned against a pillared "_Fifteenth page, second paragraph. Among the lower animals the "_Find the value of B in the following equation: A square plus X "I wonder you don't give it a bottle, Hoshiaribi?" continued the teacher, sternly, as a delicate-looking young woman, rather Teacher looked at the little sharp face and was silent. That household, consisting of disreputable, good-for-nothing Peru, who Hoshiaribi came back to her equation minus the baby. The afternoon sun was slanting in bars through the closed grass Incontrovertible facts, every one of them. "Have you read your grammar through?" Fatma shook her head. Another incontrovertible fact. Teacher had visions of the big, consider the matter. "But there are already three babies in the primary!" shrilled the beneath its birth? Let Hoshiaribi, out of her plenty, appoint a The prospect was not pleasing. It would be a very different thing "Then you must teach." "I don't want to teach. I want to stay here and learn." injustice. inspection-day next month. which, they scarcely knew, for they were mites of babies, not six "_Ari_, mothers! _Ari_, sisters!" she scolded in her thin child's So, squatting down, standing aside, reaching over, the women, institution which is, as a rule, only inviolable when exotic benevolence seeks to interfere with it. "Yea, 'tis true, Hoshiaribi. A star of emerald with a red centre, responsibility for her maintenance would cease, as he could plead conclusively that Hoshiaribi had no hold on his affections. Suddenly Fatma looked at him, sniffed, and looked at him again. "Thou hast been to a wedding--whose?" she asked, suspiciously. In "Little imp of sin!" cried Peru, seizing her half roughly, half "Go, my brother--go back to thy Chundoo," she said, eying him disdainfully--from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, woman--watching and waiting stolidly, without fear or blame. cuddled up on the bed beside the babies contentedly. "_One and one make two--oo--oo, Two and two make four--or--or_." decorously--for the organization of Mussamat Fatma's school was "_Ai tobak, Mian_ Lal Khan! Dost forget mine is 'primary girls' She did not care to confess that she herself knew none of the versicles which even the poorest girl ought to know. phrases which were so constantly on his lips. What was, was; what "The sickness was at Haiyatun's yesterday," Rajjun would say to "Yea, and they carried Mai Jeswant's man to the hospital, and the Fatma, having attended the Central school during an epidemic, had "_Ari, Muallama!_" would come a little pipe. "Juntu hath a bit of Then would ensue a sort of hunt the slipper, beset for each with "I--I--want no husband," she faltered, utterly taken aback. Chundoo laughed--a nasty laugh. "By Peru?" asked the girl, quickly. "By Peru; who else? Look you, the scoundrel is in jail. Nay, why A rapping on the floor above reminded her that she had forgotten Hassan Ahmad had toddled over to the cripple's helpless knee, and "Cry not, my sister, cry not. Marriage is honourable in all." So by degrees Fatma's sobs ceased before the inevitable. "One and one, and two and two, are what He chooses to make them. Remember that, my sister." "And peace be thine, Lalu," echoed back from the stairs. The next morning the whole alley was being censed. A group of The incessant throbbing of a tom-tom, the occasional blare of a female visitors with simulated tears, in order to impress them with her admirable culture; thereinafter relapsing, with them, to Naraini, however, neither shrieked nor giggled at the sight of a stranger. She simply drew her veil closer, and went on gathering citron-blossoms. He paused, uncertain of everything save her entrancing grace. Was she only a servant, or did he run risks in laughter. "He is dead! he is dead! And I am the bride." crouched silent, like a young animal terrified into acquiescence. She was a widow. The citron-blossom had fallen. This is an idle tale of a five minutes' tragedy--perhaps none the Long ago--so runs the story--in the days of King 'Mid the pearly--tinted splendours of the Paradise Young Jehangir, boyish--hearted, playing idly with his dove, Lost his fav'rite, lost his boyhood, lost his heart, and found his love. By a fretted marble fountain, set in broidery of flowers, Sat a girl, half child, half maiden, dreaming o'er the future hours, Wond'ring simply, yet half guessing, what the harem women mean When they call her fair, and whisper, "You are born to be a queen." Curving her small palms like petals, for a store of glistening spray, Gazing in the sunny water, where her rippling shadow lay, Lips that ripen fast for kisses, slender form of budding grace, Hair that frames with ebon softness a clear, oval, ivory face. Arched and fringed with velvet blackness, from their shady depths her eyes Shine as summer lightning flashes in the dusky evening skies. Mihr un-nissa (queen of women), so they call the little maid Dreaming by the marble fountain where but yesterday she played. Heavy-sweet the creamy blossoms gem the burnished orange-groves; Through their bloom comes Prince Jehangir, on his wrist two fluttering doves. "Hold my birds, child!" cries the stripling, "I am tired of their play"-- Thrusts them in her hand unwilling; careless saunters on his way. Culling posies as he wanders from the flowers sweet and rare, Heedless that the fairest blossom, 'mid the blaze of blossom there, Is the little dreaming maiden, by the fountain-side at rest, With the onyx-eyed, bright-plumaged birds of love upon her breast. Flowers fade, and perfume passes; nothing pleases long to-day; Back towards his feathered favourites soon the prince's footsteps stray. Dreaming still sits Mihr-un-nissa, but within her listless hold Only one fair struggling captive does the boy, surprised, behold. "Only one?" he queried sharply. "Sire," she falters, "one has flown." "Stupid! how?" The maiden flushes at the proud, imperious tone. "So, my lord!" she says, defiant, with a scornful smile, and straight From her unclasped hands the other, circling, flies to join his mate. Startled by her quick reprisal, wrath is lost in blank surprise; Silent stands the heir of Akbar, gazing with awakening On the small, rebellious figure, with its slender arms outspread, Rising resolute before him 'gainst the sky of sunset Heavy-sweet the creamy blossom gems the gloomy orange-tree, Where the happy doves are cooing o'er their new-found liberty. Slowly dies the flush of anger, as the flush of evening dies; Slowly grow his eyes to brightness, as the stars in evening skies. "So, my lord!" So Love had flitted from the listless hold of Fate, And the heart of young Jehangir, like the dove, had found its mate. Then you'll give me a character, won't you? and say I'm a first-class _zaildar_. Not a man of them's done half so much as old Shurfu to please the _Sirkar_. Why, I've brought you full forty "suspected ones"; that isn't bad as a haul. Look you! forty "suspected ones" _present_, and gone bail myself for them all. And a word, _sahib_--for your ear alone--if you'd like me to bring a few more, Just to make a round fifty on paper, and show that the work's to the fore-- _Bismillah!_ they never shall say, while old Shurfu is one of the crew, That his district _sahib's_ schedules were shaky for want of a _budmash_ or two. And what do I think of the system? Why, just what the Presence may choose; But a good cattle-thief nowadays must look after his p's and his q's. There are many more folk to be squared, and the hire of the bail to be paid; But it makes the lads three times as careful, and raises the style of a raid. Still the game, as a game, is no more; for your reign has been death to all sport. E'en a cattle-thief thinks like a banker, and scarcely gives honour a thought. 'Tis mere money grub--pennies and farthings. What _I_ in my youth you have heard Was a noted--O fie on the Presence! It shouldn't believe such a word. There are twenty-three schools in my circle; I pay all the Government fees! I've made a canal and a garden! I've planted some thousands of trees! I've headed the lists and subscriptions! I've tried queer new crops on my land! Not a village of mine owns a dung-heap! My mares are all Government brand! Not a hobby his district _sahib's_ ridden, but Shurfu has ridden it too; Though the number of _sahibs_ has been awful, and every one's hobby was new. Well, I don't mind a glass, since there's nobody nigh; you won't tell, I'll engage. True! the Prophet forbids; but he didn't know brandy, and wasn't my age. When a man turns of eighty, there ain't many sins he has strength to commit, So his day-book can stand a few trifles. Aye, wine wakes the mem'ry a bit. As for Fuzla, we've all heard of Fuzla--the _best_ cattle-thief in Punjab-- Pooh! you don't mean to say he ne'er met with a match on this side of Chenab? I could tell you a story--well, half a glass more--but I'd best hold my tongue. So Mian Fuzla had never his match! come, that's good! Why, when we were both young-- What the deuce am I saying? _Jehannam_ be mine, but I cannot keep still! I'll tell how I swam the Chenab in full flood! Yes, by Allah! I will. Mian Fuzla had squared th' police on his side of the stream, as one can With good luck; but my cowards were cautious, and hadn't the pluck of a man; So Mian Fuzla got up in the bottle and sent me a message to say He had fifty-three head of my cattle, and when would I take them away? Now the waters were out, so the boast was scarce fair; but I took up the glove, And with Mokhun and Dittu to help, that same night crossed the river above While they thought all secure; but it wasn't! So dawn found us stealing along With a herd of a hundred she buffaloes, all of them lusty and strong. Well, we made for the river, through tamarisk jungle and tussocks of grass, And narrow-pathed tangle of _jhau_ that would scarce let a buffalo pass, With our thoughts on the footsteps behind, till the first level streak of the light Brought us down to the stream; and, by God! it had risen ten feet in the night! 'Twas a broad, yellow plain, shining far in the rays of the sun as it rose, And a cold wind swept over the flood that came hurrying down from the snows With a swift, silent current in eddying swirls--not a sound, not a dash Save a sudden, dull thud, as the bank, undermined, tumbled in with a splash. Then we looked at each other in silence; the looks of the others said "No." But I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's, and made up my mind I would go, Though I knew that the odds were against me; so, bidding the cowards turn back, With a few of the beasts on their traces and try hard to deaden the track-- For 'twas time, it was time that I wanted--I drove the rest down to the brink, But the brutes wouldn't take to the water; they loved life too well not to shrink. So I took a young calf from its mother--'twas cruel, but what did I reck? And butchered the brute with my hanger, and fastened my _pug_ round its neck, Then I dragged it right into the water, and buoyed it up well round the throat With a bundle of grasses and reeds that would keep the dead body afloat. I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's; then turned and struck out like a man, While the mother leaped after her young one, and all the rest followed the van. The flood swept me down like a leaf, and the calf swept me farther down still, But I knew 'twas a life or death struggle, and breasted the stream with a will; While the hope I could lead the beasts on, till 'twas safer before than behind, And the fear lest Mian Fuzla should win, were the only two thoughts in my mind. It was half a yard forward to half a mile downward, yet still I made way, While behind, in a long single file, the black heads of the buffaloes lay, Till I knew we had reached the big stream, and that now there was no going back; Then I gave one faint shout, and I cast off the dead calf, and let myself slack. So we drifted, and drifted, and drifted. I strove to recover my breath, But a numbness came over my heart, and I knew I was drifting to death, As the big, heavy beasts were swept past by the terrible force of the stream, And the whole world seemed slipping away, as I swam on alone in a dream. Then I wondered how Fuzla would take it, and how many miles I had come; Or guessed what the people would say when days passed and I never came home-- Till it came to me, as in a dream, that the current was setting in shore; And after that, _sahib_, it is strange I could never recall any more. Only this I can tell you: we measured it after, from starting to end, And the distance was over ten miles by the straight, without counting the bend. So Mian Fuzla was beat; and sent me a _pugri_ with knots which his women had tied, And the song of the "Crossing of Shurfu" is known through the whole countryside. _Wah! illah!_ How my tongue has been wagging, and I the _zaildar!_ But in sooth 'Tis dull work for old Shurfu compared to the merry, mad days of his youth. _Ji salaam!_ And whatever you want, send for Shurfu You'll remember that Fuzla once met with his match on this side of Chenab! Bitter blue sky with no fleck of cloud! _Ho! brother ox, make the plough speed_; For the dear hearth-mother with care is bowed As the hungry little ones round her crowd. 'Tis the _buniya's_ belly grows fat and proud When poor folk are in need. Sky, dappled grey like a partridge's breast-- _Ho! brother ox, drive the plough deep_; For the wind may blow from the north or west, And the hungry fledglings fall from the nest, Or the dear hearth-mother fold hands in rest, Ere harvest's ripe to reap. Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind-- _Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight_; For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind, While the hungry little ones garlands bind Round the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined, On whom we poor folk wait. Merry drops slanting from south and east-- _Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain_; For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast. There's none shall be hungry--nor bairn nor beast; 'Tis the _buniya's_ belly that gets the least When Ram sends poor folk rain. Sun-flash on the grain As it leaps from the sower's hand, Quick with desire to gain New life from the land. Seams, furrows, and scars On the face of our Mother Earth, For the gods set sorrow and tears At the gates of birth. Swift flight of the seed, Like a bird through the sun-bright air, To rot in the ground, or breed In the Dread One's care. Broken heart of soil, Taking all to its patient breast, With never a cease from toil Or a dream of rest. Wheat-grains grow to wheat, And the seed of a tare to tare. Who knows if Man's soul will meet Man's body to wear? Great Ram! grant me life From the grain of a golden deed; Sink not my soul in the strife To wake as a weed. Seek thy grave, O grain! Some day I will seek mine too, To rise from the level plain, The old in the new. Scorching sun that shrivels and sears, Withering wind in the rustling ears, Rattle of death as the dry stalks fall, Promise of life in the seed for all. Flash of the sickles, sweat of the brows, Rest in the noon, beneath sheltering boughs. _Gather and reap, Death is but sleep_. Golden grain ripens though lovers are dead; Lips long for kisses, but mouths must have bread. Blazing brass of the sky at noon, Broad, bright face of the harvest moon; Slow stars wheeling to meet the morn, Toilers asleep on the sheaves of corn; Stealthy snake with the lifted crest, Poisoned prick in a tired breast. _Gather and bind, Fate is but blind_. Golden grain ripens though dear ones may weep; Love longs for gladness, but toil must have sleep. Kine knee-deep in the glistening straw; Flocks of birds round the threshing-floor; Clouds of chaff from the winnowing-tray, Gleaming gold as they drift away; Wreath of smoke from the funeral pyre, End of love and its vain desire! _Gather and sheave, Why should we grieve?_ Death finds new life in the Great Mother's breast, Rest turns to labour, and labour to rest. In the field how many blossoms showing, In the field how many maidens rare? Golden, set with red, the blossoms glowing; Red veils sewn with gold the maidens wear. Oh, the merry hours Midst the maids and flowers! Tell us, which of these twain is most fair? O golden bud! Spotless without thou art, Sin--stained within, like blood-- So woman's heart. Not so! No, no! We will not have it so! O pale, pure bloom, Cold to the world thou art; Yet warm love finds a room In woman's heart. In the field the merry leaves are dancing; In the field small hands which never rest; Leaves with five points crimson-tinged and glancing, Fingers henna-tipped and daintiest. Fate a bright spell weaves With the hands and leaves. Tell us, which of these twain is the best? Wind-driven leaves, Busy at its command, Idle when none perceives-- So woman's hand. Not so! No, no! We will not have it so! Pitiful leaves, Doing, by kindness planned, Work that no man perceives-- So woman's hand. In the field, down on the breeze is blowing; In the fields, the maidens' thoughts rise light; Down to bear the seed for wider sowing, Thoughts which fly to dear ones out of sight; Merrily they've flown, Thoughts and cotton down. Tell us, which of these twain does the right? Unstable down, By every idle wind Hither and thither blown-- So woman's mind. Not so! No, no! We will not have it so! Soft, white--winged down, Eager new work to find, Hoarding naught for its own-- So woman's mind. In the field the husk-shells swing and rustle; In the field the merry tongues wag fast; Clatter! chatter! Oh, the laughing bustle! Smiles and jests at all as they come past. Yonder's a man-- Answer if he can. "Blows and kisses, tears and smiling; Women's faith and man's beguiling; Money spending, money piling: Tell us, what in life will longest last?" Ram, give me strength, Else it will be unsung, For none can tell the length Of woman's tongue. Fie, fie! Not so! We will not have it so! Have patience, lassies--wait a little space; The bridal lamps will flame, the songs be sung; Then you can laugh, and teach your own good man To know the length of his good woman's tongue! _Printed from American Plates_

Harris W. Moore

Manual Training Toys for the Boy's Workshop

Ascend, oh my Soul, with the wings of the lark ascend! Soaring away and away far into the blue. Or with the shrill seagull to the breakers bend, Or with the bee, where the grasses and field-flowers blend, Drink out of golden cups of the honey-dew. Ascend, oh my Soul, on the wings of the wind as it blows, Striking wild organ-blasts from the forest trees, Or on the zephyr bear love of the rose to the rose, Or with the hurricane sower cast seed as he goes Limitless ploughing the leagues of the sibilant seas. Ascend, oh my Soul, on the wings of the choral strain, Invisible tier above tier upbuilding sublime; Note as it scales after note in a rhythmical chain Reaching from chaos and welter of struggle and pain, Far into vistas empyreal receding from time. Ascend! take wing on the thoughts of the Dead, my Soul, Breathing in colour and stone, flashing through epic and song: Thoughts that like avalanche snows gather force as they roll, Mighty to fashion and knead the phenomenal throng Of generations of men as they thunder along. As compressed within the bounded shell Boundless Ocean seems to surge and swell, Haunting echoes of an infinite whole Moan and murmur through Man's finite soul. Heights of confederate mountains compelling the fugitive vapours gigantic, And jungle of tropical forest fantastical branches entwining, And limitless deserts of sand and wildernesses primeval. Lo, moving o'er chaotic waters, Love dawned upon the seething waste, Transformed in ever new avatars It moved without or pause or haste: Like sap that moulds the leaves of May It wrought within the ductile clay. And vaguely in the pregnant deep, Clasped by the glowing arms of light From an eternity of sleep Within unfathomed gulfs of night A pulse stirred in the plastic slime Responsive to the rhythm of Time. Enkindled in the mystic dark Life built herself a myriad forms, And, flashing its electric spark Through films and cells and pulps and worms, Flew shuttlewise above, beneath, Weaving the web of life and death. And multiplying in the ocean, Amorphous, rude, colossal things Lolled on the ooze in lazy motion, Armed with grim jaws or uncouth wings; Helpless to lift their cumbering bulk They lurch like some dismasted hulk. And virgin forest, verdant plain, The briny sea, the balmy air, Each blade of grass and globe of rain, And glimmering cave and gloomy lair Began to swarm with beasts and birds, With floating fish and fleet-foot herds. The lust of life's delirious fires Burned like a fever in their blood, Now pricked them on with fierce desires, Now drove them famishing for food, To seize coy females in the fray, Or hotly hunted hunt for prey. And amorously urged them on In wood or wild to court their mate, Proudly displaying in the sun With antics strange and looks elate, The vigour of their mighty thews Or charm of million-coloured hues. There crouching 'mid the scarlet bloom, Voluptuously the leopard lies, And through the tropic forest gloom The flaming of his feline eyes Stirs with intoxicating stress The pulses of the leopardess. Or two swart bulls of self-same age Meet furiously with thunderous roar, And lash together, blind with rage, And clanging horns that fain would gore Their rival, and so win the prize Of those impassive female eyes. Or in the nuptial days of spring, When April kindles bush and brier, Like rainbows that have taken wing, Or palpitating gems of fire, Bright butterflies in one brief day Live but to love and pass away. And herds of horses scour the plains, The thickets scream with bird and beast The love of life burns in their veins, And from the mightiest to the least Each preys upon the other's life In inextinguishable strife. War rages on the teeming earth; The hot and sanguinary fight Begins with each new creature's birth: A dreadful war where might is right; Where still the strongest slay and win, Where weakness is the only sin. There is no truce to this drawn battle, Which ends but to begin again; The drip of blood, the hoarse death-rattle, The roar of rage, the shriek of pain, Are rife in fairest grove and dell, Turning earth's flowery haunts to hell. A hell of hunger, hatred, lust, Which goads all creatures here below, Or blindworm wriggling in the dust, Or penguin in the Polar snow: A hell where there is none to save, Where life is life's insatiate grave. And in the long portentous strife, Where types are tried even as by fire, Where life is whetted upon life And step by panting step mounts higher, Apes lifting hairy arms now stand And free the wonder-working hand. They raise a light, aerial house On shafts of widely branching trees, Where, harboured warily, each spouse May feed her little ape in peace, Green cradled in his heaven-roofed bed, Leaves rustling lullabies o'erhead. And lo, 'mid reeking swarms of earth Grim struggling in the primal wood, A new strange creature hath its birth: Wild--stammering--nameless--shameless--nude; Spurred on by want, held in by fear, He hides his head in caverns drear. Most unprotected of earth's kin, His fight for life that seems so vain Sharpens his senses, till within The twilight mazes of his brain, Like embryos within the womb, Thought pushes feelers through the gloom. And slowly in the fateful race It grows unconscious, till at length The helpless savage dares to face The cave-bear in his grisly strength; For stronger than its bulky thews He feels a force that grows with use. By dim gradations long and slow, He reaches on from stage to stage, Through fear and famine, weal and woe And, compassed round with danger, still Prolongs his life by craft and skill. With cunning hand he shapes the flint, He carves the horn with strange device, He splits the rebel block by dint Of effort--till one day there flies A spark of fire from out the stone: Fire which shall make the world his own. And from the clash of warring Nature's strife Man day by day wins his imperilled life; For, goaded on by want, he hunts the roe, Chases the deer, and lays the wild boar low. In his rude boat made of the hollow trees He drifts adventurous on the unoared seas, And, as he tilts upon the rocking tide, Catches the glistening fish that flash and glide Innumerably through the waters wide. He'll fire the bush whose flames shall help him fel The trunks to prop his roof, where he may dwell Beside the bubbling of a crystal well, Sheltered from drenching rains or noxious glare When the sun holds the zenith. Delving there, His cumbered wife, whose multifarious toil Seems never done, breaks the rich virgin soil, And in the ashes casts the casual seeds Of feathered grass and efflorescent weeds; When, as with thanks, the bounteous earth one morn Returns lush blades of life-sustaining corn. And while the woman digs and plants, and twines To precious use long reeds and pliant bines, He--having hit the brown bird on the wing, And slain the roe--returns at evening, And gives his spoil unto her, to prepare The succulent, wildwood scented, simmering fare, While with impatient sniffs and eager-eyed His bronze-limbed children gather to his side. And, when the feast is done, all take their ease, Lulled by the sing-song of the evening breeze And murmuring undertones of many-foliaged trees; While here and there through rifts of green the sky Casts its blue glance like an all-seeing eye. But though by stress of want and poignant need Man tames the wolf-sprung hound and rearing steed, Pens up the ram, and yokes the deep-horned ox, And through wide pastures shepherds woolly flocks; Though age by age, through discipline of toil, Man wring a richer harvest from the soil, And in the grim and still renewing fight Slays loathly worms and beasts of gruesome might By the close-knitted bondage of the clan, Which adding up the puny strength of man Makes thousands move with one electric thrill Of simultaneous, energetic will; Yet still behind the narrow borderland Where in security he seems to stand, His apprehensive life is compassed round By baffling mysteries he cannot sound, Where, big with terrors and calamities, The future like a foe in ambush lies: A muffled foe, that seems to watch and wait With the Medusa eyes of stony fate.-- Great floods o'erwhelm and ruin his ripening grain, His boat is shattered by the hurricane, From the rent cloud the tameless lightning springs-- Heaven's flame-mouthed dragon with a roar of wings-- And fires his hut and simple household things; Until before his horror-stricken eyes The stored-up produce of long labour lies, A heap of ashes smoking 'neath the skies.-- Or now the pastures where his flocks did graze, Parched, withered, shrivelled by the imminent blaze Of the great ball of fire that glares above, Glow dry like iron heated in a stove; Turning upon themselves, the tortured sheep, With blackening tongues, drop heap on gasping heap, Their rotting flesh sickens the wind that moans And whistles poisoned through their chattering bones; While the thin shepherd, staring sick and gaunt, Will search the thorns for berries, or yet haunt The stony channels of some river-bed Where filtering fresh perchance a liquid thread Of water may run clear.--Now dark o'erhead, Thickening with storm, the wintry clouds will loom, And wrap the land in weeds of mournful gloom; Shrouding the sun and every lesser light Till earth with all her aging woods grows white, And hurrying streams stop fettered in their flight. Then famished beasts freeze by the frozen lakes, And thick as leaves dead birds bestrew the brakes; And, cowering blankly by the flickering flame, Man feels a presence without form or name, When by the bodies of his speechless dead In barbarous woe he bows his stricken head. Then in the hunger of his piteous love He sends his thought, winged like a carrier dove-- Through the unanswering silence void and vast, Whence from dim hollows blows an icy blast-- To bring some sign, some little sign at last, From his lost chiefs--the beautiful, the brave-- Vanished like bubbles on a breaking wave, Lost in the unfathomed darkness of the grave. When, lo, behold beside him in the night,-- Softly beside him, like the noiseless light Of moonbeams moving o'er the glimmering floor That come unbidden through the bolted door,-- The lonely sleeper sees the lost one stand Like one returned from some dim, distant land, Bending towards him with his outstretched hand. But when he fain would grasp it in his own, He melts into thin moonshine and is gone-- A spirit now, who on the other shore Of death hunts happily for evermore.-- A Son of Life, but dogged, while he draws breath, By her inseparable shadow--death, Man, feeble Man, whom unknown Fates appal, With prayer and praise seeks to propitiate all The spirits, who, for good or evil plight, Bless him in victory or in sickness smite. Those are his Dead who, wrapped in grisly shrouds, Now ride phantasmal on the rushing clouds, Souls of departed chiefs whose livid forms He sees careering on the reinless storms, Wild, spectral huntsmen who tumultuously, With loud halloo and shrilly echoing cry, Follow the furious chase, with the whole pack Of shadowy hounds fierce yelping in the track Of wolves and bears as shadowy as the hosts Who lead once more as unsubstantial ghosts Their lives of old as restlessly they fly Across the wildernesses of the sky. When the wild hunt is done, shall they not rest Their heads upon some swan-white maiden's breast, And quaff their honeyed mead with godlike zest In golden-gated Halls whence they may see The earth and marvellous secrets of the Sea Whereon the clouds will lie with grey wings furled, And in whose depths, voluminously curled, The serpent looms whose girth engirds the world? Far, far above now in supernal power Those spirits rule the sunshine and the shower! How shall he win their favour; yea, how move To pity the unpitying gods above, The Daemon rulers of life's fitful dream, Who sway men's destinies, and still would seem To treat them lightly as a game of chance, The sport of whim and blindfold circumstance-- The irresponsible, capricious gods, So quick to please or anger; whose sharp rods Are storms and lightnings launched from cloven skies; Who feast upon the shuddering victim's cries, The smell of blood, and human sacrifice. But ever as Man grows they grow with him; Terrific, cruel, gentle, bright, or dim, With eyes of dove-like mercy, hands of wrath, Procession-like, they hover o'er his path And, changing with the gazer, borrow light From their rapt devotee's adoring sight. Love spending gods and gods of blood and wail-- Look down upon their suppliant from the skies With his own magnified, responsive eyes. For Man, from want and pressing hunger freed, Begins to feel another kind of need, And in his shaping brain and through his eyes Nature, awakening, sees her blue-arched skies; The Sun, his life-begetter, isled in space; The Moon, the Measurer of his span of days; The immemorial stars who pierce his night With inklings of things vast and infinite. All shows of heaven and earth that move and pass Take form within his brain as in a glass. The tidal thunder of the sea now roars And breaks symphonious on a hundred shores; The fitful flutings of the vagrant breeze Strike gusts of sound from virgin forest trees; White leaping waters of wild cataracts fall From crag and jag in lapses musical, And streams meandering amid daisied leas Throb with the pulses of tumultuous seas. From hills and valleys smoking mists arise, Steeped in pale gold and amethystine dyes. The land takes colour from him, and the flowers Laugh in his path like sun-dyed April showers. The moving clouds in calm or thunderstorm, All shows of things in colour, sound, or form Moulded mysteriously, are freshly wrought Within the fiery furnace of his thought. No longer Nature's thrall, Man builds the city wall That shall withstand her league of levelling storms; He builds tremendous tombs Where, hid in hoarded glooms, His dead defy corruption with her worms: High towers he rears and bulks of glowing stone, Where the king rules upon a golden throne. Creature of hopes and fears, Of mirth and many tears, He makes himself a thousand costly altars, Whence smoke of sacrifice, Fragrant with myrrh and spice, Ascends to heaven as the flame leaps and falters; Where, like a king above the Cloud control, God sits enthroned and rules Man's subject soul. Yet grievous here below And manifold Man's woe; Though he can stay the flood and bind the waters, His hand he shall not stay That bids him sack and slay And turn the waving fields to fields of slaughters; And, as he reaps War's harvest grim and gory, Commits a thousand crimes and calls it glory. Vast empires fall and rise, As when in sunset skies The monumental clouds lift flashing towers With turrets, spires, and bars Lit by confederate stars Till the bright rack dissolves in flying showers: Kingdoms on kingdoms have their fleeting day, Dazzle the conquered world, and pass away. In golden Morning lands The blazing crowns change hands, From mystic Ind to fleshly Babylon, Armed with her book divine, Dread Persia whose fleet chariots charged and won Pale Continents where prostrate monarchs kneel Before the flash of her resistless steel. As one by one they start With proudly beating heart Fast in the furious, fierce-contested race, Where neck to neck they strain Deliriously to gain The winning post of power, the meed of praise; Some drop behind, fall, or are trampled down While the proud victor grasps the laurel crown. Not only great campaigns Shall glorify their reigns, But high-towered cities wondrous to behold, With gardens poised in air Like bowers of Eden fair, With brazen gates and shrines of beaten gold, And Palace courts whose constellated lights Shine on black slaves and cringing satellites. Eclipsing with her fate Each power and rival state With her unnumbered stretch of generations, A sand-surrounded isle Fed by the bounteous Nile, Taught by the floods that make or mar her shore, She scans the stars and hoards mysterious lore. Hers are imperial halls With strangely scriptured walls And long perspectives of memorial places, Where the hushed daylight glows On mute colossal rows Of clawed wild beasts featured with female faces, And realmless kings inane whose stony eyes Have watched the hour-glass of the centuries. There in the rainless sands The toil of captive hands, That aye must do as their taskmaster bids, Through years of dusty days Brick by slow brick shall raise The incarnate pride of kings--the Pyramids-- Linked with some name synonymous with slaughter Time has effaced like a name writ in water. For ever with fateful shocks, Roar as of hurtling rocks, Start fresh embattled hosts with flags unfurled, To meet on battle-fields With clash of spears and shields, Widowing the world of men to win the world: The hissing air grows dark with iron rain, And groans the earth beneath her sheaves of slain. Triumphant o'er them all, See crowns and sceptres fall Before the arms of iron-soldered legions; Across the salt sea foam Orders her Caesars to remotest regions: From silver Spain and Albion's clouded seas To the fair shrines and marble mines of Greece. Pallas unmatched in war, To her triumphal car Rome chains fallen despots and discrowned queens With many a rampant beast, Birds from the gorgeous East, And wool-haired Nubians torn from tropic scenes; There huge barbarians from Druidic woods Tower ominous o'er the humming multitudes; For still untamed and free In loathed captivity, Their spirits bend not to the conqueror's yoke, Though for a Roman sight They must in mimic fight Give wounds in play and deal Death's mortal stroke, While round the arena rings the fierce applause Voluptuous, as their bubbling life-blood flows In streams of purple rain From hecatombs of slain Saluting Caesar still with failing breath, But in their dying souls Undying hate, which rolls From land to land the avalanche of Death, That, gathering volume as it sweeps along, Pours down the Alps throng on unnumbered throng. From northern hills and plains Storm-lashed by driving rains, From moorland wastes and depths of desolate wood, From many an icebound shore, The human torrents pour, Horde following upon horde as flood on flood, Avengers of the slain they come, they come, And break in thunder on the walls of Rome. A trembling people waits As, surging through its gates, Break the fierce Goths with trumpet-blasts of doom; And many a glorious shrine Begins to flare and shine, And many a palace flames up through the gloom, Kindled like torches by relentless wrath To light the Spoiler on destruction's path. Yea, with Rome's ravished walls, The old world tottering falls And crumbles into ruin wide and vast; The Empire seems to rock As with an earthquake's shock, And vassal provinces look on aghast; As realms are split and nation rent from nation, The globe seems drifting to annihilation. "Peace on earth and good will unto Men!" Came the tidings borne o'er wide dominions; The glad tidings thrilled the world as when Spring comes fluttering on the west wind's pinions, When her voice is heard Warbling through each bird, And a new-born hope Throbs through all things infinite in scope. "Peace on earth and good will!" came the word But the peace turned to a flaming sword, Turned to woe and wailing on the morrow When with gibes and scorns, Crowned with barren thorns, Gashed and crucified, On the Cross the tortured Jesus died. And the world, once full of flower-hung shrines, Now forsakes old altars for the new, Zeus grows faint and Venus' star declines He whom--lit with awe-- God-led Moses saw, Graving with firm hand In his people's heart his Lord's command. Holding Hells and Heavens in either hand Comes the priest and comes the wild-eyed prophet, Tells the people of some happier land, Terrifies them with a burning Tophet; Gives them creeds for bread And warm roof o'erhead, Gives for life's delight Passports to the kingdom, spirit-bright. And the people groaning everywhere Hearken gladly to the wondrous story, How beyond this life of toil and care They shall lead a life of endless glory: Where beyond the dim Earth-mists Seraphim, Love-illumined, wait-- Hierarchies of angels at heaven's gate. Let them suffer while they live below, Bear in silence weariness and pain; For the heavier is their earthly woe, Verily the heavenlier is their gain In the mansions where Sorrow and despair, Yea, all moan shall cease With the moan of immemorial seas. And to save their threatened souls from sin, Save them from the world, the flesh, the devil, Men and Women break from bonds of kin And in cloistered cell draw bar on evil, Worship on their knees And all Saints above, The Madonna, mystic Rose of love. Moon of Hearts immaculately mild, Beaming o'er the turbulent times and rude With the promise of her blessed Child: Whom pale Monks adore, Pining evermore For the heaven of love Which their homesick lives are dying of. But the flame of mystical desires Turns to fury fiercer than a leopard's, As the priests, the people's careful shepherds, In Heaven's awful name, Set the pile on flame Where, for Conscience' sake, Heretics burn chaunting at the stake. Subterranean secrets of the prison, Throbs of anguish in the crushing cell, Torture-chambers of the Inquisition Are the Church's antidotes to Hell. Better rack them here, Mutilate and sear, Than their souls should go To the place of everlasting woe. And a lurid universal night, Lit by quenchless fires for unquenched sages, Thick with spectral broods that shun the light, Looms impervious o'er the stifled ages Where the blameless wise Fall a sacrifice, Fall as fell of old The unspotted firstlings of the fold. And the violent feud of clashing creeds Shatters empires and breaks realms asunder; Cities tremble, sceptres shake like reeds At the swift bolts of the Papal thunder; Yea, the bravest quail, Cast from out the pale By the dread anathemas of Rome. And like one misled by marish gleams When he hears the shrill cock's note of warning, Europe, starting from its trance of dreams, Sees the first streak of the clear-eyed morning As it broadening stands Over ravaged lands Where mad nations are Locked in grip of fratricidal war. Castles burn upon the vine-clad knolls, Huts glow smouldering in the trampled meadows; And a hecatomb of martyred souls Fills a queenly town with wail of widows In those branded hours When red-guttering showers Splash by courts and stews To the Bells of Saint Bartholomew's. Seed that's sown upon the wanton wind Shall be harvested in whirlwind rages, For revenge and hate bring forth their kind, And black crime must ever be the wages Of a nation's crime Time transmits to time, Till the score of years Is wiped out in floods of staunchless tears. Yea, the anguish in a people's life May have eaten out its heart of pity, Bred in scenes of scarlet sin and strife, Heartless splendours of a haughty city; Dark with lowering fate, At the massive gate Of its kings it may Stand and knock with tragic hand one day. For the living tomb gives up its dead, Bastilles yawn, and chains are rent asunder, Little children now and hoary head, Man and maiden, meet in joy and wonder; Throng on radiant throng, Brave and blithe and strong, Gay with pine and palm, Fill fair France with freedom's thunder-psalm. Free and equal--rid of king and priest-- The rapt nation bids each neighbour nation To partake the sacramental feast And communion of the Federation: And electrified Masses, far and wide, Thrill to hope and start Vibrating as with one common heart. From the perfumed South of amorous France With her wreath of orange bloom and myrtle, From old wizard woods of lost Romance Soft with wail of wind and voice of turtle, From the roaring sea Of grey Normandy, And the rich champaigns Where the vine gads o'er Burgundian plains; From the banks of the blue arrowy Rhone, And from many a Western promontory, From volcanic crags of cloven stone Crowned with castles ivy-green in story; From gay Gascon coasts March fraternal hosts, Equal hosts and free, Pilgrims to the shrine of liberty. But king calls on king in wild alarms, Troops march threatening through the vales and passes, Barefoot Faubourgs at the cry to arms On the frontier hurl their desperate masses: The deep tocsin's boom Fills the streets with gloom, And with iron hand The red Terror guillotines the land. For the Furies of the sanguine past Chase fair Freedom, struggling torn and baffled, Till infuriate--turned to bay at last-- Rolled promiscuous on the common scaffold, Vengeful she shall smite A Queen's head bleached white, And a courtesan's Whose light hands once held the reins of France. She shall smite and spare not--yea, her own, Her fair sons so pure from all pollution, With their guiltless life-blood must atone To the goddess of the Revolution; Dying with a song On their lips, her young Ardent children end, Meeting death even as one meets a friend. And her daughter, in heroic shame, Turned to Freedom's Moloch statue, crying: "Liberty, what crimes done in thy name!" Spake, and with her Freedom's self seemed dying As she bleeding lay 'Neath Napoleon's sway: Europe heard her knell When on Waterloo the Empire fell. Woe, woe to Man and all his hapless brood! No rest for him, no peace is to be found; He may have tamed wild beasts and made the ground Yield corn and wine and every kind of food; He may have turned the ocean to his steed, Tutored the lightning's elemental speed To flash his thought from AEtna to Atlantic; He may have weighed the stars and spanned the stream, And trained the fiery force of panting steam To whirl him o'er vast steppes, and heights gigantic: But the storm-lashed world of feeling-- Love, the fount of tears unsealing, Choruses of passion pealing-- Lust, ambition, hatred, awe, Clashing loudly with the law, But the phantasms of the mind Who shall master, yea, who bind! What help is there without, what hope within Of rescue from the immemorial strife? What will redeem him from the spasm of life, With all its devious ways of shame and sin? What will redeem him from ancestral greeds, Grey legacies of hate and hoar misdeeds, Which from the guilty past Man doth inherit-- The past that is bound up with him, and part Of the pulsations of his inmost heart, And of the vital motions of his spirit? Ages mazed in tortuous errors, Ghostly fears, and haunting terrors, Minds bewitched that served as mirrors For the foulest fancies bred In a fasting hermit's head, Such as cast a sickly blight On all shapes of life and light. Yea, panting and pursued and stung and driven, The soul of Man flies on in deep distress, As once across the world's harsh wilderness Latona fled, chased by the Queen of heaven; Flying across the homeless Universe From the inveterate stroke of Juno's curse; On whom even mother earth closed all her portals, Refusing shelter in her cooing bowers, Or rest upon her velvet couch of flowers, To the most weary of all weary mortals. Within whose earth-encumbered form, Like two fair stars entwined in storm, Or wings astir within the worm, Feeling out for light and air, Struggled that celestial pair, Phoebus of unerring bow, And chaste Dian fair as snow. Ah, who will harbour her? Ah, who will save The fugitive from pangs that rack and tear; Who, finding rest nor refuge anywhere, Seems doomed to be her unborn offspring's grave; The seed of Jove, murdered before their birth-- Did not the sea, more merciful than earth, Bid Delos stand--that wandering isle of Ocean-- Stand motionless upon the moving foam, To be the exile's wave-encircled home, And lull her pains with leaves in drowsy motion, Where the soft-boughed olive sighing Bends above the woman lying And in spasms of anguish crying, Shuddering through her mortal frame, As from dust is struck the flame Which shall henceforth beam sublime Through the firmament of Time? Oh, balmy Island bedded on the brine, Harbour of refuge on the tumbling seas, The fabulous bowers of the Hesperides Ne'er bore such blooming gold as glows in thine: Thou green Oasis on the tides of Time Where no rude blast disturbs the azure clime; Thou Paradise whence man can ne'er be driven, Where, severed from the world-clang and the roar, Still in the flesh he yet may reach that shore Where want is not, and, like the dew from heaven, There drops upon the fevered soul The balm of Thought's divine control And rapt absorption in the whole: Delivery in the realm of art Of the world-racked human heart-- Forms and hues and sounds that make Life grow lovelier for their sake. By sheer persistence, strenuous and slow, The marble yields and, line by flowing line And curve by curve, begins to swell and shine Beneath the ring of each far-sighted blow: Until the formless block obeys the hand, And at the mastering mind's supreme command Takes form and radiates from each limb and feature Such beauty as ne'er bloomed in mortal mould, Whose face, out-smiling centuries, shall hold Perfection's mirror up to 'prentice nature. Not from out voluptuous ocean Venus rose in balanced motion, Goddess of all bland emotion; But she leaped a shape of light, Radiating love's delight, From the sculptor's brain to be Sphered in immortality. New spirit-yearnings for a heavenlier mood Call for a love more pitiful and tender, And 'neath the painter's touch blooms forth in splendour The image of transfigured motherhood. All hopes of all glad women who have smiled In adoration on their first-born child Here smile through one glad woman made immortal; All tears of all sad women through whose heart Has pierced the edge of sorrow's sevenfold dart Lie weeping with her at death's dolorous portal. For in married hues whose splendour Bodies forth the gloom and grandeur Of life's pageant, tragic, tender, Common things transfigured flush By the magic of the brush, As when sun-touched raindrops glow, Blent in one harmonious bow. But see, he comes, Lord of life's changeful shows, To whom the ways of Nature are laid bare, Who looks on heaven and makes the heavens more fair, And adds new sweetness to the perfumed rose; Who can unseal the heart with all its tears, Marshal loves, hates, hopes, sorrows, joys, and fears In quick procession o'er the passive pages; Who has given tongue to silent generations And wings to thought, so that long-mouldered nations May call to nations o'er the abyss of ages: The poet, in whose shaping brain Life is created o'er again With loftier raptures, loftier pain; Whose mighty potencies of verse Move through the plastic Universe, And fashion to their strenuous will The world that is creating still. Do you hear it, do you hear it Soaring up to heaven, or somewhere near it? From the depths of life upheaving, Clouds of earth and sorrow cleaving, From despair and death retrieving, All triumphant blasts of sound Lift you at one rhythmic bound From the thraldom of the ground. All the sweetness which the glowing Violets waft to west winds blowing, All the burning love-notes aching, Rills and thrills of rapture shaking Through the hearts that throb to breaking Of the little nightingales; Mellow murmuring waters streaming Lakeward in long silver trails, Crooning low while earth lies dreaming To the moonlight-tangled vales; Swish of rain on half-blown roses Hoarding close their rich perfume, Which the summer dawn uncloses Sparkling in their morning bloom; Convent peals o'er pastoral meadows, Swinging through hay-scented air When the velvet-footed shadows Call the hind to evening prayer. Yea, all notes of woods and highlands; Sea-fowls' screech round sphinx-like islands Couched among the Hebrides; Cuckoo calls through April showers, When the green fields froth with flowers And with bloom the orchard trees. Boom of surges with their hollow Refluent shock from cave to cave, As the maddening spring tides follow Moonstruck reeling wave o'er wave. Yea, all rhythms of air and ocean Married to the heart's emotion, To the intervolved emotion Of the heart for ever turning In a whirl of bliss and pain, Blending in symphonious strain All the vague, unearthly yearning Of the visionary brain. All life's discords sweetly blending, Heights on heights of being ascending, Harmonies of confluent sound Lift you at one rhythmic bound From the thraldom of the ground; Loosen all your bonds of birth, Clogs of sense and weights of earth, Bear you in angelic legions High above terrestrial regions Into ampler ether, where Spirits breathe a finer air, Where upon world altitudes God-intoxicated moods Fill you with beatitudes; Till no longer cramped and bound By the narrow human round, All the body's barriers slide, Which with cold obstruction hide The supreme, undying, sole Spirit struggling through the whole, And no more a thing apart From the universal heart Liberated by the grace Of man's genius for a space, Human lives dissolve, enlace In a flaming world embrace. Hurrying for ever in their restless flight The generations of earth's teeming womb Rise into being and lapse into the tomb Liketransient bubbles sparkling in the light; They sink in quick succession out of sight Into the thick insuperable gloom Our futile lives in flashing by illume-- Lightning which mocks the darkness of the night. Nay--but consider, though we change and die, If men must pass shall Man not still remain? As the unnumbered drops of summer rain Whose changing particles unchanged on high, Fixed, in perpetual motion, yet maintain The mystic bow emblazoned on the sky. Thy life, O Man, in this brief moment lies: Time's narrow bridge whereon we darkling stand, With an infinitude on either hand Receding luminously from our eyes. Lo, there thy Past's forsaken Paradise Subsideth like some visionary strand, While glimmering faint, the Future's promised land, Illusive from the abyss, seems fain to rise. This hour alone Hope's broken pledges mar, And Joy now gleams before, now in our rear, Like mirage mocking in some waste afar, Dissolving into air as we draw near. Beyond our steps the path is sunny-clear, The shadow lying only where we are. "Love is for ever poor, and so far from being delicate and beautiful, as mankind imagined, he is squalid and withered ... homeless and unsandalled; he sleeps without covering before the doors, and in the unsheltered streets."--PLATO. Through the winding mazes of windy streets Blindly I hurried I knew not whither, Through the dim-lit ways of the brain thus fleets A fluttering dream driven hither and thither.-- The fitful flare of the moon fled fast, Like a sickly smile now seeming to wither, Now dark like a scowl in the hurrying blast As ominous shadows swept over the roofs Where white as a ghost the scared moonlight had passed. Curses came mingled with wails and reproofs, With doors banging to and the crashing of glass, With the baying of dogs and the clatter of hoofs, With the rush of the river as, huddling its mass Of weltering water towards the deep ocean, 'Neath many-arched bridges its eddies did pass. A hubbub of voices in savage commotion Was mixed with the storm in a chaos of sound, And thrilled as with ague in shuddering emotion I fled as the hunted hare flees from the hound. Past churches whose bells were tumultuously ringing The year in, and clashing in concord around; Past the deaf walls of dungeons whose curses seemed clinging To the tempest that shivered and shrieked in amazement; Past brightly lit mansions whence music and singing Came borne like a scent through the close-curtained casement, To vaults in whose shadow wild outcasts were hiding Their misery deep in the gloom of the basement. By vociferous taverns where women were biding With features all withered, distorted, aghast; Some sullenly silent, some brutally chiding, Some reeling away into gloom as I passed On, on, through lamp-lighted and fountain-filled places, Where throned in rich temples, resplendent and vast, The Lord of the City is deafened with praises As worshipping multitudes kneel as of old; Nor care for the crowds of cadaverous faces, The men that are marred and the maids that are sold-- Inarticulate masses promiscuously jumbled And crushed 'neath their Juggernaut idol of gold. Lost lives of great cities bespattered and tumbled, Black rags the rain soaks, the wind whips like a knout, Were crouched in the streets there, and o'er them nigh stumbled A swarm of light maids as they tripped to some rout. The silk of their raiment voluptuously hisses And flaps o'er the flags as loud laughing they flout The wine-maddened men they ne'er satiate with kisses For the pearls and the diamonds that make them more fair, For the glitter of gold in the gold of their hair. They smiled and they cozened, their bold eyes shone brightly And lightened with laughter, as, lit by the flare Of the wind-fretted gas-lamps, they footed it lightly, Or, closely enlacing and bowered in gloom, With mouth pressed to hot mouth, their parched lips drain nightly The wine-cup of pleasure red-sealing their doom. Brief lives like bright rockets which, aridly glowing, Fall burnt out to ashes and reel to the tomb. On, on, loud and louder the rough night was blowing, Shrill singing was mixed with strange cries of despair; And high overhead the black sky, redly glowing, Loomed over the city one ominous glare, As dark yawning funnels from foul throats for ever Belched smoke grimly flaming, which outraged the air. On, on, by long quays where the lamps in the river Were writhing like serpents that hiss ere they drown, And poplars with palsy seemed coldly to shiver, On, on, to the bare desert end of the town. When lo! the wind stopped like a heart that's ceased beating, And nought but the waters, white foaming and brown, Were heard as to seaward their currents went fleeting. But hark! o'er the lull breaks a desolate moan, Like a little lost lamb's that is timidly bleating When, strayed from the shepherd, it staggers alone By tracks which the mountain streams shake with their thunder, Where death seems to gape from each boulder and stone. I turned to the murmur: the clouds swept asunder And wheeled like white sea-gulls around the white moon; And the moon, like a white maid, looked down in mute wonder On a boy whose wan eyelids were closed as in swoon. Half nude on the ground he lay, wasted and chilly, And torn as with thorns and sharp brambles of June; His hair, like a flame which at twilight burns stilly, In a halo of light round his temples was blown, And his tears fell like rain on a storm-stricken lily Where he lay on the cold ground, abandoned, alone. With heart moved towards him in wondering pity, I tenderly seized his thin hand with my own: Crying, "Child, say how cam'st thou so far from the city? How cam'st thou alone in such pitiful plight, All blood-stained thy feet, with rags squalid and gritty, A waif by the wayside, unhoused in the night?" Then rose he and lifted the bright locks, storm driven, Which flamed round his forehead and clouded his sight, And mournful as meres on a moorland at even His blue eyes flashed wildly through tears as they fell. Strange eyes full of horror, yet fuller of heaven, Like eyes that from heaven have looked upon hell. The eyes of an angel whose depths show where, burning And lost in the pit, toss the angels that fell. "Ah," wailed he in tones full of agonized yearning, Like the plaintive lament of a sickening dove On a surf-beaten shore, whence it sees past returning The wings of the wild flock fast fading above, As they melt on the sky-line like foam-flakes in motion: So sadly he wailed, "I am Love! I am Love! "Behold me cast out as weed spurned of the ocean, Half nude on the bare ground, and covered with scars I perish of cold here;" and, choked with emotion, Gave a sob: at the low sob a shower of stars Broke shuddering from heaven, pale flaming, and fell Where the mid-city roared as with rumours of wars. "Be these God's tears?" I cried, as my tears 'gan to well. "Ah, Love, I have sought thee in temples and towers, In shrines where men pray, and in marts where they sell; "In tapestried chambers made tropic with flowers, Where amber-haired women, soft breathing of spice, Lay languidly lapped in the gold-dropping showers "Which gladdened and maddened their amorous eyes. I have looked for thee vainly in churches where beaming The Saints glowed embalmed in a prism of dyes, "Where wave over wave the rapt music went streaming With breakers of sound in full anthems elate. I have asked, but none knew thee, or knew but thy seeming; "A mask in thy likeness on high seats of state; And they bound it with gold, and they crowned it with glory, This thing they called love, which was bond slave to hate. "And they bowed down before it with brown heads and hoary, They worshipped it nightly, loud hymning its praise, While out in the cold blast, none heeding its story, "Love staggers, an outcast, with lust in its place." Love shivered and sighed like a reed that is shaken, And lifting his hunger-nipped face to my face: "Nay, if of the world I must needs die forsaken, Say thou wilt not leave me to dearth and despair. To thy heart, to thy home, let the exile be taken, "And feed me and shelter----" "Where, outcast, ah, where? Like thee I am homeless and spurned of all mortals; The House of my fathers yawns wide to the air. "Stalks desolation across the void portals, Hope lies aghast on the ruinous floor, The halls that were thronged once with star-browed immortals, "With gods statue-still o'er the world-whirr and roar, With fauns of the forest and nymphs of the river, Are cleft as if lightning had struck to their core. "The luminous ceilings, where soaring for ever Dim hosts of plumed angels smoked up to the sky, With God-litten faces that yearned to the giver "As vapours of morning the sun draws on high, Now ravaged with rain hear the hollow winds whistle Through rifts in the rafters which echo their cry. "Blest walls that were vowed to the Virgin now bristle With weeds of sick scarlet and plague-spotted moss, And stained on the ground, choked with thorn and rank thistle, "Rots a worm-eaten Christ on a mouldering Cross. From the House of my fathers, distraught, broken-hearted, With a pang of immense, irredeemable loss, "On my wearying pilgrimage blindly I started To seek thee, oh Love, in high places and low, And instead of the glories for ever departed, "To warm my starved life in thy mightier glow. For I deemed thee a Presence ringed round with all splendour, With a sceptre in hand and a crown on thy brow; "And, behold, thou art helpless--most helpless to tender Thy service to others, who needest their care. Yea, now that I find thee a weak child and slender, "Exposed to the blast of the merciless air, Like a lamb that is shorn, like a leaf that is shaken, What, Love, now is left but to die in despair? "For Death is the mother of all the forsaken, The grave a strait bed where she rocks them to rest, And sleep, from whose silence they never shall waken, "The balm of oblivion she sheds on their breast." Then I seized him and led to the brink of the river, Where two storm-beaten seagulls were fluttering west, And the lamplight in drowning seemed coldly to shiver, And clasping Love close for the leap from on high, Said--"Let us go hence, Love; go home, Love, for ever; "For life casts us forth, and Man dooms us to die." As if stung by a snake the Child shuddered and started, And clung to me close with a passionate cry: "Stay with me, stay with me, poor, broken-hearted; Pain, if not pleasure, we two will divide; Though with the sins of the world I have smarted, "Though with the shame of the world thou art dyed, Weak as I am, on thy breast I'll recover, Worn as thou art, thou shalt bloom as my bride: "Bloom as the flower of the World for the lover Whom thou hast found in a lost little Child." And as he kissed my lips over and over-- Child now, or Man, was it who thus beguiled?-- Even as I looked on him, Love, waxing slowly, Grew as a little cloud, floating enisled, Which spreads out aloft in the blue sky till solely It fills the deep ether tremendous in height, With far-flashing snow-peaks and pinnacles wholly Invisible, vanishing light within light. So changing waxed Love--till he towered before me, Outgrowing my lost gods in stature and might. As he grew, as he drew me, a great awe came o'er me, And stammering, I shook as I questioned his name; But gently bowed o'er me, he soothed and bore me, Yea, bore once again to the haunts whence I came, By dark ways and dreary, by rough roads and gritty, To the penfolds of sin, to the purlieus of shame. And lo, as we went through the woe-clouded city, Where women bring forth and men labour in vain, Weak Love grew so great in his passion of pity That all who beheld him were born once again. Would we but love what will not pass away! The sun that on each morning shines as clear As when it rose first on the world's first year; The fresh green leaves that rustle on the spray. The sun will shine, the leaves will be as gay When graves are full of all our hearts held dear, When not a soul of those who loved us here, Not one, is left us--creatures of decay. Yea, love the Abiding in the Universe Which was before, and will be after us. Nor yet for ever hanker and vainly cry For human love--the beings that change or die; Die--change--forget: to care so is a curse, Yet cursed we'll be rather than not care thus. Divest thyself, O Soul, of vain desire! Bid hope farewell, dismiss all coward fears; Take leave of empty laughter, emptier tears, And quench, for ever quench, the wasting fire Wherein this heart, as in a funeral pyre, Aye burns, yet is consumed not. Years on years Moaning with memories in thy maddened ears-- Let at thy word, like refluent waves, retire. Enter thy soul's vast realm as Sovereign Lord, And, like that angel with the flaming sword, Wave off life's clinging hands. Then chains will fall From the poor slave of self's hard tyranny-- And Thou, a ripple rounded by the sea, In rapture lost be lapped within the All. From out the font of being, undefiled, A life hath been upheaved with struggle and pain; Safe in her arms a mother holds again That dearest miracle--a new-born child. To moans of anguish terrible and wild-- As shrieks the night-wind through an ill-shut pane-- Pure heaven succeeds; and after fiery strain Victorious woman smiles serenely mild. Yea, shall she not rejoice, shall not her frame Thrill with a mystic rapture! At this birth, The soul now kindled by her vital flame May it not prove a gift of priceless worth? Some saviour of his kind whose starry fame Shall bring a brightness to the darkened earth. "Our spirits have climbed high By reason of the passion of our grief,-- And from the top of sense, looked over sense To the significance and heart of things Rather than things themselves." Through a twilight land, a moaning region, Thick with sighs that shook the trembling air, Land of shadows whose dim crew was legion, Lost I hurried, hunted by despair. Quailed my heart like an expiring splendour, Fitful flicker of a faltering fire, Smitten chords which tempest-stricken render Rhythms of anguish from a breaking lyre. Love had left me in a land of shadows, Lonely on the ruins of delight, And I grieved with tearless grief of widows, Moaned as orphans homeless in the night. Love had left me knocking at Death's portal-- Shone his star and vanished from my sky-- And I cried: "Since Love, even Love, is mortal, Take, unmake, and break me; let me die." Then, the twilight's grisly veils dividing, Phantom-like there stole one o'er the plain, Wavering mists for ever round it gliding Hid the face I strove to scan in vain. Spake the veiled one: "Solitary weeper, 'Mid the myriad mourners thou'rt but one: Come, and thou shalt see the awful reaper, Evil, reaping all beneath the sun." On my hand the clay-cold hand did fasten As it murmured--"Up and follow me; O'er the thickly peopled earth we'll hasten, Yet more thickly packed with misery." And I followed: ever in the shadow Of that looming form I fared along; Now o'er mountains, now through wood and meadow, Or through cities with their surging throng. With none other for a friend or fellow Those relentless footsteps were my guide To the sea-caves echoing with the hollow Immemorial moaning of the tide. Laughed the sunlight on the living ocean, Danced and rocked itself upon the spray, And its shivered beams in twinkling motion Gleamed like star-motes in the Milky Way. Lo, beneath those waters surging, flowing, I beheld the Deep's fantastic bowers; Shapes which seemed alive and yet were growing On their stalks like animated flowers. Sentient flowers which seemed to glow and glimmer Soft as ocean blush of Indian shells, White as foam-drift in the moony shimmer Of those sea-lit, wave-pavilioned dells. Yet even here, as in the fire-eyed panther, In disguise the eternal hunger lay, For each feathery, velvet-tufted anther Lay in ambush waiting for its prey. Blindly drawn, came darting through the wave, When, a stifling sack above them tightening, Closed the ocean-blossom's living grave. Now we fared through forest glooms primeval Through whose leaves the light but rarely shone, Where the buttressed tree-trunks looked coeval With the time-worn, ocean-fretted stone; Where, from stem to stem their tendrils looping, Coiled the lithe lianas fold on fold, Or, in cataracts of verdure drooping, Where beneath the dusky woodland cover, While the noon-hush holds all living things, Butterflies of tropic splendour hover In a maze of rainbow-coloured wings: Some like stars light up their own green heaven Some are spangled like a golden toy, Or like flowers from their foliage driven In the fiery ecstasy of joy. But, the forest slumber rudely breaking, Through the silence rings a piercing yell; At the cry unnumbered beasts, awaking, With their howls the loud confusion swell. 'Tis the cry of some frail creature panting In the tiger's lacerating grip; In its flesh carnivorous teeth implanting, While the blood smokes round his wrinkled lip. 'Tis the scream some bird in terror utters, With its wings weighed down by leaden fears, As from bough to downward bough it flutters Where the snake its glistening crest uprears: Eyes of sluggish greed through rank weeds stealing, Breath whose venomous fumes mount through the air, Till benumbed the helpless victim, reeling, Drops convulsed into the reptile snare. Now we fared o'er sweltering wastes whose steaming Clouds of tawny sand the wanderer blind. Herds of horses with their long manes streaming Snorted thirstily against the wind; O'er the waste they scoured in shadowy numbers, Gasped for springs their raging thirst to cool, And, like sick men mocked in fevered slumbers, Stoop to drink--and find a phantom pool. What of antelopes crunched by the leopard? What if hounds run down the timid hare? What though sheep, strayed from the faithful shepherd, Perish helpless in the lion's lair? The all-seeing sun shines on unheeding, In the night shines the unruffled moon, Though on earth brute myriads, preying, bleeding, Put creation harshly out of tune. Cried I, turning to the shrouded figure-- "Oh, in mercy veil this cruel strife! Sanguinary orgies which disfigure The green ways of labyrinthine life. From the needs and greeds of primal passion, From the serpent's track and lion's den, To the world our human hands did fashion, Lead me to the kindly haunts of men." And through fields of corn we passed together, Orange golden in the brooding heat, Where brown reapers in the harvest weather Cut ripe swathes of downward rustling wheat. In the orchards dangling red and yellow, Clustered fruit weighed down the bending sprays; On a hundred hills the vines grew mellow In the warmth of fostering autumn days. Through the air the shrilly twittering swallows Flashed their nimble shadows on the leas; Red-flecked cows were glassed in golden shallows, Purple clover hummed with restless bees. Herdsmen drove the cattle from the mountain, To the fold the shepherd drove his flocks, Village girls drew water from the fountain, Village yokels piled the full-eared shocks. From the white town dozing in the valley, Round its vast Cathedral's solemn shade, Citizens strolled down the walnut alley Where youth courted and glad childhood played. "Peace on earth," I murmured; "let us linger-- Here the wage of life seems good at least:" As I spake the veiled One raised a finger Where the moon broke flowering in the east. Faintly muttering from deep mountain ranges, Muffled sounds rose hoarsely on the night, As the crash of foundering avalanches Wakes hoarse echoes in each Alpine height. Near and nearer sounds the roaring--thunder, Mortal thunder, crashes through the vale; Lightning flash of muskets breaks from under Groves once haunted by the nightingale. Men clutch madly at each weapon--women, Children crouch in cellars, under roofs, For the town is circled by their foemen-- Shakes the ground with clang of trampling hoofs. Shot on shot the volleys hiss and rattle, Shrilly whistling fly the murderous balls, Fiercely roars the tumult of the battle Round the hard-contested, dear-bought walls. Horror, horror! The fair town is burning, Flames burst forth, wild sparks and ashes fly; With her children's blood the green earth's turning Blood-red--blood-red, too, the cloud-winged sky. Crackling flare the streets: from the lone steeple The great clock booms forth its ancient chime, And its dolorous quarters warn the people Of the conquering troops that march with time. Fallen lies the fair old town, its houses Charred and ruined gape in smoking heaps; Here with shouts a ruffian band carouses, There an outraged woman vainly weeps. In the fields where the ripe corn lies mangled, Where the wounded groan beneath the dead, Friend and foe, now helplessly entangled, Stain red poppies with a guiltier red. There the dog howls o'er his perished master, There the crow comes circling from afar; All vile things that batten on disaster Follow feasting in the wake of war. Famine follows--what they ploughed and planted The unhappy peasants shall not reap; Sickening of strange meats and fever haunted, To their graves they prematurely creep. "Hence"--I cried in unavailing pity-- "Let us flee these scenes of monstrous strife, Seek the pale of some imperial city Where the law rules starlike o'er man's life." Straightway floating o'er blue sea and river, We were plunged into a roaring cloud, Wherethrough lamps in ague fits did shiver O'er the surging multitudinous crowd. Piles of stone, their cliff-like walls uprearing, Flashed in luminous lines along the night; Jets of flame, spasmodically flaring, Splashed black pavements with a sickly light; Fabulous gems shone here, and glowing coral, Shimmering stuffs from many an Eastern loom, And vast piles of tropic fruits and floral Marvels seemed to mock November's gloom. But what prowls near princely mart and dwelling, Whence through many a thundering thoroughfare Rich folk roll on cushions softly swelling To the week-day feast and Sunday prayer? Yea, who prowl there, hunger-nipped and pallid, Breathing nightmares limned upon the gloom? 'Tis but human rubbish, gaunt and squalid, Whom their country spurns for lack of room. In their devious track we mutely follow, Mutely climb dim flights of oozy stairs, Where through gap-toothed, mizzling roof the yellow Pestilent fog blends with the fetid air. Through the unhinged door's discordant slamming Ring the gruesome sounds of savage strife-- Howls of babes, the drunken father's damning, Counter-cursing of the shrill-tongued wife. Children feebly crying on their mother In a wailful chorus--"Give us food!" Man and woman glaring at each other Like two gaunt wolves with a famished brood. Till he snatched a stick, and, madly staring, Struck her blow on blow upon the head; And she, reeling back, gasped, hardly caring-- "Ah, you've done it now, Jim"--and was dead. Dead--dead--dead--the miserable creature-- Never to feel hunger's cruel fang Wring the bowels of rebellious nature That her infants might be spared the pang. "Dead! Good luck to her!" The man's teeth chattered, Stone-still stared he with blank eyes and hard, Then, his frame with one big sob nigh shattered, Fled--and cut his throat down in the yard. Dark the night--the children wail forsaken, Crane their wrinkled necks and cry for food, Drop off into fitful sleep, or waken Trembling like a sparrow's ravished brood. Dark the night--the rain falls on the ashes, Feebly hissing on the feeble heat, Filters through the ceiling, drops in splashes On the little children's naked feet. Dark the night--the children wail forsaken-- Is there none, ah, none, to heed their moan? Yea, at dawn one little one is taken, Four poor souls are left, but one is gone. Gone--escaped--flown from the shame and sorrow Waiting for them at life's sombre gate, But the hand of merciless to-morrow Drags the others shuddering to their fate. But one came--a girlish thing--a creature Flung by wanton hands 'mid lust and crime-- A poor outcast, yet by right of nature Sweet as odour of the upland thyme. Scapegoat of a people's sins, and hunted, Howled at, hooted to the wilderness, To that wilderness of deaf hearts, blunted Jetsam, flotsam of the monster city, Spurned, defiled, reviled, that outcast came To those babes that whined for love and pity, Gave them bread bought with the wage of shame. Gave them bread, and gave them warm, maternal Kisses not on sale for any price: Yea, a spark, a flash of some eternal Sympathy shone through those haunted eyes. Ah, perchance through her dark life's confusion, Through the haste and taste of fevered hours, Gusts of memory on her youth's pollution Blew forgotten scents of faded flowers. And she saw the cottage near the wild wood, With its lichened roof and latticed panes, Strayed once more through golden fields of childhood, Hyacinth dells and hawthorn-scented lanes. Heard once more the song of nesting thrushes And the blackbird's long mellifluous note, Felt once more the glow of maiden blushes Burn through rosy cheek and milkwhite throat In that orchard where the apple blossom Lightly shaken fluttered on her hair, As the heart was fluttering in her bosom When her sweetheart came and kissed her there. Often came he in the lilac-laden Moonlit twilight, often pledged his word; But she was a simple country-maiden, He the offspring of a noble lord. Fading lilacs May's farewell betoken, Fledglings fly and soon forget the nest; Lightly may a young man's vows be broken, And the heart break in a woman's breast. Gathered like a sprig of summer roses In the dewy morn and flung away, To the girl the father's door now closes, Let her shelter henceforth how she may. Who will house the miserable mother With her child, a helpless castaway! "I, am I the keeper of my brother?" Asks smug virtue as it turns to pray! Lovely are the earliest Lenten lilies, Primrose pleiads, hyacinthine sheets; Stripped and rifled from their pastoral valleys, See them sold now in the public streets! Other flowers are sold there besides posies-- Eyes may have the hyacinth's glowing blue, Rounded cheeks the velvet bloom of roses, Taper necks the rain-washed lily's hue. But a rustic blossom! Love and duty Bound up in a child whom hunger slays! Ah! but one thing still is left her--beauty Fresh, untarnished yet--and beauty pays. Beauty keeps her child alive a little, Then it dies--her woman's love with it-- Beauty's brilliant sceptre, ah, how brittle, Drags her daily deeper down the pit. Ruin closes o'er her--hideous, nameless; Each fresh morning marks a deeper fall; Till at twenty--callous, cankered, shameless, She lies dying at the hospital. Drink, more drink, she calls for--her harsh laughter Grates upon the meekly praying nurse, Eloquent about her soul's hereafter: "Souls be blowed!" she sings out with a curse. And so dies, an unrepenting sinner-- Pitched into her pauper's grave what time That most noble lord rides by to dinner Who had wooed her in her innocent prime. And in after-dinner talk he preaches Resignation--o'er his burgundy-- Till a grateful public dubs his speeches Oracles of true philanthropy. Peace ye call this? Call this justice, meted Equally to rich and poor alike? Better than this peace the battle's heated Cannon-balls that ask not whom they strike! Better than this masquerade of culture Hiding strange hyaena appetites, The frank ravening of the raw-necked vulture As its beak the senseless carrion smites. What of men in bondage, toiling blunted In the roaring factory's lurid gloom? What of cradled infants starved and stunted? What of woman's nameless martyrdom? The all-seeing sun shines on unheeding, Shines by night the calm, unruffled moon, Though the human myriads, preying, bleeding, Put creation harshly out of tune. "Hence, ah, hence"--I sobbed in quivering passion-- "From these fearful haunts of fiendish men! Better far the plain, carnivorous fashion Which is practised in the lion's den." And I fled--yet staggering still did follow In the footprints of my shrouded guide-- To the sea-caves echoing with the hollow Immemorial moaning of the tide. Sinking, swelling roared the wintry ocean, Pitch-black chasms struck with flying blaze, As the cloud-winged storm-sky's sheer commotion Showed the blank Moon's mute Medusa face White o'er wastes of water--surges crashing Over surges in the formless gloom, And a mastless hulk, with great seas washing Her scourged flanks, pitched toppling to her doom. Through the crash of wave on wave gigantic, Through the thunder of the hurricane, My wild heart in breaking shrilled with frantic Exultation--"Chaos come again! Yea, let earth be split and cloven asunder With man's still accumulating curse-- Life is but a momentary blunder In the cycle of the Universe. "Yea, let earth with forest-belted mountains, Hills and valleys, cataracts and plains, With her clouds and storms and fires and fountains, Pass with all her rolling sphere contains, Melt, dissolve again into the ocean, Ocean fade into a nebulous haze!" And I sank back without sense or motion 'Neath the blank Moon's mute Medusa face. Moments, years, or ages passed, when, lifting Freezing lids, I felt the heavens on high, And, innumerable as the sea-sands drifting, Stars unnumbered drifted through the sky. Rhythmical in luminous rotation, In daedalian maze they reel and fly, And their rushing light is Time's pulsation In his passage through Eternity. Constellated suns, fresh lit, declining, Were ignited now, now quenched in space, Rolling round each other, or inclining Orb to orb in multi-coloured rays. Ever showering from their flaming fountains Light more light on each far-circling earth, Till life stirred crepuscular seas, and mountains Heaved convulsive with the throes of birth. And the noble brotherhood of planets, Knitted each to each by links of light, Circled round their suns, nor knew a minute's Lapse or languor in their ceaseless flight. And pale moons and rings and burning splinters Of wrecked worlds swept round their parent spheres, Clothed with spring or sunk in polar winters As their sun draws nigh or disappears. Still new vistas of new stars--far dwindling-- Through the firmament like dewdrops roll, Torches of the Cosmos which enkindling Flash their revelation on the soul. Yea, One spake there--though nor form nor feature Shown--a Voice came from the peaks of time:-- "Wilt thou judge me, wilt thou curse me, Creature Whom I raised up from the Ocean slime? "Long I waited--ages rolled o'er ages-- As I crystallized in granite rocks, Glacial aeons, fiery earthquake shocks. In fierce throbs of flame or slow upheaval, Speck by tiny speck, I topped the seas, Leaped from earth's dark womb, and in primeval Forests shot up shafts of mammoth trees. "Through a myriad forms I yearned and panted, Putting forth quick shoots in endless swarms-- Giant-hoofed, sharp-tusked, or finned or planted Writhing on the reef with pinioned arms. I have climbed from reek of sanguine revels In Cimmerian wood and thorny wild, Slowly upwards to the dawnlit levels Where I bore thee, oh my youngest Child! "Oh, my heir and hope of my to-morrow, I--I draw thee on through fume and fret, Croon to thee in pain and call through sorrow, Flowers and stars take for thy alphabet. Through the eyes of animals appealing, Feel my fettered spirit yearn to thine, Who, in storm of will and clash of feeling, Shape the life that shall be--the divine. "Oh, redeem me from my tiger rages, Reptile greed, and foul hyaena lust; With the hero's deeds, the thoughts of sages, Sow and fructify this passive dust; Drop in dew and healing love of woman On the bloodstained hands of hungry strife, Till there break from passion of the Human Morning-glory of transfigured life. "I have cast my burden on thy shoulder; Unimagined potencies have given That from formless Chaos thou shalt mould her And translate gross earth to luminous heaven. Bear, oh, bear the terrible compulsion, Flinch not from the path thy fathers trod, From Man's martyrdom in slow convulsion Will be born the infinite goodness--God." Ceased the Voice: and as it ceased it drifted Like the seashell's inarticulate moan; From the Deep, on wings of flame uplifted, Rose the sun rejoicing and alone. Laughed in light upon the living ocean, Danced and rocked itself upon the spray, And its shivered beams in twinkling motion Gleamed like star-motes of the Milky Way. And beside me in the golden morning I beheld my shrouded phantom-guide; But no longer sorrow-veiled and mourning-- It became transfigured by my side. And I knew--as one escaped from prison Sees old things again with fresh surprise-- It was Love himself, Love re-arisen With the Eternal shining through his eyes. "Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch." The winds had hushed at last as by command; The quiet sky above, With its grey clouds spread o'er the fallow land, Sat brooding like a dove There was no motion in the air, no sound Within the tree-tops stirred, Save when some last leaf, fluttering to the ground, Dropped like a wounded bird: Or when the swart rooks in a gathering crowd With clamorous noises wheeled, Hovering awhile, then swooped with wranglings loud Down on the stubbly field. For now the big-thewed horses, toiling slow In straining couples yoked, Patiently dragged the ploughshare to and fro Till their wet haunches smoked. Till the stiff acre, broken into clods, Bruised by the harrow's tooth, Lay lightly shaken, with its humid sods Ranged into furrows smooth. There looming lone, from rise to set of sun, Without or pause or speed, Solemnly striding by the furrows dun, The sower sows the seed. The sower sows the seed, which mouldering, Deep coffined in the earth, Is buried now, but with the future spring Will quicken into birth. Oh, poles of birth and death! Controlling Powers Of human toil and need! On this fair earth all men are surely sowers, Surely all life is seed! All life is seed, dropped in Time's yawning furrow, Which with slow sprout and shoot, In the revolving world's unfathomed morrow, Will blossom and bear fruit. Dark sod pierced by flames of flowers, Dead wood freshly quickening, Bright skies dusked with sudden showers, Lit by rainbows on the wing. Cuckoo calls and young lambs' bleating Nimble airs which coyly bring Little gusts of tender greeting From shy nooks where violets cling. Half-fledged buds and birds and vernal Fields of grass dew-glistening; Evanescent life's eternal Resurrection, bridal Spring! The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers; And in grey shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again. The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the rain in fitful splendour, And in grey shaw and woodland dun The little leaves spring forth and tender Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, For warmth towards the April sun, One after one. And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow's evanescent glory; Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth! Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth. There was intoxication in the air; The wind, keen blowing from across the seas, O'er leagues of new-ploughed land and heathery leas, Smelt of wild gorse whose gold flamed everywhere. An undertone of song pulsed far and near, The soaring larks filled heaven with ecstasies, And, like a living clock among the trees, The shouting cuckoo struck the time of year. For now the Sun had found the earth once more, And woke the Sleeping Beauty with a kiss; Who thrilled with light of love in every pore, Opened her flower-blue eyes, and looked in his. Then all things felt life fluttering at their core-- The world shook mystical in lambent bliss. Blossom of the apple trees! Mossy trunks all gnarled and hoary, Grey boughs tipped with rose-veined glory, Clustered petals soft as fleece Garlanding old apple trees! How you gleam at break of day! When the coy sun, glancing rarely, Pouts and sparkles in the pearly Pendulous dewdrops, twinkling gay On each dancing leaf and spray. Through your latticed boughs on high, Framed in rosy wreaths, one catches Brief kaleidoscopic snatches Of deep lapis-lazuli In the April-coloured sky. When the sundown's dying brand Leaves your beauty to the tender Magic spells of moonlight splendour, Glimmering clouds of bloom you stand, Turning earth to fairyland. Cease, wild winds, O, cease to blow! Apple-blossom, fluttering, flying, Palely on the green turf lying, Vanishing like winter snow; Swift as joy to come and go. A thrush alit on a young-leaved spray, And, lightly clinging, It rocked in its singing As the rapturous notes rose loud and gay; And with liquid shakes, And trills and breaks, Rippled through blossoming boughs of May. Like a ball of fluff, with a warm brown throat And throbbing bosom, 'Mid the apple-blossom, The new-fledged nestling sat learning by rote To echo the song So tender and strong, As it feebly put in its frail little note. O blissfullest lesson amid the green grove! The low wind crispeth The leaves, where lispeth The shy little bird with its parent above; Two voices that mingle And make but a single Hymn of rejoicing in praise of their love. With slow and slouching gait Sam leads the team; He stoops i' the shoulders, worn with work not years; One only passion has he, it would seem-- The passion for the horses which he rears: He names them as one would some household pet, He thinks them quite as sensible as men; As nice as women, but not near so skittish; He fondles, cossets, scolds them now and then, Nay, gravely talks as if they knew good British: You hear him call from dawn to set of sun, "Goo back! Com on!" Sam never seems depressed nor yet elate, Like Nature's self he goes his punctual round; On Sundays, smoking by his garden gate, For hours he'll stand, with eyes upon the ground, Like some tired cart-horse in a field alone, And still as stone. Yet, howsoever stolid he may seem, Sam has his tragic background, weird and wild Like some adventure in a drunkard's dream. Impossible, you'd swear, for one so mild: Yet village gossips dawdling o'er their ale Still tell the tale. In his young days Sam loved a servant-maid, A girl with happy eyes like hazel brooks That dance i' the sun, cheeks as if newly made Of pouting roses coyly hid in nooks, And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl: A fresh-blown girl. Sam came a-courting while the year was blithe, When wet browed mowers, stepping out in tune, With level stroke and rhythmic swing of scythe, Smote down the proud grass in the pomp of June, And wagons, half-tipped over, seemed to sway With loads of hay. The elder bush beside the orchard croft Brimmed over with its bloom like curds and cream; From out grey nests high in the granary loft Black clusters of small heads with callow scream Peered open-beaked, as swallows flashed along To feed their young. Ripening towards the harvest swelled the wheat, Lush cherries dangled 'gainst the latticed panes; The roads were baking in the windless heat, And dust had floured the glossy country lanes, One sun-hushed, light-flushed Sunday afternoon The last of June. When, with his thumping heart all out of joint, And pulses beating like a stroller's drum, Sam screwed his courage to the sticking point And asked his blushing sweetheart if she'd come To name the day. But her rich master snapped his thumb and swore The girl was not for him! Should not go out! And, whistling to his dogs, slammed-to the door Close in Sam's face, and left him dazed without In the fierce sunshine, blazing in his path Like fire of wrath. Unheeding, he went forth with hot wild eyes Past fields of feathery oats and wine-red clover; Unheeded, larks soared singing to the skies, Or rang the plaintive cry of rising plover; Unheeded, pheasants with a startled sound Whirred from the ground. On, on he went by acres full of grain, By trees and meadows reeling past his sight, As to a man whirled onwards in a train The land with spinning hedgerows seems in flight; At last he stopped and leant a long, long while Against a stile. Hours passed; the clock struck ten; a hush of night, In which even wind and water seemed at peace; But here and there a glimmering cottage light Shone like a glowworm through the slumberous trees; Or from some far-off homestead through the dark A watch-dog's bark. But all at once Sam gave a stifled cry: "There's fire," he muttered, "fire upon the hills!" No fire--but as the late moon rose on high Her light looked smoke-red as through belching mills: No fire--but moonlight turning in his path To fire of wrath. He looked abroad with eyes that gave the mist A lurid tinge above the breadths of grain Owned by May's master. Then he shook his fist, Still muttering, "Fire!" and measured o'er again The road he'd come, where, lapped in moonlight, lay Huge ricks of hay. There he paused glaring. Then he turned and waned Like mist into the misty, moon-soaked night, Where the pale silvery fields were blotched and stained With strange fantastic shadows. But what light Is that which leaps up, flickering lithe and long, With licking tongue! Hungry it darts and hisses, twists and turns, And with each minute shoots up high and higher, Till, wrapped in flames, the mighty hayrick burns And sends its sparks on to a neighbouring byre, Where, frightened at the hot, tremendous glow, The cattle low. And rick on rick takes fire; and next a stye, Whence through the smoke the little pigs rush out; The house-dog barks; then, with a startled cry, The window is flung open, shout on shout Wakes the hard-sleeping farm where man and maid Start up dismayed. And with wild faces wavering in the glare, In nightcaps, bedgowns, clothes half huddled on Some to the pump, some to the duck-pond tear In frantic haste, while others splashing run With pails, or turn the hose with flame-scorched face Upon the blaze. At last, when some wan streaks began to show In the chill darkness of the sky, the fire Went out, subdued but for the sputtering glow Of sparks among wet ashes. Barn and byre Were safe, but swallowed all the summer math By fire of wrath. Still haggard from the night's wild work and pale, Farm-men and women stood in whispering knots, Regaled with foaming mugs of nut-brown ale; Firing his oaths about like vicious shots, The farmer hissed out now and then: "Gad damn! It's that black Sam." They had him up and taxed him with the crime; Denying naught, he sulked and held his peace; And so, a branded convict, in due time, Handcuffed and cropped, they shipped him over-seas: Seven years of shame sliced from his labourer's life As with a knife. But through it all the image of a girl With hazel eyes like pebbled waters clear, And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl, Kept his heart sweet through many a galling year, Like to a bit of lavender long pressed In some black chest. At last his time was up, and Sam returned To his dear village with its single street, Where, in the sooty forge, the fire still burned, As, hammering on the anvil, red with heat, The smith wrought at a shoe with tongues aglow, Blow upon blow. There stood the church, with peals for death and birth, Its ancient spire o'ertopping ancient trees, And there the graves and mounds of unknown earth, Gathered like little children round its knees; There was "The Bull," with sign above the door, And sanded floor. Unrecognized Sam took his glass of beer, And picked up gossip which the men let fall: How Farmer Clow had failed, and one named Steer Had taken on the land, repairs and all; And how the Kimber girl was to be wed To Betsy's Ned. Sam heard no more, flung down his pence, and took The way down to the well-remembered stile; There, in the gloaming by the trysting brook, He came upon his May--with just that smile For sheep-faced Ned, that light in happy eyes: Oh, sugared lies! He came upon them with black-knitted brows And clenched brown hands, and muttered huskily: "Oh, little May, are those your true love's vows You swore to keep while I was over-sea?" Then crying, turned upon the other one, "Com on, com on." Then they fell to with faces set for fight, And hit each other hard with rustic pride; But Sam, whose arm with iron force could smite, Knocked his cowed rival down, and won his bride. May wept and smiled, swayed like a wild red rose As the wind blows. She married Sam, who loved her with a wild Strong love he could not put to words--too deep For her to gauge; but with her first-born child May dropped off, flower-like, into the long sleep, And left him nothing but the memory of His little love. Since then the silent teamster lives alone, The trusted headman of his master Steer; One only passion seems he still to own-- The passion for the foals he has to rear; And still the prettiest, full of life and play, Is little May. Clear shining after the rain, The sun bursts the clouds asunder, And the hollow-rumbling thunder Groans like a loaded wain As, deep in the Grampians yonder, He grumbles now and again. Whenever the breezes shiver The leaves where the rain-drops quiver, Each bough and bush and brier Breaks into living fire, Till every tree is bright With blossom bursts of light. From golden roof and spout Brown waters gurgle and splutter, And rush down the flooded gutter Where the village children shout, As barefoot they splash in and out The water with tireless patter. The bald little Highland street Is all alive and a-glitter; The air blows keen and sweet From the field where the swallows twitter; Old wives on the doorsteps meet, And the reapers hasten again, Ere quite the daylight wane To shake out the barley sheaves; While through the twinkling leaves The harvest moon upheaves Clear shining after the rain. Ah, what a heartful of song that now will never awaken, Closely packed in the shell, awaited love's fostering, That should have quickened to life what, now a-cold and forsaken, Ah, what paeans of joy, what raptures no mortal can measure, Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb, Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure, Poor, pathetic brown eggs! Oh, pulses that never will quicken! Music mute in the shell that hath been turned to a tomb! Many a sweet human singer, chilled and adversity-stricken, Withers benumbed in a world his joy might have helped to illume. Sun-tanned men and women, toiling there together; Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat, Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat. Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure: Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree-tops; Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure; Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops; In the glassy shallows, that no breath is creasing, Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank Stand like cows of bronze, save when they flick the teasing Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank. Nature takes a rest--even her bees are sleeping, And the silent wood seems a church that's shut; But these human creatures cease not from their reaping While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut. Essex flats are pink with clover, Kent is crowned with flaunting hops, Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover, Yellow wave the Midland crops; Sussex Downs the flocks grow sleek on, But, for me, I love to stand Where the Herefordshire beacon Watches o'er his orchard land. Where now sun, now shadow dapples-- As it wavers in the breeze-- Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples On the heavy-laden trees: Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Russet-coated, pale or brown-- Some are dipped in sunset glory, And some painted by the dawn. What profusion, what abundance! Not a twig but has its fruits; High in air some in the sun dance, Some lie scattered near the roots. These the hasty winds have taken Are a green, untimely crop; Those by burly rustics shaken Fall with loud resounding plop. In this mellow autumn weather, Ruddy 'mid the long green grass, Heaped-up baskets stand together, Filled by many a blowsy lass. Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Pile them on the granary floors, Till the yule-log's flame in glory Loudly up the chimney roars; Till gay troops of children, lightly Tripping in with shouts of glee, See ripe apples dangling brightly On the red-lit Christmas-tree. The songs of summer are over and past! The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves; Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves The nests are rudely swung in the blast: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane. The songs of summer are over and past! Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs-- The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs, The greeting of lovers too sweet to last: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane. Coral-coloured yew-berries Strew the garden ways, Hollyhocks and sunflowers Make a dazzling blaze In these latter days. Marigolds by cottage doors Flaunt their golden pride, Crimson-punctured bramble leaves Dapple far and wide The green mountain-side. Far away, on hilly slopes Where fleet rivulets run, Miles on miles of tangled fern, Burnished by the sun, Glow a copper dun. For the year that's on the wane, Gathering all its fire, Flares up through the kindling world As, ere they expire, Flames leap high and higher. Three tall poplars beside the pool Shiver and moan in the gusty blast, The carded clouds are blown like wool, And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast. The leaves, now driven before the blast, Now flung by fits on the curdling pool, Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last As if at the whim of a jabbering fool. O leaves, once rustling green and cool! Two met here where one moans aghast With wild heart heaving towards the past: Three tall poplars beside the pool. The Hunter's Moon rides high, High o'er the close-cropped plain; Across the desert sky The herded clouds amain Scamper tumultuously, Chased by the hounding wind That yelps behind. The clamorous hunt is done, Warm-housed the kennelled pack; One huntsman rides alone With dangling bridle slack; He wakes a hollow tone, Far echoing to his horn In clefts forlorn. The Hunter's Moon rides low, Her course is nearly sped. Where is the panting roe? Where hath the wild deer fled? Hunter and hunted now Lie in oblivion deep: Dead or asleep. No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves, The meadows are as stirless as the sky, Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves. The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves, Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh, As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye, On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves. There is a pathos in his softening glow, Which like a benediction seems to hover O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover, A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her. The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still. Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower, Have in adversity's inclement hour Abandoned us to bleak November's chill. But hearken! Yonder russet bird among The crimson clusters of the homely thorn Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song-- A blending of sweet hope and resignation: Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn, One friend becomes its last, best consolation. The boding sky was charactered with cloud, The scripture of the storm--but high in air, Where the unfathomed zenith still was bare, A pure expanse of rose-flushed violet glowed And, kindling into crimson light, o'erflowed The hurrying wrack with such a blood-red glare, That heaven, igniting, wildly seemed to flare On the dazed eyes of many an awe-struck crowd. And in far lands folk presaged with blanched lips Disastrous wars, earthquakes, and foundering ships Or some proud empire's ruin and eclipse: Lo, such a sky, they cried, as burned o'er them Once lit the sacking of Jerusalem! The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light, And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow On the black fringes of the wintry night. Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight Of him to whom on Patmos long ago The visionary angel came to show That heavenly city built of chrysolite. And lo, three factory hands begrimed with soot, Aflame with the red splendour, marvelling stand, And gaze with lifted faces awed and mute. Starved of earth's beauty by Man's grudging hand, O toilers, robbed of labour's golden fruit, Ye, too, may feast in Nature's fairyland. A stormy light of sunset glows and glares Between two banks of cloud, and o'er the brine Thy fair lamp on the sky's carnation line Alone on the lone promontory flares: Friend of the Fisher who at nightfall fares Where lurk false reefs masked by the hyaline Of dimpling waves, within whose smile divine Death lies in wait behind Circean snares. The evening knows thee ere the evening star; Or sees thy flame sole Regent of the bight, When storm, hoarse rumoured by the hills afar, Makes mariners steer landward by thy light, Which shows through shock of hostile nature's war How man keeps watch o'er man through deadliest night. In tortuous windings up the steep incline The sombre street toils to the village square, Whose antique walls in stone and moulding bear With tier on tier, cutting heaven's blue divine, The snowy Alps; and lower the hills are fair, With wave-green olives rippling down to where Gold clusters hang and leaves of sunburnt vine. You may perchance, I never shall forget When, between twofold glory of land and sea, We leant together o'er the old parapet, And saw the sun go down. For, oh, to me, The beauty of that beautiful strange place Was its reflection beaming from your face. All night, all day, in dizzy, downward flight, Fell the wild-whirling, vague, chaotic snow, Till every landmark of the earth below, Trees, moorlands, roads, and each familiar sight Were blotted out by the bewildering white. And winds, now shrieking loud, now whimpering low, Seemed lamentations for the world-old woe That death must swallow life, and darkness light. But all at once the rack was blown away, The snowstorm hushing ended in a sigh; Then like a flame the crescent moon on high Leaped forth among the planets; pure as they, Earth vied in whiteness with the Milky Way: Herself a star beneath the starry sky. "Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho' left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine." Thou walkest with me as the spirit-light Of the hushed moon, high o'er a snowy hill, Walks with the houseless traveller all the night, When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill. Moon of my soul, O phantasm of delight, Thou walkest with me still. The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns In my soul's sanctuary. Yea, still for thee My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea: My Moon of love, to whom for ever turns The life that aches through me. I was again beside my Love in dream: Earth was so beautiful, the moon was shining; The muffled voice of many a cataract stream Came like a love-song, as, with arms entwining, Our hearts were mixed in unison supreme. The wind lay spell-bound in each pillared pine, The tasselled larches had no sound or motion, As my whole life was sinking into thine-- Sinking into a deep, unfathomed ocean Of infinite love--uncircumscribed, divine. Night held her breath, it seemed, with all her stars: Eternal eyes that watched in mute compassion Our little lives o'erleap their mortal bars, Fused in the fulness of immortal passion, A passion as immortal as the stars. There was no longer any thee or me; No sense of self, no wish or incompleteness; The moment, rounded to Eternity, Annihilated time's destructive fleetness: For all but love itself had ceased to be. I am athirst, but not for wine; The drink I long for is divine, Poured only from your eyes in mine. I hunger, but the bread I want, Of which my blood and brain are scant, Is your sweet speech, for which I pant. I am a-cold, and lagging lame, Life creeps along my languid frame; Your love would fan it into flame. Heaven's in that little word--your love! It makes my heart coo like a dove, My tears fall as I think thereof. I would I were the glow-worm, thou the flower, That I might fill thy cup with glimmering light; I would I were the bird, and thou the bower, To sing thee songs throughout the summer night. I would I were a pine tree deeply rooted, And thou the lofty, cloud-beleaguered rock, Still, while the blasts of heaven around us hooted, To cleave to thee and weather every shock. I would I were the rill, and thou the river; So might I, leaping from some headlong steep, With all my waters lost in thine for ever, Be hurried onwards to the unfathomed deep. I would--what would I not? O foolish dreaming! My words are but as leaves by autumn shed, That, in the faded moonlight idly gleaming, Drop on the grave where all our love lies dead. Dost thou remember ever, for my sake, When we two rowed upon the rock-bound lake? How the wind-fretted waters blew their spray About our brows like blossom-falls of May One memorable day? Dost thou remember the glad mouth that cried-- "Were it not sweet to die now side by side, To lie together tangled in the deep Close as the heart-beat to the heart--so keep The everlasting sleep?" Dost thou remember? Ah, such death as this Had set the seal upon my heart's young bliss! But, wrenched asunder, severed and apart, Life knew a deadlier death: the blighting smart Which only kills the heart. O moon, large golden summer moon, Hanging between the linden trees, Which in the intermittent breeze Beat with the rhythmic pulse of June! O night-air, scented through and through With honey-coloured flower of lime, Sweet now as in that other time When all my heart was sweet as you! The sorcery of this breathing bloom Works like enchantment in my brain, Till, shuddering back to life again, My dead self rises from its tomb. And, lovely with the love of yore, Its white ghost haunts the moon-white ways; But, when it meets me face to face, Flies trembling to the grave once more. Why will you haunt me unawares, And walk into my sleep, Pacing its shadowy thoroughfares, Where long-dried perfume scents the airs, While ghosts of sorrow creep, Where on Hope's ruined altar-stairs, With ineffectual beams, The Moon of Memory coldly glares Upon the land of dreams? My yearning eyes were fain to look Upon your hidden face; Their love, alas! you could not brook, But in your own you mutely took My hand, and for a space You wrung it till I throbbed and shook, And woke with wildest moan And wet face channelled like a brook With your tears or my own. When you wake from troubled slumbers With a dream-bewildered brain, And old leaves which no man numbers Chattering tap against the pane; And the midnight wind is wailing Till your very life seems quailing As the long gusts shudder and sigh: Know you not that homeless cry Is my love's, which cannot die, Wailing through Eternity? When beside the glowing embers, Sitting in the twilight lone, Drop on drop you hear November's Melancholy monotone, As the heavy rain comes sweeping, With a sound of weeping, weeping, Till your blood is chilled with fears; Know you not those falling tears, Flowing fast through years on years, For my sobs within your ears? When with dolorous moan the billows Surge around where, far and wide, Leagues on leagues of sea-worn hollows Throb with thunders of the tide, And the weary waves in breaking Fill you, thrill you, as with aching Memories of our love of yore Where you pace the sounding shore, Hear you not, through roll and roar, Soul call soul for evermore? In a lonesome burial-place Crouched a mourner white of face; Wild her eyes--unheeding Circling pomp of night and day-- Ever crying, "Well away, Love lies a-bleeding!" And her sighs were like a knell, And her tears for ever fell, With their warm rain feeding That purpureal flower, alas! Trailing prostrate in the grass, Love lies a-bleeding. Through the yews' black-tufted gloom Crimson light dripped on the tomb, Funeral shadows breeding: In the sky the sun's light shed Dyed the earth one awful red-- Love lies a-bleeding. Came grey mists, and blanching cloud Bore one universal shroud; Came the bowed moon leading, From the infinite afar Star that rumoured unto star-- Love lies a-bleeding. On life's long round by chance I found A dell impearled with dew, Where hyacinths, gushing from the ground, Lent to the earth heaven's native hue Of holy blue. I sought that plot of azure light Once more in gloomy hours; But snow had fallen overnight And wrapped in mortuary white My fairy ring of flowers. Ah, yesterday was dark and drear, My heart was deadly sore; Without thy love it seemed, my Dear, That I could live no more. And yet I laugh and sing to-day; Care or care not for me, Thou canst not take the love away With which I worship thee. And if to-morrow, Dear, I live, My heart I shall not break: For still I hold it that to give Is sweeter than to take. Yea, the roses are still on fire With the bygone heat of July, Though the least little wind drifting by Shake a rose-leaf or two from the brier, Be it never so soft a sigh. Ember of love still glows and lingers Deep at the red heart's smouldering core; With the sudden passionate throb of yore We shook as our eyes and clinging fingers Met once only to meet no more. We met as strangers on life's lonely way, And yet it seemed we knew each other well; There was no end to what thou hadst to say, Or to the thousand things I found to tell. My heart, long silent, at thy voice that day Chimed in my breast like to a silver bell. How much we spoke, and yet still left untold Some secret half revealed within our eyes: Didst thou not love me once in ages old? Had I not called thee with importunate cries, And, like a child left sobbing in the cold, Listened to catch from far thy fond replies? We met as strangers, and as such we part; Yet all my life seems leaving me with thine; Ah, to be clasped once only heart to heart, If only once to feel that thou wert mine! These lips are locked, and yet I know thou art That all in all for which my soul did pine. You make the sunshine of my heart And its tempestuous shower; Sometimes the thought of you is like A lilac bush in flower, Yea, honey-sweet as hives in May. And then the pang of it will strike My bosom with a fiery smart, As though love's deeply planted dart Drained all its life away. My thoughts hum round you, Dear, like bees About a bank of thyme, Or round the yellow blossoms of The heavy-scented lime. Ah, sweeter you than honeydew, Yet dark the ways of love, For it has robbed my soul of peace, And marred my life and turned heart's-ease Into funereal rue. Dear, when I look into your eyes My hurts are healed, my heart grows whole; The barren places in my soul, Like waste lands under April skies, Break into flower beneath your eyes. Ah, life grows lovely where you are; Only to think of you gives light To my dark heart, within whose night Your image, though you bide afar, Glows like a lake-reflected star. Dare I crave more than only this: A thrill of love, a transient smile To gladden all my world awhile? No more, alas! Is mortal bliss Not transient as a lover's kiss? Ah, if you knew how soon and late My eyes long for a sight of you, Sometimes in passing by my gate You'd linger until fall of dew, If you but knew! Ah, if you knew how sick and sore My life flags for the want of you, Straightway you'd enter at the door And clasp my hand between your two, If you but knew! Ah, if you knew how lost and lone I watch and weep and wait for you, You'd press my heart close to your own Till love had healed me through and through, If you but knew! Your looks have touched my soul with bright Ineffable emotion; As moonbeams on a stormy night Illume with transitory light A seagull on her lonely flight Across the lonely ocean. Fluttering from out the gloom and roar, On fitful wing she flies, Moon-white above the moon-washed shore; Then, drowned in darkness as before, She's lost, as I when lit no more By your beloved eyes. Oh, brown Eyes with long black lashes, Young brown Eyes, Depths of night from which there flashes Lightning as of summer skies, Beautiful brown Eyes! In your veiled mysterious splendour Passion lies Sleeping, but with sudden tender Dreams that fill with vague surmise Beautiful brown Eyes. All my soul, with yearning shaken, Asks in sighs-- Who will see your heart awaken, Love's divine sunrise In those young brown Eyes? Once on a golden day, In the golden month of May, I gave my heart away-- Little birds were singing. I culled my heart in truth, Wet with the dews of youth, For love to take, forsooth-- Little flowers were springing. Love sweetly laughed at this, And between kiss and kiss Fled with my heart in his: Winds warmly blowing. And with his sun and shower Love kept my heart in flower, As in the greenest bower Rose richly glowing. Till, worn at evensong, Love dropped my heart among Stones by the way ere long; Misprized token. There in the wind and rain, Trampled and rent in twain, Ne'er to be whole again, My heart lies broken. What magic is there in thy mien, What sorcery in thy smile, Which charms away all cark and care, Which turns the foul days into fair, And for a little while Changes this disenchanted scene From the sere leaf into the green, Transmuting with love's golden wand This beggared life to fairyland? My heart goes forth to thee, oh friend, As some poor pilgrim to a shrine, A pilgrim who has come from far To seek his spirit's folding star, And sees the taper shine; The goal to which his wanderings tend, Where want and weariness shall end, And kneels ecstatically blest Because his heart hath entered rest. As opiates to the sick on wakeful nights, As light to flowers, as flowers in poor men's rooms, As to the fisher when the tempest glooms The cheerful twinkling of his village lights; As emerald isles to flagging swallow flights, As roses garlanding with tendrilled blooms The unweeded hillocks of forgotten tombs, As singing birds on cypress-shadowed heights, Thou art to me--a comfort past compare-- For thy joy-kindling presence, sweet as May Sets all my nerves to music, makes away With sorrow and the numbing frost of care, Until the influence of thine eyes' bright sway Has made life's glass go up from foul to fair. Peace, throbbing heart, nor let us shed one tear O'er this late love's unseasonable glow; Sweet as a violet blooming in the snow, The posthumous offspring of the widowed year, That smells of March when all the world is sere, And, while around the hurtling sea-winds blow-- Which twist the oak and lay the pine tree low-- Stands childlike in the storm and has no fear. Poor helpless blossom orphaned of the sun, How could it thus brave winter's rude estate? Oh love, more helpless love, why bloom so late, Now that the flower-time of the year is done? Since thy dear course must end when scarce begun, Nipped by the cold touch of untoward fate. It is a solemn evening, golden-clear-- The Alpine summits flame with rose-lit snow And headlands purpling on wide seas below, And clouds and woods and arid rocks appear Dissolving in the sun's own atmosphere And vast circumference of light, whose slow Transfiguration--glow and after-glow-- Turns twilight earth to a more luminous sphere. Oh heart, I ask, seeing that the orb of day Has sunk below, yet left to sky and sea His glory's spiritual after-shine: I ask if Love, whose sun hath set for thee, May not touch grief with his memorial ray, And lend to loss itself a joy divine? Thou art the goal for which my spirit longs; As dove on dove, Bound for one home, I send thee all my songs With all my love. Thou art the haven with fair harbour lights; Safe locked in thee, My heart would anchor after stormful nights Alone at sea. Thou art the rest of which my life is fain, The perfect peace; Absorbed in thee the world, with all its pain And toil, would cease. Thou art the heaven to which my soul would go! O dearest eyes, Lost in your light you would turn hell below Thou all in all for which my heart-blood yearns! Yea, near or far-- Where the unfathomed ether throbs and burns With star on star, Or where, enkindled by the fires of June, The fresh earth glows, Blushing beneath the mystical white moon Through rose on rose-- Thee, thee I see, thee feel in all live things, Beloved one; In the first bird which tremulously sings Ere peep of sun; In the last nestling orphaned in the hedge, Rocked to and fro, When dying summer shudders in the sedge, And swallows go; When roaring snows rush down the mountain-pass, March floods with rills, Or April lightens through the living grass In daffodils; When poppied cornfields simmer in the heat With tare and thistle, And, like winged clouds above the mellow wheat, The starlings whistle; When stained with sunset the wide moorlands glare In the wild weather, And clouds with flaming craters smoke and flare Red o'er red heather; When the bent moon, on frostbound midnights waking, Leans to the snow Like some world-mother whose deep heart is breaking O'er human woe. As the round sun rolls red into the ocean, Glows fluid gold, even so life's mazy motion Is dyed with thee: For as the wave-like years subside and roll, O heart's desire, Thy soul glows interfused within my soul, A quenchless fire. Yea, thee I feel, all storms of life above, Near though afar; O thou my glorious morning star of love, And evening star. And other Poems. "There is perhaps no phase of our history more capable of poetic disciple of St. Columba.... Apart from the sonorous beauty of her "In the choice of a subject for her chief poem she has been "'The Prophecy of Saint Oran' is skilfully told and vigorously "Miss Blind has chosen for her new poem one of those terrible 'Crowding on the decks with hungry eyes, Straining towards the coast that flies and flies,' "There are charming pictures of West Highland scenery, in Arran "In 'The Heather on Fire' she exhibits a clearness and beauty of "It is written in a strain which must of necessity appeal to the sympathies of all grades of society, and at the same time it is "A book like this forms an admirable corrective to the harsh and triumphant result; to turn back ... and dwell on the author's "'Tarantella' is extremely clever, and the treatment of the weird "We have very ingenious resources in music and the bite of the tarantula, which alone music is said to heal. Notwithstanding the conspicuous for an airy freshness in nature and treatment. Every gracefulness of diction which are certain to be generally

Sophonisba Preston Breckinridge

New Homes for Old

1866

These Hills, the pride of all the coast, To mighty distance seen, With aspect bold and rugged brow, That shade the neighbouring main: These heights, for solitude design'd, This rude, resounding shore-- These vales impervious to the wind, Tall oaks, that to the tempest bend, Half Druid, I adore. From distant lands, a thousand sails Your hazy summits greet-- You saw the angry Briton come, You saw him, last, retreat! With towering crest, you first appear The news of land to tell; To him that comes, fresh joys impart, To him that goes, a heavy heart, The lover's long farewell. 'Tis your's to see the sailor bold, Of persevering mind, To see him rove in search of care, And leave true bliss behind; To see him spread his flowing sails To trace a tiresome road, By wintry seas and tempests chac'd To see him o'er the ocean haste, A comfortless abode! Your thousand springs of waters blue What luxury to sip, As from the mountain's breast they flow To moisten Flora's lip! In vast retirements herd the deer, Where forests round them rise, Dark groves, their tops in aether lost, That, haunted still by Huddy's ghost, The trembling rustic flies. Proud heights! with pain so often seen, (With joy beheld once more) On your firm base I take my stand, Tenacious of the shore:-- Let those who pant for wealth or fame Pursue the watery road;-- Soft sleep and ease, blest days and nights, And health, attend these favourite heights, Retirement's blest abode! The first trace I can find of this poem is in the _Freeman's "In early days and vanished years To rougher toils resigned, You saw me rove in search of care And leave true bliss behind; You saw me rig the barque so trim," etc. See Volume II, page 193. America, to every climate known, Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone, To either pole extends her vast domain Where varying suns o'er different summers reign. Wide wandering streams, vast plains, and pathless woods, Bold shores, confined by circumscribing floods, Denote this land, whose fertile, flowery breast Teems with all life--and man, its nobler guest. In days of old, from ocean's deepest bed, Gulphs unexplored, and countries of the dead, Rous'd by some voice, that shook all nature's frame, From the vast depths this new creation came: Perpetual change its varying nature feels, The wave once flow'd that now with frost congeals, Suns on its breast have shed a feebler fire, Oceans have roll'd where mountains now aspire. The soil's proud lord a changeful temper knows, From differing earths his various nature grows: Long, long before the time that sophists plan Existed in these woods the race of man, Warm'd into life by some creating flame, All worlds pervading, and through all, the same! Not from the west their swarthy tribes they brought, As Europe's pride and Asia's folly taught;-- With the same ease the great disposing power Produced a man, a reptile, or a flower:-- See the swift deer, in lonely wilds that strays, See the tall elk, that in the valley plays, See the fierce tiger's raging, ravenous band, And wolves (their race as ancient as the land) Did these of old from bleak Kamschatka come, And traverse seas, to find a happier home?-- No?--from the dust, this common dust, they drew Their different forms, proud man, that moulded you. At first, half beasts, untaught to till the land, Careless, you fed from Nature's fostering hand; In depths of deserts dream'd your lives away, Sought no new worlds, nor look'd beyond to-day: The Almighty power, that lives and breathes through all, Bade some faint rays on these dark nations fall; Early, to them did reasoning souls impart, Inventive genius, and some dawn of art; Then left them here, with sense enough to win, Or cheat the bear, or panther of his skin; Mean huts to build, regardless of their form, Completely blest, if shelter'd from the storm; To see the seasons change, day turn to night: Bow to the lamps of heaven that gave them light, Beam'd on the spring, or bade the summer glow, Their harvests ripen, and their gardens grow-- Wash'd by surrounding seas, and bold her coasts, A grateful soil the fair _Rhode Island_ boasts. The admiring eye no happier fields can trace, Here seas are crowned with the scaly race, Nature has strove to make her native blest And owns no fairer Eden in the west: Here lovliest dames in frequent circles seen, Catch the fine tint of health from beauty's queen, No aid they want to seize the enraptur'd view Nor art's false colours to improve the true; Here, love the traveller holds--loth to depart Some charming creature slays his wandering heart, Bids him forget from clime to clime to rove, And even dull prudence--here--submits to love. On grassy farms, their souls enslav'd to gain, Reside the masters of the rural reign; Vast herds they feed, that glut the abundant pail, Break the stiff sod, or freight the adventurous sail; The nervous steed, the stanchest of the kind Here walks his rounds in pastures unconfin'd:-- Half that the lands produce or seas contain To other shores transported o'er the main Returns in coin, to cheer the miser's eye, In foreign _sweets_, that fancied wants supply, Or tawdry stuffs, to deck the limbs of pride, That thus expends what avarice strove to hide. But, hostile to themselves, this jarring race In desperate interests, different plans embrace-- _One_, bold in wrong, his paper fabric rears And steels his bosom to the orphan's tears To those he ruin'd grants no late relief! But leaves the wretched to subsist on grief! In lost advice his days the gownsman spends, He gives his prayers and teachings to the winds,-- In vain he tells of virtue's sure reward; No words but this attract a swain's regard-- Talk not of Laws!--where innocence must fall, One spark of honour more than damns them all; And vainly Science her assistance lends Where knavery shapes it to the basest ends, Fraud walks at large,--each selfish passion reigns, And cheats enforce what honesty disdains. Hurt at the view, I leave the ungrateful shore And thy rough soil, Connecticut, explore: Here fond remembrance stampt her much loved names, Here boasts the soil its London and its Thames; Through all her shores commodious ports abound, Clear flow the waters of the unequal ground; Cold nipping winds a lengthened winter bring, Late rise the products of the unwilling spring, The impoverished fields the labourer's pains disgrace, And hawks and vultures scream through all the place; The broken soil a nervous breed requires, Where the rough glebe no generous crops admires-- Dame Nature meanly did her gifts impart, But smiles to see how much is forced by art. As Boreas keen, who guides their wintry reign, All bow to lucre, all are bent on gain. In contact close their neat abodes are thrown, Its house, each acre; every mile, its town; With glittering spire the frequent church is seen, Where yews and myrtles wave their gloomy green, Where fast-day sermons tell the hungry guest That a cameleon's dinner is the best: There mobs of deacons awe the ungodly wight, And hell's black master meets the unequal fight-- Eternal squabblings grease the lawyer's paw, All have their suits, and all have studied Law: With tongue, that Art and Nature taught to speak, Some rave in Latin, some dispute in Greek: Proud of their parts, in ancient lore they shine, And one month's study makes a learned Divine; Bards of huge fame in every hamlet rise, Each (in idea) of Virgilian size: Even beardless lads a rhyming knack display-- Iliads begun, and finished in a day! Rhymes, that of old on Blackmore's wheel were spun, Come rattling down on Zion's reverend son; Madly presumed time's vortex to defy! Things born to live an hour--then squeak and die. Some, to grow rich, through Indian forests roam, Some deem it best to stay and thrive at home: In spite of all the priest and squire can say, This world--this wicked world--will have its way; Honest through fear, religious by constraint, How hard to tell the sharper from the saint!-- Fond of discourse, with deep designing views They pump the unwary traveller of his news; Fond of that news, but fonder to be paid, Each house a tavern, claims a tavern's trade, While he that comes as surely hears them praise The hospitality of modern days. Yet, brave in arms, of enterprizing soul, They tempt old Neptune to the farthest pole, In learning's walks explore the mazy way, (For genius there has shed his golden ray) In war's bold art through many a contest tried True to themselves, they took the nobler side, And party feuds forgot, joined to agree That power alone supreme--that left them free. Here, in vast flocks, the fleecy nation strays, Here, endless herds the upland meadow graze, Here smiling plenty crowns the labourer's pain And blooming beauty weds the industrious swain: Were this thy all, what happier state could be!-- But avarice drives the native to the sea, Fictitious wants all thoughts of ease controul, Proud Independence sways the aspiring soul, 'Midst foreign waves, a stranger to repose, Through the moist world the keen adventurer goes; Not India's seas restrain his daring sail, Far to the south he seeks the polar whale: From those vast banks where frequent tempests rave, And fogs eternal brood upon the wave, There (furled his sail) his daring hold he keeps, Drags from their depths the natives of those deeps; Then to some distant clime explores his way, Bold avarice spurs him on--he must obey. Yet from such aims one great effect we trace That holds in happier bonds this restless race; Like some deep lake, by circling shores comprest, Man's nature tends to universal rest: Unfed by springs, that find some secret pass To mix their current with the mightier mass, Unmoved by moons, that some strange impulse guides To lift its waters, and propel its tides, Unvext by winds, that scowl across its waste, Tear up the wave, and discompose its breast, Soon would that lake (a putrid nuisance grown,) Lose all its virtue, praised or prized by none: Thus, avarice lends new vigour to mankind, Not vainly planted in the unsteady mind; With her, Ambition linked, they proudly drive, Rule all our race, and keep the world alive. Here, first, to quench her once loved Freedom's flame, With their proud fleets, Britannia's warriors came; Here, sure to conquer, she began her fires, Here, sent her lords, her admirals, and her squires: All, all too weak to effect the vast design For which we saw half Europe's arms combine, Uncounted navies rove from main to main, Threats, bribery, treachery--tried and tried again; Mandate on mandate, edict, and decree, To rivet fetters, and enslave the free! Long, long from Boston's hills shall strangers gaze On those vast mounds that magic seemed to raise; Stupendous piles that hastened Britain's flight, Extended hills, the offspring of a night!-- In that devoted town they hoped to stay And, fed by rapine, sleep soft years away: Vain hopes, vain schemes--the unconquered spirit rose That still survived through all succeeding woes; Imprisoned crowds, in cruel durance held, Disarmed, restrained from honour's earliest field; Imprisoned thousands, worn with poignant grief, Now, half adoring, met their guardian chief,[A] Whose thundering cannon bade the foe retreat, Disgrace their portion, and their rout complete. Sons of the earth, for plodding genius fam'd, Batavia long her earth-born natives claim'd: Begot from industry, and not from love, Swarming at length, to these fair climes they move.-- Still in these climes their numerous race survive, And, born to labour, still are found to thrive; Thro' rain and sunshine toiling for their heirs They hold no nation on this earth like theirs. Fond of themselves, no generous motives bind, To those that speak their gibberish, only kind:-- Yet still some virtues, candour must confess, And truth shall own, some virtues they possess: Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around Groves bend with fruit and plenty clothes the ground; No barren trees to shade their domes are seen, Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean, No idle fancy dares its whims apply, Or hope attention from the master's eye, All tends to something that must pelf produce, All for some end, and every thing its use:-- Eternal scowerings keep their floors afloat, Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat; The hoe, the loom, the female band employ, These all their pleasure, these their darling joy;-- The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move, No frail ideas of romantic love; He to her heart the readiest path can find Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind, She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth, Minds not the swain--but asks him what he's worth. No female fears in her firm breast prevail, The helm she handles and she trims the sail, In some small barque the way to market finds, Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds, While placed a-head, subservient to her will, Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill. Health to their toils--thus may they still go on-- Curse on my pen! What pictures have I drawn! Is this the general taste? No (Truth replies)-- If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise, See--(where, the social circle meant to grace) The fair Cesarean shades her lovely face,-- She, earlier held to happier tasks at home, Prefers the labours that her sex become, Remote from view, directs some favourite art, And leaves to hardier man the ruder part. Spread with stupendous hills, far from the main, Fair Pennsylvania holds her golden rein, In fertile fields her wheaten harvest grows, Charged with its freights her favorite Delaware flows; From Erie's Lake her soil with plenty teems To where the Schuylkill rolls his limpid streams-- Sweet stream! what pencil can thy beauties tell-- Where, wandering downward through the woody vale, Thy varying scenes to rural bliss invite, To health and pleasure add a new delight: Here Juniata, too, allures the swain, And gay Cadorus roves along the plain; Sweetara, tumbling from the distant hill, Steals through the waste, to turn the industrious mill-- Where'er those floods through groves or mountains stray, That God of Nature still directs the way, With fondest care has traced each river's bed And mighty streams thro' mighty forests led, Bade agriculture thus export her freight, The strength and glory of this favoured State. She, famed for science, arts, and polished men, Admires her Franklin, but adores her Penn, Who, wandering here, made barren forests bloom, And the new soil a happier robe assume: He planned no schemes that virtue disapproves, He robbed no Indian of his native groves, But, just to all, beheld his tribes increase, Did what he could to bind the world in peace, And, far retreating from a selfish band, Bade Freedom flourish in this foreign land. Gay towns unnumbered shine through all her plains, Here every art its happiest height attains: The graceful ship, on nice proportions planned, Here finds perfection from the builder's hand, To distant worlds commercial visits pays, Or war's bold thunder o'er the deep conveys. Laved by vast depths that swell on either side Where Chesapeake intrudes his midway tide, Gay Maryland attracts the admiring eye, A fertile region with a temperate sky. In years elapsed, her heroes of renown From British Anna named one favourite town:[B] But, lost her commerce, though she guards their laws, Proud Baltimore that envied commerce draws. Few are the years since there, at random placed, Some wretched huts her quiet-port disgraced; Safe from all winds, and covered from the bay, There, at his ease, the thoughtless native lay. Now, rich and great, no more a slave to sloth, She claims importance from her towering growth-- High in renown, her streets and domes arranged, A groupe of cabins to a city changed. Though rich at home, to foreign lands they stray, For foreign trappings trade the wealth away. Politest manners through their towns prevail, And pleasure revels, though their funds should fail; In each gay dome, soft music charms its lord, Where female beauty strikes the trembling chord; On the fine air with nicest touches dwells, While from the tongue the according ditty swells: Proud to be seen, 'tis their's to place delight In dances measured by the winter's night, The evening feast, that wine and mirth prolong, The lamp of splendor, and the midnight song. Religion here no gloomy garb assumes, Exchanged her tears for patches and for plumes: The blooming belle (untaught heaven's beaus to win) Talks not of seraphs, but the world she's in: Attached to earth, here born, and to decay, She leaves to better worlds all finer clay. In those, whom choice or different fortunes place On rural scenes, a different mind we trace; There solitude, that still to dullness tends, To rustic forms no sprightly action lends; Heeds not the garb, mopes o'er the evening fire; And bids the maiden from the man retire. On winding floods the lofty mansion stands, That casts a mournful view o'er neighbouring lands; There the sad master strays amidst his grounds, Then home returning, plies his pasteboard play, Or dreams o'er wine, that hardly makes him gay: If some chance guest arrive in weary plight, He more than bids him welcome for the night; Kind to profusion, spares no pains to please, Gives him the product of his fields and trees; On his rich board shines plenty from her source, --The meanest dish of all his own discourse. Vast in extent, Virginia meets our view, With streams immense, dark groves, and mountains blue; First in provincial rank she long was seen, Built the first town, and first subdued the plain: This was her praise--but what can years avail, When times succeeding see her efforts fail! On northern fields more vigorous arts display, Where pleasure holds no universal sway; No herds of slaves parade their sooty band From the rough plough to save the fopling's hand, Where urgent wants the daily pittance ask, Compel to labour, and complete the task. A race of slaves, throughout their country spread, From different soils extort the owner's bread; Averse to toil, the natives still rely He, patient, early quits his poor abode, Toils at the hoe, or totes some ponderous load, Sweats at the axe, or, pensive and forlorn, Sighs for the eve, to parch his stinted corn! With watchful eye maintains his much-loved fire, Nor even in summer lets its sparks expire-- At night returns, his evening toils to share, Lament his rags, or sleep away his care, Bind up the recent wound, with many a groan; Or thank his gods that Sunday is his own. To these far climes the scheming Scotchman flies, Quits his bleak hills to court Virginian skies; Removed from oat-meal, sour-crout, debts, and duns, Prudent, he hastes to bask in kinder suns; Marks well the native--views his weaker side, And heaps up wealth from luxury and pride, Exports the produce of a thousand plains, Nor fears a rival, to divide his gains. Deep in their beds, as distant to their source Here many a river winds its wandering course: Proud of her bulky freight, through plains and woods Moves the tall ship, majestic, o'er the floods, Where James's strength the ocean brine repels, Or, like a sea, the deep Potowmack swells: Yet here the sailor views with wondering eye Impoverished fields that near their margins lie, Mercantile towns, where languor holds her reign, And boors inactive, on the exhausted plain. In the _Daily Advertiser_ of March 13, 1790, this poem bore the title "Philosophical Sketch of America." Text from the New York _Daily Advertiser_ of February 4, 1790. Followed in the original version by the line: "Sacred to him, that taught them to be keen;" In the edition of 1795 this reads "Greenfield's reverend son," alluding to Dr. Dwight. In the index to the 1809 edition the title was "Lines on the old "All, all too weak to effect the vast design That swell'd, poor GAGE, that puny heart of thine, That urg'd BURGOYNE to slight his _Celia's_ charms, The brother HOWES to furbish up their arms And modern PERCIES lose their wonted sleep To conquer countries, that they could--not keep." --Original version in the _Daily Advertiser_, March 29, 1790. The earliest version, as it appeared in the _Daily Advertiser_, March 17, 1790, had the following in place of the last six lines: "Thy followers, FOX, pacific in each aim, In this far climate still revere your name; To them long practice prudent foresight gave, Proof to the projects of the keenest knave. On things to come they fix an anxious eye Fond to be thought the favourites of the sky, Paths of their own they clear to future bliss, Praise _other_ worlds but keep their hold on _this_. Nor mean I, hence, to censure or condemn, Perhaps 'twere best the world should think like them;-- What tho' on visions they may place their trust, I hold their general principles are just, _Good will to all, themselves their first great care, Precise in dealing, foes to blood and war_; Let kings invade, or potentates assault, No aid they lend, for passive to a fault, They still are found, all complaisant to power To bow to ruffians in the trying hour." The original version in the _Daily Advertiser_, June 11, 1790, added here these lines: "Yet shall not malice rob them of their due, Not all their worth is center'd in a few: On Fame's bright lists their sages they enroll, Theirs is the brave, and high aspiring soul, Heroes and chiefs, the firm unconquer'd mind That rul'd in councils, or in battles shin'd, Sent traitorous bands new regions to explore And drove their titled miscreant[a] from the shore." The original version added here the following: "Rais'd by their care, _tobacco_ spreads its leaf, The master's pleasure, and the labourer's grief; Hence comes the lofty port, the haughty air, The proud demeanour, and the brow severe." The original version added here the couplet: "While the keen lash some little tyrant wields, Foe to the free-born genius of the fields." The original version added here: "Silent beholds (proud object of reproach) His whole year's labour lost on Mammon's coach!" "Mercantile towns where dullness holds her reign And boors, too lazy to manure the plain:-- There, where two creeks divide the sickly lands, Mis-shapen pile, the gloomy college stands, With mingled _chess_ the sophs their vigils keep And _William_ nods to _Mary_--half asleep; The mopish muse no lively theme essays But toils in _law_, that best her toil repays, With modern Latin, ancient trash explains, Or deals in Logic--for the want of brains. "Attach'd to other times, I cast my view To former days, when all was fresh & new, When _Pocahunta_, in her bearskin clad, Sigh'd to be happy with her English lad: Queen of those woods, embarking on the main, (With _Tomocomo_ following in her train) First of her race, she reach'd the British shore But doom'd to perish, saw her own no more! Chang'd is the scene--where once her gardens smil'd And with base gabbling, vex that injur'd shade Where Freedom flourish'd and _Powhatan_ stray'd." Through sandy wastes and floods of rain To this dejected place I came, Where swarthy nymphs, in tattered gowns, From pine-knots catch their evening flame: Where barren oaks, in close array, With mournful melody condole; Where no gay fabrics meet the eye, Nor painted board, nor barber's pole. Thou town of logs! so justly called, In thee who halts at evening's close, Not dreams from Jove, but hosts of fleas Shall join to sweeten his repose. A curse on this dejected place Where cold, and hot, and wet, and dry, And stagnant ponds of ample space The putrid steams of death supply. Since here I paced on weary steed Ah, blame me not, should I repine That sprightly girl, nor social bed, Nor jovial glass this night is mine. The landlord, gouged in either eye, Here drains his bottle to the dregs, Or borrows Susan's pipe, while she Prepares the bacon and the eggs. Jamaica, that inspires the soul, In these abodes no time has seen To dart its generous influence round, To kindle wit and kill the spleen. The squire of this disheartening inn Affords to none the generous bowl, Displays no Bacchus on the sign To warm the heart and cheer the soul. To cyder, drawn from tilted cask, While each a fond attention paid All grieved to see the empty flask, Its substance gone, its strength decayed. A rambling hag, in dismal notes Screeched out a song, to cheer my grief; Two lads their dull adventures told, A shepherd each--and each a thief. Dame justice here in rigour reigns-- Each has on each the griping paw: Whoe'er with them a bargain makes, Scheme as he will, it ends in law. With scraps of songs and smutty words Each lodger here adorns the walls: The wanton muse no pencil gives, A coal her mean idea scrawls. No merry thought, no flash of wit Was scrawled by this unseemly crew, With pain I read the words they writ Immodest and immoral too. The god of verse, the poet's friend, Whom Nature all indulgent finds-- That god of verse will never lend His powers to such degraded minds. In murmuring streams no chrystal wave To cheer the wretched hamlet flows; But frowning to the distant bog Rosanna with the pitcher goes. Was placed on board of knotty pine; Each gaping gazed, to see me eat While round me lay the slumbering swine. Unblessed be she, whose aukward hand Before me laid the mouldy pone;[A] May she still miss the joyous kiss, Condemned to fret and sleep alone. before the fire on a board or hoe.--_Freneau's note._ The horse that bore me on my way Around me cast a wishful eye, He looked, and saw no manger near, And hung his head, and seemed to sigh. At stump of pine, for want of stall, All night, beneath a dripping tree, Not fed with oats, but filled with wind, And buckwheat straw, alone stood he. Discouraged at so vile a treat, Yet pleased to see the approaching dawn, In haste, we left this dreary place, Nor staid to drink their dear Yoppon.[B] substitute for tea.--_Freneau's note._ May travellers dread to wander here, Unless on penance they be bound-- O may they never venture near, Such fleas and filthiness abound. But should ye come--be short your stay, For Lent is here forever kept-- Depart, ye wretches, haste away, Nor stop to sleep--where I have slept. As Southward bound to Indian isles O'er lonely seas he held his way, A songster of the feather'd kind Approach'd, with golden plumage gay: By sympathetic feelings led And grieving for her sad mischance, Thus Thyrsis to the wanderer said, As circling in her airy dance. "Sad pilgrim on a watery waste, What cruel tempest has compell'd To leave so far your native grove, To perish on this liquid field! Not such a dismal swelling scene (Dread Neptune's wild unsocial sea) But crystal brooks and groves of green, Dear rambling bird, were made for thee. Ah, why amid some flowery mead Did you not stay, where late you play'd: Not thus forsake the cypress grove That lent its kind protecting shade. In vain you spread your weary wings To shun the hideous gulph below; Our barque can be your only hope-- But man you justly deem your foe. Now hovering near, you stoop to lodge Where yonder lofty canvas swells-- Again take wing--refuse our aid, And rather trust the ruffian gales. But Nature tires! your toils are vain-- Could you on stronger pinions rise Than eagles have--for days to come All you could see are seas and skies. Again she comes, again she lights, And casts a pensive look below-- Weak wanderer, trust the traitor, Man, And take the help that we bestow." Down to his side, with circling flight, She flew, and perch'd, and linger'd there; But, worn with wandering, droop'd her wing, And life resign'd in empty air. Printed in the _Daily Advertiser_, February 22, 1790, under the As giants once, in hopes to rise, Heaped up their mountains to the skies; With Pelion piled on Ossa, strove To reach the eternal throne of Jove; So here the hands of ancient days Their fortress from the earth did raise, On whose proud heights, proud men to please, They mounted guns and planted trees. Those trees to lofty stature grown-- All is not right!--they must come down, Nor longer waste their wonted shade Where Colden slept, or Tryon strayed. Let him be sad that placed them there,-- We shall a youthful race prepare; Another grove shall bloom, we trust, When this lies prostrate in the dust. Where Dutchmen once, in ages past, Huge walls and ramparts round them cast, New fabrics raised, on new design, Gay streets and palaces shall shine. To foreign kings no more a slave (Disgrace to Freedom's passing wave) No flags we rear, we feign no mirth, Nor prize the day that gave them birth. While time degrades Palmyra low, Augusta lifts her lofty brow-- While Europe falls to wars a prey, Her monarchs here, should have no sway. Another George shall here reside, While Hudson's bold, unfettered tide Well pleased to see this chief so nigh, With livelier aspect passes by. Along his margin, fresh and clean, Ere long shall belles and beaux be seen, Through moon-light shades, delighted, stray, To view the islands and the bay. Of evening dews no more afraid, Reclining in some favourite shade, Each nymph, in rapture with her trees, Shall sigh to quit the western breeze. To barren hills far southward shoved, These noisy guns shall be removed, No longer here a vain expense, Where time has proved them no defence.-- Advance, bright days! make haste to crown With such fair scenes this honoured town.-- Freedom shall find her charter clear, And plant her seat of commerce here. With eager step and wrinkled brow, The busy sons of care (Disgusted with less splendid scenes) To Congress Hall repair. In order placed, they patient wait To seize each word that flies, From what they hear, they sigh or smile, Look cheerful, grave, or wise. Within these walls the doctrines taught Are of such vast concern, That all the world, with one consent, Here strives to live--and learn. The timorous heart, that cautious shuns All churches, but its own, No more observes its wonted rules; But ventures here, alone. Four hours a day each rank alike, (They that can walk or crawl) Leave children, business, shop, and wife, And steer for Congress Hall. From morning tasks of mending soals The cobler hastes away; At three returns, and tells to Kate The business of the day. The debtor, vext with early duns, Avoids his hated home; And here and there dejected roves 'Till hours of Congress come. The barber, at the well-known time, Forsakes his bearded man, And leaves him with his lathered jaws, To trim them as he can. The tailor, plagued with suits on suits, Neglects Sir Fopling's call, Throws by his goose--slips from his board, And trots to Congress Hall. Peter, methinks you are the happiest wight That ever dealt in ink, or sharpen'd quill. 'Tis yours on every rank of fools to write-- Some prompt with pity, some with laughter kill; On scullions or on dukes you run your rigs, And value George no more than _Whitbread's_ pigs. From morn to night, thro' London's busy streets, New subjects for your pen in crowds are seen, At church, in taverns, balls, or birth-day treats, Sir Joseph Banks, or England's breeding queen; How happy you, whom fortune has decreed Each character to hit--where all will read. We, too, have had your monarch by the nose, Half Europe's kings are fools, the story goes, Mere simpletons, and ideots of renown, Proud, in their frantic fits, man's blood to spill-- 'Tis time they all were travelling down the hill. But, Peter, quit your dukes and little lords, Young princes full of blood and scant of brains-- Our _rebel_ coast some similes affords, And many a subject for your pen contains Preserv'd as fuel for your comic rhymes, Text from the _Daily Advertiser_, March 15, 1790. "Peter Pindar" On a fine Sunday morning I mounted my steed And southward from Hartford had meant to proceed; My baggage was stow'd in a cart very snug, Which Ranger, the gelding, was destined to lug; With his harness and buckles, he loom'd very grand, And was drove by young Darby, a lad of the land-- On land, or on water, most handy was he, A jockey on shore, and a sailor at sea, He knew all the roads, he was so very keen And the Bible by heart, at the age of fifteen. As thus I jogg'd on, to my saddle confined, With Ranger and Darby a distance behind; At last in full view of a steeple we came With a cock on the spire (I suppose he was game; A dove in the pulpit may suit your grave people, But always remember--a cock on the steeple) Cries Darby--"Dear master, I beg you to stay; Believe me, there's danger in driving this way; Our deacons on Sundays have power to arrest And lead us to church--if your honour thinks best-- Though still I must do them the justice to tell, They would choose you should pay them the fine--full as well." The fine (said I) Darby, how much may it be-- A shilling or sixpence?--why, now let me see, Three shillings are all the small pence that remain, And to change a half joe would be rather profane. Is it more than three shillings, the fine that you speak on; What say you good Darby--will that serve the deacon. "Three shillings (cried Darby) why, master, you're jesting!-- Let us luff while we can and make sure of our westing-- Forty shillings, excuse me, is too much to pay It would take my month's wages--that's all I've to say. By taking this road that inclines to the right The squire and the sexton may bid us good night, If once to old Ranger I give up the rein The parson himself may pursue us in vain." "Not I, my good Darby (I answer'd the lad) Leave the church on the left! they would think we were mad; I would sooner rely on the heels of my steed, And pass by them all like a Jehu indeed:-- As long as I'm able to lead in the race Old Ranger, the gelding, will go a good pace, As the deacon pursues, he will fly like a swallow, And you in the cart must, undoubtedly, follow." Then approaching the church, as we pass'd by the door The sexton peep'd out, with a saint or two more, A deacon came forward and waved us his hat, A signal to drop him some money--mind that!-- "Now, Darby (I halloo'd) be ready to skip, Ease off the curb bridle--give Ranger the whip: While you have the rear, and myself lead the way, No doctor or deacon shall catch us this day." By this time the deacon had mounted his poney And chaced for the sake of our souls and--our money: The saint, as he followed, cried--"Stop them, halloo!" As swift as he followed, as swiftly we flew-- "Ah master! (said Darby) I very much fear We must drop him some money to check his career, He is gaining upon us and waves with his hat There's nothing, dear master, will stop him but that. Remember the Beaver (you well know the fable) Who flying the hunters as long as he's able, When he finds that his efforts can nothing avail But death and the puppies are close at his tail, Instead of desponding at such a dead lift He bites off their object, and makes a free gift-- Since fortune all hope of escaping denies Better give them a little, than lose the whole prize." But scarce had he spoke, when we came to a place Whose muddy condition concluded the chace, Down settled the cart--and old Ranger stuck fast Aha! (said the Saint) have I catch'd ye at last? Caetera desunt. incomplete." Text from the 1809 edition. When suns are set, and stars in view, Not only man to slumber yields; But Nature grants this blessing too, To yonder plants, in yonder fields. The Summer heats and lengthening days (To them the same as toil and care) Thrice welcome make the evening breeze, That kindly does their strength repair. At early dawn each plant survey, And see, revived by Nature's hand, With youthful vigour, fresh and gay, Their blossoms blow, their leaves expand. Yon' garden plant, with weeds o'er-run, Not void of thought, perceives its hour, And, watchful of the parting sun, Throughout the night conceals her flower. Like us, the slave of cold and heat, She too enjoys her little span-- With Reason, only less complete Than that which makes the boast of man. Thus, moulded from one common clay, A varied life adorns the plain; By Nature subject to decay, By Nature meant to bloom again! On New-Year's eve, the year was eighty-nine, All clad in black, a back-woods' college crew With crow-bar, sledge, and broad axe did combine To level with the dust their antique hall, In hopes the President would build a new: Yes, yes, (said they), this ancient pile shall fall, And laugh no longer at yon' cobbler's stall. The clock struck seven--in social compact joined, They pledged their sacred honors to proceed: The number seventy-five this feat designed: And first some oaths they swore by candle light On Euclid' Elements--no bible did they need: One must be true, they said, the other might-- Besides, no bible could be found that night. Now darkness o'er the plain her pinions spread, Then rung the bell an unaccustomed peal: Out rushed the brave, the cowards went to bed, And left the attempt to those who felt full bold To pull down halls, where years had seen them kneel: Where Wheelock oft at rakes was wont to scold, Or sung them many a psalm, in days of old. Advancing then towards the tottering hall, (That now at least one hundred years had stood) They gave due notice that it soon should fall-- Lest there some godly wight might gaping stand; (For well they knew the world wants all its good To fright the sturdy sinners of the land, And shame old Satan, with his sooty band.) The reverend man that college gentry awes, Hearing the bell at this unusual hour, Vext at the infringement of the college laws, With Indian stride out-sallied from his den, And made a speech (as being a man in power)-- Alas! it was not heard by one in ten-- No time to heed his speeches, or his pen. "Ah, rogues, said he, ah, whither do ye run, "Bent on the ruin of this antique pile-- "That, all the war, has braved both sword and gun? "Reflect, dear boys, some reverend rats are there, "That now will have to scamper many a mile, "For whom past time old Latin books did spare, "And Attic Greek, and manuscripts most rare. "Relent, relent! to accomplish such designs "Folks bred on college fare are much too weak; "For such attempts men drink your high-proof wines, "Not spiritless switchel[A] and vile hogo drams, "Scarcely sufficient to digest your Greek-- "Come, let the college stand, my dear black lambs-- "Besides--I see you have no battering rams." Thus he--but sighs, and tears, and prayers were lost-- One smote a wall, and one dislodged a post, Tugged at a beam, or pulled down pigeon-holes Where Indian lads were wont to study grammar-- Indeed, they took vast pains and dug like moles, And worked as if they worked to save their souls. Now to its deep foundation shook the dome: Farewell to all its learning, fame and honor! So fell the capitol of heathen Rome, By Goths and Vandals levelled with the dust-- And so shall die the works of Neal O'Connor, (Which he himself will even outlive, we trust:) But now our story's coming to the worst-- Down fell the Pile!--aghast these rebels stood, And wondered at the mischiefs they had done To such a pile, composed of white-oak wood; To such a pile, so antique and renowned, Which many a prayer had heard and many a pun-- So, three huzzas they gave, and fired a round, Then homeward trudged--half drunk--but safe and sound. Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, March 22, 1790, under the Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood The glory of its native wood, By storms destroyed, or length of years, Demands the tribute of our tears. The pile, that took long time to raise, To dust returns by slow decays: But, when its destined years are o'er, We must regret the loss the more. So long accustomed to your aid, The world laments your exit made; So long befriended by your art, Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!-- When monarchs tumble to the ground, Successors easily are found: But, matchless Franklin! what a few Can hope to rival such as you, Who seized from kings their sceptred pride, And turned the lightning's darts aside![A] First published in the _Daily Advertiser_, April 28, 1790. Text from the 1809 edition. Franklin died April 17. "Good Poets, why so full of pain, Are you sincere--or do you feign? Love for your tribe I never had, Nor penned three stanzas, good or bad. At funerals, sometimes, grief appears, Where legacies have purchased tears: 'Tis folly to be sad for nought, From me you never gained a groat. To better trades I turned my views, And never meddled with the muse; Great things I did for rising States, And kept the lightning from some pates. This grand discovery, you adore it, But ne'er will be the better for it: You still are subject to those fires, For poets' houses have no spires. Philosophers are famed for pride; But, pray, be modest--when I died, No "sighs disturbed old ocean's bed," No "Nature wept" for Franklin dead! That day, on which I left the coast, A beggar-man was also lost: If "Nature wept," you must agree She wept for him--as well as me. There's reason even in telling lies-- In such profusion of her "sighs," She was too sparing of a tear-- In Carolina, all was clear: And, if there fell some snow and sleet, Why must it be my winding sheet? Snows oft have cloathed the April plain, Have melted, and will melt again. Poets, I pray you, say no more, Or say what Nature said before; That reason should your pens direct, Or else you pay me no respect. Let reason be your constant rule, And Nature, trust me, is no fool-- When to the dust great men she brings, Make her do--some uncommon things." Sick of the world, in prime of days Constantia took a serious fit-- Resolved to shun all balls and plays And only read what saints had writ-- To Convent Hall she would repair And be a pensive sister there. "What are they all--this glare of things, These insects that around me shine; These beaux and belles on silken wings-- Indeed their pleasures make not mine-- My happiness is all delayed-- I'll go, and find it in the shade." A sailor, loitering from his crew, As chance would have it, passed along-- She told him what she had in view, And he replied--"Fair maid you're wrong, "Let faded nymphs to cloisters go, "Where kisses freeze and love is snow. "The druids' oak and hermits' pine "Afford a gloomy, sad delight; "But why that blush of health resign, "The mingled tint of red and white? "In moistening cells the flowers expire "That, on the plain, all eyes admire. "With such a pensive, pious train "Who, but a hermit, could agree-- "Ah, rather stay to grace the plain, "Or wander on the wave with me: "For you the painted barque shall wait "And I would die for such a freight." "No wandering stranger (she replied) "Can tempt me to forego my plan; "No barque that wafts him o'er the tide, "Nor many a better looking man: "Go, wanderer, plough your gloomy sea, "Constantia must a sister be. "To gain so fair a flower as you, "(The Tar returned) who would not plead? "Nor shall you, nymph, to convents go "While love can write what you must read: "Come, to yon' meadow let us stray, "I have some handsome things to say." "Love has its wish when reason fails-- "In vain he sighed, in vain he strove: "Forsake (said she) those swelling sails "If you would have me--think of love: "Great merit has your sailing art, "But absence would distract my heart." What else was said, we secret keep;-- The Tar, grown fonder of the shore, Neglects his prospects on the deep, And she of convents talks no more:-- He slyly quits the coasting trade She pities her--who seeks the shade. Occasioned by Lord Bellamont's, Lady Hay's, and Other Skeletons, being dug up in Fort George (N. Y.), 1790. To sleep in peace when life is fled, Where shall our mouldering bones be laid-- What care can shun--(I ask with tears) The shovels of succeeding years! Some have maintained, when life is gone, This frame no longer is our own: Hence doctors to our tombs repair, And seize death's slumbering victims there. Alas! what griefs must Man endure! Not even in forts he rests secure:-- Time dims the splendours of a crown, And brings the loftiest rampart down. The breath, once gone, no art recalls! Away we haste to vaulted walls: Some future whim inverts the plain, And stars behold our bones again. Those teeth, dear girls--so much your care-- (With which no ivory can compare) Like these (that once were lady Hay's) May serve the belles of future days. Then take advice from yonder scull; And, when the flames of life grow dull, Leave not a tooth in either jaw, Since dentists steal--and fear no law. He, that would court a sound repose, To barren hills and deserts goes: Where busy hands admit no sun, Where he may doze, 'till all is done. Yet there, even there tho' slyly laid, Posterity invades the hill, And plants our relics where she will. But O! forbear the rising sigh! All care is past with them that die: Jove gave, when they to fate resigned, An opiate of the strongest kind: Death is a sleep, that has no dreams: In which all time a moment seems-- And skeletons perceive no pain Till Nature bids them wake again. Each traveller asks, with fond surprize, Why Thyrsis wastes the fleeting year Where gloomy forests round him rise, And only rustics come to hear-- His taste is odd (they seem to say) Such talents in so poor a way! To those that courts and titles please How dismal is his lot; Beyond the hills, beneath some trees, To live--and be forgot-- In dull retreats, where Nature binds Her mass of clay to vulgar minds. While you lament his barren trade, Tell me--in yonder vale Why grows that flower beneath the shade, So feeble and so pale!-- Why was she not in sun-shine placed To blush and please your men of taste? In lonely wilds, those flowers so fair No curious step allure; And chance, not choice, has placed them there, (Still charming, tho' obscure) Where, heedless of such sweets so nigh, The lazy hind goes loitering by. Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, June 29, 1790, with the Legislature of the United States from New-York to Philadelphia--a measure much agitated at the time Six weeks my dear mistress has been in a fret And nothing but Congress will do for her yet: She says they must come, or her senses she'll lose, From morning till night she is reading the news, And loves the dear fellows that vote for our town (Since no one can relish New-York but a clown, Where your beef is as lean, as if fattened on chaff, And folks are too haughty to worship--a calf) She tells us as how she has read in her books That God gives them meat, but the devil sends cooks; And Grumbleton told us (who often shoots flying) That fish you have plenty--but spoil them in frying; That your streets are as crooked, as crooked can be, Right forward three perches he never could see But his view was cut short with a house or a shop, That stood in his way--and obliged him to stop. Those speakers that wish for New-York to decide,-- 'Tis a pity that talents are so misapplied! My mistress declares she is vext to the heart That genius should take such a pitiful part; For the question, indeed, she is daily distrest, And Gerry, I think, she will ever detest, Who did all he could, with his tongue and his pen To keep the dear Congress shut up in your Den. She insists, the expense of removing is small, And that two or three thousands will answer it all, If that is too much, and we're so very poor-- The passage by water is cheaper, be sure; If people object the expence of a team, Here's Fitch with his wherry, will bring them by steam; And, Nabby!--if once he should take them on board, The Honour will be a sufficient reward. But, as to myself, I vow and declare I wish it would suit them to stay where they are; I plainly foresee, that if once they remove Throughout the long day, we shall drive, and be drove, My madam's red rag will ring like a bell, And the hall and the parlour will never look well; Such scouring will be as has never been seen, We shall always be cleaning, and never be clean, And threats in abundance will work on my fears, Of blows on the back, and of cuffs on the ears-- Two trifles, at present, discourage her paw, The fear of the Lord, and the fear of the law-- But if Congress arrive, she will have such a sway, That gospel and law will be both done away;-- For the sake of a place I must bear all her din, And if ever so angry, do nothing but grin; So Congress, I hope in your town will remain, And Nanny will thank them again and again. Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, July 1, 1790. Text from the Well, Nanny, I am sorry to find, since you writ us, The Congress at last has determined to quit us; You now may begin with your dish-clouts and brooms, To be scouring your knockers and scrubbing your rooms; As for us, my dear Nanny, we're much in a pet, And hundreds of houses will be to be let; Our streets, that were just in a way to look clever, Will now be neglected and nasty as ever; Again we must fret at the Dutchified gutters And pebble-stone pavements, that wear out our trotters.-- My master looks dull, and his spirits are sinking, From morning till night he is smoking and thinking, Laments the expence of destroying the fort, And says, your great people are all of a sort-- He hopes and he prays they may die in a stall, If they leave us in debt--for Federal Hall-- And Strap has declared, he has such regards, He will go, if they go, for the sake of their beards. Miss Letty, poor lady, is so in the pouts, She values no longer our dances and routs, And sits in a corner, dejected and pale, As dull as a cat, and as lean as a rail!-- Poor thing, I'm certain she's in a decay, And all--because Congress Resolve--not to stay!-- This Congress unsettled is, sure, a sad thing, Seven years, my dear Nanny, they've been on the wing; My master would rather saw timber, or dig, Than see them removing to Conegocheague, Where the houses and kitchens are yet to be framed, The trees to be felled, and the streets to be named; Of the two, we had rather your town should receive 'em-- So here, my dear Nanny, in haste I must leave 'em, I'm a dunce at inditing--and as I'm a sinner, The beef is half raw--and the bell rings for dinner! Attach'd to lands that ne'er deceiv'd his hopes, This rustic sees the seasons come and go, His autumn's toils return'd in summer's crops, While limpid streams, to cool his herbage, flow; And, if some cares intrude upon his mind, They are such cares as heaven for man design'd. He to no pompous dome comes, cap in hand, Where new-made 'squires affect the courtly smile: Nor where Pomposo, 'midst his foreign band Extols the sway of kings, in swelling style, With tongue that babbled when it should have hush'd, A head that never thought--a face that never blush'd. He on no party hangs his hopes or fears, Nor seeks the vote that baseness must procure; No stall-fed Mammon, for his gold, reveres, No splendid offers from his chests allure. While showers descend, and suns their beams display, The same, to him, if Congress go or stay. He at no levees watches for a glance, (Slave to disgusting, distant forms and modes) Heeds not the herd at Bufo's midnight dance, Dullman's mean rhymes, or Shylock's birth-day odes: Follies, like these, he deems beneath his care, And Titles leaves for simpletons to wear. Where wandering brooks from mountain sources roll, He seeks at noon the waters of the shade, Drinks deep, and fears no poison in the bowl That Nature for her happiest children made: And from whose clear and gently-passing wave All drink alike--the master and the slave. The scheming statesman shuns his homely door, Who, on the miseries of his country fed, Ne'er glanc'd his eye from that base pilfer'd store To view the sword, suspended by a thread-- Nor that "hand-writing," grav'd upon the wall, That tells him--but in vain--"the sword must fall." He ne'er was made a holiday machine, Wheel'd here and there by 'squires in livery clad, Nor dreads the sons of legislation keen, Hard-hearted laws, and penalties most sad-- In humble hope his little fields were sown, A trifle, in your eye--but all his own. This Indian weed, that once did grow On fair Virginia's fertile plain, From whence it came--again may go, To please some happier swain: Of all the plants that Nature yields This, least beloved, shall shun my fields. In evil hour I first essayed To chew this vile forbidden leaf, When, half ashamed, and half afraid, I touched, and tasted--to my grief: Ah me! the more I was forbid, The more I wished to take a quid. But when I smoaked, in thought profound, And raised the spiral circle high, My heart grew sick, my head turned round-- And what can all this mean, (said I)-- Tobacco surely was designed To poison, and destroy mankind. Unhappy they, whom choice, or fate Inclines to prize this bitter weed; Perpetual source of female hate; On which no beast--but man will feed; That sinks my heart, and turns my head, And sends me, reeling, home to bed! Since man may every region claim, And Nature is, in most, the same, And we a part of her wide plan, Tell me, what makes The Banish'd Man. The favourite spot, that gave us birth, We fondly call our mother earth; And hence our vain distinctions grow, And man to man becomes a foe. That friendship to all nations due, And taught by reason to pursue, That love, which should the world combine, To country, why do we confine? The Grecian sage[A] (old stories say) When question'd where his country lay, Inspired by heaven, made no reply, But rais'd his finger to the sky. No region has, on earth, been known But some, of choice, have made their own:-- Your tears are not from Reason's source If choice assumes the path of force. "Alas! (you cry) that is not all: "My former friendships I recall, "My house, my farm, my days, my nights, "Scenes vanish'd now, and past delights."-- Distance for absence you mistake-- Here, days and nights their circuits make: Here, Nature walks her beauteous round, And friendship may--perhaps--be found. If times grow dark, or wealth retires, Let Reason check your proud desires: Virtue the humblest garb can wear, And loss of wealth is loss of care. Thus half unwilling, half resign'd, Desponding, why, the generous mind?-- Think right,--nor be the hour delayed That flies the sun, to seek the shade. Though injured, exiled, or alone, Nobly presume the world your own, Convinced that, since the world began, Time, only, makes The Banish'd Man. Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, September 1, 1790, with the Occasioned by the Removal of Congress from New-York to From Hudson's banks, in proud array, (Too mean to claim a longer stay) Their new ideas to improve, Behold the generous Congress move! Such thankless conduct much we feared, When Timon's coach stood ready geered, And He--the foremost on the floor, Stood pointing to the Delaware shore. So long confined to little things, They sigh to be where Bavius sings, Where Sporus builds his splendid pile, And Bufo's tawdry Seasons smile. New chaplains, now, shall ope their jaws, New salaries grease unworthy paws: Some reverend man, that turtle carves, Will fatten, while the solder starves. The Yorker asks--but asks in vain-- "What demon bids them 'move again? "Whoever 'moves must suffer loss, "And rolling stones collect no moss. "Have we not paid for chaplains' prayers, "That heaven might smile on state affairs?-- "Put some things up, pulled others down, "And raised our streets through half the town? "Have we not, to our utmost, strove "That Congress might not hence remove-- "At dull debates no silence broke, "And walked on tip-toe while they spoke? "Have we not toiled through cold and heat, "To make the Federal Pile complete-- "Thrown down our Fort, to give them air, "And sent our guns, the devil knows where? "Times change! but Memory still recalls "The Day, when ruffians scaled their walls-- "Sovereigns besieged by angry men, "Mere prisoners in the town of Penn? "Can they forget when, half afraid, "The timorous Council[A] lent no aid; "But left them to the rogues that rob, "The tender mercies of the mob? "Oh! if they can, their lot is cast; "One hundred miles will soon be passed-- "This Day the Federal Dome is cleared, "To Paulus'-Hook the barge is steered, "Where Timon's coach stands ready geered!" "_To serve with love, And shed your blood, Approved may be above, And here below (Examples shew) 'Tis dangerous to be good._" Deep in a vale, a stranger now to arms, Too poor to shine in courts, too proud to beg, He, who once warred on Saratoga's plains, Sits musing o'er his scars, and wooden leg. Remembering still the toil of former days, To other hands he sees his earnings paid;-- They share the due reward--he feeds on praise, Lost in the abyss of want, misfortune's shade. Far, far from domes where splendid tapers glare, 'Tis his from dear bought peace no wealth to win, Removed alike from courtly cringing 'squires, The great-man's Levee, and the proud man's grin. Sold are those arms which once on Britons blazed, When, flushed with conquest, to the charge they came; That power repelled, and Freedom's fabrick raised, She leaves her soldier--famine and a name! By a Legislation Bill proposing a Taxation upon Newspapers "'Tis time to tax the News, (Sangrado cries) "Subjects were never good that were too wise: "In every hamlet, every trifling town, "Some sly, designing fellow sits him down, "On spacious folio prints his weekly mess, "And spreads around the poison of his Press. "Hence, to the World the streams of scandal flow, "Disclosing secrets, that it should not know, "Hence courtiers strut with libels on their backs;-- "And shall not news be humbled by a tax! "Once ('tis most true) such papers did some good, "When British chiefs arrived in angry mood: "By them enkindled, every heart grew warm, "By them excited, all were taught to arm, "When some, retiring to Britannia's clime, "Sat brooding o'er the vast events of time; "Doubtful which side to take, or what to say, "Or who would win, or who would lose the day. "Those times are past; (and past experience shews) "The well-born sort alone, should read the news, "No common herds should get behind the scene "To view the movements of the state machine: "One paper only, filled with courtly stuff, "One paper, for one country is enough, "Where incense offered at Pomposo's shrine "Shall prove his house-dog and himself divine." Published in the _Daily Advertiser_ early in 1791. Text from the A man that owned some trees in town, (And much averse to cut them down) Finding the Law was full and plain, No trees should in the streets remain, One evening seated at his door, Thus gravely talked the matter o'er: "The fatal Day, dear trees, draws nigh, When you must, like your betters, die, Must die!--and every leaf will fade That many a season lent its shade, To drive from hence the summer's heat, And make my porch a favourite seat. "Thrice happy age, when all was new, And trees untouched, unenvied grew, When yet regardless of the axe, They feared no law, and paid no tax! The shepherd then at ease was laid, Or walked beneath their cooling shade; From slender twigs a garland wove, Or traced his god within the grove; Alas! those times are now forgot, An iron age is all our lot: Men are not now what once they were, To hoard up gold is all their care: The busy tribe old Plutus calls To pebbled streets and painted walls; Trees now to grow, is held a crime, And These must perish in their prime! "The trees that once our fathers reared, And even the plundering Briton spared, When shivering here full oft he stood, Or kept his bed for want of wood-- These trees, whose gently bending boughs Have witnessed many a lover's vows, When half afraid, and half in jest, With Nature busy in his breast, With many a sigh, he did not feign, Beneath these boughs he told his pain, Or coaxing here his nymph by night, Forsook the parlour and the light, In talking love, his greatest bliss To squeeze her hand or steal a kiss-- These trees that thus have lent their shade, And many a happy couple made, These old companions, thus endeared, Who never tattled what they heard, Must these, indeed, be killed so soon-- Be murdered by the tenth of June! "But if my harmless trees must fall, A fortune that awaits us all, (All, all must yield to Nature's stroke, And now a man, and now an oak) Are those that round the churches grow In this decree included too? Must these, like common trees, be bled? Is it a crime to shade the dead? Review the law, I pray, at least, And have some mercy on the priest Who every Sunday sweats in black To make us steer the skyward track: The church has lost enough, God knows, Plundered alike by friends and foes-- I hate such mean attempts as these-- Come--let the parson keep his trees! "Yet things, perhaps, are not so bad-- Perhaps, a respite may be had: The vilest rogues that cut our throats, Or knaves that counterfeit our notes, When, by the judge their sentence passed, The gallows proves their doom at last, Swindlers and pests of every kind, For weeks and months a respite find; And shall such nuisances as they, Who make all honest men their prey-- Shall they for months avoid their doom, And you, my trees, in all your bloom, Who never injured small or great, Be murdered at so short a date! "Ye men of law, the occasion seize, And name a counsel for the trees-- Arrest of judgment, sirs, I pray; Excuse them till some future day: These trees that such a nuisance are, Next New-Year we can better spare, To warm our shins, or boil the pot-- The Law, by then, will be forgot." This age is so fertile of mighty events, That people complain, with some reason, no doubt, Besides the time lost, and besides the expence, With reading the papers they're fairly worn out; The past is no longer an object of care, The present consumes all the time they can spare. Thus grumbles the reader, but still he reads on With his pence and his paper unwilling to part: He sees the world passing, men going and gone, Some riding in coaches, and some in a cart: For a peep at the farce a subscription he'll give,-- Revolutions must happen, and printers must live: For a share of your favour we aim with the rest: To enliven the scene we'll exert all our skill, What we have to impart shall be some of the best, And _Multum in Parvo_ our text, if you will; Since we never admitted a clause in our creed, That the greatest employment of life is--to read. The king of the French and the queen of the North At the head of the play, for the season, we find: From the spark that we kindled, a flame has gone forth To astonish the world and enlighten mankind: With a code of new doctrines the universe rings, And Paine is addressing strange sermons to kings. Thus launch'd, as we are, on the ocean of news, In hopes that your pleasure our pains will repay, All honest endeavours the author will use To furnish a feast for the grave and the gay: At least he'll essay such a track to pursue That the world shall approve--and his news shall be true. First published in number one of the _National Gazette_, October By H. Salem, on his Return from Calcutta Your men of the land, from the king to Jack Ketch, All join in supposing the sailor a wretch, That his life is a round of vexation and woe, With always too much or too little to do: In the dead of the night, when other men sleep, He, starboard and larboard, his watches must keep; Imprisoned by Neptune, he lives like a dog, And to know where he is, must depend on a Log, Must fret in a calm, and be sad in a storm; In winter much trouble to keep himself warm: Through the heat of the summer pursuing his trade, No trees, but his topmasts, to yield him a shade: Then, add to the list of the mariner's evils, The water corrupted, the bread full of weevils, Salt junk to be eat, be it better or worse, And, often bull beef of an Irishman's horse: Whosoever is free, he must still be a slave, (Despotic is always the rule on the wave;) Not relished on water, your lords of the main Abhor the republican doctrines of Paine, And each, like the despot of Prussia, may say That his crew has no right, but the right to obey. Such things say the lubbers, and sigh when they've said 'em, But things are not so bad as their fancies persuade 'em: There ne'er was a task but afforded some ease, Nor a calling in life, but had something to please. If the sea has its storms, it has also its calms, A time to sing songs and a time to sing psalms.-- Yes--give me a vessel well timbered and sound, Her bottom good plank, and in rigging well found, If her spars are but staunch, and her oakham swelled tight, From tempests and storms I'll extract some delight-- At sea I would rather have Neptune my jailor, Than a lubber on shore, that despises a sailor. Do they ask me what pleasure I find on the sea?-- Why, absence from land is a pleasure to me: A hamper of porter, and plenty of grog, A friend, when too sleepy, to give me a jog, A coop that will always some poultry afford, Some bottles of gin, and no parson on board, A crew that is brisk when it happens to blow, One compass on deck and another below, A girl, with more sense than the girl at the head, To read me a novel, or make up my bed-- The man that has these, has a treasure in store That millions possess not, who live upon shore: But if it should happen that commerce grew dull, Or Neptune, ill-humoured, should batter our hull, Should damage my cargo, or heave me aground, Or pay me with farthings instead of a pound: Should I always be left in the rear of the race, And this be forever--forever the case; Why then, if the honest plain truth I may tell, I would clew up my topsails, and bid him farewell. To church I went, with good intent, To hear Sangrado preach and pray; But objects there, black, brown and fair, Turned eyes and heart a different way. Miss Patty's fan, Miss Molly's man, With powdered hair and dimple cheek; Miss Bridget's eyes, that once made prize Of Fopling with his hair so sleek: Embroidered gowns, and play-house tunes Estranged all hearts from heaven too wide: I felt most odd, this house of God Should all be flutter, pomp, and pride. Now, pray be wise, no prayers will rise To heaven--where hearts are not sincere. No church was made for Cupid's trade; Then why these arts of ogling here? Since time draws nigh, when you and I, At church, must claim the sexton's care!-- Leave pride at home, when'er you come To pay to heaven your offerings, there! Published in the _National Gazette_, December 5, 1791. Text from Beside a stream, that never yet ran dry, There stands a Town, not high advanced in fame; Tho' few its buildings raised to please the eye, Still this proud title it may fairly claim; A Tavern (its first requisite) is there, A mill, a black-smith's shop, a place of prayer. Nay, more--a little market-house is seen And iron hooks, where beef was never hung, Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean, Pig's head, or sausage link, or bullock's tongue: Look when you will, you see the vacant bench No butcher seated there, no country wench. Great aims were his, who first contriv'd this town; A market he would have--but, humbled now, Sighing, we see its fabric mouldering down, That only serves, at night, to pen the cow: And hence, by way of jest, it may be said That beef is there, tho' never beef that's dead. Abreast the inn--a tree before the door, A Printing-Office lifts its humble head Where busy Type old journals doth explore For news that is thro' all the village read; Who, year from year, (so cruel is his lot) Is author, pressman, devil--and what not? Fame says he is an odd and curious wight, Fond to distraction of this native place; In sense, not very dull nor very bright, Yet shews some marks of humour in his face, One who can pen an anecdote, complete, Or plague the parson with the mackled sheet. Three times a week, by nimble geldings drawn A stage arrives; but scarcely deigns to stop, Unless the driver, far in liquor gone, Has made some business for the black-smith-shop; Then comes this printer's harvest-time of news, Each passenger he eyes with curious glance, And, if his phiz be mark'd of courteous kind, To conversation, straight, he makes advance, Hoping, from thence, some paragraph to find, Some odd adventure, something new and rare, To set the town a-gape, and make it stare. All is not Truth ('tis said) that travellers tell-- So much the better for this man of news; For hence the country round, that know him well, Will, if he prints some lies, his lies excuse. Earthquakes, and battles, shipwrecks, myriads slain-- If false or true--alike to him are gain. But if this motley tribe say nothing new, Then many a lazy, longing look is cast To watch the weary post-boy travelling through, On horse's rump his budget buckled fast; With letters, safe in leathern prison pent, And, wet from press, full many a packet sent. Not Argus with his fifty pair of eyes Look'd sharper for his prey than honest Type Explores each package, of alluring size, Prepar'd to seize them with a nimble gripe, Did not the post-boy watch his goods, and swear That village Type shall only have his share. Ask you what matter fills his various page? A mere farrago 'tis, of mingled things; Whate'er is done on Madam Terra's stage He to the knowledge of his townsmen brings: One while, he tells of monarchs run away; And now, of witches drown'd in Buzzard's bay. Some miracles he makes, and some he steals; Half Nature's works are giants in his eyes: Much, very much, in wonderment he deals,-- New-Hampshire apples grown to pumpkin size, Pumpkins almost as large as country inns, And ladies bearing, each,--three lovely twins. He, births and deaths with cold indifference views; A paragraph from him is all they claim: And here the rural squire, amongst the news Sees the fair record of some lordling's fame; All that was good, minutely brought to light, All that was ill,--conceal'd from vulgar sight! Source of the wisdom of the country round! Again I turn to that poor lonely shed Where many an author all his fame has found, And wretched proofs by candle-light are read, Inverted letters, left the page to grace, Colons derang'd, and commas out of place. Beneath this roof the Muses chose their home;-- Sad was their choice, less bookish ladies say. Since from the blessed hour they deign'd to come One single cob-web was not brush'd away:-- Fate early had pronounc'd this building's doom, Ne'er to be vex'd with boonder, brush, or broom. Here, full in view, the ink-bespangled press Gives to the world its children, with a groan, Some born to live a month--a day--some less; Some, why they live at all, not clearly known, All that are born must die--Type well knows that-- The Almanack's his longest-living brat. Here lie the types, in curious order rang'd Ready alike to imprint your prose or verse; Ready to speak (their order only chang'd) Creek-Indian lingo, Dutch, or Highland Erse; These types have printed Erskine's _Gospel Treat_, Tom Durfey's songs, and Bunyan's works, complete. But faded are their charms--their beauty fled! No more their work your nicer eyes admire; Hence, from this press no courtly stuff is read; But almanacks, and ballads for the Squire, Dull paragraphs, in homely language dress'd, The pedlar's bill, and sermons by request. Here, doom'd the fortune of the press to try, From year to year poor Type his trade pursues-- With anxious care and circumspective eye He dresses out his little sheet of news; Now laughing at the world, now looking grave, At once the Muse's midwife--and her slave. In by-past years, perplext with vast designs, In cities fair he strove to gain a seat; But, wandering to a wood of many pines, In solitude he found his best retreat, When sick of towns, and sorrowful at heart, He to those deserts brought his favorite art. Thou, who art plac'd in some more favour'd spot, Where spires ascend, and ships from every clime Discharge their freights--despise not thou the lot Of humble Type, who here has pass'd his prime; At case and press has labour'd many a day, But now, in years, is verging to decay. He, in his time, the patriot of his town, With press and pen attack'd the royal side, Did what he could to pull their Lion down, Clipp'd at his beard, and twitch'd his sacred hide, Mimick'd his roarings, trod upon his toes, Pelted young whelps, and tweak'd the old one's nose. Rous'd by his page, at church or court-house read, From depths of woods the willing rustics ran, Now by a priest, and now some deacon led With clubs and spits to guard the rights of man; Marching afar, to fight Burgoyne or Howe. Where are they now?--the Village asks with grief, What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?-- Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief, Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains; Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach For seven-years' pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach. Ye Guardians of your country and her laws! Since to the pen and press so much we owe Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause, From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow; Hence, a new order grows on reason's plan, And turns the fierce barbarian into--man. Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd, Man, always found a tyrant or a slave, Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave: Despots and kings this restless race may share,-- But knowledge only makes them worth your care! Great things have pass'd the last revolving year; France on a curious jaunt has seen her king go,-- Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian bear, Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domingo-- Sorry we are that Pompeys, Caesars, Catos Discord, we think, must always be the lot Of this poor world--nor is that discord vain, Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were not, Full many an honest Type would starve--that's plain; Wars are their gain, whatever cause is found-- Empires--or Cats-skins brought from Nootka-sound. The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadly baisted-- And many a Christian despot stands, contriving Who next shall bleed--what country next be wasted-- This is the trade by which they get their living: From Prussian Frederick, this the general plan To Empress Kate--that burns the Rights of Man, The Pope (at Rome) is in a sweat, they tell us; Of freedom's pipe he cannot bear the music, And worst of all when Frenchmen blow the bellows, His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, and grey, All think it best to keep--the good old way. Britain, (fame whispers) has unrigg'd her fleet-- Now tell us what the world will do for thunder?-- Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat Are at an end when Englishmen knock under: Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be spent, Lightning will fall--full twenty five per cent. I have found this only in the edition of 1795. Within these wooden walls, confined, The ruin lurks of human kind; More mischiefs here, united, dwell, And more diseases haunt this cell Or ever cursed Pandora's box. Within these prison-walls repose The seeds of many a bloody nose; The chattering tongue, the horrid oath; The fist for fighting, nothing loth; The passion quick, no words can tame, That bursts like sulphur into flame; The nose with diamonds glowing red, The bloated eye, the broken head! Forever fastened be this door-- Confined within, a thousand more Destructive fiends of hateful shape, Even now are plotting an escape, Here, only by a cork restrained, In slender walls of wood contained, In all their dirt of death reside Revenge, that ne'er was satisfied; The tree that bears the deadly fruit Of murder, maiming, and dispute; Assault, that innocence assails, The Images of gloomy jails The Giddy Thought, on mischief bent, The midnight hour, in folly spent, All These within this cask appear, And Jack, the hangman, in the rear! Thrice happy he, who early taught By Nature, ne'er this poison sought; Who, friendly to his own repose, Treads under foot this worst of foes,-- He, with the purling stream content, The beverage quaffs that Nature meant; In Reason's scale his actions weighed, His spirits want no foreign aid-- Not swell'd too high, or sunk too low, Placid, his easy minutes flow; Long life is his, in vigour pass'd, Existence, welcome to the last, A spring, that never yet grew stale-- Such virtue lies in--Adam's Ale! "Happy would it be for every community if ardent spirits could be The man that joins in life's career And hopes to find some comfort here; To rise above this earthly mass, The only way's to drink his Glass. But, still, on this uncertain stage, Where hopes and fears the soul engage; And while, amid the joyous band, Unheeded flows the measured sand, Forget not as the moments pass, That Time shall bring the parting glass! In spite of all the mirth I've heard, This is the glass I always feared; The glass that would the rest destroy, The farewell cup, the close of joy! With You, whom Reason taught to think, I could, for ages, sit and drink: But with the fool, the sot, the ass, I haste to take the parting glass. The luckless wight, that still delays His draught of joys to future days, Delays too long--for then, alas! Old age steps up, and--breaks the glass! The nymph, who boasts no borrowed charms, Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms; What tho' she tends this country inn, And mixes wine, and deals out gin? With such a kind, obliging lass I sigh, to take the parting glass. With him, who always talks of gain, (Dull Momus, of the plodding train)-- The wretch, who thrives by others' woes, And carries grief where'er he goes:-- With people of this knavish class The first is still my parting glass. With those that drink before they dine-- With him that apes the grunting swine, Who fills his page with low abuse, And strives to act the gabbling goose Turned out by fate to feed on grass-- Boy, give me quick, the parting glass. The man, whose friendship is sincere, Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear:-- It would require a heart of brass With him to take the parting glass! With him, who quaffs his pot of ale; Who holds to all an even scale; Who hates a knave, in each disguise, And fears him not--whate'er his size-- With him, well pleased my days to pass, May heaven forbid the Parting Glass! Published in the _National Gazette_, May 10, 1790. Text from the Removed from Europe's feuds, a hateful scene (Thank heaven, such wastes of ocean roll between) Where tyrant kings in bloody schemes combine, And each forbodes in tears, Man is no longer mine! Glad we recall the Day that bade us first Spurn at their power, and shun their wars accurst; Pitted and gaffed no more for England's glory Nor made the tag-rag-bobtail of their story. Something still wrong in every system lurks, Something imperfect haunts all human works-- Wars must be hatched, unthinking men to fleece, Or we, this day, had been in perfect peace, With double bolts our Janus' temple shut, Nor terror reigned through each back-woods-man's hut, No rattling drums assailed the peasant's ear Nor Indian yells disturbed our sad frontier, Nor gallant chiefs, 'gainst Indian hosts combined Scaped from the trap--to leave their tails behind. Peace to all feuds!--and come the happier day When Reason's sun shall light us on our way; When erring man shall all his Rights retrieve, No despots rule him, and no priests deceive, Till then, Columbia!--watch each stretch of power, Nor sleep too soundly at the midnight hour, By flattery won, and lulled by soothing strains, Silenus took his nap--and waked in chains-- In a soft dream of smooth delusion led Unthinking Gallia bowed her drooping head To tyrants' yokes--and met such bruises there, As now must take three ages to repair. Then keep the paths of dear bought freedom clear, Nor slavish systems grant admittance here. Let some in beer place their delight, O'er bottled porter waste the night, Or sip the rosy wine: A dish of Tea more pleases me, Yields softer joys, provokes less noise, And breeds no base design. From China's groves, this present brought, Enlivens every power of thought, Riggs many a ship for sea: Old maids it warms, young widows charms; And ladies' men, not one in ten But courts them for their Tea. When throbbing pains assail my head, And dullness o'er my brain is spread, (The muse no longer kind) A single sip dispels the hyp: To chace the gloom, fresh spirits come, The flood-tide of the mind. When worn with toil, or vext with care, Let Susan but this draught prepare, And I forget my pain. This magic bowl revives the soul; With gentlest sway, bids care be gay; Nor mounts, to cloud the brain. If learned men the truth would speak They prize it far beyond their Greek, More fond attention pay; No Hebrew root so well can suit; More quickly taught, less dearly bought, Yet studied twice a day. This leaf, from distant regions sprung, Puts life into the female tongue, And aids the cause of love. Such power has Tea o'er bond and free; Which priests admire, delights the 'squire, And Galen's sons approve. Published in the _National Gazette_, July 7, 1792. Text from the A Day ever Memorable to Regenerated France Bright Day, that did to France restore What priests and kings had seiz'd away, That bade her generous sons disdain The fetters that their fathers wore, The titled slave, a tyrant's sway, That ne'er shall curse her soil again! Bright day! a partner in thy joy, Columbia hails the rising sun, She feels her toils, her blood repaid, When fiercely frantic to destroy, (Proud of the laurels he had won) The Briton, here, unsheath'd his blade. By traitors driven to ruin's brink Fair Freedom dreads united knaves, The world must fall if she must bleed;-- And yet, by heaven! I'm proud to think The world was ne'er subdued by slaves-- Nor shall the hireling herd succeed. Boy! fill the generous goblet high; Success to France, shall be the toast: The fall of kings the fates foredoom, The crown decays, its' splendours die; And they, who were a nation's boast, Sink, and expire in endless gloom. Thou, stranger, from a distant shore,[A] Where fetter'd men their rights avow, Why on this joyous day so sad? Louis insults with chains no more,-- Then why thus wear a clouded brow, When every manly heart is glad? Some passing days and rolling years May see the wrath of kings display'd, Their wars to prop the tarnish'd crown; But orphans' groans, and widows' tears, And justice lifts her shining blade To bring the tottering bauble down. This was published in the _National Gazette_, July 14, 1792, introduced as follows: "_HE who does not read in the book of the Odes, is like a man standing with his face flat against a wall: he can neither move forward, nor stir an inch backward._--Hau Kiou Choaan." On July 14, 1789, the French people made their first armed stand Wise was your plan when twenty years ago From Patrick's isle you first resolved to stray, Where lords and knights, as thick as rushes grow, And vulgar folks are in each other's way; Where mother-country acts the step-dame's part, Cuts off, by aid of hemp, each petty sinner, And twice or thrice in every score of years Hatches sad wars to make her brood the thinner. How few aspire to quit the ungrateful soil That starves the plant it had the strength to bear: How many stay, to grieve, and fret, and toil, And view the plenty that they must not share. This you beheld, and westward set your nose, Like some bold prow, that ploughs the Atlantic foam, And left less venturous weights, like famished crows,-- To feed on hog-peas, hips, and haws, at home. Safe landed here, not long the coast detained Your wary steps:--but wandering on, you found Far in the west, a paltry spot of land, That no man envied, and that no man owned. A woody hill, beside a dismal bog-- This was your choice; nor were you much to blame: And here, responsive to the croaking frog, You grubbed, and stubbed, and feared no landlord's claim. An axe, an adze, a hammer, and a saw; These were the tools, that built your humble shed: A cock, a hen, a mastiff, and a cow: These were your subjects, to this desert led. Now times are changed--and labour's nervous hand Bids harvests rise where briars and bushes grew; The dismal bog, by lengthy sluices drained, Supports no more hoarse captain Bull Frog's crew.-- Prosper your toil!--but, friend, had you remained In lands, where starred and gartered nobles shine, When you had, thus, to sixty years attained, What different fate, 'Squire Crispin, had been thine! Nine pence a day, coarse fare, a bed of boards, The midnight loom, high rents, and excised beer; Slave to dull squires, kings' brats, and huffish lords, (Thanks be to Heaven) not yet in fashion here! Much pleased am I, that you approve Freedom's blest cause that brought me here: Ireland I loved--but there they strove To make me bend to King and Peer. I could not bow to noble knaves, Who Equal Rights to men deny: Scornful, I left a land of slaves, And hither came, my axe to ply: The axe has well repaid my toil-- No king, no priest, I yet espy To tythe my hogs, to tax my soil, And suck my whiskey bottle dry. In foreign lands what snares are laid! There royal rights all right defeat; They taxed my sun, they taxed my shade, They taxed the offal that I eat. They taxed my hat, they taxed my shoes, Fresh taxes still on taxes grew; They would have taxed my very nose, Had I not fled, dear friends, to you. Since the day I attempted to print a gazette, This Shylock Ap-Shenkin does nothing but fret: Now preaching and screeching, then nibbling and scribbling, Instead of whole columns our page to abuse, Your readers would rather be treated with News: While wars are a-brewing, and kingdoms undoing, While monarchs are falling, and princesses squalling, While France is reforming, and Irishmen storming-- In a glare of such splendour, what folly to fret At so humble a thing as a poet's Gazette! No favours I ask'd from your friends in the East: On your wretched soup-meagre I left them to feast; So many base lies you have sent them in print, That scarcely a man at our paper will squint:-- And now you begin (with a grunt and a grin, With the bray of an ass, and a visage of brass, With a quill in your hand and a Lie in your mouth) To play the same trick on the men of the South! One Printer for Congress (some think) is enough, To flatter, and lie, to palaver, and puff, To preach up in favour of monarchs and titles, And garters, and ribbands, to prey on our vitals: Who knows but Pomposo will give it in fee, Or make mister Shenkin the Grand Patentee!!! Then take to your scrapers, ye Republican Papers, No rogue shall go snacks--and the News-Paper Tax Shall be puff'd to the skies, as a measure most wise-- So, a spaniel, when master is angry, and kicks it, Sneaks up to his shoe, and submissively licks it. Text from the edition of 1795. First published in the _National Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume, Since, to all knavish wights a foe, I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em, Or drive them to the shades below: With spirit, still, of Democratic proof, And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof: What doom the fates intend, is hard to say, Whether to live to some far-distant day, Or sickening in your prime, In this bard-baiting clime, Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away. "Virtue, order, and religion, "Haste, and seek some other region; "Your plan is laid, to hunt them down, "Destroy the mitre, rend the gown, "And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore"-- Did ever volume plan so much before? For seven years past, a host of busy foes Have buzz'd about your nose, White, black, and grey, by night and day; Garbling, lying, singing, sighing: These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering--on the wing-- And, wafted still as discord's demon guides, Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides. Well!--let the fates decree whate'er they please: Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup, Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up, This I can say, you've spread your wings afar, Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star; Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side, With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride. "Nine months are now elaps'd, dear rambling paper, Since first on this world's stage you cut your caper With spirit still of democratic proof, And still despising _Whaacum's_ canker'd hoof-- What doom the fates decree, is hard to say, Whether to live to some far distant day, Or sickening in your prime In this news-taxing clime, Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away. Haste and seek some other region," etc. "*'The National Gazette is--the vehicle of party spleen and opposition to the great principles of order, virtue, and religion.' Gaz. U. States." In the same hour two lovely youths were born, Nature, with care, had moulded either clay: In the same hour, from this world's limits torn, The murderous Indian seiz'd their lives away. Distress to aid, impell'd each generous breast; With nervous arm they brav'd the adverse tide, In friendship's cause encounter'd death's embrace, Blameless they liv'd, in honour's path they died. But ah! what art shall dry a father's tears! Who shall relieve, or what beguile his pain! Clouds shade his sun, and griefs advance with years-- Nature gave joys, to take those joys again. Thou, that shall come to these sequester'd streams, When times to come their story shall relate; Let the fond heart, that native worth esteems, Revere their virtues, and bemoan their fate. Published in the _National Gazette_, July 28, 1792, with a note As Aristippus once, with weary feet, Pursued his way through polish'd Athens' street, Minding no business but his own; Out rush'd a set of whelps With sun-burnt scalps, (Black, red, and brown,) That nipt his heels, and nibbled at his gown. While, with his staff, he kept them all at bay Some yelp'd aloud, some howl'd in dismal strain, Some wish'd the sage to bark again:-- Even little Shylock seem'd to say, "Answer us, sir, in your best way:-- "We are, 'tis true, a snarling crew, "But with our jaws have gain'd applause, "And--sir--can worry such as you." The sage beheld their spite with steady eye, And only stopp'd to make this short reply: "Hark ye, my dogs, I have not learn'd to yelp, "Nor waste my breath on every lousy whelp; "Much less, to write, or stain my wholesome page "In answering puppies--bursting with their rage: "Hence to your straw!--such contest I disdain: "Learn this, ('tis not amiss) "For Men I keep a pen, "For dogs, a cane!" If of Religion I have made a sport, Then why not cite me to the Bishop's Court? Fair to the world let every page be set, And prove your charge from all I've said and writ:-- What if this heart no narrow notions bind, Its pure good-will extends to all mankind: Suppose I ask no portion from your feast, Nor heaven-ward ride behind your parish priest, Because I wear not Shylock's Sunday face Must I, for that, be loaded with disgrace? The time has been,--the time, I fear, is now, When holy phrenzy would erect her brow, Round some poor wight with painted devils meet, And worse than Smithfield blaze through every street; But wholesome laws prevent such horrid scenes, No more afraid of deacons and of deans, In this new world our joyful Psalm we sing Text from the edition of 1795. First published in the _National Gazette_, Sept. 26, 1792, with the following introduction: "It is Barbara Pyramidum sileat miracula Memphis;[a] Heu, male servili marmora structa manu! Libera jam, ruptis, Atlantias ora, catenis, Jactat opus Phario marmore nobilius: Namque Columbiadae, facti monumenta parantes, Vulgarem spernunt sumere materiam; Magnanimi coelum scandunt, perituraque saxa Quod vincat, celsa de Jovis arce petunt Audax inde cohors stellis _E Pluribus Unum_ Ardua Pyramidos tollit ad astra caput. Ergo, Tempus edax, quamvis durissima saevo Saxa domas morsu, nil ibi juris habes: Dumque polo solitis cognata nitoribus ardent Sidera fulgebit Pyramis illa suis! Philadelphia.--_Freneau's note._ No more let barbarous Memphis boast Huge structures reared by servile hands-- A nation on the Atlantic coast Fettered no more in foreign bands, A nobler Pyramid displays Columbia's sons, to extend the fame Of their exploits to future years, No marble from the quarry claim, But, soaring to the starry spheres, Materials seek in Jove's blue sky To endure when brass and marble die! Arrived among the shining host, Fearless, the proud invaders spoil From countless gems, in aether lost, These Stars, to crown their mighty toil: To heaven a Pyramid they rear And point the summit with a star. Old wasteful Time! though still you gain Dominion o'er the brazen tower, On This your teeth will gnaw in vain, Finding its strength beyond their power: While kindred stars in aether glow, This Pyramid will shine below! From Bourbon's brow the crown remov'd, Low in the dust is laid; And, parted now from all she lov'd, Maria's[A] beauties fade: What shall relieve her sad distress, What power recall that former state When drinking deep her seas of bliss, She smil'd and look'd so sweet!-- With aching heart and haggard eye She views the palace,[B] towering high, Where, once, were pass'd her brightest days, And nations stood, in wild amaze, Louis! to see you eat. This gaudy vision to restore Shall fate its laws repeal, And cruel despots rise once more To plan a new Bastille! Shall, from their sheathes, ten thousand blades[C] In glittering vengeance start To mow down slaves, and slice off heads, Taking a monarch's part?-- Ah no!--the heavens this hope refuse; Despots! they send you no such news-- Nor Conde, fierce, nor Frederick, stout, Nor Catharine brings this work about, Nor Brunswick's warlike art: _Reflections on the Revolution in France_, published October, seen her in 1774 and the "prostrate homage" which her nation had paid to her at that time, he dwells upon the contrast of to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, oeconomists, and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever." Nor He,[D] that once, with fire and sword, This western world alarm'd: Throughout our clime whose thunders roar'd, Whose legions round us swarm'd-- Once more his tyrant arm invades A race[E] that dare be free: His Myrmidons, with murdering blades, In one base cause agree!-- Ill fate attend on every scheme That tends to darken Reason's beam: And, rising with gigantic might In Virtue's cause, I see unite Worlds, under Freedom's Tree! Valour, at length, by Fortune led, The Rights of Man restores; And Gallia, now from bondage freed, Her rising sun adores: On Equal Rights, her fabric plann'd, Storms idly round it rave, No longer breathes in Gallic land A monarch, or a slave! At distance far, and self-remov'd From all he own'd and all he lov'd, See!--turn'd his back on Freedom's blaze, In foreign lands the Emigrant strays, Or finds an early grave! Enroll'd with these--and close immur'd, The gallant chief[F] is found, That, once, admiring crowds ador'd, Through either world renown'd, Here, bold in arms, and firm in heart, He help'd to gain our cause, Yet could not from a tyrant part, But, turn'd to embrace his laws!-- Ah! hadst thou stay'd in fair Auvergne,[G] And Truth from Paine vouchsaf'd to learn; There, happy, honour'd, and retir'd, Both hemispheres had still admir'd, Still crown'd you with applause. See!--doom'd to fare on famish'd steeds, The rude Hungarians fly; Brunswick, with drooping courage leads Death's meagre family: In dismal groups, o'er hosts of dead, Their madness they bemoan, No friendly hand to give them bread, No Thionville their own! The Gaul, enrag'd as they retire, Hurls at their heads his blaze of fire-- What hosts of Frederick's reeking crew Dying, have bid the world adieu, To dogs their flesh been thrown! Escap'd from death, a mangled train In scatter'd bands retreat: Where, bounding on Silesia's plain, The Despot[H] holds his seat; With feeble step, I see them go The heavy news to tell Where Oder's lazy waters flow, Or glides the swift Moselle; Where Rhine his various journey moves Through marshy lands and ruin'd groves, Or, where the vast Danubian flood (So often stain'd by Austrian blood) Foams with the autumnal swell. But shall they not some tidings bear Of Freedom's sacred flame, And shall not groaning millions hear The long abandon'd name?-- Through ages past, their spirits broke, I see them spurn old laws, Indignant, burst the Austrian yoke, And clip the Eagle's[I] claws: From shore to shore, from sea to sea They join, to set the wretched free, And, driving from the servile court Each titled slave--they help support O France! the world to thee must owe A debt they ne'er can pay: The Rights of Man you bid them know, And kindle Reason's Day! Columbia, in your friendship blest, Your gallant deeds shall hail-- On the same ground our fortunes rest, Must flourish, or must fail: But--should all Europe's slaves combine Against a cause so fair as thine, And Asia aid a league so base-- Defeat would all their aims disgrace, reproduced in the editions of 1795 and 1809. Text from the former These gallant men that some so much despise Did not, like mushrooms, spring up in a night: By them instructed, France again shall rise, And every Frenchman learn his native right. American! when in your country's cause You march'd, and dar'd the English lion's jaws, Crush'd Hessian slaves, and made their hosts retreat, Say, were you not Republican--complete? Forever banish'd, now, be prince and king, To Nations and to Laws our reverence due: And let not language to my memory bring, A word that might recall the infernal crew, Monarch!--henceforth I blot it from my page, Monarchs and slaves too long disgrace this age; But thou, Republican, that some disclaim, Shalt save a world, and damn a tyrant's fame. Friends to Republics, cross the Atlantic brine, Low in the dust see regal splendour laid: Hopeless forever, sleeps the Bourbon line Long practis'd adepts in the murdering trade! With patriot care the nation's will expressing Republicans shall prove all Europe's blessing, Pull from his height each blustering Noble down And chace all modern Tarquins from the throne. I have found this only in the 1795 version. Discharg'd by France, no more the royal pair Claim from a nation's love a nation's care: Their splendid race no more a palace holds,-- While Louis frets, Antonietta scolds; Folly's sad victims, fortune's bitter sport, They take their stand among the "common sort," Doom'd through the world, in sad reverse, to roam, Perhaps--without a shelter or a home! To shew our pity for their short-liv'd reign What shall we do, or how express our pain? Since for their persons no relief is found But cruel mobs degrade them to the ground, To shew how deeply we regret their fall We hang their portraits in our Senate Hall! With Mr. Paine's Rights of Man Thus briefly sketch'd the sacred Rights of Man, How inconsistent with the Royal Plan! Which for itself exclusive honour craves, Where some are masters born, and millions slaves. With what contempt must every eye look down On that base, childish bauble call'd a crown, The gilded bait, that lures the crowd, to come, Bow down their necks, and meet a slavish doom; The source of half the miseries men endure, The quack that kills them, while it seems to cure. Rous'd by the Reason of his manly page, Once more shall Paine a listening world engage: From Reason's source, a bold reform he brings, In raising up mankind, he pulls down kings, Who, source of discord, patrons of all wrong, On blood and murder have been fed too long: Hid from the world, and tutor'd to be base, The curse, the scourge, the ruin of our race, Theirs was the task, a dull designing few, To shackle beings that they scarcely knew, Who made this globe the residence of slaves, And built their thrones on systems form'd by knaves-- Advance, bright years, to work their final fall, And haste the period that shall crush them all. Who, that has read and scann'd the historic page But glows, at every line, with kindling rage, To see by them the rights of men aspers'd, Freedom restrain'd, and Nature's law revers'd, Men, rank'd with beasts, by monarchs will'd away, And bound young fools, or madmen to obey: Now driven to wars, and now oppress'd at home, Compell'd in crowds o'er distant seas to roam, From India's climes the plundered prize to bring To glad the strumpet, or to glut the king. Columbia, hail! immortal be thy reign: Without a king, we till the smiling plain; Without a king, we trace the unbounded sea, And traffic round the globe, through each degree; Each foreign clime our honour'd flag reveres, Which asks no monarch, to support the Stars: Without a king, the Laws maintain their sway, While honour bids each generous heart obey. Be ours the task the ambitious to restrain, And this great lesson teach--that kings are vain; That warring realms to certain ruin haste, That kings subsist by war, and wars are waste: So shall our nation, form'd on Virtue's plan, Remain the guardian of the Rights of Man, A vast Republic, fam'd through every clime, Without a king, to see the end of time. Text from the 1795 edition. Thou Liberty! celestial light So long conceal'd from Gallic lands, Goddess, in ancient days ador'd By Gallia's conquering bands: Thou Liberty! whom savage kings Have plac'd among forbidden things, Tho' still averse that man be free, Secret, they bow to Liberty-- O, to my accents lend an ear, Blest object of each tyrant's fear, While I to modern days recall The Lyric muse of ancient Gaul. Ere yet my willing voice obeys The transports of the heart, The goddess to my view displays A temple rear'd in ancient days, Fit subject for the muse's art. Now, round the world I cast my eye, With pain, its ruins I descry: This temple once to Freedom rais'd Thermopylae! in thy fam'd strait-- I see it to the dust debas'd, And servile chains, its fate! In those fair climes, where freedom reign'd, Two thousand years degrade the Grecian name, I see them still enslav'd, enchain'd; But France from Rome and Athens caught the flame-- A temple now to heaven they raise Where nations bound in ties of peace With olive-boughs shall throng to praise The gallant Gaul, that bade all discord cease. Before this Pantheon, fair and tall, The piles of darker ages fall, And freemen here no longer trace The monuments of man's disgrace: Before its porch, at Freedom's tree The cap[A] that once Helvetia knew (The terror of the tyrant crew) And on our country's altar trace The features of each honour'd face-- The men that strove for equal laws, Or perish'd, martyrs in their cause. of Switzerland.--_Freneau's note._ Ye gallant chiefs, above all praise, Ye Brutuses of ancient days! Tho' fortune long has strove to blast, Your virtues are repaid at last. Your heavenly feasts awhile forbear And deign to make my song your care; My lyre a bolder note attains, And rivals old Tyrtoeus' strains; The ambient air returns the sound, And kindles rapture all around. With thee begins the lofty theme, Eternal Nature--power supreme, Who planted Freedom in the mind, The first great right of all mankind: Too long presumptuous folly dar'd To veil our race from thy regard; Tyrants on ignorance form'd their plan, And made their crimes, the crimes of man, Let victory but befriend our cause And reason deign to dictate laws; And once mankind their rights reclaim And honour pay to thy great name.-- But O! what cries our joys molest, What discord drowns sweet music's feast! What demon, from perdition, leads Night, fire and thunder o'er our heads! In northern realms, prepar'd for fight, A thousand savage clans unite.-- To avenge a faithless Helen's doom All Europe's slaves, determin'd, come Freedom's fair fabric to destroy And wrap in flames our modern Troy! These these are they--the murdering bands, Whose blood, of old, distain'd our lands, By our forefathers chac'd and slain, The monuments of death remain: Hungarians, wet with human blood, Ye Saxons fierce, so oft subdued By ancient Gauls on Gallic plains, Dread, dread the race that still remains: Return, and seek your dark abodes, Your dens and caves in northern woods, Nor stay to tell each kindred ghost What thousands from your tribes are lost. A friend[B] from hell, of murderous brood, Stain'd with a hapless husband's blood, Unites with Danube[C] and the Spree,[C] Who arm to make the French their prey: To check their hosts and chill with fear, Frenchmen, advance to your frontier. There dig the Eternal Tomb of kings, Or Poland's fate each monster brings, Mows millions down, your cause defeats, And Ismael's horrid scene[D] repeats. her husband, Peter the 3d, and deprived him of life in the Austrian and Prussian powers.--_Ib._ Russian army. After carrying it by assault, upwards of by the Russian barbarians, in less than three hours.--_Ib._ Ye nations brave, so long rever'd, Whom Rome, in all her glory, fear'd; Whose stubborn souls no tyrant broke To bow the neck to Caesar's yoke-- Scythians! whom Romans never chain'd; Germans! that unsubdued remain'd, Ah! see your sons, a sordid race, With despots leagu'd, to their disgrace Aid the base cause that you abhor, And hurl on France the storm of war. Our bold attempts shake modern Rome, She bids her kindred despots come; From Italy her forces draws To waste their blood in Tarquin's cause: A hundred hords of foes advance, Embodying on the verge of France; 'Mongst these, to guide the flame of war, I see Porsenna's[E] just a score, While from the soil, by thousands, spring Scevola's[F] to destroy each king. the Romans.--_Freneau's note._ O Rome! what glory you consign To those who court your ancient fame! Frenchmen, like Romans, now shall shine, And copying them, their ancient honours claim. O France, my native clime, my country dear, While youth remains, may I behold you free, Each tyrant crush'd, no threatening despot near To endanger Liberty! By you unfetter'd be all human kind, No slaves on earth be known And man be blest, in friendship join'd, O toi, dont l'auguste lumiere Si long tems avait fui nos yeux! Toi, jadis l'idole premiere De mes invincibles ayeux, LIBERTE, qu'un tyran sauvage, A l'instant meme qu'il t'outrage Honore par des voeux secrets; A mes accens prete l'oreille, Aujourdhui ma muse reveille L'antique lutte des vieux Francais. Avant que ma voix obeisse Au transport que saisit mes sens, Montre moi deesse propice Un temple digne de mes chants! Mon oeil a parcouru la terre J'y trouve a peine la pouissiere D'un dome a ton nom consacre, Un tyran siege aux Thermopyles Et sous les chaines les plus viles Le capitole est encombre. Vingt siecles de honte et de chaines Ont pese sur ces lieux divins; C'est nous qui de Rome et de l'Athenes Resusciterons les destins. Francais, soyons seuls notre exemple Qu'a ma voix on eleve un temple Ou tous les peuples a jamais Depouillant des haines sauvages Viennent de palmes et d'homages Couronner les heros Francais. Devant ce Pantheon sublime Brisez ces palais infamans De nos opprobres et du crime Honteux et cruels monumens. Au pied de ses nobles portiques Plantez ces bonnets Helvetiques Devenus la terreur des rois; Et sur l'autel de la patrie Gravez l'honorable effigie Des martirs sacres de nos droits. Vous m'entendez, manes augustes Les Destins trop long tems injustes Couronnent enfin vos vertus-- Paraissez, ombres adorees Venez de vos fetes sacrees Remplir les sublimes concerts Deja ma lyre transportee Rivale des chants de Tyrtee De ses sons etonne les airs. C'est par toi que l'hymne commence Maitre supreme, etre eternal! Toi qui sis de l'independance Le premier besoin du mortel. Long tems l'ignorance et l'audace Couvrirent ton auguste face, Du masque impur de leurs forfaits Un seul combat, une victoire Venge nos droits et rend ta gloire Plus eclatante que jamais. Mais quels cris viennent de nos fetes Troubler les chants majestueux? Quel demon porte sur nos tetes La nuit, le tonnerre, et les feux? Verrons nous des hordes sauvages Inonder encore nos rivages, Des terrens du Septentrion; Et pour venger une autre Helene Tout la force Europeene Investit une autre Ilion. C'etoient ces bandes homicides Dont le sang verse tant de fois De mes ancetres intrepides Atteste encore les exploits-- Esclaves jadis de mes peres Craignez leurs braves descendans Rentrez en vos cavernes sombres Ou craignez d'avertir leurs ombres Des revoltes de vos enfans: Une Tisiphone egaree Teinte encore du sang d'un epoux S'unit et s'arme contre nous A ces despotes sanguinaires: Francais, volez sur vos frontieres Creuser un eternel tombeau; Ou craignez pour votre patrie, Et l'opprobe de Warsovie Et les horreurs d'Ismailow! Et vous qu'au sort de ses conquetes Rome craignit pour ses remparts Peuples dont les augustes tetes S'indignant du joug des Cesars, Scythes aux fers inaccessibles, Fiers Germains, Teutons invincibles, Voyez vos laches descendans D'une main vile et sanguinaire Sur les bienfaiteurs de la terre Lancer la foudre des tyrans. Ainsi, par des faits heroiques Rome allarmant tous ses voisins Vit tous les peuples Italiques Vendre leurs bras a ses Tarquins. Sur ses frontieres investies Avec cent hordes ennemies La France voit vingt Porsennas Contre tant de liberticides Nos phalanges tyrannicides Vomiront mille Scevolas. O Rome! tu leguas ta gloire Aux peuples faits pour l'imiter! C'est nous Francais que la victoire Au meme faite veut porter. O France, O ma chere patrie! Puisse-je au printems de ma vie Te voir les despotes soumis Et que par toi l'univers libre De l'Amazone jusqu'au Tibre N'offre que des peuples amis! God save the Rights of Man! Give us a heart to scan Blessings so dear: Let them be spread around Wherever man is found, And with the welcome sound Ravish his ear. Let us with France agree, And bid the world be free, While tyrants fall! Let the rude savage host Of their vast numbers boast-- Freedom's almighty trust Laughs at them all! Though hosts of slaves conspire To quench fair Gallia's fire, Still shall they fail: Though traitors round her rise, Leagu'd with her enemies, To war each patriot flies, And will prevail. No more is valour's flame Devoted to a name, Taught to adore-- Disdain to bow the knee, But teach Equality To every shore. The world at last will join To aid thy grand design, To Russia's frozen lands The generous flame expands: On Afric's burning sands Shall man be free! In this our western world Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd Through all its shores! May no destructive blast Our heaven of joy o'ercast, May Freedom's fabric last While time endures. If e'er her cause require!-- Should tyrants e'er aspire To aim their stroke, May no proud despot daunt-- Should he his standard plant, Freedom will never want Her hearts of oak! Like Sybil's leaves, abroad he spread His sheets, to awe the aspiring crew: Stock-jobbers fainted while they read; Each hidden scheme display'd to view-- Who could such doctrines spread abroad So long, and not be clapper-claw'd! Content with slow uncertain gains, With heart and hand prepar'd he stood To send his works to distant plains, And hills beyond the Ohio-flood-- And, since he had no time to lose, Preach'd whiggish lectures with his news. Now death, with cold unsparing hand, (At whose decree even Capets fall) From life's poor glass has shook his sand, And sent him, fainting, to the wall-- Because he gave you some sad wipes, O Mammon! seize not thou his types. What shall be done, in such a case?-- Shall I, because my partner fails, Call in his bull-dogs from the chace To loll their tongues and drop their tails-- No, faith--the title-hunting crew No longer fly than we pursue. The chiefs that bow to Capet's reign, In mourning, now, their weeds display; But we, that scorn a monarch's chain, Combine to celebrate the Day To Freedom's birth that put the seal, And laid in dust the proud Bastille. To Gallia's rich and splendid crown, This mighty Day gave such a blow As Time's recording hand shall own No former age had power to do: No single gem some Brutus stole, But instant ruin seiz'd the whole. Now tyrants rise, once more to bind In royal chains a nation freed-- Vain hope! for they, to death consign'd, Shall soon, like perjur'd Louis, bleed: O'er every king, o'er every queen Fate hangs the sword, and guillotine. "Plung'd in a gulf of deep distress France turns her back--(so traitors say) Kings, priests, and nobles, round her press, Resolv'd to seize their destin'd prey: Thus Europe swears (in arms combin'd) To Poland's doom is France consign'd." Yet those, who now are thought so low From conquests that were basely gain'd, Shall rise tremendous from the blow And free Two Worlds, that still are chain'd, Restrict the Briton to his isle, And Freedom plant in every soil. Ye sons of this degenerate clime, Haste, arm the barque, expand the sail; Assist to speed that golden time When Freedom rules, and monarchs fail; All left to France--new powers may join, And help to crush the cause divine. Ah! while I write, dear France Allied, My ardent wish I scarce restrain, To throw these Sybil leaves aside, And fly to join you on the main: Unfurl the topsail for the chace And help to crush the tyrant race! The People in Europe are much to be praised, That in fighting they choose to be passing their days; If their wars were abolished, there's room to suppose Our Printers would growl, for the want of New-News. May our tidings of warfare be ever from thence, Nor that page be supplied at Columbia's expence! No kings shall rise here, at the nod of a court, Ambition, or Pride, with men's lives for to sport. In such a display of the taste of the times-- The murder of millions--their quarrels and crimes, A horrible system of ruin we scan, A history, truly descriptive of man: A Being, that Nature designed to be blest-- With abundance around him--yet rarely at rest, A Being, that lives but a moment in years, Yet wasting his life in contention and wars; A Being, sent hither all good to bestow, Yet filling the world with oppression and woe! But, consider, ye sages, (and pray be resigned) What ills would attend a reform of mankind-- Were wars at an end, and no nation made thinner, My neighbour, the gun-smith, would go without dinner; The Printers, themselves, for employment would fail, And soldiers, by thousands, be starving in jail. One Sabbath-day morning said Sampson to Sue "I have thought and have thought that a Title will do; Believe me, my dear, it is sweeter that syrup To taste of a title, as cooked up in Europe; "Your ladyship" here and "your ladyship" there, "Sir knight," and "your grace," and "his worship the mayor!" But here, we are nothing but vulgar all over, And the wife of a cobbler scarce thinks you above her: What a country is this, where Madam and Miss Is the highest address from each vulgar-born cur, And I--even I--am but Mister and Sir! Your Equal-Right gentry I ne'er could abide That all are born equal, by Me is denied: And Barlow and Paine shall preach it in vain; Look even at brutes, and you'll see it confest That some are intended to manage the rest; Yon' dog of the manger, how stately he struts! You may swear him well-born, from the size of his guts; Not a better-born whelp ever snapped at his foes, All he wants is a Glass to be stuck on his Nose: And then, my dear Sue, between me and you, He would look like the gemman whose name I forget, Who lives in a castle and never pays debt." "My dear (answered Susan) 'tis said, in reproach, That you climb like a bear when you get in a coach: Now, your nobles that spring from the nobles of old, Your earls, and your knights, and your barons, so bold, From Nature inherit so handsome an air They are noblemen born, at first glance we may swear: But you, that have cobbled, and I, that have spun, 'Tis wrong for our noddles on Titles to run: Moreover, you know, that to make a fine show, Your people of note, of arms get a coat; A boot or a shoe would but sneakingly do, And would certainly prove our nobility New." "No matter (said Sampson) a coach shall be bought: Though the low-born may chatter, I care not a groat; Around it a group of devices shall shine, And mottoes, and emblems--to prove it is mine; Fair liberty's Cap, and a Star, and a Strap; A Dagger, that somewhat resembles an Awl, A pumpkin-faced Goddess supporting a Stall: All these shall be there--how people will stare! And Envy herself, that our Title would blast May smile at the motto,--the First shall be Last."[A] Naval Engagement between the Republican Frigate _L'Ambuscade_ Resolved for a chace, All Frenchmen to face, Bold Boston from Halifax sailed, With a full flowing sheet, The pride of the fleet, Not a vessel she saw, but she hailed; With Courtney, commander, who never did fear, Nor returned from a fight with a "flea in his ear." As they stered for the Hook, Each swore by his book, "They would plunder and burn, "They would never return "No Gaul can resist us, when once we arouse, "We'll drown the monsieurs in the wash of our bows." A sail now appeared, When toward her they steered, Each crown'd with his Liberty-Cap; Under colours of France did they boldly advance, And a small privateer did entrap-- The time may have been when their nation was brave, But now, their best play is to cheat and deceive. Arrived at the spot Where they meant to dispute, Thus Courtney sent word, in a heat: "Since fighting's our trade, "Their bold Ambuscade "Must be sunk, or compelled to retreat: "Tell Captain Bompard, if his stomach's for war, "To advance from his port, and engage a bold tar." When this challenge he heard, Though his sails were unbent from the yards, His topmasts struck down, And his men half in town; Yet sent back his humble regards-- The challenge accepted; all hands warned on board, Bent, their sails, swore revenge, and the frigate unmoored. The Boston, at sea, Being under their lee, For windward manoeuvred in vain; 'Till night coming on, Both laid by 'till dawn, Then met on the watery plain, The wind at north-east, and a beautiful day, And the hearts of the Frenchmen in trim for the fray. So, to it they went, With determined intent The fate of the day to decide By the virtues of powder; (No argument louder Was e'er to a subject applied) A Gaul with a Briton in battle contends, Let them stand to their guns, and we'll see how it ends. As the Frenchman sailed past, Boston gave him a blast, Glass bottles, case knives, and old nails, A score of round shot, And the devil knows what, To cripple his masts and his sails. The Boston supposed it the best of her play To prevent him from chacing--if she ran away. The Frenchman most cool, (No hot-headed fool,) Returned the broadside in a trice; So hot was the blast, He disabled one mast, And gave them some rigging to splice, Some holes for to plug, where the bullets had gone, Some yards to replace, and some heads to put on. Three glasses, and more, Their cannons did roar, Shot flying in horrible squads; 'Midst torrents of smoke, The Republican spoke, And frightened the Anglican gods! Their frigate so mauled, they no longer defend her, And, Courtney shot down--they bawled out to surrender! "O la! what a blunder "To provoke this French thunder! "We think with the devil he deals-- "But since we dislike "To surrender and strike, "Let us try the success of our heels: "We may save the king's frigate by running away, "The Frenchman will have us--all hands--if we stay!" So squaring their yards, On all Captain Bompard's, A volley of curses they shed-- Having got their Discharge, They bore away large, While the Frenchman pursued, as they fled. But vain was his haste--while his sails he repaired, He ended the fray in a chace-- The Gaul got the best of the fight, 'tis declared; The Briton--the best of the race! Published in the _National Gazette_, Aug. 17, 1793. The frigate Because some pumpkin-shells and lobster claws, Thrown o'er his garden walls by Crab-tree's duke, Have chanc'd to light within your meagre jaws, (A dose, at which all honest men would puke:) Because some treasury-luncheons you have gnaw'd, Like rats, that prey upon the public store: Must you, for that, your crude stuff belch abroad, And vomit lies on all that pass your door! To knavery's tribe my verse still fatal found, Alike to kings and coblers gives their due: Spruce tho' you be, your heels may drum the ground, And make rare pass-time for the sportive crew. Why all these hints of menace, dark and sad, What is my crime, that thus Ap-Shenkin raves? No secret-service-money have I had For waging two years' war with fools and knaves. Abus'd at court, unwelcome to the Great-- This page of mine no well-born aspect wears: On honest yeomen I repose its fate, Clodhopper's dollar is as good as theirs. Why wouldst thou then with ruffian hand destroy A wight, that wastes his ink in Freedom's cause: Who, to the last, his arrows will employ To publish Freedom's rights, and guard her laws! O thou! that hast a heart so flinty hard Thus oft, too oft, a poet to rebuke, From those that rhyme you ne'er shall meet regard; Of Crab-tree's dutchy--you shall be no Duke. Hot, dry winds forever blowing, Dead men to the grave-yards going: Constant hearses, Funeral verses; Oh! what plagues--there is no knowing! Priests retreating from their pulpits!-- Some in hot, and some in cold fits In bad temper, Off they scamper, Leaving us--unhappy culprits! Doctors raving and disputing, Death's pale army still recruiting-- What a pother One with t'other! Some a-writing, some a-shooting. Nature's poisons here collected, Water, earth, and air infected-- O, what pity, Was in such a place erected! Published in the 1795 edition. In the index of the 1809 edition, On prancing steed, with spunge at nose, From town behold Sangrado fly; Camphor and Tar where'er he goes Th' infected shafts of death defy-- Safe in an atmosphere of scents, He leaves us to our own defence. 'Twas right to fly! for well, I ween, In Stygian worlds, all scribes agree, No blushing blossom e'er was seen, Or running brook, or budding tree: No splendid meats, no flowing bowls, Smile on the meagre feast of souls: No sprightly songs, to banish grief, No balls, the Elysian beaus prepare, And he that throve on rounds of beef, On onion shells shall famish there-- Monarchs are there of little note, And Caesar wears a shabby coat. Chloes on earth, of air and shape, Whose eyes destroy'd poor love-lorn wights, There lower their topsails to the cap, Rig in their booms and furl their kites:-- Where Cupid's bow was never bent, What lover asks a maid's consent? All this, and more, Sangrado knew, (In Lucian is the story told) Took horse--clapped spurs--and off he flew, Leaving his Sick to fret and scold; Some soldiers, thus, to honour lost, In day of battle quit their post. With the nerves of a Sampson, this son of the sledge, By the anvil his livelihood got; With the skill of old Vulcan could temper an edge; And struck--while his iron was hot. By forging he lived, yet never was tried, Or condemned by the laws of the land; But still it is certain, and can't be denied, He often was burnt in the hand. With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claimed, With the last he had nothing to do; He handled no awl, and yet in his time Made many an excellent shoe. He blew up no coals of sedition, but still His bellows was always in blast; And we will acknowledge (deny it who will) That one Vice, and but one, he possessed. No actor was he, or concerned with the stage, No audience, to awe him, appeared; Yet oft in his shop (like a crowd in a rage) The voice of a hissing was heard. Tho' steelling was certainly part of his cares, In thieving he never was found; And, tho' he was constantly beating on bars, No vessel he e'er ran aground. Alas and alack! and what more can I say Of Vulcan's unfortunate son?-- The priest and the sexton have borne him away, And the sound of his hammer is done. Can love of fame the gentle muse inspire Where he that hoards the most has all the praise; Where avarice, and her tribe, each bosom fire, All heap the enormous store for rainy days; Proving by such perpetual round of toil That man was born to grovel on the soil? Expect not, in these times of rude renown That verse, like your's, will have the chance to please: No taste for plaintive elegy is known, Nor lyric ode--none care for things like these-- That honours none but money-catching wights. Sink not beneath the mean abusive strain Of puny wits, dull sycophants in song, Who, post, or place, or one poor smile to gain, Besiege Mambrino's door, and round him throng Like insects creeping to the morning sun To enjoy his heat--themselves possessing none. All must applaud your choice, to quit a stage Where knaves and fools in every scene abound; Where modest worth no patron can engage-- But boisterous folly walks her noisy round; Some narrow-hearted demi-god adores, And Fortune's path with servile step explores. "Tho' steelling of axes was part of his cares."--_1795 Ed._ Text from the 1809 edition. This was Freneau's valedictory on leaving Philadelphia after the failure of the _National Gazette_. --_Opifer per Orbem dicor._ "In this the God, benevolent to man, Lulls every woe, and deadens every pain." When the first men to this world's climates came Smit by the winter's rude inclement blast, Unskilled to raise the wall, or wake the fire, Badly, in narrow huts, their lives they passed. Conscious of pains they knew not how to cure, In vain they sighed, and sighing begged relief, No druggist came, by art or reason taught With strength of potent herbs, to calm their grief. Fierce tortures to allay, some reverend sage Preach'd Patience to the pangs, that could not hear; For restless anguish doomed her victim still To groan thro' life, and sigh from year to year, At length from Jove, and heaven's etherial dome Sky-walking Hermes came to view these plains: He looked--and saw what fate or gods had done, And gave the Poppy, to relieve all pains. Then to the sons of grief his speech addressed, "Through this dull flower is shed such potent dew, "When pain distracts--drink this--and drown in sleep "All ills, that Nature sent to torture you. "From other worlds, by other beings trod, "To these bleak climes this plundered plant I bore; "Receive a gift, all worthy of a god, "Since pain, when hushed to sleep,--is pain no more." Text from the 1809 edition. "While other lads their books forsake, Or sigh to meet the hours of play: You, Lycidas, no leisure take, But still through learned volumes stray:-- With years so few, ah why so grave; Why every hour to books a slave? Hence, Lycidas, I pray, retire: Go with your mates, and take your play-- Not him I prize, or much admire, Who, curious, hangs on all I say: The lad that's wise before his time, Will be a coxcomb in his prime. Stay not too close in learning's shop;-- 'Till time a riper mind prepares, The ball, the marble, and the top Are books, that should divide your cares-- The lads that life's gay morn enjoy, I'm pleased to see them act the boy. I hate the pert, I hate the bold, Who, proud of years but half a score, With none but men would converse hold, And things beyond their reach explore: Like the famed Cretan, soaring high, To melt their waxen wings and die." First published, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition. Text In shallow streams, a league from town, (Its baby Light-House tumbled down) Extends a country, full in view, Beheld by all, but known to few. Surrounded by the briny waste No haven here has Nature placed; But those who wish to pace it o'er Must land upon the open shore. There as I sailed, to view the ground; No blooming goddesses I found-- But yellow hags, ordained to prove The death, and antidote of love. Ten stately trees adorn the isle, Where once the doctor plied his trade On feverish tars and rakes decayed. Six hogs about the pastures feed (Sweet mud-larks of the Georgia breed) Who, while the hostess deals out drams, Can oysters catch, and open clams. Upon its surface, smooth and clean, A world, in miniature, is seen; Though scarce a journey for a snail We meet with mountain, hill, and vale. To those that guard this stormy place, Two cities stare them in the face: There, York its spiry summits rears, And here Cummunipaw appears. The tenant, now but ill at ease, Derives no fuel from his trees: And Jersey boats, though begged to land, All leave him on the larboard hand. Some monied man, grown sick of care, To this neglected spot repair: What Nature sketched, let art complete, And own the loveliest Country Seat. Lured by some corporal's smooth address, His scarlet coat and roguish face, One Half A Joe on drum head laid, A tavern treat--and reckoning paid; See yonder simple lad consigned To slavery of the meanest kind. With only skill to drive a plough A musquet he must handle now; Must twirl it here and twirl it there, Now on the ground, now in the air: Its every motion by some rule Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,[A] Must be directed--nicely true-- Or he be beaten black--and blue. A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes, May now this country lad abuse:-- On meagre fare grown poor and lean, He treats him like a mere machine, Directs his look, directs his step, And kicks him into decent shape, From aukward habits frees the clown, Erects his head--or knocks him down. Last Friday week to Battery-green The sergeant came with this Machine-- One motion of the firelock missed-- The Tutor thumped him with his fist: I saw him lift his hickory cane, I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!-- Yet this--and more--he's forced to bear; And thus goes on from year to year, 'Till desperate grown at such a lot, He drinks--deserts--and so is shot! First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition. In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round, And pumpkin-shells, responding all they hear, A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound, Governs their tone, pricks up his lengthy ear: In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said. Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch! 'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law, Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech: No soul had you to face the wintry blast, Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast. Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul, If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine: I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl, Nor from your poems filch'd a single line: When I do that--then publish from your caves, Who robs a beggar--is the worst of knaves! Be advised by a friend, who advises but rarely, Be cautious of praising 'till praise is earned fairly: There was a sage Ancient this truth did bequeath, "That merit is only determined by death." Panegyric I'm sorry to see you engage in-- Old Nero, at first, was a Titus, or Trajan: The Indians of Siam bow down to a Log, No wonder they rend you--whenever they dine-- Pray, leave it to puppies to cry up their worth, And to dunces, to honour the day of their birth. Whoever the road to preferment would find, With the eyes of a Dutchman must look at mankind; From the basest of motives, cry cowards are brave, And laugh in his sleeve--when he flatters a knave. I can find no earlier trace of this poem than the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition. When first to feel Love's fire Jack Straw begins, He combs his hair, and cocks his hat with pins, Views in some stream, his face, with fond regard, Plucks from his upper lip the bristly beard, With soap and sand his homely visage scours (Rough from the joint attacks of sun and showers) The sheepskin breeches decorate his thighs-- Next on his back the homespun coat he tries; Round his broad breast he wraps the jerkin blue, And sews a spacious soal on either shoe. Thus, all prepared, the fond adoring swain Cuts from his groves of pine a ponderous cane; In thought a beau, a savage to the eye, Forth, from his mighty bosom, heaves the sigh; Tobacco is the present for his fair, This he admires, and this best pleases her-- The bargain struck,--few cares his bosom move How to maintain, or how to lodge his love; Close at his hand the piny forest grows, Thence for his hut a slender frame he hews, With art, (not copied from Palladio's rules,) A hammer and an axe, his only tools, By Nature taught, a hasty hut he forms Safe in the woods, to shelter from the storms;-- There sees the summer pass and winter come, Nor envies Britain's king his loftier home. From the edition of 1809. First published, as far as I can I pity him, who, at no small expense, Has studied sound instead of sense: He, proud some antique gibberish to attain; Of Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, vain, Devours the husk, and leaves the grain. In his own language Homer writ and read, Nor spent his life in poring on the dead: Why then your native language not pursue In which all ancient sense (that's worth review) Glows in translation, fresh and new? He better plans, who things, not words, attends, And turns his studious hours to active ends; Who Art through every secret maze explores, Invents, contrives--and Nature's hidden stores From mirrours, to their object true, Presents to man's obstructed view, That dimly meets the light, and faintly soars:-- His strong capacious mind By fetters unconfin'd Of Latin lore and heathen Greek, Takes Science in its way, Pursues the kindling ray 'Till Reason's morn shall on him break! Unique, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition. Since Shylock's Book has walk'd the circles here, What numerous blessings to our country flow! Whales on our shores have run aground, Sturgeons are in our rivers found; Nay, ships have on the Delaware sail'd, A sight most new! Wheat has been sown, harvests have grown, And Shylock held strange dialogues with Sue. On coaches, now, gay coats of arms are wore By some, who hardly had a coat before: Silk gowns instead of homespun, now, are seen, And, sir, 'tis true ('twixt me and you) That some have grown prodigious fat, That were prodigious lean! Unique, as far as I can discover, in the edition of 1795. A few short years, at most, will bound our span; ("Wretched and few," the Hebrew patriarch said) Live while you may, be jovial while you can; Too soon our debt to Nature, must be paid. When Nature fails, the man exists no more, And death is nothing but an empty name, Spleen's odious offspring, in some gloomy hour;-- The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream. You ask me, where those numerous hosts have fled That once existed on this changeful ball? If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,[A] Where ere their birth they were, they now are all. _Seneca Trag.--Freneau's note._ Seek not for Paradise!--'tis not for you Where, high in heaven, its sweetest blossoms blow; Nor even, where gliding to the Persian main, Your waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow, What is this Death, ye thoughtless mourners, say? Death is no more than never-ceasing change: New forms arise, while other forms decay, Yet, all is life throughout creation's range. The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine, The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow, Sooner or later, must to ruin go. Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust; That dust supports a reptile or a flower; Each changeful atom, by some other nursed, Takes some new form, to perish in an hour. When Nature bids thee from the world retire, With joy thy lodging leave, a sated guest, In sleep's blest state (our Dullman's fond desire) Existing always--always to be blest. Like insects busy in a summer's day, We toil and squabble, to increase our pain: Night comes at last, and weary of the fray, To dust and silence all are sent again! Beneath my hand what numerous crowds retire-- By the cold turf for ages, now, oppressed! Millions have fallen--and millions must expire, Doomed by the impartial Power to endless rest. In vain with stars He decked yon' spangled skies, And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar, And brought so far to your admiring eyes A glimpse of glories, that shall blaze no more! What is there here, that man should wish to bear A weight of years?--such rage to madness vext; Wan, wasting, grief, and ever musing care, Distressful pain, and poverty perplext?-- What is there here, but tombs and monuments-- Tyrants--who misery spread through every shore; Wide wasting wars, the scourge of innocence; Fevers and plagues, with all their noxious store? Before we called this wrangling world our home, In undisturbed abodes we sweetly slept: But when dame Nature made that world our doom, 'Twas then our troubles came--and then we wept! Though humbled now, disheartened, or distressed, Yet, when returning to the peaceful ground, With heroes, kings, and conquerors we shall rest; Shall sleep as sweetly, and no doubt, as sound. Ne'er shall we hope to see the day-light spring Or from the up-lifted window lean to hear (Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn) The early note of wakeful Chanticleer! Oblivion there, expands her raven wing:-- We soon must go where all the dead are gone, Trace the dull path, explore the gloomy road To that dark country, where I see no dawn. Then why these sobs, these useless floods of woe, That vainly flow for the departed dead? If doomed to wander on the coasts below, What are to them these floods of grief you shed? Since heaven in rapture doth their hours employ-- If empty sighs, or groans, could reach them there, These funeral howls would damp their heaven of joy, Would make them wretched, and renew their care. The joys of wine, immortal as my theme, To days of mirth the aspiring soul invite: Life, void of this, a punishment I deem, A Greenland winter, robbed of heat and light. Ah! envy not, ye sages too precise, The drop from life's gay tree, that kills our woe-- Noah himself, the wary and the wise, A vineyard planted--and the vines did grow. (Of social soul was he)--the grape he pressed, And drank the juice, oblivious to his care: Sorrow he banished from his place of rest, And sighs, and sextons, had no business there. Such bliss be our's through every changing scene: The jovial face bespeaks the glowing heart; If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin, Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart. Mere glow-worms are we all--a moment shine!-- I, like the rest, in giddy circles run, And grief shall say, when I this breath resign, His glass is empty, and his sermon done! Give to the wretched, drink that's strong, (Said David's Son) but we, more wise, With Cyder, from the hogshead, rough, Molasses-Beer, and such dull stuff, The miseries of the imprison'd host prolong. "Shut up in jail from day to day (Methinks I hear a Debtor say) "Victims to public rage and private spite, "All that we had to keep our spirits up "Was glowing wine that fill'd the cheering cup, "This banish'd care, and check'd the rising sigh "Chac'd grief from every heart, gave joy to every eye. "And will ye not this only comfort leave, "Ye men that frame the public laws?-- "Parted from children, friends, and wives, "How heavily the moments roll: "What comfort have we of our lives "If you deny this cordial of the soul? "'Tis this that kills the tedious hour, "Puts misery out of fortune's power. "'Tis this that to the dial's hand lends wings, "Gives to the beggar all the pride of kings, "Sheds joy throughout our gloomy cage "And bids us scorn the little tyrant's rage, "They that are unconfin'd drink what they will-- "Who gave the right to limit men in jail? "Because misfortune sent us here "Must we for that be drench'd with 'table beer,' "Or, in its stead, with Adam's ale?-- "Relent--relent! contrive some other plan; "Wine is the dearest, choicest friend of man-- "They that are out of jail, of all degrees, "Can spend their leisure as they please, "We, that are in, must pass it as we can." Unique in the 1795 edition. To a Political Shrimp, or, Fly upon the Wheel The man that doth an Elephant pursue Whose capture gains a mighty price, Amidst the chace, heeds not the barking crew, Or lesser game of rats and mice. On ocean's waste who chace the royal flag Stop not to take the privateer; Who mean to seize the steed, neglect the nag; No squirrel-hunter kills a deer. Reptile! your venom ever spits in vain-- To honour's coat no drop adheres:-- To court!--return to Britain's tyrant reign, White-wash her king, and scowr her peers. Some scheming knaves, that strut in courtly guise, May vile abuse, through you, impart-- But they that on no Treasury lean, despise Your venal pen--your canker'd heart. With eastern winds and flowing sail To these sequestered haunts we came, Where verdant trees and chrystal streams Adorn the sloping, winding vale; Where, from the breezy grove we claim, Our heaven on earth--poetic dreams. These simple scenes have pleasures more Than all the busy town can show-- More pleasure here Philanthus took, And more he prized this lonely shore, His pen, his pencil, and his book, Than all the groves Madeira bore: Here still is seen a hermit's cell, Who, fond the haunts of men to fly, Enjoyed his heaven beneath this shade: In mouldering caves so blest to dwell, He sought not from the flowers that die, A verdure, that would never fade. To crowded courts and would-be kings, Where fawning knaves are most caressed, Who would, though oft' invited, go-- When here so many charming things By Nature to perfection dressed, To please the man of fancy, grow? The native of this happy spot No cares of vain ambition haunt: Pleased with the partner of his nest, Life flows--and when the dream is out, The earth, which once supplied each want, Receives him--fainting--to her breast. Unhappy Volume!--doom'd by fate To meet with unrelenting hate From those who can their venom spit, Yet condescend to steal your wit: While Shylock with malicious spirit, Allows you not a grain of merit, While he an idle pomp assumes, Let him return his borrowed plumes, And you will find the insect creeping, With not a feather worth the keeping. Emperors and kings! in vain you strive Your torments to conceal-- The age is come that shakes your thrones, Tramples in dust despotic crowns, And bids the sceptre fail. In western worlds the flame began: From thence to France it flew-- Through Europe, now, it takes its way, Beams an insufferable day, And lays all tyrants low. Genius of France! pursue the chace Till Reason's laws restore Man to be Man, in every clime;-- That Being, active, great, sublime Debas'd in dust no more. In dreadful pomp he takes his way O'er ruin'd crowns, demolish'd thrones-- Pale tyrants shrink before his blaze-- Round him terrific lightnings play-- With eyes of fire, he looks them through, Crushes the vile despotic crew, And Pride in ruin lays. Like some fair girl in beauty's bloom, To court her, see what suitors come! An heiress, she, to large estate, What rivals for her favours wait! All haste to clasp her in their arms, Each sees in her a thousand charms-- The Gems that on her bosom glow Attract where love was cold--'till now. Freed from a cruel parent's care, This maid so wealthy and so fair Of each that for possession sues Can hardly tell which beau to choose. Proud of his vast extended reign, (His fancied empire o'er the main) The Briton came, with haughty stride, Preferr'd his suit--but was denied. She thought his style, by much, too rude, By ruffians she would not be woo'd; From Man she wish'd to choose a mate, But not in such a savage state. All hop'd to enjoy the charming maid: The Russian, bred in frost and snow, Made love to her that said--no, no. The Spaniard grave, with cloak and sword, Some favour from the nymph implor'd-- Vain were his tears and coaxing art-- She could not bear a jealous heart. The Turk himself, to engage her love, From Asia's coasts began to move; While faded lay his Tartar crown He sigh'd to make this girl his own. In vain they paid the fond address-- No Pope, no Sultan would she bless-- No monarch, tho' allur'd with art, Could gain her wealth, or touch her heart. The Frenchman comes--salutes the fair-- She likes his gallant, marshal air!-- With eager eye, around her waist He clasp'd his arms, and her embrac'd: Smit with his lofty, generous mien, She admires the Gaul, as soon as seen, Grants him her Commerce--yields her charms, And takes a hero to her arms! When the Senate assembled had shut up their door, And had left us no clew their designs to explore, The people were anxious, and whispered their care, But their voice was too weak for the dignified ear. Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down. At length the Sanhedrim were ready to rise, And the crowd were distending their ears and their eyes; But the rabble had nothing to hear or to view, Says the twenty, the secret's too sacred for you, Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down. But Stephens T. Mason, a man we revere, With his name bid the infamous treaty appear, 'Twas the act of a freeman, who join'd with the Ten, To save us from tyranny, rank us with men, Altho' down, down, and like to be down. He gave his assistance, enlighten'd our eyes, And a cloud from all quarters begins to arise, _Vox Dei, Vox Populi_, truly but one, Shall tell dark designers--our will shall be done Till you're down, down, twenty times down. On the attempt to force the British Treaty on the People of the Americans! behold the fruits, The end of all your vain pursuits, Whole years in blood and warfare spent To save this injur'd continent.-- How must it mortify your pride To take once more the British side; How will your eyes contain their tears When all the sad effect appears! This Treaty in one page confines The sad result of base designs; The wretched purchase here behold Of traitors--who their country sold. Here, in their proper shape and mien Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen. And few, a chosen few, must know The Mysteries that lurk below. Go home, ye merchants, poor and lean, And kiss the--_hand_--of Britain's queen. I see you of your cargoes stript Your vessels stolen, your seamen whipt, I see them from their decks compell'd To wander o'er the wat'ry field;-- In British ships, by force detain'd I see the gallant sailor band Engage the power that lent us aid When Britain here her entry made-- I see them mix'd with George's sons, I see them torn by gallic guns, Disfigur'd, in the ocean cast To find a resting place at last. Philosophy! thou friend of man, Teach me these strange events to scan; Aid me to learn the secret cause That alien seems from Nature's laws, Why on this stage of human things Man bows his neck to tyrant kings? Say did the God, when life he gave, Design his Image for a slave?-- Necessity, the tyrant's law, All human race doth this way draw, All prompted by the same desire The vigorous youth, and aged sire-- Observe, the coward and the bold Agree to have their freedom sold; Physician, lawyer, and divine All make oblation at this shrine. Yet from this dismal state of things In time a new creation springs; From vile materials, fresh, shall rise And fill the earth, and air, and skies; In various forms appear again, Popes, Presidents, and gentlemen: So Jove pronounc'd among the Gods, Olympus trembling as he nods! The poet never reprinted this poem from the _Jersey Chronicle_, Lo! to the gates of long forgotten Rome Active as flame, the gallic legions come, While pale with fear to their despotic wastes On shorten'd wing the Austrian army hastes. Where, consecrated to the pagan god The silent vestal graced his dark abode, Where Caesars, once, in awful grandeur reign'd, Or, Vandals ruin'd what of Rome remain'd, Or where, excresence of a later age, The mitred pontiff trod religion's stage, There march the heroic bands that bring defeat, Or bring reform on superstition's seat. And may their march to honor's purpose tend, May each new conquest all the past transcend, Still may those hosts their first great plan pursue, And honor, freedom, virtue keep in view. Thus taught; and still propitious heaven their trust, All past mis-rule shall crumble to the dust, Nor will saint Peter, more, their cause regard, Lost are his keys and every gate unbarr'd, No sacred reliques from some saintly grave, No saint Sebastian shall from ruin save: All, all must yield; submissive to the dart Of Gaul's firm legions led by Bonaparte, Who, sent by heaven, to Rome's disastrous walls Loud and more loud for his last victim calls; While superstition's dark inveterate train Turns pale, and sickens at their blasted reign, And hosts reviving, round the standard throng, Exult, and wonder how they slept so long. From the edition of 1815. Confusion to that iron sway Which bids the brute, not man, obey, And dooms him to Siberian soil, Chains, whips, and vassalage, and toil. This female wolf, whom wolves did nurse, So long of polar worlds the curse, This Catharine, skill'd in royal arts, To the dark world at last departs. In style, the second of her name, She to the crown by treason came; To Peter, drowsy, royal drone, She gave a prison for a throne. She would have sent her Tartar bands To waste and ravage gallic lands, She would have sent her legions o'er, Columbia! to invade your shore!-- But, even in conquest, she foresaw Destruction to despotic law; She fear'd, in hordes returning home, That liberty would with them come. She fear'd the savage from the den Would see and learn the rights of men; And hence, in time, destruction bring To hell's vicegerents--queen and king. No thanks to her! she fear'd her beasts, Enslaved by kings, enslaved by priests, Even if all freedom they o'er ran, Would learn the dignity of man; And kept them home, and held them there, Oppression's iron reign to bear; And never meet a beam of light, Involved in worse than Zembla's night. Now she is dead, and Paul will rise As fierce as she, but not as wise; He may his barbarous millions send, He may the fall of France intend; But they who see with keener eye Will see them faint, will see them fly; With hostile step will see them come To turn their backs, or meet their doom. From the edition of 1815. Catharine II died November 6, 1796. Wherever this volume may chance to be read For the feast of good humor a table I spread; Here are dishes by dozens; whoever will eat Will have no just cause to complain of the treat. If the best of the market is not to be had I'll help you to nothing that's seriously bad; To sense and to candor no place I refuse, Pick here and pick there, and wherever you choose. If I give you a frolic I hope for no fray; My style I adapt to the taste of the day, The feast of amusement we draw from all climes, The best we can give in a run of hard times. The guest, whom the pepper of satire may bite Is wrong, very wrong, if he shows us his spite; Should a fit of resentment be-ruffle his mind, Sit still, I would tell him, be calm and resign'd. In the service of freedom forever prepared, We have done our endeavor the goddess to guard; This idol, whom reason should only adore, And banish'd from Europe, to dwell on our shore. In a country like this, exalted by fame, The trade of an author importance may claim Which monarchs would never permit them to find, Whose views are to chain and be-darken the mind. Ye sons of Columbia! our efforts befriend; To you all the tyrants of Europe shall bend Till reason at length shall illumine the ball And man from his state of debasement recall. Republics of old, that are sunk in the dust, Could once like our own, of their liberty boast; Both virtue and wisdom in Athens appear'd, Each eye saw their charms, and all bosoms revered. But as virtue and morals fell into disgrace Pride, splendor, and folly stept into their place; Where virtues domestic no longer were known, Simplicity lost, and frugality flown. Where the virtues, that always a republic adorn, Were held in contempt, or were laugh'd into scorn, There, tyrants and slaves were the speedy effect Of virtue dishonor'd or fall'n to neglect: Then tyrants and slaves, the worst plagues of this earth, From the lapse of good manners were hatch'd into birth; And soon the base maxim all popular grew, And allowed, that the many were made for the few. From the fate of republics, or Athens, or Rome, Tis time we should learn a sad lesson at home-- From their faults and their errors a warning receive, And steer from the shoals where they both found a grave. Columbians! forever may freedom remain, And virtue forever that freedom maintain; To these, all attracting, all views should submit All labors of learning, all essays of wit. Tis time a new system of things was embraced To prevail on a planet so often debased; As here, with our freedom, that system began, Here, at least keep it pure--for the honor of man. From the edition of 1815. This was Freneau's salutatory in the "We'll mend what is middling, and better the bad."--_Ib._ "And give the due substance and sum of the NEWS."--_Ib._ "Embark'd on this ocean, and wishing no fray, We'll strive for a chance with the prints of the day; The news of all nations import from all climes, And carefully copy _the cast of_ THE TIMES."--_Time-Piece._ "In political squib or poetical wit."--_Ib._ "He's equally free _to return it in kind_."--_Ib._ "'TIS THIS that will throw a new light on the ball."--_Ib._ This stanza not in the _Time-Piece_ version. "The change of old manners."--_Ib._ "To encircle a world that has long been debas'd."--_Ib._ Projected with the Republic of France The cause that rests on reason's ground, Shall potent through the world be found, Mankind must yield to that decree Which humbles pride and tyranny. O'er this wide globe what darkness broods, What misery, murder, wars and feuds!-- Does man deserve the solar light While he performs the deeds of night? When to the gates of modern Rome We see the gallic legions come, Their triumphs should, in honor, be To make them men, and make them free. In these new wars new views we trace, Not fetters for the human race, And, France, where'er you dart your rays Old superstition's reign decays. But look again!--what myriads join The vast reform to undermine! What labor, bribes, and deep-laid schemes To quench the sun, and reason's beams! Shall these succeed? and will that sun Continue, still, his race to run O'er scenes that he must blush to see Disorder, chains, and tyranny? Must systems, still, of monstrous birth, Enslave mankind, deform this earth? No!--to the question answers fate, These efforts come an age too late. In such a system to combine, Columbia, can the wish be thine! Could such a thought assail your heart, To take that base, ungrateful part. From Britain's yoke so lately freed Would she her hosts, her legions lead To crush that power, which jointly gain'd And once her sinking cause sustain'd? From all true hearts be banish'd far The thought of so profane a war-- A curse would on her arms attend And all her well-earn'd honors end. Fortune no more your toils would crown, Your flag would fall before her frown; No gallant men the foe would dare, No Greenes no Washingtons appear; No chiefs, that check'd the pride of kings On Monmouth's plains--at Eutaw springs; But blundering hordes, not brave or warm, With broken heart, and nerveless arm, Would sail, to attack your gallic foe, Would strive in vain a cause t'o'erthrow Which, sink or not, will live in fame, While Europe can one patriot claim. From the edition of 1815. It appeared first in the _Time-Piece_, London. In one of these he seems, rather seriously, to argue, that any one, by being armed with a conductor, in a thunder squall, may probably be secure from danger of lightning.--It is said the plan has been carried into practice in How bold this project, to defy The artillery of a summer sky: Round you, unmoved, the lightning plays, While others perish in the blaze. The fluid fire, in deafening peals, Along the warm conductor steals; And thence directed to the ground, It glances off without a wound! Thus guarded, while the heavens are bowed, You, fearless, see the passing cloud; And Jove's red bolts unheeded fall, Near You, who slight, or scorn them all. The beaver on your sacred scull, (Secure as Salamander's wool) Assists to keep from your rigg'd head The flash that strikes us, wretches, dead. But while the sulphur of the skies, Disarmed, from this fair lady flies; Or while the warm electric fire In flashes darts along her spire, She, not so merciful or kind, (Or we, not guarded to her mind) By Cupid's darts, procures our fall, By Cupid's arrows kills us all. The celebrated AEronaut, on his ascent in a Balloon, from the By Science taught, on silken wings Beyond our grovelling race you rise, And, soaring from terrestial things, Explore a passage to the skies-- O, could I thus exalted sail, And rise, with you, beyond the Jail! Ah! when you rose, impell'd by fear Each bosom heav'd a thousand sighs; To you each female lent a tear, And held the 'kerchief to her eyes: All hearts still follow'd, as you flew, All eyes admir'd a sight so new. Whoe'er shall thus presume to fly, While downward with disdain they look Shall own this journey, through the sky, The dearest jaunt they ever took; And choose, next time, without reproach, A humbler seat in Inskeep's coach. The birds, that cleave the expanse of air, Admiring, view your globe full-blown, And, chattering round the painted car, Complain your flight out-does their own: Beyond their track you proudly swim, Nor fear the loss of life or limb. How vast the height, how grand the scene That your enraptured eye surveys, When, towering in your gay machine, You leave the astonish'd world to gaze, And, wandering in the aetherial blue, Our eyes, in vain, your course pursue. The Orb of Day, how dazzling bright! In paler radiance gleams the Moon, And Terra, whence you took your flight, Appears to you--a meer balloon: Its noisy crew no longer heard, Towns, cities, forests, disappear'd. Yet, travelling through the azure road, Soar not too high for human ken; Reflect, our humble safe abode Is all that Nature meant for men: Take in your sails before you freeze, And sink again among the trees. Sound without sense, and words devoid of force, Through which no art could find a clue, And mean and shackling was the whole discourse That kept me, Tully, long from you. Heads of harangues, to heads less general, split, Seem'd like small laths, cleft from some heavy log; I heard the inference, that no object hit-- All congelation, vapor, smoke, or fog. And what avail'd the argument unsound That nothing proved, or on the expecting mind Forced no conviction--just as well might sound To the deaf ear with sentiments abound. Long did we wait for application time To find what sense or reason might apply:-- It came--attended with the false sublime, And thread-bare truths, no mortal could deny. Repeated thoughts, and periods of a mile, Remarks devoid of dignity or power, Exploded notions, dress'd in brilliant style, Exhausted patience, and consumed the hour. Thus when of old some town some folks besieged, Before the walls the invader sat him down, While those who mann'd them, at their foes enraged, Threw many a load of ancient lumber down; And wore them out, with tumbling on their heads Bricks, tiles, and paving-stones, huge logs of timber, And more, by far, than you or I remember. Ah, speaker! with artillery like your own Hard will it be one Federal to awake, Trust me, although you scold, and chafe, and frown, You may besiege, but are not like to take Their three wall'd town. From the 1815 edition. In the edition of 1809 it bore the title: "Grunts, and long groans, and periods of a mile, Were on the sleepy audience tumbled down;-- 'Twas thus from forts, contrived in antique style, From Troy's high walls (Where flew no balls) The men who fought With reason thought, They had a right From that safe height, (By way of lessening their besiegers' number) To tumble on their heads Rocks, beams, or roofs of sheds, Cows' horns, bricks, rubbish, chamber pots, or lumber." _Shakespeare's_ KING LEAR. sent to the satirist--here the correspondence ended, A Satire is arrived this day, And it must be repelled this night: Ye Powers! assist us what to say, For, from ourselves, we nothing write. We could have laughed at all you said, But when you writ--it struck us dead!-- Megara!--do forbear to write, Or rage with less malignant spite. Leave it to men to snap and snarl-- Be you the sweet engaging girl-- Great in your smiles--weak in your arm-- All vengeance, with no power to harm. I'll borrow from a scribbling set A Raven's feather, black as jet, And with the vengeance of the pen Create confusion in your Den. This, from an impulse all unknown, Shall temper down your heart of stone, Turn storms of hail to showers of rain, And bring your happy smiles again. But still, unwilling to resent What folly for a Satire meant, Peruse a fable that may blast, And your number one--make number last. In ancient times, no matter when, A lady, in some ancient reign (Perhaps in Greece, perhaps in Rome, Perhaps in countries nearer home.) This lady, rather fond of Fun, Had put a suit of armour on: With bow and arrows, and her fan She conquered many an honest man. One day she met, in a desart waste A wight unseemely to her taste; His brow, she thought, had too much frown; Thought she, "I'll fetch the fellow down." And strait she bends her twanging bow, And to his breast the arrows go! They tore a passage through his vest, But bounded from his solid chest. Another dart she aimed, and missed, Then boarded him, and bit his fist-- Her grinders left a trifling mark-- They were not grinders of a shark. She scampered then, and, as she flew, Another feeble arrow threw, Which though intended for one spot, It glanced aside, and touched him not. Enraged, he threw his mantle off, And said, She shall be plagued enough! Then, swift as fate, her pace defied, Out went her trot, and joined her side.-- Megara was in such a glow!-- When thus the ruffian hailed her, "Hoa!-- What, Madam, are your spirits low?-- Heave to!--you are my prisoner now!"-- Megara saw that all was gone!-- She saw, her teeth would now be drawn: She saw her weapons were his prize, She saw it, and with flowing eyes, And with a feeble squeak or two, She faintly bawled out, Who are you? "From whence I came, or what I am, "Perhaps I may inform you, Ma'am: "I come from lands of Pure Delight, "Where female warriors do not Bite. "You view me with an eye of scorn!-- "When I was old you were unborn: "When I aspired on eagle's wings "You were among unthought of things. "And did you hope to escape my rage, "You toy-shop on a strolling stage! "You insect of a puny race, "You baggage formed of gauze and lace! "The proudest strength you can assume, "Shakes not one feather from my plume. "My lot is in the aether cast, "I sail upon the northern blast; "Am mostly seen when whirlwinds rise, "And love the storm that rends the skies. "When thunders roar and lightnings flash, "Then is my time to cut a dash: "The clouds of hell alarm me less "Than you, some sad old fashioned dress. "And, if to answer some great end, "I to this wrangling world descend, "With force unknown, and pinions strong, "I travel quick and stay not long. "My spear is like a weaver's beam, "And pointed well at each extreme; "It flies with a tremendous force, "And rivals lightning in its course. "Of all things that are seen or known, "I hate a Calm--and say, Begone "Stagnation from this rolling ball, "Or slumbers in this Dreadful All! "I rise upon the drift of snow-- "In polar frosts my spirits glow-- "In the torrid zone, I temperate keep, "And wake!--when you, Megara, sleep. "I come from ghosts, that dreary brood, "Whose aspect would congeal your blood! "A people on the infernal coast, "Who know me well, and love me most. "I courted there, and found her kind, "A ghostess, suited to my mind; "Her wedding gown was flounced with soot, "And near her nose hung snuff and smut: "She pointed to her father's gate, "(A graveyard was his whole estate) "The bars were weak, the boards were thin, "She sung a psalm--and took me in. "Of shadowy stuff my parents were, "Composed of fogs, or framed of air: "He sold his brimstone to the skies, "While nitre kindled in Her eyes. "They feasted on the vapours blue, "Their glass of wine was evening dew; "On Etna's top they made their bed, "And there was I, their devil, bred. "My prowess is almost adored, "I blunt the edge of Orion's sword; "I seize Aquarius by the throat, "Nor care for Libra, or the Goat. "My word is, when I meet my foes, "Here's to the Lucky Wind that blows! "And, instant, all is sighs and groans, "And battered heads, and broken bones. "I now reward you for your spite-- "I draw my weapon--see, how bright! "My last exploit in war I crown, "And thus--and thus--I throw you down! "Ah, miscreant! why that scream of death? "I only meant to--draw your teeth!-- "Oh no!--I scorn to take your life-- "Go, Madam,--be a prudent wife. "But, lady, I would have you know "You lose your arrows and your bow: "They are indeed of slender make, "And, in your hands might kill a rake: "So, to prevent such fatal harms, "I leave you destitute of arms-- "I now must go!"--he, laughing, said, And vanished to the Stygian shade. This contest with Megara done, Thou dear, defeated Amazon!-- As happy, now, as man can be, I hang my pen on yonder tree: It only asks one day of rest, It yields to every changing blast-- Yes--let it stay suspended there, And strike My Colours--if you dare! I have found no trace of this outside of the 1809 edition. As late at a feast that she gave to Munroe, Her mark of attention to show, Young liberty gave her libations to flow, To honor where honor is due. Return'd from the country that trampled on crowns Where high in opinion he stood, Dark malace attack'd him, with sneers, and with frowns, But he met the applause of the good. To the Knight of the Sceptre unwelcome he came But freedom his merit confess'd-- He look'd at their malice, and saw it was fame, And pity forgave them the rest. Good humor, and pleasure, and friendship did join, And reason the pleasure increased; And the hero, who captured the British Burgoyne, Presided and honor'd the feast. On a broomstick from hell, with a quill in his hand, Baal-Zephou came riding the air; He look'd, and he saw that among the whole band Not a single apostate was there. Disappointed, he sigh'd, but still hover'd about Till the toasts, with a vengeance, began-- He met the first four; when the next they gave out[A] To his cavern he fled back again. discover the demons of tyranny, wherever they lurk, and pursue them to their native obscurity.--_Freneau's note._ In liberty's temple, the petulant cur Could see not a man but he hates; With a curse on her cause, and a sneer, and a spur He fled from the frown of a Gates. From the edition of 1815. Monroe was United States Minister to Once more, our annual debt to pay, We meet on this auspicious day That will, through every coming age, Columbia's patriot sons engage. From this fair day we date the birth, Of freedom's reign, restored to earth, And millions learn, too long depraved, How to be govern'd, not enslaved. Thou source of every true delight Fair peace, extend thy sway, While to thy temple we invite All nations on this day. O dire effects of tyrant power! How have ye darken'd every hour, And made those hours embitter'd flow That nature meant for joys below. With sceptred pride, and brow of awe Oppression gave the world her law, And man, who should such law disdain, Resign'd to her malignant reign. Here on our quiet native coast No more we dread the warring host That once alarm'd, when Britain rose, And made Columbia's sons her foes. Parent of every cruel art That stains the soul, that steels the heart, Fierce war, with all thy bleeding band, Molest no more this rising land. May thy loud din be changed for peace, All human woe and warfare cease, And nations sheath the sword again To find a long, pacific reign. Soon may all tyrants disappear And man to man be less severe; The ties of love more firmly bind, Not fetters, that enchain mankind. But virtue must her strength maintain, Or short, too short, is freedom's reign, And, if her precepts we despise, Tyrants and kings again will rise. No more an angry, plundering race, May man in every clime embrace, And we on this remoter shore, Exult in bloody wars no more. On this returning annual day May we to heaven our homage pay, Happy, that here the time's began That made mankind the friend of man!-- This stanza in 1797 was: "Red war will soon be chang'd for peace, All human woe for human bliss, And nations that embrace again Enjoy a long pacific reign." This stanza is not in the original version. Say--shall we pause, and here conclude our page, Or waft it onward to the coming age?-- Just as You say, whose efforts shook his throne, And plucked the brightest gem from George's crown-- Who, armed in Freedom's cause with hearts of steel, Have through these stormy times toiled for the common weal; Nor quit that standard thousands have deserted, By foreign arts, or gold, or titles re-converted. If You, propitious to the press and pen, Gave vigour to the cause that roused up men When slavery's sons approached with Britain's fleet, Still we demand your aid--for Britain hates you yet: Not with the sword and gun she now contends But wages silent war, and by corruption bends, Foe to the system that enlightens man, Here, thrones she would erect, and frustrate Freedom's plan. Here, on this virgin earth, the soil unstained, Where yet no tyrant has his purpose gained, Keep bright that flame which every bosom fired When Hessian hirelings from these lands retired, When, worn and wasted, all that murdering crew And British squadrons from the Hudson flew; When, leagued with France, you darts of vengeance hurled, And bade defiance to the despot world. Ye heirs and owners of the future age Who soon will shove old actors from the stage, To you the care of liberty they trust When Washington and Gates are laid in dust-- When Jefferson, with Greene, in long repose Shall sleep, unconscious of your bliss or woes, Seeming to say, Be wise, be free, my sons, Nor let one tyrant trample on our bones. The chorus at this point was changed in the original edition to: "O Virtue! source of pure delight, Extend thy happy sway, etc." First published in the _Time-Piece_, September 13, 1797. Freneau From Penn's famous city what hosts have departed, The streets and the houses are nearly deserted, But still there remain Two Vipers, that's plain, Who soon, it is thought, yellow flag will display; Old Porcupine preaching, And Fenno beseeching Some dung-cart to wheel him away. Philadelphians, we're sorry you suffer by fevers, Or suffer such scullions to be your deceivers; Will. Pitt's noisy whelp With his red foxy scalp Whom the kennels of London spew'd out in a fright, Has skulk'd over here To snuffle and sneer, Like a puppy to snap, or a bull dog to bite. If cut from the gallows, or kick'd from the post, Such fellows as these are of England the boast But Columbia's disgrace! Begone from that place That was dignified once by a Franklin and Penn, But infested by you And your damnable crew Will soon be deserted by all honest men. Unless it be for mere defence May shipwrights fail to launch you hence, At best, the comrade of old Nick-- Some folks will smile to see you stick. But now, suppose the matter done, And her the element upon; What cause have we mad wars to wage Or join the quarrels of the age? Remote from Europe's wrangling race, Who show us no pacific face Let's tread negociation's track Before we venture to attack. But to the seas if we must go, 'Tis clearly seen who is the foe, Who hastens, at no distant date, To repossess his lost estate. I see them raise the storm of war, To cloud the gay columbian star, I see them, bloody, brave and base Make us the object of their chase. Their ships of such superior might All we possess will put to flight, Or bear them off, with all on board, To make a meal for George the third. One frigate, only, will not do-- She must retreat while they pursue, To make her drink affliction's cup, And, heaven preserve us, eat her up. A navy of stupendous strength 'Tis plain, must be our lot at length, To sweep the seas, to guard the shore, And crush their haughtiest seventy four. Those puny ships that now we frame, (The way that England plays her game) Will to their bull-dogs fall a prey The hour we get them under weigh.-- Text from the 1815 edition. The builders had the ship prepared, And near her stood a triple guard, For fear of secret foes. Some, tiptoe stood to see her start, And would have said, with all their heart, In raptures, there she goes! The stubborn ship, do what they could, Convinced them, she was made of wood Though plann'd with art supreme; All art, all force the ship defy'd-- Nor brilliant day, nor top of tide Could urge her to the stream. Some, with their airs aristocratic, And some with honors diplomatic, Advanced to see the show: In vain the builder to her call'd-- In vain the shipwrights pull'd and haul'd-- She could not--would not go. Each anti-federal, with a smile Observed the yet unfloating pile As if he meant to say, Builder, no doubt, you know your trade, A constitution you have made But should her ways have better laid. Well now to heave the ship afloat, To move from this unlucky spot, Take our advice, and give them soon, What should have long ago been done, Text from 1815 edition. In former days your starch'd divines From notes of twenty thousand lines Held many a long dispute; One argued this, one argued that, And reverend wigs, as umpires sat, All sophists to confute. They dwelt on things beyond their ken And teazed and puzzled simple men To hold them in the dark; But their long season now is past, The churchman's horn has blown its blast, Things take a different mark. Physicians now to quiet pain Stick lancet in the patient's vein That burns with feverish heat: The next contend, they're wholly wrong, That life will leak away ere long If thus the case they treat. Meantime a practice gets about, Perhaps to make some doctors pout: Old Shelah, with her herbs and teas, And scarce a shilling for her fees, In many instances, at least, When deaths and funerals increased, Did more to dispossess the fever, Did more from dying beds deliver Than all the hippocratian host Could by the lancet's virtue boast; To which, I trow, full many a ghost Will have a grudge forever. "He that readeth not in the Book of Odes is like a man standing with his face against a wall; he can neither move a step forward, nor survey any object."--_Hau Kiou Choaan._ Blest is the man who shuns the place Where Demo's love to meet, Who scorns to gnaw their bread and cheese, And hates their small beer treat: But in the glare of splendid halls Doth place his whole delight, And there by day eats force-meat balls, And roasted hogs by night. He, like some thrifty pumpkin vine, Near Hartford that doth grow, Shall creep, and spread, and twist, and twine, And shade the weeds below. Puff'd by all dunces far and near He'll swell to station high, While Democrats confus'd appear As he rides rattling by. Not so the man of vulgar birth, And Democratic phiz; Want, toil, and every plague on earth, Shall certainly be his. Poor as a snake, and ever vile Shall his condition be, Who to the men of royal style Neglects to bend the knee. He, with the herd of little note, May starve on bread and cheese, And soon shall be without a coat Or sent to pay jail-fees. "A ship carpenter being once asked, what sort of ships are the _safest_, he answered, _those which are hauled up on dry land_." Madam!--Stay where you are, 'Tis better, sure, by far Than venturing on an element of danger, Where heavy seas and stormy gales May wreck your hulk and rend your sails, Or Europe's black-guards treat you like a stranger, When first you stuck upon your ways (Where half New England came to gaze) We antifederals thought it something odd That where all art had been display'd, And even the builder deem'd a little god, He had your ways not better laid. Omens, indeed, are now exploded, But you have something dismal boded: Say--must the navy-system go to rack, And things advance at such a rate That every wisely govern'd state Will hold the author of the scheme a quack. O frigate Constitution! stay on shore: Why would you meet old Ocean's roar? Was man design'd To be confin'd In those fire-spitting hells a navy nam'd, Where Vice herself, abash'd, asham'd, Turns from the horrid scene of blood and bones, And mangled carcases of men; and grunts and groans. Remaining on the stocks, in gloomy pride, Without an anchor thou shalt safely ride; No pumping there, To make men swear, Waves you'll despise, Tho' fierce they rise To heaven when storms and tempests blow: Steady as fate, unmov'd will you appear When other ships the foaming surges tear-- No fear of broaching to. Nor useless need you be, if right we deem, For harmless purposes you proper seem-- Scorn to be made a bloody, murdering den; Let folks of sense At less expense Convert you into stores--to bring in rents; Stow pumpkins there--or anything but Men. A "_half-starved_" Democrat "Lodge where you must, drink small-beer where you can, "But eat no roast pig, if no Federal man." Duncan, with truth it may be said, Your mouth was made for rye or barley bread; What claim have you to halls of state, Whose business is to stand and wait, Subserviant to command? What right have you to white-bread, superfine, Who were by nature destin'd for "a _swine_"-- As said good Edmund Burke, The drudge of Britain's dirty work, Whose mighty pamphlets rous'd the royal band! When passing by a splendid dome of pride By speculation built (and built so vast That there a standing army might reside) Say, Duncan, stood you not aghast, When gazing up (like fox that look'd for grapes) You saw so many things in curious shapes, Trees rang'd along the table, And sugar-columns, far above the rabble, With roses blooming in October, And wisdom's figure--dull and sober. Ah! how you smack'd your lips, and look'd so wishful When pigs and poultry--many a lovely dish-full, Imparted to your nose the savoury scent For royal noses--not for Duncan's--meant. For things like these you, caitiff, were not born-- A pewter spoon was for your chops intended; Some shins of beef, and garlands made of thorn-- On things like these has Freedom's feast depended. Though in the days of fight you musquet carried, Or wandered up and down, a cannon-hauling, Better you might in Jericho have tarried And rebel-starving made your loyal calling. Among our far-fam'd chieftains that are dead (Like beer set by in mug without a lid, And sure, a half-gill glass I'll put it all in) I'll toast your health--yes, to the very brim And to the little gaping world proclaim You are a Hero fallen: One of the wights who dar'd all death, or wound, And warr'd for two and sixpence in the pound. Of public virtue you're a rare example-- A hut of six foot square shall be your "temple," And all your honour--strutting on parade. But pray, beware of public good; It will not always find you food, And if your son should anything inherit, Bequeath him not your public spirit, But sixpence, to be train'd to sawing wood. No easy task that press assumes Which takes the lead in Freedom's band, And scatters in nocturnal glooms The blaze of Reason through our land: Each empty bellows would, no doubt, Rise, and aspire to put it out. Blamed though you are, pursue your way; Night evermore precedes the sun; Whate'er some angry king's-men say, You play a game that must be won: The bliss of man--is the great prize That yet at stake with tyrants lies. When first a mean, designing few Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread; An antidote, by such as you, Was at the root of mischief laid; With a simple herb from Reason's plains You kept all right in Freedom's veins. Now hostile views, and low design Are busy to annoy your page, Controul its strength, its fires confine, And war with sense and reason wage: They hope, with fogs to quench the sun, They hope your useful race is run. But though some narrow hearts contrive To shove you from your mounted car; Right pleasantly we see you drive, And hardly heed their little war: Like insects, creeping in the dirt, They merely serve to make you sport. Who looks at Kings, a court, a queen, With childish pomp, and borrowed fame, But wonders from what genius mean Their chaos of confusion came-- Yet those on little things depend, And every reptile is their friend. "That one may write--and write--and be a villain, "At least, I'm sure it may be so in--Denmark."--_Hamlet._ "While with the loss of blood and spirits some faint, "Others are seen to rise, triumphant, "O'er slaughter'd thousands sent to Pluto's shores, "Where Stygian water in dull torrent roars-- "What hosts, what myriads fell, "By lancet and by calomell, "All gone, in Philadelphia's epidemic, "And sent the substance of mankind to mimic." So said that Man divine Who through these climes his vast subscription spread, And rais'd four thousand ghosts; and struck with dread, All Democratic knaves, Disorganizing slaves-- He with bold wit, And spirit and spit, From Nova Scotia to the woods of Maine, True federalism did maintain; And through those mighty thriving states, Distributed his dainty, blackguard bits. Ah--Peter!--Thou, poor lousy numps Who loadest little horses' rumps, And mak'st them trot and sweat, On sandy road Beneath the load Of trash call'd _Peter Porcupine's Gazette_. What have you done to claim Columbia's love That she--like some base-- Should court a scoundrel from a foreign shore And make him tool to--some apostate Jove, Ah! now I see poor Carolina's horses, With pedlar's pack, Pil'd high on back, Pursuing their mean, blackguard courses, Through solitary groves and woods of pine Transporting Goods, like thine, Of which Columbia, sure, has had--enough-- There Pickens, Sumpter, Greene, for freedom fought, And Liberty her wonders wrought. What do I hear? And have we lent thee wings To waft thy poison into Eutaw Springs? Those, clearer than Castalia's waters, found, For many a hero, dead, who might have claim'd Life--but for brutish George, Who, having robb'd and plunder'd half the east, Came here to close his Vulture's feast. Now, Peter! take advice from Doctor Rush; And--convert to the system you would crush; Pray, let him draw your blackguard blood; (And calomell might, also, do some good.) Four thousand drops exhausted from your veins Will save the future exercise of canes: And, tell him to be speedy with his lancet, For 'tis a truth; and many dare advance it, That howe'er in life well fed, No Doctor bleeds a man--when dead. Of Particular Eminence, who, in a certain Great City, was visited by Persons of the First Taste and Distinction O thou, marked out by Fate from vulgar swine, Among the learned of our age to shine, On whom 'squires, ladies, parsons, come to gaze, Bold, science-loving pig, Who, without gown or wig Can force your way through learning's thorny maze --How many high learned wights in days of old (Whom Fame has with the great enrolled) Starved by their wits--were banished, hanged, or sold; --While you, on better ages fallen, O lucky swine! Can by your wit on pyes and sweetmeats dine-- When house and lands are gone and spent, Then learning is most excellent-- (So says a proverb through the world well known)-- You, that were pigged to grovel in a stye, Have left your swill for science high:-- Without a rival of your race, You hold a most distinguished place-- All that the heart can wish flows in to you, Who real happiness pursue, And are well fed, on whate'er hog stye thrown. Now, if one had the chance to choose one's state On this world's stage, and not controuled by Fate, Who would not wish to have his little brains Lodged in the head of Learned Pig, Rather than be a man, and toil, and sweat, and dig With all the sense the human scull contains. With Us, we all are wise, we all things know, But every pig--inferior is to you-- The rest are fools and simpletons--and so-- What, next, will be the science You attain? Science!--to You, that opens all her store?-- Already have you in your sapient brain More than most aldermen--and gumption more Than some, who capers cut on Congress floor. May we not hope, in this improving age Of human things--to see on Terra's stage Hogs take the lead of men, and from their styes To honours, riches, office, rise! From what is seen, such inference we draw-- "Thus Cain of old, poor Abel slain, "Departing from his native plain, "In land of Nod, beneath the heaven's frowns, "Built sky-topt towers and federal towns." Enough of learned pigs, Pigg'd for immense designs, And shame our men of mighty wigs-- Whose quills, like pop-guns shooting at a fort, Be sure have done the Demos mighty hurt, A subject now of real weight inspires, That soon will kindle every muse's fires, No less than federal town, Immortal in renown, Which in her district--ten miles square The center fills, like spider in her web Catching all silly flies that venture near, And fattening on the folly of the tribe. When fates decreed, Or nature said "This spot is destin'd for a future town," Between them both they so contriv'd the matter (Altho' perhaps not wholly wrong the latter) That this should be a town of silent halls And like Palmyra famous in the east, Erect her columns huge and lofty walls-- Yet there in vain for men do travellers seek, And hardly meet a townsman once a week! Virginia's sons, as through this town they pass Each cries, "Alas, No sound of fiddle here, All dull and drear, No merry bells that jingle on the ear, No glittering females, balls, or billiards dear-- No fighting cocks, no gallant steeds for racing: Well-stap my vitals--is it not distressing? No gallant ship with canvas swelling high Engag'd in war or commerce passes by; But corn-boats mean from Alleghany hills, Or buck-wheat laden hulks from country mills!" Amidst these huge hotels and regal domes Frequent some townsman walks, as midst the tombs, And cries, "The founders of this city blundered In rearing up such piles for eighteen hundred: Waiting for that must Congress absent stay?-- Ah! curse the Law's delay! Rather than hold them there, (Though, doubtless, it may sadly grieve her) May Philadelphia twelve months every year Be plagu'd and blooded for the yellow fever!" Where Hudson, once, in all his pride In surges burst upon the shore They plant amidst his flowing tide Moles, to defy his loudest roar; And lofty mansions grow where late Half Europe might discharge her freight. From northern lakes and wastes of snow The river takes a distant rise, Now marches swift, now marches slow, And now adown some rapid flies Till join'd the Mohawk, in their course They travel with united force. But cease, nor with too daring aim Encroach upon this giant flood; No rights reserved by nature, claim, Nor on his ancient bed intrude:-- The river may in rage awake And time restore him all you take. The eastern stream, his sister, raves To see such moles her peace molest A London built upon her waves, The weight of mountains on her breast: With quicken'd flow she seeks the main As on her bed new fabrics gain. Bold streams! and may our verse demand Is there not coast for many a mile, And soils, as form'd by nature's hand That border all Manhattan's isle: Then why these mounds does avarice raise And build the haunts of pale disease. Yet in your aim to clip their wing (It asks no wizard to descry,) That time the woful day will bring When Hudson's passion, swelling high, May in a foam his wrongs repay And sweep both house and wharf away. "And in those days men settled themselves on the waters, and lived there, not because land was wanting, but that they wished to be slaves to such as were great and mighty on the Thus launch'd at length upon the main And soon prepar'd the seas to roam, In your capacious breast ere long Will many an idler find a home That sells his freedom for a song, Quits fields and trees For boisterous seas, To tread his native soil no more, And see--but not possess the shore. Well! let them go--can there be loss In those who Nature's bounty slight, From rural vales and freedom's shades To this dull cage who take their flight, The axe, the hoe, The plough forego, The buxom milk-maid's simple treat, The bliss of country life forget, For tumult here And toil severe, A gun their pillow when they sleep, And when they wake, are wak'd to weep. "When war no more shall prowl the sea, "Nor men for pride or plunder roam, "And my millenium brings them home, "How'eer dispers'd through each degree." If Richard proves a prophet true, Why may not we be quiet too, And turn our bull-dogs into lambs, Saw off the horns of battering rams As well as Europe's sons? Ye Quakers! see with pure delight, The times approach when men of might, And squadrons roving round the ball, Shall fight each other not at all, Or fight with wooden guns. And yet that Being you address Who shaped old Chaos into form, May speak--and with a word suppress The tryant and the storm. With aspect wild, in ranting strain You bring the brilliant period near, When monarchy will close her reign And wars and warriors disappear; The lion and the lamb will stray, And, social, walk the woodland way. I fear, with superficial view You contemplate dame nature's plan:-- She various forms of being drew, And made the common tryant--man: She form'd them all with wise design, Distinguish'd each, and drew the line. Observe the lion's visage bold His iron tooth, his murderous claw, His aspect cast in anger's mould; The strength of steel is in his paw: Could he be meant with lambs to stray Or feed along the woodland way? Since first his race on earth began War was his trade and war will be: And when he quits that ancient plan With milder natures to agree, He will be changed to something new And have some other part to do. One system see through all this frame, Apparent discord still prevails; The forest yields to active flame, The ocean swells with stormy gales; No season did the God decree When leagued in friendship these should be. And do you think that human kind Can shun the all-pervading law-- That passion's slave we ever find-- Who discord from their nature draw:-- Ere discord can from man depart He must assume a different heart. Yet in the slow advance of things A time may come our race may rise, By reason's aid to stretch their wings, And see the light with other eyes; And when the ancient mist is pass'd; To find their nature changed at last, The sun himself, the powers ordain, Should in no perfect circle stray; He shuns the equatorial plane, Prefers an odd serpentine way, And lessens yearly, sophists prove, His angle in the voids above. When moving in his ancient line, And no oblique ecliptic near, With some new influence he may shine But you and I will not be here To see the lion shed his teeth Or kings forget the trade of death. "And the Angel Michael disputed with the Devil about the body "To bleed or not to bleed--that is the question! Whether 'tis better in our beds to suffer The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors, Or by the Lancet--quit them." In ancient days divines, in dismal humour, With disputation kept the presses going; Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things The difference "'twixt a shadow and a shade," And scribbled much of "way of man with maid." At length, as fades the crown Their bludgeons they lay down; And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up, Each cursing all who will not drink his cup. Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey, Take your old philosophic way; When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught, Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay-- Dejection was remote--and Nature laugh'd. A question now, of mighty weight is put, Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not, When scarce three drops (or not one drop) remains In the poor devil's veins!-- Well! you decide, who are in Galen read-- Take Boorhaave's, if you please--whatever system-- (Why are men such that doctors can enlist 'em?) Whether your methods be the right or wrong, And man's existence shorten or prolong, We feverish fellows, must be--put to bed. The secret has leak'd out--be cautious doctors (The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors) Old women, with their simple herbs and teas (And asking hardly two-pence for their fees) Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever; Make it as tame and innocent, (Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent) As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver. If Ephraim on his bed complains Of feverish pulse and boiling veins, And throbs and pulses in his brains, Then round him flock a ghastly crew Of doctors old and doctors new, And doctors, some--the Lord knows who. Hoping the men had learned their trade, Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid, And promises they shall be paid. Each quotes some book, by way of sham, Or reads some text from Sydenham, Which some approve, and some condemn. At once he hears a barbarous noise, Like that from herds of butchers' boys, That ever hope of life destroys. He promises all bills to pay, But they proceed in angry fray-- Poor Ephraim frets--and well he may. Each looks at each with vengeful eyes, As if contending for a prize He wants his share--when Ephraim dies. One talks of cure by Calomel; But his wise brother, Sydrophel, Swears, 'tis the readiest way to hell. While one the lancet recommends, Another for a blister sends, And each his every cure defends. Weary of all they have to say, At last the patient faints away: Poor Ephraim swoons--and well he may. In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams In realms where doctor Satan foams, With Sydrophels and Curry-combs. Revived at length, he begs release, And whines, "Do let your quarrels cease, Do, doctors, let me die in peace. "Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan, Or anything but cruel man, To put me on my legs again: "She, with her cooling tamarind tea, At least would not have murdered me-- Come! if you love me, do agree. "She would have held my dizzy head-- She would have something to me read-- Or would have somewhat cheering said. "Good heavens! you cannot all be right-- O do not scratch!--O do not bite!-- Good doctors, do not, do not fight!"-- Here they began a louder fray-- Oh! Ephraim's dead!--to them all play-- Poor Ephraim dies!--and well he may. A Soldier should be made of Sterner Stuff The American heroine, who on Tuesday last presented a petition to Congress for a pension, in consideration of services rendered during the whole of the late war, in the character of a common follower in the regular armies of America Ye congress men and men of weight, Who fill the public chairs, And many a favor have conferr'd On some, unknown to Mars; And ye, who hold the post of fame, The helmsmen of our great affairs, Afford a calm, attentive ear To her who handled sword and spear, A heroine in a bold career, Assist a war-worn dame. With the same vigorous soul inspired As Joan of Arc, of old, With zeal against the Briton fired, Her spirit warm and bold, She march'd to face her country's foes Disguised in male attire: Where'er they prowl'd through field or town With steady step she follow'd on; Resolved the conflict to sustain, She met them on the hill, the plain, And hostile to the English reign, She hurl'd the blasting fire. Now for such generous toils endured, Her day of warfare done, In life's decline at length reward This faithful amazon: She asks no thousands at your hands, Though mark'd with many a scar; She asks no share of indian lands, Though lands you have to spare: But something in the wane of days To make her snug, and keep her warm, A cottage, and the cheery blaze, To shield her from the storm; And something to the pocket too, Your bounty might afford, Of her, who did our foes pursue With bayonet, gun, and sword. Reflect how many tender ties A female must forego Ere to the martial camp she flies To meet the invading foe: How many bars has nature placed, And custom many more, Lest slighted woman should be graced With trophies gain'd in war. All these she nobly overcame, And scorn'd a censuring age, Join'd in the ranks, her road to fame, Despis'd the Briton's rage; And men, who, with contracted mind, All arrogant, condemn And make disgrace in womankind What honor is in them. These odes first appeared in the _Time-Piece_, where they were The first ode, which is manifestly an adaptation of Dr. Watts' well-known hymn, seems to have been objected to in some quarters, 'Your life is but a vapour, sure, A mere old woman's qualm-- And good king David's lyric harp, May close it--with a psalm.'" convicted of libel. His works in twelve volumes, including many Text from the edition of 1809. Originally in the _Time-Piece_, October 27, 1797, with the following introduction: "Let but a dancing bear arrive, A pig that counts you four or five, And Cato, with his moral strain, Shall strive to mend the town--in vain." From the Time-Piece, October 31, 1797. The following account of the launch is given in the same issue: From the edition of 1815, with the exception of the title, which All human things must have their rise, And Rome advanced from little size Till future ages saw her grown The mistress of the world, then known. So, bounding on Potowmac's flood, Where ancient oaks so lately stood An infant city grows apace Intended for a ruling race. Here capitols of awful height-- Already burst upon the sight, And buildings, meant for embryo kings Display their fronts and spread their wings. This city bodes no common fate-- All other towns, as books relate, With huts at first were thinly spread, With hovels mean, or humble shed. But matters here are quite reversed, Here, palaces are built the first, And late will common rustics come In such abodes to find a home. Meantime, it will be fair and just (Nor will our congress fret, we trust) If while the poor at distance lurk-- Themselves do their own dirty work. Rome's earliest citizens were thieves, So history tells, and man believes, May matters be again reversed, May they who here inhabit first Instruct the late historians pen To write--that they were honest men. From the 1815 edition. A young Englishman, Thomas Twining, who Why travel so far from your insular home, Ye cockneys of London, and all in a foam, To talk, and to talk, with coxcombical phiz, And tell what a nuisance democracy is: Twas a lesson we learn'd When you were concern'd In wishing success to the vast preparations To conquer and pillage the royal-plantations. We Americans far from your king-ridden isle Do humbly beseech you, all democrat haters, For fear that your bodies or souls you defile, Would fairly go off, with your lies and your satires: The monarch you worship requests your assistance, And how can you help him at such a long distance? Tis an Englishman's creed, And they all have agreed That, out of old England, there's nothing, they swear, That can with old England--dear England--compare; So, away to old England, or we'll send you there. A swarm is arrived from the hives of the east, Determined to sap the republic's foundation; And who is their leader, their scribe, and their priest? The democrat-eater, Transported by Pitt, at the charge of the nation, To preach to the demos a new revelation. His patrons in England, and some who are here, Consented to join in his sink of scurrility, And gave him, tis certain, four thousand a year To print a damn'd libel, to please our nobility: Where I--is the hero of all that is said I--Corporal Cobbett[A]-a man of the blade! If his countrymen thought That for nothing we fought And they mean to regain, by the aid of his press, A country they lost, to their shame and disgrace, Let them fairly engage In some liberal page: We can give them an answer, not relish'd by some, Who will see their friend Peter go, whimpering, home. From the edition of 1815. By the gods of the poets, Apollo and Jove, By the muse who directs me, the spirits that move, I council you, Peter, once more, to retire Or satire shall pierce, with her arrows of fire. Be careful to stop in your noisy career, Or homeward retreat, for your danger is near: The clouds are collecting to burst on your head, Their sulphur to dart, or their torrents to shed. Along with the tears, I foresee you will weep, In the cave of oblivion I put you to sleep;-- This dealer in scandal, this bladder of gall, This sprig of Parnassus must go to the wall. From a star of renown in the reign of night He has dwindled away to a little rush-light: Then snuff it, and snuff it, while yet it remains And Peter will leave you the snuff for your pains.-- From the edition of 1815. Men of this passing age!--whose noble deeds Honour will bear above the scum of Time: Ere this eventful century expire, Once more we greet you with our humble rhyme: Pleased, if we meet your smiles, but--if denied, Yet, with Your sentence, we are satisfied. Catching our subjects from the varying scene Of human things; a mingled work we draw, Chequered with fancies odd, and figures strange, Such, as no courtly poet ever saw; Who writ, beneath some Great Man's ceiling placed; Travelled no lands, nor roved the watery waste. To seize some features from the faithless past; Be this our care--before the century close: The colours strong!--for, if we deem aright, The coming age will be an age of prose: When sordid cares will break the muses' dream, And Common Sense be ranked in seat supreme. Go, now, dear book; once more expand your wings: Still in the cause of Man severely true: Untaught to flatter pride, or fawn on kings;-- Trojan, or Tyrian,[A]--give them both their due.-- When they are right, the cause of both we plead, And both will please us well,--if both will read. edition. Attracted by the taper's rays, How carelessly you come to gaze On what absorbs you in its blaze! O Fly! I bid you have a care: You do not heed the danger near; This light, to you a blazing star. Already you have scorch'd your wings: What courage, or what folly brings You, hovering near such blazing things? Ah me! you touch this little sun-- One circuit more and all is done!-- Now to the furnace you are gone!-- Thus folly with ambition join'd, Attracts the insects of mankind, And sways the superficial mind: Thus, power has charms which all admire, But dangerous is that central fire-- If you are wise in time retire.-- First published in the _Time-Piece_, December 8, 1797. Text from An Indian, who lived at Muskingum, remote, Was teazed by a parson to join his dear flock, To throw off his blanket and put on a coat, And of grace and religion to lay in a stock. The Indian long slighted an offer so fair, Preferring to preaching his fishing and fowling; A sermon to him was a heart full of care, And singing but little superior to howling. At last by persuasion and constant harassing Our Indian was brought to consent to be good; He saw that the malice of Satan was pressing, And the means to repel him not yet understood. Of heaven, one day, when the parson was speaking, And painting the beautiful things of the place, The convert, who something substantial was seeking, Rose up, and confessed he had doubts in the case.-- Said he, Master Minister, this place that you talk of, Of things for the stomach, pray what has it got; Has it liquors in plenty?--If so I'll soon walk off And put myself down in the heavenly spot. You fool (said the preacher) no liquors are there! The place I'm describing is most like our meeting, Good people, all singing, with preaching and prayer; They live upon these without eating or drinking. But the doors are all locked against folks that are wicked; And you, I am fearful, will never get there:-- A life of Repentance must purchase the ticket, And few of you, Indians, can buy it, I fear. Farewell (said the Indian) I'm none of your mess; On victuals, so airy, I faintish should feel, I cannot consent to be lodged in a place Where's there's nothing to eat and but little to steal. In a town I could mention, a lawyer resided As cunning as Satan, and fond of disputes; In wrangles and quarrels he ever confided, To keep on his docquet a long string of suits. Of little importance, nay, paltry and mean, The matter contested, a pig or a hen; But one thing he stuck to, he ever was seen To have for his pleading just one pound ten. With pleasure he saw that the quarrels increased, Each day he had business from wranglesome men, But all to the 'squire was a holiday feast While he got his dear Fee, the one pound ten. A parchment, Caveto, hung up in his hall Which cautioned the reader to read and attend, That for one pound ten he would quibble and brawl, Twist, lie, and do all things a cause to defend. Sometimes when the limits of lots were disputed He would put all to rights in the turn of a straw; From the tenth of an inch he his pocket recruited Till he made the two parties curse lawyer and law. Thus matters went on, and the lawyer grown rich Fed high, and swilled wine 'till the dropsy began To bloat up his guts to so monstrous a pitch, You would hardly have known him to be the same man. At last he departed, and when he had died, His worship arriving at Beelzebub's den; How much is the entrance (demanded the guide?--) Old Devil made answer, 'Tis One Pound Ten. Musician of the west! whose vast design Schemes our new states with England to combine; How vain the hope, with violin and bow, Such feeble arms, to work internal wo! How weak the attempt our union to divide With not a sword or pistol at your side! Not even a drum your engineer employs:-- He's right--a drum would blast the plot, by noise: All must be done in midnight silence, all Your plans must ripen or your projects fall. Unknown, unseen, till in the destined hour Descends the stroke of trans-atlantic power! By music's note to sway the western wild Indeed is new;--we heard it and we smiled. In cold December's iron-hearted reign Would you with blushing blossoms deck the plain; Would you with sound immure the Thirteen Stars, Or plant a garland on the front of Mars? To sound, not sense, once brutes, they say, advanced, When Orpheus whistled, fauns and satyrs danced-- You are no Orpheus--and it may be true He play'd some tunes that are unknown to you. Hopes, such as yours, on cat-gut who would place; On tenor, treble, counter, or the bass: Who arm'd with horse-hair, hopes a world to win Who gains dominion from a violin? Such if there was, in times, the lord knows when, He must have been at least the first of men-- But now--the world would have not much to prize In such a warfare where no soldier dies: Thus would it say--by sad experience taught, 'Oh! may we never fight as these have fought! 'These to the charge with Thespian arms advanced, 'And when they should have fought, the soldiers danced; 'They had no drums, they felt no martial flame, 'But, cold as Christmas, to the conflict came!' My dreams present you thrumming on your string Playing at proper stands, God save the king! I see you march, a pedlar with his pack, And that poor fiddle swung athwart your back, (Like Reynard from some hen-roost hurrying home With plunder'd poultry for the feast to come) Trudging the wilds, on bold adventures bent, The woods at once your coverlet and tent, To fierce rebellions our back-woods to call-- The attempt how mighty! and the means how small. Amphion once, the classic stories say, When on his organ he began to play, So soft, so sweet, so melting were his tunes That even the savage rocks danced rigadoons, The trees, themselves, with frantic passions fired Leap'd from their roots and every note admired: Quitting the spot, where many a year they grew Quick to the music sprung the enchanted crew, Form'd o'er his head a sun-repelling power And bow'd their shadowy heads to music's power. If what, this moment, some relate be true Still greater wonders are reserved for you. Your music, far, all Amphion's art exceeds, Not trees and rocks, but provinces it leads. All Alleghany capers to the sound, And southward moves to meet the iberian bound; Kentucky hears the soul-enlivening notes And on the artist and his music doats; Remote Sanduskie spreads her eager wings, And wild Miami with the concert rings; Tiptoe, for flight, stands every hill and tree From Huron's shores to savage Tennessee; Arthur St. Clair might soon its influence feel; But Arthur knows no music--but of steel: Arthur St. Clair attends, with listening ears, And when the purpose of your march appears, Such music only will excite his rage, He'll come, and drive you from your dancing stage; Cut every string, the bridge, and sound-board seize, By your own cat-gut hang you to the trees, And bid you know, too late, It is no jest To play rebellion's music to the west. From the edition of 1815. The glass has run--see ninety-seven has fled, And ninety-eight comes on with equal speed; While safe from harm, beneath their spreading vine, Columbia's sons in virtuous actions shine: Their generous contributions feed the poor, And sends them smiling from their patron's door; Sweet Peace and Plenty crowns the festive board, Where man reveres no domineering lord; But free from scenes of desolating war, Where kingdoms clash and mighty empires jar, He lives secure from all the dread alarms Of fell invaders and the din of arms:-- Such scenes now past have once defil'd our shore And drench'd Columbia in her children's gore, Let man exult, the raging storm is o'er. To you, my customers, I bring the news Of feuds domestic and of foreign woes; Of Liberty extending her domain, And Truth triumphant in her glorious reign. Consider, patrons through the storm and snow With constant care I am oblig'd to go; Shivering and cold, I want the lively cup To cheer my heart and keep my spirits up: To stern winter's gloom can joy inspire; Now social circles grace the Hickory fire; And on your board, for friends and neighbors spread, The turkey smokes the industrious peasant fed: But not to me these blessings are dispos'd, Fortune's capricious hand to me is clos'd; I am condemn'd to labour long and hard, Unknown my troubles, scanty my reward. Such is the humble German's life of toil, Who now solicits your approving smile; My grateful heart still let your bounty share, And Peace and Freedom reign from year to year. A happy gale presents, once more, The gay and ever verdant shore, Which every pleasure will restore To those who come again: You, Carolina, from the seas Emerging, claim all power to please, Emerge with elegance and ease From Neptune's briny main. To find in you a happier home, Retirement for the days to come, From northern coasts you saw me roam, By flattering fancy moved: I came, and in your fragrant woods, Your magic isles and gay abodes, In rural haunts and passing floods Review'd the scenes I loved, When sailing oft, from year to year And leaving all I counted dear, I found the happy country here Where manly hearts abound; Where friendship's kind extended hand, All social, leads a generous band; Where heroes, who redeem'd the land Still live to be renown'd: Who live to fill the trump of fame, Or, dying, left the honor'd name Which Athens had been proud to claim From her historian's page-- These with invading thousands strove, These bade the foe their prowess prove, And from their old dominions drove The tyrants of the age. Long, long may every good be thine, Sweet country, named from Caroline, Once seen in Britain's court to shine The fairest of the fair: Still may the wanderer find a home Where'er thy varied forests bloom, And peace and pleasure with him come To take their station here. Here Ashley, with his brother stream, By Charleston gliding, all, may claim, That ever graced a poet's dream Or sooth'd a statesman's cares; She, seated near her forests blue, Which winter's rigor never knew, With half an ocean in her view Her shining turrets rears. Here stately oaks of living green Along the extended coast are seen, That rise beneath a heaven serene, Unfading through the year-- In groves the tall Palmetto grows, In shades inviting to repose, The fairest, loveliest, scenes disclose-- All nature charms us here. Dark wilds are thine, the yellow field, And rivers by no frost congeal'd, And, Ceres, all that you can yield To deck the festive board; The snow white fleece, from pods that grows, And every seed that Flora sows-- The orange and the fig-tree shows A paradise restored. There rural love to bless the swains In the bright eye of beauty reigns, And brings a heaven upon the plains From some dear Emma's charms; Some Laura fair who haunts the mead, Some Helen, whom the graces lead, Whose charms the charms of her exceed That set the world in arms. And distant from the sullen roar Of ocean, bursting on the shore, A region rises, valued more Than all the shores possess: There lofty hills their range display, Placed in a climate ever gay, From wars and commerce far away, Sweet nature's wilderness. There all that art has taught to bloom, The streams that from the mountain foam, And thine, Eutaw, that distant roam, Impart supreme delight: The prospect to the western glade, The ancient forest, undecay'd-- All these the wildest scenes have made That ever awed the sight. There Congaree his torrent pours, Saluda, through the forest roars, And black Catawba laves his shores With waters from afar, Till mingled with the proud Santee, Their strength, united, finds the sea, Through many a plain, by many a tree, Then rush across the bar. But, where all nature's fancies join, Were but a single acre mine, Blest with the cypress and the pine, I would request no more; And leaving all that once could please, The northern groves and stormy seas-- I would not change such scenes as these For all that men adore. This period comprises the time between the poet's abandonment of Freneau sailed as passenger to Charleston, January 3, 1798, and arrived on February 3, after a rough voyage. He sailed back from That the progress of liberty and reason in the world is slow and They who survey the human stage, In reason's view; through time's past age, Will find, whatever nature plann'd Came, first, imperfect from her hand, Or what ourselves imperfect call; In nature's eye, though perfect all-- To man she gave to improve, adorn; But let him halt--and all things turn To assume their wild primeval cast, The growth of a neglected waste. Yond' stately trees, so fresh and fair, That now such golden burthens bear, Were once mean shrubs that, far from view, In desert woods, unthrifty grew. Man saw the seeds of something good In these rude children of the wood; Apply'd the knife, and pruned with care, Till art has made them what they are. With curious eye, search history's page, And Man observe, through every age; At first a mere barbarian, he Bore nothing good, (like that wild tree). At length by thought and reason's aid, Reflection piercing night's dark shade, Improvements gain'd, by slow advance Direction, not the work of chance. Forsaking, first, the savage den And fellow-beasts less fierce than men, New plans they form'd for war or power, And sunk the ditch and raised the tower. In course of years the human mind, Advancing slow proved more refined, Less brutal in external show, But native mischief lurk'd below. Despots and kings begun their part, And millions fell by rules of art; Or malice, rankling all the while, Lay hid beneath the treacherous smile. Religion brought her potent aid To kings, their subjects to degrade-- Religion!--to profane your name The hag of superstition came, And seized your place, the world to ensnare, A bitter harvest doom'd to bear! And priests, or history much deceives, Turn'd aide-de-camps to sceptred thieves. At last that Cherub from the skies, (Our nature meant to humanize) And sway, without a king or crown, Philosophy, from heaven came down. Adorn'd with all her native charms She clasp'd her offspring in her arms, In hope the mists of night to chase And hold them in her fond embrace. She, only she, for virtue warm Dissolved the spell and broke the charm, That bade mankind their hands imbue In blood, to please the scheming few. Arm'd with a dart of fire and love She left the seats and courts above, And her celestial power display'd Not to compel, but to persuade. The moment she had whirl'd her sling Each trembling war-hawk droop'd his wing: They saw that reason's game was won, They saw the trade of tyrants done: And all was calm--she saw, well pleased, The havoc done, the tumult ceased, She saw her throne was now adored, She saw the reign of peace restored, And said, 'I leave you--pray, be wise! 'I'm on a visit to the skies, 'Let incense on my altars burn 'And you'll be blest till I return.' But sad reverse!--when out of sight The fiends of darkness watch'd her flight-- What she had built, they soon displaced, Her temples burn'd, her tracks effaced. Their force they join'd, to quench her flame, A thousand ghastly legions came To blast the blossom in the bud And retrograde to chains and blood. The people--to be bought and sold, Were still the prize they wish'd to hold;-- All peasants, soldiers, sailors, slaves, The common sink of rogues and knaves. Yet, nature must her circle run-- Can they arrest the rising sun? Prevent his warm reviving ray, Or shade the influence of the day? If Europe to the yoke returns, Columbia at the idea spurns-- Let Britain wield barbarian rage We meet her here, through every stage. In vain her navy spreads its sails, The strength of mind at last prevails; And reason! thy prodigious power Has brought it to its closing hour. Appeal to arms henceforth should cease, And man might learn to live in peace; No kings with iron hearts should reign, To seize old ocean's free domain. Americans! would you conspire To extinguish this increasing fire? Would you, so late from fetters freed, Join party in so base a deed? Would you dear freedom sacrifice, Bid navies on the ocean rise, Be bound by military laws, And all, to aid a tyrant's cause? Oh, no! but should all shame forsake, And gratitude her exit make, Could you, as thousands say you can, Desert the common cause of man? A curse would on your efforts wait Old british sway to reinstate; No hireling hosts could force a crown Nor keep the bold republic down: The rising race, combined once more, Would honor to our cause restore, And in your doom and downfall seal Such woes as wicked kings shall feel. O liberty! seraphic name, With whom from heaven fair virtue came, For whom, through years of misery toss'd, One hundred thousand lives were lost; Still shall all grateful hearts to thee Incline the head and bend the knee; For thee this dream of life forego And quit the world when thou dost go. From the 1815 edition. Weary of peace, and warm for war, Who first will mount the iron car? Who first appear, to shield the Stars, Who foremost, take the field of Mars? For death and blood, with bold design, Who bids a hundred legions join? To see invasions in the air From France, the moon, or heaven knows where; In freedom's mouth to fix the gag, And aid afford t' a wither'd hag; This is the purpose of a few; But this we see will scarcely do. Who bears the brunt, or pays the bill? The friends of war alone can tell: Observe, six thousand heroes stand With not three privates to command; No matter for the nation's debt If some can wear the epaulette. If reason no attention finds, What magic shall unite all minds? If war a patronage ensures That fifty thousand men procures, Is such a force to humble France? Will these against her arms advance? To fight her legions, near the Rhine, Or England's force in Holland join? In dreams, that on the brain intrude, When nature takes her sleepy mood, And when she frolics through the mind, By sovereign reason unconfined, When her main spring is all uncoil'd And fancy acts in whimsy wild-- I saw a chieftain, cap-a-pee, Arm'd for the battle,--who but he?-- I saw him draw his rusty sword, A present from a London lord: The point was blunt, the edge too dull I deem'd to cleave a dutchman's scull; And with this sword he made advance, And with this sword he struck at France-- This sword return'd without its sheath, Too weak to cause a single death; And there he found his work complete, And then he made a safe retreat, Where folly finds the camp of rest And patience learns to do her best. What next, will policy contrive To bid the days of war arrive: Is there no way to pick a quarrel, And deck the martial brow with laurel? Is there no way to coax a fight And gratify some men of might? To some, who sit at helm of state, State-business is no killing weight, They sign their names, inquire the news, Look wise,--take care to get their dues; At levees, note down who attends-- And there the mighty business ends: To some that deal in state affairs The world comes easy, with its cares; To some who wish for crown and king, A quarrel is a charming thing: They, seated at the fountain head Quaff bowls of nectar, and are fed With all the danties of the land That cash, or market may command: But others doom'd to station low, Their choicest draughts are but--so, so. Hard knocks are theirs, and blood, and wounds, Ten thousand thumps for twenty pounds: Their youth they sell for paltry pay For sixpence, and six kicks a day, A pound of pork and rotten bread, A coat lapell'd, with badge of red; A life of din from year to year, And thus concludes the mad career. Ye rising race, consider well What has been read, or what we tell. From wars all regal mischiefs flow, And kings make wars a raree-show, A business to their post assign'd To torture, damn, enslave mankind. For this, of old, did priests anoint 'em, Be ours the task to disappoint 'em. But when a foe your soil invades, A soldier is the first of trades; Then, every step a soldier takes, Reflection in his breast awakes, That duty calls him to the field Till all invaders are expell'd; That honor sends him to the fight, That he is acting what is right, To guard the soil, and all that's dear; From such as would be tyrants here. You, Journalists, are bribed--that's clear, And paid French millions by the year; We see it in the coats you wear; Such damning, such convincing proof Of such a charge, is strong enough-- Your suits are made of costly stuff. Dear boys! you lodge in mansions grand-- In time you'll own six feet of land, Where now the sexton has command. Your lodging is in garret high; But where your best possessions lie, Yourselves know best--and Him on high. And have you had a foreign bribe?-- Then, why so lean?--shall we describe The leanness of your honest tribe? Why did you not with Tories join To hold the British king divine-- And all his mandates very fine? Then had your faces shined with fat-- Then had you worn the gold-laced hat-- And--said your lessons--very pat.-- Your lives are, now, continual trial, Existence, constant self-denial, To keep down some, who would be royal. For public good you wear out types, For public good you get dry wipes-- For public good you may get--stripes. One half your time in Federal court, On libel charge--you're made a sport-- You pay your fees--nor dare retort.-- All pleasure you are sworn to shun; Are always cloistered, like a nun, And glad to hide from Ragman's dun.-- All night you sit by glare of lamp, Like Will o' Wisp in vapoury swamp, To write of armies and the camp.-- You write--compile--compile and write, 'Till you have nearly lost your sight-- Then off to jail; and so, good night. Turned out as poor as Christ-church rat, Once more the trade you would be at Which never yet made lean man fat. You send your journals far and wide, And though undone, and though belied; You choose to take the patriot side. Your works are in Kentucky found; And there your politics go round-- And there you trust them many a pound.-- At home, to folks residing near, You grant a credit, half a year; And pine, mean while, on cakes and beer. The time elapsed when friends should pay, You urge your dun from day to day; And so you must--and so you may. One customer begins to fret, And tells the dunner in a pet, "Plague take the Printer and his debt: "Ungrateful man--go hang--go burn-- "I read his paper night and morn, "And now experience this return! "Sir! was I not among the first "Who did my name on paper trust, "To help this Journalist accursed? "Thus am I used for having signed: "But I have spirit, he shall find-- "Ah me! the baseness of mankind!" Thus, on you strive with constant pain, The kindest tell you, call again!-- And you their humble dupe remain. Who aims to prosper--should be sold-- If bribes are offered, take the gold, Nor live to be forever fooled. Last week we heard a king's man say, Do tell me where is Botany Bay? There are, quoth he, a meddling few, That shall go there--and we know who. This Botany Bay is in an isle Removed from us twelve thousand mile, There rogues are banish'd, to atone For roguish things in England done. Ye vultures, here on sufferance fed, Who curse the hand that gives you bread, Recall your threats, or, by the way, You'll find us act a serious play. The haughty prince that England owns, To make more room for royal sons, Has given the hint, I would suspect-- Ye busy tribe, of harpy face, In search of power, in search of place, Ye rancorous hearts, who build your all On royal wrongs and freedom's fall, This have we seen, and well we know, Each son of freedom is your foe, And these you would, unheard, convey To places worse than Botany Bay. Be cautious how you talk so loud-- Above your heads there hangs a cloud, That, bursting with explosion vast, May scatter vengeance in its blast; And send you all, on th' devil's dray, A longer road than--Botany Bay. Another threat alarm'd us much-- (Indeed, we hourly meet with such)-- A cockney said, but spoke it low, For fear the street his mind should know: "And is there no sedition act? ("'Tis almost time to doubt the fact,) "By which this gabbling crew are bound "The nearest way to Nootka Sound?" Can you but smile!--who would have thought That they who writ, who march'd, who fought For many a year, and little got But liberty, and dearly bought Must now away With half their pay, And seek on ocean's utmost bound Their chance to starve at Nootka Sound! This Nootka Sound, so far remote, Would make us sing a serious note, If it be true what travellers tell That there a race of natives dwell Who, when they would their brethren treat And give them a regale of meat Unchain their prisoners from the den, And scrape the bones of bearded men. God save us from so hard a fate! As to be spitted, soon or late; It is a lot that few admire-- So let us for a while retire; And live to see some traitors drown'd I' the deepest swash of Nootka Sound. Text from the 1815 edition. The time is approaching, deny it who may, The days are not very remote, When the pageant that glitter'd for many a day, On the stream of oblivion will float. The times are advancing when matters will turn, And some, who are now in the shade, And pelted by malice, or treated with scorn, Will pay, in the coin that was paid: The time it will be, when the people aroused, For better arrangements prepare, And firm to the cause, that of old they espoused, Their steady attachment declare: When tyrants will shrink from the face of the day, Or, if they presume to remain, To the tune of peccavi, a solo will play, And lower the royalty strain: When government favors to flattery's press Will halt on their way from afar, And people will laugh at the comical dress Of the knights of the garter and star: When a monarch, new fangled, with lawyer and scribe, In junto will cease to convene, Or take from old England a pitiful bribe, To pamper his "highness serene;" When virtue and merit will have a fair chance The loaves and the fishes to share, And Jefferson, you to your station advance, The man for the president's chair: When honesty, honor, experience, approved, No more in disgrace will retire; When fops from the places of trust are removed And the leaders of faction retire. Text from the 1815 edition. 'Tis strange that things upon the ground Are commonly most steady found While those in station proud Are turned and twirled, or twist about, Now here and there, now in or out, Mere play things to a cloud. See yonder influential man, So late the stern Republican While interest bore him up; See him recant, abjure the cause, See him support tyrannic laws, The dregs of slavery's cup! Thus, on yon' steeple towering high, Where clouds and storms distracted fly, The weather-cock is placed; Which only while the storm does blow Is to one point of compass true, Then veers with every blast. But things are so appointed here That weather-cocks on high appear, On pinnacle displayed, While Sense, and Worth, and reasoning wights, And they who plead for Human Rights, Sit humble in the shade. From the 1809 edition. Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremonae!--VIRGIL. Oh fatal day! when to the Atlantic shore, European despots sent the doctrine o'er, That man's vast race was born to lick the dust; Feed on the winds, or toil through life accurst; Poor and despised, that rulers might be great And swell to monarchs, to devour the state. Whence came these ills, or from what causes grew This vortex vast, that only spares the few, Despotic sway, where every plague combined, Distracts, degrades, and swallows up mankind; Takes from the intellectual sun its light, And shrouds the world in universal night? Accuse not nature for the dreary scene, That glooms her stage or hides her heaven serene, She, equal still in all her varied ways, An equal blessing to the world displays. The suns that now on northern climates glow, Will soon retire to melt Antarctic snow, The seas she robb'd to form her clouds and rain, Return in rivers to that source again; But man, wrong'd man, borne down, deceived and vex'd, Groans on through life, bewilder'd and perplex'd; No suns on him but suns of misery shine, Now march'd to war, now grovelling in the mine. Chain'd, fetter'd, prostrate, sent from earth a slave, To seek rewards in worlds beyond the grave. If in her general system, just to all, We nature an impartial parent call, Why did she not on man's whole race bestow, Those fine sensations angels only know; Who, sway'd by reason, with superior mind In nature's state all nature's blessings find, Which shed through all, does all their race pervade, Leave this a secret in great nature's breast, Confess that all her works tend to the best, Or own that man's neglected culture here Breeds all the mischiefs that we feel or fear. In all, except the skill to rule her race, Man, wise and skilful, gives each part its place: Each nice machine he plans, to reason true, Adapting all things to the end in view, But taught in this, the art himself to rule His sense is folly, and himself a fool. Where social strength resides, there rests, 'tis plain, The power, mankind to govern and restrain: This strength is not but in the social plan Controling all, the common good of man, That power concentred by the general voice, In honest men, an honest people's choice, With frequent change, to keep the patriot pure, And from vain views of power the heart secure: Here lies the secret, hid from Rome or Greece, That holds a state in awe, yet holds in peace. See through the world, in ages now retired, Man foe to man, as policy required: At some proud tyrant's nod what millions rose, To extend their sway, and make a world their foes. View Asia ravaged, Europe drench'd with blood, In feuds whose cause no nation understood. The cause we fear, of so much misery sown, Known at the helm of state, and there alone. Left to himself, wherever man is found, In peace he aims to walk life's little round; In peace to sail, in peace to till the soil, Nor force false grandeur from a brother's toil. All but the base, designing, scheming, few, Who seize on nations with a robber's view, With crowns and sceptres awe his dazzled eye, And priests that hold the artillery of the sky; These, these, with armies, navies, potent grown, Impoverish man and bid the nations groan. These with pretended balances of states Keep worlds at variance, breed eternal hates, Make man the poor base slave of low design, Degrade his nature to its last decline, Shed hell's worse blots on his exalted race, And make them poor and mean, to make them base. Shall views like these assail our happy land, Where embryo monarchs thirst for wide command, Shall a whole nation's strength and fair renown Be sacrificed, to prop a tottering throne, That, ages past, the world's great curse has stood, Has throve on plunder, and been fed on blood.-- Americans! will you control such views? Speak--for you must--you have no hour to lose. From the 1815 edition. To every clime, through every sea The bold adventurer steers; In bounding barque, through each degree His country's produce bears.-- How far more blest to stay at home Than thus on Neptune's wastes to roam, Where fervors melt, or frosts congeal-- Ah ye! with toils and hardships worn, Condemn'd to face the briny foam; Ah! from such fatal projects turn The wave-dividing keel. The product of the furrow'd plain-- Transferr'd to foreign shores, To pamper pride and please the vain The reign of kings restores: Hence, every vice the sail imports, The glare of crowns, the pomp of courts, And War, with all his crimson train! Thus man design'd to till the ground, A stranger to himself is found-- Is sent to toil on yonder wave, Is made the dreary ocean's sport, Since commerce first to avarice gave To sail the ocean round. How far more wise the grave Chinese, Who ne'er remotely stray, But bid the world surmount the seas And hard-earn'd tribute pay. Hence, treasure to their country flows Freed from the danger, and the woes Of distant seas and dreary shores. There commerce breeds no foreign war; At home they find their wants supplied, And ask, why nations come so far To seek superfluous stores? Americans! why half neglect The culture of your soil? From distant traffic why expect The harvest of your toil? At home a surer harvest springs From mutual interchange of things, Domestic duties to fulfil.-- Vast lakes within your realm abound Where commerce now expands her sail, Where hostile navies are not found To bend you to their will. From the edition of 1815. Does there exist, or will there come An age with wisdom to assume, The Rights by heaven designed; The Rights which man was born to claim, From Nature's God which freely came, To aid and bless mankind.-- No monarch lives, nor do I deem There will exist one crown supreme The world in peace to sway; Whose first great view will be to place On their true scale the human race, And discord's rage allay. Republics! must the task be your's To frame the code which life secures, And Right from man to man-- Are you, in Time's declining age, Found only fit to tread the stage Where tyranny began? How can we call those systems just Which bid the few, the proud, the first Possess all earthly good; While millions robbed of all that's dear In silence shed the ceaseless tear, And leeches suck their blood. Great orb, that on our planet shines, Whose power both light and heat combines, You should the model be; To man, the pattern how to reign With equal sway, and how maintain True human dignity. Impartially to all below The solar beams unstinted flow, On all is poured the Ray, Which cheers, which warms, which clothes the ground In robes of green, or breathes around Life;--to enjoy the day. But crowns not so;--with selfish views They partially their bliss diffuse Their minions feel them kind;-- And, still opposed to human right, Their plans, their views in this unite, To embroil and curse mankind. Ye tyrants, false to Him, who gave Life, and the virtues of the brave, All worth we own, or know:-- Who made you great, the lords of man, To waste with wars, with blood to stain The Maker's works below? You have no iron race to sway-- Illume them well with Reason's ray; Inform our active race; True honour, to the mind impart, With virtue's precepts tame the heart, Not urge it to be base; Let laws revive, by heaven designed, To tame the tiger in the mind And drive from human hearts That love of wealth, that love of sway Which leads the world too much astray, Which points envenomed darts: And men will rise from what they are; Sublimer, and superior, far, Than Solon guessed, or Plato saw; All will be just, all will be good-- That harmony, "not understood," Will reign the general law. For, in our race, deranged, bereft, The parting god some vestige left Of worth before possessed; Which full, which fair, which perfect shone When love and peace, in concord sown, Ruled, and inspired each breast. Hence, the small Good which yet we find, Is shades of that prevailing mind Which sways the worlds around:-- Let these depart, once disappear, And earth would all the horrors wear In hell's dominions found. Just, as yon' tree, which, bending, grows To chance, not fate, its fortune owes; So man from some rude shock, Some slighted power, some hostile hand, Has missed the state by Nature planned, Has split on passion's rock. Yet shall that tree, when hewed away (As human woes have had their day) A new creation find: The infant shoot in time will swell, (Sublime and great from that which fell,) To all that heaven designed. What is this earth, that sun, these skies; If all we see, on man must rise, Forsaken and oppressed-- Why blazes round the eternal beam, Why, Reason, art thou called supreme, Where nations find no rest.-- What are the splendours of this ball-- When life is closed, what are they all? When dust to dust returns Does power, or wealth, attend the dead; Are captives from the contest led-- Is homage paid to urns? What are the ends of Nature's laws; What folly prompts, what madness draws Mankind in chains, too strong:-- Nature, to us, confused appears, On little things she wastes her cares, The great seem sometimes wrong. Unique, as far as I can find, in the edition of 1809. In thoughtless hour some much misguided men, And more, who held a prostituted pen, From monstrous creeds a monstrous system drew, That every State into one kettle threw, And boil'd them up until the goodly mass Might for a kingdom, or a something, pass. In the gay circle of saint James's placed, From thence, no doubt, this modest plan they traced, Suit with the splendor that surrounds a king, Too many sigh'd, and wish'd to be that thing. Thence came a book (where came it but from thence?) Made up of all things but a grain of sense. Lawyers and counsellors echo'd back the note And lying journals praised the trash they wrote. Though British armies could not long prevail, Yet British politics may turn the scale: In ten short years, of freedom weary grown, The state, republic, sickens for a throne; Senates and sycophants a pattern bring A mere disguise for parliament and king. A pensioned army! Whence a plan so base?-- A despot's safety, liberty's disgrace. What saved these states from Britain's wasting hand, Who but the generous rustics of the land, A free-born race, inured to every toil, Who clear the forest and subdue the soil? They tyrants banish'd from this injured shore, And home-bred traitors may expel once more. Ye, who have propp'd the venerated cause, Who freedom honor'd, and sustain'd her laws! When thirteen states are moulded into one, Your rights are vanish'd and your glory gone; The form of freedom will alone remain-- Rome had her senate when she hugg'd her chain. Sent to revise our system,--not to change, What madness that whole system to derange, Amendments, only, was the plan in view, You scorn amendments, and destroy it too. How much deceived! would heroes of renown Scheme for themselves, and pull the fabric down, Bid in its place Columbia's column rise Inscribed with these sad words,--Here freedom lies! From the 1815 edition. Thus to the verge of battle brought Reflection leads a happy thought, Agrees, half way, the Gaul to meet, Prepared to fight him or to treat. Fatigued with long oppression's reign, Tis time to break oppression's chain; One gem we ravish'd from one crest And time, perhaps, will take the rest. The revolutions of this age (To swell the late historian's page) Are but old prospects drawing near, The outset of a new career. What Plato saw, in ages fled, What Solon to the Athenians said, What fired the British Sydney's page, The Solon of a modern age, Is now unfolding to our view; A system liberal, great, and new, Which from a long experience springs And bodes a better course of things. And will these States, whose beam ascends, On whose resolve so much depends; Will these, whose Washington, or Greene, Gave motion to the vast machine; Will these be torpid, careless found To help the mighty wheel go round; These, who began the immortal strife, And liberty preferr'd to life. If not the cause of France we aid Yet never should the word be said That we, to royal patrons prone, Made not the cause of man our own. Could Britain here renew her sway, And we a servile homage pay, The coming age, too proud to yield, Would drive her myriads from the field. Time will mature the mighty scheme, We build on no platonic dream; The light of truth shall shine again, And save the democratic reign. From the 1815 edition. An embassy, headed by Chief Justice Who after a Series of Persecutions emigrated to the Southwestern Remote, beneath a sultry star, Where Mississippi flows afar, I see you rambling, God knows where. Sometimes, beneath a cypress bough, When met in dreams, with spirits low, I long to tell you what I know. How matters go, in this our day, When monarchy renews her sway, And royalty begins her play. I thought you wrong to come so far Till you had seen our western star Above the mists ascended clear. I thought you right, to speed your sails If you were fond of loathsome jails, And justice with uneven scales. And so you came and spoke too free And soon they made you bend the knee, And lodged you under lock and key. Discharged at last, you made your peace With all you had, and left the place With empty purse and meagre face.-- You sped your way to other climes And left me here to teaze with rhymes The worst of men in worst of times. Where you are gone the soil is free And freedom sings from every tree, "Come quit the crowd and live with me!" Where I must stay, no joys are found; Excisemen haunt the hateful ground, And chains are forged for all around. The scheming men, with brazen throat, Would set a murdering tribe afloat To hang you for the lines you wrote. If you are safe beyond their rage Thank heaven, and not our ruling sage, Who shops us up in jail and cage. Perdition seize that odious race Who, aiming at distinguish'd place, Would life and liberty efface; With iron rod would rule the ball And, at their shrine, debase us all, Bid devils rise and angels fall. Oh wish them ill, and wish them long To be as usual in the wrong In scheming for a chain too strong. So will the happy time arrive When coming home, if then alive, You'll see them to the devil drive. From the 1815 edition. The ancient knave, who raised these walls, Now to oblivion half resign'd-- His fortress to the mind recalls The nerve that stimulates mankind; When savage force exerts its part And ruffian blood commands the heart. This pirate, known to former days, The scourge of these unhappy climes, In this strong fabric thought to raise A monument to future times: To guard himself and guard his gold, Or shelter robbers, uncontrol'd. A standard on these walls he rear'd, And here he swore the oath profane, That by his god, and by his beard, Sole, independent, he would reign; And do his best to crush the sway Of legal right and honesty. Within these walls, and in these vaults, Of princely power and wealth possess'd, Dominion hung on all his thoughts, And here he hoped an age of rest; The wealth of princes flowing in That from the Spaniards he did win. He many a chief and captain awed, Or chain'd with fetters, foot and hand; Uncheck'd, his fleets he sent abroad, Commission gave, conferr'd command; And if his sailors skulk'd or fled, He made them shorter--by a head. Half Europe's flags he bade retire From ponderous guns he hurl'd the ball-- He fill'd his glass with liquid fire And drank damnation to them all: For many a year he held the sway And thousands at his mercy lay. Confiding in his castle's strength Mann'd by a fierce, heroic crew, He blunder'd on till they at length, The model of a city drew, Where he might reign and be obey'd, And be the tyrant of all trade. Vain hope! his fort neglected stands And, crumbling, hastens to decay;-- Where, once, he train'd his daring bands The stranger scarcely finds his way: The bushes in the castle grow Where once he menaced friend and foe. In this mysterious scene of things There must be laws or who could live? There must be laws to aid the wings Of those who on the ocean strive To earn by commerce, bold and free, The honest gains of industry. Text from the 1815 edition. No pleasure on earth can afford such delights, As the heavenly view of these tropical nights: The glow of the stars, and the breeze of the sea, Are heaven--if heaven on ocean can be.-- The star of old Cancer is right overhead, And the sun in the water has travelled to bed; He is gone, as some say, to recline at his ease, And not, like ourselves, to be pestered with fleas. What pity that here is no insular spot, Where quarrels, and murder, and malice are not: Where a stranger might land, to recruit his worn crew, Replenish the casks, and the water renew. On this Empire of waves, this expanse of the main, In the track we are sailing, no island is seen: The glow of the stars, and the breath of the wind Are lost!--for they bring not the scent of the land! Huge porpoises swim, where there should be an isle, Where an Eden might bloom, or a Cyprus might smile-- From Palma,[A] thus far, with a tedious delay, Salt water and aether is all we survey! Like an artist that's busy in melting his lead, At random it falls, and is carelessly spread, So Nature, though wisely the globe she has planned, Left the surface to chance--to be sea, or be land. Unique in the edition of 1809. _Terra tegit, populus maeret, caelum habet!_ Departing with the closing age To virtue, worth, and freedom true, The chief, the patriot, and the sage To Vernon bids his last adieu: To reap in some exalted sphere The just rewards of virtue here. Thou, Washington, by heaven design'd To act a part in human things That few have known among mankind, And far beyond the task of kings; We hail you now to heaven received, Your mighty task on earth achieved. While sculpture and her sister arts, For thee their choicest wreaths prepare, Fond gratitude her share imparts And begs thy bones for burial there; Where, near Virginia's northern bound Swells the vast pile on federal ground. To call from their obscure abodes The Grecian chief, the Roman sage, The kings, the heroes, and the gods Who flourish'd in time's earlier age, Would be to class them not with you,-- Superior far, in every view. Those ancients of ferocious mould, Blood their delight, and war their trade, Their oaths profaned, their countries sold, And fetter'd nations prostrate laid; Could these, like you, assert their claim To honor and immortal fame? Those monarchs, proud of pillaged spoils, With nations shackled in their train, Returning from their desperate toils With trophies,--and their thousands slain; In all they did no traits are known Like those that honor'd Washington. Who now will save our shores from harms, The task to him so long assign'd? Who now will rouse our youth to arms Should war approach to curse mankind? Alas! no more the word you give, But in your precepts you survive. Ah, gone! and none your place supply, Nor will your equal soon appear; But that great name can only die When memory dwells no longer here, When man and all his systems must Dissolve, like you, and turn to dust. From the 1815 edition. Upon the Same Subject with the Preceding The chief who freed these suffering lands From Britain's bold besieging bands, The hero, through all countries known,-- The guardian genius of his own, Is gone to that celestial bourne From whence no traveller can return, Where Scipio and where Trajan went; And heaven reclaims the soul it lent. Each heart with secret wo congeals; Down the pale cheek moist sorrow steals, And all the nobler passions join To mourn, remember, and resign. O ye, who carve the marble bust To celebrate poor human dust, And from the silent shades of death Retrieve the form but not the breath, Vain is the attempt by force of art To impress his image on the heart: It lives, it glows, in every breast, And tears of millions paint it best. Indebted to his guardian care, And great alike in peace and war, The loss they feel these States deplore,-- Their friend--their father--is no more. What will they do to avow their grief? No sighs, no tears, afford relief: Dark mourning weeds but ill express The poignant wo that all confess; Nor will the monumental stone Assuage one tear--relieve one groan. O Washington! thy honor'd dust To parent nature we entrust; Convinced that your exalted mind Still lives, but soars beyond mankind, Still acts in virtue's sacred cause, Nor asks from man his vain applause. In raptures with a theme so great, While thy famed actions they relate, Each future age from thee shall know All that is good and great below; Shall glow with pride to hand thee down To latest time, to long renown, The brightest name on freedom's page, And the first honor of our age. From the 1815 edition. Occasioned by certain absurd, extravagant, and even blasphemous panegyrics and encomiums on the character of the late Gen. Washington, that appeared in several pamphlets, journals, and No tongue can tell, no pen describe The phrenzy of a numerous tribe, Who, by distemper'd fancy led, Insult the memory of the dead. Of old, there were in every age Who stuff'd with gods the historian's page, And raised beyond the human sphere Some who, we know, were mortal here. Such was the case, we know full well, When darkness spread her pagan spell; Mere insects, born for tombs and graves, They changed into celestial knaves; Made some, condemn'd to tombs and shrouds, Lieutenant generals in the clouds. In journals, meant to spread the news, From state to state--and we know whose-- We read a thousand idle things That madness pens, or folly sings. Was, Washington, your conquering sword Condemn'd to such a base reward? Was trash, like that we now review, The tribute to your valor due? One holds you more than mortal kind, One holds you all ethereal mind, This puts you in your saviour's seat, That makes you dreadful in retreat. One says you are become a star, One makes you more resplendent, far; One sings, that, when to death you bow'd, Old mother nature shriek'd aloud. We grieve to see such pens profane The first of chiefs, the first of men.-- To Washington--a man--who died, As _abba father_ well applied? Absurdly, in a frantic strain, Why ask him not for sun and rain?-- We sicken at the vile applause That bids him give the ocean laws. Ye patrons of the ranting strain, What temples have been rent in twain? What fiery chariots have been sent To dignify the sad event?-- O, ye profane, irreverent few, Who reason's medium never knew: On you she never glanced her beams; You carry all things to extremes. Shall they, who spring from parent earth, Pretend to more than mortal birth? Or, to the omnipotent allied, Control his heaven, or join his side? O, is there not some chosen curse, Some vengeance due, with lightning's force That far and wide destruction spreads, To burst on such irreverent heads! Had they, in life, be-praised him so, What would have been the event, I know He would have spurn'd them, with disdain, Or rush'd upon them, with his cane. He was no god, ye flattering knaves, He own'd no world, he ruled no waves; But--and exalt it, if you can, He was the upright, Honest Man. This was his glory, this outshone Those attributes you doat upon: On this strong ground he took his stand, Such virtue saved a sinking land. From the 1815 edition. Removed from life's uncertain stage, In virtue firm, in honor clear,-- One of the worthies of our age, Rutledge! resigns his station here. Alike in arts of war and peace, And form'd by nature to excel, From early Rome and ancient Greece, He modell'd all his actions well. When Britons came with chains to bind, Or ravage these devoted lands, He our firm league of freedom sign'd And counsell'd how to break their bands. To the great cause of honor true, He took his part with manly pride, His spirit o'er these regions flew, The patriots' and the soldiers' guide. In arts of peace, in war's bold schemes Amongst our brightest stars he moved, By all admired, by all beloved. A patriot of superior mould, He dared all foreign foes oppose, Till, from a tyrant's ashes cold, The mighty pile of freedom rose. In process of succeeding days When peace resumed her joyous reign, With laurel wreaths and twining bays He sought less active life again. There, warm to plead the orphan's cause From misery's eye to dry the tear, He stood where justice guards the laws At once humane, at once severe. 'Twas not his firm enlighten'd mind, So ardent in affairs of state; 'Twas not that he in armies shined That made him so completely great: Persuasion dwelt upon his tongue, He spoke--all hush'd, and all were awed;-- From all he said conviction sprung, And crowds were eager to applaud. Thus long esteem'd, thus early loved, The tender husband, friend sincere; The parent, patriot, sage, approved, Had now survived his fiftieth year-- Had now the highest honors met That Carolina could bestow; Presiding o'er that potent state Where streams of wealth and plenty flow. Where labor spreads her rural reign To western regions bold and free; And commerce on the Atlantic main Wafts her rich stores of industry: Then left this stage of human things To shine in a sublimer sphere Where time to one assemblage brings All virtuous minds, all hearts sincere. From the 1815 edition. Edward Rutledge was a member of the A bird of night attends the sail That now towards us turns her tail With Porcupine, escaped from jail. O may the sharks enjoy their bait: He came such mischief to create We wish him not a better fate. This hero of the pension'd pen Has left our shores, and left his den To write at home for English men. Five thousand dollars, we may guess, Have made his pension something less-- So, Peter left us,--in distress. He writ, and writ, and writ so long[A] That sheriff came, with writ more strong, And he went off, and all went wrong. whole scope and tendency of which was, as is well remembered, to render the republican institutions of this country contemptible, as well as odious to the people; and by discontenting them with their government, to open the way for the introduction of a monarchial system. He was thought to be a pensioner of the English government; but whether such or not is uncertain.--_Freneau's note._ May southern gales that vex the main, Or Boreas, with his whistling train Make Peter howl and howl again. I hear him screech, I hear him shout!-- The storm has put his Rush light[B] out-- I see him famish'd with sour crout. well as private character of Dr. Rush, and other persons of celebrity, was vilified to the lowest degree of scurrility, malignancy and falsehood.--_Ib._ May on the groaning vessel's side All Neptune's ruffian strength be try'd Till every seam is gaping wide. And while the waves about him swell May not one triton blow the shell (A sign at sea of doing well): But should he reach the british shore, (The land that englishmen adore) One trouble will he find and more: His pen will run at such a rate, His malice so provoke the great, They soon will drive him out of date. With broken heart and blunted pen He'll sink among the little men Or scribble in some Newgate den. Alack, alack! he might have stay'd And followed here the scribbling trade, And lived without the royal aid. But democratic laws he hated, Our government he so be-rated That his own projects he defeated. He took his leave from Sandy-Hook, And parted with a surly look, That all observed and few mistook. Cobbett was sued by Dr. Rush for libel, was found guilty, and compelled to pay a fine of $5,000. The ship preparing for the main Enlists a wild, but gallant train, Who in a moving jail would roam Disgusted with the world at home. They quit the fields and quit the trees To seek their bread on stormy seas; Perhaps to see the land no more, Or see, but not enjoy the shore. There must be some as this world goes Who every joy and pleasure lose, And round the world at random stray To gain their bread the shortest way. They hate the ax, they hate the hoe And execrate the rural plough, The mossy bank, the sylvan shade Where once they wrought, where once they play'd: Prefer a boisterous, mad career, A broken leg, and wounds severe, To all the joys that can be found On mountain top or furrow'd ground. A hammock holds them when they sleep; A tomb, when dying, in the deep, A crowded deck, a cann of beer These sons of Amphitrite prefer To all the verdure of the fields Or all a quiet pillow yields. There must be such a nervous race, Who venture all, and no disgrace; Who will support through every blast, The shatter'd ship, the falling mast-- Who will support through every sea The sacred cause of liberty, And every foe to ruin drag Who aims to strike the gallic flag. From the 1815 edition. Of the Late AEdanus Burke, Esq., of South-Carolina _Quiesco--ubi saeva indignatio, Ulterius cor lacerare nequit!_ A land enslaved, his generous heart disdain'd Which tyrants fetter'd, and where tyrants reign'd: Disgusted there, he left the hibernian shore The laws that bound him, and the isle that bore. Bold, open, free, he call'd the world his own, Preferr'd our new republics to a throne; And lent his aid their insults to repay, Repel the britons and to win the day. In every art of subtlety untaught, He spoke no more, than "just the thing he ought;" For justice warm, he spurn'd, with just disdain, The mean evasion, and the law's chicane. Burke! to thy shade we pay this last address, And only say what all, who knew, confess: Your virtues were not of the milder kind, But rugged independence ruled your mind, And, stern, in all that binds to honor's cause, No interest sway'd you to desert her laws. Then rest in peace, the portion of the just, Where Carolina guards your honor'd dust: Beneath a tree, remote, obscure, you sleep, But all the sister virtues, round you, weep; Your native worth, no tongue, no time arraigns, That last memorial, and the best remains! And president of Nassau-hall, at Princeton, New-Jersey, on the This honor'd pile, so late in ashes laid, Once more emerges, by your generous aid; Your aid, and their's, who through our vast domain, Befriend the muses, and their cause sustain. In flames involved, that stately fabric fell, Where, long presiding, you deserved so well; But to the dust when you beheld it fall, The honor'd, famed, majestic, Nassau-Hall, Not then repining in that darkened hour Your native genius show'd its native power, And plann'd the means to bid a structure rise Pride of the arts, and favorite of the wise. For this we saw you trace the unwearied mile And saw the friends of Nassau on you smile; They to your efforts lent their generous aid, And every honor to your genius paid, To the firm patron of the arts they gave What Alfred lavish'd, and what arts should have. For this we saw you rove the southern waste In our Columbia's milder climates placed, Those happier shores, where Carolina proves The friend of Princeton's academic groves, Where Georgia owns the wreath to science due And honor'd science, genius, art, and you: And Charleston every generous wish return'd, Sigh'd for the loss, and for her favorite mourn'd, Proud of her sons, who by your cares are seen Lights of the world, and pride of social man. There Ramsay met you, esculapian sage, The famed historian of a warring age, His word gave vigor to your vast design, And his strong efforts equall'd all but thine. Nassau revived, from thence in time proceed Chiefs, who shall empire sway, or legions lead, Who, warm'd with all that philosophic glow Which Greece, or Rome, or reasoning powers bestow, Shall to mankind the friends and guardians be Shall make them virtuous, and preserve them free. From that lost pile, which, now to ashes turn'd; The sage regretted and the muses mourn'd, Sprung, once, a race who firm to freedom's cause, Repell'd oppression and despotic laws, Unsceptered kings, or one at least dismiss'd, With half the lords and prefects on his list: Such, early, here imbibed the sacred flame That glanced from heaven, or from true science came; With these enroll'd, be every honor done To our firm statesman, patriot, Madison, Form'd to the purpose of a reasoning age, To raise its genius, and direct its rage. This tribute from a friendly heart receive, O Smith! which must your kind indulgence crave, If half a stranger to the poet's lay, It fails your just, your due reward to pay. Beneath these banks, along this shore, And underneath the waters, more Forgotten corpses rest; More bones by cruelty consigned To death, than shall be told mankind To chill the feeling breast: More bones of those who, dying here In floating dungeons, anchored near, A prey to fierce disease, Than fame in her recording page Will tell some late enquiring age, When telling things like these. Ah me! what ills, what sighs, what groans, What spectre forms, what moving moans, What woes on woes were found; When here oppressed, insulted, crossed, The vigour of the soul was lost In miseries thickening round. The youths of firm undaunted mind, To climate nor to coast confined, All misery taught to bear-- I saw them, as the sail they spread, I saw them by misfortune led To capture, and to care. Though night and storms were round them cast, They climbed the well-supported mast, And reefed the fluttering sail; Though thunders roared and lightnings glared, They toil, nor death, nor danger feared, They braved the loudest gale.-- Great Cause, that brought them all their woe: Thou, Freedom!--bade their spirits glow; But forced, at last, to yield, Died in despair each sickening crew: They vanished from the world--but you, Columbia, kept the field. They sunk, unpitied, in their bloom,-- They scarcely found a shallow tomb To hide the naked bones: For, feeble was the nervous hand That once could toil, or once command The force of Neptune's sons. In aid of that immortal cause Which spurned at England's tyrant laws, These passed the troubled main; They dared the seas she called her own, To meet the ruffians of a throne, And honour's purpose gain. All generous--while that power was proved, To war the brave adventurers moved, And catched the seaman's art, Met on their own domain, the crew Of foreign slaves, that never knew The independent heart. Thou, Independence, vast design; The efforts of the brave were thine, When doubtful all, and dark; It was a chaos to explore; It seemed all sea, without a shore, Nor on that sea an ark. For You, the young, the firm, the brave, Too often met an early grave, Unnoticed and unknown: On naked shores were seen to lie, In scorching heats were doomed to die With agonizing groan. By strength, or chance, if some survived Disease, which hosts of life deprived, That life they should devote, To venture all in Freedom's cause, To combat tyrants, and their laws, So felt near this sad spot. Yes--and the spirit which began, (We swear by all that's great in man) That spirit shall go on, To brighten and illume the mind, 'Till tyrants vanish from mankind From the edition of 1809. Quae Tiberine, videbis Funera, cum, tumulum praeter labore recentum! _Virg._ the citizens of New York on the 26th of May, 1808, to inter the bones and skeletons of american prisoners who perished in the old Jersey, and other prison ships, during the revolutionary war; and which were now first discovered by the wasting of the shores and banks on Long Island, where they had been left.--_Freneau's note._ When Philip's son possess'd his native lands And train'd on grecian fields his grecian bands, In Thebes subdued, or Athens near her fall, He saw no honor, or despised it all. To be reduced to universal sway The world's vast prospect in perspective lay;-- While yet restricted to Larissa's plain He cursed his fortune for a lot so mean, On all his steps the gloom of sadness hung, And fierce resentment all his bosom stung That fortune's whim restrain'd to such a floor, Had done so little, and might do no more. Mercantile Tyre his laboring mind oppress'd, The persian throne deprived his soul of rest-- The world his stage, he meant to play his part, And unsubjected India gall'd his heart! Look to the east where Tamerlane display'd His crescent[B] moons and nations prostrate laid, March where he would, the world before him bow'd In conquest mighty, as of conquest proud-- What was the event? let tragic story tell While sad sensations in the bosom swell-- What were the effects? in every step we trace The wasteful havoc of a royal race, Once fertile fields a howling desert made The town in ashes, or the town decay'd, Degraded man to native wildness turn'd, His prospects clouded and his commerce spurn'd-- If such the outset of this mad career What will the last disgusting scene appear, Of all he conquer'd, when no more remains Than vagrant subjects, or unpeopled plains! which had their origin, it is said, from the asiatic Tartars. Timurbeck (or Tamerlane) was of tartarian extraction.--_Freneau's note._ Thus, when ambition prompts the ardent mind, The soul, eccentric, frantic, unconfined, To peace a stranger, soars to heights unknown, And, slighting reason, yields the will to none; Mere passion rules, degrading powers prevail, And cool reflection quits the unbalanced scale. It leaves the haunts of happiness and rest To float on winds, disorder'd and unblest, Quits all the calm that nature meant for man To find some prize, or form the aspiring plan; That plan ungain'd, the object cheats the view, Or, if attain'd, they other marks pursue; Till all is closed in disappointment's shade And folly wonders at the flight she made: Ambition's self finds every prospect vain, The visions vanish, and the glooms remain. And such the vice, with nations as with man, Such the great failing since the world began: To power exalted, as to power they rose By honest toils, and humbling all their foes; That zenith gain'd, they covet vast domains And all, that pride from vast possession gains, Till glittering visions bring the uneasy sigh And uncontrol'd dominion blasts the eye. Britain! we cite you to our bar, once more; What but ambition urged you to our shore?-- To abridge our native rights, seven years you strove; Seven years were ours your arm of death to prove, To find, that conquest was your sovereign view; Your aims, to fetter, humble, and subdue, To seize a soil which not your labor till'd When the rude native scarcely we repell'd, When, with unbounded rage, their nations swore To hurl the out-law'd stranger from their shore, Or swell the torrent with their thousands slain No more to approach them, or molest their reign.-- What did we ask?--what right but reason owns? Yet even the mild petition met your frowns. Submission, only, to a monarch's will Could calm your rage, or bid your storm be still, Before our eyes the angry shades appear Of those, whose relics we this day inter: They live, they speak, reproach you, and complain Their lives were shorten'd by your galling chain: They aim their shafts, directed to your breast,-- Let rage, and fierce resentment tell the rest. These coffins, tokens of our last regard, These mouldering bones your vengeance might have spared.-- If once, in life, they met you on the main, If to your arms they yielded on the plain,-- Man, once a captive, all respect should claim That Britain gave, before her days of shame. How changed their lot! in floating dungeons thrown, They sigh'd unpitied, and relieved by none: In want of all that nature's wants demand, They met destruction from some traitor's hand, Who treated all with death or poison here, Or the last groan, with ridicule severe. A sickening languor to the soul returns And kindling passion at the motive spurns: The murders here, did we at length display Would more than paint an indian tyrant's sway: Then hush the theme, and to the dust restore These, once so wretched near Manhattan's shore, When tyrants ruled, whose hearts no mercy felt: In blood they wallow'd as in death they dealt. Thou who shalt come, by sad reflection taught, To seek on Nassau's isle this lonely vault; Think, when surveying this too gloomy scene, Think what, had heaven decreed, you might have been. When, with the rest, you pass'd the weary hour Chain'd or subjected to some ruffian's power, Think, as you see the sad procession pass'd, Think what these are, and you must be at last.-- Learn, as you hope to find your heart's applause, To love your country and respect her laws; Revere the sages, who your rights explain'd, Revere the patriots, who your cause sustain'd. Your country's Hero, rising to your view, Attend his precepts, and with care pursue, He first to shield you, rais'd his powerful arm, To honor steady as for freedom warm; When she relumed her half-extinguish'd fire, Then, not till then, did Washington retire, And left a light, a radiance to display, And mark his efforts, when he led the way. When war's long waste your independence crown'd And Hudson heard th' invigorating sound! His was the task; to him the part assign'd To paralize the vultures of mankind. Admit no tyrants, to debase your minds; Some selfish motive to all tyrants binds; If robed in ermine or in scarlet clad, And Rome's worst prince accomplish'd by a word No more, than by his councils, George the third! How oft has rugged nature charged my pen With gall, to shed it on that worst of men, Mankind, their reason, and their prayers defy'd: Who, firm to all that phrenzy could pursue, Explored the ancient world, to chain the new; And tired the despot, search'd each dark recess, And ransack'd hell, to find the hireling hesse:-- Could he be here, a witness to this day, With calm delight he would this scene survey, Would see unmoved, with apathy of mind, The gaping vault, this havoc of mankind! Without a tear, these mouldering bones review, That fell by ruffian hands--employ'd by you. His phrenzy, rampant with the right divine, Inspired a nation with a black design, To blast with poison, like a wizard's spell, And plant on man the characters of hell!-- Thou, who shalt come, of feeling mind possest, And, heaven's first gift, the patriotic breast, On this bleak coast, to tread the island plain, Think, what revenge disgraced a monarch's reign! Who, not content with wealth and power we gave, Forgot the subject, to enthral the slave: Such was his hope;--that hope to realize He sent his myriads to demand the prize; What were the splendid trophies he acquired? Were these bleach'd bones the trophies he admired? While passion fires, or kindred sorrows fall, Ask not, if this sequester'd cell is all, Is all that honors these collected bones?-- Enough is done to stigmatize all thrones: Ask not, while passion with resentment fires, Why to the skies no monument aspires?-- Enough is done to rouse the patriot glow And bid the rising race your feelings know. From the edition of 1815. Attracted to this airy steep Above the subject hills, Ocean, from his surrounding deep The urn of Pico fills. Thence gushing streams, unstinted, stray To glad the mountain's side; Or, winding through the vallies, gay, Through fields, and groves, and vineyards glide. To him the plains their verdure owe Confessing what your smiles bestow, From day to day the unwearied sail Surveys your towering cone, And when th' adjacent prospects fail, And neighboring isles no more they hail, You meet the eye alone. Twice forty miles the exploring eye Discerns you o'er the waste, Now, a blue turret in the sky When not by mists embraced. Long may you stand, the friendly mark, To those who sail afar, A spot that guides the wandering barque, A second polar star. From the edition of 1815. Freneau sailed for the Madeira Islands Arrived at Madeira, the island of vines, Where mountains and vallies abound, Where the sun the wild juice of the cluster refines, To gladden the magical ground: As pensive I stray'd in her elegant shade, Now halting and now on the move, Old Bacchus I met, with a crown on his head, In the darkest recess of a grove. I met him with awe, but no symptom of fear As I roved by his mountains and springs, When he said with a sneer, "how dare you come here, You hater of despots and kings?-- Do you know that a prince, and a regent renown'd Presides in this island of wine? Whose fame on the earth has encircled it round And spreads from the pole to the line? Haste away with your barque: on the foam of the main To Charleston I bid you repair: There drink your Jamaica, that maddens the brain; You shall have no Madeira--I swear." "Dear Bacchus," (I answered) for Bacchus it was That spoke in this menacing tone: I knew by the smirk and the flush on his face It was Bacchus, and Bacchus alone-- "Dear Bacchus, (I answered) ah, why so severe?-- Since your nectar abundantly flows, Allow me one cargo--without it I fear Some people will soon come to blows: I left them in wrangles, disorder, and strife, Political feuds were so high, I was sick of their quarrels, and sick of my life, And almost requested to die." The deity smiling, replied, "I relent:-- For the sake of your coming so far, Here, taste of my choicest--go, tell them repent, And cease their political war. With the cargo I send, you may say, I intend To hush them to peace and repose; With this present of mine, on the wings of the wind You shall travel, and tell them, here goes A health to old Bacchus! who sends them the best Of the nectar his island affords, The soul of the feast and the joy of the guest, Too good for your monarchs and lords. No rivals have I in this insular waste, Alone will I govern the isle With a king at my feet, and a court to my taste, And all in the popular style. But a spirit there is in the order of things, To me it is perfectly plain, That will strike at the scepters of despots and kings, And only king Bacchus remain." From edition of 1815. On the fatal and unprecedented torrents of water which collected from the mountains on the ninth of October, 1803, and destroyed a villages in that neighborhood. The rude attack, if none will tell, On Bacchus, in his favorite isle; If none in verse describe it well, If none assume a poet's style These devastations to display;-- Attend me, and perhaps I may. To those who own the feeling heart This tragic scene I would present, No fiction, or the work of art, Nor merely for the fancy meant: Twas all a shade, a darken'd scene, Old Noah's deluge come again! From hills beyond the clouds that soar, The vaults of heaven, the torrents run, And rushing with resistless power, Assail'd the island of the sun: Fond nature saw the blasted vine, And seem'd to sicken and repine. As skyward stream'd the electric fire The heavens emblazed, or wrapt in gloom; The clouds appear, the clouds retire And terror said, "the time is come When all the groves, and hill, and plain Will sink to ocean's bed again." The cheery god, who loves to smile And gladness to the heart bestows, Almost resolved to quit his isle, And in unwonted passion rose; He sought his caves in wild dismay And left the heavens to have their way. The whistling winds had ceased to blow; Not one, of all the aerial train-- No gale to aid that night of wo Disturb'd the slumbers of the main; In distant woods they silent slept; Or, in the clouds, the tempest kept. The bursting rains in seas descend, Machico[A] heard the distant roar, And lightnings, while the heavens they rend, Show'd ruin marching to the shore: And fear foreboded nature's doom. The heavens on fire, an ocean's force Seized forests, vineyards, herds, and men, And swelling streams from every source Bade ancient chaos come again: Through Fonchal's[B] road their courses held And ocean saw his waves repell'd. Ill fated town!--what works of pride In one short hour were swept away! Huge piles that time had long defy'd, In ruthless ruin scatter'd lay: Some buried in the opening deep-- With crowds dismiss'd to endless sleep, From her fond arms the daughter torn, The mother saw destruction near; Both on the whirling surge were borne, Forgetful of the farewell tear: At distance torn, with feeble cries, Far from her arms the infant dies. Her dear delight, her darling boy In morn of days and dawning bloom, This opening bud of promised joy Too early found a watery tomb, Or floated on the briny waste; No more beloved, no more embraced. From heights immense, with force unknown, Enormous rocks and mangled trees Were headlong hurl'd and hurrying down, Fix'd their foundation in the seas! Or, rushing with a mountain's weight, Hurl'd to the deeps their domes of state. On heaven intent the affrighted priest Where church was left, to churches ran, With suppliant voice the skies addrest, And wail'd the wickedness of man: For which he thought, this scourge was meant, And, weeping, said, repent, repent! But Santa Clara's lofty walls, Where pines through life the pious nun, Whose prison to the mind recalls What superstition's power has done: No conquest there the floods essay'd, Religion guarded man and maid. What seem'd beyond the cannon's power, The walls of rock, were torn away; To ruin sunk the church and tower, And no respect the flood would pay To silver saints, or saints of wood, The bishop's cap, the friar's hood. Hard was their fate! more happy thou The lady of the mountain tall;[C] When desolation raged below She stood secure, and scorn'd it all, Where Gordon,[D] for retirement, chose His groves, his gardens, and the muse. in the mountains.--_Freneau's note._ Who on this valley's drowning bed Would plan a street, or build again, Unthinking as the Brazen head[E] For wretches builds a source of pain, A church, a street, that soon or late May share the same, or a worse fate. Let some vast bridge assume their place Like those the romans raised of old, With arches, firm as nature's base, Of architecture grand and bold; So will the existing race engage The thanks of a succeeding age. Pontinia[F] long must wear the marks Of this wide-wasting scene of wo, Where near the Loo, the tar embarks When prosperous winds, to waft him, blow: These ravages may time repair, But he and I will not be there. eligible place of landing.--_Ibid._ From the edition of 1815. Freneau sailed from Charleston January destruction therewith.--_Freneau's note._ No mean, no human artist laid The base of this prodigious pile, The towering peak--but nature said Let this adorn Tenaria's isle; And be my work for ages found The polar star to islands round. The conic-point that meets the skies Indebted to volcanic fire, First from the ocean bid to rise, To heaven was suffer'd to aspire; But man, ambitious, did not dare To plant one habitation there: For torrents from the mountain came; What molten floods were seen to glow! Expanded sheets of vivid flame, To inundate the world below! These, older than the historian's page Once bellow'd forth vext nature's rage. In ages past, as may again, Such lavas from those ridges run. And hastening to the astonish'd main Exposed earth's entrails to the sun; These, barren, once, neglected, dead, Are now with groves and pastures spread. Upon the verdant, scented lawn The flowers a thousand sweets disperse, And pictures, there, by nature drawn, Inspire some island poet's verse, While streams through every valley rove To bless the garden, grace the grove. To blast a scene above all praise Should fate, at last, be so severe, May this not hap' in Julia's[A] days,-- While Barrey[A] dwells all honor'd, here: While Little[A] lives, of generous mind, Or Armstrong,[A] social as refined.-- residing at Santa Cruz, san Christoval de Laguna, and Port Oratava in the island of Teneriffe.--_Freneau's note._ From the edition of 1815. To visit a nunnery at Garrichica, on the north side of Teneriffe It came to hand, your friendly card, No doubt, a token of regard; But time is short, and I must leave Your pensive town of Oratave, And, soon departing, well you know, Have many a weary mile to go. Then stay and sip Canary wines, While I return to oaks and pines, To rail at kings, or court the muse, To smoke a pipe, or turn recluse, To think upon adventures past-- To think of what must come at last-- To drive the quill--and--to be brief, To think no more of Teneriffe.-- How happy you who once a week, Can storm a fort at Garrichique, Or talk, familiar with the nuns Secluded there with Levi's sons; To see them smile, or hear them prate, Or chant, and chat behind the grate! All this is heaven, I half suspect, And who would such a heaven neglect? All I can say is what I mean, May you embrace each Iphigene, And hug and kiss them all the while, These fair Calypsoes of the isle: Then if what Sappho said, be true, Blest as the immortal gods are you. For me, not favor'd so by fate, I venture not behind the grate: There dragons guard the golden fleece, And nymphs immured find no release: Forbidden fruit you weekly see, Forbidden fruit on every tree, When he who tastes, may look for strife, Where he who touches ventures life. The jealous priests, with threatening eye Look hard at all approaching nigh: The monks have charge of brittle ware, The friar bids you have a care; That they alone the fruit may eat That fills religion's last retreat: The mother abbess looks as sour'd As if you had the fruit devour'd, And bids the stranger haste away,-- Not rich enough for fruit to pay. How much unlike, our western fair, Who breathe the sweets of freedom's air; Go where they please, do what they will, Themselves are their own guardians still:-- Then come, and on our distant shore Some blooming rural nymph adore; And do not make the day remote, For time advances, quick as thought, When thus some grave rebuke will say When you approach the maiden gay: 'You should have courted in your prime, 'Our Anastasia's, at that time 'When blood ran quick, and Hymen said, 'Colin! my laws must be obey'd.' Your card to slight, I'm much distrest, Your card has robb'd me of my rest: Should I attempt the nuns to accost The priests might growl, and all be lost: My cash might fail me when to pay; No chance, perhaps, to run away;-- So, I decline the needless task Return to Charleston, with the cask Of wine, you send from Teneriffe, To glad some hearts, and dry up grief: I add, some dangerous neighbors here May disappoint my hopes I fear; The breakers near the vessel roll; The lee-ward shore, the rocky shoal! The whitening seas that constant lave The craggy strand of Oratave; The expected gale, the adjacent rock Each moment threatens all our stock, And Neptune, in his giant cup Stands lurking near, to gulp it up. But here's a health to Neptune's sons Who man the yard--nor dream of nuns. From the edition of 1815. Leaving a Dance, under Pretence of Drowsiness She, at the soul enlivening, ball, And in the lamp illumined hall But small amusement found; She shunn'd the cards' bewitching play, She shunn'd the noisy and the gay, Nor cared for music's sound. No nymph discover'd so much spleen, Was so reserved as Julia, seen On that enchanting night: And yet she had her part to say When young Almagro shared the play, Then cards were her delight. But he retired, amid the dance; He heard, he said, of news from France, And of a serious cast: He wish'd to know beyond all doubt, What Bonaparte was now about, How long his sway would last. Then, Julia made a good retreat, But left the assembly incomplete; She was with sleep oppress'd.-- Who shall the midnight dance prolong Who lead the minuet, raise the song Where Julia is no guest? Yet, love declared her judgment right, And whisper'd, when she bade good night And feign'd an aching head, "While some retreat and some advance, Let them enjoy the festive dance, You, Julia, go to bed." From the edition of 1815. Adorn'd with every charm that beauty gives, That nature lends, or female kind receives, Good sense and virtue on each feature shine; She is--she is not--yes, she is divine. She speaks, she moves with all attracting grace, And smiles display the angel on the face; Her aspect all, what female would not share? What youth but worship, with a mind so fair? In this famed isle, the cloud-capp'd Teneriffe, Where health abounds and languor finds relief; In this bright isle, where Julia treads the plain, What rapture fires the bosom of the swain! At her approach, the breast untaught to glow, Like the vast peak, retains eternal snow. Feels not the first, best ardors of the mind; Respect and awe, to love and friendship join'd. When to Laguna's[A] heights she deigns to stray, To myrtle bowers, and gardens ever gay, Where spring eternal on the fragrant grove Breathes the bright scenes of harmony and love; All eyes, attracted, by her graceful mein View her, the unrivall'd favorite of the green, And when, too soon, she would the garden leave, See Paradise forsaken by its Eve. Return bright nymph, attractive as admired, And be what Plato from your sex required; Mild as your clime, that rarely knows a storm, The angelic nature in a female form. Canary's[B] towns their splendid halls prepare, But all is dark, when Julia is not there. Not Oratava, on the sea-beat shore, In her gay circles finds one Julia more, Not high Lavelia[C] boasts so sweet a face; Not Garrachica could yourself replace; Not old Laguna can supply your loss, Nor yet the city of the holy-cross.[D] Where love and passion, from the world conceal'd: Devotion's winter has to frost congeal'd; Yet beauty, there, adorns the brilliant dome, Invites her loves, and bids her votaries come; Fair Santa-Cruz her beauty, too, commands, And, was but Julia there, unrivall'd stands. Flush'd with the blessings of the generous vine, The island bards, to honor you, combine; The stranger guest, all tongues, when you appear, Confess you, lovely, charming, all things dear; Among the rest, accept my homely lay: The last respect I can to Julia pay: A different subject soon my verse awaits, Contending powers, or disunited states; Yet shall remembrance renovate the past, And, when you die, your name unfading last: Though mists obscure, or oceans round me swell, To the deep seas I go, the world to tell That Julia, foremost, does this isle engage, And moves the first, bright Venus of my page. From the edition of 1815. Six miles, and more, with nimble foot She came from some sequestered spot, A handsome, swarthy, rustic maid With furze and fern, upon her head: The burthen hid a bonnet blue, The only hat, perhaps, she knew, No slippers on her feet were seen; Yet every step display'd a mein As if she might in courts appear, Though placed by wayward fortune here. An english man, who saw her, said, Your burthen is too heavy laid, Dear girl your lot is rather hard, And, after all, a poor reward: This is not labor suiting you, Come with me home to England go, And you shall have a coach and four, A silken gown--and something more. 'Disturb me not (the girl replied) 'I choose to walk--let others ride: 'I would not leave yond' rugged hill 'To have your London at my will-- 'You are too great for such as I:--' When thus the briton made reply: 'Had I but thirty years to spare, 'And you precisely what you are, 'Had seen you thirty years ago 'In style of living, high or low, 'You should have been a lady gay, 'And dizzen'd out as fine as May: 'Why stay you here, to face the sun, 'And drudging till the day is done, 'While little to the purse it brings 'But little store of little things?' She said, 'before the sun was up 'I finish'd with my chocolate cup: 'A hank of yarn I fairly spun, 'And, when the hank of yarn was done, 'To have a fire, and cook our mess 'I travell'd yonder wilderness; 'I climb'd a mountain very tall, 'Unwearied, and without a fall, 'And gather'd up this little pack 'Which now you see me carrying back;-- 'Your northern girls at this might laugh, 'But such a jaunt would kill them half-- 'Disturb me not, I must go on; 'Ten minutes, while I talk, are gone.'-- If she grew rich by hanks of yarn, Is more than we shall ever learn; If thrive she did by climbing hills, No history or tradition tells; But this we know, and this we say, That where a despot holds the sway, To pay the tax of king and queen The common herd are poor and mean. The slaves of lords the slaves of priests, And nearly saddled, like the beasts.-- Where liberty erects her reign Dulcina would have had her swain, With horse and cow--which she had not, Nor ever to possess them thought: She would have had, to save her feet, A pair of shoes and suit complete. A decent dress, and not of rags, A state above the rank of hags; A language if not over fine, At least above the beggar's whine. Yet such attend on fortune's frowns, And such support the pride of crowns. From the edition of 1815. To execute a vast design, The soul, Miranda, was not thine: With you the fates did not combine To make an empire free. We saw you spread Leander's sail, We saw the adverse winds prevail, Sad omen that the cause would fail That led you to the sea. By feeble winds the sail was fill'd By feebler hands the helm was held-- We saw you from the port repell'd[A] You might have made your own. We saw you leave a manly crew To the base spaniard, to imbrue His hands in blood--and not a few Were on his mercy thrown: in South America, on the coast of the Caraccas, and the Caribbean Sea; said to have been the first object of Miranda's expedition.--_Freneau's note._ In dungeons vile they pass'd the day, Far from their country, far away From pitying friends, from liberty! That years could scarce retrieve! Twas thus Miranda play'd his game; But who with him should share the blame? Perhaps if we the men did name, Credulity would not believe! From the edition of 1815. Miranda was a Spanish-American As exercised over opinion What human power shall dare to bind The mere opinions of the mind? Must man at that tribunal bow Which will no range to thought allow, But his best powers would sway or sink, And idly tells him what to Think? Yes! there are such, and such are taught To fetter every power of thought; To chain the mind, or bend it down To some mean system of their own, And make religion's sacred cause Amenable to human laws. Has human power the simplest claim Our hearts to sway, our thoughts to tame; Shall she the rights of heaven assert, Can she to falsehood truth convert, Or truth again to falsehood turn, And at the test of reason spurn? All human sense, all craft must fail And all its strength will nought avail, When it attempts with efforts blind To sway the independent mind, Its spring to break, its pride to awe, Or give to private judgment, law. Oh impotent! and vile as vain, They, who would native thought restrain! As soon might they arrest the storm Or take from fire the power to warm, As man compel, by dint of might, Old darkness to prefer to light. No! leave the mind unchain'd and free, And what they ought, mankind will be, No hypocrite, no lurking fiend, No artist to some evil end, But good and great, benign and just, As God and nature made them first. From the edition of 1815. October came the thirtieth day: And thus I heard October say; "The lengthening nights and shortening days Have brought the year towards a close, The oak a leafless bough displays And all is hastening to repose; To make the most of what remains Is now to take the greater pains. "An orange hue the grove assumes, The indian-summer-days appear; When that deceitful summer comes Be sure to hail the winter near: If autumn wears a mourning coat Be sure, to keep the mind afloat. "The flowers have dropt, their blooms are gone, The herbage is no longer green; The birds are to their haunts withdrawn, The leaves are scatter'd through the plain; The sun approaches Capricorn, And man and creature looks forlorn. "Amidst a scene of such a cast, The driving sleet, or falling snow, The sullen cloud, the northern blast, What have you left for comfort now, When all is dead, or seems to die That cheer'd the heart or charm'd the eye? "To meet the scene, and it arrives, (A scene that will in time retire) Enjoy the pine--while that remains You need not want the winter fire. It rose unask'd for, from the plain, And when consumed, will rise again. "Enjoy the glass, enjoy the board, Nor discontent with fate betray, Enjoy what reason will afford, Nor disregard what females say; Their chat will pass away the time, When out of cash or out of rhyme. "The cottage warm and cheerful heart Will cheat the stormy winter night, Will bid the glooms of care depart And to December give delight."-- Thus spoke October--rather gay, Then seized his staff, and walk'd away. From the edition of 1815. length, and of the exact color of a green leaf. It is of the genus cicada, or grasshopper kind, inhabiting the green foliage of trees and singing such a song as Caty-did in the evening, towards autumn.--_Freneau's note._ In a branch of willow hid Sings the evening Caty-did: From the lofty locust bough Feeding on a drop of dew, In her suit of green array'd Hear her singing in the shade Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did! While upon a leaf you tread, Or repose your little head, On your sheet of shadows laid, All the day you nothing said: Half the night your cheery tongue Revell'd out its little song, Nothing else but Caty-did. From your lodgings on the leaf Did you utter joy or grief--? Did you only mean to say, I have had my summer's day, And am passing, soon, away To the grave of Caty-did:-- Poor, unhappy Caty-did! But you would have utter'd more Had you known of nature's power-- From the world when you retreat, And a leaf's your winding sheet, Long before your spirit fled, Who can tell but nature said, Live again, my Caty-did! Live, and chatter Caty-did. Tell me, what did Caty do? Did she mean to trouble you?-- Why was Caty not forbid To trouble little Caty-did?-- Wrong, indeed at you to fling, Hurting no one while you sing Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! Why continue to complain? Caty tells me, she again Will not give you plague or pain:-- Caty says you may be hid Caty will not go to bed While you sing us Caty-did. Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! But, while singing, you forgot To tell us what did Caty not: Caty-did not think of cold, Flocks retiring to the fold, Winter, with his wrinkles old, Winter, that yourself foretold When you gave us Caty-did. Stay securely in your nest; Caty now, will do her best, All she can, to make you blest; But, you want no human aid-- Nature, when she form'd you, said, "Independent you are made, My dear little Caty-did: Soon yourself must disappear With the verdure of the year,"-- And to go, we know not where, With your song of Caty-did. From the edition of 1815. Pensive, on this green turf I cast my eye, And almost feel inclined to muse and sigh: Such tokens of mortality so nigh. But hold,--who knows if these who soundly sleep, Would not, alive, have made some orphan weep, Or plunged some slumbering victim in the deep. There may be here, who once were virtue's foes, A curse through life, the cause of many woes, Who wrong'd the widow, and disturb'd repose. There may be here, who with malicious aim Did all they could to wound another's fame, Steal character, and filch away good name. Perhaps yond' solitary turf invests Some who, when living, were the social pests, Patrons of ribands, titles, crowns and crests. Can we on such a kindred tear bestow? They, who, in life, were every just man's foe, A plague to all about them!--oh, no, no. What though sepultured with the funeral whine; Why, sorrowing on such tombs should we recline, Where truth, perhaps, has hardly penn'd a line. --Yet, what if here some honest man is laid Whom nature of her best materials made, Who all respect to sacred honor paid. Gentle, humane, benevolent, and just, (Though now forgot and mingled with the dust, There may be such, and such there are we trust.) Yes--for the sake of that one honest man We would on knaves themselves bestow a tear, Think nature form'd them on some crooked plan, And say, peace rest on all that slumber here. From the edition of 1815. Written in a dearth of tobacco, by Hezekiah Salem. Had I but what this box contained Since good Queen Anne in Britain reigned, My happiness would be increased To more, perhaps, than she possessed. This box, in many a pocket worn (And to be used by some unborn) Has been unfilled a week or more, And curses the tobacco store, Which now has had its turn to fail; The door shut up, the man in jail Who late behind the counter stood And vended what was pretty good. ("And are you here?--the turnkey said, "I rather would have seen you dead!"-- --Yes! I am here--the man replied-- And better so than to have died!) This box again, in spite of that, Shall be repackt with--I know what-- Again I'll fill its empty chest With old Virginia's very best. The fragrance of that mild perfume Again shall cheer the reading room, Again delight your men of wit Who have the taste to relish it. This box I deem a small estate Where all my prospects are complete, Whose oval round, and clasp, confines The riches of Potosi's mines. My best ideas here are sown, (And best expressed when most alone) Here, every muse can find a place Yet take no atom of its space. Tobacco! what to thee we owe, Is what alone true smokers know: To thee they owe the lively thought, And joys without repentance bought. To thee they owe the moral song, The night that never seems too long, The pleasant dream, refreshing sleep, And sense that all should strive to keep. It cures the pride of self-debate, And pensive care, and deadly hate; And love itself would nearer bring, Did females love this coaxing thing.-- But they, the slaves of custom's rule, Are ever to the smoker cool, And hate the plant, whose gentle sway Bids us their noisy tongues obey. The happy days I would recall When Jane to me was all in all! The firm we to the town did show The sanded box was near us placed Which held the dregs we chose to waste; Thus pleased to pass the winter's eve, And thus the lingering hours deceive. No wrangling was permitted there-- 'Twas friendship all, and love sincere; And they received affronts enough Who entered with the Cloven Hoof. The social whiff went cheerly on!-- But Jane is to that people gone Where dear tobacco!--strong and sound-- Is not upon their invoice found!-- It sheds a magic on my pen To deaden all despotic men, A charm that can the soul command, Nor kings, nor courtiers shall withstand: Such, vested with imperial sway, O'er bodies reign, dull, stupid, blind; But us the nobler powers obey, We reign, despotic, o'er the mind! It aids us in the tuneful art To catch the ear, or move the heart; An hour with Nancy can beguile, But meets not her approving smile. Of northern pine her floors were made, A carpet on the boards was spread; And who shall dare this floor prophane, Which Nancy keeps without a stain? The watchful demon in her eye The smallest speck can there espy; And he shall curse his natal hour Who spits upon this velvet floor: I saw her anger waxing hot, I heard her threaten, Do it not, Or, instant, quit these doors of mine, And be converted into swine.-- This powerful plant, if fortune frown, Can make the bitter draught go down; It keeps me warm in Greenland's frost, And gives me more than all I lost. The joys of wine, without its bane, That kindles frenzy in the brain; All these are here--and more than these In this tobacco box I'll squeeze. It holds a part of all I prize Within this world that bounded lies; And when the ashes only shows, The spirit into aether goes. Dismissed to that Serene Abode, Where no tobacco is allowed!---- The comfort is, that free from care, We neither wish, nor want it There. From the edition of 1809. Assembled this day on occasion of grief, We mourn the occasion, the loss of our chief; A Mason, our master, that built up a pile By the compass and square in the masonic style. At the word of the Builder, who built All at first, Turned chaos to order, and darkness dispersed, Our architect leaves us, that mason so skilled, The fabric of virtue and freedom to build. As far as this nature, called human, can go, A pattern he was of perfection below; By the line and the plummet he built up a wall, As firm as old time, and, we trust, not to fall. By science enlightened, a friend to mankind, He came, for the purpose exactly designed; Like the Baptist of old, in the annals of fate, Precursor of all that is noble and great. He thought it an honour the trowel to hold, And to be with the craft, as a brother enrolled: To the practice of virtue he knew they were bound Wherever a lodge or a mason is found. Designed as he was, to excel and transcend, Yet he courted the titles of brother and friend, And these in the fabric of masons are more Than monarchs can give,--and which tyrants abhor. With a patron like this, we are proud to prepare The stone and the mortar, our building to rear, And copy, from Him, who can make it endure, Who raised the first building, and keeps all secure. In such a grand master all masons were blessed; The world and all masons his merits confessed; But now he is gone in new orbits to move And join the first builder of all things above. From the edition of 1809. This day we unite And all Brethren invite To honour a man of our nation; Who, honest as brave, Is gone to his grave And takes an unchangeable station. In our subject we view (To Liberty true) The officer firm in all danger; Who stood to his post At the head of a host His country to save, and avenge her. By compass and square This artisan rare Defeated all foreign invasion, Then returned to his farm When no longer alarm Distracted the mind of the nation. In all that he did, In all that he said The bliss of mankind was intended;-- He rose for their good, To support them he stood, And Liberty ever defended. The foundation he laid, And the fabric he made No mason but he could pretend to; It will stand, we foresee, 'Till that era shall be When the globe of the world there's an end to. So, fame to the man Who the building began, Whose model all nations will take When kingdoms are fled, Standing armies are dead, And monarchs--no longer awake. From the edition of 1809. Drinking from a Glass of Wine and Drowned Therein Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream, Why hither come on vagrant wing?-- Does Bacchus tempting seem-- Did he, for you, this glass prepare?-- Will I admit you to a share? Did storms harass or foes perplex, Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay-- Did wars distress, or labours vex, Or did you miss your way?-- A better seat you could not take Than on the margin of this lake. Welcome!--I hail you to my glass: All welcome, here, you find; Here, let the cloud of trouble pass, Here, be all care resigned.-- This fluid never fails to please, And drown the griefs of men or bees. What forced you here, we cannot know, And you will scarcely tell-- But cheery we would have you go And bid a glad farewell: On lighter wings we bid you fly, Your dart will now all foes defy. Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink, And in this ocean die; Here bigger bees than you might sink, Even bees full six feet high. Like Pharoah, then, you would be said To perish in a sea of red. Do as you please, your will is mine; Enjoy it without fear-- And your grave will be this glass of wine, Your epitaph--a tear-- Go, take your seat in Charon's boat, We'll tell the hive, you died afloat. From the edition of 1809. While onward moves each circling year Thy mandates, Nature, all obey, As with this moving, changeful sphere The seasons change and never stay; Old Oak, I to your place return, Where late you stood, and viewing mourn, For the great loss my heart sustained When you declined, long will I sigh, That hour when you no more remained To cheer the summer, passing by; No longer blessed my eager view, But like some dying friend withdrew. Though frequent, by that nipping frost, The blast which cold November sends, I saw your leafy honours lost; Hope, for such losses, made amends: The spring again beheld them grow, And we were pleased, and so was you. Since I your fatal fall survive, Remembrance long shall hold you dear, And bid some young successor live; By sad Amyntor planted here; Its buds to swell, its leaves to spread, And shade the place when he is dead. A prince among your towering race, What more your vanished form endears Is that your presence in this place Had been at least one hundred years; And men that long in dust have laid, When boys, beneath your shadow played. You had your time to feel the sun, To wanton in his cheering ray;-- That time is past, your race is run, And we have nothing more to say, Than, may your oaken spirit go Among Elysian oaks below. From the edition of 1809. Princes and kings decay and die And, instant, rise again: But this is not the case, trust me, With men like Thomas Paine. In vain the democratic host His equal would attain: For years to come they will not boast A second Thomas Paine. Though many may his name assume; Assumption is in vain; For every man has not his plume-- Whose name is Thomas Paine. Though heaven bestow'd on all its sons Their proper share of brain, It gives to few, ye simple ones, The mind of Thomas Paine. To tyrants and the tyrant crew, Indeed, he was the bane; He writ, and gave them all their due, And signed it,--Thomas Paine. Oh! how we loved to see him write And curb the race of Cain! They hope and wish that Thomas P---- May never rise again. What idle hopes!--yes--such a man May yet appear again.-- When they are dead, they die for aye: --Not so with Thomas Paine. From the edition of 1815. But will they once more be engaged in a war, Be fated to discord again? A peace to the nations will nothing restore But the challenge of death and a deluge of gore! A modern crusade Is undoubtedly made:-- With treaties rejected, and treaties renew'd, A permanent treaty they never conclude. And who is to blame? we submissively ask-- Did nature predestine this curse to mankind; Or is it the cruel detestable task That tyrants impose, with their minions combined? We are anxious to know The source of our wo In a world where the blessings of nature abound Why discord, the bane of her blessings, is found. Must our freedom, our labors, our commerce, our all Be tamely surrender'd, to tyrants convey'd; Must the flag of the country disgracefully fall, To be torn by the dogs of the slaughtering trade? Does no one reply, With a tear in his eye, It must be the case, if we do not resent What monarchs have menaced and tyranny meant. Not a ship, or a barque, that departs from the shore But her cargo is plunder'd, her sailors are slain, Or arriving in England, we see them no more, Condemn'd in the court of deceit and chicane, Where their wicked decrees And their costs and their fees Have ruin'd the merchant--mechanics half fed, And sailors uncaptured are begging their bread. To reason with tyrants is surely absurd; To argue with them is to preach to the deaf: They argue alone by the length of the sword; Their honor the same as the word of a thief. In such to confide When a cause they decide, Is the wolf and the lamb (if the tale we recall) Where the weakest and meekest must go to the wall. But an englishman's throat is expanded so wide Not the ocean itself is a mess for his maw: And missions there are, and a scoundrel employ'd To divide, and to rule by the florentine law[A]: New-England must join In the knavish design, As some have predicted to those who believe 'em; --The event is at hand--may the devil deceive 'em. govern. He was a native of Florence, in Italy.--_Freneau's With an empire at sea and an empire on land, And the system projected, monopolization, The western republic no longer will stand Than answers the views of a desperate nation, Who have shackled the east, Made the native a beast, And are scheming to give us--the matter is clear-- A man of their own for the president's chair, Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west, Already the indian his hatchet displays; Ohio's frontier, and Kentucky distrest; The village, and cottage, are both in a blaze:-- Then indian and english No longer distinguish, They bribe, and are bribed, for a warfare accurst; Of the two, we can hardly describe which is worst. In the court of king Hog was a council convened, In which they agreed we are growing too strong: They snuffled and grunted, and loudly complained The sceptre would fall, if they suffer'd it long; To cut up our trade Was an object, they said, The nearest and dearest of all in their view; Not a fish should be caught if old England said, No! Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west, A war is approaching, there's room to suppose; The rust on your guns we abhor and detest, So brighten them up--we are coming to blows With the queen of the ocean The prop of devotion, The bulwark of all that is truly divine; A motto she often has put on her sign. The poems in this section are all from the edition of 1815. Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores--_Hor._ To you, great sir, our heartfelt praise we give, And your ripe honors yield you--while you live. At length the year, which marks his course, expires, And Jefferson from public life retires; That year, the close of years, which own his claim, And give him all his honors, all his fame. Far in the heaven of fame I see him fly, Safe in the realms of immortality: On Equal Worth his honor'd mantle falls, Him, whom Columbia her true patriot calls; Him, whom we saw her codes of freedom plan, To none inferior in the ranks of man. When to the helm of state your country call'd No danger awed you and no fear appall'd; Each bosom, faithful to its country's claim, Hail'd Jefferson, that long applauded name; All, then, was dark, and wrongs on wrongs accrued Our treasures wasted, and our strength subdued; What seven long years of war and blood had gain'd, Was lost, abandon'd, squander'd, or restrain'd: Britania's tools had schemed their easier way, To conquer, ruin, pillage, or betray; Domestic traitors, with exotic, join'd, To shackle this last refuge of mankind; Wars were provoked, and France was made our foe, That George's race might govern all below, O'er this wide world, uncheck'd, unbounded, reign, Seize every clime, and subjugate the main. All this was seen--and rising in your might, By genius aided, you reclaim'd our right, That Right, which conquest, arms, and valor gave To this young nation--not to live a slave. And what but toil has your long service seen? Dark tempests gathering over a sky serene-- For wearied years no mines of wealth can pay, No fame, nor all the plaudits of that day, Which now returns you to your rural shade, The sage's heaven, for contemplation made, Who, like the Roman, in their country's cause Exert their valor, or enforce its laws, And late retiring, every wrong redress'd, Give their last days to solitude and rest. This great reward a generous nation yields-- Regret attends you to your native fields; Their grateful thanks for every service done, And hope, your thorny race of care is run. From your sage counsels what effects arise! The vengeful briton from our waters flies; His thundering ships no more our coasts assail, But seize the advantage of the western gale. Though bold and bloody, warlike, proud, and fierce, They shun your vengeance for a Murdered Pearce, And starved, dejected, on some meagre shore, Sigh for the country they shall rule no more. Long in the councils of your native land, We saw you cool, unchanged, intrepid, stand: When the firm Congress, still too firm to yield, Stay'd masters of the long contested field, Your wisdom aided, what their counsels framed-- By you the murdering savages were tamed-- That Independence we had sworn to gain, By you asserted (nor Declared in vain) We seized, triumphant, from a tyrant's throne, And Britain totter'd when the work was done. You, when an angry faction vex'd the age, Rose to your place at once, and check'd their rage; The envenom'd shafts of malice you defied, And turn'd all projects of revolt aside:-- We saw you libell'd by the worst of men, While hell's red lamp hung quivering o'er his pen, And fiends congenial every effort try To blast that merit which shall never die-- These had their hour, and traitors wing'd their flight, To aid the screechings of distracted night. Vain were their hopes--the poison'd darts of hell, Glanced from your flinty shield, and harmless fell. All this you bore--beyond it all you rose, Nor ask'd despotic laws to crush your foes. Mild was your language, temperate though severe; And not less potent than Ithuriel's spear To touch the infernals in their loathsome guise, Confound their slanders and detect their lies. All this you braved--and, now, what task remains, But silent walks on solitary plains: To bid the vast luxuriant harvest grow, The slave be happy and secured from wo-- To illume the statesmen of the times to come With the bold spirit of primeval Rome; To taste the joys your long tried service brings, And look, with pity, on the cares of kings:-- Whether, with Newton, you the heavens explore, And trace through nature the creating power, Or, if with mortals you reform the age, (Alike, in all, the patriot and the sage) May peace and soft repose, attend you, still, In the lone vale, or on the cloud-capp'd hill, While smiling plenty decks the abundant plain, And hails Astrea to the world again. Americans! rouse at the rumors of war, Which now are distracting the hearts of the nation, A flame blowing up, to extinguish your power And leave you, a prey, to another invasion; A second invasion, as bad as the old, When, northward or southward, wherever they stroll'd With heart and with hand, a murdering band Of vagrants, came over to ravage your land: For liberty's guard, you are ever array'd And know how to fight, in the sun or the shade. Remember the cause that induced you to rise When oppression advanced, with her king-making host, Twas the cause of our nation that bade you despise And drive to destruction all England's proud host, Who, with musket and sword, under men they adored, Rush'd into each village and rifled each shade To murder the planter, and ravish the maid. What though you arose, and resolved to be free, With spirit to humble all Europe combining, You had soon bit the dust or been drown'd in the sea By the slaves of a king, and a court all designing, Had not liberty swore she would cover your shore, Her colors display'd, and with vengeance repaid The myriads that came from a blood-thirsty isle Our groves, and our streams, and our beds to defile. Our churches defaced, by a merciless foe, Or made the poor captive's distress'd habitation: The prison-ship, fraught with its cargo of wo, Where thousands were starved, without shame or compassion; All these, and yet more, were the evils we bore From a motherly dame, Great Britain her name, From a nation, that once we accounted our friends, Who would shackle the country, that freedom defends. All true-born americans! join, as of old; For freedom's defence, be your firm resolution; Whoever invades you by force, or with gold, Alike is a foe to a free constitution: Unite to pull down that imposture, a crown; Oppose it at least, tis a mark of the beast: All tyranny's engines again are at work To make you as poor and as base as the turk. Abandon'd to all the intrigues of a knave, Abounding with sharpers of every description, They would plunder our towns, and prohibit the wave; Their treaties of commerce are all a deception: Not a ship do we send but they rob without end; With their law of blockade they have ruin'd our trade; The shops of mechanics at midnight they burn That home manufactures may cease to be worn. Look round the wide world; and observe with a sigh, Wherever a monarch presides o'er a nation, Sweet nature appears with a tear in her eye, And the mantle of sorrow enshrouds the creation. The ocean is chain'd, all freedom restrain'd, The soil is resign'd to the pests of mankind, To royals and nobles, the guard of the throne, And the slaves they have bribed, to make freedom their own. All hail to the nation, immortal and great, Who, rising on bold philosophical pinion, Reforms, and enlightens, and strengthens the state, Not places her weal in excess of dominion. What reason can do she intends to pursue; And true to the plan, on which she began, Will the volume unfold she to freedom assign'd, Till tyrants are chased from the sight of mankind. Since the day we declared, they were masters no more, The day we arose from the colony station, Has England attack'd us, by sea and by shore, In war by the sword, as in peace by vexation; Impressment they claim'd, till our seamen, ashamed, Grew sick of our flag, that against the old hag Of Britain, no longer their freedom protected But left them, like slaves, to be lash'd and corrected. Old Rome, that in darkness so long had been lost, Since on her republic bright freedom was shining: The warmth of her spirit congeal'd in a frost, Under tyrants and popes, many centuries, pining: At the close of the page, who can bridle his rage To see her return to the fetters she broke, When tyranny sicken'd, and liberty spoke: What an image of clay have they thrown in her way! The king and the priest on her carcass will feast; When these are allied, the world they divide; The nations they plunder, the nations they kill, And bend all the force of the mind to their will: Not the spirit to rise, or the strength to command, But friars and monks--and the scum of the land.-- No more of your Nero's or Caesars complain, Leave Brutus and Cato, and take them again. But reason, that sun, whose unquenchable ray Progressive, has dawn'd on the night of the mind, From the source of all good, may hereafter display, And man a more dignified character find: As far as example and vigor can go, As long as forbearance and patience will do, The western republic will carry it through--: May order and peace through the nations increase, And murder, and plunder, and tyranny cease: May justice and honor through empires prevail And all the bad passions weigh light in the scale, Till man is the being that nature at first Placed here, to be happy, and not to be cursed. Approaching, at hand, in the progress of time, An era will come, to begin its career, When freedom reviving, and man in his prime, His rights will assert, and maintain without fear Of that cunning, bold race, who our species disgrace; On the blood of a nation who make calculation To rise into splendor and fill a high station; Nay, climb to the throne on a villanous plan To plunder his substance, and trample on man. As gallant ships as ever ocean stemm'd-- A thousand ships are captured, and condemn'd! Ships from our shores, with native cargoes fraught, And sailing to the very shores they ought: And yet at peace!--the wrong is past all bearing; The very comets[A] are the war declaring: Six thousand seamen groan beneath your power, For years immured, and prisoners to this hour: Then England come! a sense of wrong requires To meet with thirteen stars your thousand fires; On your own seas the conflict to sustain, Or drown them, with your commerce in the main! True do we speak, and who can well deny, That England claims all water, land, and sky Her power expands--extends through every zone, Nor bears a rival--but must rule alone. To enforce her claims, a thousand sails unfurl'd Pronounce their home the cock-pit of the world; The modern Tyre, whose fiends and lions prowl, A tyrant navy, which in time must howl.[B] Heaven send the time--the world obeys her nod: Her nods, we hope, the sleep of death forbode; Some mighty change, when plunder'd thrones agree, And plunder'd countries, to make commerce free. When Alfred held the english throne, And England's self was little known, Yet, when invaded by the Dane, He early faced them on the main. That scythian race who ruled the sea-- He soon pronounced their destiny; To leave his isle, to sheath the sword; Disgraced, defeated, and abhorr'd. So now, these worse than danes appear To do their deeds of havoc here-- For all they did in seasons past, The day of grief must come at last. For plains, yet white with human bones, For murders past, no prayer atones; For ruin spread in former years, Not even the mitred clergy's tears. Let us but act the part we ought, And tyrants will be dearly taught That they, who aid a country's claim, Fight not for ribands, or a name. Still hostile to the rights of man, A deadly war, the english plan; The gothic system will prevail, To ruin where they can assail; A war, where seas of blood may flow To ornament their scenes of wo. O Washington! thy honored dust The foe will not profane, we trust; Or if they do, will vengeance sleep, Or fail to drive them to the deep? For shores well known, they shape their course, An english fleet, with all its force; A british fleet may soon appear To ravage all we counted dear. Advancing swift, by beat of drum, Half England's dregs, or Scotland's scum; With these unite the indian tribes, Now hostile made by force of bribes-- And they will dare the eagle's frown, Though half his force can put them down. The envenom'd foe, inured to war, May scatter vengeance wide and far, Unless, to assert our country's right, All hearts resolve, all hands unite. Let party feuds be hush'd, forgot, Past discord from the memory blot, And Britain, from our coasts repell'd, Shall rue the day she took the field. The dart, to assail the english power, In time must reach that hostile shore, And red with vengeance, on its way, Their naval power in ruins lay. The western world a blow must deal To let them know, and make them feel That much too long a plundering hag Has mortified all Europe's flag. By wars and death while despots thrive What pity one remains alive! By them the seeds of war are sown, By them, our lives are not our own. Their deadly hate to freedom's growth, To reason's light--that spurns them both, That deadly hate predicts our doom, And digs the pit for freedom's tomb. Be not deceived--the league of kings, Confederate crowns, this warfare brings; These send their hosts to forge our chains, Harass our shores, renew their reigns. At Pilnitz they who join'd to swear And wage with France wide wasting war Till freedom should her claims recall, And Louis reign, or myriads fall; At Pilnitz, with decided aim, They form'd their schemes to blast our fame: And, faithful now to what they swore, Would, kings dismiss'd and thrones, restore. Ye hearts of steel, observe these hosts! The odious train my soul disgusts; They rise upon the vultures wings To prop the tottering cause of kings. Observe them well--through every grade They exercise the robber's trade; They sail upon a plundering scheme, They march, to give you sword and flame. And burn you must, if, slow to act, You wait to see your cities sack'd, Yourselves enslav'd, and all things lose That labor earns or wealth bestows; If slow to send your heated balls, Indignant, through their wooden walls. O may you see their squadrons yield Their legions sink on every field; And new Burgoynes, to slaughter bred, Burgoynes, once more, in fetters led. And may you see all foreign power Forever banish'd from your shore, And see disheartened tyrants mourn, And Britain to her hell return. "Who would refuse this cheering draught?" The suttler said, and saying, laugh'd The soldier, then, the liquor quaff'd, And felt right bold. The suttler soon foresaw the rest, And thus the son of Mars address'd, "This brandy is the very best Of all I've sold. "The journey you are bound to go, In former times, I travell'd too, When Arnold march'd, with lord knows who, To seize Quebec. "And if he fail'd in that assault, It was not, sure, the brandy's fault; The best, at times, may make a halt, Ay, break his neck. Of old I lived by flint and blade, But, disregarded, and decay'd, I'm nothing now. "This leaky shed is not my own, And here I stay, unheard, unknown, Poor Darby, and without a Joan, Nor horse, nor cow. "But mend your draught--I have more to say:-- You now are young, and under pay; Be warn'd by me, whose hairs are grey; The time will come "When you may find this trade of arms, The march, that now your bosom warms, Has little but illusive charms, Mere beat of drum: "But yet, in such a cause as this I deem your ardor not amiss-- I know you are no hireling swiss; Your country calls: "And when she calls, you must obey; For wages not--fig for the pay-- Tis honor calls you out this day To face the balls. "You have to go where George Provost Has many a soldier made a ghost, Where indians many a prisoner roast Or seize their scalps. "And what of that?--mere fate of war-- God grant you may have better fare-- Go, fight beneath a kinder star, And scourge the whelps. "They scarce are men--mere flesh and blood-- Mere ouran-outangs of the wood, Forever on the scent of blood, And deers at heart. "When men, like you, approach them nigh, They make a yell, retreat, and fly: On equal ground, they never try The warrior's art. "Then dare their strength--at honor's call Explore the road to Montreal, To dine, perchance, in Drummond's hall, Perhaps in jail. "Of all uncertain things below The chance of war is doubly so; For this I saw, and this I know;-- Yet, do not fail. "To live, for months on scanty fare, To sleep, by night in open air, To fight, and every danger share; All these await. "But bear them all!--wherever led, And live contented, though half fed:-- A couch of straw, and canvas shed Shall be your fate! "And mind the mark--remember me-- When full of fight, and full of glee, Be of your brandy not too free:-- Ay, mind the mark! "Who drinks too much, the day he fights, Calls danger near, and death invites To dim, or darken all his lights;-- His noon is dark! "It is a friend in a stormy day; Then brandy drives all care away, But, over done, it will betray The wisest sage. "Then strictly guard the full canteen-- Its power enlivens every scene, And helps to keep the soul serene When battles rage. "This potent stuff, if managed well, (And strong it is, the sort I sell) Can every doubt and fear expel, When prudence guides. "Though mountains rise, or rocks intrude, This nectar smooths the roughest road, And cheers the heart, and warms the blood Through all its tides. "Then drink you this, and more," (he said, And held the pitcher to his head) "This drink of gods, when Ganymede Hands round the bowl, "Will nerve the arm, and bid you go Where prowls the vagrant Eskimau,[A] Where torpid winter tops with snow The darkened pole,--" "Enough, enough!"--(the sergeant said) "Now, suttler, he must go to bed-- See! topsy-turvy goes his head; I hear him snort." "Since I know where to get my pay (The suttler answered rather gay) No matter what I said or say-- I've sold my quart." ----Ex fumo dare lucem Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat--_Hor._ When first I arrived to the age of a man And met the distraction of care, As the day to a close rather sorrowful ran Yet I smiled and I smoked my segar: O, how sweet did it seem What a feast, what a dream What a pleasure to smoke the segar! In vain did the din of the females assail Or the noise of the carts in the street, With a spanish segar and a pint of good ale I found my enjoyment complete: Old care I dismiss'd While I held in my fist The pitcher, and smoked the segar. What a world are we in, if we do not retire, And, at times, to the tavern repair To read the gazette, by a hickory fire, With a sixpence or shilling to spare, To handle the glass And an evening pass With the help of a lively segar. The man of the closet, who studies and reads, And prepares for the wars of the bar; The priest who harangues, or the lawyer who pleads, What are they without the segar? What they say may be right, But they give no delight Unless they have smoked the segar. The farmer still plodding, who follows his plough, A calling, the first and the best, Would care not a fig for the sweat on his brow If he smoked a segar with the rest: To the hay-loft alone I would have it unknown, For there a segar I detest. The sailor who climbs and ascends to the yard Bespatter'd and blacken'd with tar, Would think his condition uncommonly hard If he did not indulge the segar, To keep them in trim While they merrily swim On the ocean, to countries afar. The soldier untry'd, in the midst of the smoke, The havoc and carnage of war, Would stand to his cannon, as firm as a rock, Would they let him but smoke his segar: Every gun in the fort Should make its report From the fire which illumes the segar. Come then, to the tavern, ye sons of the sword, No fear of a wound or a scar; If your money is gone, your account will be scored By the lady who tends at the bar: And this I can say, Not a cent need you pay For the use of the social segar. Long the tyrant of our coast Reign'd the famous Guerriere; Our little navy she defy'd, Public ship and privateer: On her sails in letters red, To our captains were display'd Words of warning, words of dread, All, who meet me, have a care! I am England's Guerriere.[A] On the wide, Atlantic deep (Not her equal for the fight) The Constitution, on her way, Chanced to meet these men of might: On her sails was nothing said, But her waist the teeth displayed That a deal of blood could shed, Which, if she would venture near, Would stain the decks of the Guerriere. Now our gallant ship they met-- And, to struggle with John Bull-- Who had come, they little thought, Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull: Better, soon, to be acquainted: Isaac hail'd the lord's anointed-- While the crew the cannon pointed, And the balls were so directed With a blaze so unexpected; Isaac did so maul and rake her That the decks of captain Dacres Were in such a woful pickle As if death, with scythe and sickle, With his sling, or with his shaft Had cut his harvest fore and aft. Thus, in thirty minutes ended, Mischiefs that could not be mended: Masts, and yards, and ship descended, All to David Jones' locker-- Such a ship in such a pucker! Drink about to the Constitution! She perform'd some execution Did some share of retribution For the insults of the year When she took the Guerriere. May success again await her, Let who will again command her Nothing like her can withstand her, With a crew, like that on board her Who so boldly call'd "to order" One bold crew of english sailors, Long, too long our seamen's jailors, The fatal and perfidious barque! Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that angel form of thine! The morning star, resplendent in the east, May be our station, when from life released, Tempestuous cape! how fatal proved the day When from thy shores the faithless ship withdrew, Yet, prosperous gales impell'd her on her way Till the broad canvas vanish'd from the view. Long on that height the pensive friends remain'd Till ocean's curve conceal'd her from the eye, And all was hope that she her port attain'd Ere ten more suns illumed the morning sky. Fond friends! false hope! no port beheld her come With flowing sheet, to meet the pilot's sail: No pilot met her on the Atlantic foam-- What could the pilot, or his art, avail? Detested barque! nor art thou yet arrived-- Nor wilt thou come! three years are roll'd away! You, Theodosia of her life deprived, You sunk her from the cheerful beams of day! Where dost thou rest, with her whose genius rose Above her sex--for science so renown'd-- But does her spirit in the deep repose Or find new mansions on celestial ground? That soars above to heights unknown before, Where all is joy, and life that never ends; Where all is rapture, all admire, adore; Immortal nature, with angelic friends. Oh! shed no more the tears of sad regret; The hymns of joy, the lofty verse prepare-- Her briny doom, the ingulphing wave forget --Semper honoratum habebo--_Virg._ To lift his name to high renown His native merits led the way; His morning sun resplendent shone Till clouds obscured the fading ray: His country's voice his worth confess'd, His country's tears disclose the rest, In battle brave, his lofty mind Aspired to all that fame relates Of those, who on her page we find Defenders of insulted states: Of all who fought, or all who fell, The noblest part he copied well. For Lawrence dead, his Jersey mourns, With tearful eye laments the day When all the worth that men adorns One fatal moment snatch'd away! On honor's bed his doom he found, In honor's cause, the deadly wound. To what vast heights his mind aspired, Who knew him best can best relate:-- A longer term the cause required That urged him to an early fate: But He, whose fires illumed his breast, Knew what was right and what was best. His country to her breast receives His mangled form, and holds it dear; She plants her marble, while she grieves, Where all, who read, might drop a tear, And say, while memory calls to mind The chief, who with our worthies shined, Here Lawrence rests, his country's pride, On valor's decks who fought and died! Where Niagara's awful roar Convulsive shakes the neighboring shore, Alarm'd I heard the trump of war, Saw legions join! And such a blast, of old, they blew, When southward from st. Lawrence flew The indian, to the english true, United, then, they sail'd Champlain, United now, they march again, A land of freedom to profane With savage yell. For this they scour the mountain wood; Their errand, death, their object, blood: For this they stem thy subject flood, O stream Sorel! Who shall repulse the hireling host, Who force them back through snow and frost, Who swell the lake with thousands lost, Dear freedom? say!-- Who but the sons of freedom's land, Prepared to meet the bloody band; Resolved to make a gallant stand Where lightnings play. Their squadrons, arm'd with gun and sword, Their legions, led by knight and lord Have sworn to see the reign restored Of George, the goth; Whose mandate, from a vandal shore, Impels the sail, directs the oar, And, to extend the flames of war, Employs them both. "To clear the lake of Perry's fleet And make his flag his winding sheet This is my object--I repeat--" --Said Barclay, flush'd with native pride, To some who serve the british crown:-- But they, who dwell beyond the moon, Heard this bold menace with a frown, Nor the rash sentence ratified. Ambition so bewitch'd his mind, And royal smiles had so combined With skill, to act the part assign'd He for no contest cared, a straw; The ocean was too narrow far To be the seat of naval war; He wanted lakes, and room to spare, And all to yield to Britain's law. And thus he made a sad mistake; Forsooth he must possess the lake, As merely made for England's sake To play her pranks and rule the roast; Where she might govern, uncontrol'd, An unmolested empire hold, And keep a fleet to fish up gold, To pay the troops of George Provost. The ships approach'd, of either side, And Erie, on his bosom wide Beheld two hostile navies ride, Each for the combat well prepared: The lake was smooth, the sky was clear, The martial drum had banish'd fear, And death and danger hover'd near, Though both were held in disregard. From lofty heights their colors flew, And Britain's standard all in view, With frantic valor fired the crew That mann'd the guns of queen Charlotte. "And we must Perry's squadron take, And England shall command the lake;-- And you must fight for Britain's sake, (Said Barclay) sailors, will you not?" Assent they gave with heart and hand; For never yet a braver band To fight a ship, forsook the land, Than Barclay had on board that day;-- The guns were loosed the game to win, Their muzzles gaped a dismal grin, And out they pulled their tompion pin, The bloody game of war to play. But Perry soon, with flowing sail, Advanced, determined to prevail, When from his bull-dogs flew the hail Directed full at queen Charlotte. His wadded guns were aim'd so true, And such a weight of ball they threw, As, Barclay said, he never knew To come, before, so scalding hot! But still, to animate his men From gun to gun the warrior ran And blazed away and blazed again-- Till Perry's ship was half a wreck: They tore away both tack and sheet,-- Their victory might have been complete, Had Perry not, to shun defeat In lucky moment left his deck. Repairing to another post, From another ship he fought their host And soon regain'd the fortune lost, And down, his flag the briton tore: With loss of arm and loss of blood Indignant, on his decks he stood To witness Erie's crimson flood For miles around him, stain'd with gore! Thus, for dominion of the lake These captains did each other rake, And many a widow did they make;-- Whose is the fault, or who to blame?-- The briton challenged with his sword, The yankee took him at his word, With spirit laid him close on board-- They're ours--he said--and closed the game. "All the devils were there, and hell was empty!" From cruising near the southern pole Where wild antarctic oceans roll, With a gallant crew, a manly soul, Heroic Porter came. Then, weathering round the stormy cape, And facing death in every shape, Which Anson[A] hardly could escape, (So says the page of fame.) and dangers of a winter passage round Cape Horn into the Western Ocean, are depicted in that work by a masterly hand, who was witness to the scene.--_Freneau's note._ He made the high chilesian coast, The Andes, half in vapor lost, The Andes, topp'd with snow and frost, Eternal winter's reign! Then, to the rugged western gale, He spread the broad columbian sail; And, Valparisso, thy fair vale Received him, with his men. There, safely moor'd, his colors fly, Columbia's standard waved on high; The neutral port, his friends, were nigh; So gallant Porter thought; Nor deem'd a foe would heave in sight Regardless of all neutral right; And yet, that foe he soon must fight, And fight them as he ought. His Essex claim'd his fondest care, With her he every storm could dare, With her, to meet the blast of war, His soul was still in trim: In her he cruised the northern main, In her he pass'd the burning line, In her he all things could attain, If all would act like him. At length, two hostile ships appear, And for the port they boldly steer-- The Phoebe first, and in her rear The Cherub, all secure. They loom'd as gay as for a dance, Or ladies painted in romance-- Do, mind how boldly they advance. Who can their fire endure? The Phoebe mounted forty-nine-- All thought her on some grand design-- Does she alone the fight decline? Say, Captain Hillyer, say? The Cherub's guns were thirty-two-- And, Essex! full a match for you-- Yet to her bold companion true, She hugg'd her close, that day. Ye powers, that rule the southern pole! Are these the men of English soul? Do these, indeed, the waves control? Are these the ocean's lords? Though challenged singly to the fight (As Porter, Hillyer, did invite) These men of spunk, these men of might, Refused to measure swords! What, fight alone! bold Hillyer said-- I will not fight without my Aid-- The Cherub is for war array'd, And she must do her share! To fight them both was surely vain; That would so madly dare. Then, hands on deck! the anchors weigh! --And for the sea he left the bay, A running fight to have that day, And thus escape his foes. But oh!--distressing to relate-- As round a point of land he beat A squall from hell the ship beset, And her maintopmast goes! Unable to attain that end, He turns toward the neutral friend, And hoped protection they might lend, But no protection found. In this distress, the foe advanced-- With such an eye at Essex glanced! And such a fire of death commenced As dealt destruction round! With every shot they raked the deck, Till mingled ruin seized the wreck: No valor could the ardor check Of England's martial tars! One hundred men the Essex lost: But Phoebe found, and to her cost, That Porter made them many a ghost To serve in Satan's wars. Oh, clouded scene!--yet must I tell Columbia's flag, indignant, fell-- To Essex, now, we bid farewell; She wears the english flag! But Yankees she has none on board To point the gun or wield the sword; And though commanded by a lord They'll have no cause to brag. "Then traitor come! as black revenge excites, Extinguish all our claims with all my lights! But keen remorse, which vengeful furies lead, Will act her part for this inhuman deed. How will her vultures on your vitals prey! How will her stings our every death repay!-- O nature! is all sympathy a jest; Art thou a stranger to the human breast? Has manly prowess quit the abandon'd stage, Are midnight plots the order of the age? "Where proud New-London holds her flaming guide To steer Decatur through the darksome tide, I stay too long! what station can I find To shake distraction from a tortured mind! "Then, traitor, come! your dark attack begin, Renown'd inventor of the black machine: But mark!--for when some future poet tells, Or some historian on the subject dwells, No word of praise shall meet the listening ear, Disgustful story, to repeat or hear-- Was you, an infant, to a mother press'd, Or did ferocious tigers give the breast-- Did nature in some angry moment plan Some fierce hyena to degrade the man? Resolve me quick, for doubtful while I stay These dark torpedoes may be on their way. Does nature thus her heaviest curse impart And will she give such countenance to art?-- She gave you all that rancor could bestow, She lent her magic from the world below; She gave you all that madness could propose, And all her malice in your bosom glows; She gave you sulphur, charcoal, nitre join'd: She gave you not--a great and generous mind." So spoke the knight, and slamm'd the door, And thus went on, with feelings sore: "I relish not torpedo war:-- Die when I will, or where I may, I would not choose so short a way: These twenty nights I did my best To shut my eyes, and take my rest, But drowsy Morpheus might as well Upon the main mast try his spell. No potion from the poppy's leaf Can close my lids;--and, to be brief, This Fulton, with his dashing plans, Distracts my head, my heart unmans: And, every night, I have my fears Of such infernal engineers; Who, when I sup, or could I sleep Might row their wherry through the deep, And screw their engine to the keel, And blow us--where there's no appeal; No question how, or where we died, But how we lived, and how applied The little sense our heads contain To save our souls, and live again. "They, who support torpedo plans Should have no plaudit for their pains; Should be employ'd on dark designs, Explorers of peruvian mines; Such have not felt the patriot glow, A feeling they could never know: For treasons they were surely made, Have princes slain and kings betray'd.-- Ye powers above! and must I wait Till these prevail in every state, Till pale disease, or shivering age Drives such false patriots from the stage! "The chaplain said he heard me snore, But many a fib he told before; And if I snored, I'm satisfied Twas when my eyes were open wide. "Torpedoes! who contrived the word? Torpedoes! worse than gun or sword! They are a mode of naval war We cannot have a relish for:-- In all the chronicles I read Of former times, they nothing said Of such a horrible machine That would disgrace an algerine, And only yankees would employ, Not to distress, but to destroy. "What human eye, without dismay Can see torpedo-lightning's play? What mortal heart, but dreads a foe That fights unseen from fields below! "What passion must that heart inspire That dives the sea, to deal in fire, What can he fear, I trembling ask Who undertakes the daring task? "With engines of perdition spread, Amazed, I see the ocean's bed! And find with rage, regret, despair, I have no power to meet them there! "Alack! my nerves are on the rack-- They're hammering at the garboard streak! Some yankee dog is near the keel! Ho, sailors give the ship a heel: Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains And ask the rascal what he means? Who knows but Fulton's self is there With all his dark infernal gear: Who knows but he has fix'd his screws, And left a match, to fire the fuze-- Who knows, but in this very hour, The Ramillies will be no more! Will only live in empty fame, And I, myself, be but a name! "Should the torpedo take effect, Her carcass will be worse than wreck'd; In scatter'd fragments to the sky This ship of ships will clattering fly: And then--ah, chaplain!--ah, what then! Where will I be, and all my men? And where will you a lodging find, A traveller on a gale of wind! And where will be the pretty maid That sweeps my floor and makes my bed? Oh Fanny, Fanny! must we part?-- Torpedoes!--I am sick at heart!-- How will the flames those lips deface! How will they spoil that blooming face! How will they scorch your auburn hair--? --You'll have your plagues, and I my share. And must I all my fears impart; And do these guns my ship ensure? And must I ask my fluttering heart If on these decks I stand secure? "Do, Fanny, go and boil some tea: Come hither, love, and comfort me: A glass of wine! my spirits sink! The last perhaps that I shall drink!-- Or go--unlock the brandy case And let us have a dram a piece;-- No matter if your nose is red, We shall be sober when we're dead. "In fancy's view the mine is sprung, The rudder from the stern unhung, My valiant sailors torn asunder, The ship herself a clap of thunder, From fathoms down, a deadly blast Unbolts the keel, unsteps the mast, While Fulton, with a placid grin Exulting, views the infernal scene! The sails are vanish'd, tack and clue, The rigging burnt, by lord knows who, The star that glitter'd on my breast Is gone to Davy Jones's chest; The glorious ensign of st. George, Of Spain the dread, of France the scourge, Is from the staff, unpitied, torn And for a cloak by satan worn: The Lion mounted on the prow, To awe the subject sea below With flames that Lion is oppress'd-- They will not spare the royal beast.-- O vengeance! why does vengeance sleep? The yards are scatter'd o'er the deep, Our guns are buried in the seas, And thus concludes the Ramillies! "The world, I think, can witness bear My name was never stain'd by fear: At least the british fleet can say I never shunn'd the face of clay: But Fulton's black, infernal art-- Has stamp'd me--coward--to the heart! "When Nelson met the spanish fleet, And every pulse for conquest beat, At Nelson's side I had my stand; When Nelson fell I took command: Not Etna's self, with all her flames-- Vesuvius--such description claims; Not Hecla, in her wildest rage, Does with such fires the heavens engage, As on that day, in mourning clad, Was thunder'd from the Trinidad.[A] wounded by a musket shot. Another account says, he received his death wound from the Redoubtable, french 74.--_Freneau's "And yet, amidst that awful scene, I stood unhurt, composed, serene; Though balls, by thousands, whistled round, Not one had leave to kill or wound-- But here! in this torpedo war I perish, with my glittering star, The laurels that adorn my brow-- My laurels are surrender'd now. O Fanny! these envenom'd states Have doom'd our deaths among the rats, In one explosion, to the sky Our chaplain, rats, and sailors fly. "To deal in such inhuman war Is more than English blood can bear; It brings again the gothic age, Renews that period on the stage, When men against the gods rebell'd, And Ossa was on Pelion piled: The trojan war, when Diomede In battle, made fair Venus bleed; Or, when the giants of renown Attempted Jove's imperial crown:-- From such a foe, before we meet, The safest way, is to retreat, To leave this curst unlucky shore And come to trouble them no more. "But, should it be my fate to-night Not to behold to-morrow's light But mingle with the vulgar dead, With all my terrors on my head-- Should such a fate be mine, I say, Dear Fanny, you must lead the way;-- You are the saint that will atone For what amiss I might have done: If such as you will intercede The chaplain may a furlow plead, While you and I in raptures go Where stormy winds no longer blow, Where guns are not, to shed our blood, Or if there be, are made of wood; Where all is love, and no one hates; No falling kings or rising states; No colors that we must defend, If sick, or dead, or near our end; Where yankees are admitted not To hatch their damn'd torpedo plot: Where you will have no beds to make, Nor I be doom'd to lie awake." It is a fact well ascertained that during a great part of the Come, to the battle let us go, Hurl destruction on the foe; Who commands us, well we know, Tis the gallant general Brown. Haste away from field or town, Pull the hostile standard down-- If but led by general Brown What will be the event, we know. If but led against that foe, Soon their doom the english know, Soon their haughtiest blood shall flow, When opposed to general Brown. Haste away from town and farm: If we meet them, where's the harm? English power has lost its charm, England's fame is tumbling down. Long she ruled the northern waste, Freedom is by her debased, Freedom is not to her taste; All the world must wear her chain!!! "Not a keel shall plough the wave, Not a sail, without her leave; Not a fleet, the nations have, Safe from her, shall stem the main!!! Let this day's heroic deeds Let the generous breast that bleeds, Let our chief who bravely leads Tell them that their reign is done: Soon to quit Columbia's shore, Is their doom--we say no more; General Brown, in the cannon's roar Tells them how the field is won! Early in the year 1814 the British army obtained possession of When parsons preach on politics, pray why Should declamation cease, if you go by? We heard a lecture, or a scold, And, doubtful which it might be call'd, But senseless as the bell that toll'd, And pleasing neither young nor old. We kept our seats amid the din, Then quit the field, with all our sin, Just as good as we went in. Tell me what the preacher said, Ye, who somewhat longer stay'd Till the last address was made:-- Why,--he talk'd of ruin'd states, Demagogues and democrates, Falling stars, and Satan's baits. Did he mention nothing more?-- Simply, what he said before-- Repetitions, twenty score. His arguments could nothing prove, His text alarm'd the sacred grove, His prayer displeased the powers above. He would not pray for those who rule, But hoped that in Bethesda's pool They all might dip, to make them cool. He deprecated blood and war, Its many mischiefs did deplore Except when England mounts the car. At Congress he had such a fling, As plainly show'd, he wish'd a king, Might here arrive, on Vulture's wing; And that himself an horn might blow To shake our modern Jericho, And bring its ramparts very low. To english notes his psalm was sung, With politics the pulpit rung, And thrice was bellow'd from his tongue, "The president is always wrong! "He brought these evils on our land, And he must go--the time's at hand-- With Bonaparte to take his stand."-- Must not the wheels of fate go on? Must not the lion's teeth be drawn, Because it suits not Prester John!-- A Bishop's Lawn is such a prize Such virtue in a mitre lies, Democracy before it flies. And these he hopes, if George prevails, In time may hoist his shorten'd sails And waft him on, with fortune's gales. To gain by preaching, nett and clear, Some twenty hundred pounds a year; Which democrats would never bear. To England why so much a friend, Or why her cause with heat defend?-- There is, no doubt, some selfish end. Dear Momus come, and help me laugh-- This England is the stay and staff Of true religion--more than half! She is the prop of all that's good, A bulwark, which for ages stood To guard the path and mark the road! One proof of which can soon be brought, The temple rais'd to Jaggernaut,[A] And India to his temple brought, India, to the support of which the english government contributed largely. The unwieldy idol, to which the temple is dedicated, is, on certain days, carried about the streets on a huge carriage, under the wheels of which the superstitious multitude, it is said, suffer themselves to be trampled and crushed to pieces, by hundreds, from a superstitious motive. If this be not fiction, may the british government exert its influence to eradicate so barbarous and bloody a superstition from the minds of millions of idolatrous wretches.--_Freneau's note._ To see her murder'd, mangled sons, To worship idols, stocks, and stones, Or reliques of some scoundrel's bones. And "long may heaven on England smile-- (So says our preacher, all the while) The world's last hope, fast anchor'd isle!"-- Religion there is made no sport, State tailors there have deckt her out In a birth-day suit--to go to court!-- Napoleon, born for regal sway, With fortune in a smiling mood, To a foreign land explored his way, Where Cairo stands, or Memphis stood. And still he fought, and still she smiled, And urged him far, and spurr'd him on, And on his march, at length beguiled, One thinking man to wear a crown. The crown attracted many a care, And war employ'd him, day and night; He by a princess had an heir Born to succeed him, or--who might. Through russian tribes he forced his way, To blast their hopes and hurl them down Whose valor might dispute his sway, Or dispossess him of a crown. At last arrived the fatal time, When powerful tyrants, jealous grown, Agreed to count it for a crime A commoner should fill a throne. European states, with England join'd To keep unmixt the royal race, And let the famed Napoleon find This poem and the one following were written shortly after the Famed Bonaparte, in regal pride, Put slighted Josephine aside, And wedded an imperial bride, Of fortune sure. But when he droop'd, and when he fell, (I took my pen and mark'd it well) This jilt of jilts, this austrian belle, No longer styled him, Mon Amour; Which means, I think, my dearest heart, My love!--but lovers often part When friendship does not point the dart, Nor fix the flame. And warning, hence, let others take, Nor love's decree for interest break; In marriage, too much lies at stake To slight its claim. Retreating to the tuscan coast, An empire, wife, and fortune lost, He found the throne a dangerous post, And wars a cheat; Where all, who play their game too deep, Must hazard life, and discord reap, Or thrown from grandeur's giddy steep, Lament their fate. Napoleon, with an empty chest! An austrian princess must detest; And yet, she wears upon her breast The painted toy;[A] And often weeps, the story goes, That royal blood not wholly flows In every vein, from head to toes, Of her dear boy. To Elba's isle she could not go-- The royal orders said "No, no! On Elba's island we bestow No royal throne:" And thus Napoleon, shoved from power, Has many a lonely gloomy hour To walk on Elba's sea-beat shore, Alone! alone! O save us from ambition's sway, Ye powers, who tread the milky way; It will deceive, it will betray Nine out of ten. Napoleon's history let us read: In science he was great indeed-- Ambition's lantern did mislead This prince of men:-- And yet, ambition had its use, It check'd the royal game of goose, And many a flagrant vile abuse Fell at his frown. But, doom'd to share immortal fame, Despotic powers will dread his name, Though he, perhaps, was much the same, Raised to a throne! The regent prince, enraged to find The standard from his frigates torn, To a full court thus spoke his mind, With hand display'd and soul of scorn, "Since fate decreed Napoleon's fall, Now, now's the time to conquer all! "We at the head of all that's great, Tis ours to hold the world in awe: Let Louis reign in regal state, And let his subjects own his law; Their tide of power tis ours to stem-- We'll govern those who govern them. "But here's the rub, and here's my grief; My frigates from the seas are hurl'd! What shall we do? how find relief? How strike and stupefy the world? Our flag, that long control'd the main, Our standard must be raised again. "A land there lies towards the west There must my royal will be done; That land is an infernal nest Of reptiles, rul'd by Madison: That nest I swear to humble down, There plant a king, and there a crown. "Depart, my fleet, depart, my slaves, Invade that nest, attack and burn; Where'er the ocean rolls his waves, Subdue, or dare not to return; Subdue and plunder all you can, Who plunders most--shall be my man. "To scatter death, by fire and sword, To prostrate all, where'er you go: That is the mandate, that the word, Though seas of blood around you flow: No more!--go, aid the indian yell: Be conquerors, and I'll feed you well. So spoke the prince, but little knew His minions were for slaughter fed; Nor did he guess, that vengeance, too, Would fall on his devoted head; When all his plans and projects fail, And he ascends Belshazzar's scale.[A] and art found wanting!--Daniel.--_Freneau's note._ Dulce est pro patria mori. somewhat altered from one of Robert Burns' compositions, and applied to an american occasion: the original being Bruce's supposed address to his army, a little before the battle of Bannockbourne.--_Freneau's note._ Ye, whom Washington has led, Ye, who in his footsteps tread, Ye, who death nor danger dread, Haste to glorious victory. Now's the day and now's the hour; See the British navy lour, See approach proud George's power, England! chains and slavery. Who would be a traitor knave? Who would fill a coward's grave? Who so base to be a slave? Traitor, coward, turn and flee. Meet the tyrants, one and all; Freemen stand, or freemen fall-- At Columbia's patriot call, At her mandate, march away! Former times have seen them yield, Seen them drove from every field, Routed, ruin'd, and repell'd-- Seize the spirit of those times! By oppression's woes and pains-- By our sons in servile chains We will bleed from all our veins But they shall be--shall be free. O'er the standard of their power Bid Columbia's eagle tower, Give them hail in such a shower As shall blast them--horse and man! Lay the proud invaders low, Tyrants fall in every foe; Liberty's in every blow, Forward! let us do or die. In an attack upon the town and a small fort of two guns, by the Ramillies, seventy-four gun ship, commanded by Sir Thomas Hardy; Four gallant ships from England came Freighted deep with fire and flame, And other things we need not name, To have a dash at Stonington. Now safely moor'd, their work begun; They thought to make the yankees run, And have a mighty deal of fun In stealing sheep at Stonington. A deacon, then popp'd up his head And parson Jones's sermon read, In which the reverend doctor said That they must fight for Stonington. A townsman bade them, next, attend To sundry resolutions penn'd, By which they promised to defend With sword and gun, old Stonington. The ships advancing different ways, The britons soon began to blaze, And put th' old women in amaze, Who fear'd the loss of Stonington. The yankees to their fort repair'd, And made as though they little cared For all that came--though very hard The cannon play'd on Stonington. The Ramillies began the attack, Despatch came forward--bold and black-- And none can tell what kept them back From setting fire to Stonington. The bombardiers with bomb and ball, Soon made a farmer's barrack fall, And did a cow-house sadly maul That stood a mile from Stonington. They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen, Three hogs they wounded in a pen-- They dash'd away, and pray what then? This was not taking Stonington. The shells were thrown, the rockets flew, But not a shell, of all they threw, Though every house was full in view, Could burn a house at Stonington. To have their turn they thought but fair;-- The yankees brought two guns to bear, And, sir, it would have made you stare, This smoke of smokes at Stonington. They bored Pactolus through and through, And kill'd and wounded of her crew So many, that she bade adieu T' the gallant boys of Stonington. The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn-- So crippled, riddled, so forlorn, No more she cast an eye of scorn On th' little fort at Stonington. The Ramillies gave up th' affray And, with her comrades, sneak'd away-- Such was the valor, on that day, Of british tars near Stonington. But some assert, on certain grounds, (Besides the damage and the wounds) It cost the king ten thousand pounds To have a dash at Stonington. From France, desponding and betray'd, From liberty in ruins laid, Exulting Britain has display'd Her flag, again to invade us. Her myrmidons, with murdering eye, Across the broad Atlantic fly Prepared again their strength to try, And strike our country's standard. Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,[A] And thrice ten thousand, on the waves, And thousands more of brags and braves Are under sail, and coming France, in several divisions, for the invasion of the United States, amounting, it was said, to sixty or seventy thousand men.--_Freneau's note._ To burn our towns, to seize our soil, To change our laws, our country spoil, And Madison to Elba's isle To send without redemption. In Boston state they hope to find A yankee host of kindred mind To aid their arms, to rise and bind Their countrymen in shackles: But no such thing--it will not do-- At least, not while a Jersey Blue Is to the cause of freedom true, Or the bold Pennsylvanian. A curse on England's frantic schemes! Both mad and blind--her monarch dreams Of crowns and kingdoms in these climes Where kings have had their sentence. Though Washington has left our coast, Yet other Washingtons we boast, Who rise, instructed by his ghost, To punish all invaders. Go where they will, where'er they land, This pilfering, plundering, pirate band, They liberty will find at hand To hurl them to perdition: If in Virginia they appear, Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near, Death in their front and hell their rear-- So says the gallant buckskin. All Carolina is prepared, And Charleston doubly on her guard; Where, once, sir Peter badly fared, So blasted by fort Moultrie. If farther south they turn their views, With veteran troops, or veteran crews, The curse of heaven their march pursues To send them all a-packing: The tallest mast that sails the wave, The longest keel its waters lave, Will bring them to an early grave On the shores of Pensacola. Their power abused! that power may soon descend: Years, not remote, may see their glory end:-- The british power, the avaricious crown, Pull'd every flag, hurl'd every standard down; Columbian ships they seized on every sea, Condemn'd those ships, nor left our sailors free.-- So long a tyrant on the watery stage, They thought to tyrannize through every age; They hoped all commerce to monopolize; Europe, at sea, they affected to despise; They laugh'd at France contending for a share Of commerce, one would think, as free as air. They captured most, without remorse or plea, And grew as proud as arrogance could be. Stung by a thousand wrongs, at length arose The Western States, these tyrants to oppose; With just resentment, met them on the main, And burnt, or sunk their ships, with hosts of slain. The blood ran black from every english heart To see their empire from the seas depart, To see their flag to thirteen stripes surrender, And many an english ship made fire and tinder; They swore, they raged; they saw, with patience spent, Each last engagement had the same event-- What could they do? revenge inspired their breasts, And hell's sensations seized their swelling chests.-- All to revenge, to Maryland they came, And costly works of art assail'd with flame; In Washington they left a dismal void,-- Poor compensation for their ships destroy'd!-- We burn, where guns their frigates poorly guard; They burn, where scarce a gun is seen or heard! ----Jam deiphobi dedit ampla ruinam, Vulcano superante, domus; jam proximus ardet Now, George the third rules not alone, For George the vandal shares the throne, True flesh of flesh and bone of bone. God save us from the fangs of both; Or, one a vandal, one a goth, May roast or boil us into froth. Like danes, of old, their fleet they man And rove from Beersheba to Dan, To burn, and beard us--where they can. They say, at George the fourth's command This vagrant host were sent, to land And leave in every house--a brand. Such war--the worst they could desire-- The felon's war--the war of fire. The warfare, now, th' invaders make Must surely keep us all awake, Or life is lost for freedom's sake. They said to Cockburn, "honest Cock! To make a noise and give a shock Push off, and burn their navy dock: "Their capitol shall be emblazed! How will the buckskins stand amazed, And curse the day its walls were raised!" Six thousand heroes disembark-- Each left at night his floating ark And Washington was made their mark. That few would fight them--few or none-- Was by their leaders clearly shown-- And "down," they said, "with Madison!" How close they crept along the shore! As closely as if Rodgers saw her-- A frigate to a seventy-four. A veteran host, by veterans led, With Ross and Cockburn at their head-- They came--they saw--they burnt--and fled. But not unpunish'd they retired; They something paid, for all they fired, In soldiers kill'd, and chiefs expired. Five hundred veterans bit the dust, Who came, inflamed with lucre's lust-- And so they waste--and so they must. They left our congress naked walls-- Farewell to towers and capitols! To lofty roofs and splendid halls! To courtly domes and glittering things, To folly, that too near us clings, To courtiers who--tis well--had wings. Farewell to all but glorious war, Which yet shall guard Potomac's shore, And honor lost, and fame restore. To conquer armies in the field Was, once, the surest method held To make a hostile country yield. The mode is this, now acted on; In conflagrating Washington, They held our independence gone! Supposing George's house at Kew Were burnt, (as we intend to do,) Would that be burning England too? Supposing, near the silver Thames We laid in ashes their saint James, Or Blenheim palace wrapt in flames; Made Hampton Court to fire a prey, And meanly, then, to sneak away, And never ask them, what's to pay? Would that be conquering London town? Would that subvert the english throne, Or bring the royal system down? With all their glare of guards or guns, How would they look like simpletons, And not at all the lion's sons! Supposing, then, we take our turn And make it public law, to burn, Would not old english honor spurn At such a mean insidious plan Which only suits some savage clan-- And surely not--the english man! A doctrine has prevail'd too long; A king, they hold, can do no wrong-- Merely a pitch-fork, without prong: But de'il may trust such doctrines, more,-- One king, that wrong'd us, long before, Has wrongs, by hundreds, yet in store. He wrong'd us forty years ago; He wrongs us yet, we surely know; He'll wrong us till he gets a blow That, with a vengeance, will repay The mischiefs we lament this day, This burning, damn'd, infernal play; Will send one city to the sky, Its buildings low and buildings high, And buildings--built the lord knows why; Will give him an eternal check That breaks his heart or breaks his neck, And plants our standard on Quebec. The brilliant task to you assign'd Asks every effort of the mind, And every energy, combined, To crush the foe. Sail where they will, you must be there; Lurk where they can, you will not spare The blast of death--but all things dare To bring them low. To wield his thunders on Champlain, Macdonough leads his gallant train, And, his great object to sustain, Vermont unites Her hardy youths and veterans bold From shelter'd vale and mountain cold, Who fought, to guard, in days of old Their country's rights. That country's wrongs are all your own And to the world the word is gone-- Her independence must to none Be sign'd away. Be to the nation's standard true, To Britain, and to Europe shew That you can fight and conquer too, And prostrate lay. That bitter foe, whose thousands rise No more to fight us in disguise, But count our freedom for their prize, If valor fails: Beneath your feet let fear be cast, Remember deeds of valor past, And nail your colors to the mast And spread your sails. In all the pride and pomp of war Let thunders from the cannon roar, And lightnings flash from shore to shore, To wing the ball. Let Huron from his slumbers wake, Bid Erie to his centre shake, Till, foundering in Ontario's lake, You swamp them all! against the English fleet on Lake Ontario and Lake Champlain. Between the british squadron, of 93 guns and 1050 men, and the American fleet of 86 guns and 820 men. The Confiance, of 39 and Parading near saint Peter's flood Full fourteen thousand soldiers stood; Allied with natives of the wood, With frigates, sloops, and galleys near; Which southward, now, began to steer; Their object was, Ticonderogue. A feast they held, to hail the day, When all should bend to british sway And who could tell, if reaching there They might not other laurels share And England's flag in triumph bear To the capitol, at Albany!!! Sir George advanced, with fire and sword, The frigates were with vengeance stored, The strength of Mars was felt on board,-- When Downie gave the dreadful word, Huzza! for death or victory! Sir George beheld the prize at stake, And, with his veterans, made the attack, Macomb's brave legions drove him back; And England's fleet approach'd to meet A desperate combat, on the lake. With sulphurous clouds the heavens were black; We saw advance the Confiance, Shall blood and carnage mark her track, To gain dominion on the lake. Then on our ships she pour'd her flame, And many a tar did kill or maim, Who suffer'd for their country's fame, Her soil to save, her rights to guard. Macdonough, now, began his play, And soon his seamen heard him say, No Saratoga yields, this day, To all the force that Britain sends. "Disperse, my lads, and man the waist, Be firm, and to your stations haste, And England from Champlain is chased, If you behave as you'll see me." The fire began with awful roar; At our first flash the artillery tore From his proud stand, their commodore, A presage of the victory. The skies were hid in flame and smoke, Such thunders from the cannon spoke, The contest such an aspect took As if all nature went to wreck! From isle La Motte to Saranac[A] mountains to the westward of Lake Champlain, and after a north easterly course of near seventy-five miles, enters the grand lake in the vicinity of Plattsburg.--_Freneau's Amidst his decks, with slaughter strew'd, Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood, Or waded through a scene of blood, At every step that round him stream'd: He stood amidst Columbia's sons, He stood amidst dismounted guns, He fought amidst heart-rending groans, The tatter'd sail, the tottering mast. Then, round about, his ship he wore, And charged his guns with vengeance sore, And more than Etna shook the shore-- The foe confess'd the contest vain. In vain they fought, in vain they sail'd, That day; for Britain's fortune fail'd, And their best efforts nought avail'd To hold dominion on Champlain. So, down their colors to the deck The vanquish'd struck--their ships a wreck-- What dismal tidings for Quebec, What news for England and her prince! For, in this fleet, from England won, A favorite project is undone: Her sorrows only are begun-- And she may want, and very soon, Her armies for her own defence. Genius of Virginia--and--Virginia. _Genius._ Who are these that lawless come Washington! too near thy tomb?-- Are they those who, long before, Came to subjugate this shore?-- Are they those whom he repell'd, Captured, or imprison'd held? Or the sons of those of old Cast in nature's rudest mould,-- What a stain is laid on thee! _Virginia._ Such a stain as I do swear Fills my swelling heart with care How to wash away the stain, How to be myself again. From my breast the hero rose, In my soil his bones repose: But this insult to thy shade, Washington, shall be repaid. _Genius._ Dear Virginia! tell me how?-- Tell me not, or tell me now, Can you wield the bolts of Jove, Seize the lightnings from above? Tear the mountain from its base To confound this hated race, Who, with hostile step, presume To violate the honor'd tomb Of my bravest, noblest son, Of th' immortal Washington! _Virginia._ Not the artillery of the sky, Not the vengeance from on high Did I want, to guard my son, I have lightnings of my own! Tell me now, or tell me not. _Virginia._ Men, whom Washington had taught, Men of fire, and men of thought, All their spirits in a glow, Ever ready for the foe; Born to meet the hostile shock, Sturdy as the mountain oak-- Active, steady, on their guard, For the scene of death prepared; Such I wanted--say no more; Time, perhaps, may such restore. _Genius._ By the powers that guard this spot, Want them longer you shall not, I, the patron of your land, From this moment take command, Kindle flames in every breast, Thirst of vengeance for the past; Vengeance, that from shore to shore Shall dye your bay with english gore, And see them leave their thousands slain, If they dare to land again: This is all I choose to say-- Seize your armour--let's away! On the Modern Sir Peter Parker's Expedition to Kent Island Sir Peter came, with bold intent, To persecute the men of Kent His flag aloft display'd: He came to see their pleasant farms, But ventured not without his arms To talk with man or maid. And then the gallant colonel Reed Said, "we must see the man indeed; He comes perhaps in want-- Who knows but that his stores are out: Tis hard to dine on mere sour krout, His water may be scant." He spoke--but soon the men of Kent Discover'd what the errand meant, And some, discouraged, said, "Sir Peter comes to petrify, He points his guns, his colors fly, His men for war array'd!" Secure, as if they own'd the land, Advanced this daring naval band, As if in days of peace; Along the shore they, prowling, went, And often ask'd some friends in Kent Where dwelt the fattest geese? The farmers' geese were doom'd to bleed; But some there were, with colonel Reed, Who would not yield assent; And said, before the geese they take, Sir Peter must a bargain make With us, the boys of Kent. The Britons march'd along the shore, Two hundred men, or somewhat more; Next, through the woods they stray'd: The geese, still watchful, as they went, To save the capitol of Kent Their every step betray'd. The british march'd with loaded gun To seize the geese that gabbling run About the isle of Kent: But, what could hardly be believed, Sir Peter was of life bereaved Before he pitch'd his tent. Some kentish lad, to save the geese, And make their noisy gabbling cease Had took a deadly aim: By kentish hands sir Peter fell, His men retreated, with a yell And lost both geese and game! Now what I say, I say with grief, That such a knight, or such a chief On such an errand died!!! When men of worth their lives expose For little things, where little grows They make the very geese their foes; The geese his fall deride: And, sure, they laugh, if laugh they can, To see a star and garter'd man For life of goose expose his own, And bite the dust, with many a groan-- Alas! a gander cry'd-- "Behold, (said he,) a man of fame Who all the way from England came No more than just to get the name Give them the shadow of the cypress bough! The chief who came our prowess to defy, Who came, to bind fresh laurels on his brow, Who came, too sure to conquer not to die:-- Low lies the chief upon th' unconscious plain, The laurels wither, and no wreathes remain. To kindle up your torch, ambition's flame Heroic chief, had all its flames supplied; A monarch's smiles, a never-dying name, The historian's subject, and the soldier's pride; Your native land with splendid trophies hung; Joy sparkling in the eye, and praise from every tongue. Deceived how much! a name alone remains, Not yet complete in fame, nor ripe in years;-- What is the applause such thirst of glory gains, Which not the grave regards or valor hears: In war's wild tumult, for a name he died, He fell, the victim of a monarch's pride. A country's rights, or freedom to defend May sooth the anguish of a dying hour, A ravaged land to succor or befriend, To brave the efforts of a tyrant's power: These may console, when mad ambition's train Fade from the view, or sooth the soul in vain. General Robert Ross, who with Sir George Cockburn had burned Washington, was killed at North Point, Md., Sept. 12, 1814. The sons of old ocean advanced from the bay To achieve an exploit of renown; And Cochrane and Cockburn commanded, that day, And meant to exhibit a tragical play, Call'd, The plunder and burning of Baltimore town. The scenes to be acted were not very new, And when they approach'd, with their rat-tat-too, As merry as times would allow, We ran up the colors to liberty true, And gave them a shot, with a tow-row-dow. By land and by water how many have fail'd In attacking an enemy's town, But britons they tell us, have always prevail'd Wherever they march'd, or wherever they sail'd, To honor his majesty's sceptre and crown: Wherever they went, with the trumpet and drum, And the dregs of the world, and the dirt, and the scum, As soon as the music begun, The colors were struck, and surrender'd the town When the summons was given of down, down, down! But fortune, so fickle, is turning her tide, And safe is old Baltimore town, Though Cockburn and Cochrane, with Ross at their side, The sons of Columbia despised and defy'd, And determined to batter it down; Rebuff'd and repulsed in disgrace they withdrew, With their down, down, down, and their rat-tat-too, As well as the times would allow: And the sight, we expect, will be not very new When they meet us again, with our tow-row-dow. After the burning of Washington the British fleet and army Old Neversink,[A] with bonnet blue, The present times may surely rue When told what England means to do: tract of bold high country, several thousand acres in extent; to the southward of which there is no land that may be termed mountainous, on the whole coast of the United States to Cape Florida. The real aboriginal name of this remarkable promontory was Navesink, since corrupted into Neversink.--_Freneau's note._ Where from the deep his head he rears The din of war salutes his ears, That teazed him not for thirty years. He eastward looks toward the main To see a noisy naval train Invest his bay, our fleets detain. What can be done in such a case?-- His rugged heights the blast must face, The storm that menaces the place. With tents I see his mountain spread, The soldier to the summit led, And cannon planted on his head: From Shrewsbury beach to Sandy Hook The country has a martial look, And quakers skulk in every nook.-- What shall be done in such a case?-- We ask again with woful face To save the trade and guard the place? Where mounted guns the porte secure, The cannon at the embrasure, Will british fleets attempt to moor? Perhaps they may--and make a dash, To fill their pockets with our cash-- Their dealings now are rather harsh. They menace to assail the coast With such a fleet and such a host As may devour us--boil'd or roast. Their feelings are alive and sore For what they got at Baltimore, When, with disgrace, they left the shore, And will revenge it, if they can, On town and country, maid and man-- And all they fear is Fulton's plan; Torpedoes planted in the deep, Whose blast may put them all to sleep, Or ghostify them at a sweep. Another scheme, entirely new, Is hammering on his anvil too, A frigate,[B] mounting thirty six!-- Who'er with her a quarrel picks Will little get but cuffs and kicks: debetur--who strikes at me to death is doomed!--_Freneau's A frigate meant to sail by steam!-- How can she else but torture them, Be proof to all their fire and flame. A feast she cooks for England's sons Of scalded heads and broken bones Discharged from iron hearted guns. Black Sam[C] himself, before he died, Such _suppers_ never did provide;-- Such dinners roasted, boil'd, and fry'd. remarkable for elegance and luxurious refinements in the To make a brief of all I said-- If to attack they change blockade Their godships will be well repaid With water, scalding from the pot, With melted lead and flaming shot, With vollies of--I know not what, The british lads will be so treated: Their wooden walls will be so heated, Their ruin will be soon completed. Our citizens shall stare and wonder-- The Neversink repel their thunder And Cockburn miss a handsome plunder. Relative to the Disposal of Lord Wellington's Army Said the goth to the vandal, the prince to the king, Let us do a mad action, to make the world ring: With Wellington's army we now have the means To make a bold stroke and exhibit new scenes. A stroke at the states is my ardent desire, To waste, and harass them with famine and fire; My vengeance to carry through village and town, And even to batter their capitol down. The vandal then answer'd, and said to the goth, Dear George, with yourself I am equally wroth: Of Wellington's army dispose as you please, It is best, I presume, they should go beyond seas; For, should they come home, I can easily show The hangman will have too much duty to do. So, away came the bruisers, and when they came here Some mischief they did, where no army was near: They came to correct, and they came to chastise And to do all the evil their heads could devise. At Washington city, they burnt and destroy'd Till among the big houses they made a huge void; Then back to their shipping they flew like the wind, But left many more than five hundred behind Of wounded and dead, and others say, double; And thus was the hangman excused from some trouble. Alexandria beheld them in battle array; Alexandria they plunder'd a night and a day. Then quickly retreated, with moderate loss, Their forces conducted by Cockburn and Ross. At Baltimore, next, was their place of attack; But Baltimore drove them repeatedly back; There Rodgers they saw, and their terror was such, They saw they were damn'd when they saw him approach. The forts were assail'd by the strength of their fleet, And the forts, in disorder beheld them retreat So shatter'd and crippled, so mangled and sore, That the tide of Patapsco was red with their gore. Their legions by land no better succeeded-- In vain they manoeuvered, in vain they paraded, Their hundreds on hundreds were strew'd on the ground, Each shot from the rifles brought death or a wound. One shot from a buckskin completed their loss, And their legions no longer were headed by Ross! Where they mean to go next, we can hardly devise, But home they would go if their master was wise. Yet folly so long has directed their course; Such madness is seen in the waste of their force, Such weakness and folly, with malice combined, Such rancor, revenge, and derangement of mind, That, all things consider'd, with truth we may say, Both Cochrane and Cockburn are running away.[A] Cockburn quitted the coast of the United States in their respective flag ships.--_Freneau's note._ To their regent, the prince, to their master the king They are now on the way, they are now on the wing, To tell them the story of loss and disaster, One begging a pension, the other a plaister. Let them speed as they may, to us it is plain They will patch up their hulks for another campaign, Their valor to prove, and their havoc to spread When Wellington's army is missing or dead. The Armstrong arrived in the port of Fayal, And her actions of valor we mean to recall; Brave Reid, her commander, his valorous crew, The heroes that aided, his officers, too. Shall it fall to their lot To be basely forgot? O no! while a bard has a pen to command Their fame shall resound through american land. In the road of Fayal, when their anchors were cast, The british were watching to give them a blast; Not far from the port, for destruction sharp set, With a ship of the line Did a frigate combine, And a brig of great force, with her boats in the rear, To capture or burn one New-York privateer! Four boats from the brig were despatch'd in great haste, And onward they came, of the Armstrong to taste; To taste of her powder, to taste of her ball, To taste of the death she must hurl on them all!-- They came in great speed, And with courage, indeed, Well mann'd and well arm'd--so they got along side, Destruction their motto, damnation their guide. Now the Armstrong, with vengeance, had open'd her fire, And gave them as much as they well could desire; A score of them fell--full twenty fell dead-- Then quarters! they cried, and disgracefully fled:-- To their ships they return'd Half shatter'd and burn'd-- Not quite in good humor, perhaps in a fret, And waited new orders from Plantagenet. Then the Armstrong haul'd in, close abreast of the beach, So near, that a pistol the castle could reach; And there she awaited the rest of their plan, And there they determined to die, to a man, Ere the lords of the waves With their sorrowful slaves, The tyrants, who claim the command of the main, With strength, though superior, their purpose should gain. And now the full moon had ascended the sky, Reid saw by her light that the british were nigh: The bell of Fayal told the hour--it was nine-- When the foe was observed to advance in a line; They manoeuvred a while With their brig, in great style, Till midnight approach'd when they made their attack, Twelve boats, full of men, and the brig at their back! They advanced to the conflict as near as they chose, When the Armstrong her cannon discharged on her foes-- The town of Fayal stood aghast in amaze The Armstrong appear'd like all hell in a blaze! At the blast of Long Tom O lord! are the sons of old England alarm'd-- With music like this they were formerly charm'd! Huzza for old England! three cheers, and a damn! And up to the conflict they manfully came; On the bows and the quarters they grappled a hold, And board! was the word in those barges so bold; But board they could not--to no devil she strikes, So the Armstrong repell'd them with pistols and pikes-- From her musquetry fire They by dozens expire! And soon was the work of destruction complete, And soon was determined their total defeat--! Three hundred brave fellows were wounded and kill'd, Their boats and their barges with slaughter were fill'd; With shame they retreated, the few that remain'd, To tell the event of the battle--not gain'd: Their commander in chief Was astounded with grief!-- Dont grieve, my good fellows--he hail'd them--I beg I too have my wounds--"an ox trod on my leg!" But to save the stout Armstrong--even Reid could not do-- A ship of the line with a frigate in tow--! A brig of their navy accoutred for war--! All this was too much for e'en yankees to dare: So he scuttled his barque-- Nor need we remark That she sunk on the sands by the beach of Fayal With her colors all flying--no colors could fall! Of neutrals what nonsense some tell us each day! Exists there a neutral where Britain has sway? The rights of a neutral!--away with such stuff-- What neutral remains that can England rebuff?-- To be safe from disgrace The deep seas are our place: The flag of no neutral our flag can defend, By ourselves we must fight, on ourselves must depend. Now in bumpers of reason, success to brave Reid! Himself and his heroes are heroes indeed!-- In conquests, like this, can an englishman glory, One traitor among us, one Halifax tory? If they can--let them brag-- Here's success to our flag! May it ever be ready, the britons to maul, As the Armstrong behaved in the road of Fayal.-- Quid petis hic est.--_Martial._ What is wealth, that men will roam, Risque their all, and leave their home, Face the cannon, beat the drum, And their lives so cheaply sell! Let them reason on the fact Who would rather think than act-- Their brains were not with morals rack'd Who mann'd the prince of Neufchatel. Having play'd a lucky game, Homeward, with her treasure, came This privateer of gallant fame, Call'd the prince of Neufchatel. Are the english cruisers near? Do they on the coast appear To molest this privateer?-- --She shall be defended well. Soon a frigate hove in sight:-- As the wind was rather light, She, five barges, out of spite, Sent, to attack, with gun and blade. On our decks stood rugged men, Little more than three times ten; And I tremble, while my pen Tells the havoc that was made. Up they came, with colors red, One a stern, and one a head-- Shall I tell you what they said?-- Yankees! strike the buntin rag! Three were ranged on either side-- Then the ports were open'd wide, And the sea with blood was dyed; Ruin to the english flag! Now the angry cannons roar, Now they hurl the storm of war, Now in floods of human gore Swam the prince of Neufchatel! Then the captain, Ordonneaux, Seconded the seaman's blow, And the remnant of the foe Own'd the brig defended well. For the million she contain'd He contended, sword in hand, Follow'd by as brave a band Of tars, as ever, trod a deck. In these bloody barges, five, Scarce a man was left alive, And about the seas they drive; Some were sunk, and some a wreck. Every effort that they made With boarding pike, or carronade, Every effort was repaid, Scarcely with a parallel! Fortune, thus, upon the wave, Crown'd the valor of the brave:-- Little lost, and much to save, Had the prince of Neufchatel. Of the numerous vessels fitted out during the war by private parties to prey on British commerce the Prince de Neufchatel was doubtless the most successful. A Pine Forest Picture--on a Training Day. ----Invictaque bello Dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset Obvius armato---- The drum was beat, the flag display'd, The soldiers met upon parade, And all for action ready made With loud huzza! When forth a stately figure strode, Of stature such, of such a mode, As those who lived before the flood, If stuff'd with straw. His vigor seem'd by years unbroke; But then his phiz had such a look, As if preserved in Etna's smoke For half an age. God help us all to look our best! This man was captain of the rest, And valor seem'd to fire his breast With martial rage. His horse was of an iron grey; (A prancing steed he rode that day,) Not of the bold virginian breed, Nor yet remote from Quixote's steed. This chief was of the bullet mould; To meet the conflict, firm and bold, His coat was patch'd, his boots new soal'd, Ham stuff'd his maw: Two pounds of powder fill'd his horn, His pantaloons were old and worn, A cap and hat his head adorn-- The chapeau bras. With vengeance heated, long in store, He sallied forth, a man of war; And all that meet him, pray take care Of rusty pikes. He had no helmet for the head, But death and ruin near him tread, And slaughter, in a suit of red, That deadly strikes. A blanket from his shoulders hung, Three dollars in his pockets rung, And to his thigh a faulchion clung, That made us quake: A veteran in the fighting trade! The owner of so keen a blade! Do not provoke him, man or maid, For mercy's sake. O could you but one furlong ride With such a faulchion at your side, Your bosom would for glory beat And show Napoleon all complete! Two pistols, to his girdle tied, Foreboded vengeance, far and wide, To all that were not on our side, With heart and hand. Accoutred thus, with martial air, He gave the warning word, "Take care!" And, in a moment, all was war, Sublime and grand. They march'd, and march'd, as thick as bees. Then march'd towards a clump of trees; And "blaze away!" the leader says-- "Each take his aim! "Who wounds a tree can kill a man-- "If you but practise on that plan, "The britons shall go home again With grief and shame!" Not Philip's famed, unrivall'd son, For Greece subdued, or India won, Not Cockburn, burning Washington, Look'd so elate: With such importance gave commands, With such discretion train'd his bands, Assumed such state! Not Caesar, when he pass'd the Rhine, Not Marlborough leading up his line, Not Perry, when he said, "they're mine!" Put on such airs;-- As now were shown to front and rear When victory seem'd to hover near. Indeed not purchased very dear-- No wounds nor scars. Departing from the norman shore, Not William such a feature wore When England hail'd him conqueror, With loud acclaim: Not Fulton, when his steam he try'd And Neptune's car stemm'd Hudson's tide Felt such a generous glow of pride For well earn'd fame. That day Cornwallis met his fate, Not Washington felt half so great When tow'rd him flew the gallic fleet To share his smile: Not conquest had for Gates such charms When, yielding to the victor's arms, He bade Burgoyne resign his arms, In soldier's style. Not Ajax' self, with such a grace Gave orders to attack a place; Not Hannibal with bolder face Approach'd old Rome,-- When marching for the Tiber shore, He yet his alpine jacket wore, And hoped to sweep the senate floor, And fix their doom: Not Parker,[A] when he cross'd the bar Of Charleston with his men of war, Was, near fort Moultrie, half so sure Of victory gain'd: Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island, in 1776, and after a sanguinary action, was repulsed with great loss.--_Freneau's Not Parker, when departing thence So shatter'd--at the king's expense-- Was so provoked at the defence, Felt so chagrined, As did our chief (no captain Brag) When he perceiv'd some worthless wag Had stolen away the brandy keg-- Ah! loss indeed! For this, he swore he would resign, All future trust in man decline; Of whom, at least, there was one swine, They all agreed-- And cry'd "like hell his heart is black-- Pursue him, boys, and scent his track, If drunk or dead, we'll have him back, This man of scum!" Each took his mark, and hit a tree; The battle's done!--all sober, we; Huzza! we have the victory! Then scamper'd home! "Ye powers who rule the western gale Not for the golden fleece we sail, Nor yet on wild ambition's plan, But vengeance gathers man with man. For wrongs which wearied patience bore, For slighted rules of legal war, We rear our flag, our sails display, And east north east explore our way. Let some assert, ten thousand pounds Would place our fleet on british grounds, And urge us onward to saint James To wrap his palaces in flames. A motive of so mean a cast Allures no mind, excites no breast; From such reward we loathing turn And would at such a proffer spurn. No--to retaliate on the foe, Free-will'd, we independent go, Our ship well mann'd, in war's attire, To light the skies with english fire. November comes! tis time to sail, The nights are long and brisk the gale, And England, soon, the odds may prove Between our hatred and our love." Of the Seventy-four Gun Ship _Independence_, at Charlestown, near Our trade to restore as it stood once before We have launched a new ship from the stocks, Her rate is our first, and her force will, we trust, Be sufficient to humble the hawks; The hawks of old England we mean, don't mistake, Some harpies of England our prizes we'll make. Independence her name, independent our minds, And prepared for the toils of the sea, We are ready to combat the waves and the winds, And fight till the ocean is free: Then, away to your stations, each man on our list Who, when danger approaches, will never be miss'd. In asserting our rights we have rather been slow And patient till patience was tired; We were plunder'd and press'd ere we ventur'd a blow Till the world at our patience admired, And language was held, of contempt and disgrace, And Europe mis-call'd us a pitiful race. Twas time to arise in the strength of our might When Madison publish'd the war, And many have thought that he would have been right Had he published it three years before; While France was unpester'd with traitors and knaves, Nor Europe polluted with Wellington's slaves. To arm for our country is never too late, No fetters are yet on our feet; Our hands are more free, and our hearts are as great As the best in the enemy's fleet: And look at the list of their navy, and think, How many are left, to burn, capture, and sink! Let the nations of Europe surrender the sea, Or crouch at the foot of a throne; In liberty's soil we have planted her tree, And her rights will relinquish to none: Then stand to your arms, Then stand to your arms, Then stand to your arms--half the battle is done! And bravely accomplish what valor begun. The day is approaching, a day not remote, A day with impatience we hail, When Decatur and Hull shall again be afloat, And Bainbridge commission'd to sail; To raise his blockades, will advance on the foe, And bulwark with Bull to the bottom shall go. On the waves of Lake Erie we show'd the old brag We, too, could advance in a line, And batter their frigates and humble their flag; "I have met them," said Perry, "they're mine!" And so, my dear boys, we can meet them again On the waves of the sea, or the waves of Champlain. To the new Independence then, pour out a glass, And drink, with the sense of a man: She soon will be ready, this pride of her class, Sir Thomas[A] to meet on his plan: He hates our torpedoes--then teaze him no more, Let him venture his luck with our Seventy-four. Then stand to your arms, you shall ne'er be enslav'd, Let the battle go on till the nation is saved! The world has wrangled half an age, And we again in war engage, While this sweet, sequester'd rill Murmurs through the valley still. All pacific as you seem: Such a gay elysian stream;-- Were you always thus at rest How the valley would be blest. But, if always thus at rest; This would not be for the best: In one summer you would die And leave the valley parch'd and dry. Tell me, where your waters go, Purling as they downward flow? Stagnant, now, and now a fall?-- To the gulph that swallows all. Flowing, peaceful, from your urn Are your waters to return?-- Though the same you may appear, You're not the same we saw last year. Not a drop of that remains-- Gone to visit other plains, Gone, to stray through other woods, Gone, to join the ocean floods! Yes--they may return once more To visit scenes they knew before;-- Yonder sun, to cheer the vale From the ocean can exhale Vapors, that your waste supply, Turn'd to rain from yonder sky; Moisture, vapors, to revive And keep your margin all alive. But, with all your quiet flow, Do you not some quarrels know! Lately, angry, how you ran! All at war--and much like man. When the shower of waters fell, How you raged, and what a swell! All your banks you overflow'd, Scarcely knew your own abode! How you battled with the rock! Gave my willow such a shock As to menace, by its fall, Underwood and bushes, all: Now you are again at peace: Time will come when that will cease; Such the human passions are; --You again will war declare. Emblem, thou, of restless man; What a sketch of nature's plan! Now at peace, and now at war, Now you murmur, now you roar; Muddy now, and limpid next, Now with icy shackles vext-- What a likeness here we find! What a picture of mankind! WHERE yonder stream divides the fertile plain, Made fertile by the labours of the swain; And hills and woods high tow'ring o'er the rest, Behold a village with fair plenty blest: Each year tall harvests crown the happy field; Each year the meads their stores of fragrance yield, And ev'ry joy and ev'ry bliss is there, And healthful labour crowns the flowing year. THOUGH _Goldsmith_ weeps in melancholy strains, Deserted Auburn and forsaken plains, And mourns his village with a patriot sigh, And in that village sees Britannia die: Yet shall this land with rising pomp divine, In it's own splendor and Britannia's shine. O muse, forget to paint her ancient woes, Her Indian battles, or her Gallic foes; Resume the pleasures of the rural scene, Describe the village rising on the green, It's harmless people, born to small command, Lost in the bosom of this western land: SO shall my verse run gentle as the floods, So answer all ye hills, and echo all ye woods; So glide ye streams in hollow channels pent, Forever wasting, yet not ever spent. Ye clust'ring boughs by hoary thickets borne! Ye fields high waving with eternal corn! Ye woodland nymphs the tender tale rehearse, The fabled authors of immortal verse: Ye Dryads fair, attend the scene I love, And Heav'n shall centre in yon' blooming grove. What tho' thy woods, AMERICA, contain The howling forest, and the tiger's den, The dang'rous serpent, and the beast of prey, Men are more fierce, more terrible than they. No monster with it's vile contagious breath, No flying scorpion darting instant death; No pois'nous adder, burning to engage, Has half the venom or has half the rage. What tho' the Turk protests to heav'n his ire, With lift up hand amidst his realms of fire; And Russia's Empress sends her fleets afar, To aid the havock of the burning war: Their rage dismays not, and their arms in vain, In dreadful fury bathe with blood the plain; Their terrors harmless, tho' their story heard, How this one conquer'd, or was nobly spar'd: Vain is their rage, to us their anger vain, The deep Atlantic raves and roars between. TO yonder village then will I descend, There spend my days, and there my ev'nings spend; Sweet haunt of peace whose mud' wall'd sides delight, The rural mind beyond the city bright: Their tops with hazles or with alders wove, Remurmur magic to the neighb'ring grove; And each one lab'ring in his own employ, Comes weary home at night, but comes with joy: The soil which lay for many thousand years O'er run by woods, by thickets and by bears; Now reft of trees, admits the chearful light, And leaves long prospects to the piercing sight; Where once the lynx nocturnal sallies made, And the tall chestnut cast a dreadful shade: No more the panther stalks his bloody rounds, Nor bird of night her hateful note resounds; Nor howling wolves roar to the rising moon, As pale arose she o'er yon eastern down. Some prune their trees, a larger load to bear Of fruits nectarine blooming once a year: See groaning waggons to the village come Fill'd with the apple, apricot or plumb; And heavy beams suspended from a tree, To press their juice against the winter's day: Or see the plough torn through the new made field, Ordain'd a harvest, yet unknown to yield. The rising barn whose spacious floor receives The welcome thousands of the wheaten sheaves, And spreads it's arms to take the plenteous store, Sufficient for its master and the poor: For as Eumoeus us'd his beggar guest The great Ulysses in his tatters drest: So here fair Charity puts forth her hand, And pours her blessings o'er the greatful land: No needy wretch the rage of winter fears, Secure he sits and spends his aged years, With thankful heart to gen'rous souls and kind, That save him from the winter and the wind. A LOVELY island once adorn'd the sea, Whose sandy sides washed by the ocean wave, Scarce heard a murmur but what ocean gave: Small it's circumference, nor high it's coast, But shady woods the happy isle could boast; On ev'ry side new prospects catch'd the eye, There rose blue mountains to the arched sky: Here thunder'd ocean in convulsive throws, And dash'd the island as it's waters rose: Yet peaceful all within, no tumults there, But fearless steps of the unhunted hare; And nightly chauntings of the fearless dove, Or blackbird's note, the harbinger of love. So peaceful was this haunt that nature gave, Still as the stars, and silent as the grave; No loud applause there rais'd the patriot breast, No shouting armies their mad joy confest, For battles gain'd, or trophies nobly won, Or nations conquer'd near the rising sun; No clam'rous crews, or wild nocturnal cheer, Or murd'rous ruffians, for no men were here. On it's east end a grove of oak was seen, And shrubby hazels fill'd the space between; Dry alders too, and aspin leaves that shook With ev'ry wind, conspired to shade a brook, Whose gentle stream just bubbling from the ground, Was quickly in the salter ocean drown'd: Beyond whose fount, the center of the isle, Wild plumb trees flourish'd on the shaded soil. In the dark bosom of this sacred wood, Secluded from the world, and all it's own, Of other lands unknowing, and unknown. Here might the hunter have destroy'd his prey, Transfix'd the goat before the dawn of day; And trudging homeward with his welcome load, The fruit of wand'rings thro' each by-way road: Thrown down his burthen with the needless sigh, And gladly feasted his small family. Small fields had then suffic'd, and grateful they, The annual labours of his hands to pay; And free his right to search the briny flood For fish, or slay the creatures of the wood. THUS spent his days in labour's pleasant pain, Had liv'd and dy'd the homely shepherd swain: Had seen his children and his children's heirs, The fruit of love and memory of years To agriculture's first fair service bent, The work of mortals, and their great intent. So had the Sire his days of pleasure known, And wish'd to change no country for his own: So had he with his fair endearing wife, Pass'd the slow circle of a harmless life; With happy ignorance divinely blest, The path, the centre and the home of rest. Long might the sun have run his bright career, And long the moon her mantled visage rear; And long the stars their nightly vigils kept, And spheres harmonious either sung or wept: He had not dream'd of worlds besides his own, And thought them only stars, beyond the moon; Enjoy'd himself, nor hear'd of future hell, Or heav'n, the recompence of doing well; Had scarcely thought of an eternal state, And left his being in the hands of fate.-- O had this isle such souls sublime contain'd, And there for ages future sons remain'd: But envious time conspiring with the sea, Wash'd all it's landscapes, and it's groves away. It's trees declining, stretch'd upon the sand, No more their shadows throw across the land. It's vines no more their clust'ring beauty show, Nor sturdy oaks embrace the mountain's brow. Bare sands alone now overwhelm the coast, Lost in it's grandeur, and it's beauty lost. THUS, tho' my fav'rite isle to ruin gone, Inspires my sorrow, and demands my moan; Yet this wide land it's place can well supply With landscapes, hills and grassy mountains high. O HUDSON! thy fair flood shall be my theme, Thy winding river, or thy glassy stream; On whose tall banks tremendous rocks I spy, Dread nature in primaeval majesty. Rocks, to whose summits clouds eternal cling, Or clust'ring birds in their wild wood notes sing. Hills, from whose sides the mountain echo roars, Rebounding dreadful from the distant shores; Or vallies, where refreshing breezes blow, And rustic huts in fair confusion grow, Safe from the winds, secur'd by mountains high, That seem to hide the concave of the sky; To whose top oft' the curious hind ascends, And wonders where the arch'd horizon bends; Pleas'd with the distant prospects rising new, And hills o'er hills, a never ending view. Through various paths with hasty step he scours, And breathes the odours of surrounding flow'rs, Caught from their bosoms by the fragrant breath, Of western breezes, or the gale of death.[A] Then low descending, seeks the humble dome, And centres all his pleasures in his home, 'Till day returning, brings the welcome toil, To clear the forest, or to tame the soil; To burn the woods, or catch the tim'rous deer, To scour the thicket, or contrive the snare. SUCH was the life our great fore-fathers led, The golden season now from Britain fled, E'er since dread commerce stretch'd the nimble sail, And sent her wealth with ev'ry foreign gale.-- Strange fate, but yet to ev'ry country known, To love all other riches but it's own. Thus fell the mistress of the conquer'd earth, Great ROME, who owed to ROMULUS her birth. Fell to the monster Luxury, a prey, Who forc'd a hundred nations to obey. She whom nor mighty CARTHAGE could withstand, Nor strong JUDEA'S once thrice holy land: She all the west, and BRITAIN could subdue, While vict'ry with the ROMAN eagles flew; She, she herself eternal years deny'd, Like ROME she conquer'd, but by ROME she dy'd: But if AMERICA, by this decay, The world itself must fall as well as she. No other regions latent yet remain, This spacious globe has been research'd in vain. Round it's whole circle oft' have navies gone, And found but sea or lands already known. When she has seen her empires, cities, kings, Time must begin to flap his weary wings; The earth itself to brighter days aspire, And wish to feel the purifying fire. NOR think this mighty land of old contain'd The plund'ring wretch, or man of bloody mind: Renowned SACHEMS once their empires rais'd On wholesome laws; and sacrifices blaz'd. The gen'rous soul inspir'd the honest breast, And to be free, was doubly to be blest: 'Till the east winds did here COLUMBUS blow, And wond'ring nations saw his canvas flow. 'Till here CABOT descended on the strand, And hail'd the beauties of the unknown land; And rav'nous nations with industrious toil, Conspir'd to rob them of their native soil: Then bloody wars, and death and rage arose, And ev'ry tribe resolv'd to be our foes. Full many a feat of them I could rehearse, And actions worthy of immortal verse: Deeds ever glorious to the INDIAN name, And fit to rival GREEK or ROMAN fame, But one sad story shall my Muse relate, Full of paternal love, and full of fate; Which when ev'n yet the northern shepherd hears, It swells his breast, and bathes his face in tears, Prompts the deep groan, and lifts the heaving sigh, Or brings soft torrents from the female eye. FAR in the arctic skies, where HUDSON'S BAY Rolls it's cold wave and combats with the sea, A dreary region lifts it's dismal head, True sister to the regions of the dead. Here thund'ring storms continue half the year, Or deep-laid snows their joyless visage rear: Eternal rocks, from whose prodigious steep The angry tiger stuns the neighb'ring deep; While through the wild wood, or the shrouded plain, The moose deer seeks his food, but often seeks in vain: Yet in this land, froze by inclement skies, The Indian huts in wild succession rise; And daily hunting, when the short-liv'd spring Shoots joyous forth, th' industrious people bring Their beaver spoils beneath another sky, PORT NELSON, and each BRITISH factory: In slender boats from distant lands they sail, Their small masts bending to the inland gale, On traffic sent to gain the little store, Which keeps them plenteous, tho' it keeps them poor. Hither CAFFRARO in his flighty boat, One hapless spring his furry riches brought; And with him came, for sail'd he not alone, His consort COLMA, and his little son. While yet from land o'er the deep wave he plough'd, And tow'rds the shore with manly prowess row'd. His barque unfaithful to it's trusted freight, Sprung the large leak, the messenger of fate; But no lament or female cry was heard, Each for their fate most manfully prepar'd, From bubbling waves to send the parting breath To lands of shadows, and the shade of death. O FATE! unworthy such a tender train, O day, lamented by the Indian swain! Full oft' of it the strippling youth shall hear, And sadly mourn their fortune with a tear: The Indian maids full oft' the tale attend, And mourn their COLMA as they'd mourn a friend. NOW while in waves the barque demerg'd, they strive, Dead with despair, tho' nature yet alive: Forth from the shore a friendly brother flew, In one small boat, to save the drowning crew. He came, but in his barque of trifling freight, Could save but two, and one must yield to fate. O dear CAFFRARO, said the hapless wife, O save our son, and save thy dearer life: 'Tis thou canst teach him how to hunt the doe, Transfix the buck, or tread the mountain snow, Let me the sentence of my fate receive, And to thy care my tender infant leave. He sigh'd, nor answer'd, but as firm as death, Resolv'd to save her with his latest breath: And as suspended by the barque's low side, He rais'd the infant from the chilling tide, And plac'd it safe; he forc'd his COLMA too To save herself, what more could mortal do? But nobly scorning life, she rais'd her head From the flush'd wave, and thus divinely said: OF life regardless, I to fate resign, But thou, CAFFRARO, art forever mine. O let thy arms no future bride embrace, Remember COLMA, and her beauteous face, Which won thee youthful in thy gayest pride, With captives, trophies, victors at thy side; Now I shall quick to blooming regions fly, A spring eternal, and a nightless sky, Far to the west, where radiant Sol descends, And wonders where the arch'd horizon ends: There shall my soul thy lov'd idea keep, And 'till thy image comes, unceasing weep. There, tho' the tiger is but all a shade, And mighty panthers but the name they had; And proudest hills, and lofty mountains there, Light as the wind, and yielding as the air; Yet shall our souls their ancient feelings have, More strong, more noble than this side the grave. There lovely blossoms blow throughout the year, And airy harvests rise without our care: And all our sires and mighty ancestors, Renown'd for battles and successful wars, Behold their sons in fair succession rise, And hail them happy to serener skies. There shall I see thee too, and see with joy Thy future charge, my much lov'd Indian boy: The thoughtless infant, whom with tears I see, Once sought my breast, or hung upon my knee; Tell him, ah tell him, when in manly years, His dauntless mind, nor death nor danger fears, Tell him, ah tell him, how thy COLMA dy'd, His fondest mother, and thy youthful bride: Point to my tomb thro' yonder furzy glade, And show where thou thy much lov'd COLMA laid. O may I soon thy blest resemblance see, And my sweet infant all reviv'd in thee. 'Till then I'll haunt the bow'r or lonely shade, Or airy hills for contemplation made, And think I see thee in each ghostly shoal, And think I clasp thee to my weary soul. Oft, oft thy form to my expecting eye, Shall come in dreams with gentle majesty; Then shall I joy to find my bliss began To love an angel, whom I lov'd a man! She said, and downward in the hoary deep Plung'd her fair form to everlasting sleep; Her parting soul it's latest struggle gave, And her last breath came bubbling thro' the wave. THEN sad CAFFRARO all his grief declares, And swells the torrent of the gulph with tears; And senseless stupid to the shore is borne In death-like slumbers, 'till the rising morn, Then sorrowing, to the sea his course he bent Full sad, but knew not for what cause he went, 'Till, sight distressing, from the lonely strand, He saw dead COLMA wafting to the land. Then in a stupid agony of pray'r, He rent his mantle, and he tore his hair; Sigh'd to the stars, and shook his honour'd head, And only wish'd a place among the dead! O had the winds been sensible of grief, Or whisp'ring angels come to his relief; Then had the rocks not echo'd to his pain, Nor hollow mountains answer'd him again: Then had the floods their peaceful courses kept, Nor the sad pine in all it's murmurs wept; Nor pensive deer stray'd through the lonely grove, Nor sadly wept the sympathising dove.-- Thus far'd the sire through his long days of pain, Or with his offspring rov'd the silent plain; Till years approaching, bow'd his sacred head Deep in the dust, and sent him to the dead: Where now perhaps in some strange fancy'd land, He grasps the airy bow, and flies across the strand; Or with his COLMA shares the fragrant grove, It's vernal blessings, and the bliss of love. FAREWELL lamented pair, and whate'er state Now clasps you round, and sinks you deep in fate; Whether the firey kingdom of the sun, Or the slow wave of silent Acheron, Or Christian's heaven, or planetary sphere, Or the third region of the cloudless air; Or if return'd to dread nihility, You'll still be happy, for you will not be. NOW fairest village of the fertile plain, Made fertile by the labours of the swain; Who first my drowsy spirit did inspire, To sing of woods, and strike the rural lyre: Who last shou'd see me wand'ring from thy cells, And groves of oak where contemplation dwells, Wou'd fate but raise me o'er the smaller cares, Of Life unwelcome and distressful years, Pedantic labours and a hateful ease, Which scarce the hoary wrinkled sage cou'd please. Hence springs each grief, each long reflective sigh, And not one comfort left but poetry. Long, long ago with her I could have stray'd, To woods, to thickets or the mountain shade; Unfit for cities and the noisy throng, The drunken revel and the midnight song; The gilded beau and scenes of empty joy, Which please a moment and forever die. Here then shall center ev'ry wish, and all The tempting beauties of this spacious ball: No thought ambitious, and no bold design, But heaven born contemplation shall be mine. In yonder village shall my fancy stray, Nor rove beyond the confines of to-day; The aged volumes of some plain divine, In broken order round my hut shou'd shine; Whose solemn lines should soften all my cares, And sound devotion to th' eternal stars: And if one sin my rigid breast did stain, Thou poetry shou'dst be the darling sin; Which heav'n without repentance might forgive, And which an angel might commit and live: And where yon' wave of silent water falls, O'er the smooth rock or Adamantine walls: The summer morns and vernal eves should see, MILTON, immortal bard my company; Or SHAKESPEARE, DRYDEN, each high sounding name, The pride of BRITAIN, and one half her fame: Or him who wak'd the fairy muse of old, And pleasing tales of lands inchanted told. Still in my hand, he his soft verse shou'd find His verse, the picture of the poets mind: Or heav'nly POPE, who now harmonious mourns, "Like the rapt seraph that adores and burns." Then in sharp satire, with a giant's might, Forbids the blockhead and the fool to write: And in the centre of the bards be shown The deathless lines of godlike ADDISON; Who, bard thrice glorious, all delightful flows, And wrapt the soul of poetry in prose. NOW cease, O muse, thy tender tale to chaunt, The smiling village, or the rural haunt; New scenes invite me, and no more I rove, To tell of shepherds, or the vernal grove. "The American Village," Freneau's first distinct poetical _To the_ NYMPH _I never saw_. FAR be the pleasures of the day, And mirth and festive joy from me, When cold December nips the plains, Or frozen January reigns. Far he the hunts-man's noisy horn, And coursers fleet thro' thickets borne, Swift as the wind, and far the sight, Of snowy mountains, sadly white; But thou, O night, with sober charms, Shall clasp me in thy sable arms. For thee I love the winter eve, The noisy day for thee I leave. Beneath some mountain's tow'ring height, In cottage low I hail the night, Where jovial swains, with heart sincere, And timely mirth dishearten care: Each tells his tale, or chaunts a song Of her for whom he sigh'd so long; Of CLARA fair, or FLORA coy, Disdaining still her shepherd boy, While near the hoary headed sage, Recalls the days of youthful age, Describes his course of manly years, His journey thro' this vale of tears; How champion he with champions met, And fiercely did they combat it, 'Till envious night in ebon chair, Urg'd faster on her chariotteer, And robb'd him, O for shame, of glory And feats fit for renown in story.-- Thus spent in tales the ev'ning hour, And quaffing juice of sober pow'r, Which handsome KATE with malt did steep, To lead on balmy visag'd sleep, While her neat hand the milk pail strains, A sav'ry supper for the swains. And now the moon exalted high, Gives lustre to the earth and sky, And from the mighty ocean's glass, Reflects the beauty of her face: About her orb you may behold, A thousand stars of burnish'd gold, Which slowly to the west retire, And lose awhile their glitt'ring fire. O COULD I here find my abode, And live within this fancy'd wood, With thee the weeks and years to pass, My pretty rural shepherdess; With thee the cooling spring to sip, Or live upon thy damask lip: Then sacred groves, and shades divine, And all ARCADIA should be mine. Steep me, steep me some poppies deep In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep; Love hath my mind in shackles kept, Thrice the cock crew, nor once I slept. O gentle sleep, wrap me in dreams, Of fields and woods, and running streams; Of rivers wide, and castles rare, And be my lovely FLORA there: A larger draught, a larger bowl To gratify my drowsy soul; "A larger draught is yet in store, Perhaps with this you wake no more." Then I my lovely maid shall see thee Drinking the deep streams of LETHE, Where now dame ARETHUSA scatters Her soft stream with ALPHEUS' waters, To forget her earthly cares, Lost in LETHE, lost in years! And I too will quaff the water, Lest it should be said, O daughter Of my giddy, wand'ring brain, I sigh'd for one I've never seen. TO form the manners of our youth, To guide them in the way of truth, To lead them through the jarring schools, Arts, sciences, and grammar rules; Is certainly an arduous work, And make a christian bite his nails, For do his best, he surely fails; And spite of all that some may say, His praise is trifling as his pay. FOR My part I, tho' vers'd in booking, Still sav'd my carcase from such cooking; And always slyly shunn'd a trade, Too trifling as I thought and said; When men have neither sense or reason; By some confounded misadventure, I found myself just in it's centre. ODD'S fish and blood, and noun and neuter, And tenses present, past and future: I utter'd with a wicked sigh, Where are my brains, or where am I? The dullest creature of the wood, Knows how to shun the distant flood; Whales, dolphins, and a hundred more, Are not the fools to run ashore. WELL, now contented I must be, Forc'd by the dame Necessity, Who like the tribunal of Spain, Let's you speak once, but not again; And swift to execute the blow, Ne'er tells you why or whence it's so. NOW I am ask'd a thousand questions, With sly designs to know if I Am vers'd in GRECIAN history; And then again my time destroy, With aukward grace to tell of TROY: From that huge giant POLYPHEMUS, Quite down to ROMULUS and REMUS. Then I'm oblig'd to give them lectures, On quadrants, circles, squares and sectors; Or in my wretched mem'ry bear, What weighs a cubic inch of air. "SIR, here's my son, I beg you'd mind, The graces have been very kind, And on him all their blessings shed, Teach him the doctrine of the sphere, The sliding circle and the square, And starry worlds, I know not where: And let him quickly learn to say, Those learned words Penna, Pennae; Which late I heard our parson call As learning, knowledge all in all." AND then a city dame approaches, Known by her horsemen, chairs and coaches: "Sir, here's my son, teach him to speak And this I half forgot, pray teach My tender boy--the parts of speech-- But never let this son of me, Learn that vile thing astronomy: Upon my word it's all a sham,"-- O I'm your humble servant ma'am. There certainly is something in it-- "Boy, drive the coach off in a minute." And thus I'm left in street or road, A laughing stock to half the crowd, To argue with myself the case, And prove its being to my face. A plague I say on such employment, Where's neither pleasure nor enjoyment: Whoe'er to such a life is ty'd, Was born the day he should have dy'd; Born in an hour when angry spheres Were tearing caps, or pulling ears: And Saturn slow 'gainst swift Mercurius, Was meditating battles furious; Or comets with their blazing train, Decreed their life, a life of pain. Behold this antique dome by envious time, Full well, alas, it claims my humble rhyme, For such lone haunts and contemplation made. Ah see the hearth, where once the chearful fire Blaz'd high, and warm'd the winter trav'lers toes; And see the walls, which once did high aspire, Admit the storms, and ev'ry wind that blows. In yonder corner, now to ruin gone, The ancient housewife's curtain'd bed appear'd, Where she and her man JOHN did sleep alone, Nor nightly robber, nor the screech owl fear'd. There did they snore full oft' the whole night out, Smoking the sable pipe, 'till that did fall, Reft from their jaws by Somnus' sleepy rout, And on their faces pour'd its scorched gall. And in the compass of yon' smaller gang, The swain BATAVIAN once his courtship made, To some DUTCH lass, as thick as she was long; "Come then, my angel, come," the shepherd said, "And let us for the bridal bed prepare; For you alone shall ease my future life, And you alone shall soften all my care, My strong, my hearty, and industrious wife." Thus they--but eating ruin now hath spread Its wings destructive o'er the antique dome; The mighty fabrick now is all a shed, Scarce fit to be the wand'ring beggar's home. And none but me it's piteous fate lament, None, none but me o'er it's sad ashes mourn, Sent by the fates, and by APOLLO sent, To shed their latest tears upon it's silent urn. This is the germ of the poem, "The Deserted Farm-House," Vol. I, The Distrest Orator. [Occasioned by R---- A----'s memory failing him in the midst of a public discourse he had got by Elegaic Verses on the Death of a favorite Dog, 1785. New Year's Verses, Addressed to the Customers of the Pennsylvania Evening Post, by the Printer's Lad who carries Few Honest Coblers; A Poem. In Imitation of Dr. Watts's Female Caprice; or, the Student's Complaint. The Fiddler's Farewell. The Misfortune of March. [Written in the pastoral style of the Farmer Dobbins's Complaint. The Debtor's Soliloquy. Lines to the memory of a young American Lady; who died soon after her Arrival in London. The Drunkard's Apology. On a Painter who was Endeavouring to Recover, from Memory, the Marriage A-la Mode; (Or the Run-a-way Match.) Minerva's Advice. Charity A-la-Mode. Epistle to a Gay Young Lady that was Married to a Doating old Lines Written in a Severe February on a Shad, &c., caught in a Epitaph on Frederick the Second, late King of Prussia. [From A Dialogue between Shadrach and Whiffle. To the memory of a Lady. To Clarissa: a handsome Shop-Keeper. To a Very Little Man, Fond of Walking with a Very Long Cane. Elegiac lines on a Theological Script-Monger. Translation of the Third Elegy of the First Book of Ovid's Description of the Plague which Happened at Athens ... From Love's Suicide. Stanzas Intended for the Tomb Stone of a Person who Killed Himself in Consequence of his Suit being Translation, from Ovid's Tristia. Book 3d, Elegy 3d. Stanzas Written near a Certain Clergyman's Garden. On a Nocturnal View of the Planet Jupiter, and several of his Satellites, through a Telescope. On a Man Killed by a Buffaloe (or wild Cow.) To the Dog Sancho, on his being Wounded in the Head with a Sabre, in a Midnight Assault and Robbery, near the Neversink Lines Written in a very Small Garden. A Usurer's Prayer. The Gougers: on Seeing a Traveller Gouged, and otherwise ill treated by some Citizens of Logtown, near a Pine Barren. Lines written for Mr. Ricketts, on the Exhibitions at his Monumental Lines, Addressed to a Disconsolate Person, that was Consumption within about Two Years of Each other, in the Prime Esperanza's March: being Stanzas, Addressed to a Person who Complained "He was always unfortunate." On a Lady, Now Deceased, that had been both Deaf and Blind Lines written in a french novel, Adelaide and Durval. On Happiness, as proceeding from the practice of Virtue. Reflections on doctor Perkins' metallic points, or tractors. Publius to Pollia. Supposed to have been written during a cruising expedition. Translation of Gray's Ode, Written at the grand Chartreuse. Belief and Unbelief: humbly recommended to the serious consideration of creed makers. Susanna's Tomb. Stanzas on a Political Projector, who was making interest, to be employed on an embassy to Constantinople. Nature's Debt. New Year's Eve. The Order of the Day: to readers of the history of wars ancient and modern. The Bethlehemite; or, fair solitary. management of the house being placed in the hands of Mr. The Musical Savage. Supposed to express, to the musician, the extatic emotions of a missouri indian, on his first hearing the violin played, or band of music, that accompanied captain Lewis on his expedition to the Columbia-River. Epitaph on a worthy person, whose decease closed a series of fortune and misfortune in his 50th year. The Blast of November. Occasioned by a fatal accident on the On Seeing a Beautiful Print of a Shipwrecked Sailor sitting on Translated from the Third Book of Lucretius _de natura rerum_, or, On the nature of Things. The Two Genii: Addressed to a young Lady, of a consumptive habit, departing from New-York, by sea, for South-Carolina, in was an undergraduate skit by Freneau on his college mate Robert Humanity and Ingratitude, A Common Case. [Translated from the To the Memory of Mrs. Burnet of Elizabeth-town, N. J. By The following is a list of the individual and collected poetical General Gage's Soliloquy. New York: Printed by Hugh Gaine, 1775. Library Company of Philadelphia. Endorsed upon it are the words A reprint of the Anderson edition. _Copies_: AAS, HSP, NYHS, PU. contemporary hand are the words "By Gaine. Published October 25: everlasting deliverance | from | British Tyranny: | a Poem.| of the volume, has the title page: American | Independence,| an everlasting | Deliverance | from | The same sheets were used to form part VI of "Miscellanies | for | Sentimentalists," published the same year by Bell. Sir Henry Clinton's Invitation to the Refugees. The British Prison-Ship:|A | Poem,| in four Cantoes.| Viz. Canto { 3. The Prison-Ship, continued, New Year's Verses, addressed to The Customers of the Pennsylvania This is known only through the version in the 1786 edition of Freneau's poems, pp. 383-385. It was undoubtedly first issued as a broadside. broadside. original first line: "How things are chang'd since last New Year" was altered to read: "What tempests gloomed the by-past year--" The first trace of this is to be found in the 1786 edition, pp. 391-393. It was doubtless first issued as a broadside. The first trace to be found of this is in the 1788 edition, A | Journey | from | Philadelphia | to | New-York, | by Way of from Horace._] Philadelphia; Printed by Francis Bailey, at Yorick's Head, in | The second collected edition of Freneau's poems. It contained no Mount-Pleasant, near | Middletown-Point; M, DCC, XCV: and, of The Musick performed | by the Uranian Musical Society.| See Megara and Altavola. To a female satirist (an English actress) on Six copies only were printed, of which none is at present known to exist. See the 1809 edition, Vol. II, p. 30; and Vol. III, New Year's Verses. Issued as a broadside for the _Time Piece_ and dated "January 1, file _Time Piece_ in the library of the New York Historical Edition, in two Volumes.| Vol. I. [II.]| This is generally known as the fourth collected edition. See characters.]| A reprint with few variations of the 1787 edition. See Vol. II, Small 8vo; pp. xxii, -362. Printed at the Chiswick Press. _Copies:_ BPL, BU, C, HSP, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, NkPL. _Copies:_ AAS, BM, BPL, C, HSP, LCP, NA, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, SPL, NkPL. One hundred copies also on large paper, royal 8vo. Anderson, Alexander, i. xcii _Argus_, i. lxxii Bache, Benjamin F., i. lviii Bailey, Lydia H., i. lxxxviii Bauman, Col., i. lxxx Beckley, Mr., i. lxix Bradford, William, Papers, i. xvii Brackenridge, H. H., i. xvi, xx, xxii, xxviii, xxix Burr, Aaron, i. xvi; Cannon, Capt. William, i. xliv Cobbett, William, iii. 167. See "Peter Porcupine" Davis, Matthew L., i. lxxv "Father Bombo's Pilgrimage," i. xvii Fontaine, John, traveller, i. xiv Forman, Eleanor, marries Freneau, i. xlviii. Franklin, Benjamin, iii. 36; Freneau Bible, i. xiii. Agnes, i. lxxv, lxxix; Andre, i. xiii; Andrew, i. xiv; Catharine L., i. lxxvi; Eleanor, i. xlix, lxxvi; Helen, i. lxxiv; Margaret, i. lxxvi; Mary, i. lxxvi; Philip L., i. lxxvi; Peter, i. xiv, xxxix, xlviii, lxxviii, lxxxi; Birth, xiv; enters Princeton, xv; College mates, xvi; undergraduate verse, xvii, xviii, xxi, ciii, i. 49; teacher at Flatbush, xxi; publishes "The American Village," xxii; teacher in Somerset Academy, Md., xxii; begins poetic career in New York, xxiv, i. 139; sails for West Indies, xxvi; writes "The House of Night," xxvii, i. 221; contributes to the _United States Magazine_, xxviii; sails for the West Indies (1780), xxx; captured by the British and confined in prison ships, xxxiiff., the _Freeman's Journal_, xxxv, ii. 75; quarrels with Oswald, xxxvii, ii. 174; lampoons Rivington, ii. 229; hymn at close of war, ii. 242; denounces slavery, ii. 258; first edition of his poems (1786), xxxix, xli; enters New York with Washington's fleet (1789), xlvii; farewell to the ocean, iii. 3; editor of New York _Daily Advertiser_, xlvii, iii. 3; plans "The Rising Empire," xlix, iii. 5; is recommended to Madison by Burke, xlix; clerkship, l, lii, lxiii; sympathy with French Revolution, liii, ii. 385; translates Pichon's Ode, liv, iii. 92; becomes incendiary in the _Gazette_, lv; attacked by Hamilton, lvi; exasperates Washington, lx; in Philadelphia during yellow fever epidemic (1793), lxiii; suspends the _Gazette_, xi; valedictory on leaving Philadelphia, iii. 113; founds the _Jersey Chronicle_, lxiii; writes against Jay's treaty, iii. 133; the third edition of his poems (1795), lxvii; abandons the _Jersey Chronicle_, lxxi; plans biography of Ledyard, lxxiv; visited by Deborah Gannett, iii. 182; resigns editorship of the _Time Piece_ (1798), lxxv; "Letters on Various Interesting Subjects," lxxvi; urged for New York postmastership, lxxx; resumes seafaring life (1802), lxxx, lxxxi; last voyage to the Azores (1807), lxxxi; visits the castle of Blackbeard the pirate, iii. 229; last years, xcii; death, xcv; character and personality, xcviff.; poetry, xcviiiff., cvi, cixff.; mania for revision, lxvii, ii. 253; miserly care of his poems, viii, lxvii, ii. 313; services to the Revolution, cv. Fresneau, Andre, i. xiii Greenleaf, Thomas, i. lxxii Hammill, Mr., marries Freneau's daughter, i. lxxvi Hanson, Capt., i. xxvi Howe, General, placed in command at Boston, 1775, i. 152; Jeffrey, the critic, praises Freneau, i. vi Leadbeater, Edward, i. lxxvi. Ledyard, John, i. lxxiv. "Letters on Various Interesting Subjects," i. lxxvi Livingston, R. R., i. lxxii Longworth, publishes the 1815 edition, i. lxxxvii Madison, James, i. xvi, xviii, xxi, xlix, lxii, lxix, lxxxviiff. Martin, Luther, i. xxiii Menut, Alexander, i. lxxii, lxxv Mesnard, Capt. brig _Active_, i. xxxi "Modern Chivalry" by Brackenridge, i. xvi, xxiv "Monarchical and Mixed Forms of Government," i. lxvi Morin, Pierre, i. xiv; Motley, Capt. brig _Betsy_, i. xlvii Mount Pleasant, Freneau moves to, i. xv Murphy, refugee from _Scorpion_, i. xxxiii Nassau Hall, _see_ Princeton Navy, _see_ Ships Naval lyrics, "Stanzas on the New Frigate Alliance," i. cvii, 285; "On the Memorable Victory," i. cvii, ii. 76; "Song on Capt. Barney's Victory," i. cvii, ii. 149; "On the Memorable Naval Engagement," iii. 106; "On the Capture of the Guerriere," iii. 310; "On the Capture of the Essex," iii. 318; "The Battle of Stonington," iii. 338; "Battle of Lake Champlain," iii. 349; "On the Loss of the General Armstrong," iii. 363; _General Advertiser_, Phila., iii. 92; _Jersey Chronicle_, lxv, lxx, lxxi; iii. 3; _Monmouth Press_, i. xcv; _New York Mirror_, i. xcv; _North Carolina Gazette_, iii. 19; "Observations on Monarchy," i. lxvi Addressed to a Political Shrimp, iii. 127; Address to a Learned Pig, iii. 169; Address to the Republicans of America, iii. 154; Advice to the Ladies, iii. 402; Alcina's Enchanted Island, ii. 376; American Demosthenes, iii. 144; American Liberty, a Poem, i. xxiv, 142; American Soldier, iii. 51; Answer to a Card of Invitation, iii. 263; Apology for Intemperance, iii. 403; Ariosto's Description, ii. 376; Bacchanalian Dialogue, iii. 255; Banished Man, iii. 47; Barney's Invitation, i. cvii; ii. 147; Batavian Picture, iii. 12; Battle of Lake Champlain, iii. 349; Battle of Lake Erie, iii. 315; Battle of Stonington, iii. 338; Belief and Unbelief, iii. 405; Bergen Planter, iii. 45; Bird at Sea, iii. 22; Blast of November, iii. 406; Blessings of the Poppy, iii. 114; Bridge of the Delaware, iii. 403; British Prison Ship, i. xxxiii, cvii, ii. 18; Brook of the Valley, iii. 376. Captain Jones's Invitation, i. cvi, 290; Citizen's Resolve, i. 42; Columbus to Ferdinand, i. xxix, ci, 46; Congress Hall, iii. 26; Constantia, i. xlviii, iii. 38; Crispin's Answer, iii. 75; Crows and the Carrion, iii. 179. Debtor's Soliloquy, iii. 402; Description of Connecticut, iii. 8; Description of the Plague in Athens, iii. 404; Devastations in a Library, iii. 402; Dialogue at Washington's Tomb, iii. 352; Dish of Tea, iii. 71; Distrest Orator, iii. 401; Drunkard's Apology, iii. 403; Drunken Soldier, iii. 402; Elegiac Lines on a Theological Script-Monger, iii. 404; Elegaic Stanzas on a Young Gentleman, iii. 403; Elegaic Verses on a Dog, iii. 401; Elegy on the Death of a Blacksmith, iii. 112; Englishman's Complaint, ii. 305; Epistle from Dr. Franklin, iii. 36; Epistle to a Desponding Seamen, iii. 57; Epistle to a Gay Young Lady, iii. 403; Epistle to a Student of Dead Languages, iii. 121; Epistle to Peter Pindar, iii. 28; Epistle to Sylvius, i. xxxviii, ii. 295; Epitaph on a Worthy Parson, iii. 406; Epitaph on Frederick the Second, iii. 403; Epitaph on Peter Abelard, iii. 401; Epitaph on the Tombstone of Patrick Bay, iii. 401; Epistolary Lines on the Death of a Fiddler, iii. 402; Expedition of Timothy Taurus, i. xxvii, 123. Farmer Dobbins's Complaint, iii. 402; Farmer's Winter Evening, iii. 394; Federal Hall, iii. 26; Female Caprice, iii. 402; Female Frailty, i. lxviii. 197; Few Honest Coblers, iii. 402; Fiddler's Farewell, iii. 402; George the Third's Soliloquy, i. xxix, ii. 3; God Save the Rights of Man, i. liv, iii. 99; Heaving the Lead, iii. 406; Hermit and the Traveller, iii. 406; Heroine of the Revolution, iii. 182; Highland Sawney, iii. 402; History of the Prophet Jonah, i. xvi, 3; Humanity and Ingratitude, iii. 401; In Memory of James Lawrence, iii. 313; Indian Burying Ground, i. cxi, ii. 369; Indian Convert, iii. 189; Insolvent's Release, ii. 329; Jeffrey, or the Soldier's Progress, iii. 117; Journey from Philadelphia to New York, ii. 338; Lines Addressed to Mr. Jefferson, iii. 293; Lines by H. Salem, on his Return from Calcutta, iii. 57; Lines Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition, ii. 246; Lines Occasioned by Mr. Rivington's new Titular Types, ii. 124; Lines on a Distrest Orator, iii. 401; Lines on a February Shad, iii. 403; Lines on Cutting down Trees in the Streets, ii. 53; Lines on Mr. Rivington's New Engraved King's Arms, ii. 125; Lines on Napoleon Bonaparte, iii. 333; Lines on Seniora Julia, iii. 366; Lines on the New Theatre, iii. 406; Lines to the Memory of a Young American Lady, iii. 402; Lines Written at Sea, iii. 231; Lines Written at St. Catharine's Island, ii. 397; Lines Written for Mr. Ricketts, iii. 405; Lines Written in a French Novel, iii. 405; Lines Written in a very Small Garden, iii. 404; Lines Written on a Puncheon, iii. 66; Literary Plunderers, iii. 402; Lord Dunmore's Petition, ii. 114; Mars and Venus, iii. 403; Matrimonial Dialogue, iii. 104; Megara and Altavola, iii. 146; Mercantile Charity, iii. 403; Military Recruiting, iii. 308; Minstrel's Complaint, iii. 402; Misfortune of March, iii. 402; Modern Devotion, iii. 54; Modern Miracle, iii. 402; Monumental Lines, iii. 405; Monument of Phaon, i. lxviii, 30; Musical Savage, iii. 406. Nanny to Nabby, iii. 42; Nabby to Nanny, iii. 44; Nautical Rendezvous, The, iii. 242; Nereus and Thetis, iii. 404; Neversink, i. xlvii, lxxxvi, iii. 3; New England Sabbath-Day Chase, iii. 29; News-Carrier's Petition, ii. 240; New York Tory's Epistle, ii. 290; New York Tory's Epistle to one of His Friends, ii. 219; Northern March, iii. 329; Nova Scotia Menace, iii. 403. Ode to Fancy, i. lviii, 34; Ode to Good Fortune, iii. 405; Ode to Liberty, i. liii, iii. 92; Ode to the Americans, iii. 203; Old Virginia, iii. 17; On a Celebrated Performer on the Violin, iii. 192; On a Honey Bee, iii. 284; On a Lady Now Deceased, iii. 405; On a Lady's Singing Bird, i. 283; On a Legislative Act, iii. 126; On Amanda's Singing Bird, i. 283; On a Man Killed by a Buffalo, iii. 404; On American Antiquity, iii. 5; On a Nocturnal View of the Planet Jupiter, iii. 404; On a Proposed Negotiation, iii. 226; On Arriving in South Carolina, iii. 199; On a Rural Nymph, iii. 268; On a Travelling Speculator, iii. 404; On Deborah Gannett, iii. 182; On Dr. Sangrado's Flight, iii. 111; On False Systems of Government, iii. 221; On Finding a Terrapin, iii. 406; On General Miranda's Expedition, iii. 271; On General Robertson's Proclamation, ii. 162; On Hearing a Political Oration, iii. 144; On Passing by an Old Churchyard, iii. 277; On Political Sermons, iii. 330; On Prohibiting the Sale of Ramsey's History, ii. 312; On Seeing a Beautiful Print, iii. 406; On Seniora Julia Leaving a Dance, iii. 265; On Sir Henry Clinton's Recall, ii. 153; On Superstition, iii. 405; On Swedenborg's Universal Theology, ii. 307; On the Abuse of Human Power, iii. 272; On the Approaching Dissolution, iii. 404; On the Anniversary of the Storming of the Bastile, i. liii, On the Attempted Launch of a Frigate, iii. 157; On the Brigantine Privateer Prince de Neufchatel, iii. 366; On the British Blockade, iii. 358; On the British Commercial Depredations, iii. 300; On the British Invasion, iii. 341; On the British King's Speech, ii. 217; On the Capture of the Essex, iii. 318; On the Capture of the Guerriere, iii. 310; On the City Encroachments on the River Hudson, iii. 173; On the Conflagrations at Washington, iii. 344; On the Death of a Masonic Grand Sachem, iii. 282; On the Death of a Master Builder, iii. 281; On the Death of a Republican Printer, iii. 101; On the Death of Capt. Nicholas Biddle, i. cvi, 288; On the Death of Catharine II., iii. 136; On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin, iii. 36; On the Death of General Ross, iii. 356; On the Demolition of an Old College, iii. 33; On the Demolition of Fort George, iii. 24; On the Demolition of the French Monarchy, i. liii, iii. 84; On the Departure of the Grand Sanhedrim, iii. 49; On the Departure of Peter Porcupine, iii. 240; On the Dismission of Bonaparte, iii. 334; On the English Devastations, iii. 343; On the Evils of Human Life, iii. 405; On the Fall of an Ancient Oak, iii. 285; On the Fourteenth of July, i. liii, iii. 72; On the Free Use of the Lancet, iii. 159; On the French Republicans, i. liii, iii. 88; On the Frigate Constitution, iii. 174; On the Invasion of Rome, iii. 135; On the Lake Expeditions, iii. 314; On the Launching of the Frigate Constitution, iii. 158; On the Launching of the Independence, iii. 374; On the Loss of the Armstrong, iii. 363; On the Memorable Naval Engagement, iii. 106; On the Memorable Victory, i. cvii, ii. 75; On the Naval Attack Near Baltimore, iii. 357; On the New American Frigate, Alliance, i. cvii, 285; On the New Year's Festival, ii. 198; On the Peak of Pico, iii. 254; On the Peak of Teneriffe, iii. 261; On the Proposed System of State Consolidation, iii. 225; On the Portraits of Louis and Antoinette, iii. 89; On the Powers of the Human Understanding, iii. 404; On the Prospect of War, iii. 296; On the Religion of Nature, iii. 405; On the Royal Coalition, iii. 129; On the Sleep of Plants, iii. 31; On the Symptoms of Hostilities, iii. 291; On the Uniformity and Perfection of Nature, iii. 405; On the Universality of the God of Nature, iii. 405; On the War Patrons, iii. 98; On the War Projected with the Republic of France, iii. 139; Orator of the Woods, iii. 41; Order of the Day, iii. 406; Origin of Wars, iii. 403; Palaemon: or, the Skaiter, iii. 402; Parade and Sham-fight, iii. 368; Parody on the Attempt to Force the British Treaty, iii. 133; Parting Glass, iii. 68; Pictures of Columbus, i. lxviii, ci, 89; Political Rival Suitors, iii. 130; Political Weathercock, iii. 216; Prefatory Lines, iii. 137; Preposterous Nuptials, iii. 403; Prince Regent's Resolve, iii. 336; Prince William Henry's Soliloquy, ii. 167; Prudent Philosopher, iii. 403; Psalm CXXXVII Imitated, i. xxix, 270; Publius to Pollia, iii. 405; Pyramid of the American States, iii. 82; Quintilian to Lycidas, iii. 115. Reflections on Dr. Perkins' Metallic Points, iii. 405; Reflections on the Constitution of Nature, iii. 404; Reflections on the Death of a Country Printer, iii. 101; Reflections on Mutability of Things, iii. 215; Republican Festival, iii. 151; Republican Genius of Europe, iii. 129; Retaliation, a Marine Ode, iii. 373; Reward of Innocence, iii. 405; Rising Glory of America, i. xxi, ciii, 49; Rival Suitors for America, iii. 130; Rivington's Confessions, i. xl, ii. 229; Rivington's Last Will, ii. 120; Rivington's Reflections, ii. 190; Royal Apprentice, iii. 405; Royal Cockneys in America, iii. 185; Royal Consultations, iii. 361; Rural Bachelor, iii. 403. St. Preux to Eloisa, iii. 402; Sangrado's Expedition to Sylvania, ii. 402; Satan's Remonstrance, ii. 169; Science Favorable to Virtue, iii. 404; Scurrilous Scribe, iii. 405; Serious Menace, iii. 213; Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-one, iii. 65; Shadrach and Pomposo, iii. 403; Sir Guy Carleton's Address, ii. 156; Sir Harry's Invitation, ii. 7; Sir Peter Petrified, iii. 354; Slender's Journey, i. xliii, lxxxvi, ii. 338; Song on Captain Barney's Victory, i. cvii, ii. 149; Stanzas Occasioned by Absurd Panegyrics, iii. 235; Stanzas on a Political Projector, iii. 406; Stanzas on an old English Tobacco Box, iii. 278; Stanzas on the Decease of Thomas Paine, iii. 286; Stanzas on the same Subject as the Preceding, iii. 234; Stanzas on Skeletons Dug up in Fort George, iii. 40; Stanzas to an Alien, iii. 228; Stanzas to the Memory of General Washington, iii. 232; Stanzas written at the Foot of Monte Souffiere, ii. 314; Stanzas written at the Island of Madeira, iii. 257; Stanzas Written in a Clergyman's Garden, iii. 404; Stanzas Written in a Blank Leaf of Burke's History, ii. 314; Stanzas Written in Blackbeard's Castle, iii. 229; Suttler and the Soldier, iii. 304. Terra Vulpina, iii. 8; Terrific Torpedoes, iii. 321; Tenth Ode of Horace's Book of Epodes, ii. 103; Thoughts on the European War System, iii. 103; Timothy Taurus, i. xxv; To a Democratic Editor, iii. 166; To a Deceased Dog, iii. 401; To an Angry Zealot, iii. 81; To a Night Fly, iii. 189; To a Noisy Politician, iii. 122; To a Persecuted Philosopher, iii. 81; To a Republican, iii. 90; To a Very Little Man, iii. 403; To a Writer of Panegyric, iii. 119; To Duncan Dolittle, iii. 164; Tomb of the Patriots, iii. 249; To My Lord Snake, iii. 401; To Peter Porcupine, iii. 156; To Peter Porcupine, iii. 167; Tormentina's Complaint, ii. 393; To Sanstone Samuel, iii. 176; To Sylock Ap Shenkin in Reply to Big Looks, iii. 109; To the Americans of the United States, i. lxx, iii. 188; To the Democratic Country Editors, iii. 210; To the Dog Sancho, iii. 404; To the Frigate _Constitution_, iii. 162; To the Grand Mufti, iii. 402; To the Keeper of the King's Water Works, ii. 252; To the Lake Squadrons, iii. 347; To the Memory of a Lady, iii. 403; To the Memory of Edward Rutledge, iii. 238; To the Memory of Mrs. Burnet, iii. 403; To the Memory of the Late Aedanus Burke, iii. 243; To the Philadelphia Doctors, iii. 178; To the Public, iii. 56; To the Rev. Samuel Stanhope Smith, iii. 244; To the Scribe of Scribes, iii. 187; Translated from the Third Book of Lucretius, iii. 406; Translation from Ovid's Tristia, iii. 404; Translation of Gray's Ode, iii. 405; Translation of the Third Elegy of Ovid, iii. 404; Under the Portraiture of Martha Ray, iii. 403; Upon a very ancient Dutch House, iii. 399; Verses occasioned by Washington's Arrival, ii. 225; View of Rhode Island, iii. 7; Voyage to Boston, i. xxv, 158. Warning to America, iii. 70; Wild Honey Suckle, i. cix, ii. 306; Written at Poplar Hill, iii. 406; Powers and Willis, printers, i. xxxvi Prophecies, Freneau's; America a world-power, ii. 282; Europe owns America her equal, ii. 386; science displaces the classics, iii. 121; Randolph, John, i. li, lxiv Ray, Hugh, i. xxxii Rittenhouse, David, i. xlii, lix Robin, Abbe Claude, i. xxxvi, lxxiii Saint Esprit, Church, New York, i. xiii St. James Island, i. xxvii "Satires against the Tories," i. xvii _Charming Sally_, Br. privateer, ii. 150; _Columbia_, Freneau's schooner, i. xliii, xlvii, xlviii; _Countess of Scarborough_, Br. man of war, ii. 75; _Empress of China_, Am. merchant ship, ii. 261; _Fulton the First_, Am. steam frigate, iii. 360; _General Armstrong_, Am. privateer brig, iii. 363; _Good Man Richard_, Am. frigate, ii. 77; _Glorieuse_, French man of war, ii. 145; _Hancock_, former name of the _Iris_, ii. 22; _Hunter_ (see Prison Ships); _Industry_, Freneau's sloop, i. xliii, lxxxi, ii. 388; _Jersey_ (see Prison Ships); _John_, Freneau's schooner, i. lxxx; _Prince de Neufchatel_, Am. privateer, iii. 366; _Queen Charlotte_, Br. ship of war, iii. 316; _Queen of France_, Fr. ship, iii. 89; _Washington_, former name of the _Gen. Monk_, ii. 142; _Washington_, Freneau's brig, i. lxxxi, lxxxvii; Slender, Robert, i. xliii, lxxvi Smyth, Mrs. Charles (Anna), i. lxxxix Somerset Academy, Md., i. xxii Steele, Gen., Collector of the port of Philadelphia, i. lxxxviii Stillwell, Joseph, i. xliv Tomo Cheeki Papers, i. lxvi, lxxiv Verplanck, G. C., reviews Freneau's poems, i. xci Vreeland, Mrs. Helen K., i. lxxx Washington Academy, Md., i. xxiii Watson, Agnes, i. xiv; Yamacraw, Ga., i. xlvi

Helen Sherman Griffith

Letty and the Twins

1873

_Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. per volume._ JEUX D'ESPRIT. Collected and Edited by HENRY S. LEIGH. Illustrated by J. G. THOMSON. _Other Volumes are in preparation._ "Sing, O celestial goddess, Eurymedon, foremost of gluttons, "'Sing, heavenly muse! Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,' A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. Happy the man, who, void of care and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's _Magpie_, or _Town-hall_ repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfixed his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe or Phillis, he each circling glass Wishes her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, Wretched repast! my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black As winter chimney, or well-polished jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Avonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flows nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow With looks demur, and silent pace, a dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends: With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate; With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear: a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes (ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called A catchpoll, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont), To some enchanted castle is conveyed, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets him free. Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable; nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue: The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make: with eager strides She towering flies to her expected spoils: Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags."... "'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks, Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can. Now the full benches to late-comers doom No room for standing, miscalled _standing-room_. Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling 'Pit full!' gives the check he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. See to their desks Apollo's sons repair-- Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hushed; but no, one fiddle will Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foiled in his crash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man: Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry 'Hats off!' And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above; Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl, Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who's that calls 'Silence!' with such leathern lungs! He who, in quest of quiet, 'Silence!' hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. What various swains our motley walls contain!-- Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery-cormorant, the auction shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds--we wish they'd mind their talk; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live-- Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten woe. Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes; Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter--a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's head; He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin's name--a red-haired youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat; Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurned the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullens whispered, 'Take my handkerchief.' 'Thank you,' cries Pat; 'but one won't make a line.' 'Take mine,' cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, 'Take mine.' A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow down darts the painted clue, Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band-- Upsoars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned, Regained the felt, and felt what he regained; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat!" From the same work is taken this parody on a beautiful passage in "Midnight, yet not a nose From Tower Hill to Piccadilly snored! Midnight, yet not a nose From Indra drew the essence of repose. See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury! The tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord's tread; Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord, Nailor and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Through streets and alleys poured, All, all abroad to gaze, And wonder at the blaze. Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, Mounted on roof and chimney; The mighty roast, the mighty stew To see, As if the dismal view Were but to them a mighty jubilee." "For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? And what is Brutus but a croaking owl? And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch, Orlando's helmet in Augustin's cowl. Shakespeare, how true thine adage, 'fair is foul!' To him whose soul is with fruition fraught, The song of Braham is an Irish howl, Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is everything, and everything is nought." Moore, also, was imitated in the same way, as in these verses: "The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge By women were plucked, and she still wears the prize, To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college-- I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes. There, too, is the lash which, all statutes controlling, Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair; For man is the pupil who, while her eye's rolling, Is lifted to rapture or sunk in despair." "As Chaos which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise, When light first flashed upon her eyes: So London's sons in nightcap woke, In bedgown woke her dames, For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke, 'The playhouse is in flames.' And lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends To every window pane: Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Covent Garden kennels sport A bright ensanguined drain; Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height Where patent shot they sell: The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, The ticket porters' house of call, Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson's hotel. Nor these alone, but far and wide, Across the Thames's gleaming tide, To distant fields the blaze was borne; And daisy white and hoary thorn, In borrowed lustre seemed to sham The rose or red Sweet Wil-li-am. To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise; It seemed that nations did conspire, To offer to the god of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! The summoned firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all. Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his ponderous hobnailed shoes; But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick of red or blue, Whose massy shoulders gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced. The engines thundered through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared and clattering feet Along the pavement paced. E'en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed; Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo 'Heads below!' Nor notice give at all: The firemen, terrified, are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof should fall. Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! Whitford, keep near the walls! Huggins, regard your own behoof, For, lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down in thunder falls! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Concealed them from the astonished crowd. At length the mist awhile was cleared, When lo! amid the wreck upreared Gradual a moving head appeared, And Eagle firemen knew 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, 'A Muggins to the rescue, ho!' And poured the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He tottered, sunk, and died! Did none attempt, before he fell, To succour one they loved so well? Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman's soul was all on fire) His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury stench and boiling drench Destroying sight, o'erwhelmed him quite; He sunk to rise no more. Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; 'Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps; You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps; Why are you in such doleful dumps? A fireman, and afraid of bumps! What are they feared on? fools,--'od rot 'em!' Were the last words of Higginbottom!"... (For the door of the cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg, the Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her execution). "For one long term, or e'er her trial came, Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, St. Giles, its fair varieties expand, Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? She whipped two female prentices to death, And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog The little Spartans; such as erst chastised Our Milton, when at college. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed." "Not a laugh was heard, nor a joyous note, As our friend to the bridal we hurried; Not a wit discharged his farewell joke, As the bachelor went to be married. We married him quickly to save his fright, Our heads from the sad sight turning; And we sighed as we stood by the lamp's dim light, To think him not more discerning. To think that a bachelor free and bright, And shy of the sex as we found him, Should there at the altar, at dead of night, Be caught in the snares that bound him. Few and short were the words we said, Though of cake and wine partaking; We escorted him home from the scene of dread, While his knees were awfully shaking. Slowly and sadly we marched adown From the top to the lowermost story; And we have never heard from nor seen the poor man Whom we left alone in his glory." Mr. Barham has also left us a parody on the same lines: "Not a sou had he got,--not a guinea, or note, And he looked most confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the landlady after him hurried. We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the club returning; We twigged the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning. All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him, And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his Marshall cloak around him. 'The Doctor is as drunk as the d--l,' we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow, We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head Would confoundedly ache on the morrow. We bore him home and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and daughter To give him next morning a couple of red Herrings with soda-water. Loudly they talked of his money that's gone, And his lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane, just as we laid him. We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done, When beneath the window calling We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman 'one o'clock' bawling. Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room on the uppermost story, A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory." "We met--'twas in a mob--and I thought he had done me-- I felt--I could not feel--for no watch was upon me; He ran--the night was cold--and his pace was unaltered, I too longed much to pelt--but my small-boned legs faltered. I wore my brand new boots--and unrivalled their brightness, They fit me to a hair--how I hated their tightness! I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether, Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! And once again we met--and an old pal was near him, He swore, a something low--but 'twas no use to fear him, I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, And stept, as he deserved--to cells wretched and lonely: And there he will be tried--but I shall ne'er receive her, The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver; The world may think me gay--heart and feet ache together, Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!" Here is another upon an old favourite song: "He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet, His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone-- I saw him but at half-price, but methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow. A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore; His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again. I saw it but a moment--and I wish I saw it now-- As he buttoned up his pocket, with a condescending bow. And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair: He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He cannot liquidate his 'chalk,' or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow." "When lovely woman, lump of folly, Would show the world her vainest trait,-- Would treat herself as child her dolly, And warn each man of sense away,-- The surest method she'll discover To prompt a wink in every eye, Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover, And spoil a scalp-skin, is--to dye!" 'Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron saint, I swear, I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!'" "I marvelled why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as death. Adopting a parental tone, I asked her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, 'I've got a pain inside. I thought it would have sent me mad, Last night about eleven.' Said I, 'What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?' She answered, 'Only seven!' 'And are you sure you took no more, My little maid,' quoth I. 'Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie.' 'If that's the case,' I stammered out, 'Of course you've had eleven.' The maiden answered with a pout, 'I ain't had more nor seven!' I wondered hugely what she meant, And said, 'I'm bad at riddles, But I know where little girls are sent For telling tarradiddles. Now if you don't reform,' said I, 'You'll never go to heaven!' But all in vain; each time I try, 'I ain't had more nor seven!' To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song, 'Lines from Ache-inside.'" "If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet, Then who would care to borrow A moral from to-morrow? If Thames would always glitter, And joy would ne'er retreat, If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet. If care were not the waiter, Behind a fellow's chair, When easy-going sinners Sit down to Richmond dinners, And life's swift stream goes straighter-- By Jove, it would be rare, If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow's chair. If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced, And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway: Then down the year's long gradient 'Twere sad to be enticed, If wit were always radiant; And wine were always iced." "Oh, cool in the summer is salad, And warm in the winter is love; And a poet shall sing you a ballad Delicious thereon and thereof. A singer am I, if no sinner, My muse has a marvellous wing, And I willingly worship at dinner The sirens of spring. Take endive--like love it is bitter, Take beet--for like love it is red; Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter And cress from the rivulet's bed; Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady Whose beauty has maddened this bard; And olives, from groves that are shady, And eggs--boil 'em hard." "Oh, vestment of velvet and virtue, Oh, venomous victors of vice, Who hurt men who never hurt you, Oh, calm, cold, crueller than ice. Why wilfully wage you this war, is All pity purged out of your breast? Oh, purse-prigging procuratores, Oh, pitiless pest! We had smote and made redder than roses, With juice not of fruit nor of bud, The truculent townspeople's noses, And bathed brutal butchers in blood; And we all aglow in our glories, Heard you not in the deafening din; And ye came, oh ye procuratores, And ran us all in!" In the same book a certain school of poets has been hit at in the "Mingled, aye, with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe. Ay! for ever and for ever, While the love-lorn censers sweep; While the jasper winds dissever, Amber-like, the crystal deep; Shall the soul's delicious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Reach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss." "In the lonesome latter years, (Fatal years!) To the dropping of my tears Danced the mad and mystic spheres In a rounded, reeling rune, 'Neath the moon, To the dripping and the dropping of my tears. Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom, In a dim Titanic tomb, For my gaunt and gloomy soul Ponders o'er the penal scroll, O'er the parchment (not a rhyme), Out of place,--out of time,-- I am shredded, shorn, unshifty, And the days have passed, the three, And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me! 'Twas the random runes I wrote At the bottom of the note (Wrote and freely In the middle of the night, In the mellow, moonless night, When the stars were out of sight, When my pulses like a knell, Danced with dim and dying fays O'er the ruins of my days, O'er the dimeless, timeless days, When the fifty, drawn at thirty, Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise! Fiends controlled it, (Let him hold it!) Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen; Now the days of grace are o'er, I am but as other men: What is time, time, time, To my rare and runic rhyme, To my random, reeling rhyme, By the sands along the shore, Bret Harte also has given a good imitation of Poe's style in "The "But Mary, uplifting her finger, Said, 'Sadly this bar I mistrust,-- I fear that this bar does not trust. Oh, hasten--oh, let us not linger-- Oh, fly--let us fly--ere we must!' In terror she cried, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- In agony sobbed, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, And tempted her into the room, And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the warning of doom,-- By some words that were warning of doom. And I said, 'What is written, sweet sister, At the opposite end of the room?' She sobbed as she answered, 'All liquors Must be paid for ere leaving the room.'" "I loiter down by thorp and town; For any job I'm willing; Take here and there a dusty brown And here and there a shilling. Thus on he prattled, like a babbling brook, Then I; 'The sun has slept behind the hill, And my Aunt Vivian dines at half-past six.' So in all love we parted: I to the Hall, They to the village. It was noised next noon That chickens had been missed at Syllabub Farm." "Home they brought her sailor son, Grown a man across the sea, Tall and broad and black of beard, And hoarse of voice as man may be. Hand to shake and mouth to kiss, Both he offered ere he spoke; But she said, 'What man is this Comes to play a sorry joke?' Then they praised him--call'd him 'smart,' 'Tightest lad that ever stept;' But her son she did not know, And she neither smiled nor wept. Rose, a nurse of ninety years, Set a pigeon-pie in sight; She knew him--by his appetite!" "You may lay me in my bed, mother--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee let the sheets be duly aired before; And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild!" "It was a railway passenger, And he leapt out jauntilie. 'Now up and bear, thou proud porter, My two chattels to me. 'And fetch me eke a cabman bold, That I may be his fare, his fare: And he shall have a good shilling, If by two of the clock he do me bring To the terminus, Euston Square.' 'Now,--so to thee the Saints alway, Good gentlemen, give luck,-- As never a cab may I find this day, For the cabmen wights have struck: And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn, Or else at the Dog and Duck, The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin Right pleasantlie they do suck.'"... "I have a horse--a ryghte good horse-- Ne doe I envie those Who scoure ye plaine in headie course, Tyll soddaine on theyre nose They lyghte wyth unexpected force-- It ys--a horse of clothes. I have a saddel--'Say'st thou soe? Wyth styrruppes, knyghte, to boote?' I sayde not that--I answere 'Noe'-- Yt lacketh such, I woot-- Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe! Parte of ye fleecie brute. I have a bytte--a right good bytte-- As schall be seen in time. Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte-- Yts use ys more sublyme. Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt? Yt ys--thys bytte of rhyme." "'Will you walk a little faster?' said a whiting to a snail, 'You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us with the lobsters out to sea!' 'What matters it how far we go?' his scaly friend replied; 'There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The farther off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance? "'You are old, Father William,' the young man said, 'And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?' 'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, 'I feared it might injure the brain; But now I am perfectly sure I have none-- Why, I do it again and again!' 'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how do you manage to do it?' 'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw Has lasted the rest of my life.'" "Feathers a-flying all--bonnets untying all-- Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all, Balmorals dancing and glancing entrancing all,-- Feats of activity-- Nymphs on declivity-- Sweethearts in ecstasies-- Mothers in vextasies-- Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on, True lovers puffing and blowing and springing on, Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on, Teasing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on, Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on, Flurrying and worrying and hurrying and skurrying on, Tottering and staggering and lumbering and slithering on, Any fine afternoon That's just how the Daughters Come down at Dunoon!" "Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck's My most exciting hopes are dashed; I never wore my spotless ducks But madly--wildly--they were splashed! I never roved by Cynthia's beam, To gaze upon the starry sky; But some old stiff-backed beetle came, And charged into my pensive eye: And oh! I never did the swell In Regent Street, amongst the beaus, But smuts the most prodigious fell, And always settled on my nose!" "I never reared a young gazelle (Because, you see, I never tried), But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My sick and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on-- I would he were a young gazelle." "To sniggle or to dibble, that's the question! Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble, Or to take up arms of any sea, some trouble To fish, and then home send 'em. To fly--to whip-- To moor and tie my boat up by the end To any wooden post, or natural rock We may be near to, on a Preservation Devoutly to be fished. To fly--to whip-- To whip! perchance two bream;--and there's the chub!" "To Urn, or not to Urn? That is the question: Whether 'tis better in our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire against a sea of zealots, And, by consuming, end them? To Urn--to keep-- No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion, and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to--'tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn--to keep-- To keep! Perchance to lose--ay, there's the rub! For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use; For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman's prize--a proud man's obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle, and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death-- That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns--weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of?" "Above your mantel, in the new screen's shade, Where smokes the coal in one dull, smouldering heap, Each in his patent urn for ever laid, The baked residue of our fathers sleep. The wheezy call of muffins in the morn, The milkman tottering from his rushy sled, The help's shrill clarion, or the fishman's horn, No more shall rouse them from their lofty bed. For them no more the blazing fire-grate burns, Or busy housewife fries her savoury soles, Though children run to clasp their sires' red urns, And roll them in a family game of bowls. Perhaps in this deserted pot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the rod paternal may have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living liar." "What is the black man saying, Brother, the whole day long? Methinks I hear him praying Ever the self-same song-- _Sa'b meri bakshish do_! Brother, they are not praying, They are not doing so; The only thing they're saying Is _sa'b meri bakshish do_. (Gi'e me a 'alfpenny do.)" "Now farewell my trim-built Argo, Greece and Fleece and all, farewell, Never more as supercargo Shall poor Jason cut a swell." And here is the opening verse of another song by the same author: "When other lips and other eyes Their tales of love shall tell, Which means the usual sort of lies You've heard from many a swell; When, bored with what you feel is bosh, You'd give the world to see A friend whose love you know will wash, Oh, then, remember me!" "Beautiful soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a big tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop! Soup of the evening, beautiful soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!" "The melancholy days have come, The saddest of the year; Too warm, alas! for whiskey punch, Too cold for lager beer." And this, in reference to the Centennial Exhibition: "Breathes there a Yank, so mean, so small, Who never says, 'Wall, now, by Gaul, I reckon since old Adam's fall There's never growed on this 'ere ball A nation so all-fired tall As we centennial Yankees." "Chill August's storms were piping loud, When through a gaping London crowd, There passed a youth, who still was heard To mutter the perplexing word, 'That Thirty-four!' His eyes were wild; his brow above Was crumpled like an old kid-glove; And like some hoarse crow's grating note That word still quivered in his throat, 'That Thirty-four!' 'Oh, give it up!' his comrades said; 'It only muddles your poor head; It is not worth your finding out.' He answered with a wailing shout, 'That Thirty-four!' 'Art not content,' the maiden said, 'To solve the "Fifteen"-one instead?' He paused--his tearful eyes he dried-- Gulped down a sob, then sadly sighed, 'That Thirty-four!' At midnight, on their high resort, The cats were startled at their sport To hear, beneath one roof, a tone Gasp out, betwixt a snore and groan, "Falloit-il que le ciel me rendit amoreux, Amoreux, jouissant d'une beaute craintive, Craintive a recevoir la douceur excessive, Excessive au plaisir que rend l'amant heureux? Heureux si nous avions quelques paisibles lieux, Lieux ou plus surement l'ami fidele arrive, Arrive sans soupcon de quelque ami attentive, Attentive a vouloir nous surprendre tous deux." "Wing the course of time with music, Music of the grand old days-- Days when hearts were brave and noble, Noble in their simple ways. Ways, however rough, yet earnest, Earnest to promote the truth-- Truth that teaches us a lesson, Lesson worthy age and youth. Youth and age alike may listen-- Listen, meditate, improve-- Improve in happiness and glory, Glory that shall Heavenward move. Move, as music moves, in pathos, Pathos sweet, and power sublime, Sublime to raise the spirit drooping, Drooping with the toils of time. Time reveals, amid its grandeur, Grandeur purer, prouder still-- Still revealing dreams of beauty, Beauty that inspires the will-- Will a constant sighing sorrow, Sorrow full of tears restore, Restore but for a moment, pleasure? Pleasure dead can live no more. No more, then, languish for the buried, Buried calmly let it be. Be the star of promise Heaven, Heaven has sweeter joys for thee. For thee perchance, though dark the seeming, Seeming dark, may yet prove bright, Bright through mortal cares, shall softly, Softly dissipate the night. Night shall not endure for ever,-- Ever! no, the laws of Earth, Earth inconstant, shall forbid it-- Bid it change from gloom to mirth. Mirth and grief, are light and shadow-- Shadows light to us are dear. Dear the scene becomes by contrast-- Contrast there, in beauty here. Here, through sun and tempest many, Many shall thy being pass-- Pass without a sigh of sorrow, Sorrow wins not by alas! Alas! we pardon in a maiden, Maiden when her heart is young, Young and timid, but in manhood, Manhood should be sterner strung, Strung as though his nerves were iron, Iron tempered well to bend-- Bend, mayhap, but yielding never, Never, when despair would rend-- Rend the pillars from the temple, Temple in the human breast, Breast that lonely grief has chosen, Chosen for her place of rest-- Rest unto thy spirit, only, Only torment will she bring. Bring, oh man! the lyre of gladness, Gladness frights the harpy's wing!" The following two pieces are similar in style to some of our seventeenth-century poets: "The longer life, the more offence; The more offence, the greater pain; The greater pain, the less defence; The less defence, the greater gain-- Wherefore, come death, and let me die! The shorter life, less care I find, Less care I take, the sooner over; The sooner o'er, the merrier mind; The merrier mind, the better lover-- Wherefore, come death, and let me die! Come, gentle death, the ebb of care; The ebb of care, the flood of life; The flood of life, I'm sooner there; I'm sooner there--the end of strife-- The end of strife, that thing wish I-- Wherefore, come death, and let me die!" "Nerve thy soul with doctrines noble, Noble in the walks of time, Time that leads to an eternal An eternal life sublime; Life sublime in moral beauty, Beauty that shall ever be; Ever be to lure thee onward, Onward to the fountain free-- Free to every earnest seeker, Youth exultant in its beauty, Beauty of the living truth." "My spirit longs for Thee Within my troubled breast, Though I unworthy be Unworthy though I be, Yet has my heart no rest, Unless it come from Thee. Unless it come from Thee, In vain I look around; In all that I can see No rest is to be found. No rest is to be found. But in Thy blessed love; Oh, let my wish be crowned And send it from above." "God bless the King! I mean the Faith's defender; God bless--no harm in blessing--the Pretender! God bless us all--that's quite another thing!" "Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. The bore's heed in hande bring I, With garlands gay and rosemary, I pray you all synge merelye Qui estis in convivio. The bore's heed I understande Is the thefte service in this lande, Take wherever it be fande, Servite cum cantico. Be gladde lordes both more and lasse, For this hath ordeyned our stewarde, To cheere you all this Christmasse, Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino." Another version of the last verse is: "Our steward hath provided this In honour of the King of Bliss: Which on this clay to be served is, Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino." "Of suche vagabundus Speaking totus mundus, How some syng let abundus, At euerye ale stake With welcome hake and make, By the bread that God brake, I am sory for your sake. I speake not of the god wife But of their apostles lyfe, Cum ipsis vel illis Qui manent in villis Est uxor vel ancilla, My prety Petronylla, An you wil be stilla You shall haue your willa, Of such pater noster pekes All the world speakes," &c. "All you that stolne the miller's eeles, Laudate dominum de coelis, And all they that have consented thereto, Benedicamus domino." IGNORAMUS, clericis suis vocatis DULMAN & PECUS, amorem suum erga _Dul._ Hic, Magister Ignoramus, vous avez Dulman. _Igno._ Fac ventum, Pecus. Ita, sic, sic. Ubi est Fledwit? _Dul._ Non est inventus. venimus Octabis Hillarii, et nunc fere est Quindena Pasche. _Dul._ Juro, magister, titillasti punctum legis hodie. suspicious. _Dul._ Et nient obstant, si faict pol, &c., &c. Oh illud etiam in _Igno._ Ha, ha, he! Quid tu dicis, Musaee? _Mus._ Equidem ego parum intellexi. _Igno._ Tu es gallicrista, vocatus a coxcomb; nunquam faciam te _Dul._ Nunquam, nunquam; nam ille fuit Universitans. _Mus._ Ut plurimum versatus sum in Logica. _Igno._ Logica? Quae villa, quod burgum est Logica? _Mus._ Est una artium liberalium. _Mus._ Deditus etiam fui amori Philosophiae. _Igno._ Amori? Quid! Es pro bagaschiis et strumpetis? Si custodis iterum. _Mus._ Dii faxint. _Igno._ Quota est clocka nunc? _Dul._ Est inter octo et nina. IGNORAMUS _solus_. instrumentum. Hei, ho! ho, hei, ho! I love a lass, As cedar tall and slender; Sweet cowslip's grace Is her nominative case, And she's of the feminine gender. Rorum, corum, sunt di-vorum, Harum, scarum, divo; Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hatband, Hic, hoc, horum genitivo. Can I decline a nymph so divine? Her voice like a flute is dulcis; Her oculus bright, her manus white And soft, when I tacto her pulse is. O how bella, my puella I'll kiss in secula seculorum; If I've luck, sir, she's my uxor, O dies benedictorum." "Blest man, who far from busy hum, Ut prisca gens mortalium, Whistles his team afield with glee Solutus omni fenore; He lives in peace, from battles free, Neq' horret irratum mare; And shuns the forum, and the gay Potentiorum limina, Therefore to vines of purple gloss Atlas maritat populos. Or pruning off the boughs unfit Feliciores inserit; Or, in a distant vale at ease Prospectat errantes greges; Or honey into jars conveys Aut tondet infirmas oves. When his head decked with apples sweet Auctumnus agris extulit, At plucking pears he's quite _au fait_ Certant, et uvam purpurae. Some for Priapus, for thee some Sylvare, tutor finium! Beneath an oak 'tis sweet to be Mod' in tenaci gramine: The streamlet winds in flowing maze Queruntur in silvis aves; The fount in dulcet murmur plays Somnos quod invitet leves. But when winter comes, (and that Imbres nivesque comparat,) With dogs he forces oft to pass Apros in obstantes plagas; Or spreads his nets so thick and close Turdis edacibus dolos; Or hares, or cranes, from far away Jucunda captat praemia: The wooer, love's unhappy stir, Haec inter obliviscitur, His wife can manage without loss Domum et parvos liberos; Pernicis uxor Appali,) Who piles the sacred hearthstone high Lassi sub adventum viri, And from his ewes, penned lest they stray, Distenta siccet ubera; And this year's wine disposed to get Dapes inemtas apparet. Oysters to me no joys supply, Magisve rhombus, aut scari, (If when the east winds boisterous be Hiems ad hoc vertat mare;) Your Turkey pout is not to us, Non attagen Ionicus, So sweet as what we pick at home Oliva ramis arborum! Or sorrel, which the meads supply, Malvae salubres corpori-- Or lamb, slain at a festal show Vel haedus ereptus lupo. Videre prop'rantes domum, Or oxen with the ploughshare go, Collo trahentes languido; And all the slaves stretched out at ease, Circum renidentes Lares! Alphius the usurer, babbled thus, Jam jam futurus rusticus, Called in his cast on th' Ides--but he Quaerit Kalendis ponere!" "What Horace says is Eheu fugaces Anni labuntur, Postume! Postume! Years glide away and are lost to me--lost to me! Now when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Sighing, I murmured, 'O mihi pretaeritos!'" The following bright _carmen Macaronicum_ appeared in an American "Vivit a rex in Persia land, A potens rex was he; Suum imperium did extend O'er terra and o'er sea. Rex Midas habuit multum gold, Tamen he wanted plus; 'Non satis est,' his constant cry-- Ergo introit fuss. Silenus was inebrius,-- Id est, was slightly tight, As he went vagus through the urbs, It was a tristis sight. Rex Midas equitavit past On suum dromedary, Vidit Silenus on his spree, Sic laetus et sic merry. His costume was a wreath of leaves, And those were multum battered; Urchins had stoned him, and the ground Cum lachrymis was scattered. Rex Midas picked hunc senem up, And put him on his pony, Et bore him ad castellum grand Quod cost him multum money. Dedit Silenum mollem care: Cum Bacchus found his ubi Promisit Midas quod he asked. Rex Midas fuit--booby. For aurum was his gaudium, Rogavit he the favour Ut quid he touched might turn to gold; Ab this he'd nunquam never. Carpsit arose to try the charm, Et in eodem minute It mutat into flavum gold, Ridet as spectat in it. His filia rushed to meet her sire, He osculavit kindly; She lente stiffened into gold-- Vidit he'd acted blindly. Spectavit on her golden form, And in his brachia caught her: 'Heu me! sed tamen breakfast waits, My daughter, oh! my daughter!' Venit ad suum dining-hall, Et coffeam gustavit, Liquatum gold his fauces burned,-- Loud he vociferavit: 'Triste erat amittere My solam filiam true, Pejus to lose my pabulam. Big lachrymae bedewed his cheeks-- 'O potens Bacchus lazy, Prende ab me the power you gave, Futurum, ut I'll praise thee.' Benignus Bacchus audiens groans, Misertus est our hero; Dixit ut the Pactolian waves Ab hoc would cleanse him--vero. Infelix rex was felix then, Et cum hilarious grin, Ruit unto the river's bank, Et fortis plunged in. The nefas power was washed away; Sed even at this hour Pactolus' sands are tinged with gold, Testes of Bacchus' power. A tristis sed a sapiens vir Rex Midas fuit then; Et gratus to good Bacchus said, 'Non feram sic again.' Haec fable docet, plain to see, Quamquam the notion's old, Hoc verum est, ut girls and grub Much melior sunt than gold." "Patres conscripti--took a boat and went to Philippi. Trumpeter unus erat qui coatum scarlet habebat, Stormum surgebat, et boatum overset--ebat, Omnes drownerunt, quia swimaway non potuerunt, Excipe John Periwig tied up to the tail of a dead pig." "The best tree, if ye take intent, Inter ligna fructifera, Is the vine tree by good argument, Dulcia ferens pondera. Saint Luke saith in his Gospel, Arbor fructu noscitur, The vine beareth wine as I you tell, Hinc aliis praeponitur. The first that planted the vineyard Manet in coelio gaudio, His name was Noe, as I am learned Genesis testimonio. God gave unto him knowledge and wit, A quo procedunt omnia, First of the grape wine for to get Propter magna mysteria. The first miracle that Jesus did, Erat in vino rubeo, In Cana of Galilee it betide He changed water into wine And bade give it to Archetcline, Ut gustet tunc primarie. Like as the rose exceedeth all flowers, Inter cuncta florigera, So doth wine all other liquors, Dans multa salutifera. David, the prophet, saith that wine Laetificat cor hominis, It maketh men merry if it be fine, Est ergo digni nominis. It nourisheth age if it be good, Facit ut esset juvenis, It gendereth in us gentle blood, Nam venas purgat sanguinis. By all these causes, ye should think Quae sunt rationabiles, That good wine should be the best of drink, Inter potus potabiles. Wine drinkers all, with great honour, Semper laudate Dominum, The which sendeth the good liquor Propter salutem hominum. Plenty to all that love good wine Donet Deus larguis, And bring them some when they go hence, Ubi non sitient amplius." "Sed tempus necessit, and this was all over, Cum illi successit another gay rover, Nam cum navigaret, in his own cutter Portentum apparet, which made them all flutter. Est horridus anguis which they behold; Haud dubio sanguis within them ran cold; Trigenta pedes his head was upraised Et corporis sedes in secret was placed. Sic serpens manebat, so says the same joker, Et sese ferebat as stiff as a poker; Tergum fricabat against the old lighthouse; Et sese liberabat of scaly detritus. Tunc plumbo percussit, thinking he hath him, At serpens exsiluit full thirty fathom; Exsiluit mare with pain and affright, Conatus abnare as fast as he might. Neque illi secuti--no, nothing so rash, Terrore sunt multi, he'd make such a splash, Sed nunc adierunt, the place to inspect, Et squamus viderunt, the which they collect. Quicunque non credat aut doubtfully rails Ad locum accedat, they'll show him the scales, Quas, sola trophaea, they brought to the shore,-- Et causa est ea they couldn't get more." "Arma virumque cano, qui first in Monongahela Tarnally squampushed the sarpent, mittens horrentia tella, Musa, look sharp with your banjo! I guess to relate this event, I A monstrum horrendum informe (qui lumen was shortly ademptum), Is the real old sea-sarpent himself, cristis maculisque decorus.' He'll certainly chaw up hos morsu, et longis, implexibus illos.' 'O socii,' inquit. 'I'm sartin you're not the fellers to funk, or Get your eyes skinned in a twinkling, et ponite tela phaesello!' Talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus aeger, (Blackskin, you know, never feels how sweet 'tis pro patri mori; Ovid had him in view when he said 'Nimium ne crede colori.') Glares at them with terrible eyes, suffectis sanguine et igni, Praesentemque viris intentant omnia mortem. But the bold skipper exclaims, 'O terque quaterque beati! Now with a will dare viam, when I want you, be only parati; "Haec fabulam's one of those stories, Which the Italians say, 'ought to be true,' Sed which modern wiseacres have scattered St. George eques errans erat Qui vibrat a seven-foot sword, Und er wuerde eher be all up a tree, Than be caught a-breaking his word. Assuetus au matin to ride out Pour chercher quelquechose for to lick, Cap a pie en harness--and to see him Whack a rusticus pauvre was chic. Perequitat thousands of peasants, Et mantled in armour complete-- Caedat the whole huddle confestim Et could make them ausgespielt. Si ce n'est que, sans doute, they were willing, To get up and solemnly swear That the very last Fraulein he'd seen was La plus belle dans tout la terre. Ein Morgen he saw a le trottoir Puella formosissima tres Implicans amplexus Draconae, So she couldn't get out of his way. The dragon--donc voila le tableau! Had eyes sanguine suffectis Alae comme les lutins in 'Paradise Lost,' Et was, on the whole, insuavis. For Beaute miserable was there ever Eques who would not do and die? St. George his hastam projecit Right into the dragon--his eye! Il coupe sa tete mit sein Schwert gut-- Ses ailes, il coupe mit sein couteau Il coupe sa queu mit his hache des arms, Et la demoiselle let go. In genua procumbit the ladye, Et dixit, 'You've saved my life-- Pour toute ma vie I'm your'n,' said she, 'I'm your regular little wife.' 'M'ami,' says he, 'I does these jobs In jocum--get up from your knees, Would you offer outright to requite a knight? Mon garcon, _he_ takes the fees!'" "Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debit ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel and toe. One, two, three Come hop with me-- Whirligig, twirligig, rapidee. Polkam, jungere, Virgo vis? Will you join in the polka, miss? Liberius, most willingly, Sic agemus, then let us try. Nunc vide, Skip with me. Whirlabout, roundabout, celere. Tum laeva cito tum dextra, First to the left, then t'other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, she looks at you. Das palmam, Change hands, ma'am, Celere, run away, just in sham." "Sunt quidam jolly dogs, Saturday qui nocte frequentant, Antiqui Stephanon, qui stat prope moenia Drury, Where they called for saccos cum prog distendere bellies, Indulgere jocis, nec non Baccho atque tobacco; In mundo tales non fellows ante fuere Magnanionam heroum celebrabe carmine laudeo, Posthae illustres ut vivant omne per aevum, Altior en Stephano locus est, snug, cosy recessus, Hic quarters fixere suos, conclave tenet hic, Hic dapibus cumulata, hic mahogany mensa, Interdum, sometimes epulis quis nomen agrestes Boiled leg of mutton and trimmings imposuere Hic double X haurit, Barclay and Perkins ille. Sic erimus drunki, Deel care! aras dat mendicinum Nec desuit mixtis que sese polibus implent. Postquam, exempta fames grubbo mappaque remota. Pro cyathio clarmet, qui goes sermone vocantur. Vulgari, of whiskey, rum, gin and brandy, sed ut sunt; Coelicolumqui punch ('erroribus absque') liquore Gaudent; et panci vino quod proebet Opporto, Haustibus his pipe, communis et adjiciuntur, 'Festina viri,' bawls one, 'nunc ludito verbis,' Alter 'Foemineum sexum' propinquat et 'Hurrah!' Respondet pot house concessu plausibus omni. Nunc similes, veteri versantur winky lepores Omnibus exiguus nec. Jingoteste tumultus, Exoritur quoniam summa, nituntur opum vi Rivales [Greek: halloi] top sawyers' [Greek: hemmenai hallon], Est genus injenui lusus quod nomine Burking. Notem est, vel Burko, qui claudere cuncta solebat Ora olim, eloquio, pugili vel forsitan isto Deaf un, vel Burko pueros qui Burxit ad illud, Plausibus aut fictis joculatorem excipiendo, Aut bothering aliquid referentem, constat amicum. Hoc parvo excutitur multus conamine risus. Nomina magnorum referebam nunc pauca viorum, Marcus et Henricus Punchi duo lumina magna (Whacks his Aristoteleam, Sophoclem, Brown wollopeth ille) In clubbum adveniunt, Juvenalis et advenit acer Qui veluti Paddywhack for love conlundit amicos; Ingentesque animos non parvo in corpore versans Georgius; Albertus Magnus; vesterque poeta. Praesidet his Nestor qui tempore vixit in annae, Credetur et vidisse Jophet, non youngster at ullos. In chaff, audaci certamine, vinceret illum, Ille jocus mollit dictis, et pectora mulcet, Ni faciat tumblers, et goes, et pocula pewter, Quippe Aliorum alii jactarent forsan in aures." "You ask me to tell you the story Of the terrible atra wood, Of the Lupi diri, [Greek: mikro pai, Kai] parvula Red Riding Hood. Patruus trux, he gave her A deux larrons pravi; Et dear little robins came and Cut up cum the folii. And then he scandit Beanstalk, And giant caedit tall Et virgo grandis marri-ed Et Rem is prodegit all! For, semble, une felis was left him-- (Seulement, calamitas!) Il emit chat zwei ocreae (You've heard this much, at least), Et foemina on l'appele Beaute, And the Beast they called A Beast! Obdormivit, et amittit Ses moutons and couldn't find 'em, So she never did nothing whatever at all, Et voila! cum caudis behind 'em! Comme des toutes les demoiselles charmantes Illae the only lass Who could yank her foot nitide Dans le pantoufle de glass! Et straw she nevit in auribus, Et finally--child did win De expiscere Arcanum name Nami erat Rumplestiltzskin! Ciel! c'est time you should! Ad lectum to dream of the story Of little Red Riding Hood!" "In tempus old a hero lived, Qui loved puellas deux; He ne pouvait pas quite to say Which one amabat mieux. Dit-il lui-meme, un beau matin, 'Non possum both avoir, Sed si address Amanda Ann, Then Kate and I have war. 'Amanda habet argent coin, Sed Kate has aureas curls: Et both sunt very [Greek: agatha], Et quite formosa girls. Enfin, the youthful anthropos, Resolved proponere ad Kate Devant cet evening's shades. Procedens then to Kate's domo, Il trouve Amanda there; Both sunt so goodly fair. Sed, smiling on the new tapis, Between puellas twain, Coepit to tell his flame to Kate Dans un poetique strain. Mais, glancing ever and anon At fair Amanda's eyes, Illae non possunt dicere, Pro which he meant his sighs. Each virgo heard the demi vow With cheeks as rouge as wine, And offering each a milk-white hand, Both whispered, 'Ich bin dein!'" "Come, jocund friends, a bottle bring, And push around the jorum; We'll talk and laugh, and quaff and sing, Nunc suavium amorum. While we are in a merry mood, Come, sit down ad bibendum; And if dull care should dare intrude, We'll to the devil send him. A moping elf I can't endure While I have ready rhino; And all life's pleasures centre still In venere ac vino. Be merry then, my friends, I pray, And pass your time in joco, For it is pleasant, as they say, Desipere in loco. He that loves not a young lass, Is sure an arrant stultus, And he that will not take a glass Deserves to be sepultus. Pleasure, music, love and wine, Res valde sunt jocundae, And pretty maidens look divine, Provided ut sunt mundae. I hate a snarling, surly fool, Qui latrat sicut canis, Who mopes and ever eats by rule, Drinks water and eats panis. Give me the man that's always free, Qui finit molli more, The cares of life, whate'er they be, Whose motto still is 'Spero.' Death will turn us soon from hence, Nigerrimas ad sedes; And all our lands and all our pence Ditabunt tunc heredes. Why should we then forbear to sport? Dum vivamus, vivamus, And when the Fates shall cut us down, Contenti abeamus." "Jurisconsultus juvenis solus, Sat scanning his tenuem docket-- Volo, quoth he, some bonus AEolus Inspiret fees to my pocket. He seized in manua sinistra ejus A tome of Noy, or Fortescue; Here's a case, said he, terrible tedious-- Fortuna veni to my rescue! Lex scripta's nought but legal diluvium, Defluxum streams of past ages, And lawyers sit like ducks in a pluvium, Under Law's reigning adages. Lex non scripta's good for consciences tender, Persequi the light internal; Sed homines saepius homage render Ad lucem that burns infernal. Effodi the said diluvium over, As do all legal beginners, Et crede vivere hence in clover, That's sown by quarrelsome sinners. Some think the law esse hum scarabeum, And lawyers a useless evil, And Statute claim of tuum and meum Is but a device of the devil; Sed pravi homines sunt so thick that, Without restrictio legis, Esset crime plusquam one could shake stick at, By order diaboli regis. Et good men, rari gurgite vasto, Are digni the law's assistance, Defendere se, et aid them so as to Keep nefas et vim at a distance. The lawyer's his client's rights' defender, And bound laborare astute, Videre that quaequae res agenda Dignitate et virtute. Sed ecce! a case exactly ad punctum-- Id scribam, ante forget it, Negotium illud nunc perfunctum, Feliciter, I have met it. He thrust out dextrae digitos manus, His pennam ad ink ille dedit; Would be nonsuit ere he could read it." "You bid me sing--can I forget The classic odes of days gone by-- How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette Exclaimed, 'Anacreon [Greek: geron ei]?' 'Regardez donc,' those ladies said-- 'You're getting bald and wrinkled too: When Summer's roses are all shed, Love's nullum ite, voyez vous!' In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry, 'Of love alone my banjo sings' Eh bien?' replied those saucy things-- 'Go find a maid whose hair is grey, And strike your lyre--we shan't complain; But parce nobis, s'il vous plait,-- Ah, jeune Lisette! ah, belle Fifine! Anacreon's lesson all must learn: But acer Hiems waits his turn! I hear you whispering from the dust, 'Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so,-- The brightest blade grows dim with rust, The fairest meadow white with snow!' You do not mean it? Not encore? Another string of play-day rhymes? You've heard me--nonne est?--before, Multoties,--more than twenty times; Non possum--vraiment--pas du tout, I cannot, I am loath to shirk; But who will listen if I do, My memory makes such shocking work? Some ancients like my rusty lay, As Grandpa Noah loved the old Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day. I used to carol like the birds, But time my wits have quite unfixed, Et quoad verba--for my words-- My thoughts were dressed when I was young. But tempus fugit--see them now Half clad in rags of every tongue! I dare not court the youthful muse, For fear her sharp response should be-- 'Papa Anacreon, please excuse!' Adieu! I've trod my annual track How long!--let others count the miles-- And peddled out my rhyming pack To friends who always paid in smiles; So laissez moi! some youthful wit No doubt has wares he wants to show, And I am asking 'let me sit' Dum ille clamat "[Greek: Dos pou sto]." During the late American Civil War, Slidell and Mason, two of the "Slidell, qui est Rerum cantor Publicarum, atque Lincoln. Vir excelsior, mitigantur-- A delightful thing to think on! Blatant plebs Americanum, Quite impossible to bridle, Nihil refert, navis cana Bring back Mason atque Slidell. Scribat nunc amoene Russell; Laetus lapis claudit fiscum, Nunc finiter all this bustle-- Slidell--Mason--Pax vobiscum!" "Geist und sinn mich beutzen ueber Vous zu dire das ich sie liebe? Das herz que vous so lightly spurn To you und sie allein will turn Unbarmherzig--pourquoir scorn Mon coeur with love and anguish torn; Croyez vous das my despair Votre bonheur can swell or faire? Schoenheit kann nicht cruel sein Mefris ist kein macht divine, Then, oh then, it can't be thine. Glaube das mine love is true, Changeless, deep wie Himmel's blue-- Que l'amour that now I swear, Zue dir ewigkeit I'll bear Glaube das de gentle rays, Born and nourished in thy gaze, Sur mon coeur will ever dwell Comme a l'instant when they fell-- Mechante! that you know full well." "Felis sedit by a hole, Intente she, cum omni soul, Predere rats. Mice cucurrerunt trans the floor, In numero duo tres or more, Obliti cats. Felis saw them oculis, 'I'll have them,' inquit she, 'I guess, Dum ludunt.' Tunc illa crepit toward the group, 'Habeam,' dixit, 'good rat soup-- Pingues sunt.' Mice continued all ludere, Intenti they in ludum vere, Tunc rushed the felis into them, Et tore them omnes limb from limb, Mures omnes, nunc be shy, Et aurem praebe mihi-- Sic hoc satis--"verbum sat," Avoid a whopping Thomas cat "Ce meme vieux coon n'est pas quite mort, Il n'est pas seulement napping: Je pense, myself, unless j'ai tort Cette chose est yet to happen. En dix huit forty-four, je sais, Vous'll hear des curious noises; He'll whet ces dents against some Clay, Et scare des Loco--Bois-es! You know que quand il est awake, Et quand il scratch ces clawses, Les Locos dans leurs souliers shake, Et, sheepish, hang leurs jaws-es. Ce meme vieux coon, je ne sais pas why, Le mischief's come across him, Il fait believe he's going to die, Quand seulement playing possum. Mais wait till nous le want encore, Nous'll stir him with une pole; He'll bite as mauvais as before Nous pulled him de son hole!" "Prope ripam fluvii solus A senex silently sat; Super capitem ecce his wig, Et wig super, ecce his hat. Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, Dum elderly gentleman sat; Et a capite took up quite torve Et in rivum projecit his hat. Tunc soft maledixit the old man, Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat, Et cum scipio poked in the water, Conatus servare his hat. Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, The moment it saw him at that; Et whisked his novum scratch wig In flumen, along with his hat. Ab imo pectore damnavit In coeruleus eye dolor sat; Tunc despairingly threw in his cane Nare cum his wig and his hat. Contra bonos mores, don't swear, It est wicked, you know (verbum sat), Si this tale habet no other moral, Mehercle! you're gratus to that!" "Terry, leave us, sumus weary: Jam nos taedet te videre, Si vis nos with joy implere, Terry in hac terra tarry, Diem nary. For thy domum long'st thou nonne? Habes wife et filios bonny? Socios Afros magis ton-y? Haste thee, Terry, mili-terry, Pedem ferre. Forte Thaddeus may desire thee, Sumner, et id. om., admire thee, Nuisance nobis, not to ire thee, We can spare thee, magne Terry, Freely, very. Hear the Prex's proclamation, Nos fideles to the nation, Gone est nunc thy place and station Terry-sier momen-terry Sine query. Yes, thy doom est scriptum--'Mene,' Longer ne nos naso tene, Thou hast dogged us, diu bene, Loose us, terrible bull terry-er, We'll be merrier. But the dulces Afros, vale, Seek some back New Haven alley, Terry, quit this territory Con amore. Sed verbum titi, abituro, Pay thy rent-bills, et conjuro, Tecum take thy precious bureau Terry, Turner, blue-coat hom'nes Abhinc omnes!" There nunquam was seen Puella pulchrior, Fascinans quam bellis Vel lilium, et id., Was 'ladles' on Lyd. Semel Lydia, loquitur: 'Si fidem violaris, I'd lay down and die, sir.' 'Si my Lydia dear I should ever forget'-- Tum respondit: 'I hope To be roasted and ate.' Sed, though Jacob had sworn Pro aris et focis, He went off and left Lydia Deserta, lachrymosis. In lachrymis solvis She sobbed and she sighed; And at last, corde fracta, Turned over and died. Se expedire pains That gnawed his chords cordis, Went out on the plains, And quum he got there. Accenderunt ignem Et roasted et ate him." Comme c'est beau! wie schoen, che bello! He who quaffs thy Lust and Wein, Morbleu! is a lucky fellow. How I love thy rushing streams, Groves and ash and birch and hazel, From Schaffhausen's rainbow beams Jusqu'a l'echo d'Oberwesel! Oh, que j'aime thy Bruechen, when The crammed Dampfschiff gaily passes! Love the bronzed pipes of thy men, And the bronzed cheeks of thy lasses! Oh! que j'aime the 'oui,' the 'bah!' From the motley crowd that flow, With the universal 'ja,' And the Allgemeine 'so!'" "'Eh! dancez-vous?' dixit Mein Herr. 'Oui, oui!' the charming maid replied: Vidit ille at once the snare, Looked downas quick, et etiam sighed. Das Maedchen knew each bona art Stat ludicrans superba sweet; Declares eros ad ejus feet. 'Mein Liebchen,' here exclaims de Herr, 'Lux of mein life, ein rayum shed, Dein oscula let amor share, Si non, alas! meum be dead.' Ludit das girlus gaily then, Cum scorna much upon her lip: Quid stultuses sunt all you men, Funus to give you omnes slip. Mein Herr uprose cum dignas now, Et melius et wiser man, Der nubis paina on his brow, To his dark domus cito ran. Nunc omnes you qui eager hear Meas tell of cette falsa maid, Of fascinatus girl beware Lest votre folly sic be paid." "I often wished I had a friend, Dem ich mich anvertraun Koennt, A friend in whom I could confide, Der mit mir theilte Freud und Leid; Had I the riches of Girard-- Ich theilte mit ihm Haus und Heerd: For what is gold? 'Tis but a passing metal, Der Henker hol' fuer mich den ganzen Bettel. Could I purchase the world to live in it alone, Ich gaeb', daefur nich eine noble Bohn'; I thought one time in you I'd find that friend, Und glaubte schon mein Sehnen haet ein End; Alas! your friendship lasted but in sight, Doch meine grenzet an die Ewigkeit." "Oh why now sprechen Sie Deutsch? What pleasure say can Sie haben? You cannot imagine how much You bother unfortunate Knaben. Liebster Freund! give bessere work, Nicht so hard, ein kurtzerer lesson, Oh then we will nicht try to shirk Und unser will geben Sie blessin'. Oh, ask us nicht now to decline 'Meines Bruders groessere Haeuser;' 'Die Fasser' of 'alt rother Wein' Can give us no possible joy, sir. Der Mueller may tragen ein Rock Eat schwartz Brod und dem Kaese, Die Gans may be haengen on hoch, But what can it matter to me, sir? Return zu Ihr own native tongue, And seek not to teach to the young The Sprache belonging to such men. Und now 'tis my solemn belief That if you nicht grant this petition, Sie must schreiben mein Vater ein Brief, To say that ich hab' ein Condition.'" And 'twas nox most opportuna To catch a possum or a coona; For nix was scattered o'er this mundus, A shallow nix, et non profundus. On sic a nox with canis unus, Two boys went out to hunt for coonus. Unis canis, duo puer, Nunquam braver, nunquam truer, Quam hoc trio unquam fuit, If there was I never knew it. The corpus of this bonus canis, Was full as long as octo span is, But brevior legs had canis never Quam had hic dog; et bonus clever Some used to say, in stultum jocum, Quod a field was too small locum For sic a dog to make a turnus Circum self from stem to sternus. This bonus dog had one bad habit, Amabat much to tree a rabbit-- Amabat plus to chase a rattus, Amabat bene tree a cattus. But on this nixy moonlight night, This old canis did just right. Nunquam treed a starving rattus, Nunquam chased a starving cattus, But cucurrit on, intentus On the track and on the scentus, Till he treed a possum strongum, In a hollow trunkum longum; Loud he barked, in horrid bellum, Seemed on terra venit pellum; Quickly ran the duo puer, Mors of possum to secure; Quum venerit, one began To chop away like quisque man; Soon the axe went through the truncum, Soon he hit it all kerchunkum; Combat deepens; on ye braves! Canis, pueri et staves; As his powers non longuis tarry, Possum potest non pugnare, On the nix his corpus lieth, Down to Hades spirit flieth, Joyful pueri, canis bonus, Think him dead as any stonus. Now they seek their pater's domo, Knowing, certe, they will blossom Into heroes, when with possum They arrive, narrabunt story, Plenus blood et plenior glory. Tell me where est now the gloria, Where the honours of Victoria? Quum ad domum narrent story, Plenus sanguine, tragic, gory. Pater praiseth, likewise mater, Wonders greatly younger frater. Possum leave they on the mundus, Go themselves to sleep profundus, Somniunt possums slain in battle, Strong as ursae, large as cattle. When nox gives way to lux of morning-- Albam terram much adorning,-- Up they jump to see the varmen, Of the which this is the carmen. Lo! possum est resurrectum! Ecce pueri dejectum. Ne relinquit track behind him, Et the pueri never find him. Cruel possum! bestia vilest, How the pueros thou beguilest; Pueri think non plus of Caesar, Take your laurels, cum the honour, Since ista possum is a goner!" "Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your nose; And your brow is like the snow; And the various things you know Goodness knows. And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Every star. You have pouting, piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate. If by an arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, The same day I, as wooer, perhaps may come To so sweet an Artium "Lady! formosissima tu! Caeruleis oculis have you, Ditto nose! Et vous n'avez pas une faute-- And that you are going to vote, Goodness knows! And the roseus on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek, Are parfait! And your jactus oculi Knows each star that shines in the You have pouting, piquant lips, Sans doute vous pouvez an eclipse Ne caerulum colorantur, I should have in you, instanter, Met my fate! Si, by some arrangement dual, I at once were Kant and Whewell; It would pay-- Procus noti then to come To so sweet an Artium Si possem clear-starch, cookere, Votre learning Might the leges proscribere-- Do the pro patria mori, I, the churning!" "I had four brothers over the sea, Perrimerri dictum, Domine: And each one sent a present to me; Partum quartum, peredecentum, Perrimerri dictum, Domine. The first sent a cherry without any stone; Perrimerri dictum, Domine: The second a chicken without any bone, Partum quartum, peredecentum, Perrimerri dictum, Domine. The third sent a blanket without any thread; Perrimerri dictum, Domine: The fourth sent a book that no man could read; Partum quartum, peredecentum, Perrimerri dictum, Domine. When the cherry's in the blossom, it has no stone; Perrimerri dictum, Domine: When the chicken's in the egg, it has no bone; Partum quartum, peredecentum, Perrimerri dictum, Domine. When the blanket's in the fleece, it has no thread; Perrimerri dictum, Domine: When the book's in the press, no man can it read; Partum quartum, peredecentum, Perrimerri dictum, Domine." "Parvula Bo-peep Amisit her sheep, Et nescit where to find 'em; Desere alone, Et venient home, Cum omnibus caudis behind 'em." "Jack cum amico Jill, Ascendit super montem; Johannes cecedit down the hill, Ex forte fregit frontem." "Fresh from his books, an arch but studious boy, Twirl'd with resilient glee his mobile toy; And while on single pivot foot it set, Whisk'd round the board in whirring pirouette, Shriek'd, as its figures flew too fast to note 'em, _Te totum amo, amo te, Teetotum_." "Si quisquis furetur, This little libellum, I'll kill him, I'll fell him; In venturum illius I'll stick my scalpellum, And teach him to steal My little libellum." (_On the road from Cape Town to Simon's Bay, Cape of Good Hope._) "Multum in parvo, pro bono publico; Entertainment for man or beast all of a row. Lekker host as much as you please; Excellent beds without any fleas; Nos patrum fugimus--now we are here, Vivamus, let us live by selling beer On donne a boire et a manger ici; Come in and try it, whoever you be." "Tres fratres stolidii, Took a boat at Niagri; Stormus arose et windus erat, Magnum frothum surgebat, Et boatum overturnebat, Et omnes drowndiderunt Quia swimmere non potuerunt!" "Sic itur ad astra, together; But much as we aspire, No purse of gold, this summer weather, Could hire us to go higher!" The following epitaph is to be found in Northallerton Churchyard: "Hic jacet Walter Gun, Sometime landlord of the _Sun_, Sic transit gloria mundi! He drank hard upon Friday, That being an high day, Took his bed and died upon Sunday!" "He _et super_ with us last evening, and is a terrible fellow. He In a similar dialect to this, Dean Swift and Dr. Sheridan used to "Is his honor sic? Prae letus felis pulse." The Dean once wrote to the Doctor: "Mollis abuti, No lasso finis, Has an acuti, Molli divinis." To which the Doctor responded: "I ritu a verse o na Molli o mi ne, Asta lassa me pole, a laedis o fine; I ne ver neu a niso ne at in mi ni is, A manat a glans ora sito fer diis. De armo lis abuti, hos face an hos nos is As fer a sal illi, as reddas aro sis, Ac is o mi Molli is almi de lite, Illo verbi de, an illo verbi nite." At this the Dean settles the whole affair by-- "Apud in is almi de si re, Mimis tres I ne ver re qui re; Alo' ver I findit a gestis, His miseri ne ver at restis." "_Gravi jam_dudum _saucia_ cura." "_Poen_ia perire potest; _Culpa per_ennis est." And Dr. Johnson wrote the following epitaph on his cat: Victor Hugo was once asked if he could write English poetry. "Pour chasser le spleen J'entrai dans un inn; O, mais je bus le gin, God save the queen!" "'MONSIEUR LE LANDLORD: Sir--_Pourquoi_ don't you _mettez_ some terrifficatus est most to death. Big Ingin removit Johannem ad tentem, ad campum, ad marshy placem, papoosem, pipe of peacem, Youth; and also to persons of other nations that wish to know the translation; translation what only will be for to accustom the proverbs, and to second a coin's index. Do Mundo. Of the world. Ove thi Ueurlde. Os astros. The stars. Thi esters. Moca. Young girl. Yeun-gue guerle. O relampago. The flash of lightning. Thi flax ove lait eningue. abstain." "One eyed was laied against a man which had good eyes that he saw indemnified.' 'Not quit, because my house where i was disposed my "The walls have hearsay." "Four eyes does see better than two." "There is not any ruler without a exception." "The mountain in work put out a mouse." "He is like the fish into the water." "To buy a cat in a pocket." "To come back at their muttons." "He is not so devil as he is black." "Keep the chestnut of the fire with the hand of the cat." "What come in to me for an ear yet out for another." "Take out the live coals with the hand of the cat." "These roses do button at the eyesight." "I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, And sniff one up the perfume sweet Of every roses buttoning there. It only want my charming miss Who make to blush the self red rose; Oh! I have envy of to kiss The end's tip of her splendid nose. Oh! I have envy of to be What grass neath her pantoffle push, And too much happy seemeth me The margaret which her vestige crush. But I will meet her nose at nose, And take occasion for the hairs, And indicate her all my woes, That she in fine agree my prayers. I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses buttoning there." "That nightee teem he come chop chop One young man walkee, no can stop; Colo maskee, icee maskee; He got flag; chop b'long we_ll_y cu_l_io, see-- Topside-galow! He too muchee so_ll_y; one piecee eye Looksee sharp--so fashion--alla same my: He talkee largee, talkee st_l_ong, Too muchee cu_l_io; alla same gong-- Topside-galow! Inside any housee he can see light, Any piecee _l_oom got fire all _l_ight; He looksee plenty ice more high, Inside he mouf he plenty c_l_y-- Topside-galow! 'No can walkee!' olo man speakee he; 'Bimeby _l_ain come, no can see; Hab got water we_ll_y wide!' Maskee, my must go topside-- Topside-galow! 'Man-man,' one galo talkee he; 'What for you go topside look-see?' 'Nother teem,' he makee plenty c_l_y, Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high-- Topside-galow! 'Take care that spilum t_l_ee, young man, Take care that icee!' he no man-man, That coolie chin-chin he 'Good-night;' He talkee, 'My can go all _l_ight'-- Topside-galow! Joss-pidgin-man chop chop begin, Morning teem that Joss chin-chin, No see any man, he plenty fear, Cause some man talkee, he can hear-- Topside-galow! Young man makee die; one largee dog see Too muchee bobbe_l_y, findee hee. Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop Alla same piecee flag, got cu_l_io chop-- Topside-galow! You too muchee laugh! What for sing? I think so you no savey t'hat ting! Supposey you no b'long clever inside, More betta _you_ go walk topside! Topside-galow!" 'Wrinkles, wrinkles, solar star, I obtain of what you are, When unto the noonday sky I the spectroscope apply; For the spectrum renders clear Gaps within your photosphere, Also sodium in the bar Which your rays yield, solar star.' Of Latin no scorner, In the second declension did spy How nouns there are some Which ending in _um_ Do _not_ make their plural in _i_.' Have studied Mill, And all that sage has taught, too. Now both promote Jill's claim to vote, As every good girl ought too.' 'I did an idyl on Joachim's fiddle, At a classical soiree in June, While jolly dogs laughed at themes from Spoehr, And longed for a popular tune.' Sat at a buffet Eating a _bonbon sucre_; A younger son spied her, And edged up beside her, But she properly frowned him away.'" "Mary had a little lamb, Whose fleece was white as snow, And every place that Mary went, The lamb it would _not_ go. So Mary took that little lamb, And beat it for a spell; The family had it fried next day, And it went very well." "Mary possessed a diminutive sheep, And everywhere Mary peregrinated "Petit Bo-peep A perdu ses moutons Et ne sait pas que les a pris, O laisses les tranquilles Ill viendront en ville Et chacun sa que apres lui." "Ba, ba, mouton noir, Avez vous de laine? Trois sacs pleine. Un pour mon maitre, un pour ma dame, Pas un pour le jeune enfant que pleure dan le chemin." Here is a song of Mahoney's, which is given complete: "Quam pulchra sunt ova Cum alba et nova, In stabulo scite leguntur; Et a Margery bella, Quae festiva puella! Pinguis lardi cum frustris coquuntur. Ut belles in prato, Aprico et lato Sub sole tam lacte renident; Ova tosta in mensa Mappa bene extensa, Nittidissima lanse consident." Which, put into English, is: "Oh! 'tis eggs are a treat, When so white and so sweet From under the manger they're taken; And by fair Margery (Och! 'tis she's full of glee!) They are fried with fat rashers of bacon. Just like daisies all spread, O'er a broad sunny mead, In the sunbeams so gaudily shining, Are fried eggs, when displayed On a dish, when we've laid The cloth, and are thinking of dining!" The last of these we give is from the "Arundines Cami": "Mica, mica, parva Stella, Miror, quaenam sis tam bella! Splendens eminus in illo Alba velut gemma, coelo." "Shine with irregular, intermitted light, sparkle at intervals, diminutive, luminous, heavenly body. region surrounding the earth." "I like the native names, as Parramatta, The following _jeu d'esprit_, in which many of the absurd and A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain. 'I am a traveller,' said he, 'Just started on a tour, To-morrow morn at four.' He took a tavern-bed that night, And with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun. A week passed on; and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequester'd village called From thence he went to Absequoit, And there--quite tired of Maine-- He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train. Was his first stopping-place, And then Skunk's Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace. By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken. Then _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green, He travelled through the State, And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate. Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wandered up and down; To-day at Buzzard Roost ensconced, To-morrow at Hell Town. At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came, And made him spend the day with them In hunting forest game. Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went; Where half a day he spent. From thence, into Negationburg His route of travel lay, Which having gained, he left the State And took a southward way. North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at Hell's Delight. Morn found him on the road again, To Lousy Level bound; At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizard too, Good provender he found. The country all about Pinch Gut So beautiful did seem, That the beholder thought it like A picture in a dream. But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the wond'ring tourist feel A soft delicious thrill. At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch It in the distance far, And Purgatory near. But spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore That home is brightest after all, And travel is a bore. So back he went to Maine, straightway A little wife he took; And now is making nutmegs at "Men once were surnamed for their shape or estate (You all may from history learn it), But now, when the doorplates of misters and dames Are read, each so constantly varies; From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames Seem given by the rule of contraries. Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig, Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly, And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig, While driving fat Mrs. Golightly. At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout, (A conduct well worthy of Nero,) Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout, Mr. Heavyside danced a bolero. Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love, Found nothing but sorrow await her; She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove, That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter. Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut; Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest; Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut, Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest. Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock; Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers; Miss Pool used to dance, but she stands like a stock Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers. Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how, He moves as though cords had entwined him; Mr. Metcalf ran off upon meeting a cow, With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him. Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea, Mr. Miles never moves on a journey, Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three, Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney. Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root, Mr. Wild with timidity draws back; Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot, Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback. Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth, Consumed all the fortune his dad won; Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health; Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one. Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year By showing his leg to an heiress: Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear Surnames ever go by contraries." "Tis curious to find, in this overgrown town, While through its long streets we are dodging, That many a man is in trade settled down, Whose name don't agree with his lodging! For instance, Jack Munday in Friday Street dwells, Mr. Pitt in Fox Court is residing; Mr. White in Black's Buildings green-grocery sells, While East in West Square is abiding! Mr. Lamb in Red Lion Street perks up his head, To Lamb's, Conduit Street, Lyon goes courting; Mr. Boxer at Battle Bridge hires a bed, While Moon is in Sun Street disporting. Bill Brown up to Green Street to live now is gone, In Stanhope mews Dennet keeps horses; Doctor Low lives in High Street, Saint Mary-le-Bone, In Brown Street one Johnny White's door sees. But still much more curious it is, when the streets Accord with the names of their tenants; And yet with such curious accordance one meets, In taking a town-tour like Pennant's. For instance, in Crown Street George King you may note, To Booth, in Mayfair, you go shopping; And Porter, of Brewer Street, goes in a boat Mr. Sparrow in Bird Street has feathered his nest, Mr. Archer in Bow Street wooes Sally: Mr. Windham in Air Street gets zephyr'd to rest, Mr. Dancer resides in Ball Alley. Mr. Fisher on Finsbury fixes his views, Mrs. Foote in Shoe Lane works at carding; Mr. Hawke has a residence close to the Mews, And Winter puts up at Spring Gardens! In Orange Street, Lemon vends porter and ale, In Hart Street, Jack Deer keeps a stable; In Hill Street located you'll find Mr. Dale, In Knight-Rider Street, you've both Walker and Day, In Blackman Street, Lillywhite makes a display, In Cheapside lives sweet Mrs. Dearman. In Paradise Row, Mr. Adam sells figs, Eve, in Apple Tree Yard, rooms has taken; Mr. Coltman, in Foley Street, fits you with wigs, In Hog Lane you call upon Bacon. Old Homer in Greek Street sells barrels and staves, While Pope, in Cross Lane, is a baker; In Liquorpond Street, Mr. Drinkwater shaves, In Cow Lane lives A. Veal, undertaker." "A pretty deer is dear to me, A hare with downy hair; I love a hart with all my heart, But barely bear a bear. 'Tis plain that no one takes a plane To pare a pair of pears; A rake, though, often takes a rake To tear away the tares. All rays raise thyme, time razes all; And, through the whole, hole wears. A writ, in writing 'right,' may write It 'wright,' and still be wrong-- For 'wright' and 'rite' are neither 'right,' And don't to 'write' belong. Beer often brings a bier to man, Coughing a coffin brings; And too much ale will make us ail, As well as other things. The person lies who says he lies When he is but reclining; And when consumptive folks decline, They all decline declining. A quail don't quail before a storm-- A bough will bow before it; We cannot rein the rain at all-- No earthly powers reign o'er it; The dyer dyes awhile, then dies; To dye he's always trying, Until upon his dying bed He thinks no more of dyeing. A son of Mars mars many a sun; All deys must have their days, And every knight should pray each night To Him who weighs his ways. 'Tis meet that man should mete out meat To feed misfortune's son; The fair should fare on love alone, Else one cannot be won. A lass, alas! is something false; Of faults a maid is made; Her waist is but a barren waste-- Though stayed she is not staid. The springs spring forth in spring, and shoots Shoot forward one and all; Though summer kills the flowers, it leaves The leaves to fall in fall. I would a story here commence, But you might find it stale; So let's suppose that we have reached The tail end of our tale." "With tragic air the love-lorn heir Once chased the chaste Louise; She quickly guessed her guest was there To please her with his pleas. Now at her side he kneeling sighed, His sighs of woeful size; 'Oh, hear me here, for lo, most low I rise before your eyes. 'This soul is sole thine own, Louise-- 'Twill never wean, I ween, The love that I for aye shall feel, Though mean may be its mien!' 'You know I cannot tell you no,' The maid made answer true; 'I love you aught, as sure I ought-- To you 'tis due I do!' 'Since you are won, Oh fairest one, The marriage rite is right-- The chapel aisle I'll lead you up This night,' exclaimed the knight." "In vain I lament what is past, And pity their woe-begone looks, Though they grin at the credit they gave, I know I am in their best books. To my _tailor_ my _breaches_ of faith, On my conscience now but lightly sit, For such lengths in his _measures_ he's gone, He has given me many a _fit_. My bootmaker, finding at _last_ That my _soul_ was too stubborn to suit, _Waxed_ wroth when he found he had got Anything but the _length of my foot_. My hatmaker cunningly _felt_ He'd seen many like me before, So _brimful_ of insolence, vowed On credit he'd crown me no more. My baker was _crusty_ and _burnt_, When he found himself quite _overdone_ By a _fancy-bred_ chap like myself,-- Ay, as _cross_ as a _Good Friday's bun_. Next, my laundress, who washed pretty clean, In behaviour was dirty and bad; For into hot water she popped Then my butcher, who'd little at _stake_, Most surlily opened his _chops_, And swore my affairs out of _joint_, So on to my carcase he pops. In my lodgings exceedingly high, Though low in the rent to be sure, Without warning my landlady seized, Took my things and the key of the door. Thus cruelly used by the world, In the Bench I can smile at its hate; For a time I must alter my _style_, For I cannot get out of the _gate_." "He struggled to kiss her. She struggled the same To prevent him, so bold and undaunted; But, as smitten by lightning, he heard her exclaim, 'Avaunt, sir!' and off he avaunted. But when he returned, with the fiendishest laugh, Showing clearly that he was affronted, And threatened by main force to carry her off, She cried 'Don't!' and the poor fellow donted. When he meekly approached, and sat down at her feet, Praying aloud, as before he had ranted, That she would forgive him and try to be sweet, And said, 'Can't you!' the dear girl recanted. Then softly he whispered, 'How could you do so? I certainly thought I was jilted; But come thou with me, to the parson we'll go; Say, wilt thou, my dear?' and she wilted." "A wandering tribe, called the Siouxs, Wear moccasins, having no shiouxs. They are made of buckskin, With the fleshy side in, Embroidered with beads of bright hyiouxs. When out on the war-path, the Siouxs March single file--never by tiouxs-- And by 'blazing' the trees Can return at their ease, And their way through the forests ne'er liouxs. All new-fashioned boats he eschiouxs, And uses the birch-bark caniouxs; These are handy and light, And, inverted at night, Give shelter from storms and from dyiouxs. The principal food of the Siouxs Is Indian maize, which they briouxs And hominy make, Or mix in a cake, And eat it with fork, as they chiouxs." "If for a stomach ache you tache Each time some whisky, it will break You down and meak you sheak and quache, And you will see a horrid snache. Much whisky doth your wits beguile, Your breath defuile, yourself make vuile; You lose your style, likewise your pyle, If you erewhyle too often smuile. But should there be, like now, a drought, When water and your strength give ought, None will your good name then malign If you confign your drink to wign." "There was a young man in Bordeaux, He said to himself--'Oh, heaux! The girls have gone back on me seaux, What to do I really don't kneaux.'" "Mourn, Ammonites, mourn o'er his funeral urn, Whose neck ye must grace no more; Gneiss, Granite, and Slate!--he settled your date, And his ye must now deplore. Weep, Caverns, weep! with infiltering drip, Your recesses he'll cease to explore; For mineral veins or organic remains No Stratum again will he bore. Oh! his wit shone like crystal!--his knowledge profound From Gravel to Granite descended; No Trap could deceive him, no Slip could confound, Nor specimen, true or pretended. He knew the birth-rock of each pebble so round, And how far its tour had extended. His eloquence rolled like the Deluge retiring, Which Mastodon carcases floated; To a subject obscure he gave charms so inspiring Young and old on Geology doated. He stood forth like an Outlier; his hearers admiring In pencil each anecdote noted. Where shall we our great professor inter, That in peace may rest his bones? If we hew him a rocky sepulchre, He'll rise up and break the stones, And examine each Stratum that lies around, For he's quite in his element underground. In the common Alluvial soil; He'll start up and snatch those tools away Of his own geological toil; In a Stratum so young the professor disdains That embedded should be his Organic Remains. Then, exposed to the drip of some case-hard'ning spring, His carcase let Stalactite cover; And to Oxford the petrified sage let us bring, When he is encrusted all over, There, mid Mammoths and Crocodiles, high on a shelf, Let him stand as a Monument raised to himself." The following is by Jacob F. Henrici, and appeared originally in "Oh come, my love, and seek with me A realm by grosser eye unseen, Where fairy forms will welcome thee, And dainty creatures hail thee queen. In silent pools the tube I'll ply, Where green conferva-threads lie curled, And proudly bring to thy bright eye The trophies of the protist world. We'll rouse the stentor from his lair, And gaze into the cyclops' eye; In chara and nitella hair The protoplasmic stream descry, For ever weaving to and fro With faint molecular melody; And curious rotifers I'll show, And graceful vorticellidae. Where melicertae ply their craft We'll watch the playful water-bear, And no envenomed hydra's shaft Shall mar our peaceful pleasure there; But while we whisper love's sweet tale We'll trace, with sympathetic art, Within the embryonic snail The growing rudimental heart. Where rolls the volvox sphere of green, And plastids move in Brownian dance-- If, wandering 'mid that gentle scene, Two fond amoebae shall perchance Be changed to one beneath our sight By process of biocrasis, We'll recognise, with rare delight, A type of our prospective bliss. Oh dearer thou by far to me In thy sweet maidenly estate Than any seventy-fifth could be, Of aperture however great! Come, go with me, and we will stray Through realm by grosser eye unseen, Where protophytes shall homage pay, And protozoa hail thee queen." Here lieth to digest, macerate, and amalgamate with clay, Stratum super stratum, A man who in this earthly Laboratory Pursued various processes to obtain Or the secret to Live; Or the art of getting, rather than making, Gold. Alchemist like, All his labour and propition, As Mercury in the fire, evaporated in fumo. When he dissolved to his first principles, He departed as poor As the last drops of an alembic; For riches are not poured On the Adepts of this world. Not Solar in his purse, Neither Lunar in his disposition, Nor Jovial in his temperament; Being of Saturnine habit, Venereal conflicts had left him, And Martial ones he disliked. With nothing saline in his composition, All Salts but two were his Nostrums. The Attic he did not know, And that of the Earth he thought not Essential; But, perhaps, his had lost its savour. Though fond of news, he carefully avoided The fermentation, effervescence, And decupilation of this life. Full seventy years his exalted essence Was hermetically sealed in its terrene matrass; But the radical moisture being exhausted, The Elixir Vitae spent, Inspissated and exsiccated to a cuticle, He could not suspend longer in his vehicle, But precipitated gradatim Per companum To his original dust. May that light, brighter than Bolognian Phosphorus, Preserve him from the Incineration and Concremation Furnace of the other world, Depurate him, like Tartarus Regeneratus, From the Foeces and Scoria of this; Highly rectify and volatilize Bring it over the helm of the Retort of this Globe, Place in a proper Recipient, Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin, Never to be saturated Till the general Resuscitation, When all the reguline parts Of his comminuted substance Shall be again concentrated, Revivified, alcoholized, And imbibe its pristine Archeses; Undergo a new transmutation, Eternal fixation, And combination of its former Aura; Be coated over and decorated in robes more fair Than the majestie of Bismuth, More sparkling than Cinnabar, And being found Proof Spirit, Then to be exalted and sublimed together Of the highest Aludel in Paradise." "Oh, lovely Clara, hie with me Where Cryptogams in beauty spore, Corticiums creep on trunk and tree, And fairy rings their curves restore; Mycelia there pervade the ground, And many a painted pileus rear, Agarics rend their veils around The ranal overture to hear. Where gay Pezizae flaunt their hues, A microscopic store we'll glean, To sketch with camera the views In which the ascus may be seen. Beneath our millemetric gaze Sporidia's length will stand revealed, And eyes like thine will trace the maze In each hymenium concealed. AEstivum tubers we shall dig, And many a Sphaeria-sheltering twig Will in our vascula be laid. For hard Sclerotia we shall peer, In barks and brassicaceous leaves, And trace their progress through the year, Like Bobbies on the track of thieves. While sages deem Solanum sent We'll prize it for development Of swelling Peronospora. We'll mount the Myxogastre's threads To watch Plasmodium's vital flow, While Capillitia lift their heads Generic mysteries to show. I'll bring thee where the Chantarelles Inspire a mycologic theme, Where Phallus in the shadow smells, And scarlet Amanita gleam; And lead thee where M'Moorlan's rye Is waving black with ergot spurs, And many a Trichobasian dye Gives worth to corn and prickly burs. And when the beetle calls us home, We'll gather on our lingering way The violaceous Inolome And russet Alutacea, The brown Boletus edulis Our fishing baskets soon will fill-- We'll dine on fungi fried in bliss, Nor dread the peck of butcher's bill." "'Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of volcanic tufa! 'Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth's epidermis! That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,-- Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,-- Tell us thy strange story! 'Or has the professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures? 'Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch? 'Tell us of that scene,--the dim and watery woodland, Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, 'When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled 'Tell us of thy food,--those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell and Brachiopods _au naturel_,-- Cuttlefish to which the _pieuvre_ of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle. 'Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation,-- Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence,-- Speak! thou oldest primate!' Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together. And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with express juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration: 'Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces "Ye fair injured nymphs, and ye beaus who deceive 'em, Who with passion engage, and without reason leave 'em, Draw near and attend how the Hero I sing Was foiled by a Girl, though at Arms he was King. _Crest_, _mottoes_, _supporters_, and _bearings_ knew he, And deeply was studied in old pedigree. He would sit a whole evening, and, not without rapture, Tell who begat who to the end of the Chapter. In forming his _tables_ nought grieved him so sorely That the man died _Coelebs_, or else _sine prole_. At last, having traced other families down, He began to have thoughts of increasing his own. A Damsel he chose, not too slow of belief, And fain would be deemed her admirer _in chief_. He _blazoned_ his suit, and the sum of his tale Was his _field_ and her _field_ joined _party per pale_. In different style, to tie faster the noose, He next would attack her in soft _billet doux_. His _argent_ and _sable_ were laid aside quite, Plain _English_ he wrote, and in plain black and white. Against such _atchievements_ what beauty could fence? Or who would have thought it was all but _pretence_?-- His pain to relieve, and fulfil his desire, The lady agreed to join hands with the squire. The squire, in a fret that the jest went so far, Considered with speed how to put in a _bar_. His words bound not him, since hers did not confine her: And that is plain law, because Miss is a _minor_. Miss briskly replied that the law was too hard, If she, who's a _minor_, may not be a _ward_. In law then confiding, she took it upon her, By justice to mend those foul breaches of honour. She handled him so that few would, I warrant, Have been in his _coat_ on so _sleeveless_ an errant. She made him give bond for stamped _argent_ and _or_, And _sabled_ his shield with _gules_ blazoned before. Ye heralds produce, from the time of the Normans, In all your Records such a _base_ non-performance; Or if without instance the case is we touch on, Let this be set down as a _blot_ in his _scutcheon_." "You that have charge of wedded love, take heed To keep the vessel which contains it air-tight; So that no oxygen may enter there! Lest (like as in a keg of elder wine, The which, when made, thy careless hand forgot To bung securely down) full soon, alas! Acetous fermentation supervene And winter find thee wineless, and, instead Of wine, afford thee nought but vinegar. Thus hath it been with me: there was a time When neither rosemary nor jessamine, Cloves or verbena, marechale, resede, Or e'en great Otto's self, were more delicious Unto my nose, than Betsy to mine eyes; And, in our days of courtship, I have thought That my career through life, with her, would be Bright as my own show-bottles; but, ah me! It was a vision'd scene. From what she _was_ To what she _is_, is as the pearliness Of Creta Praep. compared with Antim. Nig. There was a time she was all Almond-mixture (A bland emulsion; I can recommend it To him who hath a cold), but now, woe! woe! She is a fierce and foaming combination Of turpentine with vitriolic oil. Oh! name not Sulphur, when you speak of her, For she is Brimstone's very incarnation, She is the Bitter-apple of my life, The Scillae oxymel of my existence, That knows no sweets with her. What shall I do?--where fly?--What Hellebore Can ease the madness that distracts my brain! What aromatic vinegar restore The drooping memory of brighter days! They bid me seek relief in Prussic acid; They tell me Arsenic holds a mighty power To put to flight each ill and care of life: They mention Opium, too; they say its essence, Called Battley's Sedative, can steep the soul Chin-deep in blest imaginings; till grief Changed by its chemic agency, becomes One lump of blessed Saccharum;--these things They tell to _me_--_me_, who for twelve long years Have triturated drugs for a subsistence, From seven i' th' morn until the midnight hour. I have no faith in physic's agency E'en when most 'genuine,' for I have seen And analysed its nature, and I know Its ultimate and Elemental Basis. What then is left? No more to Fate I'll bend: I will rush into chops! and Stout shall be--my end!!" "Charming chaos, glorious puddle, Ethics opaque, book of bliss; Through thy platitudes I waddle, O thou subtle synthesis! To thy soft consideration, Give I talents, give I time; Though 'perpetual occultation' Shuts me from thy balmy clime. As unto the sea-tossed trader, Is the guiding Polar Star; Thou'rt my 'zenith' and my 'nadir,' Still 'so near and yet so far.' Sancho never loved his gravies As I love thy sunny face; Sheep-bound master-piece of Davies, Benefactor of his race! Man nor god, not even 'ox-eyed Juno,' could me from thee part; My 'enthymeme,' my sweet 'protoxide,' Thou'rt the 'zeugma' of my heart. When were built the rocks azoic, Sat'st thou on the granite hill; And with constancy heroic, To _me_ thou art azoic still. My 'syzygy,' I'll ne'er leave thee, Thou shalt ne'er from me escheat; I will cherish thee, believe me, Pythagorean obsolete. Bless me in the midnight watches, Ever by my pillow keep Ruler, chalk, and black-board scratches, Lovely nightmare, while I sleep. Be 'co-ordinate' for ever, For ever my 'abscissa' be; The Fates can overwhelm me never, Whilst _thou_ art in 'perigee.'" "The Ancestor remote of Man, Says D--w--n, is th' Ascidian, A scanty sort of water-beast Before Gorillas came to be, Went swimming up and down the sea. Their ancestors the pious praise, And like to imitate their ways How, then, does our first parent live, What lesson has his life to give? Th' Ascidian tadpole, young and gay, Doth Life with one bright eye survey, His consciousness has easy play. He's sensitive to grief and pain, Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain, And everything that fits the state Of creatures we call vertebrate. But age comes on; with sudden shock He sticks his head against a rock! His tail drops off, his eye drops in, His brain's absorbed into his skin; He does not move, nor feel, nor know The tidal water's ebb and flow, But still abides, unstirred, alone, A sucker sticking to a stone. And we, his children, truly we In youth are, like the Tadpole, free. And where we would we blithely go, Have brain and hearts, and feel and know. Then Age comes on! To Habit we Affix ourselves and are not free; Th' Ascidian's rooted to a rock, And we are bond-slaves of the clock; Our rock is Medicine--Letters--Law, From these our heads we cannot draw: Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in, And daily thicker grows our skin. We scarcely live, we scarcely know The wide world's moving ebb and flow, The clanging currents ring and shock, But we are rooted to the rock. And thus at ending of his span, Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man "I have found out a gift for my fair; I know where the fossils abound, Where the footprints of _Aves_ declare The birds that once walked on the ground; Oh, come, and--in technical speech-- We'll walk this Devonian shore, Or on some Silurian beach We'll wander, my love, evermore. I will show thee the sinuous track By the slow-moving Annelid made, Or the Trilobite that, farther back, In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid; Thou shalt see in his Jurassic tomb, The Plesiosaurus embalmed; In his Oolitic prime and his bloom Iguanodon safe and unharmed! You wished--I remember it well, And I loved you the more for that wish-- For a perfect cystedian shell And a _whole_ holocephalic fish. And oh, if Earth's strata contains In its lowest Silurian drift, Or palaeozoic remains The same--'tis your lover's free gift. Then come, love, and never say nay, But calm all your maidenly fears; We'll note, love, in one summer's day The record of millions of years; And though the Darwinian plan Your sensitive feelings may shock, We'll find the beginning of man-- Our fossil ancestors, in rock!" "Will she thy linen wash and hosen darn?"--GAY. "I'm utterly sick of this hateful alliance Which the ladies have formed with impractical Science! They put out their washing to learn hydrostatics, And give themselves airs for the sake of pneumatics. They are knowing in muriate, and nitrate, and chlorine, While the stains gather fast on the walls and the flooring-- And the jellies and pickles fall woefully short, With their chemical use of the still and retort. Our expenses increase (without drinking French wines), For they keep no accounts, with their tangents and sines?-- And to make both ends meet they give little assistance, With their accurate sense of the squares of the distance. They can name every spot from Peru to El Arish, Except just the bounds of their own native parish; And they study the orbits of Venus and Saturn, While their home is resigned to the thief and the slattern. Chronology keeps back the dinner two hours, The smoke-jack stands still while they learn motive powers; Flies and shells swallow up all our everyday gains, And our acres are mortgaged for fossil remains. They cease to reflect with their talk of refraction-- They drive us from home by electric attraction-- And I'm sure, since they've bothered their heads with affinity I'm repulsed every hour from my learned divinity. When the poor stupid husband is weary and starving, Anatomy leads them to give up the carving; And we drudges the shoulder of mutton must buy, While they study the line of the _os humeri_. If we 'scape from our troubles to take a short nap, We awake with a din about limestone and trap; And the fire is extinguished past regeneration, For the women were wrapt in the deep-coal formation. 'Tis an impious thing that the wives of the laymen Should use Pagan words 'bout a pistil and stamen; Let the heir break his head while they foster a Dahlia, And the babe die of pap as they talk of mammalia. The first son becomes half a fool in reality, While the mother is watching his large ideality; And the girl roars unchecked, quite a moral abortion, For we trust her benevolence, order, and caution. I sigh for the good times of sewing and spinning, Ere this new tree of knowledge had set them a sinning; The women are mad, and they'll build female colleges,-- So here's to plain English!--a plague on their 'ologies!" "Take a robin's leg (Mind! the drumstick merely), Put it in a tub Filled with water nearly; Set it out of doors, In a place that's shady, Let it stand a week (Three days if for a lady). Drop a spoonful of it In a five-pail kettle, Which may be made of tin Or any baser metal; Fill the kettle up, Set it on a boiling, Strain the liquor well, To prevent its oiling; One atom add of salt, For the thickening one rice kernel, And use to light the fire Let the liquor boil Half an hour or longer (If 'tis for a man, Of course you'll make it stronger). Should you now desire That the soup be flavoury, Stir it once around With a stalk of Savory. When the broth is made, Nothing can excel it: Then three times a day Let the patient _smell_ it. If he chance to die, Say 'twas Nature did it; If he chance to live, Give the soup the credit." "Accept, dear Miss, this _article_ of mine, (For what's _indefinite_, who can _define_?) My _case_ is singular, my house is rural, Wilt thou, indeed, consent to make it _plural_? Something, I feel, pervades my system through, I can't describe, yet _substantively_ true. Thy form so _feminine_, thy mind reflective, Where all's _possessive_ good, and nought _objective_, I'm _positive_ none can _compare_ with thee In wit and worth's _superlative_ degree. _First person_, then, _indicative_ but prove, Let thy soft _passive_ voice exclaim, 'I LOVE!' _Active_, in cheerful _mood_, no longer _neuter_, I'll leave my cares, both _present_, _past_, and _future_. But ah! what torture must I undergo Till I obtain that little 'Yes' or 'No!' Spare me the _negative_--to save compunction, Oh, let my _preposition_ meet _conjunction_. What could excite such pleasing recollection, At hearing thee pronounce this _interjection_, 'I will be thine! thy joys and griefs to share, Till Heaven shall please to _point_ a _period_ there'!" An Arab came to the river side, With a donkey bearing an obelisk; But he would not try to ford the tide, For he had too good an *. So he camped all night by the river side, And remained till the tide had ceased to swell, For he knew should the donkey from life subside, He never would find its ||. When the morning dawned, and the tide was out, The pair crossed over 'neath Allah's protection; And the Arab was happy, we have no doubt, For he had the best donkey in all that Sec.. You are wrong, they were drowned in crossing over, Though the donkey was bravest of all his race; He luxuriates now in horse-heaven clover, And his master has gone to the Prophet's _em_[Symbol] These assinine poets deserved to be "blowed," Their rhymes being faulty and frothy and beery; What really befell the ass and its load Will ever remain a desolate ?. Our Yankee friends, with all their ---- For once, we guess, their mark have missed; And with poetry _Paper and Print_ is rash In damming its flow with its editor's [Symbol] In parable and moral leave a [Symbol] between, [_Space_] For reflection, or your wits fall out of joint; The "Arab," ye see, is a printing machine, And the donkey is he who can't see the . An Ohio poet thus sings of the beginning of man: "O sing a song of phosphates, Fibrine in a line, Four and twenty follicles In the van of time. When the phosphorescence Evoluted brain, Superstition ended, Man began to reign." "'_Morituri te salutant!_' say the soldiers as they pass; Not in uttered words they say it, but we feel it as they pass-- 'We, who are about to perish, we salute thee as we pass!' Brazen clangours shake the welkin, as the manly squadrons pass. Oh, our comrades! gone before us, in the last review to pass, Never more to earthly chieftain dipping colours as you pass, "That Roman nose! that Roman nose! Has robbed my bosom of repose; For when in sleep my eyelids close, It haunts me still, that Roman nose! Between two eyes as black as sloes The bright and flaming ruby glows: That Roman nose! that Roman nose! And beats the blush of damask rose. I walk the streets, the alleys, rows; I look at all the Jems and Joes; And old and young, and friends and foes, But cannot find a Roman nose! Then blessed be the day I chose That nasal beauty of my beau's; And when at last to Heaven I goes, I hope to spy his Roman nose!" "Oft in danger, yet alive, We are come to thirty-five; Long may better years arrive, Better years than thirty-five. Could philosophers contrive Life to stop at thirty-five, Time his hours should never drive O'er the bounds of thirty-five. High to soar, and deep to dive, Nature gives at thirty-five; Ladies, stock and tend your hive, Trifle not at thirty-five; For, howe'er we boast and strive, Life declines from thirty-five; He that ever hopes to thrive, Must begin by thirty-five; And all who wisely wish to wive, Must look on Thrale at thirty-five." exhausted," a task which must have required great patience and "Have you heard, my dear Anne, how my spirits are sunk? Have you heard of the cause? Oh, the loss of my trunk! From exertion or firmness I've never yet slunk, But my fortitude's gone with the loss of my trunk! Stout Lucy, my maid, is a damsel of spunk, Yet she weeps night and day for the loss of my trunk! I'd better turn nun, and coquet with a monk, For with whom can I flirt without aid from my trunk? Accursed be the thief, the old rascally hunks, Who rifles the fair, and lays hold on their trunks! He who robs the king's stores of the least bit of junk, Is hanged--while he's safe who has plundered my trunk! There's a phrase among lawyers when _nunc_'s put for _tunc_; But _nunc_ and _tunc_ both, must I grieve for my trunk! Huge leaves of that great commentator, old Brunck, Perhaps was the paper that lined my poor trunk!" &c. &c. "Muse, assist me to complain, While I grieve for Lady Jane; I ne'er was in so sad a vein, Lord Petre's house was built by Payne, No mortal architect made Jane. If hearts had windows, through the pane Of mine, you'd see Lady Jane. At breakfast I could scarce refrain From tears at missing Lady Jane; Nine rolls I ate, in hope to gain The roll that might have fallen to Jane." As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower, With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness, So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly, Her demeaning, In everything Far, far passing That I can indite Or suffice to write Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower." "A Skeltonical salutation Or condign gratulation, At the just vexation Of the Spanish nation, That in a bravado Spent many a crusado In setting forth an Armado England to invado. Pro cujus memoria Ye may well be soria, Full small may be your gloria When ye shall hear this storia, Then will ye cry and roria, We shall see her no moria. O king of Spaine! Is it not a paine To thy hearte and braine, And every vaine, To see thy traine For to sustaine Withouten gaine, The world's disdaine; Which despise As toies and lies, With shoutes and cries, Thy enterprise; As fitter for pies And butterflies Then men so wise? O waspish king! Where's now thy sting. The darts or sling, Or strong bowstring, That should us wring, And under bring? Who every way Thee vexe and pay And beare the sway By night and day, To thy dismay In battle array, And every fray? O pufte with pride! What foolish guide Made thee provide To over-ride This land so wide, From side to side; And then untride, Away to slide, And not to abide; But all in a ring Away to fling?" "Here, early to bed, lies kind William Maginn, Who with genius, wit, learning, life's trophies to win, Had neither great lord, nor rich cit of his kin, Nor discretion to set himself up as to tin; So his portion soon spent, like the poor heir of Lynn, He turned author, ere yet there was beard on his chin; And whoever was out, or whoever was in, For your Tories his fine Irish brains he would spin; Who received prose and verse with a promising grin, 'Go a-head, you queer fish, and more power to your fin!' But to save from starvation stirr'd never a pin. Light for long was his heart, tho' his breeches were thin, Else his acting, for certain, was equal to Quin: But at last he was beat, and sought help of the bin: (All the same to the doctor, from claret to gin!) Which led swiftly to gaol, with consumption therein. It was much, when the bones rattled loose in the skin, He got leave to die here, out of Babylon's din. Barring drink and the girls, I ne'er heard of a sin,-- Many worse, better few, than bright, broken Maginn!" "The fable which I now present, Occurred to me by accident: And whether bad or excellent, Is merely so by accident. A stupid ass this morning went Into a field by accident: And cropped his food, and was content, Until he spied by accident A flute, which some oblivious gent Had left behind by accident; When, sniffing it with eager scent, He breathed on it by accident, And made the hollow instrument Emit a sound by accident. 'Hurrah, hurrah!' exclaimed the brute, 'How cleverly I play the flute!' A fool, in spite of nature's bent, May shine for once,--by accident." "I hate the very name of box; It fills me full of fears; It minds me of the woes I've felt Since I was young in years. They sent me to a Yorkshire school, Where I had many knocks; For there my schoolmates box'd my ears, Because I could not box. I packed my box; I picked the locks, And ran away to sea; And very soon I learnt to box The compass merrily. I came ashore; I called a coach And mounted on the box: The coach upset against a post, And gave me dreadful knocks. I soon got well; in love I fell, And married Martha Box; To please her will, at famed Box Hill I took a country box. I had a pretty garden there, All bordered round with box; But ah! alas! there lived next door A certain Captain Knox. He took my wife to see the play;-- They had a private box: I jealous grew, and from that day I hated Captain Knox. I sold my house; I left my wife; And went to Lawyer Fox, Who tempted me to seek redress All from a jury-box. I went to law, whose greedy maw Soon emptied my strong box; I lost my suit, and cash to boot, All through that crafty Fox. The name of box I therefore dread, I've had so many shocks; They'll never end; for when I'm dead They'll nail me in a box." Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; Heavy to get, and light to hold; Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold, Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled; Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old, To the very verge of the churchyard mould; Price of many a crime untold; Good or bad, a thousandfold!" "Just eighteen years ago this day, Attired in all her best array-- For she was airy, young, and gay, And loved to make a grand display, While I the charges would defray-- My _Cara Sposa_ went astray; By night eloping in a sleigh, With one whose name begins with J, Resolved with me she would not stay, And be subjected to my sway; Because I wish'd her to obey, Without reluctance or delay, And never interpose her nay, Nor any secrets e'er betray. But wives will sometimes have their way, And cause, if possible, a fray; Then who so obstinate as they? She therefore left my house for aye, Before my hairs had turned to gray, Or I'd sustained the least decay, Which caused at first some slight dismay: For I considered it foul play. Now where she's gone I cannot say, For I've not seen her since the day When Johnston took her in his sleigh, To his seductive arts a prey, And posted off to Canada. Now when her conduct I survey, And in the scale of justice weigh, Who blames me, if I do inveigh Against her to my dying day? But live as long as live I may, I've always purposed not to pay (Contract whatever debts she may) A shilling for her; but I pray That when her body turns to clay, If mourning friends should her convey To yonder graveyard, they'll not lay Her body near to Nahum Fay." "Are you anxious to bewitch? You must learn the Radenovitch! Would you gain of fame a niche? You must dance the Radenovitch! 'Mong the noble and the rich, All the go's the Radenovitch! It has got to such a pitch, All must dance the Radenovitch! If without a flaw or hitch You can dance the Radenovitch, Though you've risen from the ditch (Yet have learned the Radenovitch), You'll get on without a hitch, If for glory you've an itch, Learn to dance the Radenovitch; And, though corns may burn and twitch, While you foot the Radenovitch; In your side though you've a stitch, All along o' the Radenovitch, You will gain an eminence which You will owe the Radenovitch! Therefore let the Maitre's switch Teach your toes the Radenovitch!" "Would you see a man that's slow? Come and see our footman Joe: Most unlike the bounding roe, Or an arrow from a bow, Or the flight direct of crow, Is the pace of footman Joe; Crabs that hobble to and fro, In their motions copy Joe. Snails, contemptuous as they go, Look behind and laugh at Joe. An acre any man may mow, Ere across it crawleth Joe. Trip on light fantastic toe, Ye that tripping like, for Joe; Measured steps of solemn woe Better suit with solid Joe. Backward to their source will flow Ere despatch be made by Joe. Send not by our footman Joe. Would you Job's full merit know, Ring the bell, and wait for Joe; Whether it be king or no, 'Tis just alike to lazy Joe. Legal process none can show, If your lawyer move like Joe. Death, at last, our common foe, Must trip up the heels of Joe; And a stone shall tell--'Below, Hardly changed, still sleepeth Joe. Loud shall the final trumpet blow, But the last corner will be Joe!'" "Task a horse beyond his strength And the horse will fail at length; Whip a dog, the poor dog whines-- Yet you ask for ninety lines. Though you give me ninety quills, Built me ninety paper-mills, Showed me ninety inky Rhines, I could not write ninety lines. Ninety miles I'd walk for you, Till my feet were black and blue; Climb high hills, and dig deep mines, But I can't write ninety lines. Though my thoughts were thick as showers, Plentiful as summer flowers, Clustering like Italian vines, I could not write ninety lines. When you have drunk up the sea, Floated ships in cups of tea, Plucked the sun from where it shines, Then I'll write you ninety lines. Even the bard who lives on rhyme, Teaching silly words to chime, Seldom sleeps, and never dines,-- He could scarce write ninety lines. Well you know my love is such, You could never ask too much; Yet even love itself declines Such a work as ninety lines. Though you frowned with ninety frowns, Bribed me with twice ninety towns, Offered me the starry signs, I could not write ninety lines. Many a deed I've boldly done Since my race of life begun; But my spirit peaks and pines When it thinks of ninety lines. Long I hope for thee and me Will our lease of this world be; But though hope our fate entwines, Death will come ere ninety lines. Ninety songs the birds will sing, Ninety beads the child will string; But his life the poet tines, If he aims at ninety lines. Ask me for a thousand pounds, Ask me for my house and grounds; Levy all my wealth in fines, But don't ask for ninety lines. I have ate of every dish-- Flesh of beast, and bird, and fish; Briskets, fillets, knuckles, chines, But eating won't make ninety lines. I have drunk of every cup, Till I drank whole vineyards up; German, French, and Spanish wines, But drinking won't make ninety lines. Since, then, you have used me so, To the Holy Land I'll go; And at all the holy shrines I shall pray for ninety lines. Ninety times a long farewell, All my love I could not tell, Though 'twas multiplied by nines, Ninety times these ninety lines." "The elderly gentleman's here, With his cane, his wig, and his hat; A good-humoured man all declare, But then he's o'erloaded with fat. By the side of a murmuring stream This elderly gentleman sat On the top of his head was his wig, And a-top of his wig was his hat. The wind it blew high and blew strong, As this elderly gentleman sat, And bore front his head in a trice And plunged in the river his hat. The gentleman then took his cane, Which lay on his lap as he sat, And dropped in the river his wig In attempting to get out his hat. Cool reflection at length came across, While this elderly gentleman sat; So he thought he would follow the stream, And look for his fine wig and hat. His breast it grew cold with despair, And full in his eye madness sat; So he flung in the river his cane, To swim with his wig and his hat. His head, being thicker than common, O'er-balanced the rest of his fat, And in plunged this son of a woman To follow his wig, cane, and hat. A Newfoundland dog was at hand-- No circumstance could be more pat-- The old man he brought safe to land, Then fetched out his wig, cane, and hat. The gentleman, dripping and cold, Seem'd much like a half-drowned rat, But praised his deliverer so bold, Then adjusted his cane, wig, and hat. Now homeward the gentleman hied, But neither could wear wig or hat; The dog followed close at his side, Fawn'd, waggled his tail, and all that. The gentleman, filled with delight, The dog's master hastily sought; Two guineas set all things to right, For that sum his true friend he bought. From him the dog never would part, But lived much caressed for some years; Till levelled by Death's fatal dart, When the gentleman shed many tears. Then buried poor Tray in the Green. And placed o'er the grave a small stone, Whereon a few lines may be seen, Expressive of what he had done." _Bonus orbi_; or _Orbus boni_; _O alte vir_. "To purchase fame, In keen iambics and mild anagram." _Ego Regem reduxi, anno sa_ MDCLVV. In this anagram the _c_ takes the place of the _k_. _Carmelo se devolvit_. "_They reap well_, That Heaven obtain; Who sow like thee, Ne'er sow in vain." In this sermon Peter Whalley is also anagrammatised into _A Whyte "A _toast_ is like _a sot_; or what is most Comparative, _a sot_ is like a _toast_; For when their substances in liquor sink, Both properly are said to be in drink." "His brows with laurel need not to be bound, Since in his _name_ with _laurel_ he is crowned." _A calm holy rest_. The following are additional instances. _Is born and elect for a rich speaker_. A good one is-- _Only the Tiverton M.P. can help in our mess_. Napoleon Bonaparte {_Bona rapta, leno, pone._ {_No, appear not at Elba._ _Arouse, Albion, an open plot._ "If you transpose what ladies wear, _Veil._ 'Twill plainly show what bad folks are; _Vile._ Again if you transpose the same, You'll see an ancient Hebrew name; _Levi._ Change it again, and it will show What all on earth desire to do; _Live._ Transpose the letters yet once more, What bad men do you'll then explore." _Evil._ The following are very apposite-- _It's in charity_. _O sour hope_. _A question sender_. _I mean to rend it_. _Into my arm_. _Spare him not_. Radical reform, _Rare mad frolic_. _Made moral_. _Truly he'll see war_. _The Duke shall arm the field_. _Go (D. V.) and visit the Nile_. Arktos = north, Dusis = west, Anatole = east, Mesembria = south; "_T_he longer lyfe that man on earth enjoyes, _H_is God so much the more hee dooth offende; _O_ffending God, no doubt, mannes soule destroyes; _M_annes soule destroyed, his torments have no ende; _A_nd endles torments sinners must endure, _S_ith synne Gods wrath agaynst us doth procure. _B_eware, therefore, O wretched sinfull Wight, _U_se well thy toongue, doo well, think not amysse; _T_o God praye thou to guyde thee by his spright, _T_hat thou mayest treade the path of perfect blisse. _E_mbrace thou Christe, by faythe and fervent love, _S_o shalt thou reyne with hym in heaven above. havying the first letter of everie lyne begynnyng with a letter of his name." "G Geve laude unto the Lorde, And prayse His holy name O O let us all with one accorde Now magnifie the same D Due thanks unto Him yeeld Who evermore hath beene S So strong defence buckler and shielde To our most Royall Queene. A And as for her this daie Each where about us rounde V Up to the skie right solemnelie The bells doe make a sounde E Even so let us rejoice T To him let us now frame our voyce With chearefull hearts to sing. H Her Majesties intent By thy good grace and will E Ever O Lorde hath bene most bent Thy lawe for to fulfil Q Quite Thou that loving minde With love to her agayne U Unto her as Thou hast beene kinde O Lord so still remaine. E Extende Thy mightie hand Against her mortall foes E Expresse and shewe that Thou wilt stand With her against all those N Nigh unto her abide Upholde her scepter strong E Eke graunt us with a joyfull guide She may continue long. The next is from Planche's "Songs and Poems:" "_B_eauty to claim, amongst the fairest place, _E_nchanting manner, unaffected grace, _A_rch without malice, merry but still wise, _T_ruth ever on her lips as in her eyes; _R_eticent not from sullenness or pride, _I_ntensity of feeling but to hide; _C_an any doubt such being there may be? _E_ach line I pen, points, matchless maid, to thee!" _R_uby, _R_oxana, _A_methyst, _A_menaide, _C_ornelian, _C_amille, _H_ematite, _H_ermione, _E_merald, _E_milie, _L_apis lazuli, _L_aodice. "_U_nite and untie are the same--so say yo_u_ _N_ot in wedlock, I ween, has the unity bee_n_ _I_n the drama of marriage, each wandering gou_t_ _T_o a new face would fly--all except you and _I_ _E_ach seeking to alter the _spell_ in their scen_e_." "For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda, Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure Divine--a talisman--an amulet That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure-- The words--the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labour! And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eye's scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_ Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets by poets--as the name is a poet's, too, Its letters, although naturally lying Still form a synonym for Truth. Cease trying! "Americans arrayed and armed attend Beside battalions bold, bright beauties blend, Chiefs, clergy, citizens, conglomerate,-- Detesting despots,--daring deeds debate; Each eye emblazoned ensigns entertain,-- Flourishing from far, fan freedom's flame. Guards greeting guards grown gray,--guest greeting guest. High-minded heroes hither homeward haste, Ingenuous juniors join in jubilee, Kith kenning kin, kind knowing kindred key. Lo, lengthened lines lend Liberty liege love, Mixed masses, marshalled, Monumentward move. Note noble navies near--no novel notion Oft our oppressors overawed old Ocean; Presumptuous princes pristine patriots paled, Queen's quarrel questing quotas, quondam quailed. Rebellion roused, revolting ramparts rose. Stout spirits, smiting servile soldiers, strove. These thrilling themes, to thousands truly told, Usurpers' unjust usages unfold. Victorious vassals, vauntings vainly veiled, Where, whilesince, Webster warlike Warren wailed. 'Xcuse 'xpletives, 'xtra queer 'xpressed, Yielding Yankee yeomen Zest." "All ardent acts affright an age abased By brutal broils, by braggart bravery braced. Craft's cankered courage changed Culloden's cry; Enough. Ere envy enters England's eyes, Fancy's false future fades, for Fortune flies. Gaunt, gloomy, guarded, grappling giant griefs, Here hunted hard, his harassed heart he heaves; In impious ire incessant ills invests, Judging Jove's jealous judgments, jaundiced jests! Kneel kirtled knight! keep keener kingcraft known, Let larger lore life's levelling lesson's loan; Marauders must meet malefactors' meeds. No nation noisy nonconformists needs. O, oracles of old! our orb ordain Peace's possession--Plenty's palmy plain! Quiet Quixotic quests; quell quarrelling; Rebuke red riot's resonant rifle ring. Slumber seems strangely sweet since silence smote The threatening thunders throbbing through their throat. Usurper! under uniform unwont Vail valour's vaguest venture, vainest vaunt. Well wot we which were wise. War's wildfire won Yet you, ye yearning youth, your young years yield Zuinglius' zealous zest--Zinzendorf Zion-zealed." "Alligator, beetle, porcupine, whale, Bobolink, panther, dragon-fly, snail, Crocodile, monkey, buffalo, hare, Dromedary, leopard, mud-turtle, bear, Elephant, badger, pelican, ox, Flying-fish, reindeer, anaconda, fox, Guinea-pig, dolphin, antelope, goose, Humming-bird, weasel, pickerel, moose, Ibex, rhinoceros, owl, kangaroo, Jackal, opossum, toad, cockatoo, Kingfisher, peacock, anteater, bat, Lizard, ichneumon, honey-bee, rat, Mocking-bird, camel, grasshopper, mouse, Nightingale, spider, cuttle-fish, grouse, Ocelot, pheasant, wolverine, auk, Periwininkle, ermine, katydid, hawk, Quail, hippopotamus, armadillo, moth, Rattlesnake, lion, woodpecker, sloth, Salamander, goldfinch, angleworm, dog, Tiger, flamingo, scorpion, frog, Unicorn, ostrich, nautilus, mole, Viper, gorilla, basilisk, sole, Whippoorwill, beaver, centipede, fawn, Xantho, canary, polliwog, swan, Yellowhammer, eagle, hyena, lark, Zebra, chameleon, butterfly, shark." "As a wave that steals when the winds are stormy From creek to cove of the curving shore, Buffeted, blown, and broken before me, Scattered and spread to its sunlit core. As a dove that dips in the dark of maples, To sip the sweetness of shelter and shade, I kneel in thy nimbus, O noon of Naples, I bathe in thine beauty, by thee embayed. What is it ails me that I should sing of her? The queen of the flashes and flames that were! Yea, I have felt the shuddering sting of her, The flower-sweet throat and the hands of her! I have swayed and sung to the sound of her psalters, I have danced her dances of dizzy delight, I have hallowed mine hair to the horns of her altars, Between the nightingale's song and the night! What is it, Queen, that now I should do for thee? What is it now I should ask at thine hands? Blow of the trumpets thine children once blew for thee Break from thine feet and thine bosom the bands? Nay, as sweet as the songs of Leone Leoni, And gay as her garments of gem-sprinkled gold, She gives me mellifluous, mild macaroni, The choice of her children when cheeses are old! And over me hover, as if by the wings of it, Frayed in the furnace by flame that is fleet, The curious coils and the strenuous strings of it, Dropping, diminishing down, as I eat; Lo! and the beautiful Queen, as she brings of it, Lifts me the links of the limitless chain, Bidding mine mouth chant the splendidest things of it, Out of the wealth of my wonderful brain! Behold! I have done it; my stomach is smitten With sweets of the surfeit her hands have enrolled. Italia, mine cheeks with thine kisses are bitten: I am broken with beauty, stabbed, slaughtered, and sold! No man of thy millions is more macaronied, Save mighty Mazzini, than musical Me: The souls of the Ages shall stand as astonied, And faint in the flame I am fanning for thee!" "The 'orn of the 'unter is 'eard on the 'ill;" and again, in Moore's "Ballad Stanzas": "If there's peace to be found in the world, A 'eart that was 'umble might 'ope for it 'ere!" "Ha helephant heasily heats hat his hease Hunder humbrageous humbrella trees!" "Bloom, beauteous blossoms, budding bowers beneath! Behold, Boreas' bitter blast by brief Bright beams becalmed; balmy breezes breathe, Banishing blight, bring bliss beyond belief. Build, bonny birds! By bending birchen bough, By bush, by beech, by buttressed branches bare, By bluebell-brightened bramble-brake; bestow Bespeckled broods; but bold bad boys beware! Babble, blithe brooklet! Barren borders breach, Bathe broomy banks, bright buttercups bedew, Briskly by bridge, by beetling bluff, by beach, Beckoned by bravely bounding billows blue!" "Brimming brooklets bubble, Buoyant breezes blow, Baby-billows breaking Bashfully below. Blossom-burdened branches, Briared banks betide, Bright bewitching bluebells Blooming bend beside. But beyond be breakers, Bare blasts brooding black, Bitterly bemoaning Broken barks borne back." "Beverage by bibbers blest, Balmy beer--bewitching bane, British brewings, boasted best, Blunting Bacchus' brandied brain. Bonny bumpers brimmed by beads, Barley-born, bring blind relief, Bubbling Bass-brewed Burton breed Bland beguilement, bright but brief. Bar-bought beer--bah! bitter brine-- Barrel-broaching braves, beware! Bid Bavaria, benign, Better brews bold Britons bear." Pope says on this point in the following lines, which are also alliterative-- "'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar." We find this example in Tennyson: "The splendour falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying." Crabbe also used this ornament profusely, as: "Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way O'er its rough bridge, and there behold the bay; The ocean smiling to the fervid sun, The waves that faintly fall and slowly run, The ships at distance, and the boats at hand, And now they walk upon the seaside sand, Counting the number, and what kind they be, Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea." Take also this from Shelley's "Ode to a Skylark:" "Teach me half the gladness That my brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?" "A was the Anchor which held fast our ship; B was the Boatswain, with whistle to lip; C was the Captain, who took the command; D was the Doctor, with physic at hand; E was the Euchre we played on the quiet; F was the Fellow who kicked up a riot; G was the Girl who was always so ill; H was the Hammock from which I'd a spill I was the Iceberg we passed on our way; J was the Jersey I wore all the day; K was the Keel, which was stuck on the shore; L was the Lubber we all thought a bore; M was the Mate, no one better I'd wish; N was the Net in which I caught a fish; O was the Oar which I broke--'twas so weak; P was the Pennon which flew at our peak; Q was the Quoit which was made out of rope; R was the Rat which would eat all our soap; S was the Sailor who got very tight; T was the Tempest which came on one night; U was the Uproar the night of the storm; V was the Vessel we spoke in due form; W's the Watch which the crew kept in turn; X was Xantippe, whom each one did spurn; Y was our Yacht, which flew through the foam; Z was the Zany who wouldn't leave home." "Upon the poop the captain stands, As starboard as may be; And pipes on deck the topsail hands To reef the top-sail-gallant strands Across the briny sea. 'Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!' The captain loudly cried; 'Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay! For we must luff for Falmouth Bay Before to-morrow's tide.' The good ship was a racing yawl, A spare-rigged schooner sloop, Athwart the bows the taffrails all In grummets gay appeared to fall, To deck the mainsail poop. But ere they made the Foreland Light, And Deal was left behind; The wind it blew great gales that night, And blew the doughty captain tight, Full three sheets in the wind. And right across the tiller head The horse it ran apace, Whereon a traveller hitched and sped Along the jib and vanished To heave the trysail brace. What ship could live in such a sea! What vessel bear the shock? 'Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee! Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree, With many a running block!' And right upon the Scilly Isles The ship had run aground; When lo! the stalwart Captain Giles Mounts up upon the gaff and smiles, And slews the compass round. 'Saved! saved!' with joy the sailors cry, And scandalise the skiff; As taut and hoisted high and dry They see the ship unstoppered lie Upon the sea-girt cliff. And since that day in Falmouth Bay, As herring-fishers trawl, The younkers hear the boatswains say How Captain Giles that awful day Preserved the sinking yawl." "Thy heart is like some icy lake, On whose cold brink I stand; Oh, buckle on my spirit's skate, And lead, thou living saint, the way To where the ice is thin-- That it may break beneath my feet And let a lover in!" "How many strive to force a way Where none can go save those who pay, To verdant plains of soft delight The homage of the silent night, When countless stars from pole to pole Around the earth unceasing roll In roseate shadow's silvery hue, Shine forth and gild the morning dew." "And must we really part for good, But meet again here where we've stood? No more delightful trysting-place, We've watched sweet Nature's smiling face. No more the landscape's lovely brow, Exchange our mutual breathing vow. Then should the twilight draw around No loving interchange of sound." "Less for renown than innate love, These to my wish must recreant prove; Nor whilst an impulse here remain, Can ever hope the soul to gain; For memory scanning all the past, Relaxes her firm bonds at last, And gives to candour all the grace The heart can in its temple trace." "An auld wife sat at her ivied door (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_); A thing she had frequently done before; And her knitting reposed on her aproned knees. The piper he piped on the hill-top high (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_); Till the cow said, 'I die,' and the goose said, 'Why?' And the dog said nothing but searched for fleas. The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_); And I've met a ballad, I can't tell where, Which mainly consisted of lines like these." "Sing for the garish eye, When moonless brandlings cling! Let the froddering crooner cry, And the braddled sapster sing. For never and never again, Will the tottering beechlings play, For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May!" "To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care: To pursue it with forks and hope; To threaten its life with a railway share; To charm it with smiles and soap! For the Snark's a peculiar creature, that won't Be caught in a commonplace way; Do all that you know, and try all that you don't: Not a chance must be wasted to-day!" "Lovely maid, with rapture swelling, Should these pages meet thine eye, Clouds of absence soft dispelling;-- Vacant memory heaves a sigh. As the rose, with fragrance weeping, Trembles to the tuneful wave, So my heart shall twine unsleeping, Till it canopies the grave. Though another's smile's requited, Envious fate my doom should be; Joy for ever disunited, Think, ah! think, at times on me! Oft, amid the spicy gloaming, Where the brakes their songs instil, Fond affection silent roaming, Loves to linger by the rill-- There, when echo's voice consoling, Hears the nightingale complain, Gentle sighs my lips controlling, Bind my soul in beauty's chain. Oft in slumber's deep recesses, I thy mirror'd image see; Fancy mocks the vain caresses I would lavish like a bee! But how vain is glittering sadness! Hark, I hear distraction's knell! Torture gilds my heart with madness! Now for ever fare thee well!" "Men were never perfect; yet the three brethren Veres were ever severe, erect Hester Green. The next, clever Ned, less dependent, "Tell me whence these meek, these gentle sheep,--whence the yet meeker, the gentler shepherdess?" "'Never! we well remember the Seer. We went where he dwells--we entered the cell--we begged the decree,-- "'Where, whenever, when, 'twere well Eve be wedded? Eld Seer, tell! "'_Ere the green be red, Sweet Eve, be never wed; Ere be green the red cheek, Never wed thee, Eve meek._' "The terms perplexed Stephen, yet he jeered them. He resented the "Bold Nassan quits his caravan, A hazy mountain grot to scan; Climbs jaggy rocks to spy his way, Doth tax his sight, but far doth stray. Not work of man, nor sport of child, Finds Nassan in that mazy wild; Lax grows his joints, limbs toil in vain-- Poor wight! why didst thou quit that plain Vainly for succour Nassan calls, Know, Zillah, that thy Nassan falls; But prowling wolf and fox may joy, To quarry on thy Arab boy." Here follows a fugitive verse, written with _ease_ without _e's_: "A jovial swain may rack his brain, And tax his fancy's might, To quiz in vain, for 'tis most plain, That what I say is right." The three following verses are very good: "On Linden when the sun was low, A frog he would a-wooing go; He sighed a sigh, and breathed a prayer, None but the brave deserve the fair. A gentle knight was pricking o'er the plain, Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow; Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, Or who would suffer being here below. The younger of the sister arts Was born on the open sea; The rest were slain at Chevy Chase, Under the greenwood tree. At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wings, And says--remembrance saddening o'er each brow-- Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things! Who would be free themselves must strike the blow! It was a friar of orders gray, Still harping on my daughter: Sister spirit, come away, Across this stormy water. On the light fantastic toe, Othello's occupation's gone; Were the last words of Marmion. There was a sound of revelry by night In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago; And comely virgins came with garlands dight To censure Fate, and pious Hope forgo. Oh! the young Lochinvar came out of the west, An underbred fine-spoken fellow was he; A back dropping in, an expansion of chest, Far more than I once could foresee." _Shepherd._ Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? _Shep._ What must we do our passion to express? _Shep._ How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? _Shep._ What most moves women when we them address? _Echo._ A dress. _Shep._ Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? _Echo._ A door. _Shep._ If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. _Shep._ Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? _Echo._ Buy her. _Shep._ When bought, no question I shall be her dear? _Echo._ Her dear. _Shep._ But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? _Shep._ What must I do when women will be kind? _Echo._ Be kind. _Shep._ What must I do when women will be cross? _Echo._ Be cross. _Shep._ Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? _Shep._ If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? _Shep._ But if she bang again, still should I bang her? _Echo._ Bang her. _Echo._ Hang her. _Shep._ Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. _Echo._ Guard her well. _Lover._ Echo! mysterious nymph, declare Of what you're made, and what you are. _Lover._ 'Mid airy cliffs and places high; Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie. _Echo._ You lie. _Lover._ Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds-- Hark! how my voice revives, resounds! _Lover._ I'll question thee before I go-- Come, answer me more apropos! _Lover._ Tell me, fair nymph, if ere you saw So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw? _Lover._ Say what will turn that frisking coney Into the toils of matrimony? _Lover._ Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow? Is not her bosom white as snow? _Lover._ Her eyes! was ever such a pair? Are the stars brighter than they are. _Echo._ They are. _Lover._ Echo, thou liest! but canst deceive me. _Lover._ But come, thou saucy, pert romancer, Who is as fair as Phoebe? Answer! _Echo._ Ann, sir. Mes principautes? Mes cuirasses? perpetually moving These faithful hands are proving How soft the hours steal by; This monitory pulse-like beating, Is oftentimes methinks repeating, 'Swift, swift, the hours do fly.' Ready! be ready! perhaps before These hands have made One revolution more, Life's spring is snapt,-- You die!" "Little monitor, impart Some instruction to the heart; Show the busy and the gay Life is wasting swift away. Follies cannot long endure, Life is short and death is sure. Happy those who wisely learn Truth from error to discern: Truth, immortal as the soul, And unshaken as the pole." "Joined by friendship, Crowned by love." "Could but our tempers move like this machine, Not urged by passion, nor delayed by spleen; But true to Nature's regulating power, By virtuous acts distinguish every hour: Then health and joy would follow, as they ought, The laws of motion and the laws of thought: On earth would pass the pleasant moments o'er To rest in Heaven when Time shall be no more!" "Sweet health to pass the pleasant moments o'er And everlasting joy when Time shall be no more." "To-morrow! yes, to-morrow! you'll repent A train of years in vice and folly spent. To-morrow comes--no penitential sorrow Appears therein, for still it is to-morrow; At length to-morrow such a habit gains That you'll forget the time that Heaven ordains; And you'll believe that day too soon will be When more to-morrows you're denied to see." Another old engraved specimen contained this verse: "Content thy selfe withe thyne estat, And sende no poore wight from thy gate; For why, this councell I thee give, To learne to dye, and dye to lyve." "Absent or dead Still let a friend be Dear. The Absent claims a sigh, the dead a tear. Angels guard The friend I Milman's poems have furnished a verse for this purpose: "It matters little at what hour o' the day The righteous fall asleep; death cannot come To him untimely who is fit to die. The less of this cold world, the more of heaven; The briefer life, the earlier immortality." Various other examples of watch-case verses follow: "See how the moments pass, How swift they fly away! In the instructive glass Behold thy life's decay. Oh! waste not then thy prime In sin's pernicious road; Redeem thy misspent time, Acquaint thyself with God. So when thy pulse shall cease Its throbbing transient play, The soul to realms of bliss May wing its joyful way." "Deign, lady fair, this watch to wear, To mark how moments fly; For none a moment have to spare, Who in a moment die." "With me while present, may thy lovely eyes, Be never turned upon this golden toy; Think every pleasing hour too swiftly flies, And measure time by joy succeeding joy. But when the cares that interrupt our bliss, To me not always will thy sight allow, Then oft with fond impatience look on this, Then every minute count--as I do now." "Time is thou hast, employ the portion small; Time past is gone, thou canst not it recall; Time future is not, and may never be; Time present is the only time for thee." "Watch against evil thoughts Watch against idle words; Watch against sinful ways; Watch against wicked actions. What I say unto you I say unto all, Watch." "Mark the rapid motion Of this timepiece; hear it say, Man, attend to thy salvation; Time does quickly pass away. Why, heedless of the warning Which my tinkling sound doth give, Do forget, vain frame adorning, Man thou art not born to live?" On a sun-dial the following verse has been found engraved: "Once at a potent leader's voice it stayed; Once it went back when a good monarch prayed; Mortals! howe'er ye grieve, howe'er deplore, The flying shadow shall return no more." This was found under an hour-glass in a grotto near water: "This babbling stream not uninstructive flows, Nor idly loiters to its destined main; Each flower it feeds that on its margin grows, Now bids thee blush, whose days are spent in vain. Nor void of moral, though unheeded glides Time's current, stealing on with silent haste; For lo! each falling sand _his_ folly chides, Who lets one precious moment run to waste." "MY DARLING,--Why am I such a fool as to write to a gipsy at "The gentle reader we apprise, That this new Angel in the House Contains a tale not very wise, About a person and a spouse. The 'While thus I grieved and kissed her glove, My man brought in her note to say Papa had bid her send his love, And hoped I dine with them next day; They had learned and practised Purcell's glee, To sing it by to-morrow night: The postscript was--her sisters and she Inclosed some violets blue and white. 'Restless and sick of long exile, From those sweet friends I rode, to see The church repairs, and after a while Waylaying the Dean, was asked to tea. They introduced the Cousin Fred I'd heard of, Honor's favourite; grave, Dark, handsome, bluff, but gently bred, And with an air of the salt wave.' "He drew his breath with a gasping sob, with a quivering voice he _Air._--"If I had a donkey vot vouldn't go, Do you think I'd wallop," &c. "Had I an ass averse to speed, Deem'st thou I'd strike him? No, indeed! Mark me, I'd try persuasion's art, For cruelty offends my heart: Had all resembled me, I ween, Martin, thy law had needless been Of speechless brutes from blows to screen The poor head; For had I an ass averse to speed I ne'er would strike him, no, indeed! I'd give him hay, and cry, 'Proceed,' Why speak I thus? This very morn, I saw that cruel William Burn, Whilst crying 'Greens' upon his course, Assail his ass with all his force; He smote him o'er the head and thighs, Till tears bedimmed the creature's eyes! Oh! 'twas too much, my blood 'gan rise And I exclaimed, Burn turn'd and cried, with scornful eye, 'Perchance thou'rt one of Martin's fry, And seek'st occasion base to take, The vile informer's gain to make.' Word of denial though I spoke, Full on my brow his fury broke, And thus, while I return'd the stroke, I exclaimed, To us, infringing thus the peace, Approach'd his guardians--the police; And, like inevitable Fate, Bore us to where stern Justice sate; Her minister the tale I told; And to support my word, made bold To crave he would the ass behold: 'For,' I declared, They called the creature into court Where, sooth to say, he made some sport, With ears erect, and parted jaws, As though he strove to plead his cause: I gained the palm of feelings kind; The ass was righted; William fined. For Justice, one with me in mind, Cried William to his judge, ''Tis hard (Think not the fine that I regard), But things have reached a goodly pass-- One may not beat a stubborn ass!' Nought spoke the judge, but closed his book; So William thence the creature took, Eyeing me--ah! with what a look, As gently whispering in his ear, I said, There was a young damsel; oh, bless her, It cost very little to dress her; She was sweet as a rose In her everyday clothes, But had no young man to caress her. There was a young turkey; oh, bless her: It cost very little to dress her; Some dry bread and thyme, About Thanksgiving time, And they ate the last bit from the dresser. A newspaper poet; oh, dang him! And pelt him and club him and bang him! He kept writing away, Till the people one day Rose up and proceeded to hang him. "Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark The signal of the setting sun--one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-lane Dane slain,-- Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-- Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets, and take up Pall Mall Sal, Who hastening to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee, And while they're going whisper low, 'No go!' Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers waking, grumble--'Drat that cat!' Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize-size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgey, or Charles, or Billy, willy-nilly; But nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears--what faith is man's!--Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!" "Let us sip, and let it slip, And go which way it will a; Let us trip, and let us skip, And let us drink our fill a. Take the cup, and drink all up, Give me the can to fill a; Every sup, and every cup, Hold here and my good will a. Gossip mine and gossip thine; Now let us gossip still a; Here is good wine, this ale is fine, Now drink of which you will a. Round about, till all be out, I pray you let us swill a; This jolly grout is jolly and stout, I pray you stout it still a. Let us laugh and let us quaff, Good drinkers think none ill a; Here is your bag, here is your staffe, Be packing to the mill a." "In a certain fair island, for commerce renown'd, Whose fleets sailed in every sea, A set of fanatics, men say, there was found, Who set up an island and worship around, And called it by name Elessde. Many heads had the monster, and tails not a few, Of divers rare metals was he And temples they built him right goodly to view, Where oft they would meet, and, like idolists true, Pay their vows to the great Elessde. Moreover, at times would their frenzy attain ('Twas nought less) to so high a degree, That his soul-blinded votaries did not complain, But e'en laid down their lives his false favour to gain-- So great was thy power, Elessde. As for morals, this somewhat unscrupulous race Were lax enough, 'twixt you and me; Men would poison their friends with professional grace, And of the fell deed leave behind ne'er a trace, For the sake of the fiend, Elessde. Then forgery flourished, and rampant and rife Was each form of diablerie; While the midnight assassin, with mallet and knife, Would steal on his victim and rob him of life, And all for thy love, Elessde. There were giants of crime on the earth in that day, The like of which we may not see: Although, peradventure, some sceptic will say There be those even now who acknowledge the sway Of the god of the world--_L s. d._" "What is earth, Sexton?--A place to dig graves. What is earth, Rich man?--A place to work slaves. What is earth, Greybeard?--A place to grow old. What is earth, Miser?--A place to dig gold. What is earth, Schoolboy?--A place for my play. What is earth, Maiden?--A place to be gay. What is earth, Seamstress?--A place where I weep. What is earth, Sluggard?--A good place to sleep. What is earth, Soldier?--A place for a battle. What is earth, Herdsman?--A place to raise cattle. What is earth, Widow?--A place of true sorrow. What is earth, Tradesman?--I'll tell you to-morrow. What is earth, Sick man?--'Tis nothing to me. What is earth, Sailor?--My home is the sea. What is earth, Statesman?--A place to win fame. What is earth, Author?--I'll write there my name. What is earth, Monarch?--For my realm it is given. What is earth, Christian?--The gateway of heaven." Macaulay, travesty on, 31; Two well-known alehouses in Oxford, about 1700. "'What do you mean by the reference to Greeley?' (Uniform with the present volume, post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d.) "This latest volume of the bright little 'Mayfair Library' is an "It is quite certain that there have been thousands of not only "A miscellaneous and highly amusing collection of literary "One of the most quaintly amusing books we have seen for a long time."--_Edinburgh Evening Express._ pains."--_Edinburgh Daily Review._

Charles Warren Stoddard

South-Sea Idyls

1843

Authors of "The Bad Child's Book of Beasts" "The Modern Traveller" etc. stands for Archibald who told no lies, And got this lovely volume for a prize. The Upper School had combed and oiled their hair, And all the Parents of the Boys were there. In words that ring like thunder through the Hall, Draw tears from some and loud applause from all,-- Bestows the Gift upon the Radiant Boy:-- "Accept the Noblest Work produced as yet" (Says he) "upon the English Alphabet; "Next term I shall examine you, to find "If you have read it thoroughly. So mind!" And while the Boys and Parents cheered so loud, That out of doors a large and anxious crowd Had gathered and was blocking up the street, The admirable child resumed his seat. Learn from this justly irritating Youth, To brush your Hair and Teeth and tell the Truth. B stands for Bear. When Bears are seen Approaching in the distance, Make up your mind at once between A Gentleman remained to fight-- With what result for him? The Bear, with ill-concealed delight, Devoured him, Limb by Limb. Another Person turned and ran; He ran extremely hard: The Bear was faster than the Man, And beat him by a yard. Decisive action in the hour of need Denotes the Hero, but does not succeed. C stands for Cobra; when the Cobra bites An Indian Judge, the Judge spends restless nights. This creature, though disgusting and appalling, Conveys no kind of Moral worth recalling. Will have to do his best for D. The early world observed with awe His back, indented like a saw. His look was gay, his voice was strong; His tail was neither short nor long; His trunk, or elongated nose, Was not so large as some suppose; His teeth, as all the world allows, Were graminivorous, like a cow's. He therefore should have wished to pass Long peaceful nights upon the Grass, But being mad the brute preferred To roost in branches, like a bird.[A] A creature heavier than a whale, You see at once, could hardly fail To suffer badly when he slid And tumbled (as he always did). His fossil, therefore, comes to light All broken up: and serve him right. If you were born to walk the ground, Remain there; do not fool around. We have good reason to suppose He did so, from his claw-like toes. stands for The Moral of this verse Is applicable to the Young. Be terse. for a Family taking a walk In Arcadia Terrace, no doubt: The parents indulge in intelligent talk, While the children they gambol about. At a quarter-past six they return to their tea, Of a kind that would hardly be tempting to me, Though my appetite passes belief. And a large Pigeon Pie very skilfully made To consist almost wholly of Beef. A Respectable Family taking the air Is a subject on which I could dwell; It contains all the morals that ever there were, And it sets an example as well. stands for Gnu, whose weapons of Defence Are long, sharp, curling Horns, and Common-sense. To these he adds a Name so short and strong, That even Hardy Boers pronounce it wrong. How often on a bright Autumnal day The Pious people of Pretoria say, "Come, let us hunt the----" Then no more is heard But Sounds of Strong Men struggling with a word. Meanwhile, the distant Gnu with grateful eyes Observes his opportunity, and flies. Child, if you have a rummy kind of name, Remember to be thankful for the same. H was a Horseman who rode to the meet, And talked of the Pads of the fox as his "feet"-- An error which furnished subscribers with grounds For refusing to make him a Master of Hounds. He gave way thereupon to so fearful a rage, That he sold up his Stable and went on the Stage, And had all the success that a man could desire In creating the Part of In the Learned Professions, a person should know The advantage of having two strings to his bow. the Poor Indian, justly called "The Poor," He has to eat his Dinner off the floor. The Moral these delightful lines afford Is: "Living cheaply is its own reward." stands for James, who thought it immaterial To pay his taxes, Local or Imperial. In vain the Mother wept, the Wife implored, James only yawned as though a trifle bored. The Tax Collector called again, but he Was met with Persiflage and Repartee. When James was hauled before the learned Judge, Who lectured him, he loudly whispered, "Fudge!" The Judge was startled from his usual calm, struck the desk before him with his palm, And roared in tones to make the boldest quail, "_J stands for James_, IT ALSO STANDS FOR JAIL." And therefore, on a dark and dreadful day, Policemen came and took him all away. The fate of James is typical, and shows How little mercy people can expect Who will not pay their taxes; (saving those To which they conscientiously object.) Where the winters are often excessively cold; Where the lawn every morning is covered with rime, And skating continues for years at a time. Do you think that a Climate can conquer the grit Of the Sons of the West? Not a bit! Not a bit! When the weather looks nippy, the bold Pioneers Put on two pairs of Stockings and cover their ears, And roam through the drear Hyperborean dales With a vast apparatus of Buckets and Pails; Or wander through wild Hyperborean glades There are some who give rise to exuberant mirth By turning up nothing but bushels of earth, While those who have little cause excellent fun By attempting to pilfer from those who have none. At times the reward they will get for their pains Is to strike very tempting auriferous veins; Or, a shaft being sunk for some miles in the ground, Not infrequently nuggets of value are found. They bring us the gold when their labours are ended, And we--after thanking them prettily--spend it. Just you work for Humanity, never you mind If Humanity seems to have left you behind. Who drove in her carriage and six, Who were all of them regular bricks. If the Coach ran away, or was smashed by a Dray, Or got into collisions and blocks, The Page, with a courtesy rare for his years, Would leap to the ground with inspiriting cheers, While the Footman allayed her legitimate fears, And the Coachman sat tight on his box. At night as they met round an excellent meal, They would take it in turn to observe: "What a Lady indeed! . . . what a presence to Feel! . . ." "What a Woman to worship and serve! . . ." But, perhaps, the most poignant of all their delights Was to stand in a rapturous Dream When she spoke to them kindly on Saturday Nights, And said "They deserved her Esteem." Now observe the Reward of these dutiful lives: At the end of their Loyal Career They each had a Lodge at the end of the drives, And she left them a Hundred a Year. Remember from this to be properly vexed When the newspaper editors say, That "The type of society shown in the Text "Is rapidly passing away." And ate like this-- as long as he was able; At half-past twelve the waiters turned him out: He lived impoverished and died of gout. Disgusting exhibition! Have a care When, later on, you are a Millionaire, To rise from table feeling you could still Take something more, and not be really ill. stands for Ned, Maria's younger brother, Who, walking one way, chose to gaze the other. In Blandford Square--a crowded part of town-- Two People on a tandem knocked him down; a Motor Car, with warning shout, Ran right on top and turned him inside out: The damages that he obtained from these Maintained him all his life in cultured ease. The law protects you. Go your gentle way: The Other Man has always got to Pay. stands for Oxford. Hail! salubrious seat Of learning! Academical Retreat! Which People call Medeeval (though it's not). The marshes in the neighbourhood can vie With Cambridge, but the town itself is dry, And serves to make a kind of Fold or Pen Wherein to herd a lot of Learned Men. Were I to write but half of what they know, It would exhaust the space reserved for "O"; And, as my book must not be over big, I turn at once to "P," which stands for Pig. Be taught by this to speak with moderation Of places where, with decent application, One gets a good, sound, middle-class education. stands for Pig, as I remarked before, A second cousin to the Huge Wild Boar. But Pigs are civilized, while Huge Wild Boars Live savagely, at random, out of doors, And, in their coarse contempt for dainty foods, Subsist on Truffles, which they find in woods. Not so the cultivated Pig, who feels The need of several courses at his meals, But wrongly thinks it does not matter whether He takes them one by one or all together. Hence, Pigs devour, from lack of self-respect, What Epicures would certainly reject. Learn from the Pig to take whatever Fate Or Elder Persons heap upon your plate. for Quinine, which children take With Jam and little bits of cake. reviewing my book, At which he had barely intended to look; But the very first lines upon "A" were enough To convince him the _Verses_ were excellent stuff. So he wrote, without stopping, for several days In terms of extreme, but well-merited Praise. To quote but one Passage: "No Person" (says he), "Will be really content without purchasing three, "While a Parent will send for a dozen or more, "And strew them about on the Nursery Floor. "The Versification might call for some strictures "Were it not for its singular wit; while the Pictures, "Tho' the handling of line is a little defective, "Make up amply in _verve_ what they lack in perspective." The habit of constantly telling the Truth Will lend an additional lustre to Youth. stands for Snail, who, though he be the least, Is not an uninstructive Horned Beast. His eyes are on his Horns, and when you shout Or tickle them, the Horns go in and out. Had Providence seen proper to endow The furious Unicorn or sober Cow With such a gift the one would never now Appear so commonplace on Coats of Arms. And what a fortune for our failing farms If circus managers, with wealth untold, Would take the Cows for half their weight in gold! Learn from the Snail to take reproof with patience, And not put out your Horns on all occasions. for the Genial Tourist, who resides In Peckham, where he writes Italian Guides. Learn from this information not to cavil At slight mistakes in books on foreign travel. that casts a blight On those that pull their sisters' hair, and fight. But oh! the Good! They wander undismayed, And (as the Subtle Artist has portrayed) Dispend the golden hours at play beneath its shade.[B] Dear Reader, if you chance to catch a sight Of Upas Trees, betake yourself to flight. A friend of mine, a Botanist, believes That Good can even browse upon its leaves. V for the unobtrusive Volunteer, Who fills the Armies of the World with fear. Seek with the Volunteer to put aside The empty Pomp of Military Pride. My little victim, let me trouble you To fix your active mind on W. The WATERBEETLE here shall teach A sermon far beyond your reach: He flabbergasts the Human Race By gliding on the water's face With ease, celerity, and grace; _But if he ever stopped to think Of how he did it, he would sink._ Don't ask Questions! No reasonable little Child expects A Grown-up Man to make a rhyme on X. These verses teach a clever child to find Excuse for doing all that he's inclined. stands for Youth (it would have stood for Yak, But that I wrote about him two years back). Youth is the pleasant springtime of our days, As Dante so mellifluously says (Who always speaks of Youth with proper praise). You have not got to Youth, but when you do You'll find what He and I have said is true. Youth's excellence should teach the Modern Wit First to be Young, and then to boast of it. for this Zebu, who (like all Zebus)[C] Is held divine by scrupulous Hindoos. Von Kettner writes it "_Ze_bu"; Wurst "Ze_bu_": I split the difference and use the two. Idolatry, as you are well aware, Is highly reprehensible. But there, We needn't bother,--when we get to Z Our interest in the Alphabet is dead. _Published by Mr. EDWARD ARNOLD._ Written by ERNEST AMES, and Illustrated by MRS. ERNEST AMES, Fully and brilliantly coloured. An Animal Picture-Book by E. T. REED, Author of "Pre-Historic With Verses by "A BELGIAN HARE." Being a Selection of Sketches by the late SIR Third Edition. Oblong royal 4to. 10s. 6d. By H. B. and B. B. By H. B. and B. B.

A. L. (Alfred Lys) Baldry

Burne-Jones

1858

Habitant," etc. "O ma ole canoe, wat 's matter wit' you, an' w'y was you be so slow? Don't I work hard enough on de paddle, an' still you don't seem to go-- No win' at all on de fronte side, an' current she don't be strong, Den w'y are you lak' lazy feller, too sleepy for move along? "I 'member de tam, w'en you jomp de sam' as deer wit' de wolf behin', An' brochet on de top de water, you scare heem mos' off hees min': But fish don't care for you now at all, only jus' mebbe wink de eye, For he know it 's easy git out de way, w'en I 'm spikin' dis way, jus' de oder day, w'en I 'm out wit' de ole canoe Crossin' de point w'ere I see, las' fall, wan very beeg caribou, Wen somebody say, "Phil-o-rum, mon vieux, wat 's matter wit' you youse'f?" An' who do you s'pose was talkin'? W'y de poor ole canoe shese'f. O yass, I 'm scare w'en I 'm sittin' dere, an' she 's callin' ma nam' dat way. "Phil-o-rum Juneau, w'y you spik so moche, you 're off on de head to-day: Can't be you forget, ole feller, you an' me we're not too young, An' if I 'm lookin' so ole lak' you, I t'ink I will close ma tongue. "You should feel ashame, for you 're alway blame, w'en it is n't ma fault at all, For I 'm tryin' to do bes' I can for you on summer-tam, spring, an' fall. How offen you drown on de reever, if I 'm not lookin' out for you W'en you 're takin' too moche on de w'isky, some night comin' down de Soo. "De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau, no feller can beat us den For you 're purty strong man wit' de paddle, but dat 's long ago, ma frien', An' win' she can blow off de mountain, an' tonder an' rain may come, But camp see us bote on de evening--you know dat was true, Phil-o-rum. "An' who 's your horse, too, but your ole canoe, an' w'en you feel cole an' wet, Who was your house w'en I 'm upside down, an' onder de roof you get, Wit' rain ronnin' down ma back, Bapteme! till I 'm gettin' de rheumateez, An' I never say not'ing at all moi-meme, but let you do jus' you please? "You t'ink it was right, kip me out all night on reever side down below, An' even 'bon soir' you was never say, but off on de camp you go, Leffin' your poor ole canoe behin', lyin' dere on de groun', Watchin' de moon on de water, an' de bat flyin' all aroun'? "Oh, dat's lonesome t'ing hear de grey owl sing up on de beeg pine tree! An' many long night she kip me awake till sun on de Eas' I see, An' den you come down on de morning for start on some more voyage, An' only t'ing decen' you do all day, is carry me on portage. "Dat 's way, Phil-o-rum, rheumateez she come, wit' pain ronnin' troo' ma side, Wan leetle hole here, 'noder beeg wan dere, dat not'ing can never hide, Don't do any good feex me up agen, no matter how moche you try, For w'en we come ole an' our work she 's done, bote man an' canoe mus' die." Wall, she talk dat way mebbe mos' de day till we 're passin' some beaver dam, An' wan de young beaver, he 's mak' hees tail come down on de water Flam! I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearly two, t'ree feet, I t'ink she was goin' for ronne away, an' she shut up de mout' toute suite. It mak' me feel queer, de strange t'ing I hear, an' I 'm glad she don't spik no more, But soon as we fin' ourse'f arrive over dere on de 'noder shore I tak' dat canoe lak' de lady, an' carry her off For I 'm sorry de way I 'm treat her, an' she know more dan me, sapree! Yass, dat 's smart canoe, an' I know it 's true, w'at she 's spikin' wit' me dat day, I 'm not de young feller I use to be, w'en work she was only play, An' I know I was comin' closer on place w'ere I mus' tak' care, W'ere de mos' worse current 's de las' wan too, de current of Dead Riviere. You can only steer, an' if rock be near, wit' wave dashin' all aroun', Better mak' leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere, some very smart man get drown; But if you be locky an' watch youse'f, mebbe reever won't seem so wide, An' firse t'ing you know you 'll ronne ashore, safe on de 'noder side. I've told you many a tale, my child, of the old heroic days, Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze With savage torch, from Ville Marie to the But never have I told you yet of Madeleine Vercheres. Summer had come with its blossoms, and gaily the robin sang, And deep in the forest arches, the axe of the woodman rang; Again in the waving meadows, the sun-browned farmers met And out on the green St. Lawrence, the fisherman spread his net. And so through the pleasant season, till the days of October came When children wrought with their parents, and even the old and lame With tottering frames and footsteps, their feeble labors lent At the gathering of the harvest le bon Dieu himself had sent. For news there was none of battle, from the forts on the Richelieu To the gates of the ancient city, where the flag of King Louis flew; All peaceful the skies hung over the seigneurie Like the calm that so often cometh ere the hurricane rends the air. And never a thought of danger had the Seigneur, sailing away To join the soldiers of Carignan, where down at Quebec they lay, But smiled on his little daughter, the maiden home he should come again. And ever the days passed swiftly, and careless the workmen grew, For the months they seemed a hundred since the last war-bugle blew. Ah, little they dreamt on their pillows the farmers of Vercheres, That the wolves of the southern forest had scented the harvest fair. Like ravens they quickly gather, like tigers they watch their prey. Poor people! with hearts so happy, they sang as they toiled away! Till the murderous eyeballs glistened, and the tomahawk leaped out And the banks of the green St. Lawrence echoed the savage shout. "O mother of Christ, have pity!" shrieked the women in despair; "This is no time for praying," cried the young "Aux armes! aux armes! les Iroquois! quick to your arms and guns, Fight for your God and country, and the lives of the innocent ones." And she sped like a deer of the mountain, when beagles press close behind, And the feet that would follow after must be swift as the prairie wind. Alas! for the men and women and little ones that day, For the road it was long and weary, and the fort it was far away. But the fawn had outstripped the hunters, and the palisades drew near, And soon from the inner gateway the war-bugle rang out clear, Gallant and clear it sounded, with never a note of despair-- 'T was a soldier of France's challenge, from the young Madeleine Vercheres! "And this is my little garrison, my brothers With soldiers two, and a cripple? may the Virgin pray for us all! But we 've powder and guns in plenty, and we 'll fight to the latest breath, And if need be, for God and country, die a brave soldier's death. "Load all the carabines quickly, and whenever you sight the foe Fire from the upper turret and loopholes down below, Keep up the fire, brave soldiers, though the fight may be fierce and long, And they 'll think our little garrison is more than a hundred strong." So spake the maiden Madeleine, and she roused the Norman blood That seemed for a moment sleeping, and sent it like a flood Through every heart around her, and they fought the red Iroquois As fought in the old-time battles the soldiers And they say the black clouds gathered, and a tempest swept the sky, And the roar of the thunder mingled with the forest tiger's cry, But still the garrison fought on, while the lightning's jagged spear Tore a hole in the night's dark curtain, and showed them a foeman near. And the sun rose up in the morning, and the color of blood was he, Gazing down from the heavens on the little company "Behold, my friends," cried the maiden, "'t is a warning lest we forget, Though the night saw us do our duty, our work is not finished yet." And six days followed each other, and feeble her limbs became Yet the maid never sought her pillow, and the flash of the carabine's flame Illumined the powder-smoked faces, aye, even when hope seemed gone, And she only smiled on her comrades, and told them to fight, fight on. And she blew a blast on the bugle, and lo! from the forest black. Merrily, merrily ringing, an answer came pealing back. Oh, pleasant and sweet it sounded, borne on the morning air, For it heralded fifty soldiers, with gallant De And when he beheld the maiden, the soldier of And looked on the little garrison that fought And held their own in the battle, for six long weary days, He stood for a moment speechless, and marvelled at woman's ways. Then he beckoned the men behind him, and steadily they advance And with carabines uplifted the veterans of Saluted the brave young Captain so timidly standing there, And they fired a volley in honor of Madeleine And this, my dear, is the story of the maiden God grant that we in Canada may never see again Such cruel wars and massacre, in waking or in dream, As our fathers and mothers saw, my child, in the days of the old regime!

Mór Jókai

Magyarhon szépségei; A legvitézebb huszár

1825

_Meo deo irato._ TER. PHOR. The author of the following Eclogue, having requested my assistance to introduce it to the world; it was with more indignation than surprize I was informed of your having used your entitled to the appellation of Roscius but yourself? Does Nyky resemble any nick-named favourite of yours? Or does it follow, that if you have cherished an unworthy favourite, you must bear too near a resemblance to him? _Qui capit ille facit_; beware of self-accusation, where others bring no charge! Or, granting you right in these particulars, by what right or privilege do you, Sir, set up for a licenser of the press? That you have long successfully usurped that privilege, to swell both your fame and fortune, is well known. Not the puffs of the quacks of Bayswater and Chelsea are so numerous and notorious: but by what authority do you take upon you to shut up the general channel, in which writers usher their performances to the public? If they attack either your talents or your character, _in utrumque paratus_, you countenance and conscious innocence; _Nil conscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa_; Besides this brazen bulwark, I say, you have a quibble. You have then every advantage in the contest: It is needless, therefore, to endeavour to intimidate your antagonists by countenancing your retainers to threaten their lives! These such personal provocations; Heaven knows, the life of a play-wright, like that of a spider, is in a state of the most slender dependency. It is well for my rhiming friend that his hangs not on so slight a thread. He thinks, nevertheless, that he long preferred the flimzy, translated, patch'd-up and mis-altered originality of writers, who have no personal interest with the manager. In particular, he thinks the two pieces, you are projecting to get up next winter, for the emolument of your favorite in disgrace, or to reimburse yourself the money, you may But you will ask me, perhaps, in turn, Sir, what right I have to theatre; but, tho' the scenes and machines are yours; nay, tho' you have even found means to make comedians and poets your property; it should be with more caution than you practise, that you extend your various arts to make so scandalous a property of the publick. Again I answer, it is because I have some regard for my friend, and as much for myself, whom you have treated as ill perhaps as conduct towards poets, players and the town in general, I doubt not to convince the most partial of his admirers that he hath accumulated a fortune, as manager, by the meanest and most meretricious devices, and that the theatrical props, which have long supported his exalted reputation, as an actor, have been raised on the ruins of the English stage. defeat the success of those arts, which you so unfairly practise LOVE in the SUDS; LOSS of his NYKY. _Dixin' ego vobis, in hoc esse Atticam elegantiam?_ TER. ----quae laudaram quantum luctus habuerint!_ LOVE in the SUDS; Whither away, now, GEORGE, into the city, And to the village, must thou bear my ditty. Seek NYKY out, while I in verse complain, And court the Muse to call him back again. Boeotian Nymphs, my favorite verse inspire; As erst ye NYKY taught to strike the lyre. For he like PHOEBUS' self can touch the string, And opera-songs compose--like any thing! What shall I do, now NYKY's fled away? For who like him can either sing or say? Quo te, Moeri, pedes; an quo via ducit in urbem? Nymphae, noster amor, Libethrides, nunc mihi carmen, Quale meo Codro, concedite; proxima Phoebi Versibus ille facit.---- Quid facerem? For me, alas! who well compos'd the song When lovely PEGGY liv'd, and I was young; By age impair'd, my piping days are done, My memory fails, and ev'n my voice is gone. My feeble notes I yet must strive to raise; Boeotian Muses! aid my feeble lays: A little louder, and yet louder still, Aid me to raise my failing voice at will; Aid me as loud as Hercules did bawl, For Hylas lost, lost NYKY back to call; While London town, and all its suburbs round In echoes, NYKY, NYKY, back resound. Cantando puerum memini me condere soles Nunc oblita mihi tot carmina: vox quoque Moerim Jam fugit ipsa---- Omnia fert aetas, animum quoque. ---- Musae paulo majora canamus. ---- Hylan nautae quo fonte relictum Clamassent; ut littus Hyla, Hyla, omne sonaret. _Once more I'll tune the vocal shell, To hills and dales my passion tell, A flame which time can never quell, That burns for thee, my Peggy._ Whom fliest thou, frantic youth, and whence thy fear? Blest had there never been a grenadier! Unhappy NYKY, by what frenzy seiz'd, Couldst thou with such a monstrous thing be pleas'd? What, tho' thyself a loving horse-marine, A common foot-soldier's a thing obscene. Not fabled Nymphs, by spleen turn'd into cows, Bellow'd to nasty bulls their amorous vows; Tho' turn'd their loving horns upon each other, Butting in play, as brother might with brother. Unhappy NYKY, whither dost thou stray, Lost to thy friends, o'er hills and far away? Quem fugis? Ah demens!---- Et fortunatam, si nunquam armenta fuissent, Pasiphaen nivei solatur amore juvenci. Oh, virgo infelix, quae te dementia cepit? Proetides implerunt falsis mugitibus agros: At non tum turpes pecudum tamen ulla secuta est Concubitus: quamvis collo timuisset aratrum, Et saepe in levi quaesisset cornua fronte. Ah, virgo infelix, tu nunc in montibus erras! Time, however, effects strange things, as the poet says, and many also quelled in the bosom of ROSCIUS. NYKY is a half-pay officer of marines. A horse-marine is a kind of _meretricious_ HOBBY-HORSE, _modo vir modo faemina_. Yet to Euryalus as Nisus true, So shall thy ROSCIUS, NYKY, prove to you; Whether by impulse mov'd, itself divine, Or so I'm bound to call it, as it's mine, A mighty feat presents itself to view, Which for our mutual gain I yet will do. Mean-time do thou beware, while I bemoan, How far thou trustest seas or lands unknown. To Tyber's stream, or to the banks of Po, Safe in thy love, safe in thy virtue, go; Yet even there with caution be thou kind, And look out sharp and frequently behind. But ah, beware, nor trust, tho' native Mud, The banks of Liffy, or of Shannon's flood; Or there, if driv'n by fate, be hush'd thy strain? Nor of thy wayward lot, nor mine complain. Nisus ait, "Diine hunc ardorem mentibus addunt Euryale? An sua cuique deus sit dira Cupido? Aut pugnam, aut aliquid jamdudum invadere magnum Mens agitat mihi---- Hac iter est; tu ne qua manus se attollere nobis A tergo possit, custodi et consule longe." NYKY it seems was born and bred in Ireland; where his christian Lest female Bacchanals, when flush'd with wine, Serve thee, like Orpheus, for thy song divine; Nay back return, lest my too plaintive verse Entail on me the same Orphean curse; Lest Venus' train of Drury and the Strand Attack my house by water and by land; Hot with their midnight orgies, madly tear My little limbs, and throw them here and there; Casting, enrag'd at my provoking theme, Th' inditing brain into the neighbouring stream: When, as my skull shall float the tide along, Thy much-lov'd name, the burthen of my song, Shall still be stutter'd, later than my breath; NYKY---NYK----NY----till stopt my tongue in death: Through London-bridge shall Wapping NYKY roar, And NYK be even heard to Hampton's shore. ---- ---- Spreto Ciconum quo munere matres Inter sacra deum, nocturnique orgia Bacchi, Discerptum latos juvenem sparsere per agros. Tum quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, Gurgite cum medio portans Oeagrius Hebrus Volveret, Eurydicen vox ipsa et frigida lingua Ah miseram Eurydicen anima fugiente, vocabat: Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripae! The celebrated villa of ROSCIUS. On Hebrus' banks so tuneful Orpheus died; His limbs the fields receiv'd, his head the tide. Nor more its stream renown'd than Thames in fame: Here Catherine Hayes serv'd Goodman Hayes the same. Here on this spot, where now th' Adelphi stands, Was thrown her husband's noddle from her hands; His scatter'd limbs left quiv'ring on the shore; As Thracian wives had play'd their part before. Oh, horrour, horrour! NYKY back return; Nor more for grenadiers imprudent burn. And yet, ah why should NYKY thus be blam'd? Of manly love ah! why are men asham'd? A new red coat, fierce cock and killing air Will captivate the most obdurate fair; What wonder then if NYKY's tender heart At such a sight should feel a lover's smart: No wonder love, that in itself is blind, Should no distinction in the difference find; No wonder love should NYKY thus enthrall; Almighty love, at times, subdues us all; While, vulgar prejudices soar'd above, NYK gave up all the world,--well lost for love. Omnia vincit amor et nos cedamus amori. See the Tyburn Chronicle and Newgate lamentations _pro tempore_; Yet slight the cause of NYKY's late mishap; NYK but mistook the colour of the cap: A common errour, frequent in the Park, Where love is apt to stumble in the dark. Why rais'd the haughty female head so high, With the tall caps of grenadiers to vie? Why does it like tremendous figure make, To subject purblind lovers to mistake? Or rather why, in these enlighten'd times, Should rigid Nature call such errours crimes? "Thou Nature art my goddess," saith the play; But even Shakespeare's text hath had its day. More gentle custom no such rigour knows; And custom into second nature grows. Let vulgar passions move the vulgar mind, Superior souls feel motives more refin'd: Among the low-bred English slow advance Th' Italian _gusto_ and _bon ton_ of France. Strange to the classic lore of Greece and Rome, And rudely nurs'd in ignorance at home, The tasteless herd e'en construe into sin, That poets should in metaphor lie in, While I, their best man-midwife, must be sham'd, Whene'er the Fashionable Lover's nam'd. NYKY is near sighted. But Candour's veil love's foibles still should cover To polish'd travellers is only known That taste which makes the ancient arts our own; Which shares with Rome in every gem antique; Which blends the modern with the ancient Greek; Improves on both, and greatly soars above, In pure philanthropy, Platonic love; That love which burns with undistinguish'd rage, And spares in fondness neither sex nor age? Ah! therefore why in these enlighten'd times Sould rigid Nature call such errours crimes? Must not the taste of Attic wits be nice? Can antient virtue be a modern vice? The Mantuan bard, or else his scholiast lies, Virgil the chaste, nay Socrates the wise. "_If any author of prolific brains In this good company feels labour-pains; If any gentle poet big with rhyme Has run his reckoning out and gone his time: Know such that at our hospital of muses He may lie-in in private if he chuses; We've single lodgings there for secret sinners With good encouragement for your beginners._" Prologue to the FASHIONABLE LOVER. It is indeed now plain enough that ROSCIUS has given great encouragement to _secret sinners_; but I would advise none of our The Jesuit Ruaeus begins the argument of Virgil's second Eclogue The gay Petronius, sophists, wits and bards, Of old, bestow'd on youth their soft regards; In modish dalliance pass'd their harmless time Ev'n modish now in soft Italia's clime. Could lightenings ever issue from above To blast poor men for such a crime as love; When the lewd daughters of incestuous Lot Were both with child by their own father got? Poor goody Lot indeed might be in fault, And justly turn'd to monumental salt: The matrimonial emblem of a wife: Needs must be salt a dish to keep for life! A fable Sodom's fate: in Heav'n above All is made up of harmony and love; That such its vengeance I believe not, I; Sing then, my Muse, a more engaging strain To lure my NYKY back to Drury-lane. Tell him the fancied danger all is o'er; Home he may come and love as heretofore. Formosum pastor Corydon ardebat Alexin. ---- Deos didici securum agere aevum Nec si quid miri faciat natura, deos id Tristes ex alto coeli demittere tecto. Ducite ab urbe domum mea carmina ducite Daphnim. In vain the vulgar shall for vengeance call, Or move the justices at Hickes's-hall; In vain grand juries shall be urg'd by law In his indictment not to leave a flaw. Ev'n at the bar should NYKY stand arraign'd, No verdict 'gainst him should be there obtain'd; Nay, by the laws and customs of the land, Tho' trembling NYKY should convicted stand, The candid jury shall be mov'd t'acquit A gentleman, an author, and a wit: For liberal minds with candour ever see The milder failings of humanity! Smooth-spoken MANSFIELD, with his vacant face, In softening accents first shall ope his case; Which to defend, the want of Merlin's cunning Shall be supplied by that of Grimbald DUNNING. E'en at th' Old-Bailey they for NYK shall plead; Where would they not, if they were largely fee'd? Were NYKY summon'd to the bar below, Well-fee'd these faithful barristers would go; Not the Judge of that name; but the barrister, who, is by no means a judge---- of any thing. See King Arthur, lately revived at Drury-lane Theatre, and Their tale to Minos would they glibly tell; Minos the MANSFIELD, or Chief Judge, of Hell. Nor need my NYKY fear a London jury Will e'er be influenced with a female fury. Can they who let a prov'd assassin 'scape Hang up poor NYKY for a friendly rape? If in the dark to stab, be thought no crime, What may'nt be hop'd from jurymen in time? Soon Southern modes, no doubt, they'll reconcile With the plain manners of our Northern isle; And e'en new-married citizens be brought To reckon S----y a venial fault: When if GEORGE BELLAS, cruel and unkind, Blast not their loves, with rude tempestuous wind, In common-council Corydon may burn, And Corydons for Corydon in turn, Till every alderman about the chair Find his Alexis in a new lord-mayor. Ex illo Corydon, Corydon est tempore nobis. Minos is reported by the poets to have been raised to this high A boisterous mock-patriot, supposed to be descended from Eolus bassoon. Sing then, O Muse, a more pathetic strain, To lure my gentle NYKY back again. For, sure as Thames resembles Tyber's tide, Shall Macaronis soon possess Cheapside; As petty-jury-men in judgment sit, And ev'ry Corydon, with NYK, acquit. Yes by this knife, this useful knife, I swear, Which for my lov'd B----TTI's sake I wear; This knife, whose haft, at Stratford Jubilee, For ever left its parent mulberry tree; For thence it grew, tho', tipt with steel so fine, It now will serve to stab with, or to dine; That tree, which late on Avon's border grew; By Shakespeare planted; Warwick lads say true; Ducite ab urbe domum mea carmina ducite Daphnim. All' ek toi ereo, kai epi megan horkon omoumai, Nai ma tode skeptron, to men oupote phylla kai ozous Physei, epeide prota tomen en oressi leloipen, Oud' anathelesei. Ut sceptrum hoc (sceptrum dextra nam forte gerebat) Nunquam fronde levi fundet virgulta nec umbras; Cum semel in sylvis imo de stirpe recisum, Matre caret posuitque comas et brachia ferro Olim arbos, nunc artificis manus aere decoro. Inclusit patribusque dedit gestare Latinis. See the utility of this knife in a late Sessions-paper. By this most precious relick, here I pledge Myself to save him from the halter's edge: And not myself alone, but ev'ry friend Shall all his interest and assistance lend. Quaint B----, beholding the rude mob with scorn, Shall tell how Irish bards are gentle born; Next I, to captivate the learned bench, Will strait affirm that NYKY writes good French; Thy timid nature JOHNSON shall maintain, In words no dictionary can explain. Goldsmith, good-natur'd man, shall next defend, His foster-brother, countryman, and friend: Shall prove the humbler passions, now and then, Are incidental to us little men; Hanc ego magnanimi spolium Didymaonis hastam, Ut semel est avulsa jugis a matre perempta, Quae neque jam frondes virides neque proferet umbras, Fida ministeria et duras obit horrida pugnas See the Sessions-paper; in which this admirable plea is made use So called from having not long since made one in a poetical "Three poets in three distant ages born," &c. And that the part our gentle NYKY play'd Was but philosophy in masquerade. Let me no longer, then, my loss deplore, But to his ROSCIUS, Muse, my NYK restore. Ducite ab urbe domum mea carmina ducite Daphnim. _Poor Dryden! what a theme hadst thou, Compar'd to that which offers now? What are your Britons, Romans, Grecians, Compar'd with thorough-bred Milesians? Step into Griffin's shop, he'll tell ye Three poets of one age and nation, Whose more than mortal reputation, Mounting in trio to the skies O'er Milton's fame and Virgil's flies. Nay, take one Irish evidence for t'other, Ev'n Homer's self is but their foster-brother._ It seems indeed to be growing into fashion for philosophy to go To Doctor GOLDSMITH, on seeing his name in the list of the mummers at the late masquerade. "Say should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain; Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, Such little things are great to little man." _How widely different, Goldsmith, are the ways Of doctors now, and those of ancient days! Theirs taught the truth in academic shades, Ours haunt lewd hops, and midnight masquerades! So chang'd the times! say philosophic sage, Whose genius suits so well this tasteful age, Is the Pantheon, late a sink obscene, Become the fountain of chaste Hippocrene? Or do thy moral numbers quaintly flow Inspir'd by th' Aganippe of Soho?_ For who like him will patch and pilfer plays, Yielding to me the profit and the praise? Tho' cheap in French translations MURPHY deals; For cheap he well may vend the goods he steals; Tho' modest CRADDOC scorns to sell his play, But gives the good-for-nothing thing away; What tho' the courtly CUMBERLAND succeeds In writing stuff no man of letters reads; Tho' sense and language are expell'd the stage; For nonsense pleases best a senseless age; What tho' the author of the New Bath Guide Up to the skies my talents late hath cried; _Do wisdom's sons gorge cates and vermicelli Like beastly Bickerstaff or bothering Kelly? Or art thou tir'd of th' undeserv'd applause Bestow'd on bards affecting virtue's cause? Wouldst thou, like Sterne, resolv'd at length to thrive, Turn pimp and die cock-bawd at sixty-five, Is this the good that makes the humble vain, The good philosophy should not disdain If so, let pride dissemble all it can, A modern sage is still much less than man._ The compliments passed between these celebrated geniuses indeed were mutual; Mr. A. commending ROSCIUS for his fine acting, and On the poetical compliments lately passed between Mess. G. and A. _When mincing masters, met with misses, Pay mutual compliments for kisses; Miss Polly sings no doubt divinely, And master Jacky spouts as finely. But, how I hate such odious greeting, When two old stagers have a meeting Foh! out upon the filthy pother! What!_ men _beslobber one another!_ Tho' humble HIFFERNAN in pay, I keep, Still my fast friend, when he is fast asleep; Tho' long the Hodmandod my friend hath been, With the land-tortoise earth'd at Turnham-Green: My puffs in fairest order full display; account of the slowness of its motion and the clouds of dust and Monstrum horrendum informe ingens cui lumen ademptum. _In Nature's workshop, on a day, Her journeymen inclin'd to play, Half drunk 'twixt cup and can, Took up a clod, which she with care Was modelling a huge sea bear, And swore they'd make't a man._ _They tried, but, handling ill their tools, Formed, like a pack of bungling fools, A thing so gross and odd; That, when it roll'd about the dish, They knew not if 'twere flesh or fish, _Yet, to compleat their piece of fun, They christen'd it Arch Hamilton; "But what can this thing do?" Kick it down stairs; the devil's in't If it won't do to write and print Editors and printers of news-papers, well known to the public for their impartiality in regard to ROSCIUS. Impartially insert each friendly PRO, Suppressing ever CON of every foe; For well I ween, they wot that _cons_ and _pros_ Will tend my faults and follies to expose: Tho' mighty TOM doth still my champion prove, And LOCKYER's gauntlet be a chicken glove. A recent instance of this must not pass unnoticed. In the Public against } Notice of Process. _Dame Nature against G---- now by me Her action brings, and thus she grounds her plea. "I never made a man but still You acted like that man at will; Yet ever must I hope in vain To make a man like you again." Hence ruin'd totally by you, She brings her suit, &c. &c._ against } Defendant's Plea. _For G---- I without a fee 'Gainst Nature thus put in his plea. "To make a man, like me, of art, Is not, 'tis true, dame Nature's part; I own that Scrub, fool, knave I've play'd With more success than all my trade; But prove it, plaintiff, if you can, That e'er I acted like a man." Of this we boldly make denial.---- Join issue, and proceed to trial._ Tho' shambling BECKET, proud to soothe my pride, Keeps ever shuflling on my right-hand side; What tho' with well-tim'd flatt'ry, loud he cries, At each theatric stare, "See, see his eyes!" What tho' he'll fetch and carry at command, And kiss, true spaniel-like, his master's hand; With admiration NYK ne'er heard me speak, But press'd the kiss of love upon my cheek; Incessant clapp'd at th'end of every speech; And, had I bidd'n him, would have kiss'd my b----! Let me no longer, then, my loss deplore, But to his ROSCIUS, Muse, my NYK restore. But hah! what discord strikes my listening ear? Is NYKY dead, or is some critic near? Curse on that Ledger and that damn'd Whitehall, How players and managers they daily maul! Ducite ab urbe domum mea carmina ducite Daphnim. The famous THOMAS A BECKET, feigned by the poets to have been drown'd, when, being half-seas over, in claret, he endeavoured to _Here lies That shuffling, shambling, shrugging, shrinking shrimp, Tom Becket, Mammon's most industrious imp!_ A customary method it seems, of NYKY's expressing his admiration News-papers so called, in which ROSCIUS is not a sharer, and hath not yet come up to the price of their silence. Curse on that Morning-Chronicle; whose tale Is never known with spightful wit to fail. Curse on that FOOTE; who in ill-fated hour Trod on the heels of my theatric-power; Who, ever ready with some biting joke, My peace hath long and would my heart have broke. Curse on his horse--one leg! but ONE to break! "A kingdom for a horse"--to break his neck! Curse on that STEVENS, with his Irish breeding, While I am acting, shall that wretch be reading? Curse on all rivals, or in fame or profit; The Fantoccini still make something of it! What formidable rivals to the immortal ROSCIUS? Harlequin, _George! did'nt I hear the critics hiss, When I was dead?--"Yes, brother, yes, You did not die in high rant." Nay, if they think a dying king Like Harlequin convuls'd, should spring, Let ---- be hence their tyrant._ Curse on that KENRICK, with his caustic pen, Who scorns the hate, and hates the love of MEN; Who with such ease envenom'd satire writes, Deeper his ink than aqua fortis bites. Stand his perpetual-motion ever still; Or, if it move, oh, let it move uphill. The curse of Sisiphus, oh, let him feel; The curse of Fortune's still recurring wheel; ROSCIUS, however, hath chang'd his mind, and acquired new elastic While crowded boxes, pit and galleries roar. Who says that Roscius feels the hand of Time, To blast his blooming laurels in their prime? With ever supple limbs and pliant tongue, Roscius, like Hebe, will be ever young. See and believe your eyes----did e'er you see So great a feat of pure agility? Nor Hughes nor Astley, vaulting in the air, Like Roscius makes the struck spectators stare. Nor Lun nor Woodward ever gave the spring, He gave last night in Richard, dying king! Th' immortal actor, who can die so clever, In spite of fate will live to die for ever!_ A Briton blunt, bred to plain mathematics, Who hates French b--gres, and Italian pathics. The plaintive ROSCIUS seems here to have an eye to the following _The wits who drink water, and suck sugar-candy, Impute the strong spirit of_ Kenrick _to brandy. They are not so much out: the matter in short is He sips_ aqua-vitae _and spits_ aqua-fortis. This multifarious genius pretends to have discovered the That upward roll'd with anxious toil and pain, The summit almost gain'd, rolls back again. Ne'er shall his FALSTAFF come again to life; Ne'er shall be play'd again his WIDOW'D WIFE; Ne'er will I court again his stubborn Muse, But for a pageant would his play refuse. While puff and pantomime will gull the town, 'Tis good to keep o'erweening merit down; And grind the poets as I grind the players. Aut petes aut urges ruiturum, Sysiphe, saxum. Falstaff's Wedding, a play written in imitation of Shakespeare; indeed was afterwards performed, and tho' received with the most Another comedy, nearly under the same predicament with respect having brought on, and repeatedly acted, the performances of his players, the poets and the publick! Curse on that KENRICK, foul of spleen and whim! What are my puffs, and what my gains to him? If poor and proud, can he of right complain That wealthier men and wittier are as vain? Why must he hint that I am past my prime, To blast my fading laurels ere their time? Death to my fame, and what, alas, is worse, 'Tis death, damnation, to my craving purse; Capacious purse! by PLUTUS form'd to hold, (The God of Wealth) the devil and all of gold. Insatiate purse, that never yet ran o'er, But swallows all, and gapes, like Hell, for more. And yet, alas! how much the world will lye! They call me miser; but no miser I; He, brooding o'er his bags, delighted sits, And laughs to scorn the jests of envious wits; If fast his doors, he sets his heart at rest, And dotes with rapture on his iron chest; No galling paper-squibs his spirits teize, But ev'n the boys may hoot him if they please. He scorns the whistling of an empty name, While I am torn 'twixt avarice and fame; Sordidus ac dives, populi contemnere voces Si solitus: populus me sibilat: at mihi plaudo Ipse domi, simul ac nummos contemplor in arca. While I, so tremblingly alive all o'er, Still bleed and agonize at every pore; At ev'ry hiss am harrow'd up with fear, And burst with choler at a critic's sneer. Rack'd by the gout and stone, and struck with age, Prudence and Ease advise to quit the stage; But Fame still prompts, and Pride can feel no pain; And Avarice bids me sell my soul for gain. Bring NYKY back, O Muse! by verse divine, The Trojan-Greeks were once transformed to swine. By verse divine B----TTI 'scap'd the rope: Now love is known, what may not lovers hope! Ev'n as with _Griffins_ stallions late have join'd With blood-hounds goats may litter, as in kind; Ducite ab urbe domum, mea carmina ducite Daphnim: Carminibus Circe socios mutavit Ulyssei: Carmina vel coelo possunt deducere lunam. Nunc scio quid sit amor---- Jungentur jam _Gryphes_ equis, aevoque sequenti Cum canibus timidi venient ad pocula damae. Torva leaena lupum sequitur, lupus ipse capellam, Te Corydon, O Alexis: trahit sua quemque voluptas. Unnatural monsters, familiar only with the poets. Nay wanton kids devouring wolves may greet, And wolves with loving lyonesses meet. By different means is different love made known. And each fond lover will prefer his own. Strange lot of love! two friends, my soul's delight, Men call that M----r, this a Catamite! Yet bring him back; for who chaste roundelay Shall sing, now B--ST--FF is driv'n away? Who now correct, for modest Drury-lane, Loose Wycherly's or Congreve's looser vein? With nice decorum shunning naughty jokes, Exhibit none but decent, dainty folks? Ah me! how wanton wit will shame the stage, And shock this delicate, this virtuous age! NYKY was employed by ROSCIUS to correct the Plain-dealer of How will _Plain-dealers_ triumph, to my sorrow! And PAPHOS rise o'er SODOM and GOMORRAH! A character thus admirably depicted by Wycherly, in the scene between Manly and Plausible. _Plausible._ As I do! Heaven defend me! upon my honour! I never attempted to abuse or lessen any one in my life. _Manly._ What! you were afraid? _Manly._ I thought so: but know that this is the worst sort of "Candour presents her compliments to Mr.----, she begs his pardon,---- to Dr.---- _Kenrick_, and desires to ask him a few simple questions; to which, if he be the _Plain-dealer_ he pretends, he will give a plain and direct answer. _Query_ I. Whether you are not the author of the eclogue, out the most scandalous insinuations against the character of anonymous paragraph in a public paper; for which that paper is under a just prosecution? and Roscius, can authorize so cruel, so unmanly an attack? you refused him? "Though I think your signature a misnomer, to shew that I a no stranger to the name and quality you assume, I shall not stand on your several questions explicitly. _detest_; but I think _vice_ should be exposed to _infamy_, nor have I so much _false delicacy_ as to conceive, it should be treated with _tenderness_ in proportion as it is _abominable_. submit it to the publick, were I egotist enough to think it deserved their attention. place, or weapon was mentioned, I did not look on this message as _gentleman's satisfaction_ by _letter of attorney_, and the professed end of our meeting turned merely on a matter of business.--It is possible, indeed, the messenger, otherwise instructed, might _imagine_ it such, especially as, it seems, his magnanimous monomachy with one of his brother Roscius's candle-snuffers.--That Roscius himself, however, did not mean to send me a challenge, is plain, from his solliciting afterwards by both: a request that would have been complied with, had not he thought proper, in a most ungentleman-like manner, to make a confidant, in the meantime, of a booby of a bookseller, who had the folly and impudence to declare that he would, on _his_ desperate mischief.--Lest I should be yet supposed, from the purport of this last query, to have any fear of a personal encounter with the doughty Roscius, I require only that it may be nor think myself so consequential in it, as to fear the end of it putting an end to so insignificant a being as his: but, as "the settle _only half_ his estate on my heirs, on condition that _he_ engage at his own weapons, not only him, but his brother George into the bargain. And now, Madam CANDOUR, give me leave to ask _you_ a question or two, in my turn. The above pleasantry being misconstrued by some of Roscius's gentleman, who supposes himself injured, has a right to require. _Qu._ I. Whether, from many gross instances of misbehaviour, _Roscius_ hath not long had sufficient reason to suspect the detestable character of _Nyky_? _immaculate_, he is excusable for his notorious partialities to such a character? being ludicrously reproached with such partialities, by a writer, disrespect, with insolence, with injustice. To these paragraphs the author judged it necessary to make the The AUTHOR of LOVE in the SUDS to the PRINTER of the MORNING "In reprehending others you should ever be cautious of falling into the error you condemn. In yesterday's paper you indirectly charge me, among others, with having "urged a detestable charge with as much folly as wickedness against a certain great actor."--What other people have done I know not, nor does it concern me; but I may safely defy all the Lawyers in Westminster-Hall fairly to deduce such a charge as you hint at from the eclogue in question. In this respect it is certainly as innocent as the great actor's Jubilee Ode! But granting it charge the accusers with _folly_ and _wickedness?_ Why does not will countenance his prosecution. Why was not his motion made to do at present. I am, Shortly will be published, By his moving the Court of King's Bench, for Leave to file an Information against the Author of _Love in the Suds, or the publication will be explained and justified. _----mitto maledicta omnia: Rem ipsam putemus._

Murray Leinster

The Forgotten Planet

1896

_I am an eternal spirit and the things I_ _make are but ephemera, yet I endure:_ _Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneath_ _our feet and we endure._ "_amicitiae longaevitate_" I have to thank the Editors of the _English Review_ and the _Evening Standard_ and _St. James's Gazette_ for permission to include in this volume certain poems which originally appeared in Guido invites you thus "Lappo I leave behind and Dante too, Lo, I would sail the seas with thee alone! Talk me no love talk, no bought-cheap fiddl'ry, Mine is the ship and thine the merchandise, All the blind earth knows not th' emprise Whereto thou calledst and whereto I call. Lo, I have seen thee bound about with dreams, Lo, I have known thy heart and its desire; Life, all of it, my sea, and all men's streams Are fused in it as flames of an altar fire! Lo, thou hast voyaged not! The ship is mine." O Dieu, purifiez nos coeurs! purifiez nos coeurs! Yea the lines hast thou laid unto me in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice hast thou shown unto me Until is its loveliness become unto me a thing of tears. O God, what great kindness have we done in times past and forgotten it, That thou givest this wonder unto us, O God of waters? O God of the night What great sorrow Cometh unto us, That thou thus repayest us Before the time of its coming? O God of silence, Purifiez nos coeurs, Purifiez nos coeurs, For we have seen The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid, Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked Upon the shadow of the waters In this thy Venice. And before the holiness Of the shadow of thy handmaid Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters. O God of silence, Purifiez nos coeurs, Purifiez nos coeurs, O God of waters, make clean our hearts within us And our lips to show forth thy praise, For I have seen the Shadow of this thy Venice Floating upon the waters, And thy stars Have seen this thing out of their far courses Have they seen this thing, O God of waters, Even as are thy stars Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart become silent within me. _Purifiez nos coeurs_ _O God of the silence,_ _Purifiez nos coeurs_ _O God of waters._ The angel of prayer according to the Talmud stands unmoved among And these about me die, Because the pain of the infinite singing Slayeth them. Ye that have sung of the pain of the earth-horde's age-long crusading, Ye know somewhat the strain, the sad-sweet wonder-pain of such singing. And therefore ye know after what fashion This singing hath power destroying. Yea, these about me, bearing such song in homage Die for the might of their praising, And the autumn of their marcescent wings Maketh ever new loam for my forest; And these grey ash trees hold within them All the secrets of whatso things They dreamed before their praises, And in this grove my flowers, Fruit of prayerful powers, Have first their thought of life And then their being. Ye marvel that I die not! _forsitan_! Thinking me kin with such as may not weep, Thinking me part of them that die for praising --yea, tho' it be praising, past the power of man's mortality to dream or name its phases, --yea, tho' it chant and paean past the might of earth-dwelt soul to think on, --yea, tho' it be praising as these the winged ones die of. Ye think me one insensate else die I also Sith these about me die, And if I, watching Make of these prayers of earth ever new flowers; Marvel and wonder! Marvel and wonder even as I, Giving to prayer new language And causing the works to speak Of the earth-horde's age-lasting longing, Even as I marvel and wonder, and know not, Yet keep my watch in the ash wood. LOQUITUR: _En_ Bertrans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-up Have I dug him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace. I have no life save when the swords clash. But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing. In hot summer have I great rejoicing When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace, And the light'nings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash. Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music! Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson! And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace, His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing. The man who fears war and squats opposing My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace Far from where worth's won and the swords clash Yea, I fill all the air with my music. Papiols, Papiols, to the music! There's no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle's rejoicing When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash. May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!" And let the music of the swords make them crimson! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace"! It is of Piere Vidal, the fool par excellence of all Provence, of When I but think upon the great dead days And turn my mind upon that splendid madness, Lo! I do curse my strength And blame the sun his gladness; For that the one is dead And the red sun mocks my sadness. Behold me, Vidal, that was fool of fools! Swift as the king wolf was I and as strong When tall stags fled me through the alder brakes, And every jongleur knew me in his song, And the hounds fled and the deer fled And none fled over long. Even the grey pack knew me and knew fear. God! how the swiftest hind's blood spurted hot Over the sharpened teeth and purpling lips! Hot was that hind's blood yet it scorched me not As did first scorn, then lips of the Penautier! Aye ye are fools, if ye think time can blot From Piere Vidal's remembrance that blue night, God! but the purple of the sky was deep! Clear, deep, translucent, so the stars me seemed Set deep in crystal; and because my sleep --Rare visitor--came not,--the Saints I guerdon For that restlessness--Piere set to keep One more fool's vigil with the hollyhocks. Swift came the Loba, as a branch that's caught, Tom, green and silent in the swollen Rhone, Green was her mantle, close, and wrought Of some thin silk stuff that's scarce stuff at all, But like a mist wherethrough her white form fought, And conquered! Ah God! conquered! Silent my mate came as the night was still. Speech? Words? Faugh! Who talks of words and love?! Hot is such love and silent, Silent as fate is, and as strong until It faints in taking and in giving all. Stark, keen, triumphant, till it plays at death. God! she was white then, splendid as some tomb High wrought of marble, and the panting breath Ceased utterly. Well, then I waited, drew, Half-sheathed, then naked from its saffron sheath Drew full this dagger that doth tremble here. Just then she woke and mocked the less keen blade. Ah God, the Loba! and my only mate! Was there such flesh made ever and unmade! God curse the years that turn such women grey! Behold here Vidal, that was hunted, flayed, Shamed and yet bowed not and that won at last. And yet I curse the sun for his red gladness, I that have known strath, garth, brake, dale, And every run-way of the wood through that great madness, Behold me shrivelled as an old oak's trunk And made men's mock'ry in my rotten sadness! No man hath heard the glory of my days: No man hath dared and won his dare as I: One night, one body and one welding flame! Such glory of the earth? Or who will win Such battle-guerdon with his "prowesse high"? O Age gone lax! O stunted followers, That mask at passions and desire desires, Behold me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks; And yet I mock you by the mighty fires That burnt me to this ash. Ah! Cabaret! Ah Cabaret, thy hills again! Take your hands off me!... [_Sniffing the air_. Ha! this scent is hot! Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion. Ha' we lost the goodliest fere o' all For the priests and the gallows tree? Aye lover he was of brawny men, O' ships and the open sea. When they came wi' a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see, "First let these go!" quo' our Goodly Fere, "Or I'll see ye damned," says he. Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears And the scorn of his laugh rang free, "Why took ye not me when I walked about Alone in the town?" says he. Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wine When we last made company, No capon priest was the Goodly Fere But a man o' men was he. I ha' seen him drive a hundred men Wi' a bundle o' cords swung free, That they took the high and holy house For their pawn and treasury. They'll no' get him a' in a book I think Though they write it cunningly; No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere But aye loved the open sea. If they think they ha' snared our Goodly Fere They are fools to the last degree. "I'll go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere, "Though I go to the gallows tree." "Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind, And wake the dead," says he, "Ye shall see one thing to master all: 'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree." That bade us his brothers be. I ha' seen him cow a thousand men. I have seen him upon the tree. He cried no cry when they drave the nails And the blood gushed hot and free, The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue But never a cry cried he. I ha' seen him cow a thousand men On the hills o' Galilee, They whined as he walked out calm between, Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea. Like the sea that brooks no voyaging With the winds unleashed and free, Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret Wi' twey words spoke' suddently. A master of men was the Goodly Fere, A mate of the wind and sea, If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere They are fools eternally. I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb Sin' they nailed him to the tree. _*** The Publisher desires to state that the "Ballad of the Goodly Fere"--by the wish of the Author--is reproduced exactly as it appeared in the "English Review."_ From the Latin of Marc Antony Flaminius, sixteenth century. As a fragile and lovely flower unfolds its gleaming foliage on the breast of the fostering earth, if the dew and the rain draw it forth; So doth my tender mind flourish, if it be fed with the sweet dew of the fostering spirit, Lacking this, it beginneth straightway to languish, even as a floweret born upon dry earth, if the dew and the rain tend it not. There comes upon me will to speak in praise Of things most fragile in their loveliness; Because the sky hath wept all this long day And wrapped men's hearts within its cloak of greyness, Because they look not down I sing the stars, Because 'tis still mid-March I praise May's flowers. Also I praise long hands that lie as flowers Which though they labour not are worthy praise, And praise deep eyes like pools wherein the stars Gleam out reflected in their loveliness, For whoso look on such there is no greyness May hang about his heart on any day. The other things that I would praise to-day? Besides white hands and all the fragile flowers, And by their praise dispel the evening's greyness? I praise dim hair that worthiest is of praise And dream upon its unbound loveliness, And how therethrough mine eyes have seen the stars. Yea, through that cloud mine eyes have seen the stars That drift out slowly when night steals the day, Through such a cloud meseems their loveliness Surpasses that of all the other flowers. For that one night I give all nights my praise And love therefrom the twilight's coming greyness. There is a stillness in this twilight greyness Although the rain hath veiled the flow'ry stars, They seem to listen as I weave this praise Of what I have not seen all this grey day, And they will tell my praise unto the flowers When May shall bid them in in loveliness. O ye I love, who hold this loveliness Near to your hearts, may never any greyness Enshroud your hearts when ye would gather flowers, Or bind your eyes when ye would see the stars; But alway do I give ye flowers by day, And when day's plucked I give ye stars for praise. But most, thou Flower, whose eyes are like the stars, With whom my dreams bide all the live-long day, Within thy hands would I rest all my praise. Now would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour. Of Provence and far halls of memory, Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity Of blended bells at even's end, or As the distant seas should send her The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly Resonant. Out of all dreams that be, Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her? Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand Alway with reverent chere that looked on her, Silence himself is grown her worshipper And ever doth attend her in that land Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir Naught but the softest voices, praising her. "_What I love best in all the world?_" When the purple twilight is unbound, To watch her slow, tall grace and its wistful loveliness, And to know her face is in the shadow there, Just by two stars beneath that cloud-- The soft, dim cloud of her hair, And to think my voice can reach to her As but the rumour of some tree-bound stream, Heard just beyond the forest's edge, Until she all forgets I am, And knows of me Naught but my dream's felicity. When your beauty is grown old in all men's songs, And my poor words are lost amid that throng, Then you will know the truth of my poor words, And mayhap dreaming of the wistful throng That hopeless sigh your praises in their songs, You will think kindly then of these mad words. I am torn, torn with thy beauty, O Rose of the sharpest thorn! O Rose of the crimson beauty, Why hast thou awakened the sleeper? Why hast thou awakened the heart within me, O Rose of the crimson thorn? The unappeasable loveliness is calling to me out of the wind, And because your name is written upon the ivory doors, The wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined, Tossing the white foam toward you; And the lotus that pours Her fragrance into the purple cup, Is more to be gained with the foam Than are you with these words of mine. _He speaks to the moonlight concerning the Beloved_. Pale hair that the moon has shaken Down over the dark breast of the sea, O magic her beauty has shaken About the heart of me; Out of you have I woven a dream That shall walk in the lonely vale Betwixt the high hill and the low hill, Until the pale stream Of the souls of men quench and grow still. _Voices speaking to the sun_. Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over The green sheaf of the world, And through the dim forest and under The shadowed arches and the aisles, We, who are older than thou art, Met and remembered when his eyes beheld her In the garden of the peach-trees, In the day of the blossoming. I stood on the hill of Yrma when the winds were a-hurrying, With the grasses a-bending I followed them, Through the brown grasses of Ahva unto the green of Asedon. I have rested with the voices in the gardens of Ahthor, I have lain beneath the peach-trees in the hour of the purple: Because I had awaited in the garden of the peach-trees, Because I had feared not in the forest of my mind, Mine eyes beheld the vision of the blossom There in the peach-gardens past Asedon. O winds of Yrma, let her again come unto me, Whose hair ye held unbound in the gardens of Ahthor! Because of the beautiful white shoulders and the rounded breasts I can in no wise forget my beloved of the peach-trees, And the little winds that speak when the dawn is unfurled And the rose-colour in the grey oak-leaf's fold When it first comes, and the glamour that rests On the little streams in the evening; all of these Call me to her, and all the loveliness in the world Binds me to my beloved with strong chains of gold. If the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyes And if the perfect faces which I see at times When my eyes are closed-- Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of roses: If these things have confused my memories of her So that I could not draw her face Even if I had skill and the colours, Yet because her face is so like these things They but draw me nearer unto her in my thought And thoughts of her come upon my mind gently, As dew upon the petals of roses. _He speaks to the rain_. O pearls that hang on your little silver chains, The innumerable voices that are whispering Among you as you are drawn aside by the wind, Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speech Of one who hath great loveliness, Which is subtle as the beauty of the rains That hang low in the moonshine and bring The May softly among us, and unbind The streams and the crimson and white flowers and reach Deep down into the secret places. The glamour of the soul hath come upon me, And as the twilight comes upon the roses, Walking silently among them, So have the thoughts of my heart Gone out slowly in the twilight Toward my beloved, Toward the crimson rose, the fairest. I am aweary with the utter and beautiful weariness And with the ultimate wisdom and with things terrene, I am aweary with your smiles and your laughter, And the sun and the winds again Reclaim their booty and the heart o' me. You came in out of the night And there were flowers in your hands, Now you will come out of a confusion of people, Out of a turmoil of speech about you. I who have seen you amid the primal things Was angry when they spoke your name In ordinary places. I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind, And that the world should dry as a dead leaf, Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away, So that I might find you again, Day and night are never weary, Nor yet is God of creating For day and night their torch-bearers The aube and the crepuscule. So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sun-set, Let me be no more counted among the immortals; But number me amid the wearying ones, Let me be a man as the herd, And as the slave that is given in barter. From the Latin of Hipolytus Capilupus, Early Cent XVI. Genoan, glory of Italy, Columbus thou sure light, Alas the urn takes even thee so soon out-blown. Its little space Doth hold thee, whom Oceanus had not the might Within his folds to hold, altho' his broad embrace Doth hold all lands. Bark-borne beyond his bound'ries unto Hind thou wast Where scarce Fame's volant self the way had cast. As one that would draw through the node of things, Back sweeping to the vortex of the cone, Cloistered about with memories, alone In chaos, while the waiting silence sings: Obliviate of cycles' wanderings I was an atom on creation's throne And knew all nothing my unconquered own. God! Should I be the hand upon the strings?! But I was lonely as a lonely child. I cried amid the void and heard no cry, And then for utter loneliness, made I New thoughts as crescent images of _me_. And with them was my essence reconciled While fear went forth from mine eternity. O strange face there in the glass! O ribald company, O saintly host, O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? O ye myriad That strive and play and pass, Jest, challenge, counterlie? And ye? No man hath dared to write this thing as yet, And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great At times pass through us, And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls. Thus am I Dante for a space and am One Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief Or am such holy ones I may not write, Lest blasphemy be writ against my name; This for an instant and the flame is gone. 'Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the "I" And into this some form projects itself: And as the clear space is not if a form's Imposed thereon, So cease we from all being for the time, And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on. Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary And would feel the fingers of the wind Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy. Rest brother, for lo! the dawn is without! The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low. Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, And coolness beneath the trees. Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment. Free us, for there is one Whose smile more availeth Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books: And we would look thereon. Ye blood-red spears-men of the dawn's array That drive my dusk-clad knights of dream away, Hold! For I will not yield. My moated soul shall dream in your despite A refuge for the vanquished hosts of night That _can_ not yield. Love thou thy dream All base love scorning, Love thou the wind And here take warning That dreams alone can truly be, For 'tis in dream I come to thee. Blue-Grey, and white, and white-of-rose, The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose. I feel the dusky softness whirr Of colour, as upon a dulcimer "Her" dreaming fingers lay between the tunes, As when the living music swoons But dies not quite, because for love of us --knowing our state How that 'tis troublous-- It wills not die to leave us desolate. Beautiful, infinite memories That are a-plucking at my heart, Why will you be ever calling and a-calling, And a-murmuring in the dark there? And a-reaching out your long hands Between me and my beloved? And why will you be ever a-casting The black shadow of your beauty On the white face of my beloved And a-glinting in the pools of her eyes? _In the play "Los Pastores de Belen."_ As ye go through these palm-trees O holy angel; Sith sleepeth my child here Still ye the branches. O Bethlehem palm-trees That move to the anger Of winds in their fury, Tempestuous voices, Make ye no clamour, Run ye less swiftly, Sith sleepeth the child here Still ye your branches. He the divine child Is here a-wearied Of weeping the earth-pain, Here for his rest would he Cease from his mourning, Only a little while, Sith sleepeth this child here Stay ye the branches. Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him. Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones That pass us a-flying, Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches. _That is, Prince Henry Plantagenet, elder brother to From the Provencal of Bertrans de Born "Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen." If all the grief and woe and bitterness, All dolour, ill and every evil chance That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together they would seem but light Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous, The world o'ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness. Grieving and sad and full of bitterness Are left in teen the liegemen courteous, The joglars supple and the troubadours. O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warrior In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous. 'Las! Never was nor will be in this world The balance for this loss in ire and sadness! O skilful Death and full of bitterness, Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e'er had, hast from us taken; Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth But had its life in the young English King, And better were it, should God grant his pleasure That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness. From this faint world, how full of bitterness Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful, Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish And each to-day 'vails less than yestere'en, Let each man visage this young English King That was most valiant mid all worthiest men! Gone is his body fine and amorous, Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness. Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness To come to earth to draw us from misventure, Who drank of death for our salvacioun, Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous And humble eke, that the young English King He please to pardon, as true pardon is, And bid go in with honoured companions There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness. In a garden where the whitethorn spreads her leaves My lady hath her love lain close beside her, Till the warder cries the dawn--Ah dawn that grieves! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! "Please God that night, dear night should never cease, Nor that my love should parted be from me, Nor watch cry 'Dawn'--Ah dawn that slayeth peace! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! "Fair friend and sweet, thy lips! Our lips again! Lo, in the meadow there the birds give song! Ours be the love and Jealousy's the pain! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! "Sweet friend and fair take we our joy again Down in the garden, where the birds are loud, Till the warder's reed astrain Cry God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! "Of that sweet wind that comes from Far-Away Have I drunk deep of my Beloved's breath, Yea! of my Love's that is so dear and gay. Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!" Fair is this damsel and right courteous, And many watch her beauty's gracious way. Her heart toward love is no wise traitorous. Ah God! Ah God! That dawns should come so soon! _It is of the white thoughts that he saw in the Forest_. White Poppy, heavy with dreams, O White Poppy, who art wiser than love, Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding And a-passing out and in through the shadows --There in the pine wood it is, And they are white, White Poppy, They are white like the clouds in the forest of the sky Ere the stars arise to their hunting. O White Poppy, who art wiser than love, I am come for peace, yea from the hunting Am I come to thee for peace. Out of a new sorrow it is, That my hunting hath brought me. White Poppy, heavy with dreams, Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding And a-passing out and in through the shadows --And it is white they are-- But if one should look at me with the old hunger in her eyes, How will I be answering her eyes? For I have followed the white folk of the forest. Aye! It's a long hunting And it's a deep hunger I have when I see them a-gliding And a-flickering there, where the trees stand apart. But oh, it is sorrow and sorrow When love dies-down in the heart. _The Observer_ says:--"It is something, after all, intangible and _The Oxford Magazine_:--"This is a most exciting book of poems." _The Morning Post_:--" Mr. Ezra Pound ... immediately compels our wonderful little book...."

John M. (John Mason) Tyler

The New Stone Age in Northern Europe

1851

By the Sea Psalm CXXI Be Ye also Ready "Paradise will Pay for All" Philistia's Triumph To-day There are only myself and you in the world, There are only myself and you; 'Tis clear, then, that I unto you should be kind, And that you unto me should be true. And if I unto you could be always kind, And you unto me could be true, Then the criminal courts might all be adjourned, And the sword would have nothing to do. A few fertile acres are all that I need,-- Not more than a hundred or two,-- And the great, wide earth holds enough, I am sure, Enough for myself and for you. The sweet air of heaven is free to us all; Upon all fall the rain and the dew; And the glorious sun in his cycle of light Shines alike on myself and on you. The infinite love is as broad as the sky, And as deep as the ocean's blue, We may breathe it, bathe in it, live in it, aye, It is _life_ for myself and for you. And the Christ who came when the angels sang Will come, if the song we renew, And reign in his kingdom,--the Prince of Peace,-- Reigning over myself and you. O, then, may I be unto you always kind, And be you unto me always true; So the land may rest from its turmoil and strife, And the sword may have nothing to do. "You do but dream; the world will never see Such time as this you picture, when the sword Shall lie inglorious in its sheath, and be No more of valorous deeds incentive or reward." The ocean breezes fanned them where they sat, At leisure from life's conflict, toil and care, Yet not unthoughtful, nor unmindful that In all its weal and woe they held their share. The rose-light charm and pride of earliest youth A chastening touch had toned to lovelier hue, And the white soul of purity and truth Looked out alike from eyes of brown and blue. "I covet your fair hope," he spake again, "I cannot share it; all the hoary past Denies that mightier prowess of the pen The poet claims, and proves it still surpassed "By sword and musket and the arts of war. And 'twere not so,--the query will return, Albeit such conflict we must all abhor-- How should the fires of patriotism burn? "Their flames are kindled by the flash of arms, And fed by recount of heroic deed; The sanguinary story has its charms Tho the heart sicken o'er it as we read. "And what were Greece without her Marathon? Or Rome, had not her Caesars fought and won? How reigns Britannia, Empress near and far, "And we, know not our souls a quickening thrill At thought of Lexington and Bunker Hill? And with a pride no rival passion mars Greet we not now our glorious Stripes and Stars? "Yes, friend, I own your theory is fine; I grant your outlook far exceedeth mine In excellence and beauty, in its scope Embracing that millennial age of bliss The spirit pants for while it chafes in this; I covet, tho I cannot share, your hope." "My hope," she answered, smiling, "is a faith; The kingdoms of this world are yet to be The kingdoms of our blessed Lord, the Christ;-- Lord of all life thro' dire and vengeful death-- Wrought thro' such sacrifice, unspared, unpriced, His word and purpose must fulfilment see, And realms by mountains bounded or by seas Must own allegiance to the Prince of Peace. "I yield to none"--and as she spoke there sped Across the opal beauty of the sea A light-winged vessel, bearing at its head The starry emblem of the brave and free-- "I yield to none in loyalty and love For yon bright banner, but I hold it still As token to the world, all else above, Of peace on earth and unto man good will. "God gave His land to be the home of man; And all that brightens and upbuilds the home Uplifts humanity; tramp, tribe and clan, Knowing no hearthstone, are content to roam, "But drawing nearer God the man returns And rears his household altar. In some quest The feet may wander, but the heart still yearns For the soft home-light and the quiet rest. "Think yet again, good brother, is it not From off such altar, whether it may glow In princely palace or in lowliest cot, That the true flame of country-love must flow? While that enkindled by the flash of arms Is a 'strange fire,' consuming while it charms. "Lives Greece less nobly in her Parthenon, In what her Solons wrote, her poets sang, Than in the gastly pride of Marathon, And kindred fields where victors' praises rang? "And we, enriched thro' Commerce, Letters, Art, Forgot our earlier grievances and scars, Are we not ready for a better part? Have we not now outgrown our need of wars? "Surely it should be so," he made reply; "The sated earth cries out against the flow Of human blood: 'How long? how long?' The cry Must pierce the heavens from writhing hearts below. "But men heed not; the glamor and the gain Of warfare blind them to its sin and pain; They know not pity and they count not cost Till armies meet and life and cause are lost. "Would they but listen 'twere an errand blest To plead against oppressor for oppressed; Would they but follow it were joy indeed Up the white hills of truth and peace to lead. "But, ah! the multitudes are gone astray, The powerful of the earth will have their way; What profit, sister, in our prayers and tears? Why mar the spring-time gladness of our years "In vain pursuit of universal good? In fruitless care for earth's vast brotherhood? Glad would I grasp such work could I but see. Or near, or far, your hoped-for victory." "Whether they hear," she answered, "or forbear, 'Tis ours with signal truths to light the skies; God's promises and warnings to declare;-- How can men follow if no leader rise? "The Christ shall be the victor; O my friend, Why do we limit His almighty power Who sees from far beginning to the end? Whose day may be an aeon or an hour? "The sea is His; He made it; and His word Can speak its wildest tumult into calm; As He may will its deepest founts are stirred, Or surface-ripples breathe a praiseful psalm. "As well His power the rise and fall doth sway Of human passion, tho He suffer long; The puny pride of man shall yet obey The mandate of the Only Wise and Strong. "But God would have the children of His grace In this great reclamation have a share; And each in his appointed hour and place Must stand, or other brow his crown will wear." She paused, and o'er them, as with magic spell, For a brief space a holy silence fell; Then while the sunset crimson of the sky Set ocean all a-blush, he made reply: "Reason and candor justify your claim; The Infinite is infinite in all; The Power that touches into life that flame Holds earth and heaven subject to His call, And at His fiat peoples rise and fall. "Your dauntless zeal doth shame my coward heart; Your word of faith my courage doth inspire; I see 'tis only noble to have part In moral contest; not to fan the fire Of a false glory, which must ever feed On souls that perish, and on hearts that bleed. "And this I gather from your earnest plea;-- That souls which walk in light and see the way To heights of truth yet unattained, must be Fore-runners for their Lord, must work and pray For the incoming of the perfect day. "Join we in this sweet service; cherish still The trust that gives you courage for the fight; Your 'peaceful war' on all that's base and ill, Your patient battle for the pure, the right. Let us press on and mount the hills of light." The ocean murmur fell upon their ears Sweeter than bird-song or the voice of mirth, As beamed her answering smile, thro' grateful tears, While her lips whispered only "Peace on earth." "Peace! peace!"--the evening zephyrs caught the strain, The wavelets sent the word across the sea; Exultant Nature trilled the glad refrain;-- "Peace! peace! The Christ is come, and peace shall be!" Neighbor, neighbor, prithee stay; Wherefore hasten on thy way? Give a moment's heed to me, I would ask a thing of thee. Neighbor, days and months have fled, Seasons one by one have sped, And to-night I greet thee here At the passing of the year. 'Tis the time of reckoning now, Of new resolves and annual vow; Time of straightening ugly crooks, And careful balancing of books. Pardon if I now demand How accounts of thine may stand; Hast thou rendered, fair and true, Unto every man his due? Hast thou given timely heed To thy poorer brother's need? Hath thy strong arm been a stay To the weaker on the way? When didst thou a joy impart To thy sister, sad at heart! When didst thou her grief beguile With the sunshine of thy smile? When the heavy-laden came Didst thou breathe a Saviour's name? When temptations fierce did prove Didst thou whisper of His love? When hosts of evil have assailed, And against the right prevailed, Hast thou still undaunted stood Pleading for the pure and good? When--but neighbor, this is strange! While I question comes a change: All that I have asked of thee Comes for answer back to me. Comes, against my wish and will, Comes and sets my heart a-thrill; Comes with terrors of the law, Filling me with fear and awe. Strange transition! Can it mean?-- The marvel of this shifting scene-- Yes, I read the mystery now. Neighbor, mine own soul art thou. Now, my soul, 'tis thine to say How the record stands to-day Give account of loss or gain, Talent used or spent in vain. All unwitting how they sped I my listed queries read; Raised the duty-standard high, Challenged measurement thereby. While I queried came a change, Silent, solemn, passing strange;-- Neighbor glided into mist, Soul and self were keeping tryst. And the queries come anew: Soul of mine, be brave and true; Lo! _our_ books we balance now; I have questioned; answer thou. "He is risen; He is risen, Here His empty tomb you see; And He goeth as He told you To the hills of Galilee." Thus to loving, loyal women, In the centuries agone, Angel voices told the story Of the resurrection morn. He is risen! He is risen! Years hand down the glad refrain; Let the ages on to ages Waft the tidings yet again. He who near the Bethlehem manger Lowly child of earth was born, King of kings reigns all triumphant Since the resurrection morn. Christ is risen! Calvary's anguish All a lost world's ransom paid; Then, with tears, "the hope of Israel" In the new-made tomb was laid. Deep and dark the desolation Falling with that night forlorn; Radiant the dawn awakening With the resurrection morn. He has risen! By this token We with Him shall rise again; Faith shall vanquish doubt and terror, Joy shall banish grief and pain. No more fear of sin's temptation, No more dread of hatred's scorn, O the glory purchased for us On the resurrection morn! Christ is risen! Bow before Him, To His courts an offering bring; Suffering Lord and Lamb victorious, Robe of light for robe of mocking, Diadem for crown of thorn, Wears He now, and in His likeness Rise we, satisfied, immortal, In the resurrection morn. Elizabeth of Hungary, a widow at the age of twenty, was sought not be crowned as my Empress, I crown thee to-day as an immortal Queen in the kingdom of God." When once I saw thee, fair, yet sad and lone,-- Tho wealth and beauty waited at thy hand-- I would have crowned thee, saintly one, mine own; Glad would have had thee share with me my throne, Bride of my heart, and Empress of my land! But thou wert wedded to thy valiant dead, And to the service of a Christ-like love; So by thy hand the suffering poor were led, And from thy bounty were the hungry fed, Till came thy summons to the Court Above. Now hast thou passed from tears and pain away, Thine ear hath caught the heavenly melodies;-- So be it mine, with reverent touch, to-day, On thy fair head this diadem to lay, And crown thee Queen immortal for the skies! Six-and-thirty little mortals Coming to be taught; And mine that most "delightful task To rear the tender thought." Merry, mischief-loving children, Thoughtless, glad and gay, Loving lessons--"just a little," Dearly loving play. Six-and-thirty souls immortal, Coming to be fed; Needing "food convenient for them," As their daily bread. Bright and happy little children, Innocent and free, Coming here their life-long lessons Now to learn of me. Listen to the toilsome routine, List, and answer them, For these things who is sufficient 'Mong the sons of men? Now they, at the well-known summons, Cease their busy hum; And, some with pleasure, some reluctant, To the school-room come. Comes a cunning little urchin With defiant eye, "Making music" with his marbles As he passes by. But, alas! the pretty toys are Taken from him soon, And the music-loving Willie Strikes another tune! Comes a lisping little beauty, Scarce five summers old; Baby voice and blue eyes pleading, "Please, misth, I'm stho cold!" Little one, the world is chilly, All too cold for thee; From its storms "Our Father" shield thee, And thy refuge be. While I turn to caution Johnny Not to make such noise; Mary parses: "Earth's an adverb, In the passive voice." Well, indeed, it must be passive, Else it is not clear How such open language-murder, Goes unpunished here. "Second Reader Class" reciting-- "Lesson verse or prose?" None in all the class is certain; Each one thinks he knows. "Well," is queried then, "the difference Who can now define?" Answers Rob: "In verse they never Finish out the line!" Boy, thy thought doth strangely thrill me, And as hours roll on, Hears my heart a solemn query: Is my day's work done? Do I make of this my life-task Prose or idle rhyme? Do I in the sight of Heaven Finish out the line? Oh, it is "too fine a knowledge" For our mortal sight, All these restless little creatures How to lead aright. He who prayeth while he worketh, Taking lessons still Of the Friend of little children, Learning all His will; He alone can walk before them Worthily and well; He alone of life's strange language Can the meaning tell. May I then with heart as tender As a little child Lead my flock; and Father, keep them Pure and undefiled. O blessed peace, that floweth like a river, Unstayed, unwearied, ever on and on; That hath its fount and spring in Christ the giver, And finds its ocean round the great white Throne. O peace of God, that passeth understanding, Thou art the answer to my soul's long quest; Doubts, fears and sins, their serried hosts disbanding, I leave, launch on thy wave, and anchored, rest. We were "seven in all," as the dear rustic maid To the poet so sweetly protested; And together we rambled and studied and played, Each imbibing a share of the sunshine and shade Wherewith our young life was invested. And black eyes and blue eyes and brown eyes and gray Looked up to the face of our mother, As she led us in study in labor or play, Or told of "Our Father," and taught us to pray, And to cherish and love one another. O, the rapture of being when life is a-tune With the song-life and beauty of morning; When the roseate dawn brightens into the noon, And the year hastens on to the splendor of June, In her fragrance and matchless adorning. So our years flitted by and the youngest of all-- Our dark-eyed and fun-loving brother-- Was grown to be manly and lithesome and tall, And to couteous titles we answered the call, But were still "boys" and "girls" to each other. O, the joy of endeavor, endurance and toil On thro' summer-time vigor and sweetness, Of triumph o'er that which would hinder or foil, Of the patience of hope after tears and turmoil, In the glory of autumn's completeness. And the toil and the turmoil and tears have been ours-- From our ranks we have missed a loved brother We've encountered the thorns, but we've cherished the flowers; We've passed under the clouds on to sunnier hours, And we're still "boys" and "girls" to each other. The gliding of a fairy form And rosy lips that knew no guile, With wonder parted, came to ask, "Papa, what is a smile?" A smile, whate'er it is, then stole That gentle parent's features o'er; For ne'er to him had been proposed Query so strange before. But while he pondered in his heart How he should to his child reply, A new, triumphant joy lit up Her loving, lustrous eye;-- And with this gladsome, new-found thought, She answered in her own behalf: "Oh, now, I know; a smile must be _The whisper to a laugh!_" Sing, little sparrow, sing thy song. No peril neareth thee; Tho night be dark or day be long, Or clouds hang low, sing on, sing on, The dear God heareth thee. Sing, little bird, whate'er befall-- Trill out thine utmost need; Thou canst not soar, thou canst not fall But He will note who knoweth all, And He thy plaint will heed. O little sparrow, far and high Thy soft notes God-ward go, And I with thee send up my cry, And both shall somewhere find reply, _God careth for us so._ O mother, from thy home beyond the stars Hast thou not known the yearning of thy child For thy sweet love? Hast thou not heard her wild And piteous moaning for thy soft caress? Felt her heart's aching for the tenderness And the low patience of thy loving voice? Hast thou not seen her 'mid life's toils and jars, Pant as a bird behind its prison bars, For freedom to fly forth and be with thee? And canst thou not, sweet mother, send reply? Oh, thro' the depths of glory, thro' the sky, Look for one moment down and say to me That all of loss on earth thou findest to be Great gain in heaven; that thou dost rejoice In all that was, and is, and shall betide At last to all; and that, in Him who died, Yet liveth evermore, I, too, shall see All discord blended into harmony; And that I, too, shall be, as thou art, satisfied. Lift up thine eyes unto the hills; A pure and fragrant breath Is wafted from their purple tops,-- The Heaven-sent breath of _Faith_. Lift up thine eyes unto the hills; Beyond their shadowy slope The Sun of Righteousness doth rise In roseate dawn of _Hope_. Lift up thine eyes unto the hills; Around, below, above, The holy sky is all aglow With the warm light of _Love_. Lift up thine eyes unto the hills;-- Faith, Hope and Love are given To point from fading joys of earth, To endless joy of Heaven. Sister, we know That God is good, and He hath led us on By pleasant ways or painful to this day. Our lives went on together until now. In childhood and in youth the same fond home Hath been our earthly refuge; the same Rock Our shelter when earth had no rest or shade. At the same fancy we have often smiled, For the same sorrow wept; and oft our souls, In mingling aspirations, have sent up The same thanksgiving, the same burning prayer. Yes, we have lived _together_; we have known The visible blending of the outward life Made real by the holier unison Of loving spirit and aspiring mind. The spells of joy have bound us--and of hope, And tears--which are the diamond links of love-- Have made the chain of our affection strong. It may be thus no more; yet--God is good-- I hush the moaning of my riven heart, And smile that thou art happy; and give thanks That thy sweet life, rejoicing, hath put on Its richest diadem, its crown of love. May the kind Father grant that crown to be All worthy of the wearer; may His smile Lend brightness to it ever; and at last, When it is laid with earthly robes away, O may the infinite and eternal Love Rest like a glory on thy radiant brow. God bless you thro' this bright new year, The first you spend together; Give peace and trust thro' cloudy days, Joy in its sunny weather. And may the days as days go by, Still richer seem and sweeter, And passing seasons make your lives In every good completer. There are not words to tell the love In which I could caress you; Your dear united names I breathe, And once more pray, God bless you. Sixteen! and life to thee looks bright and fair;-- A book unread, rose-tinted, golden edged, Encased in binding curious, costly, rare;-- And all the years to be thou holdest pledged To give thee from its pages, day by day, Readings to cheer and bless the blithesome way. And life is such a volume, only thou, From garnered storage of the heart and mind, Must fill unwritten pages, and allow Fair pictures--of pure thought, of self resigned, Of kindly deeds--each new-made page to grace;-- How blest if none thou, later, woulds't efface! Sixteen! A May-day in the path of life, A marvelous puzzle on the finger twirled; Sixteen again; a stir of earnest strife And toil and tumult in a restless world; Repeated still,--a patient, steadfast hold On good attained,--ripe fruit, and grain of gold. Sixteen once more! Serene in shade or sun, A brighter outlook now; existence grand! Content in hopes fulfilled, in victories won, Mingling with holier yearnings for that land, Whose o'er-flown radiance and whose surplus bliss Have been the glory and the joy of this. At the tenth birthday all the world looks fair; The twentieth scarcely shades it with a care; At the third decade life soars grand and high; But with the fourth its heyday passes by. The fifth comes on,--a century's half is told; The sixth,--our little girl is growing old. Another half-score milestone passed, and then We've reached the allotted three-score years and ten. Years may be added; should they come to thee May Faith and Wisdom their companion be; Hope thy sure anchor; Peace with thee abide, And Love still be thy light at eventide. A gentleman once wrote of Elizabeth Fry: "Her name has long been a word of beauty in our household." Make thy name a word of beauty, Like the lily pure and fair, From its perfumed cup exhaling Sweetest fragrance on the air. Make thy name a word of beauty Lustrous as the ocean pearl; Constant in life's loving service, Guileless through youth's mazy whirl. Make thy name a word of beauty, Radiant, steadfast, like a star; Shedding from a glowing center Love's effulgence near and far. Aye, we greet thee, rare-sweet maiden, (Make it evermore thy right), Jessica--our word of beauty, Lily, pearl, and star of light. Out of the blindness and the night Into clear and constant light. Out of the weariness and pain Into everlasting gain. Out of the toil and durance hard Into rest and rich reward. Out of the doubting and distress Into certain blessedness. Out of the dusty lanes of care Into pastures green and fair. Out of the glaring desert sun To shades where cooling waters run. Out of the din of woe and wrong Into choral waves of song Out of the dwelling, worn and old, Into the city of pearl and gold. Where now, O Death, where is thy sting? Thou art the summons to the King. O Grave, where is thy victory? Thou art the gateway to the free! Dear Hallam, with this trifling gift Best wishes now I send thee; Through all thy future life may joy And grace and peace attend thee. May this the bright beginning be Of days love-crowned and royal; May griefs and faults and foes be few, Friends manifold and loyal. May gems from authors such as these Store well thy mental coffer, But for thy heart's enrichment please Accept the love I offer. Stars will shine on, tho thou art gone, But we shall miss the gleaming Of one bright eye's responsive smile, And love-light softly beaming. And flowers will bloom,--but we shall miss A fragrance and a beauty That brightened for us here and there The sombre path of duty. And friends will greet us on our way, But we shall miss the sweetness Of a fair presence that hath made So much of life's completeness. And yet 'tis well; we give thee joy, And pray with this caressing; That love and peace without alloy May be thy bridal blessing. He heard the cry of man enslaved In bonds and servile toil; And gave his voice for freedom till The "Freedman" tilled "free-soil." He saw his weaker brother reel, Pierced by Drink's poisoned dart, And wrought and wrote with fervent zeal To stay the Tempter's art. He heard the clash of sword and gun In deadly battle-strife; And pleaded till his day was done For Love's sweet rule in life. He rests in peace. Who now shall wear The mantle he let fall? Who teach as he the Father-love, The brotherhood of all? I saw when Israel toiled and groaned beneath the Pharoah's rod, And in his hopeless bondage moaned his helpless prayer to God. I saw when from the river's brink the infant leader rose, I heard him at the burning bush his swift excuses bring: "And who am I that I should lead the people of thy choice? My warning word they will not heed, nor hearken to my voice. "And who am I that I should move a monarch to relent? I, but a man, and slow of speech, nor wise, nor eloquent." I marked the answer: "Plead no more thy vain excuse to me; I am the Lord; my servant thou; my glory thou shalt see. "I am the Lord; the power is mine; 'tis thine to hear and do; The Lord almighty is to save, by many or by few." The man of doubt exchanged his fears for faith in God and right, While meek obedience on his brow sat like a crown of light. The slow of speech grew eloquent, till Israel gladly heard; And he in fierce displeasure drove the captives from his land; Not knowing their deliverance was all divinely planned. Down the long line of two-score years I looked and saw at last, The blissful view from Pisgah's height; the Jordan safely passed; I saw again, when sin-enslaved, by Jabin's hand oppressed, A people's cry went up to God for rescue and for rest. Then up rose Deborah, judge and seer, with all her valiant band, And Jael, wife of Heber, slew his captain with the sword; So woman's hand achieved that day the victory for the Lord. And woman's voice extolled in song the great Deliverer's name:-- "Praise God! He hath avenged His own, for willingly they came. I saw when Gideon led his band down to the water's bank To prove and set them in array, as man by man they drank, And with the handful chosen thus went forth against the foe, And vanquished all the Midian host, and laid their princes low. Once more I saw when Israel quailed before Philistia's pride; While great Goliath, day by day, Jehovah's power defied. The weak and timid fled away, the valiant shrank with fear;-- Even Saul, their chosen king, forgot (admiring Israel's boast!) That he stood head and shoulders high above his martial host. Then forth there came a ruddy youth: "That banner I'll defend; Be it not said our God hath none on whom He may depend. "Let no heart fail to-day because of this Philistine's boast; The battle is the Lord's and He will vanquish this proud host." Then spake he to the giant foe: "A loyal servant I Of Israel's God, whose holy name thou darest to defy. 'Twas but a pebble from the brook, sent by a loyal will; But sword and spear not mightier were God's purpose to fulfil. For one may chase a thousand, and ten thousand flee from two; The God of right is strong to save by many or by few. Years, ages pass and now I see a land beloved and fair; And lo! a cruel enemy hath gained possession there. The riches of this goodly land into his coffers pour; Insatiate and unscrupulous, his constant cry is "More!" "More money clinking in my till, more men--my licensed prey; More _boys_ to feed my traffic when these men have passed away." Thus man is robbed of purse and soul, home of its peace and joy; The wife of husband is bereft, the mother of her boy. The land doth mourn. On every side the spoiler hath his way; No past oppression hath surpassed this vision of to-day. And who, like Moses, will exchange his self-distrust and fear For faith to meet the encroaching foe and check his bold career? And who, like Deborah, will arise and lead a valiant band To drive the Tyrant from her gates, the Traffic from her land? Who will, like Gideon and his men, the light of truth dare throw On darkest evil, and the trump of coming victory blow? Or who, like David, will come forth in God's great name, alone, And lay the boastful giant low, as once with sling and stone? When Avarice and unholy Pride against the good contend, The battle is the Lord's and He His people will defend. Each epoch hath its burning bush, and each its palm-tree shade; And each its oak of Ophrah, where the pledge of peace is made. And each its fold, where kingly soul in shepherd guise is found; And when the Master calleth there the place is "holy ground." Holy the place; but whose the hour? perchance He calleth _thee_, Or _thee_; who, who will answer now, "Lord, here am I; send me?" O, for the love of land and home, make answer brave and true; Our God is mighty still to save, by many or by few. Let us be still before Him. Yet once more That voice hath spoken to our startled souls Which fell in solemn cadence on the ear Of the hushed listeners on Mt. Olive's hill: "At eventide, at midnight, or at morn, The Son of Man shall come, shall surely come; Be ready, for ye may not know the hour." And if at eventide, when Nature folds Her toil-spent hands and sinks into repose; Or if at midnight hour of gloom Thou come, Or when the morning spreads her wings of light, Oh make us ready for the solemn call. Supply our need, of knowledge, wisdom, grace, Dear Lord, that with confiding joy our souls, Made pure of sin and strong in faith, may go To meet Thee at Thy coming. If the sound Of sweet home-voices follow to the brink Of death's dark river, as they fainter grow, Then let us hear Thy still small voice of love; Say to us, "It is I--be not afraid." Or if the angel of the icy hand Should find us when no human friend is near And summon us away, then as we lose Our hold of earth and fall away from life, O wilt Thou grant our parting spirits may Go out in silence and be found with Thee. A modest plant; soft shades of green In leaflets poised on slender stem; And all outspread to catch the glow Of morning sun or dew-drop gem. But, lo, what change! When finger-tips But touch the leaflets' fringe, the charm Of life is gone--Mimosa shrinks, As conscious of some present harm. So would I have my soul recoil From touch of wrong or thought of sin; So throw its portals wide again, To let the dew and sunshine in. When steamboats approach Mt. Vernon their bells begin to toll, Mt. Vernon's shade sweet vigil keeps Where on her breast her hero sleeps; O passing bells, soft be your tone, Toll gently for our Washington. Toll, the great Warrior's strife is o'er; Toll, for the Statesman pleads no more; Toll--for a Man is fallen--on, Peal out your dirge for Washington. Toll for a people's wounded heart, Toll for a bleeding Nation's smart, Toll for a World!--toll sadly on-- The world hath lost a Washington. Ring out your wailing on the air, And let it be a voice of prayer; He whom we greatly need is gone;-- God give another Washington. Thus while she listened to the mournful knell That woke sad echoes on Potomac's shore; Saw how from Sumter's height her banner fell, And heard, not distant far, loud battle's roar;-- Thus, while she heard the impatient bondman's moan, Knew her own power defied, her trust betrayed; While Treason rose to hurl her from her throne-- The Spirit of the Union mused and prayed. God gave another; while we stood Aghast before the coming flood Of war, and its attending woes, The one for whom she prayed arose. Blinded and deaf, we knew him not; Yet saw him wipe out slavery's blot; Heard him proclaim his people free, From lake to gulf, from sea to sea. Saw this and heard, but deaf and blind, We failed to recognize the Mind, Which, going on from strength to strength, From grace to grace, had grown at length, Thro the stern lessons of the hour, Of danger, censure, praise and power, To be the Man among us, one, Whom now we hail, since he is gone, Lincoln, our more than Washington. Fallen? No; his part was finished In the earthly toil and strife; He hath but lain his armor by, And entered into life. Silent? No; tho' hushed forever Tones that did like music thrill, Through example, helpful, holy, Lo, he speaketh still. Vanished? Lost to those that loved him? No; his spirit lingering near Still doth woo them, onward, upward, Whispering, "Be of cheer." Crowned? Aye, crowned in earth and heaven; Here with laurels fairly won; There with star-lit diadem, Inscribed "Well done! well done!" Looking in thine eyes of azure, Looking on thy hair of gold, Once I wished, Evangelina, That there were no growing old. For I thought of how thy sweet eyes Would grow dim with tears and care; How the years would turn to silver All thy wealth of golden hair. How the lines of life would gather O'er the face so placid now; Traces of its toil and struggle Touching lip and cheek and brow. This I thought, and wished the shadows Might not lengthen o'er thy way; Wished there were no time but spring-time, Were no evening of the day. Now I fear, Evangelina, That my wish was half a prayer, That the listening Father heard me, That thou liest, an answer, there. For thou liest in thy beauty,-- Eyes of blue and hair of gold, Lip and cheek and brow of marble, Folded fingers, still and cold;-- O my angel, God hath called thee Where there is no growing old. The time of the singing of birds is come; 'Tis the happiest time of the year: They are saying, "Let's build us our summer home, For the frost-king no longer we fear." The time of the singing of birds is come, And the time of their building, too; With a feather, a straw and a stray bit of gum They will shew what bird-builders can do. The time of the singing of birds is come: I was eaves-dropping under the trees; And as I translated the twitter and hum, I thought the words sounded like these: "Twirr-a-whirr, twirr-a-whirr, The young leaves are astir; We will make us a nest snug and warm On this apple-tree bough-- We are at it e'en now-- All secure from intruders and storm. "'Tis for home, 'tis for love, 'Tis for heaven above, And our roof is the clear azure sky; The foundations we lay In this rough straw and clay, But we'll line it with moss by and by." The time of the singing of birds is here, And if under the apple-tree bough Orlando and May would a domicile rear, Let them hear what the birds tell them now: "Build for home, build for love, Build for heaven above, Build with music and cheer like the birds; And if palace or cot, Built of marble or what, Line your nest with the moss of kind words," The incident here narrated occurred some years ago at the Media Where Nature in her beauty grew, And over field and flowering wood Her summer mantle lightly threw. The scene had met his eye before; The pleasant path he oft had trod; And one who sought in simple lore To teach him things of heaven and God Had often wandered with him there, And pointed out each lovely spot,-- The sunlit cloud--the floweret fair-- But still he comprehended not. For all his soul was void and still, And darkness held his mind in thrall; He recognized no Sovereign Will, Nor saw the hand of God in all. In Nature's presence now alone He stood, and filled with silent awe, Beheld, before the coming sun, The curtained Night in haste withdraw. And gazing there with vacant eye, All motionless and mute he waits, When lo! the chariot of the sky Rolls through the morning's crimson gates. The orient beams with beauteous light-- Hath not his soul its radiance caught? His being grasps a new delight; A deep, mysterious change is wrought. A light is kindled in his breast; A temple-veil at length is riven; And in that hour of strange unrest A thought is born--of God in heaven. In haste he seeks his tutor's side, For he who "bore in grief a part" Will, in this happy hour of pride, Responsive hail his joy of heart. The glowing cheek, the flashing eye, The parted lips--_not voiceless now_-- And, caught from that resplendent sky, The marvelous light upon his brow,-- While these, ere yet he speaks, attest The rapture which that thought has given; He lifts his finger toward the east And softly whispers, "_God, in Heaven!_" O blessed hour! and happy he To whom, thro patient love 'twas given To set a fettered spirit free, And wake a hope of God in Heaven A Soul was stirred as one thro' blinding tears Rehearsed a tale of want and cruel wrong; Keen indignation banished doubts and fears; The purpose of imperial youth grew strong. A Voice was heard: "Alas! that on the side Of sin and mad oppression there is power, But we will change all this, if God so aid":-- And Maine's new freedom dated from that hour. A Life was given; fraught with noble deeds;-- Aflame with words of truth, and tireless zeal, And boldness for the right that gave no heed To threatening hate, or sycophant's appeal. But men decried the fervor of that Soul, And would have hushed the Voice that pleaded still Against the oppressors' power, and such control As brought _them_ gain, all others loss and ill. And men denounced that Life; and where it came Ofttimes their scoffings tainted the sweet air, As with malicious scorn they hailed a name That calumny itself left clean and fair. And now that Soul hath entered into rest; That Voice is silent, and that peerless Life Hath crossed the threshold where the good and blest Enter, and cease from sorrow, toil and strife. O Life and Voice and Soul! O princely one! Our loyal hearts send greeting to thee now; Thy name has lighted near a century gone,-- 'Twill brighten ages yet to come, Neal Dow. From the charm of idle pleasure, From Ambition's siren song, From the rush for earthly treasure Of the busy, careless throng; In the dawn of life's fair morning He had heard the Master's call; "Yea, I come," his heart made answer, "Paradise will pay for all." On through years of toil and struggle Walked he, faithful to his word; Blameless life and kind entreaty Leading many to the Lord. Meeting dangers, bearing burdens Well might stoutest heart appal; But to every doubt replying, "Paradise will pay for all." Now at eve, toil-spent and weary, Pierced with pain the pilgrim lay; Watching still with faith triumphant For the dawn of brighter day. Then upon his ear there falleth Once again the Master's call: "Come up higher." "Yea," he answers, "Paradise will pay for all." Father in Heaven, I thank Thee for this hour, This blessed hour wherein my contrite soul Humbled and happy bows itself to Thee, Pleading that all its error and its sin May be forgiven--even as I forgive. The cruel wrong swept o'er me like a flood; And my hurt soul in fierce defiance rose, And all forgetful that itself could sin Heaped heavy hatred on the offender's head. There came a calmer hour in which I saw The strong temptation that had moved him thus To barter all his better life away-- Love, honor, principle--to gain the world. And seeing this I learned to pity him. For well I knew the bauble he had won Would only mock him with its faithless glare; And well I knew the golden fruit he grasped Would be but dust and ashes in his hand; And knowing this I learned to pity him. And as my pity grew it turned to prayer-- That when the glitter of the gold was gone, And the sweet fruit was bitter to his taste; When the sad memory of the slighted past Came, and made deeper still the present gloom, The darkness might be lifted, and the Soul, Self-robbed and famishing, might find its way To the green pastures and the springs of life, That in the heart whence love and joy had fled, Whence hope was exiled, there might yet be peace. But suddenly I queried in my heart What power had moved me that I should have prayed For him I counted as my life-long foe. Greatly I marveled what it meant that thus I had called down such blessing upon him-- The kindliest boon of heaven, the peace of God. Deep in my soul there came an answering voice: "O Child, _it is but this--thou hast forgiven_!" Then thanks, O Father, for this plessed hour, Wherein my soul, by Thine own Spirit taught, Prays with no mockery of words Thy prayer: "Forgive my trespasses, _as I forgive_." Horror of combat, and tumult and dread; Thunder of cannon and bursting of bomb; Moans of the wounded (who envy the dead) Lost in the clamor of trumpet and drum. O where is the song of the angels? O when shall we hear it again? "Peace on earth," rang the chorus seraphic, "And good will evermore among men." Here is fierce anger and hatred and death, Pitiless slaughter of pitiless foe; Blessings and curses poured forth in a breath; Brave self-forgetting, and measureless woe. But where is the song of the angels? O when shall we hear it again? "Peace on earth," rang the chorus seraphic, "And good will evermore among men." Blue waves of ocean are reddened with gore, Victor and victim earth holds to her breast; Hearts that will thrill with ambition no more; Heads that so lately fond mothers caressed. O where is the song of the angels? O when shall we hear it again? "Peace on earth," rang the chorus seraphic, "And good will evermore among men." Victory, purchased at infinite cost, Honors and titles so fearfully won, Fame, at the price of lives blighted and lost, Graves, all unnoted, unnumbered, unknown. O where is the song of the angels? Dear Christ, let us hear it again; "Peace on earth," send the chorus seraphic, "Peace on earth, and good will among men." I have dreamed a sweet dream; I have seen a fair vision; I have looked the wide universe o'er; And earth's nations arise in a glory elysian-- They do not learn war any more. There are music and mirth; there are childhood's sweet voices, Winsome age lends its placid charm there; There are laughter and glee as when home-life rejoices Unshadowed by sorrow or care. In all noble achievement, all worthy endeavor, Men in kindly ambition contend; But the valiant of heart may yet know he hath ever In his sturdiest foeman a friend. Nevermore the proud boast or the haughty defiance;-- Without end shall His kingdom increase; 'Tis the day of _all nations in Holy Alliance_, 'Tis the reign of truth, justice, and peace. Nevermore shall a nation lift sword against nation, The dominion of Hatred is o'er; 'Tis the triumph of Love, 'tis the dawn of Christ's kingdom, They shall not learn war any more. Put up thy sword, O Nation, grand and strong! Call in thy fleet-winged missiles from the sea; Art thou not great enough to suffer wrong, Land of the brave, the freest of the free? Put up thy sword. 'Tis nobler to endure Than to avenge thee at another's cost; And while thy claim and purpose are made sure, Behold that other's life and honor lost. Put up thy sword. It hath not hushed the cry That called it all too rashly from its sheath; Still o'er the fated isle her children lie And find surcease from anguish but in death. Put up thy sword, O Country, strong and free, Let strife and avarice and oppression cease; So shall the world thy Star of Empire see Resplendent o'er the heaven-touched hills of Peace. They fought with lances in that ancient day, With sword and spear and arrow deftly sped. At eventide the hosts of Israel lay Vanquished and spoiled, the dying with the dead; And the Ark of God was taken. They fought with ballots in our nearer day; From morn to eve the light-winged missiles flew; Again Philistia's triumph brought dismay, And Wrong, victorious, struggling Virtue slew, And the Ark of God was taken. O ye to whom the sacred trust was given To guard the altar and the ark of God, Have ye been recreant to the charge of heaven, That thus we fall before the avenging rod, And the Ark of God is taken? Rouse from your shameful slumbers. Put away Your strange gods from among you. Turn again; That in the drawing of some nobler day The hosts of sin may be rebuked of men, And the Ark of God re-taken. (Air: King Bibbler's Army.) In the years, years ago, when the true-hearted women, Started forth on their errand of prayer, Many said, "'Tis the cry of the Home for protection"; Many said, "'Tis delusion and snare." Some said, softly, "God bless you"; some murmured, "Mistaken"; Some the swift shafts of calumny hurled; But they went bravely forward, a praying procession, Marching out, out, out in the world. Hark! hark! a trembling chorus: We cannot have Rum ruling o'er us; And now to save our young men the White-Ribbon Army Marches on, on, on round the world. At the head of the host came the silver-haired mothers, Arm in arm with the daughters so fair; While the wives for their husbands, the girls for their brothers, As their pleadings prevail, and "the worst foe" surrenders, The white banner of peace is unfurled; And we now may behold them, a joyful procession, Marching on, on, on round the world. Hark! hark! a swelling chorus: We cannot have Rum ruling o'er us; And oh to save our country the White-Ribbon Army Marches on, on, on round the world. They have entered the gates of the Empire Celestial, They have compassed the Isles of the Sea, And they carry glad tidings of good to all people, From the land of the brave and the free. On the peeress of England, on Afric's dark daughter, Is the white-ribbon emblem now twirled; And the army moves onward, a dauntless procession, Marching on, on, on round the world. Hark! hark! a ringing chorus: We cannot have Rum ruling o'er us; And lo! to save all nations the White-Ribbon Army Marches on, on, on round the world. Dawn of glory! radiant morn! To-day the Christ, our King, is born. And Son of God--all-wondrous plan! A Virgin's joy; a world's salvation; Humblest type of exaltation! Highest form of life despised; Visage marred, and beauty prized. By angels heralded on high; By men abhorred and doomed to die. Entombed secure 'neath seal and stone; Hail, blessed light! Hail glorious morn! The Wonderful, the Christ is born! The Early Dawn looked out upon the world And cried, "How beautiful a world to be!" The Dawn herself was beautiful to see; Her hair of glowing golden light uncurled About a face of clear serenity, Whereon rose-tinted smiles played daintily and free. "Aye, fair the earth," she said, "most fair--and yet How can I for one briefest space forget How dark a stain its loveliness doth mar; A stain, a scourge, the cruel curse of war! Even now I dimly see and faintly hear The clang of drum, the clash of sword and spear." And pale with pity, swift she shrank away, Leaving the world and war to broader day. The Sun at noon looked down upon the world; From depths of vast ethereal blue looked down, And mused, "You far, fair Earth, sure we must crown Queen of the Universe. Great flags unfurled O'er her bright waters witness high renown Won by her creature, Man; aye, bring for Earth a crown! Yet stay--there riseth over Afric plains A cloud of battle-smoke; with crimson stains Her rivers run; her hills and meadows fair, Trampled by hostile hordes, lie waste and bare. And yonder, in the islands of the sea, A people struggle vainly to be free; And everywhere the banners of fair fame Trail in the dust of hatred, greed and shame. No crown for Earth; I mourn so bright a star Lost in the chaos of consuming war." And veiled in robe of woe, he went his way, Borne by the passing hours to close of day. The twilight lingered, and the Evening Star Looked back upon the world and whispered low: "These who have spoken surely could not know:-- Earth is a great, pure pearl, and seems from far Set with fair homes, like gems; in amber glow, Or emerald green, or gold or roseate snow. But hush! In palace hall a bitter cry; A mangled hero is borne in to die; And in yon lowly cot, a widow's moan;-- A mother's heart-break o'er her only son. Alas! 'tis true. Earth's battle-fields destroy Her noblest manhood; rob her homes of joy." And sad the Star of Evening sank from sight, While Earth lay shrouded in the gloom of night. But from afar--beyond the Morning's birth, Beyond the depths whence Sun looked down on earth, Beyond the dreamy distance of the Star,-- A voice proclaimed: "They shall no more learn war." Light on my pathway, blessed Lord, The light of life, I pray; O, let the glory of Thy word Shine o'er my life to-day. I cry to Thee for present help, Turn not my prayer away; O Strength and Refuge of Thine own, Keep Thou my soul to-day. My willing but uncertain feet Guide in Thy chosen way; And let Thy grace sufficient be For all my need to-day. My 'Infant Class' one summer morn, Was gathered in the maple shade Near the church door, and there we talked Of the fair world our Lord had made-- The swaying trees upon the hill, The waving grain, the shadowy grove-- Till every little heart seemed filled With the sweet sense of Jesus' love. A query came: Dear little ones, As days go by what shall we do-- Since Jesus has so loved us all-- To show him that we love him too? "I'll mind mama," said wilful Tim; And Ben, "I'll carry in the wood;" Said Mary, "I will lessons learn;" While Dimple lisped, "I will be dood." And how will Helen show her love? She, with a wistful glance at Rose-- A sweet, but pale and timid child-- Replied, "By giving up, I 'spose." Dear girl! To fragile sister Rose She oft must yield her will and way; But now this duty shall disclose Her love for Jesus, day by day. Oh oft, were we but wise, we'd find Our triumph in another's gain; On glowing altar--coals of love-- Would joy to see self-idols slain. In simplest ways the soul may drink With Christ the sacrificial cup, And many a victory is won, And nobly won, by 'giving up.' Thy will, Thy way, not mine, O blessed Lord; My will would choose the smooth and pleasant way, And that might lead from duty's path astray; Nay, I would walk "according to Thy word," Choosing Thy way, not mine. Thy peace, my gracious Saviour, would I choose, My peace might lead me man, not God, to please, Might lure my soul to take its selfish ease, And, gaining all the world, itself to lose, Give me Thy peace, not mine. Thy will, Thy way, Thy peace, Thou knowest best; Let me but see the guiding of Thine eye, Let me but know Thy voice, and swift reply My soul shall make to every know behest, Doing Thy will, not mine. Ah me! what life since hers in age agone Hath not known Hagar's hour in desert wild; Outcast from sheltering home, adrift, alone, Bereft of love's sweet ministry, her child-- Her heart's one treasure--late so fond and fair, Become a burden more than she could bear; All earth and sky a strange enfolding scroll Writ o'er with nameless pain and sense of need To which nor pitying eye nor ear gave heed _Till came the thought of God._ Even so the soul, Consumed with vain regret and doubt and dread-- As she upon the barren sand her boy-- Lays all it once had counted hope and joy Upon the desolate waste itself had spread; Self-abnegating, tho with bitter cry-- "I yield thee, but I cannot see thee die." But, passing thence, the agonizing plea Faith transforms into tuneful harmony, Glad to remember "Thou, God, seest me." Start not, good friends; there was a time When I, whom fate, in kindly mood, Made brief sojourner in your clime, Was glad partaker of the good That from your "Circle" emanated; And as the seven days went 'round The appointed "Fourth-day evening" found Me with its members congregated. And also now I recognize The smiling lips and beaming eyes Of some, who, cordial, kind and free, Had smiles and loving words for me. Who, when I entered rose to greet, And welcome gave, sincere and sweet. But that was years ago, and now There may be wrinkles on my brow; There may have fled from form and face The transient charms of youth and grace, And time and sadness may have thrown A shadow o'er the "chestnut brown" Of locks that once--well, let that pass;-- These are but sorrowful reflections, And, like those of my looking-glass, Do but discover imperfections; So let us leave this train of thought And start in happier directions. But first I think it may be due Alike unto myself and you, Lest some should think I may have brought My ghostly presence here unsought, To make this note of explanation:-- That not for pride, or praise, or gloom, Or curious motive am I come; Nor yet for want of occupation; Far from intruding thus, I would Have it distinctly understood I'm here by "special invitation." Here! and my phantom pulses quicken! Pale memories gather round me fast, And now they grow, and gleam, and thicken, And fan me with their wings of light, And bear me to a realm more bright Than fairy land or elfin home, Or that sweet world whence dreams do come The heaven of a happy Past! Familiar faces on me smile, Remembered voices greet my ear, And social converse gives the while, The old-time wisdom and good cheer. But while we're all engaged in chat, Of work, of weather, and all that, And voices rise and smiles grow broader, Presiding dignity comes forth With modest but "amazing" worth And calls the whole concern to order. Then "minutes" penned by snow-white hand, Approved without dissension stand; And hushed is all the talk and noise The while some soft or manly voice From gifted author doth unfold Before us treasures new and old. We grant them rare, yet lay them by Our intellectual strength to try In essay, speech, or declamation; We reverence the might of mind, But here our home-spun thoughts still find A kindlier appreciation. With hushed breath and eyes that glisten, To some fine argument we listen, From one with head so full of lore That to prevent its brimming o'er He must impart his information. The which he does "by book and rule," Achieving in the village school A never-ceasing reformation. With rapt attention now we hear A discourse upon Sound and Ear, Wherein is beautifully blended, So fair, when fairly comprehended. Then some poetic brain is fired, Some secret spring unlocked, for A brother brings, with love inspired, Kind thoughts in glowing words attired, And prays at once with heart and pen-- And all the people say Amen-- "God bless the Country Doctor." And "lesser lights" send out a gleam Of intellectual glory; And many a grave or playful theme, Or fact profound, or doubtful dream, Or song, or allegory Beguiles the gloom of winter night, And makes the slow hours swift and light; To social pleasure adds a charm, Makes young hearts wise and old hearts warm, And Life a pleasant story. O friends, I live it o'er again! I cross the gulf 'twixt Now and Then, And live that happy time again; Its varied joy and brightness, all-- The crowded room, the lighted hall, The merry laugh, the friendly nod-- And bless the Fate that brought--but no, Let us not read these chances so-- _Fate is the Sovereign will of God_; He marks the paths by mortals trod; And He appoints our joy and woe. Then bless we God, whose gracious hand Hath led us gently on our way; By whose good will to-day we stand Rejoicing that we live to-day. By whose sweet mercy yet we trust That all of us which is not dust, From time and toils of earth shall rise To nobler life beyond the skies. Up in the same sweet heaven, Though parted far, We two may see at even The same bright star. So the same blessed guide-star Of Love divine Illumines with its glory Thy path and mine. When thoughts of these, of heaven And love are thine, Be one kind memory given Bless us now, our Heavenly Father, As we gather once again And unite our hearts and voices In a grateful, glad refrain; Praises for a Father's bounty, Praises for a Saviour's reign. Lead us in thy perfect way; Show us as we strive to serve Thee, What to do and what to say; Teach us how to work and suffer, How to watch and how to pray. Gracious Lord, we come with pleading For our tempted brother's sin; At the open door of mercy Praying Thou wilt take him in. Sin-sick, heart-sore and repentant, Let him now new life begin. And we bring our sister, moaning Over blighted hope and home; Robbed of all life's best possessions By the ruthless spoiler--Rum, To her rest in Thy compassion, Bid the heavy-laden "Come." And we pray, O God of Nations, That thine outstretched arm of might, May rebuke this prowling evil, May drive back the powers of night, And preserve us Home and Country Kind friends, we thank you, one and all, For giving such attention, While we've arraigned Old Alcohol, And of his faults made mention. And if you'd like to see him now Put "in a pretty pickle," Just lend a hand and help us on By giving us a nickel. He stalks the earth from east to west, A deal of mischief doing; But we are "on the war-path" now, Old Alcohol pursuing. So if you'd like to see him caught And punished for his crime, sir, Just lend a hand and help us on By tossing us a dime, sir. He robs our homes of peace and joy; He fills the land with sighing; Sets snares and pitfalls for our feet, (He'd better be a-dying.) So if you think he should be slain, As we believe he'd or'ter, Just lend a hand and help us on By handing out a quarter. He boasts himself a King--by law And license well protected; But now "the children are a-field" We'll have him soon ejected. So if you'd see us tackle him, And take him by the collar, Just lend a hand and help us on By dropping in a dollar. "Here shall the Boundary Line be laid." "Not so, but here," the other said. Clamor of contest ran fierce and high,-- Defiant challenge and proud reply. For heights of the Andes rose between And the mooted question, day by day, Was "What doth limit my neighbor's sway?" The sunlight rose and the shadows fell On either slope, but none could tell Just where the morning's magic wand Touched the Argentine or Chile land. Fair in their verdure, pure in their snow, So near to heaven their summits go-- Why should they ever by man be trod? 'Twould seem they should only belong to God. But the strife went on with passing years, Fed by resentment and pride and fears; Nor priest nor people could yet define The rightful range of the Boundary Line. The strife went on with its loss and shame, As generations went and came, And each in its turn the task essayed To solve the problem so long delayed. Then kinder, kinglier thought prevailed, Where threat of sword and gun had failed; And love-illumined reason wrought The adjustment long so vainly sought. "For how can a trifle of earth and air With the worth of human lives compare? And what can it matter if thine or mine Be the narrow side on the Boundary Line? "And why should greed and grim distrust Despoil us of our faith and trust? Enough, enough, let us pledge our word To settle by judgment, not by sword. "Let us heed the counsel our good priests bring, And raise the standard of Christ our King, And the here or there of the Boundary Line Let God and the British king define." Then the mother-heart of the nation stirred, As the fair De Costa's plea was heard: "Fathers and brothers! warriors, men! Shall we give our bravest to death and pain? "Shall we hush our hearts as we see them go-- God pity!--to strive with a brother foe? Long we have waited, have suffered and prayed For a joy still denied us, a hope still delayed. "Enough; let the sun in highest heaven Pencil the line for which you have striven; Let a princely people on either side In friendship and fair accord abide; "Be the strife of the past to the wild winds swept; The faith of the future unswervingly kept; And let 'The Christ of the Andes' rest In token of peace on the mountain's crest." Grandly the people made reply; The pledge was taken, the arms laid by, And glad thanksgiving and festal song Witnessed the joy of the gathered throng. Joy! for the strife of the past was o'er; Joy! for the promise of war no more; Joy in the gladness of land and home, Joy for the world-wide peace to come. On snow-tipped height of the Andean range They planted the statue fair and strange; And there, to the query of the sky, Its bronze and granite make reply: "I witness the failure of the sword, The victory of the Love-sent word; To dust may crumble rock and hill, This pledge of nations abideth still." So now the Boundary Line is laid; Christ in the heart hath the conflict stayed; And now doth "the Christ of the Andes" rest In token of peace on the mountain's crest. Margaret Lee--you do not know her? Rightly named--a pearl is she; Half a score of years I've loved her-- "Dimples?" No; nor "golden tresses," Nor yet "voice of silvery tone";-- If such phrases must express her, Beauty she has none. Soft brown hair and grey eyes dreaming Visions that none others see; Plain her features; _you_ might call her Margaret owns no stately mansion, Carries not a heavy purse; Heiress to no "lordly acres," Humble station hers. Quietly she treads life's highway; Quiet, yet with noble mien; 'Mid the lowly, 'mid the lofty Journeying like a queen. Some have called her cold and haughty, From her bearing, high and free; Some have said a lofty spirit Dwells with Margaret Lee. Why then do the "heavy-laden" Hail with joy her coming nigh? Why the childern love her shadow As she passeth by? Some have deemed her weak, erratic. Some, too self-reliant, strong; One avers, her mood too gloomy; One, too light her song. All may be; the clouds of error Ofttimes overshade her way, Hiding where the rough and changeful Paths of duty lay. But unseen by mortal vision Daily bends a suppliant knee; Humbly bows a contrite spirit-- Asking of the All-forgiving Pardon for her erring life; Seeking wisdom, faith and patience For its coming strife. So with footstep sometimes faltering, But with steadfast hope in God, Keeps she still a blithesome journey O'er the earthly road. And at last all loss and failure Lost in mercy, it may be Heaven's gate of pearl will open For sweet Margaret Lee. There redeemed from sin and sorrow, There from care and conflict free; She will walk the angel city, A. G. M., lingering on the threshold of eternity, looked lovingly and the words were: "Soaring upward, upward into Heaven." They call thee dead. They say that thou art gone, Forevermore from earth. It is not so; I know thy gentle spirit will return And linger fondly round the loved below. They call thee dead. And now thou art not ours; "God touched thee," for thy work on earth was done. Thy presence was to us like summer flowers; And they are faded now; and thou art gone. I had not thought, fair girl, that thou couldst die; I knew thee gentle, innocent and gay; And dreamed not that the brightness of thine eye, Was destined thus so soon to fade away. 'Tis well: "He giveth His beloved sleep,"-- O Sleeper, thou so early loved and blest! Say, were it wrong, if we who linger weep, And long to sleep, like thee, and be at rest? Ay, we who linger should not idlers be; Day hath appointed work from morn till even; And while we wait 'tis sweet to think of thee As "soaring upward, upward into heaven!" Do you wonder at my smiling? Do you wonder that I faint not 'neath the burden of my load? O, the gloom and toil and duty Change to light and praise and beauty While I'm looking toward the end of the road. Though the way is long and dreary, And I languish for a happier, a more serene abode, As the light of earth grows dimmer, Looking up, I see the glimmer Of its glory at the end of the road. Though the talent seemeth meager, But "with usury" return it, At His coming at the end of the road. Though I now go forth with weeping, If I bear the precious seed which the Master would have sowed, I shall come again with singing, Sheaves of plenty with me bringing To His harvest at the end of the road. Peace shall follow tribulation: This the boon Divine Compassion upon mortal hath bestowed; Heavy now the cross I'm bearing; Bright the crown I'll soon be wearing In the Temple at the end of the road.

Elizabeth Boyle O'Reilly

How France Built Her Cathedrals: A Study in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries

1874

SONG (ii) SONG (iii) When the evening came my love said to me: Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool, The garden of black hellebore and rosemary, Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool. Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heat Of day had waned, and round that shaded plot Of secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet: Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not. Between that old garden and seas of lazy foam Gloomy and beautiful alleys of trees arise With spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome, So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skies Veiled with soft air, drench'd in the roses' musk Or the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove; No stars burned in their deeps, but through the dusk I saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love. No star their secret ravished, no wasting moon Mocked the sad transience of those eternal hours: Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June, The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers. For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday now Were silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers, Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough-- Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers? Was ever a moment meeter made for love? Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss; And all your yielding sweetness beautiful-- Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this! If I had died, and never seen the dawn For which I hardly hoped, lighting this lawn Of silvery grasses; if there had been no light, And last night merged into perpetual night; I doubt if I should ever have been content To have closed my eyes without some testament To the great benefits that marked my faring Through the sweet world; for all my joy was sharing And lonely pleasures were few. Unto which end Three legacies I'll send, Three legacies, already half possess'd: One to a friend, of all good friends the best, Better than which is nothing; yet another Unto thy twin, dissimilar spirit, Brother; The third to you, Most beautiful, most true, Most perfect one, to whom they all are due. Quick, quick ... while there is time.... O best of friends, I leave you one sublime Summer, one fadeless summer. 'Twas begun Ere Cotswold hawthorn tarnished in the sun, When hedges were fledged with green, and early swallows Swift-darting, on curved wings, pillaged the fallows; When all our vale was dappled blossom and light, And oh, the scent of beanfields in the night! You shall remember that rich dust at even Which made old Evesham like a street in heaven, Gold-paved, and washed within a wave of golden Air all her dreamy towers and gables olden. You shall remember How arms sun-blistered, hot palms crack'd with rowing, Clove the cool water of Avon, sweetly flowing; And how our bodies, beautifully white, Stretch'd to a long stroke lengthened in green light, And we, emerging, laughed in childish wise, And pressed the kissing water from our eyes. Ah, was our laughter childish, or were we wise? And then, crown of the day, a tired returning With happy sunsets over Bredon burning, With music and with moonlight, and good ale, And no thought for the morrow.... Heavy phlox Our garden pathways bordered, and evening stocks, Those humble weeds, in sunlight withered and pale, With a night scent to match the nightingale, Gladdened with spiced sweetness sweet night's shadows, Meeting the breath of hay from mowing meadows: As humble was our joy, and as intense Our rapture. So, before I hurry hence, Yours be the memory. One night again, When we were men, and had striven, and known pain, By a dark canal debating, unresigned, On the blind fate that shadows humankind, On the blind sword that severs human love... Then did the hidden belfry from above On troubled minds in benediction shed The patience of the great anonymous dead Who reared those towers, those high cathedrals builded In solemn stone, and with clear fancy gilded A beauty beyond ours, trusting in God. Then dared we follow the dark way they trod, And bowing to the universal plan Trust in the true and fiery spirit of Man. And you, my Brother, You know, as knows one other, How my spirit revisiteth a room In a high wing, beneath pine-trees, where gloom Dwelleth, dispelled by resinous wood embers, Where, in half-darkness ... How the heart remembers... We talked of beauty, and those fiery things To which the divine desirous spirit clings, In a wing'd rapture to that heaven flinging, Where beauty is an easy thing, and singing The natural speech of man. Like kissing swords Our wits clashed there; the brittle beauty of words Breaking, seemed to discover its secret heart And all the rapt elusiveness of Art. Now I have known sorrow, and now I sing That a lovely word is not an idle thing; For as with stars the cloth of night is spangled, With star-like words, most lovelily entangled, The woof of sombre thought is deckt.... Ah, bright And cold they glitter in the spirit's night! But neither distant nor dispassionate; For beauty is an armour against fate.... I tell you, who have stood in the dark alone. Seeing the face that turneth all to stone, Medusa, blind with hate, While I was dying, Beauty sate with me Nor tortured any longer; gracious was she; To her soft words I listened, and was content To die, nor sorry that my light was spent. So, Brother, if I come not home, Go to that little room That my spirit revisiteth, and there, Somewhere in the blue air, you shall discover If that you be a lover Nor haughtily minded, all that once half-shaped Then fled us, and escaped: All that I found that day, Far, so far away. And you, my lovely one, What can I leave to you, who, you having left, Am utterly bereft? What in my store of visionary dowers Is not already yours? What silences, what hours Of peace passing all understanding; days Made lyric by your beauty and its praise; Years neither time can tarnish, nor death mar, Wherein you shined as steadfast as a star In my bleak night, heedless of the cloud-wrack Scudding in torn fleeces black Of my dark moods, as those who rule the far Star-haunted pleasaunces of heaven are? So think but lightly of that afternoon With white clouds climbing a blue sky in June When a boy worshipped under dreaming trees, Who touched your hand, and sought your eyes. Not these, not these... Nor yet those nights when icy Brathay thundered Under his bridges, and ghostly mountains wondered At the white blossoming of a Christmas rose More stainless than their snows; Nor even of those placid days together Mellow as early autumn's amber weather When beech is ankleted with fire, and old Elms wear their livery of yellow gold, When orchards all are laden with increase, And the quiet earth hath fruited, and knows peace Oh, think not overmuch on those sweet years Lest their last fruit be tears,-- Your tears, beloved, that were my utmost pain,-- But rather, dream again How that a lover, half poet and half child, An eager spirit of fragile fancies wild Compact, adored the beauty and truth in you: To your own truth be true; And when, not mournfully, you turn this page Consider still your starry heritage, Continue in your loveliness, a star To gladden me from afar Even where there is no light In my last night. This is the image of my last content: My soul shall be a little lonely lake, So hidden that no shadow of man may break The folding of its mountain battlement; Only the beautiful and innocent Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake Of churn'd cloud in a howling wind's descent. For there shall be no terror in the night When stars that I have loved are born in me, And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair; But this shall be the end of my delight: That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see Your image in the mirrored beauty there. These winter days on Lettermore The brown west wind it sweeps the bay, And icy rain beats on the bare Unhomely fields that perish there: The stony fields of Lettermore That drink the white Atlantic spray. And men who starve on Lettermore, Cursing the haggard, hungry surf, Will souse the autumn's bruised grains To light dark fires within their brains And fight with stones on Lettermore Or sprawl beside the smoky turf. When spring blows over Lettermore To bloom the ragged furze with gold, The lovely south wind's living breath Is laden with the smell of death: For fever breeds on Lettermore To waste the eyes of young and old. A black van comes to Lettermore; The horses stumble on the stones, The drivers curse,--for it is hard To cross the hills from Oughterard And cart the sick from Lettermore: A stinking load of rags and bones. But you will go to Lettermore When white sea-trout are on the run, When purple glows between the rocks About Lord Dudley's fishing-box Adown the road to Lettermore, And wide seas tarnish in the sun. And so you'll think of Lettermore As a lost island of the blest: With peasant lovers in a blue Dim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew, And the sweet peace of Lettermore Remote and dreaming in the West. Once, I think, a finer fire Touched my lips, and then I sang Half the songs of my desire: With their splendour the world rang. And their sweetness made me free Of those starry ways whereby Planets make their minstrelsy In echoing, unending sky. So, before that spell was broken, Song of the wind, surge of the sea,-- Beautiful passionate things unspoken Rose like a breaking wave in me: Rose like a wave with curled crest That green sunlight splinters through... But the wave broke within my breast: And now I am a man like you. Last night, last night, a vision of you Sweetly troubled my waking dream: Beneath the clear Algerian blue You stood with lifted eyes: the beam Of a winter sun beat on the crown Of a lemon-tree, whose delicate fruit Like pale lamps hung airily down; And in your gazing eyes a mute And lovely wonder.... Have I sung Of slender things and naught beside? You were so beautifully young I must have kissed you or have died. If, in high jealousy, God made me blind And laughed to see me stumble in the night, Driving his many-splintered arrows of light Into that lost dominion of my mind; Then, knowing me still unvext and unresigned, Stole from my ears all homely sounds that might Temper the darkness, saying, in heaven's despite, I had not wholly left the world behind; So, sunless, soundless, if, to make an end, He smote the nerves that move, the nerves that feel: Even then, O jealous one, I would not complain If I were spared the wealth I cannot spend, If I were left the treasure none can steal: The lovely words that wander through my brain. Adown our lane at Eastertide Hosts of dancing bluebells lay In pools of light: and 'Oh,' you cried, 'Look, look at them: I think that they Are bluer than the laughing sea,' And 'Look!' you cried, 'a piece of the sky Has fallen down for you and me To gaze upon and love.' ... And I, Seeing in your eyes the dancing blue And in your heart the innocent birth Of a pure delight, I knew, I knew That heaven had fallen upon earth. Before my window, in days of winter hoar Huddled a mournful wood: Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore, In stony sleep they stood: But you, unhappy elm, the angry west Had chosen from the rest, Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare, And left you leaning there So dead that when the breath of winter cast Wild snow upon the blast, The other living branches, downward bowed, Shook free their crystal shroud And shed upon your blackened trunk beneath, Their livery of death.... On windless nights between the beechen bars I watched cold stars Throb whitely in the sky, and dreamily Wondered if any life lay locked in thee: If still the hidden sap secretly moved, As water in the icy winterbourne Floweth unheard; And half I pitied you your trance forlorn: You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird, The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilight Or cool voices of owls crying by night.... Hunting by night under the horned moon: Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon, Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risen Steals from his misty prison; The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shaken In a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken: And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond belief Slenderly fledged anew with tender leaf As pale as those twin vanes that break at last In a tiny fan above the black beech-mast Where no blade springeth green But pallid bells of the shy helleborine. What is this ecstasy that overwhelms The dreaming earth? See, the embrowned elms Crowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood; A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown, His white clouds dapple the down; Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand; Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land.... There is no day for thee, my soul, like this, No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kiss Of mortal love that maketh man divine This light cannot outshine: Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catch The shadow of vanishing beauty, may not match This leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cull Such magical beauty as time may not destroy; But we, alas, are not more beautiful: We cannot flower in beauty as in joy. We sing, our mused words are sped, and then Poets are only men Who age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd tree May stand in leaf when I have ceased to be. O, now that I am free as the air And fleet as clouds above, I will wander everywhere Over the ways I love. Lightly, lightly will I pass Nor scatter as I go A shadow on the blowing grass Or a footprint in the snow. All the wild things of the wood That once were timid and shy They shall not flee their solitude For fear, when I pass by; And beauty, beauty, the wide world over, Shall blush when I draw near: She knows her lover, the joyous lover, And greets him without fear. But if I come to the dark room From which our love hath fled And bend above you in the gloom Or kneel beside your bed, Smile soft in your sleep, my beautiful one, For if you should say 'Nay' To the dream which visiteth you alone, My joy would wither away. Last night, amazed, I trod on holy ground Breathing an air that ancient poets knew, Where, in a valley compassed with sweet sound, Beneath a garden's alley'd shades of yew, With eager feet passed that singer sweet Who Stella loved, whom bloody Zutphen slew In the starred zenith of his knightly fame. There too a dark-stoled figure I did meet: Herbert, whose faith burned true And steadfast as the altar candle's flame. Under the Wilton cedars, pondering Upon the pains of Beauty and the wrong That sealeth lovely lips, fated to sing, Before they reach the cadence of their song, I mused upon dead poets: mighty ones Who sang and suffered: briefly heard were they As Libyan nightingales weary of wing Fleeing the temper of Saharan suns To gladden our moon'd May, And with the broken blossom vanishing. So to my eyes a sorrowful vision came Of one whose name was writ in water: bright His cheeks and eyes burned with a hectic flame; And one, alas! I saw whose passionate might Was spent upon a fevered fen in Greece; One shade there was who, starving, choked with bread; One, a drown'd corpse, through stormy water slips; One in the numbing poppy-juice found peace; And one, a youth, lay dead With powdered arsenic upon his lips. O bitter were the sorrow that could dull The sombre music of slow evening Here, where the old world is so beautiful That even lesser lips are moved to sing How the wide heron sails into the light Black as the cedarn shadows on the lawns Or stricken woodlands patient in decay, And river water murmurs through the night Until autumnal dawns Burn in the glass of Nadder's watery way. Nay, these were they by whom the world was lost, To whom the world most richly gave: forlorn Beauty they worshipp'd, counting not the cost If of their torment beauty might be born; And life, the splendid flower of their delight, Loving too eagerly, they broke, and spill'd The perfume that the folded petals close Before its prime; yet their frail fingers white From that bruised bloom distill'd Uttermost attar of the living rose. Wherefore, O shining ones, I will not mourn You, who have ravish'd beauty's secret ways Beneath death's impotent shadow, suffering scorn, Hatred, and desolation in her praise.... Thus as I spoke their phantom faces smiled, As brooding night with heavy downward wing Fell upon Wilton's elegiac stone, On the dark woodlands and the waters wild And every living thing-- Leaving me there amazed and alone. Through Porton village, under the bridge, A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing, Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing, And elms that shelter under the ridge. Through Porton village we passed one day, Marching the plain for mile on mile, And crossed the bridge in single file, Happily singing, and marched away Over the bridge where the shallow races, Under a clear and frosty sky: And the winterbourne, as we marched by, Mirrored a thousand laughing faces. O, do we trouble you, Porton river, We who laughing passed, and after Found a resting-place for laughter? Over here, where the poplars shiver By stagnant waters, we lie rotten. On windless nights, in the lonely places, There, where the winter water races, O, Porton river, are we forgotten? Through Porton village, under the bridge, The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing, Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing, And elms that shelter under the ridge. The pale moon she comes and looks; Over the lonely spire she climbs; For there she is lovelier many times Than in the little broken brooks. No one lives in the old house; long ago The voices of men and women left it lonely. They shuttered the sightless windows in a row, Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only. Beyond the garden-closes, with sudden thunder The lumbering troop-train passing clanks and jangles; And I, a stranger, peer with careless wonder Into the thickets of the garden tangles. Yet, as I pass, a transient vision dawns Ghostly upon my pondering spirit's gloom, Of grey lavender bushes and weedy lawns And a solitary cherry-tree in bloom.... No one lives in the old house: year by year The plaster crumbles on the lonely walls: The apple falls in the lush grass; the pear, Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls. Yet this the garden was, where, on spring nights Under the cherry-blossom, lovers plighted Have wondered at the moony billows white, Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted; Whose ears have heard the blackbird's jolly whistle, The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flitting Zigzag beneath the eaves; or, on the thistle, The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting; Whose eyes, on winter evenings, slow returning Saw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fall Streaming, or, on the hearth, red embers burning, And shadows of children playing in the hall. Where have they gone, lovers of another day? (No one lives in the old house; long ago They shuttered the sightless windows....) Where are they, Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow? I cannot tell ... and little enough they care, Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light, And autumn pile her harvest unaware Under the walls that echoed their delight. I cannot tell ... yet I am as those lovers; For me, who pass on my predestinate way, The prodigal blossom billows and recovers In ghostly gardens a hundred miles away. Yet, in my heart, a melancholy rapture Tells me that eyes, which now an iron haste Hurries to iron days, may here recapture A vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste. South of Guardafui with a dark tide flowing We hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon, Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showing Where dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon. 'Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?' 'We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman's behest, With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of Ophir From brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.' 'Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?' 'We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star. The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lying A hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.' 'Oh whither be ye sailing...?' 'Alas, we sail no longer: Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know. And why should you torment us? ... Your iron keels are stronger Than ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.' Marching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plain Of wavering spear-grass past Pangani River, England came to me--me who had always ta'en But never given before--England, the giver, In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiver On still evenings of summer, after rain, By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiver When scarce a ripple moves the upland grain. Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain, And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awake Shivering all night through till cold daybreak: In that I count these sufferings my gain And her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fain Suffer as many more for her sweet sake. I love all waves and lovely water in motion, That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray: Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake's commotion, Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal way Unquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowing Plumes of faint spray, cool in the deep And lucent seas, that pause not in their flowing To lap the southern starlight while they sleep. These I have seen, these I have loved and known: I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swinging Like a ship's lantern, silent and alone Within his sea of sky, and heard the singing Of the south trade, that siren of the air, Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there. To-night I lay with fever in my veins Consumed, tormented creature of fire and ice, And, weaving the enhavock'd brain's device, Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plains Where sunlight slayeth life, and where no rains Abated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire: So that death seemed the end of all desire, To ease the distracted body of its pains. And so I died, and from my eyes the glare Faded, nor had I further need of breath; But when I reached my hand to find you there Beside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death. And with a cry I wakened, but to hear Thin wings of fever singing in my ear. The beautiful Acacia She sighs in desert lands: Over the burning waterways Of Africa she sways and sways, Even where no air glideth In cooling green she stands. The beautiful Acacia She hath a yellow dress: A slender trunk of lemon sheen Gleameth through the tender green (Where the thorn hideth) Shielding her loveliness. The beautiful Acacia Dwelleth in deadly lands: Over the brooding waterways Where death breedeth, she sways and sways, And no man long abideth In valleys where she stands. High on the tufted baobab-tree To-night a rain-bird sang to me A simple song, of three notes only, That made the wilderness more lonely; For in my brain it echoed nearly, Old village church bells chiming clearly: The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune, Over the mowing grass in June-- Over the mowing grass, and meadows Where the low sun casts long shadows. And cuckoos call in the twilight From elm to elm, in level flight. Now through the evening meadows move Slow couples of young folk in love, Who pause at every crooked stile And kiss in the hawthorn's shade the while: Like pale moths the summer frocks Hover between the beds of phlox, And old men, feeling it is late, Cease their gossip at the gate, Till deeper still the twilight grows, And night blossometh, like a rose Full of love and sweet perfume, Whose heart most tender stars illume. Here the red sun sank like lead, And the sky blackened overhead; Only the locust chirped at me From the shadowy baobab-tree. When I lay wakeful yesternight My fever's flame was a clear light, A taper, flaring in the wind, Whither, fluttering out of the dim Night, many dreams glimmered by. Like moths, out of the darkness, blind, Hurling at that taper's flame, From drinking honey of the night's flowers Into my circled light they came: So near I could see their soft colours, Grey of the dove, most soothely grey; But my heat singed their wings, and away Darting into the dark again, They escaped me.... Others floated down Like those vaned seeds that fall In autumn from the sycamore's crown When no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred, More silent in flight than any bird, Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, soft As lizards moving on a white wall They came quietly from aloft Down through my circle of light, and so Into unlighted gloom below. But one dream, strong-winged, daring Flew beating at the heart of the flame Till I feared it would have put out my light, My thin taper, fitfully flaring, And that I should be left alone in the night With no more dreams for my delight. Can it be that from the dead Even their dreams, their dreams are fled? Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise, I saw the world awake; and as the ray Touched the tall grasses where they dream till day, Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies, With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay. I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes... Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain And horror, at my own careless cruelty, That where all things are cruel I had slain A creature whose sweet life it is to fly: Like beasts that prey with bloody claw... Nay, they Must slay to live, but what excuse had I? On the edge of the wild-wood Grey doves fluttering: Grey doves of Astarte To the woods at daybreak Lazily uttering Their murmured enchantment, Old as man's childhood; While she, pale divinity Of hidden evil, Silvers the regions chaste Of cold sky, and broodeth Over forests primeval And all that thorny waste's Wooded infinity. 'Lovely goddess of groves,' Cried I, 'what enchanted Sinister recesses Of these lone shades May still be haunted By thy demon caresses, Thy unholy loves?' But clear day quelleth Her dominion lonely, And the soft ring-dove, Murmuring, telleth That dark sin only From man's lust springeth, In man's heart dwelleth. I made a song in my love's likeness From colours of my quietude, From trees whose blossoms shine no less Than butterflies in the wild-wood. I laid claim on all beauty Under the sun to praise her wonder, Till the noise of war swept over me, Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder. The angel of death hath swift wings, I heard him strip the huddled trees Overhead, as a hornet sings, And whip the grass about my knees. Down we crouched in the parched dust, Down beneath that deadly rain: Dead still I lay, as lie one must Who hath a bullet in his brain. Dead they left me: but my soul, waking, Quietly laughed at their distress Who guessed not that I still was making That new song in my love's likeness. Now the wind of the dawn sighs, Now red embers have burned white, Under the darkness faints and dies The slow-beating heart of night. Into the darkness my eyes peer Seeing only faces steel'd, And level eyes that know not fear; Yet each heart is a battlefield Where phantom armies foin and feint And bloody victories are won From the time when stars are faint To the rising of the sun. With banners broken, and the roll Of drums, at dawn the phantoms fly: A man must commune with his soul When he marches out to die. O day of wrath and of desire! For each may know upon this day Whether he be a thing of fire Or fettered to the traitor clay. Such is the hazard that is thrown: We know not how the dice may fall: All the secrets shall be known Or else we shall not know at all. Into that dry and most desolate place With heavy gait they dragged the stretcher in And laid him on the bloody ground: the din Of Maxim fire ceased not. I raised his head, And looked into his face, And saw that he was dead. Saw beneath matted curls the broken skin That let the bullet in; And saw the limp, lithe limbs, the smiling mouth... (Ah, may we smile at death As bravely....) the curv'd lips that no more drouth Should blacken, and no sweetly stirring breath Mildly displace. So I covered the calm face And stripped the shirt from his firm breast, and there, A zinc identity disc, a bracelet of elephant hair I found.... Ah, God, how deep it stings This unendurable pity of small things! But more than this I saw, That dead stranger welcoming, more than the raw And brutal havoc of war. England I saw, the mother from whose side He came hither and died, she at whose hems he had play'd, In whose quiet womb his body and soul were made. That pale, estranged flesh that we bowed over Had breathed the scent in summer of white clover; Dreamed her cool fading nights, her twilights long, And days as careless as a blackbird's song Heard in the hush of eve, when midges' wings Make a thin music, and the night-jar spins. (For it is summer, I thought, in England now....) And once those forward gazing eyes had seen Her lovely living green: that blackened brow Cool airs, from those blue hills moving, had fann'd-- Breath of that holy land Whither my soul aspireth without despair: In the broken brain had many a lovely word Awakened magical echoes of things heard, Telling of love and laughter and low voices, And tales in which the English heart rejoices In vanishing visions of childhood and its glories: Old-fashioned nursery rhymes and fairy stories: Words that only an English tongue could tell. And the firing died away; and the night fell On our battle. Only in the sullen sky A prairie fire, with huge fantastic flame Leapt, lighting dark clouds charged with thunder. And my heart was sick with shame That there, in death, he should lie, Crying: 'Oh, why am I alive, I wonder?' In a dream I saw war riding the land: Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glare Of sack'd cities smouldering in the dark, A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head, And hid her face of dread.... Yet, in my passion would I look on her, Crying, O hark, Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scythe Of God, that iron scythe forged by his thunder For reaping of nations overripened, fashioned Upon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flying In a starry night, dying, fall hereunder.... But she, she heeded not my cry impassioned Nor turned her face of dread, Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head, O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy going These bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery ways Whereby no influence strays Ruder than a cold wind blowing, Or beating needles of rain, Why must thou ride again Ruthless among the pastures yet unripened, Crushing their beauty in thine iron track Downtrodden, ravish'd in thy following flame, Parched and black? But she, she stayed not in her weary haste Nor turned her face; but fled: And where she passed the lands lay waste.... And now I cannot tell whither she rideth: But tired, tired rides she. Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth: She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth, Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning, Nor all her hate availeth: For she passeth out of sight Into that night From which none, none returneth To waste the meadows of youth, Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe, O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow. And a hope within me springs That fair will be the morrow, And that charred plain, Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at last In a sweet, clean Freshness, as when the green Grass springeth, where the prairie fire hath passed. All through that day of battle the broken sound Of shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood; So that the low trees shuddered where they stood, And echoes bellowed in the bush around: But when, at last the light of day was drowned, That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good! There, in the reek of iodine and blood, I flung me down upon the thorny ground. So quiet was it, I might well have been lying In a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakes Its dew upon the lattice panes at even: Where rusty ivory scatters from the dying Jessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaks Her dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven. Not only for remembered loveliness, England, my mother, my own, we hold thee rare Who toil, and fight, and sicken beneath the glare Of brazen skies that smile on our duress, Making us crave thy cloudy state no less Than the sweet clarity of thy rain-wash'd air, Meadows in moonlight cool, and every fair Slow-fading flower of thy summer dress: Not for thy flowers, but for the unfading crown Of sacrifice our happy brothers wove thee: The joyous ones who laid thy beauty down Nor stayed to see it shamed. For these we love thee, For this (O love, O dread!) we hold thee more Divinely fair to-day than heretofore. Now once again, upon the pole-star's bearing, We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth; Again the busy trade in the halyards singeth Sun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing; The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring; In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost, And the starry south rolls over until no ghost Remaineth of us and all our pitiful daring; For the sea beareth no trace of man's endeavour, His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies, Soundless, within her unsounded caves, forever She broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace, And our grey cruisers holds in mind no more Than the cedarn fleets that Sheba's treasure bore. What is the worth of war In a world that turneth, turneth About a tired star Whose flaming centre burneth No longer than the space Of the spent atom's race: Where conquered lands, soon, soon Lie waste as the pale moon? What is the worth of art In a world that fast forgetteth Those who have wrung its heart With beauty that love begetteth, Whose faint flames vanish quite In that star-powdered night Where even the mighty ones Shine only as far suns? And what is beauty worth, Sweet beauty, that persuadeth Of her immortal birth, Then, as a flower, fadeth: Or love, whose tender years End with the mourner's tears, Die, when the mourner's breath Is quiet, at last, in death? Beauty and love are one, Even when fierce war clashes: Even when our fiery sun Hath burnt itself to ashes, And the dead planets race Unlighted through blind space, Beauty will still shine there: Wherefore, I worship her. I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray, One moment only, spilling creamy blossom, While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom, Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away. The branch was still; but, in my heart, a pain Than the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, only Remembering days in a far land and lonely When I had never hoped for summer again. In bitter London's heart of stone, Under the lamplight's shielded glare. I saw a soldier's body thrown Unto the drabs that traffic there Pacing the pavements with slow feet: Those old pavements whose blown dust Throttles the hot air of the street, And the darkness smells of lust. The chaste moon, with equal glance, Looked down on the mad world, astare At those who conquered in sad France And those who perished in Leicester Square. And in her light his lips were pale: Lips that love had moulded well: Out of the jaws of Passchendaele They had sent him to this nether hell. I had no stone of scorn to fling, For I know not how the wrong began-- But I had seen a hateful thing Masked in the dignity of man: And hate and sorrow and hopeless anger Swept my heart, as the winds that sweep Angrily through the leafless hanger When winter rises from the deep.... I would that war were what men dream: A crackling fire, a cleansing flame, That it might leap the space between And lap up London and its shame. O thou who comest to our wintry shade Gay and light-footed as the virgin Spring, Before whose shining feet the cherries fling Their moony tribute, when the sloe is sprayed With light, and all things musical are made: O thou who art Spring's daughter, who can bring Blossom, or song of bird, or anything To match the youth in which you stand arrayed? Not that rich garland Meleager twined In his sun-guarded glade above the blue That flashes from the burning Tyrian seas: No, you are cooler, sweeter than the wind That wakes our woodlands; so I bring to you These wind-blown blossoms of anemones. Soft as a pale moth flitting in moonshine I saw thee flutter to the shadowy call That beckons from the strings of Carneval, O frail and fragrant image of Columbine: So, when the spectre of the rose was thine, A flower wert thou, and last I saw thee fall In Cleopatra's stormy bacchanal Flown with the red insurgence of the vine. O moth, O flower, O maenad, which art thou? Shadowy, beautiful, or leaping wild As stormlight over savage Tartar skies? Such were my ancient questionings; but now I know that you are nothing but a child With a red flower's mouth and hazel eyes. You are too swift for poetry, too fleet For any mused numbers to ensnare: Swifter than music dying on the air Or bloom upon rose-petals, fades the sweet Vanishing magic of your flying feet, Your poised finger, and your shining hair: Words cannot tell how wonderful you were, Or how one gesture made a joy complete. And since you know my pen may never capture The transient swift loveliness of you, Come, let us salve our sense of the world's loss Remembering, with a melancholy rapture, How many dancing-girls ... and poets too... Dream in the dust of Hecatompylos. 'Oh why,' my darling prayeth me, 'must you sing For ever of ghostly loves, phantasmal passion? Seeing that you never loved me after that fashion And the love I gave was not a phantom thing, But delight of eager lips and strong arms folding The beauty of yielding arms and of smooth shoulder, All fluent grace of which you were the moulder: And I.... Oh, I was happy for your holding.' 'Ah, do you not know, my dearest, have you not seen The shadow that broodeth over things that perish: How age may mock sweet moments that have been And death defile the beauty that we cherish? Wherefore, sweet spirit, I thank thee for thy giving: 'Tis my spirit that embraceth thee dead or living.' The robin on my lawn, He was the first to tell How, in the frozen dawn, This miracle befell, Waking the meadows white With hoar, the iron road Agleam with splintered light, And ice where water flowed: Till, when the low sun drank Those milky mists that cloak Hanger and hollied bank, The winter world awoke To hear the feeble bleat Of lambs on downland farms: A blackbird whistled sweet; Old beeches moved their arms Into a mellow haze Aerial, newly-born: And I, alone, agaze, Stood waiting for the thorn To break in blossom white Or burst in a green flame... So, in a single night, Fair February came, Bidding my lips to sing Or whisper their surprise, With all the joy of spring And morning in her eyes. We digged our trenches on the down Beside old barrows, and the wet White chalk we shovelled from below; It lay like drifts of thawing snow On parados and parapet: Until a pick neither struck flint Nor split the yielding chalky soil, But only calcined human bone: Poor relic of that Age of Stone Whose ossuary was our spoil. Home we marched singing in the rain, And all the while, beneath our song, I mused how many springs should wane And still our trenches scar the plain: The monument of an old wrong. But then, I thought, the fair green sod Will wholly cover that white stain, And soften, as it clothes the face Of those old barrows, every trace Of violence to the patient plain. And careless people, passing by, Will speak of both in casual tone: Saying: 'You see the toil they made: Here jostles with the Age of Stone.' Yet either from that happier race Will merit but a passing glance; And they will leave us both alone: Poor savages who wrought in stone-- Poor savages who fought in France. Athwart the blackening bars of pines benighted, The sun, descending to the zones of denser Cloud that o'erhung the long horizon, lighted Upon the crown of earth a flaming censer From which white clouds of incense, overflowing, Filled the chill clarity from whence the swallows Had lately fled with wreathed vapours, showing Like a fine bloom over the lonely fallows: Where, with the pungent breath of mist was blended A faint aroma of pine-needles sodden By autumn rains, and fainter still, ascended Beneath high woods the scent of leaves downtrodden. It was a moment when the earth, that sickened For Spring, as lover when the beloved lingers, Lay breathless, while the distant goddess quickened Some southern hill-side with her glowing fingers: And so, it seemed, the drowsy lands were shaken, Stirred in their sleep, and sighed, as though the pain Of a strange dream had bidden them awaken To frozen days and bitter nights again. Why have you stolen my delight In all the golden shows of Spring When every cherry-tree is white And in the limes the thrushes sing, O fickler than the April day, O brighter than the golden broom, O blyther than the thrushes' lay, O whiter than the cherry-bloom, O sweeter than all things that blow ... Why have you only left for me The broom, the cherry's crown of snow, And thrushes in the linden-tree? Last night the North flew at the throat of Spring With spite to tear her greening banners down, Tossing the elm-tree's tender tassels brown, The virgin blossom of sloe burdening With colder snow; beneath his frosty sting Patient, the newly-wakened woods were bowed By drowned fields where stormy waters flowed: Yet, on the thorn, I heard a blackbird sing.... 'Too late, too late,' he sang, 'this wintry spite; For molten snow will feed the springing grass: The tide of life, it floweth with the year.' O England, England, thou that standest upright Against the tide of death, the bad days pass: Know, by this miracle, that summer is near. When, by a happier race, these leaves are turned, They'll wonder that such quiet themes engaged A soldier's mind when noisy wars were waged, And half the world in one red bonfire burned. 'When that fierce age,' they'll say, 'went up in flame He lived ... or died, seeing those bright deeds done Whereby our sweet and settled peace was won, Yet offereth slender dreams, not deeds, to Fame.' Then say: 'Out of the heart the mouth speaketh, And mine was as the hearts of other men Whom those dark days impassioned; yet it seeketh To paint the sombre woes that held us then, No more than the cloud-rending levin's light Seeks to illumine the sad skies of night.' Whither, O, my sweet mistress, must I follow thee? For when I hear thy distant footfall nearing, And wait on thy appearing, Lo! my lips are silent: no words come to me. Once I waylaid thee in green forest covers, Hoping that spring might free my lips with gentle fingers; Alas! her presence lingers No longer than on the plain the shadow of brown kestrel hovers. Through windless ways of the night my spirit followed after;-- Cold and remote were they, and there, possessed By a strange unworldly rest, Awaiting thy still voice heard only starry laughter. The pillared halls of sleep echoed my ghostly tread. Yet when their secret chambers I essayed My spirit sank, dismayed, Waking in fear to find the new-born vision fled. Once indeed--but then my spirit bloomed in leafy rapture-- I loved; and once I looked death in the eyes: So, suddenly made wise, Spoke of such beauty as I may never recapture.... Whither, O, divine mistress, must I then follow thee? Is it only in love ... say, is it only in death That the spirit blossometh, And words that may match my vision shall come to me? Once in the sombre light of the throng'd courts of night, In a dream-haunted land only inhabited By the unhappy dead, came one who, anxious eyed, Clung to my idle hand with clenched fingers weak And gazed into my eyes as he had wrongs to speak. Silent he stood and wan, more pallid than the leaves Of an aspen blown under a wind that grieves. Then I: 'O haggard one, say from what ghostly zone Of thwarted destinies or torment hast thou come? Tell me thy race and name!' And he, with veiled face: 'I have neither name nor race, but I have travelled far, A timeless avatar of never-ending dooms, Out of those tyrannous glooms where, like a tired star In stormy darkness, looms the castle of Thamar... Once in a lonely dawn my eager spirit fared By ways that no men dared unto a desert land, Where, on a sullen strand, a mouldering city, vast As towered Babylon, stood in the dreamy sand-- Older a million years: Babel was builded on That broken city's tears; dust of her crumbled past Rose from the rapid wheels of Babel's charioteers In whorled clouds above those shining thoroughfares Where Babel's millions tread on her unheeding dead. Forth from an eastern gate where the lips of Asia wait Parch'd with an ancient thirst that no aeons can abate, Passed I, predestinate, to a thorn'd desert's drought, Where the rivers of the south, flowing in a cloudy spate, Spend at last their splendid strength in a sea of molten glass Seething with the brazen might of a white sun dipped at length Like a baked stone, burning hot, plunged in a hissing pot. Out of that solemn portal over the tawny waste, Without stay, without haste, nor the joy of any mortal Glance of eye or clasp of hand, desolate, in a burning land, Drawn to a hidden goal, sore, forlorn with waiting, Seeking I knew not what, yet unhesitating Struggled my hapless soul... There, in a thousand springs, Slow, beneath frozen snow, where the blind earth lay cringing, Have I seen the steppe unfold uncounted blossomings, Where salty pools shone fair in a quivering blue air That shivered every fringing reed-bed with cool delight, And fanned the mazy flight of slow-wing'd egrets white Beating and wheeling bright against the sun astare; But I could not hear their wings for they were ghostly things Sent by the powers of night to mock my sufferings And rain upon the bitter waterpools their drops aglitter. Yet, when these lakes accursed tortured my aching thirst, The green reeds fell to dust, the cool pools to a crust Of frozen salt crystallised to taunt my broken lips, To cheat my staring eyes, as a vision of great ships With moving towers of sail, poops throng'd with grinning crowds And a wind in their shrouds, bears down upon the pale Wasted castaway afloat with the salt in his throat And a feeble wild desire to be quenched of his fire In the green gloom beneath. So, again and again, Hath a phantom city thrust to the visionary vault Of inviolate cobalt, dome and dreaming minaret Mosque and gleaming water-tower hazy in a fountain's jet Or a market's rising dust; and my lips have cried aloud To see them tremble there, though I knew within my heart They were chiselled out of cloud or carven of thin air; And my fingers clenched my hand, for I wondered if this land Of my stony pilgrimage were a glimmering mirage, And I myself no more than a phantom of the sand. 'But beyond these fading slender cities, many leagues away, Strange brooding mountains lay heaped, crowding range on range In a changing cloudy splendour; and beyond, in lakes of light, As eastward still I staggered, there swam into my sight, More vast and hoar and haggard, shoulders of ice and snow Bounding the heavens low of burnished brass, whereunder The hot plains of Cathay perpetually slumber: Where tawny millions breed in cities without number, Whither, a hill-born thunder, rolling on Tartary With torrents and barb'd lightning, swelleth the yellow river To a tumult of whitening foam and confused might That drowns in a single night many a mud-made city; And cities of boats, and frail cities of lath and reed, Are whirled away without pity or set afloat in a pale, Swirling, shallow sea ... and their names seem lost for ever Till a stranger nomad race drive their herds to the sad place Where old sorrows lie forgotten, and raise upon the rotten Level waste another brood to await another flood. 'But I never might attain to this melancholy plain For the mountains rose between; stark in my path they lay Between me and Cathay, through moving mist half-seen. And I knew that they were real, for their drooping folds of cloud From their frozen summits white slid like an ice-blue steel Into my living breast and stilled the heart within As the chill of an old sin that robs a man of rest, Killing all delight in the silence of the night And brooding black above till the heart dare not move But lieth cold and numb ... and the dawn will not come. 'Yet to me a dawn came, new-kindled in cold flame, Flinging the imminence of those inviolate snows On the forest lawns below in a shadow more immense Than their eternal vastness; and a new hope beyond reason, Flamed in my heart's dark season, dazzled my pallid eyes, Till, when the hot sun soared above the uttermost height, A draught of keen delight into my body was poured, For all that frozen fastness lay flowered with the spring: Her starry blossoms broke beneath my bruised feet, And their beauty was so sweet to me I kissed them where they lay; Tenderly, only dreading lest their petals delicate Should be broken by my treading, for I lived, I lived again, And my heart would have been broken by a living creature's pain, So I kissed them for a token of my joy in their new birth, And I kissed the gentle earth. Slowly the shadows crept To the bases of the crags, and I slept.... 'Once, in another life, had I remembered sleep, When tired children creep on to their mother's knees, And there a dreamless peace more quietly descendeth Than gentle evening endeth or ring-doves fold their wings, Before the nightjar spins or the nightingale begins; When the brooding hedgerow trees where they nest lie awake And breathe so soft they shake not a single shuddering leaf Lest the silence should break. 'Other sleep have I known, Deeper, beyond belief, when straining limbs relax After hot human toil in yellow harvest fields Where the panting earth yields a smell of baked soil, And the dust of dry stubbles blows over the whitening Shocks of lank grain and bundles of flax, And men fling themselves down forgetting their troubles, Unheedful of the song that the landrail weaves along Misty woodlands, or lightning that the pale sky laves Like phosphorescent waves washing summer seas: And, more beautiful than these, that sleep of dazed wonder When love has torn asunder the veils of the sky And raptured lovers lie faint in each other's arms Beneath a heaven strewn with myriad starry swarms, Where planets float like lonely gold-flowered nenuphars In pools of the sky; yet, when they wake, they turn From those burning galaxies seeking heaven only In each other's eyes, and sigh, and sleep again; For while they sleep they seem to forget the world's pain, And when they wake, they dream.... 'But other sleep was mine As I had drunk of wine with bitter hemlock steep'd, Or soused with the heaped milky poppyheads A drowsy Tartar treads where slow waters sweep Over red river beds, and the air is heavy with sleep. So, when I woke at last, the labouring earth had rolled Eastward under the vast dominion of night, Funereal, forlorn as that unlighted chamber Wherein she first was born, bereft of all starlight, Pale silver of the moon, or the low sun's amber. 'Then to my queen I prayed, grave Ashtoreth, whose shade Hallows the dim abyss of Heliopolis, Where many an olive maid clashed kissing Syrian cymbals, And silver-sounding timbrels shivered through the vale. O lovely, and O white, under the holy night Is their gleaming wonder, and their brows are pale As the new risen moon, dancing till they swoon In far forests under desolate Lebanon, While the flame of Moloch's pyre reddens the sea-born cloud That overshadows Tyre; so, when I cried aloud, Behold, a torch of fire leapt on the mountain-side! 'O bright, O beautiful! for never kindlier light Fell on the darkened sight of mortal eyes and dull Since that devoted one, whom gloomy Caucasus In icy silence lonely bound to his cruel shoulders, Brought to benighted men in a hollow fennel-stem Sparks of the torrid vapour that burned behind the bars Of evening, broke dawn's rose, or smouldered in the stars, Or lit the glowworm's taper, or wavered over the fen, Or tipped the javelin of the far-ravening levin, Lash of the Lord of Heaven and bitter scourge of sin. O beautiful, O bright! my tired sinews strained To this torch that flared and waned as a watery planet gloweth And waneth in the night when a calm sea floweth Under a misty sky spread with the tattered veils Of rapid cloud driven over the deeps of heaven By winds that range too high to sweep the languid sails. On through the frozen night, like a blind moth flying With battered wing and bruised bloom into a light, I dragged my ragged limbs, cared not if I were dying, Knew not if I were dead, where cavernous crevasses, And stony desperate passes snared, waylaid my tread: In the roar of broken boulders split from rocky shoulders, In the thunder of snow sliding, or under the appalling Rending of glacier ice or hoarse cataracts falling: And I knew not what could save me but the unholy guiding That some demon gave me. Thrice I fell, and thrice In torrents of blue ice-water slipp'd and was toss'd Like a dead leaf, or a ghost Harried by thin bufferings of wind Downward to Tartarus at daybreak, Downward to the regions of the lost.... But the rushing waters ceased, and the bitter wind fell: How I cannot tell, unless that I had come And there my gelid blood thawed, glowed, and grew warm, While a black-hooded form caught at my arm, and stayed And held me as I swayed, until, at last, I saw In a strange unworldly awe, at the gate of light I stood: And I entered, alone.... 'Behold a cavern of stone carven, and in the midst A brazier that hissed with tongued flames, leaping Over whitened embers of gummy frankincense, Into a fume of dense and fragrant vapour, creeping Over the roof to spread a milky coverlet Softer than the woof of webby spider's net. But never spider yet spun a more delicate wonder Than that which hung thereunder, drooping fold on fold, Silks that glowed with fire of tawny Oxus gold, Richer than ever flowed from the eager fancy of man In his vain desire for beauty that endures: And on the floor were spread by many a heaped daiwan Carpets of Kurdistan, cured skins, and water-ewers Encrusted with such gems as emperors of Hind (Swart conquerors, long dead) sought for their diadems. No other light was there but one torch, flaring Against a square of sky possess'd by the wind, And never another sound but the tongued flames creeping. 'At last, my eyes staring into the clouded gloom, Saw that the caverned room with shadowy forms was strewn In heavy sleep or swoon fallen, who did not move But lay as mortals lie in the sweet release of love. And stark between them stood huge eunuchs of ebony, Mute, motionless, as they had been carven of black wood. But these I scarcely saw, for, through the flame was seen Another, a queen, with heavy closed eyes White against the skies of that empurpled night In her loveliness she lay, and leaned upon her hand: And my blood leapt at the sight, so that I could not stand But fell upon my knees, pleading, and cried aloud For her white loveliness as Ixion for his cloud: And my cry the silence broke, and the sleepers awoke From their slumber, stirred, and rose every one,--save those Mute eunuchs of ebony, those frowning caryatides. Slowly she looked at me, and when I cried again In yearning and in pain, she beckoned with her hand. Then from my knees rose I, and greatly daring, Through the hazy air, past the brazier flaring And the hissing flame, crept, until I came Unto the carven seat, and kissed her white feet; And she smiled, but spake not. When she smiled the sleepers wavered as the grass Of a cornfield wavers when the ears are swept By the breath of brown reapers singing as they pass, Or grass of woody glades when a wind that has slept Wakens, and invades their moonlit solitude, When the hazels shiver and the birch is blown To a billow of silver, but oaks in the wood Stand firm nor quiver, stand firm as stone: So, amid the sleepers, the black eunuchs stood. When the sleepers stirred faintly in the heat Of that painted room a silken sound I heard, And a thin music, sweet as the brown nightingale Sings in the jealous shade of a lonely spinney, Stranger far than any music mortal made Fell softer than the dew falleth when stars are pale. Sweet it was, and clear as light, or as the tears That sad Narcissus wears in the spring of the year On barren mountain ranges where rain falls cool And every lonely pool is sprayed with broken light: So cool, so beautiful, and so divinely strange I doubted if it came from any marshy reed Or hollow fluting stem pluck'd by the hands of men, Unless it were indeed that airy fugitive Syrinx, who cried and ran before the laughing eyes Of goat-footed Pan, and must for ever live A shadowy green reed by an Arcadian river-- But never music made of Ladon's reedy daughter Or singing river-water more sweet than that which stole, Slow as amber honey wells from the honeycomb, Into my weary soul with solace and strange peace. So, trembling as I lay in a dream more desolate Than is the darkened day of the mid-winter north, I heard the voice of one who sang in a strange tongue, And I know not what he sang save that he sang of love, The while they led me forth unheeding, till we came Unto a chamber lit with one slow-burning flame That yellow horn bedims, and laid me down, and there They soothed my bruised limbs, and combed my tangled hair, And salved my limbs with rarely-mingled unguents pressed By hands of holy ones who dream beneath the suns Of Araby the Blest, and so, when they had bathed My burning eyes with milk of dreamy anodyne And cool'd my throat with wine, In robings of cool silk my broken body they swathed, Sandals of gold they placed upon my feet, and round My sad sun-blistered brows a silver fillet bound-- Decking me with the pride of a bridegroom that goes To the joy of his bride and is lovely in her eyes-- And led me to her side. Then, as a conquering prince, I, who long since had been battered and tost Like a dead leaf or ghost buffeted by wild storms, Came to her white arms, conquering, and was lost, Yet dared not gaze upon the beauty that I dreamed. So, in my trance, it seemed that a shadowy soft dance Coiled slowly and unwound, swayed, beckoned, and recovered As hooded cobra bound by hollow spells of sound Unto the piper sways; so silently they hovered I only heard the beat of their naked feet, And then, another sound.... A dull throb thrumming, a noise of faint drumming, Threatening, coming nearer, piercing deeper Than a dream lost in the heart of a sleeper Into those deeps where the dark fire gloweth, The secret flame that every man knoweth, Embers that smoulder, fires that none can fan, Terrible, older than the mind of man.... Before he crawled from his swamp and spurned The life of the beast that dark fire burned In the hidden deeps where no dream can come: Only the throbbing of a drum Can wake it from its smouldering-- Drown'd in mud, and shuddering, I knew that I was man no more, But a throbbing core of flesh, that knew Nor beauty, nor truth, nor anything But the black sky and the slimy earth: Roots of trees, and fear, and pain, The blank of death, the pangs of birth, An inhuman thing possess'd By the throbbing of a drum: And my lips were strange and numb, But they kissed her white breast.... Then, being drunk with pride and splendour of love, I cried: '"O spring of all delight, O mooned mystery, O living marvel, white as the dead queen of night, O flower, and O flame ... tell me at least thy name That, from this desolate height, I may proclaim its wonder To the lost lands hereunder before thy beauty dies As fades the fire of dawn upon a peak of snow!"' Then: "Look," she sighed, "into my eyes, and thou shalt know." So, with her fingers frail, she pressed my brows, and so, Slowly, at last, she raised my drooping eyelids pale, And in her eyes I gazed. 'Then fear, than love more blind, Caught at my heart and fast in chains of horror bound-- As one who in profound and midnight forest ways Sees in the dark the burning eyes of a tiger barred Or stealthy footed pard blaze in a solemn hate And lust of human blood, yet cannot cry, nor turning Flee from the huddled wood, but stands and sees his fate, Or one who in a black night, groping for his track, Clings to the dizzy verge of a cragged precipice, Shrinks from the dim abyss, yet dare not venture back, And no sound hears but the hiss of empty air Swirling past his ears.... So, in a hideous Abandonment of hope, I waited for her kiss. Then the restless beat of the muttering drum Rose to a frenzied heat; the naked dancers leapt Insolent through the flame, laughing as they came With parted lips; their cries deadened my ears, my eyes Throbbed with the pattering of their rapid feet, And the whirling dust of their dancing swept Into my throat unslaked, dry-parched with love's drought, Until my mouth was pressed upon her burning mouth In a kiss most terrible.... Oh, was it pride, or shame Unending, without name, or ecstasy, or pain Or desperate desire? Alas! I cannot tell, Save that it pierced my trembling soul and body with fire. For, while her soft lips clove to mine in love, she drove A flaming blade of steel into my breast, and I, Rent with a bitter cry, slid from her side and fell My passion had despoiled; while she, like serpent coiled, Poised for another stroke, terribly, slowly, smiled, Saying: "O stranger, red, red are my lips, and sweet Unto those lips so red are the kisses of the dead: Far hast thou wandered, far, for the kisses of Thamar." Then a deep silence fell on the frenzy and the laughter; The leaping dancers crept to the shadows where they had slept, And the mute eunuchs stood forth, and hugely bent Above my body, spent in its pool of blood, And hove me with black arms, while the queen followed after With stealthy steps, and eyes that burned into the night Of my dying brain, till, with her hand, she bade Them falter, and they stayed, while, eagerly, she propped My listless head that dropped downward from my shoulders, And slowly raised it up, raised it like a cup Unto her lips again, Then shuddered, trembled, shrunk, as though her mouth had drunk A potion where the fell fire of poison smoulders. And a darkness came, and I could see no more, But in my ears the roar of lonely torrents swelled And stilled my breath for ever, as though a wave appalling Had broken in my brain, and deep to deep were calling: And I felt my body falling down and down and down Endlessly, only knowing, that her dagger had stabbed my breast, But her kiss had killed my soul. And now I know no rest until again I stand Where that lost city's towers rise from the dreamy sand, Until I reach the gate where the lips of Asia wait, Till I cross the desert's drought, and the rivers of the south, And shiver through the night under those summits white That soar above Cathay; until I see the light Flame from those tyrannous glooms where, like a tired star In stormy darkness, looms the castle of Thamar.' Now that the hour has come, and under the lonely Darkness I stumble at the doors of death, It is not hope, nor faith That here my spirit sustaineth, but love only. In visions, in love: only there have I clutched at divinity: But the vision fadeth; yet love fades not: and for this I would have you know that your kiss Was more to me than all my hopes of infinity. Therein you made me divine ... you, who were moon and sun for You, for whose beauty I would have forsaken the splendour of the stars And my shadowy avatars Renounced: for there is nothing in the world you have not done for me. So that when at length all sentient skill hath forsaken me, And the bright world beats vainly on my consciousness, Your beauty shineth no less: And even if I were dead I think your shadow would awaken me.

M. P. (Matthew Phipps) Shiel

The Last Miracle

1865

_A Song of the Guns_ was written under what are probably the most These are our masters, the slim Grim muzzles that irk in the pit; That chafe for the rushing of wheels, For the teams plunging madly to bit As the gunners wing down to unkey, For the trails sweeping half-circle-right, For the six breech-blocks clashing as one To a target viewed clear on the sight-- Gray masses the shells search and tear Into fragments that bunch as they run-- For the hour of the red battle-harvest, The dream of the slaves of the gun! We have bartered our souls to the guns; Every fibre of body and brain Have we trained to them, chained to them. Serfs? Aye! but proud of the weight of our chain, Of our backs that are bowed to their workings, To hide them and guard and disguise, Of our ears that are deafened with service, Of hands that are scarred, and of eyes Grown hawklike with marking their prey, Of wings that are slashed as with swords When we hover, the turn of a blade From the death that is sweet to our lords. _By the ears and the eyes and the brain,_ _By the limbs and the hands and the wings,_ _We are slaves to our masters the guns;_ _But their slaves are the masters of kings!_ A league and a league from the trenches, from the traversed maze of the lines,-- Where daylong the sniper watches and daylong the bullet whines, And the cratered earth is in travail with mines and with countermines,-- Here, where haply some woman dreamed, (are those her roses that bloom In the garden beyond the windows of my littered working-room?) We have decked the map for our masters as a bride is decked for the groom. Here, on each numbered lettered square,--cross-road and mound and wire, Loophole, redoubt, and emplacement, are the targets their mouths desire,-- Gay with purples and browns and blues, have we traced them their arcs of fire. And ever the type-keys clatter; and ever our keen wires bring Word from the watchers a-crouch below, word from the watchers a-wing; And ever we hear the distant growl of our hid guns thundering; Hear it hardly, and turn again to our maps, where the trench-lines crawl, Red on the gray and each with a sign for the ranging shrapnel's fall-- Snakes that our masters shall scotch at dawn, as is written here on the wall. For the weeks of our waiting draw to a close.... There is scarcely a leaf astir In the garden beyond my windows where the twilight shadows blur The blaze of some woman's roses.... "Bombardment orders, sir." Their rugs are sodden, their heads are down, their tails are turned to the storm. (Would you know them, you that groomed them in the sleek fat days of peace,-- When the tiles rang to their pawings in the lighted stalls and warm,-- Now the foul clay cakes on breeching-strap and clogs the quick-release?) The blown rain stings, there is never a star, the tracks are rivers of slime. (You must harness up by guesswork with a failing torch for light, Instep-deep in unmade standings, for it's active-service time, And our resting weeks are over, and we move the guns to-night.) The iron tires slither, the traces sag; their blind hooves stumble and slide; They are war-worn, they are weary, soaked with sweat and sopped with rain. (You must hold them, you must help them, swing your lead and centre wide Where the greasy granite pave peters out to squelching drain.) There is shrapnel bursting a mile in front on the road that the guns must take: (You are nervous, you are thoughtful, you are shifting in your seat, As you watch the ragged feathers flicker orange flame and break)-- But the teams are pulling steady down the battered village street. You have shod them cold, and their coats are long, and their bellies gray with the mud; They have done with gloss and polish, but the fighting heart's unbroke. We, who saw them hobbling after us down white roads flecked with blood, Patient, wondering why we left them, till we lost them in the smoke; Who have felt them shiver between our knees, when the shells rain black from the skies, When the bursting terrors find us and the lines stampede as one; Who have watched the pierced limbs quiver and the pain in stricken eyes, Know the worth of humble servants, foolish-faithful to their gun! Our guns are a league behind us, our target a mile below, And there's never a cloud to blind us from the haunts of our lurking foe-- Sunk pit whence his shrapnel tore us, support-trench crest-concealed, As clear as the charts before us, his ramparts lie revealed. His panicked watchers spy us, a droning threat in the void; Their whistling shells outfly us--puff upon puff, deployed Across the green beneath us, across the flanking grey, In fume and fire to sheathe us and balk us of our prey. Below, beyond, above her, Their iron web is spun! Flicked but unsnared we hover, Edged planes against the sun: Eyes in the air above his lair, The hawks that guide the gun! No word from earth may reach us save, white against the ground, The strips outspread to teach us whose ears are deaf to sound: But down the winds that sear us, athwart our engine's shriek, We send--and know they hear us, the ranging guns we speak. Our visored eyeballs show us their answering pennant, broke Eight thousand feet below us, a whirl of flame-stabbed smoke-- The burst that hangs to guide us, while numbed gloved fingers From wireless key beside us the circles of the map. Line--target--short or over-- Comes, plain as clock-hands run, Word from the birds that hover, Unblinded, tail to sun-- Word out of air to range them fair, From hawks that guide the gun! Since earth hath naught availed you, these skies be open! Come, Where, wild to meet and mate you, flame in their beaks for breath, Black doves! the white hawks wait you on the wind-tossed boughs of death. These boughs be cold without you, our hearts are hot for this, Our wings shall beat about you, our scorching breath shall kiss: Till, fraught with that we gave you, fulfilled of our desire, You bank,--too late to save you from biting beaks of fire,-- Turn sideways from your lover, Shudder and swerve and run, Tilt; stagger; and plunge over Ablaze against the sun,-- Doves dead in air, who clomb to dare The hawks that guide the gun! The hot wax drips from the flares On the scrawled pink forms that litter The bench where he sits; the glitter Of stars is framed by the sandbags atop of the dug-out stairs. And the lagging watch-hands creep; And his cloaked mates murmur in sleep,-- Forms he can wake with a kick,-- And he hears, as he plays with the pressel-switch, the strapped receiver click On his ear that listens, listens; And the candle-flicker glistens On the rounded brass of the switch-board where the red wires cluster thick. Wires from the earth, from the air; Wires that whisper and chatter At night, when the trench-rats patter And nibble among the rations and scuttle back to their lair; Wires that are never at rest,-- For the linesmen tap them and test, And ever they tremble with tone:-- And he knows from a hundred signals the buzzing call of his own, The breaks and the vibrant stresses,-- The Z and the G and the S's That call his hand to the answering key and his mouth to the microphone. For always the laid guns fret On the words that his mouth shall utter, When rifle and Maxim stutter And the rockets volley to starward from the spurting parapet; And always his ear must hark To the voices out of the dark,-- For the whisper over the wire, From the bombed and the battered trenches where the wounded moan in the mire,-- For a sign to waken the thunder Which shatters the night in sunder With the flash of the leaping muzzles and the beat of battery-fire. Ere the last light that leaps the night has hung and shone and died, While yet the breast-high fog of dawn is swathed about the plain, By hedge and track our slaves go back, the waning stars for guide, Eyes of our mouths; the mists have cleared, the guns would speak again! Faint on the ears that strain to hear, their orders trickle down "Degrees--twelve--left of zero line--corrector one three Three thousand." ... Shift our trails and lift the muzzles that shall drown The rifle's idle chatter when our sendings detonate. Sending or still, these serve our will; the hidden eyes that From gutted farm, from laddered tree that scans the furrowed slope, From coigns of slag whose pit-ropes sag on burrowed ways and dark, In open trench where sandbags hold the steady periscope. Waking, they know the instant foe, the bullets phutting by, The blurring lens, the sodden map, the wires that leak or break! Sleeping, they dream of shells that scream adown a sunless sky-- And the splinters patter round them in their dug-outs as they wake. Not theirs, the wet glad bayonet, the red and racing hour, The rush that clears the bombing-post with knife and hand-grenade; Not theirs the zest when, steel to breast, the last survivors Yet can ye hold the ground ye won, save these be there to aid? These, that observe the shell's far swerve, these of the quiet voice, That bids "go on," repeats the range, corrects for fuse or Though dour the task their masters ask, what room for thought or choice? This is ours by right of service, heedless gift of youthful eyne! Careless they give while yet they live; the dead we tasked too Bear witness we were naught begrudged of riches or of youth; Careless they gave; across their grave our calling salvoes roar, And those we maimed come back to us in proof our dead speak truth! _I am only a cog in a giant machine, a link of an endless _And the rounds are drawn, and the rounds are fired,_ _and the empties return again;_ _'Railroad, lorry, and limber; battery, column, and park;_ _'To the shelf where the set fuse waits the breech, from_ _the quay where the shells embark._ We have watered and fed, and eaten our beef; the long dull day drags by, As I sit here watching our "Archibalds" _strafing_ an empty sky; Puff and flash on the far-off blue round the speck one guesses the plane-- Smoke and spark of the gun-machine that is fed by the endless chain. I am only a cog in a giant machine, a little link in the chain, Waiting a word from the wagon-lines that the guns are hungry _Column-wagon to battery-wagon, and battery-wagon to gun;_ _To the loader kneeling 'twixt trail and wheel from the_ _shops where the steam-lathes run._ There's a lone mule braying against the line where the mud cakes fetlock-deep! There's a lone soul humming a hint of a song in the barn where the drivers sleep; And I hear the pash of the orderly's horse as he canters him down the lane-- Another cog in the gun-machine, a link in the selfsame chain. I am only a cog in a giant machine, but a vital link in the chain; And the Captain has sent from the wagon-line to fill his wagons again;-- _From wagon-limber to gunpit dump; from loader's forearm at breech_ _To the working party that melts away when the shrapnel_ So the restless section pulls out once more in column of route from the right, At the tail of a blood-red afternoon; so the flux of another night Bears back the wagons we fill at dawn to the sleeping column Cog on cog in the gun-machine, link on link in the chain! We are the guns, and your masters! Saw ye our flashes? Heard ye the scream of our shells in the night, and the shuddering crashes? Saw ye our work by the roadside, the gray wounded lying, Moaning to God that he made them--the maimed and the dying? Husbands or sons, Fathers or lovers, we break them! We are the guns! We are the guns and ye serve us! Dare ye grow weary, Steadfast at nighttime, at noontime; or waking, when dawn winds blow dreary Over the fields and the flats and the reeds of the barrier water, To wait on the hour of our choosing, the minute decided for slaughter? Swift the clock runs; Yes, to the ultimate second. Stand to your guns! We are the guns and we need you! Here in the timbered Pits that are screened by the crest and the copse where at dusk ye unlimbered, Pits that one found us--and, finding, gave life (did he flinch from the giving?); Laboured by moonlight when wraith of the dead brooded yet o'er the living, Ere with the sun's Rising the sorrowful spirit abandoned its guns. Who but the guns shall avenge him? Strip us for action! Load us and lay to the centremost hair of the dial-sight's refraction. Set your quick hands to our levers to compass the sped soul's assoiling; Brace your taut limbs to the shock when the thrust of the barrel recoiling Deafens and stuns! Vengeance is ours for our servants. Trust ye the guns! Least of our bond-slaves or greatest, grudge ye the burden? Hard is this service of ours which has only our service for guerdon: Grow the limbs lax, and unsteady the hands, which aforetime we trusted; Flawed, the clear crystal of sight; and the clean steel of hardihood rusted? _Dominant ones,_ _Are we not tried serfs and proven--true to our guns?_ _Ye are the guns! Are we worthy? Shall not these speak for _Out of the woods where the torn trees are slashed with_ _the vain bolts that seek for us,_ _Thunder of batteries firing in unison, swish of shell flighting,_ _Hissing that rushes to silence and breaks to the thud of alighting?_ _Death that outruns_ _Horseman and foot? Are we justified? Answer, O guns!_ Yea! by your works are ye justified,--toil unrelieved; Manifold labours, cooerdinate each to the sending achieved; Discipline, not of the feet but the soul, unremitting, unfeigned; Tortures unholy by flame and by maiming, known, faced, and disdained; Courage that shuns Only foolhardiness;--even by these are ye worthy your guns! Wherefore--and unto ye only--power has been given; Yea! beyond man, over men, over desolate cities and riven; Yea! beyond space, over earth and the seas and the sky's high dominions; Yea! beyond time, over Hell and the fiends and the Death-Angel's pinions! Vigilant ones, Loose them, and shatter, and spare not. We are the guns! "A lively, readable narrative of personal experiences, thrilling, THE DIPLOMACY OF THE WAR OF 1914: The Beginnings of the War The first full and satisfactory account of the life and deeds of

Howard Pease

Tales of Northumbria

1863

the late Captain George L. Garrett, of the Union Army, during the Civil War whose lifelong devotion, unselfishness, tenderness and loyalty to me, as to all her family and friends, make this dedication a pleasure and a joy only commensurate with my thought of her. _The Salvation Army with the A. E. F._ _You chose no easy Service, No safe job, friends of mine, But the mud of the shell-torn, trenches And the foremost battle-line. No camouflage patriotism-- Though you had from a wealth to choose But the wicked work of No Man's Land, Filling a man's-size shoes._ _You didn't say you wouldn't play If you got no shoulder bars-- You even placed your Country Above a general's stars: For shocking, very shocking, You didn't give a damn About your "social status," When you fought for Uncle Sam._ _Friends of mine, friends of mine, I've shared your toil and tears-- Your dangers and your little woes, When days were turned to years. I may not make them understand The things that you have done, But God bless you and God keep you-- Every blessed mother's son._ Trenches dripping, wet and cold-- Trenches hot and dry-- Long, drab, endless trenches Stretching far and nigh. Zigzag, fretted, running sere From the cold North Sea, 'Cross the muddy Flanders plain And vales of Picardy. Through the fields of new, green wheat Filled with poppies red, While abandoned plow-shares show Whence the peasants fled. Past the great cathedral towns, Where each gorgeous spire Torn and tottering, slowly wilts 'Neath the Vandals' ire. Hiding in the shadows Of the hills of French Lorraine, And bending south through rugged heights To the land of sun again. Trenches, endless trenches, Shod with high desire-- All that man holds more than life, And touched with patriot fire. Trenches, endless trenches, Where tightening draws the cord 'Round the throat of brutal Kultur, And its red and dripping sword. Trenches, endless trenches, Bleached and choked with rain, Could ye speak what tales ye'd tell Of honor, death and pain. Could ye speak, what tales ye'd tell Of shame and golden worth, To the glory and damnation Of the spawn of all the Earth. Five o 'clock; the shadows fall In mist and gloom and cloud; And No Man's Land is a sullen waste, Wrapped in a sodden shroud; And the click of Big Mac's moving foot Is a dangerous noise and loud. Ten o'clock; the wind moans low-- Each tree is a phantom gray: And the wired posts are silent ghosts That move with a drunken sway; (But never a gleam in No Man's Land Till the dawn of another day). Twelve o 'clock; the heavens yawn Like the mouth of a chasm deep; And see--that isn't the fence out there-- It's a Boche--and he stoops to creep-- I'll take a shot--oh hell, a post-- (Oh God, for a wink o' sleep). Two o 'clock; the cold wet fog Bears down in dripping banks: Ah, here they come--the dirty hounds-- In swinging, serried ranks! Why don't the automatics start? . . . Or do my eyes play pranks? It doesn't seem a column now, But just two sneaking there: And one is climbing over, While the other of the pair Is clipping at the wires With exasperating care. (I'm sober as a gray-beard judge I'm calm as the morning dew-- I'm wide awake and I'll stake My eyes with the best of you; But I can't explain just how or why Posts do the things they do.) Three o'clock; they're on the move-- Well, let the beggars come. . . . A crash -- a hush -- a spiral shriek-- And a noise like a big bass drum-- (I hope that Hun shot hasn't found Our kitchen and the slum). . . . . . . . . . . Five o'clock; the first faint streak Of a leaden dawn lifts gray; And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts That swagger, click and sway, And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin, In a most unpleasant way. Some say this war was fought and won With gleaming bayonets, That lift and laugh with Death's own chaff And leave no fond regrets: Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns Where the first barrages meet, But I, by the poor old weary limping Tired broken feet. Some say this war was fought and won By the crawling, reeking gas; Some, by the flitting birdmen, That dip and pause and pass: Some, by the splitting hand-grenades-- But I, I hear the beat Of the poor old faithful worn limping Tired broken feet. Some say the war was fought and won But I, by heel and sunken arch And blistered, bleeding toes. Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles, Through mire, slush and sleet, To the glory of the rhythm Of the poor old broken feet. When over your shoulders your "full-field" you fling, And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing, What is it you reach for, as outward you swing? Your gas-mask. If you head for a bath by the small river's flow-- Though only a distance of fifty or so-- What is it you carefully grab ere you go? Your gas-mask. When in full marching-order, where mules _might_ suffice, And you count your equipment, each having its price, What is it you feel for and count over twice? Your gas-mask. In morning and afternoon, evening and night-- In first or support lines, in sleep or in fight, What is it you cherish and cling to so tight? Your gas-mask. What is it you never leave thoughtless behind? What is it you clutch for with fingers that bind As you sniff that first odor that comes on the wind? Your gas-mask. It's a lot of dirty water And some little dabs of spuds, And dubious hunks of gristly meat And divers other duds. Served up to us in trenches, Our hunger made it good, But elsewhere--when we got it-- "We ate it, if we could. And now about the time Josephus Tells his gobs to call Port and Starboard, left and right, We're ordered, one and all, To most respectfully address Our slum as "beef stew"--Gosh, Has dished-up awful bosh. For slum is slum, and your Tummy-tum Has called it so for aye; As 'twas when Thotmes III marched north To check the Hittites' sway. As 'twas when Cyrus' doughboys swept And as 'twill ever be so long As a weary mess-line waits. So long as Nations fight and eat-- Though all don't feed as well-- Perhaps, kind friend, our logic may Strike you as on the bum-- But as we're Pershing's slum-hounds, We'll call the damn thing "slum". _The Hun he taught us Gas and things-- But the high explosive shell Was born of the Devil's mirth And the reddest forge in Hell._ Now one hits the village church, And the ancient, wavering wall And the little pointed tower swing And stagger and sway and fall. Now one hits a red-slag roof, And eighty feet on high Towers a monstrous, salmon cloud Against an azure sky. Now one hits in a field of wheat, Fresh planted, fair and green, And a mighty, thundering crater bursts Where abandoned plows careen. Now one nears with spiral shriek And strikes in the long white road, And the Lord ha' mercy on the Red Cross truck, And its helpless, weary load. Now one comes where you crouching wait In the trench's far-flung line, And you know there is never shelter against The voice of that deadly whine. Now one pierces the dugout's roof, And when the foul smokes pass, What once was there a dozen men Is a crimson, clotted mass. In the pale moonlight or the black of night-- When the sunset fires flare-- In the noontime's calm, without alarm, The Great Arch Fiend is there, With his frightful cry as he rushes nigh On his errand of despair. There's a nice stiff breeze ablowing, That keeps from out my trench. The decomposing stench Of a soldier, Boche or French, So please run off and play, So please run off and play Like a good fly, right away, For I want to sleep today, I'm dozing like a bull-finch, When you hop me, unaware, And I wake and swat and swear, And you return with thoughtful care, Can't you see I'm _very_ tired, That the G. I. Cans don't bust, And I've nibbled on a crust, And deserve a snooze, I trust, Do you think it's square and decent, When the Cooties cease to bite, (And there is no sleep at night) That you give me no respite, An hour's calm is with us, And the endless battle strain, And the shelling and the rain, Ought to make it very plain, That I need a little nap, That I do need mighty well Just to sun and rest a spell, And to sleep here where I fell, So have a heart, oh have a heart! If you're looking for a fight And you _must_ come 'round and bite, Make your visit in the night, You kept no roped-off rows of chairs Or clubs "For Officers Only," But you toiled for John Doe when he was Cold, tired, wet and lonely. You didn't squander millions On soldiers warming benches, But you worked like blazes for the ones That frequented the trenches. You didn't stick to cast-iron rules Of business most punctilious, And you never treated Private Doe With manner supercilious. You had no boundless backing-- But just inside your doors It seemed like, "Feel to home, Bill-- Sit down, the place is yours." Some things we fain remember-- Some things we fain forget-- But you, oh kindly people, Live in our memory yet. They're ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes That litter up the ground, That ruin all the landscape For miles and miles around. That pock-mark fertile fields of green-- That rip the hard French roads, And catch the lumbering trucks at night Agroan beneath their loads. And some of them are little uns The shrill one-pounders plow-- About a meter--edge to edge-- But large enough, I trow. And some of them nigh twice as broad, And rather more straight down, Of dubious renown. And some of them a dozen feet From rim to ragged rim, And deep enough to hide a horse-- A crater, gaunt and grim. And some of them are yellow-black, Where clings the reek of gas, (But here we do not pause to gaze, Nor linger as we pass). And some of them are water-fouled-- Or dried and parched and dun; And some of them are newly turned-- Fresh blotches 'neath the sun. But all spell red destruction, Blind rage and blinding hate, To them who charge the shell-swept zone Or in the trenches wait. Should we say "all," or modify Our statement? Any fool Knows that exceptions always rise To prove an iron-clad rule. And so in this case we can name _Some_ shell-holes we have met, The thought of whose engulfing sides Clings in our memory yet. They were the holes we rolled into-- When iron or bullet struck-- Cursing the cursed Prussian, And blessing our blessed luck. Oh lovely, beauteous shell-hole, Wherein we helpless lay, A wondrous couch of velvet Ye seemed to us that day. Our blood it stained your cushions A deep and richer red, As shrieking messengers of death Sped harmless overhead. Swept whining in their blood-lust, Hell's music, bleak and grim, Splitting in rage the edges Of your all-protecting rim. Oh shell-holes, murderous shell-holes, In vales of grass and wheat-- On hillside and in forest, In road and village street-- Your toll of suffering and death Is flashed to East and West-- But tell they of the wounded Ye've sheltered in your breast? We've eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry's and the Ritz-- We've sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never knew. From tables where the Northern Fires greet the coming night-- From Shepheard's (which means Cairo) to that little hostelry Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs sway. We've traveled north, we've traveled south by all routes known to man-- We've traveled east, we 've traveled west by some they scarcely came: From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar, From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things and game. We've put them all beneath our belt with consummate address: We've risen from the laden board and smacked our jowl in glee. With organs sound and healthy we have murdered each menu And left the wreck of good things with a gourmet's ecstasy. But do you wish to know the feasts that permeated That stirred the very bottom of my stomach to the core? Quisine that brought such wondrous bliss, but satiated not, That saturating satisfied, but still left room for more? The place--a little half deserted town in northern The time--a time of carnage, of wanton strife and hate: And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands Just from the Commissary, the Salvation or the Y, I've got a bar of chocolate, some butter and some cake; A canteen full of milk, and eggs, from the old farmhouse near by, And with this _tout ensemble_ you can see I'm sitting jake. I've entered now a peasant's house--an ancient, kindly dame-- Who's seen me several times before, and knows just what I wish: So the frying-pan is gotten out--the pewter fork and knife-- A big bowl and the skillet and a large, substantial dish. And I'm breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty (The while the eggs are frying, "Sur le plat, oui, s'il vous plait"), And pouring from my canteen's gurgling mouth a draught of milk, To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way. And now the spluttering eggs are done, the chocolate's hot and rich; I have my feet beneath the board, the pewter weapons near: A hunger from a front-line trench--the stomach of a And a battle-line that's very far, though still the guns ring clear. And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy-- And maybe you will understand why other dinners pale, And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy. We've soldiered many, many moons In this old plugging war, And all the ills and all the thrills, We've had 'em o'er and o'er. Shell-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas-- Night work in No Man's Land-- And everything that calls for nerve, Endurance, guts and sand. We've argued which we liked the _worst_-- Machine-guns, gas or shell. We've ruminated carefully-- And done it rather well. And after all our resume And cogitating bull, We've reached a clear decision, Most amplified and full:-- The greatest time in all the life Of any living man-- The mightiest moment of the Game-- The proudest, high elan; The thing we came three thousand miles Across the seas to do-- "The Day," the splendid hour That waits for me and you, Arrives--We spring into the wastes Of land, ripped, roweled and barred-- The battle-lust in brain and eye-- The weary jaw set hard; The rifle gripped in hands of steel, Where, flashing in the sun, Sweep on our blazing bayonets, The terror of the Hun. Over the sodden trenches-- Over the skirmish line-- High o'er the hole-torn fields and roads Cometh a face to mine. Under the burning gas attack, And the stench of the bursting shell, We hope we may live for her dear sake-- She who would wish us well. (She who has ever cherished us-- But when the hour came Choked back the tears of the faithful years, As we left to play the game.) Between the blazing horizons That hammer the long night through, Lapping their tongues of hatred-- Fearless she comes to you. And over the roar of battle Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings, Shine forth the loving eyes we hold Above all earthly things. _A World run mad with slaughter-- A charnel-house of blood-- But the face of the Battle Mother Above the crimson flood._ _The drafted men fought hard and well, The whole big army did, But we prefer the spirit The drafted men fought hard and well, But when Jack sailed for France, They didn't have to drag us in By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants. The drafted men fought hard and well, But when it first began, From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf, We rose, a single man. The drafted men fought hard and well, But when the days were black, Glad we sprang to the call to front The snarling, charging pack. The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate, In a victor's drunken might: The unleashed, howling gray hordes Sweeping plain and height. The drafted men fought hard and well, But when the great floes pressed, Came we to break the ice and clear A channel for the rest. The drafted men fought hard and well, But now the thing is o'er, We 're glad we came the way we came When the Nation rose to war. The drafted men fought hard and well, But now the thing is done, We're glad we came the time we came In the heyday of the Hun. God grant we've kept the trust--God grant The Old Guard shall not fail. _The drafted men fought hard and well, The whole vast army did, But we prefer the spirit _O. D., it_ ought _to mean Oh Damn,_ _But when you hear the soldier blab_ _"O. D.," it just means Olive Drab._ The leggings, breeches and the boots Of Uncle Samuel's war galoots-- The overcoats and jackets too, Confess the selfsame mournful hue. It may be excellent camouflage To try to fool a young barrage; It may not show the bally dirt So much upon your knees and shirt. It may be serviceable and such When you are beating-up the "Dutch;" But from a calm esthetic point, The color's sadly out-of-joint. A little mud on red or blue May seem quite prominent to you; But put the same upon O. D., And the whole blame thing looks mud to me. But then, it matches trenches well, And things that make you say, Oh Hell For instance, hikes, inspections, drills, And busted arms with C. C. pills. It makes you heave a sigh or two For the good old days of brass and blue; But if it's fit to beat the "Dutch" I guess it doesn't matter much. They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- My boy. They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench, Which means tonight they'll surely drench These works with shells that burst and stench They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- My lad. It breaks with shrill and tinny sound, And quite promiscuously around It showers metal on the ground They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- So do not stand and stupid stare Till some comes down and parts your hair, But hunt your dugout and beware They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- Young man. Which means tonight the gas shells' thud Will muffled fall like chunks of mud; And th' blinding, crashing Prince of Blood-- They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench-- My child. And ere the dawn is turning gray-- You mark the very words I say-- There's going to be hell to pay (High piled). We haven't been in this large strife So very long to date, But we have learned our answer to And we are feeding him for pap, As plain as A. B. C, A pretty little ditty known The Hun he planned for War, red War, By ocean, air and land; And he is getting oodles of The same, to date, in hand. He suddenly sprang poison gas Upon a valiant foe, And now he's getting gas and gas, And more gas, as you know. He found new tricks and wrinkles for This gory battle game, And now we stoop, no more his dupe, And beat him at the same. He drowned our women in the sea-- He ravished where he won-- But these were little things we couldn't Copy from the Hun. His crimson heel lie bade us feel, His lust and pride and scorn-- Till, echoing in our weary breasts A righteous hate was born. . . . . Beware the patient man in wrath, The olden proverb saith; And, Spawn of a Kultur nursed in blood-- In blood meet ye your death. _Lunging-wild, careening trucks_ _Plunging through the rain,_ _Sweeping down the rainbow road_ _To the sunlit plain._ _And echoing back with ponderous roar_ _Their cargo's wild refrain._ We're bowling over the roads of France-- White roads. We're twenty gray tracks in a long, long line, Twisting and rumbling and feeling fine. And some day we'll roll to the Watch on the Rhine-- Joyous loads. But now we're returning to billets for rest-- Earned repose. We've been in the trenches for many a week. In rain and in wind and in dugouts that leak. Till we all are so hoarse we scarcely can speak. Goodness knows. Our clothes they are worn and tattered and torn, And mud? My heavens! we have it in our leggings and hair-- On breeches and jackets and all that we wear-- But we are so happy, we really don't care-- 'Tisn't blood. It isn't those long, endless vigils at night, On the rack. It isn't the fighting and hunger and heat-- It isn't the slush and rheumatics and sleet-- It isn't the once-a-day cold meal we eat In the black. It isn't the shelling from sun unto sun-- Cursed shells: It isn't the camouflage that you must use If you have to lie down in your trench for a snooze, It isn't the stenches the Hun corpses choose For their smells. But it's clean clothes and gasoline-bath and a shave-- What a treat! It's sleeping on elegant straw, and undressed, With never a Toto disturbing your rest; It's regaining your "pep" and a wonderful zest When you eat. We're all of us willing, we're all of us game For the fray: But now we have finished a good hitch, and more, In conducting this large and salubrious war, Do you think we should feel very tearful or sore On this day? So some we are singing and some shoot the bull, And some sleep. (Don't wake the poor devil, just leave him alone, Though he's jammed on your foot till it's dead as a And we rumble through towns on the way to our own, Packed like sheep. And your hand is afingering bills large and small-- Francs galore. And you've visions of things that your poor stomach begs, Including nuts, candy and chocolate and eggs; And you find you've forgotten the crick in your legs-- Cramped and sore. We're a light-hearted, dirty-faced, rollicking crew-- Grimy pawed: Though a few cogitate on the living and dead, And some look behindward, and some look ahead, And some think of bunkies that shrapnel has sped To their God. _Lunging-wild, careening trucks_ _Plunging through the rain,_ _Sweeping down the rainbow road_ _To the sunlit plain,_ _And echoing back with ponderous roar_ _Their cargo's wild refrain._ Oh Mademoiselle behind the Lines, When we're weary and covered with dirt, And you make a promenade with us, Or perhaps you mend our shirt. You know our lives from your brothers, Or your sweethearts who can't come back, But only your laughter greets us When we shed that awful "pack." And some of you sell eggs to us In a town whence most have fled: And some of your names have "de" and your blood Runs blue as well as red. Oh Mademoiselle you sure are "chic" From your head to the tip o' your toes, And if you like us, you just plain _like_ us, And you don't give a damn who knows. And Mademoiselle those eyes, Oo la la! So sparkling, dark and rare, With the love of all the ages lying Deep and dormant there. (Please, please don't think us fickle-- That we didn't play the game-- But you seemed so human and made to be loved, And we murmured, "Je vous aime.") We hear you're going back with us To the tune of ten thousand wives, And we wish you ten thousand blessings, And ten thousand happy lives. So here's a health to you, Mademoiselle, Who helped us see it through, And the load that your laughter lightened Is the debt that we owe to you. When the clarion call of Country Bade strong men rise and go, Came they the first of the willing first, In the pride that leal men know. When the Eagle soared and its broad wings spread 'Bove the shores of an angered land, Sailed they the first of the Viking first Where the treacherous waters spanned. When the Eagle's Brood awoke to the shriek Of the great shells day and night, First of the flock bled they beneath The star-flare's blinding light. When the lunging, torn front lines locked And the strife raged man and man, Swept they the first of the fighting first-- And the van of the battle van. . . . . . . . . . . From the training days of Gondrecourt-- Demange--cold, wet and gray-- To the trenches north of Luneville-- To the crater-pitted, wasted tracts Of war-torn Picardy, And the ghastly rubble hilltop Where Cantigny used to be: To the splendid days of Soissons-- The crisis of the strife: To where giant pincers severed St. Mihiel as a knife: To the glorious, stubborn struggle Up the rugged Argonne slopes, Till the gates of Sedan crumbled With the Vandals' crumbling hopes. . . . . . . . . . . Sweeping in conquering columns To the banks of the vaunted Rhine-- Ever the first of the fighting first, Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, What do you mean to me? "We to the left mean hike and drill, Trenches and mud and heat and chill-- And I to the right for the blood ye spill Where the Marne runs to the sea." Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, What is the tale ye tell? "We to the left, of the long months spent Where the somber seasons slowly blent-- And I to the right, of the ragged rent That took so long to get well." Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, "That ye would not trade us, master mine, For ribbon or cross or rank, in fine, That you are ours and we are thine Through all the years to be." If you're sneaking around on a night patrol, Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole, And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul-- It's a trip-wire. If you think there isn't a thing around Except the desolate, shell-torn ground, And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound-- It's a trip-wire. If you know a murmur would give the alarm, And you've smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm, And then you go falling all over the farm-- It's a trip-wire. If it's cold and it's rainy and everything's mud, And you're groping your way through a nice little flood, And you stand on your head with an elegant thud-- It's a trip-wire. When silence is golden (for "news" is the quest), And you're returning and stepping your best, And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest-- It's a trip-wire. ("There's a long, long Trail.") They sing a song that the pines of Maine Hear in the winter's blast-- They sing a song that the riders hum, Where the cattle plains spread vast; But there is one they love the most-- And they keep it for the last. They sing the lays of Puget Sound Aglimmering in the sun-- Of the cotton fields of Alabam', Where the Gulf-bound rivers run, But one they sing with a wistful look, When all the rest are done. They chant of the land of Dixie, And their "Little Gray Home in the West"-- Of how they'll "can the Kaiser"-- And they roar with bellowing zest; But one they sing as it were a prayer-- The song they love the best. From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges Agleam in the dawn's first hues-- They sing a sacred song, for it Is red with battle-dews. For it is sanctified by space-- And the cruel wheel of Time; And sacrifice has hallowed it, And mellowed every rhyme, Until it wells from weary throats A thing men call sublime. In frozen trench and billet-- In mire, muck and rain-- Where the roar of unleashed batteries Hurl forth their fires again; At rest, or back in Blighty, Torn with shell and pain-- There's a song they dub the fairest-- There's a lilt they love the best-- "There's a long, long trail awinding" To the haven of their quest, Where the tip of the rainbow reaches A land in the golden west. "When Greek meets Greek." They knew he was a German-- They thought he was a spy-- _Toujours_ they "covered" him and said, "We'll catch him by-and-by." They tried to find, by word or act, In front-line trench or rear, Some circumstance that would betray His treacherous dealings clear. They scanned his face when hostile flares Set No Man's Land alight-- They watched him when the Hun barrage Tore craters left and right. They noted every move he made, With ever wakeful eye, Reiterating o'er and o'er, "We'll catch him by-and-by." At last the opportunity Loomed large in fact and view, And every near-sleuth in the bunch Saw that his hunch was true. Because, upon an inky night, When mist hung o'er the nation, The captain took a picked patrol To gather information. And as they crept on hands and knees, In Land No Man may own, Their stomachs struck the dew-wet grass With never sound or moan. (The reason being that the Boche, On selfsame errand set, Were creeping hitherward unseen-- And likewise mad and wet.) 'Twas then the detail turned their heads To where their captain lay, And every rifle in that squad Was pointed straight his way. And he? He running true to form, Two inches raised his chin, And spouted German volubly In accents clear and thin. Click, click, click, click, click, down the line Each safety-catch turned o'er, But the captain did not hesitate, And merely talked the more. In conversation friendly He rambled gently on Unto the Boches' leader, Till it was nearly dawn. The while his men they "covered" him-- The while their hearts grew black-- And you could feel the trigger fingers Squeezing up the slack. Just what the purport of his last Remark was, no one knew, But in a burst of confidence A Boche head rose in view. . . . Across the four-fold stillness That covers No Man's Land, An automatic pistol shot Rang clear and piercing and The next day German papers told Was killed by a Yankee captain, And Yankee treachery. When you look at his picture and your eyes Are dimmed and mighty wet, And it seems as though your trembling hands Could reach and touch him yet: When you faintly call and he answers not Your supplicating prayer, Remember his last thought was You: I know--for I was there. When the day is done and the hearth-fire glows, And you slowly knit and knit; And your furtive eyes from the embers rise To where he used to sit: And you feel he never can slip up And kiss you unaware, Remember his last word was You: I know--for I was there. When your dear brave heart is breaking-- And life is 'reft of joy; And only the spark of memory-- The face of a boy--your boy: May the good God hover over you, And touch your silvered hair, And tell you what I've tried to tell: He knows -- for He was there. I've had some mighty narrow calls-- Some close shaves not a few, But one of the fairly closest I'll now narrate to you. 'Twas midnight--hush! the plot grows thick-- Crowd close, and hold your breath-- 'Twas midnight--and the slum-cart came Upon its round of death. (It isn't really that the slum Was quite as bad as that, But the playful Boche so often dropped A shell where it was at.) 'Twas midnight--and our appetites Were whetted large and keen, As trench feed, once a day, must leave An interval between. And so we sought the buzzy-cart, "Mess-kits alert" and found It standing in a quiet spot Where never came a sound-- Excepting that of bursting shells Across the field a way, (But as I said before, the Boche Is very given to play). All innocent and hungry-like And empty to the core, I came upon that buzzy-cart, With never thought of war. More calm, beneficent and mild-- More free from things of strife-- I promise you I never was In all my mortal life. The air was fair, the stars were out, The mocking-bird sang clear; The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed, And food was very near. When suddenly the ground gave way-- It seemed a mile or more-- And the whole adjacent landscape leapt To heaven with a soar. Earth, rocks and stars commingling In a swirling mass arose, Where I, recumbent in the hole, Assumed an easy pose. And when I found that I was there-- Both arms, both legs, and head, I picked me up and cogitated _Why_ I wasn't dead. For information looked I 'round North, south and east and west-- But the good platoon had up and cleared Some several feet with zest. (And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing, For me to understand, Was that when I got up I had My mess-kit in my hand.) And there I stood and gazed me down Upon the hole and mud, And found I was alive because That blamed shell was a "dud." A dud's a shell that fails to burst-- Whose crater's microscopic-- And as I'd just sunk down in it, My Fates were philanthropic-- For had the bally thing gone off-- Instead of sitting jake-- You'd ne'er have found my scattered parts With a hair-comb or a rake. You'd ne'er have found your humble slave-- For, sprinkled east and west, My sad remains would scarce have bulged The pocket of your vest. A finger in Benares-- A portion of my shoe. To greet the snow-peaked morn; And my dog-tag at the Horn. There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines That feeds us shells and hardtack, And guns and clothes and beans and things, And heals our wounds and pain. There's an S. O. S. across the seas That knits for us and writes to us, Buys bonds and whoops it up for us, And cheers us on again. There's an S. O. S. behind the Lines, We could not do without it: If you'd know the reasons why. There's an S. O. S. across the seas, And if you ever doubt it, Just go and ask a soldier, Who will promptly black your eye. I've heard the cat hath nine lives, The hen and worm I've seen, But a genuine, long eared, gas-proof mule Is the toughest thing they wean. Each night he hauled the water-cart-- (And to know what Water means, You have to see a trench-bound bunch When filling their canteens). However, no digression now, But straightway to my story, And I'll paint that black mule white And crowned with a crown of glory. We crowded 'round the faucets-- On each, six waited turns-- The thirstiest crew I ever knew-- With the ingrowing thirst that burns. And all was peace and quiet-- The pause before the storm-- When the distant, whirling, demon shriek Of the G. I. Cans took form. And when the third one got our range, With haste, but dignity, We sought the dugouts 'cross the road, Calm, though precipitously. But the fastest thing I've seen on legs, And I've seen the best, at that. Was the water-mule when he took the road At a hundred in nothing flat. Whether he headed for gay Paree-- We didn't stop to figure out-- But he sure was headed in. We only thought of our thirst next day, And a song we'd heard afar, Of the farm recruit who bade good-bye To his "mule with the old hee-haw." Well, all that night they threw us gas And high explosive shells, And four long hours we wore our masks, To ward the murderous smells. And when the first white streak of dawn Told "Stand-to" was begun, We stumbled back and took our posts To wait our friend the Hun. The Hun did not appear, but gas Thick clothed both hill and dale In clouds and sheets of dead-man's drab, And down in the deepest vale-- With perfect poise and nonchalance, Sang-froid and savoir-faire, Browsed that fool mule, capaciously, With never thought or care. They shall tell of the Arms resplendent-- The men who dared the air; They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns Where the far horizons flare: They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs-- Each rear and flanking drive-- And the song of the Service of Supply, That kept them all alive. And when they seem to have finished, And ye think that the chant is done, They will tell the tale of the tramping men In the sweat of a torrid sun. They will tell the tale of the marching men Who plod the live-long night, To reach the crest at the break o' dawn When the Nations go to fight. They will tell the tale of the tired men Beneath a straining load; Mile by mile with lunging step And glassy stare on the road. They will tell the tale of the front-line trench, And the one cold meal at night, And the terrible song of the bursting shells, And the flares' uncanny light. They will tell the tale of the moving ranks When the zero hour lifts, And the khaki lines leap forward In the face of the steel-shod drifts. Where the great shots split asunder, And clutter hill and plain With the weary bodies of the men Who may not march again. And so for a wide World's wonder, And the ages yet to be, They will sing in deathless numbers The song of the Infantry. They will slowly close the volume-- The story fully told, And a tear shall fall on the cover, Whose letters are flaming gold. The flowers of France are blooming Upon this bright June day, The flowers of France are fragrant And smiling swing and sway, (For what is death and carnage A dozen miles away?) The flowers of France are blooming Among the wheat and grass-- The scarlet headed poppies That nod you as you pass, And the blue cornflowers' brilliant hue, And the daisies in a mass. The flowers of France are blooming And beckoning in the breeze, And laughing in the sunshine, And bending to the bees, (But the wooden crosses in a row-- Oh what know they of these?) The flowers of France are blooming In every rainbow shade, And as a rainbow is an arch By tears of heaven made, I wonder if the flowers of France Are the tears that France has paid? _I haven't a worry or a care--_ _My mind's "at ease" and furled:_ _For I'm a First-class Private,_ The Loot, before the whole platoon, He up and called me forth To drill my squad, "Squads east" and "west," Not mentioning south and north. To drill my squad, "Squads 'round-about," For all the World to see-- But I'm a First-class Private and That's good enough for me. The Loot he is a dandy man And all that kind of thing, And I know he wants to see how I A corporal's job could swing: But back here in a "rest town" It just means dirty work, And _I_ must take the bawling-out For what the squad may shirk. 'Tis I they'd turn and eye with scorn If some gun wasn't clean; 'Tis I would play the wet nurse For a rookie _none_ could wean: And if a pair of frozen shoes Makes Smith miss reveille, It isn't Smith or "Sunny France," It's me, yes dammit, me. So forth I take the Squad to drill, With ne'er a fault or slip; But a smile is in my glance, forsooth, And a jest is on my lip, Akidding with each friend o'mine-- And the Loot was never fain To try to make a non-com Of Private Me again. _Oh nothing, oh no nothing_ _May your resolution shake,_ _When you're a First-class Private,_ _And you know you're Sitting Jake._ Keats sings in peerless stanzas To the lovely Nightingale-- And Shelley tells of the Skylark Above the summer gale-- Needs lift my numbers frail. For far by the out-flung wires, Where the shell-torn tree stumps stand, And over the barren, hole-strewn tracks Of the wastes of No Man's Land, In the morning light and the black of night, The Birds of Battle stand. No shrieking shots may quell them-- Nor gloom nor storm nor rain, As out of the crash or stillness A wondrous, shrill refrain Cuts clear and glad and lithesome Above the death-strewn plain. The weary heavens welcome, And echo back the song, And weary soldiers linger, And pause to listen long To the one glad cry in a war-torn sky, That holds so much of wrong. The torturous hike up the hill road, Plowing through snow and mud; The poor weary arches breaking-- The socks that are wet with our blood: The terrible, binding, burning strap That's cutting our shoulder through-- And our parched lips stammer, "My Country, For you and only for you." The slight and the slur and the nagging We must take from a rowdy or cad; And we simply salute and say "Yes sir," And pretend that we never feel mad: Though our heart is a forest of hatred-- And justice seems hidden from view-- And we mutter, "For you, oh my Country-- For you, yea, and only for you." When all evening long the guns' reddened glares Turn night into hellish day, Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cut The drab of the dawn's growing gray: When over the top we are starting again-- Full knowing the thing that we do-- We murmur, "For you, oh my Country-- For you, aye and only for you." Some people call 'em Totos-- Some people call 'em Lice; Some people call 'em several things That really aren't nice; But the Soldier calls 'em "Cooties," So "Cooties" must suffice. We've met the dear Mosquito-- We've met the festive Fly-- It seems to me we've seen the Flea That jumpeth far and high; Yea, we have known various bugs-- Though not the reason why. But when you're in the trenches And cannot take a bath, As one canteen of water Is all one day one hath, You raise the comely Cooties-- Who raise, in turn, your wrath. You can't escape the Cooties By day nor yet by night. No G. I. Can alarms them, Nor other sound of fight. Not even Gas affects them-- Which doesn't seem just right. You may not eat, you may not sleep, You may not bat an eye: You may not duck a six-inch shell That's singing gaily by, But that a Cootie, like the Poor, _Is with you--very nigh._ They bite you singly and in squads, They have a whole parade; They form a skirmish line and sweep Across each hill and glade; But seek their dugouts when you think Your grip is firmly laid. It does no good to curse 'em-- They cannot hear or talk. It does no good to chase 'em-- To still-hunt or to stalk. The only thing is hand-grenades, At which, 'tis said, they balk. Oh Cooties, little Cooties, You have no sense of shame; You are not fair, you are not square, You do not play the game-- But east and west and south and north Is spread afar your fame. I really hate to leave you, Where the land is scarred and peeled, And the broken battlefield Bears its red and deadly yield-- I really hate to leave you, To the wind and dew and rain Of a shorn and shotted plain, Till stranger hands again Discover thee. I really hate to leave you, To the clinging, clogging dust-- To the all-destroying crust Of a clawing, gnawing rust-- I really hate to leave you, But they've plugged me good and hard, So I quit you, trusty pard, As I creep back rather marred, I really hate to leave you, With your bore a brilliant sheen, And your metals black and clean, Where your brown striped stock and lean Gleams tigerishly. I really hate to leave you, For the wanton weather's hate, And careless hands to desecrate Barrel, bolt and butt and plate, I really hate to leave you, And I bear a double pain As I pause to turn again Where I left you on the plain, _The shades of red an' white an' blue_ _Mean rather more to me an' you,_ _Than just parades an' bands an' such_ _And hollerin' loud an' talking much._ The wounds are dark and red-- All jagged-red in Blighty: And untamed hearts are red Where, stretching bed on bed, Lies lax each weary head, The walls are blank and white-- All fresh and white in Blighty: And cheeks are gaunt and white, Where through the endless night They fight the second fight, Outside the skies are blue-- Soft, cloud-flecked blue o'er Blighty But clear, relentless blue Of purpose steeled anew Lies there revealed to you In every eye in Blighty. _The shades of red an' white an' blue_ _Mean rather more to me an' you,_ _Than just parades an' bands an' such_ _And hollerin' loud an' talking much._ (Convalescent stage.) The stories sure are rich and rare, They'd strike you blind, they'd turn your hair, They're dark as coal down in the bin-- Till Nurse comes in. The language is an awful hue, Astreak with crimson shades and blue; 'Twould scorch a mammoth's leather skin-- Till Nurse comes in. Words run the gamut of the trench-- They rise with oscillating din-- Till Nurse comes in. The cussin's quaint and loud and strong, Imported stuff, that don't belong In dictionaries fat or thin-- Till Nurse comes in. And then you'd be surprised to hear The change of pace, the shift o' gear, The dainty tales that just begin-- When Nurse comes in. The mess-hall windows blanketed To bar the western light-- The tables cleaned and cleared away, And bench by bench in close array Five hundred convalescents sway To catch the caption bright. And there are men with helpless legs, And torn chest and back; And men with arms in sling and splint, And one poor eye that bears no glint, And muscles limp or turned to flint-- And souls upon the rack. They came from Chateau Thierry-- From Soissons, Oulchy-le-Chateau, From Rheims and Fismes, where blow by blow, 'Cross Marne and Oureq and Vesle aflow They hammered them afar. And now upon the screen is thrown An old familiar form: 'Tis Charlie of the strong appeal, At skating-rink or riot meal, And every mirth-producing reel Awakes the farthest dorm. The aching head, the splintered arm, The weary, dragging feet; The wound that took a month to drain-- The everlasting, gnawing pain-- Are all forgot and gone again When Charlie strikes the street. Your esoteric shrug and sneer And call him crude and quaint; But we who've seen him "over here"-- Who've heard the laugh that brings the tear-- Who've heard the bellowing roar and cheer-- _We_ call him Charles the Saint. I sit in the nickering shade, Watching the scampering children play-- And the way of a man and a maid-- And the noble women of France in the black Of a Nation unafraid. The lace of the shadows across the paths Where the warm sun niters through, And the open vista between the trees, With the swan pond half in view, And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines 'Neath an arch of Brittany's blue. The air is soft as a day in June, The blossoms manifold Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue Across the green and gold, And earth and sky in witchery Entwine you in their hold. And it comes to me, Can it really be But two full moons have fled, Since I limped from a scarred and riven field Where lay the newly dead, Bathed in the light of a splendid fight, And blotched with their blood's own red. A world of crimson slaughter Where the grim locked legions sway-- And the mad machine guns whistle Their endless roundelay-- And the sinister sound of the thundering pound Of the great guns night and day. Night and day, night and day, With scarce a pause between, As out of the empty dark a voice From the farthest hills unseen, Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down Where the helpless front lines lean. . . . . . . . . . . The air is soft as a morn in June-- The filmy shadows sway; And only the joyous music Of the prattle of children at play, And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves That tell of the closing day. If you're a homebound soldier Who's done his little best, And you are going 'board the boat Bordeaux or any other port, Steam-up and headed west: If you are full o' the joy o' life And "pep" and all that stuff; And the ozone permeates your soul And makes you gay and bluff, Don't turn and yell, "Who won the War?-- The M Ps,"--Can that guff. For the M Ps are a sacred caste That boss the city street A hundred miles behind the Lines Where dangers never greet, Nor roaming shells come swirling by, Nor surging first waves meet. So if the long, tense session Of soul-engulfing war, And "Prussian" discipline and rule, And heart-enslaving law Say, "Open wide the throttle Of lung and throat and jaw"-- Repress that natural impulse, For you're not human--yet: Sedately up the gangplank walk, Eyes front and lips tight set, Or you'll come back and spend six weeks In a mud-dump, nice and wet. The wind is blowing 'cross the bow, The first smoke lags alee-- The sun that's broken through the clouds Is dancing on the sea, So, homebound soldier, watch your step, And take advice from me. The lady without any arms; Sing of the Venus of this and of that, And tell of their marvelous charms: Rave of your wonderful statues, In divers lands here o'er the sea, In bushels and reams, but the Girl of our Dreams Is our godmother, Miss Liberty. Its contour may not be perfection-- Its technique we really don't know-- If you ever asked, "Who was the artist?" It would come as a _terrible_ blow. But to us it is home, friends and Country, To us it means all that is best, 'Tis the first that lifts out of the waters Of "Our little Gray Home in the West." 'Tis the first on that endless horizon Where the clouds meet the wind driven spume, And the scavenger gulls wing to greet us From out of the gathering gloom-- 'Tis the first that calls beckoning to us Through the mist of the swaggering sea-- "Oh lay down your guns my knight-errant sons, And come back to the bosom of me." The sea that kisses France's shore, It beats on yours and mine. Her love and faith and chivalry, That sparkle as her wine, With all our faith and all our love Commingling combine. The colors of the flag of France Are ours by hue and hue: The blazing red of courage-- The white of purpose true, And constancy and loyalty Awoven in the blue. The spirit and the soul of France, That shatter fetters free, They came to us in darkest days To weld our destiny; And so with sword in hand we come To pay our debt to Thee. To pay our debt a hundredfold-- Friend of our new-born years. To march with you and fight with you, Till rise the final cheers-- And hand in hand, o'er a grave-strewn land, We blend our mingled tears. Where blends our blood as once it did In days of a long gone When the Bourbon lilies leapt and gleamed Among the Stars on high-- And the white and crimson bands of dawn Rose in the eastern sky. And the the white and crimson bands of dawn, And the Stars that glow and glance, Shall girdle them their armor on, With buckler, sword, and lance, And leap to the charge and sweep the field . . . . . . . . . . If right is might and Honor lives-- Oh Sister? 'cross the seas-- And Liberty and Justice still Hold high commune with these; A four-fold vengeans waits the Hun, And his iniquities. Cowards and curs and traitors, Fatuous dreaming fools-- Binding us, stripped, for the madman Where right of might and who springs first Are the only known rules. Well fed, well housed and sleek and smug, Full pursed and full of pride-- Your fields are green, your lanes are fair Where peaceful homes abide, And your children play by sunny streams That laughing seaward glide. What Primal Power tells you eat To the ends of your belly-greed-- What holds your fields with harvests full, And answers every need-- And bids your bairns play laughingly With never care or heed? The answer, Fool, is written large In words of blazing light-- They are rewards of dwelling in A Land of kingly might, That grants you surety and wealth And guards you, day and night. And whence, Fool, came its splendid strength-- And why, and how and when? In a World of strife and reddened knife Did it rise by tongue and pen? No, Dolt, but by the strong right arms, The arms of its fighting men. And Ye, Ye would sit with folded hands, Agaze into Heaven's blue, With sanctimonious murmurings Of what the Lord will do; While your neighbor and your neighbor's son Go forth and fight for you. For you, you cur, and your belly-need-- For your hearth and kith and kin: For your harvest and your banking-house Where you shovel the shekels in, Till the labor has hardened your hands and heart, And your soul is parchment skin. Religion cannot cover A dog whose liver is white. Your Christ, with righteous anger, Smote hard to left and right The usurers. And never said He was too proud to fight. When we are another Belgium And the land with blood is dyed, And your homes are burned and your women raped, And ye know that ye have lied-- Mayhap ye will say with your final gasp That ye are satisfied. On the entry, in 1917, of the United States into the World War. Not with vain boasts and mouthings-- Not with jesting light-- Come we in armor dight. Not for our own advantage-- Not for Adventure's lust-- Not for the hope of honor-- But a Cause that is high and just. Not for the praise of our fellow-man, Or greed or gain or creed, But for the sight of the suffering eyes That call us in their need. (The withering, mad machine-guns Shall drop us one by one, Where the red, red streams of No Man's Land Gleam 'neath a blood-red sun.) (The shriek of the spraying shrapnel-- The roar and the blinding glare, And the gaping crater's dripping fangs Shall ope and find us there.) Not in the strong man's tyranny Or the pride of worldly things, But guarding clean traditions, Unstained by the hands of kings. Not with sudden yearning, But knowing the risks we dare, We board the waiting galleons For a Nation brave and fair. (For a Nation bearing the battle's brunt-- The strength of the Vandals' blast-- With an even keel and a steady wheel, And her Colors nailed to the mast.) Not with hectic fire, But weighing the thing we do, We cross to the coasts of the fighting hosts-- To the France our Fathers knew. Brothers in blood of old--and now-- Together to hunt and slay, Till we drive the Beast to his bone-strewn lair-- An eye for an eye--a hair for a hair-- And we leave him broken and bleeding there Forever and a day. . . . . . . . . . . Not with vain boasts and mouthings-- But in silent, grim parade-- We come, Lord God of Battles, To the last and great Crusade. I have a sapphire rich and fair And soft as a velvet sky, When only the stars are shining low And the heavens hold a mystic glow And a hushed world stands agaze to know The wonderful Whence and Why. I have a sapphire that I turn In the dark of somber days: And the darting tongues of nickering blue Flash deep and rare in wondrous hue, Sharp as the lightning, pure as the dew, And true as m'lady's gaze. I have a sapphire that I hold Beneath the chandelier: And the phosphor of its azure gleam Sweeps clear as the depths of the mountain stream Where the Sun-god hurls his molten beam In the morn of the golden year. I have a sapphire I adore-- Of varying whims and moods-- Blue-black it lies with never a mark Across the dim unfathomed dark, Till there lifts the glow of a tiny spark-- And again it sullen broods. I have a sapphire that I bend 'Neath the light of burning rays: And the flames spread forth a fairy fire, Seething and writhing and leaping higher Till they come to the land of my heart's desire, In a glittering, blinding blaze. I have a sapphire that I hold. When the goal seems far away: When the lee shore churns in saffron spume. And the fluctuant ocean's plume on plume Bears down to a rock-ribbed hidden doom, And the sky is ashen gray. I have a sapphire that I turn; And the clouds break, and the wine Of a glorious sun spreads east and west To where the Islands of the Blest Raise verdant shores at my behest, And a golden world is mine. _Oh Sapphire from a distant vale_ _Where the white Himalayas tower:_ _Where the Kashmir lakes are royal blue,_ _And passions strong and hearts are true,_ _All these are met and blent in you,_ _A princely heir and dower._ Out of the wonderful nowhere, Into the lowly here; Laughing and loving and lithesome, And radiating cheer. Twin rose-buds o' Killarney hue-- Fragrant and fresh and fair-- And eyes of blue, wide-gazed and true, And tawny yellow hair. And smiles as sweet as any meet In pleasant paths above: And golden laughter that echoes after, To finger the chords of love. Two wee buds o' Killarney hue That beckon and beguile-- And 'neath your spell we're learning well There is something still worth while. Though drab days break and drab thoughts wake O'er fields of sleet and snow, There's sunshine rare just _everywhere_-- For you have taught us so. "It's a long lane that knows no turnings"-- And the seas are wide indeed, But there are no barriers dividing The Anglo-Saxon creed. Fair fighting when the skies are lowering-- Fair peace when skies are clear-- And the faith of fair intentions, unfaltering, And the heart that holds no fear. "It's a long lane that knows no turnings"-- And Browning never said a thing more true, So I know you'll know the spirit that impels me To send this little messenger to you. Matchless bard of all the ages-- Lyric sounder of the lyre-- Wake among your golden echoes-- Rise amid your latent fire-- Sweetest singer ever sung-- By what law of Earth or Heaven Ye were called away so young? By what law of God or Mammon-- By what creed of land or sea-- Was a weary World forsaken Of the mind that harbored thee? Ere that wondrous mind's fruition Scarce had grown to the tree. If the half-fledged sapling gave us Melodies past human praise-- If such virgin buddings crowded Those few sad and glorious days; If such flowers, barely opened, Swept us in a wild amaze-- Would your soul have given to men-- What the marvelous meed and measure Of your pulsing, choral pen-- Had your numbered days been lengthened To a three score years and ten? As through mystic lands ye led us O'er the paths your feet had gone: Pipes of Pan--and fain we followed-- Glad and willing slave and pawn, Till we reached the fields Elysian-- Till we faced the gorgeous dawn: Till the lanes seemed filled with roses-- Roses lipped with opal dew: Till the vales seemed filled with incense-- Incense slowly drifting through: Till the seas seemed filled with grottoes-- Grottoes amber, gold and blue: Till the songs of birds rang clearer And the sunshine shone more rare, And the moon above the meadows Gathered love, and left it there; And the swaying stars rose whiter-- And the World was very fair: As your thoughts' eternal fountains, Shot with iridescent gleams, Floating down through glades enchanted, On the breast of faery streams, To a pearl-strewn bay of beryl-- Reached the haven of our dreams. Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, Said Heaven was a hundred, million, billion miles away. So I couldn't contradict them--it wouldn't do at all-- But they had never heard your laughter innocent and gay. Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They said the Milky Way was fair beyond all human ken: But they had never seen your face, upturned, aquestioning-- A dainty bit of rapture in a leaden world o' men. Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They told of gorgeous comets and their manes so bright and rare: But comet glow could never show the living threads of light That dance and gleam in th' rippling stream and fragrance of your hair. Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They said the azure ether stretched in miles of lapis hue; But they had never known eyes that gaze into your soul In longing little wonder wells of limpid gray and blue. Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They said no melody could match the singing of the spheres: But they had never heard your voice ring joyously at play-- The music of a weary world of roil and toil and tears. Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one. They've told the tale of the double stars, and their faith the eons through-- They would give hands to Thee, head to Thee, feet to Thee-- They who are blind: They would give form to Thee, fashion Thee manikin, After their kind. They would give hate to Thee, spite to Thee, jealousy-- Thou the adored: Only have fear in Thee, only repel Thee, They would bring shame to Thee, even in worship-- Each empty rite: Bigotry, canting and sere superstition, Knowing no light. Faiths esoteric, pedantic and recondite-- Mystical creeds: False and insipid and brutal and selfish-- And wrought to their needs. They whom Ye nurtured from primal conceiving, And ne'er a flaw-- They know Thee not, or in knowing, reject Thee, Thee and Thy law. Saying, "We see Thee not, come to us, speak to us-- Tangible stand. Come in the purple, crowned, robed and resplendent-- Sceptre in hand. "Even as kings have done, through all the ages, Brave to behold-- And girdled with gold: "Or in a chariot welded of star-dust-- Glittering white-- Pause at the cloud-line 'mid crashing of thunder And blazing of light. "Rolling Thy voice till the Pleiades tremble-- The spheres are amoan; The Earth for a footstool--the outermost planets Grouped for a throne. "Thus would we see Thee, acclaim Thee; and worship Thee, Thou in Thy might-- Concrete, conglomerate, human and splendid-- Aflame in our sight." They who have drunk of the River of Knowledge Only a quaff, Pity them, Father that know not Thy meaning, Children who laugh. Atoms that reck not the wherefore of atoms-- Dust of the dust: Groping in darkness, recusant and doubting-- And bearing no trust. They would make mock of Thee, saying the life-spark, Function by function in wonderful unison-- Each mystery. Sunshine and rain-fall and food to their needing, Air, sea and land: Seed-time and fruit-time and harvest and gleaning-- Made to their hand. They would gainsay Thee by calling it Nature, And by their impotent wonder, Thy glory, Only enhance. But when in mercy the last word is spoken-- When the gates yawn; Father of Nations--take Thou Thy children Into the dawn. Crowning Thy marvelous works with a crowning-- Showing compassion and loving they knew not, E'en to the last. Have ye a day that bears the glare Of the flaming morning sun? Have ye a day the mind may search, Weighing what ye have done? Have ye a day ye are satisfied Will stand the acid test-- From the first gray strand of the eastern skies To the last red glow in the west? Have ye a day ye grappled with And hurled in mortal throes, When, 'bove the white horizon, The Great Occasion rose? Mayhap the World bore witness To the things of your Golden Day: Mayhap it is locked from the gaze of men, And ye've thrown the key away. Lorraine is now French, but, of course, it was not so during the The so-called German culture. efforts of the Celts themselves, the indigenous people of France, infantryman, and guaranteed to increase 50 pounds in weight every full marching-order Josephus Daniels, Secretary of the Navy during the war. Nickname for sailors. Thotmes III, (or Thutmose or Thutmosis) Of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who began his reign about 1500 B. C., Cyrus' doughboys swept etc. Refers to the passage of Cyrus and his great army through the sweeping to his eastern conquests, both passed. Doughboys is the popular present-day nickname for infantrymen. When the situation is thoroughly agreeable and everything is "breaking" just right. Well known soldier expression which, elegantly translated, means being totally and entirely out of luck, but not to be adopted for The designation of an American soldier, where no specific name is soldier. forces. the Cid understood that most of his great deeds are a gorgeous fabric of tradition rather than actual history. A nickname for a Cootie, qv. Including nuts, candy etc. The army man pronounces the word "mademoiselle" at full length, great French general Mangin, who was the corps commander of the Division, and as it was in this engagement that a gentleman of Teutonic origin, operating a machine-gun from our extreme left flank, and apparently very much irritated about something, put a bullet in my side and out my back, it is only natural that the message of Gen. Mangin was of interest to me, and saved, and here General Mangin Thanks Pershing's Men for Brilliant "Officers, non-commissioned officers and soldiers of the Third "Shoulder to shoulder with your French comrades, you threw "Ninety-one cannon, 7,200 prisoners, immense booty and ten kilometers (six and a quarter miles) of reconquered territory are "American comrades, I am grateful to you for the blood you sleeve, said the following of the First Division:-- Division Insignia: Crimson figure "1" on khaki background, chosen inflict casualties; first to suffer casualties; first to be cited personnel." Marne, as heretofore described; and it was the First Division to which Pershing again gave the post of honor when the St. Mihiel Mr. Page, in his article in _The World's Work_, for May. 1919. in reinforcements, Mr. Page recapitulating the situation with the following paragraph:-- these facts there is no desire on my part to pretend that this edition of The New York Herald:-- Prowess of Yanks Compels Praise Even from Hun, (Special telegram to the Herald.) From a captured officer of the German army comes a remarkable tribute to the fighting prowess of the First Division of the American troops, whose work will go down in history as among the most remarkable of the present war. Division to be. The German, when taken, had seen four years of severe fighting. This is what he had to say yesterday:-- "I received orders to hold the ground at all costs. The American "Following the barrage closely were the troops of the First Division. I saw them forge ahead and knew that all was lost. All night I remained in my dugout, hoping vainly that something would troops found me and here I am, after four years of fighting, a prisoner. "Yesterday, I knew that the First Division was opposite us, and I "We did not believe that within five years the Americans could develop a division such as this First Division. The work of its The patrol herein described was what was called a "reconnoitering actually attacked. "Combat patrols" were sent out for this latter Buzzy-cart The carts that were sent from the company kitchens, which were second line came back to them, to carry the cans of slum, coffee, Dog-tag forming an identification tag. Zero hour The exact time at which you start forward to attack. Abbreviation for lieutenant. Soldier sarcasm, because he scarcely ever saw any sun while in Means the same thing as "Sitting on the World," i.e., everything salubrious and "breaking" just right. rowdy or cad While very often some junior, or even senior, officer would fall under this category, and even worse, the majority of them really tried to give their men a square deal. If an officer were a Silver bursts cut Artillery flares at night show red, but in the early dawn they appear against the dark hillsides like bursts of silver. Soldier term for his rifle, the French word "fusil" meaning that weapon. never in really popular use by the American soldier for this purpose, and to the British soldier it simply meant going back to The famous "movie" comedian of the cinema. Military Police; soldiers acting in that capacity.

Guy Thorne

The Serf

1876

Attention is called to the affection manifested in such rhymes as My little baby, little boy blue, Is as sweet as sugar and cinnamon too; Isn't this precious darling of ours Sweeter than dates and cinnamon flowers? The small-footed girl With the sweet little smile, She loves to eat sugar And sweets all the while. Her money's all gone And because she can't buy, She holds her small feet While she sits down to cry. On the top of a mountain A hemp stock was growing, And up it a cricket was climbing. I said to him, "Cricket, Oh where are you going?" He answered: "I'm going out dining." Away goes the butterfly, To catch it I will never try; The butterfly's about to 'light, I would not have it if I might. We keep a dog to watch the house, A pig is useful, too; We keep a cat to catch a mouse, But what can we do With a girl like you? Fire-fly, fire-fly, Come from the hill, Your father and mother Are waiting here still; They've brought you some sugar, Some candy and meat, Come quick, or I'll give it To baby to eat. Little baby, full of glee, Won't you come and play with me? Strike the stick and kick the ball, And at the pic-nic place we'll call. And you shall come and eat with me, And you shall come and drink my tea. When I invite you thus to play, How is it that you run away? "There's a cow on the mountain." The old saying goes, On her legs are four feet; On her feet are eight toes; Her tail is behind On the end of her back, And her head is in front On the end of her neck. Grandpa holds the baby, He's sitting on his knee Eating mutton dumplings With vinegar and tea. Then grandpa says to baby, "When you have had enough, You'll be a saucy baby And treat your grandpa rough." My big son, My own boy, Baby is a sweet pill That fills my soul with joy. Bat, bat, with your flowered shoes, Come to us here in the room, This little girl will be the bride, And I will be the groom. You dear little baby, Don't you cry; Your father's drawing water In the south, near by, A red tasseled hat He wears on his head; Your mother's in the kitchen Making up bread. Walk a step, walk a step, Off he goes, See from his shoe-tips Peep three toes. I want some thread, Both green and red; I want a needle long; I want some strands For ankle bands, To give to Mrs. Wang. The tree leaves are murmuring hua-la-la, Baby's very sleepy and wants his mama; Go to sleep, my baby, and then go to bed, And any bogie-boo that comes, I'll knock him on the head. Oh dear! oh dear! just see how far His head is from his feet! So far indeed he has to bend When e'er he wants to eat. And when he wants to fight a man He lifts him up anon, And when he wants to wash his face He pours the water on. My baby is sleeping, My baby's asleep, My flower is resting, I'll give you a peep; How cunning he looks As he rests on my arm! My flower's most charming Of all them that charm. What a bonnie little fellow is this fat boy of mine! He makes people die of joy! What a fine little fellow is this fat boy of mine! Now whose is this loving little boy? Do you want to buy a beauty? Do you want to buy a beauty? If you buy him he will watch your house, And do it as his duty. And no matter as to servants, You may have them or may not, But you'll never need to lock your door Or give your house a thought. The drum on the ground is so round, so round, My mother just whipped me so sound, so sound, And I, oh dear, am as floating grass here, But I'll only remain a year, a year. A husband I'd love and serve so true, I'd worship his gods, that's what I'd do, And I'd call his mother my mother, too! You naughty girl, what's that you'd do? I was saying the beans are boiling nice, And its just about time to add the rice. When e're the Milky Way you spy Diagonal across the sky, The egg-plant you may safely eat, And all your friends to melons treat. But when divided toward the west, You'll need your trousers and your vest; When like a horn you see it float, You'll need your trousers and your coat. The heaven is bright, The earth is bright, I have a baby who cries all night; Let those who pass read what I write, And they'll sleep all night, Till broad daylight. A wee little boy Has opened a store, In two equal parts Are his front door, A wee little table, A wee little chair, And ebony chop-sticks And plate are there. Lady-bug, lady-bug, Fly away, do, Fly to the mountain, And feed upon dew, Feed upon dew And sleep on a rug, And then run away Like a good little bug. Little baby, go to bed, We'll put a hoop around your head, And with the oil we get thereby, Our little bean-cake we will fry. And when we've fried our bean-cake brown, We'll see the king go into town, An iron cap upon his head; Now-you-must-surely-go-to-bed. A nervous disposition He had when he was born, To hurry to a fair one day, He rose at early morn; Put on his wife's green trousers And started to the sale, A riding on a donkey-- His face turned toward its tail. Little snail, little snail, With your hard, stony bed, First stick out your horns, Then stick out your head. Your father and mother Have brought you some food, Fried liver and mutton, Now isn't that good? And now, little snail, Just as sure as I say You must eat it at once, Or I'll take it away. Oh where is the little snail gone, I pray tell? He has drawn himself up, head and horns, in his shell. My brother waterman, Listen, I request, On the south river bank You sit and rest. When the day is bright, You carry all you can; And when the day is dark, You're a lazy old man. It jumped the chequered wall, The bleating little lamb, And snatched a bunch of grass To feed its hungry dam. Old Mr. Chang, I've oft heard it said, You wear a basket upon your head; You've two pairs of scissors to cut your meat, And two pairs of chopsticks with which you eat. He climbed up the candlestick, The little mousey brown, To steal and eat tallow, And he couldn't get down. He called for his grandma, But his grandma was in town, So he doubled up into a wheel And rolled himself down. Coming from the fair! Coming from the fair! We bought a little bottle For our baby over there; Alas! for we broke it, And we tried to buy another, But the shops were all closed, So we hurried home to mother. A sad old cow to herself once said, While the north wind whistled through her shed: "To head a drum they will take my skin, And they'll file my bones for a big hair-pin, The scraps of bone they will make into dice, And sell them off at a very low price; My sinews they'll make into whips, I wot, And my flesh they'll put in a big soup pot." An old black crow sat on a tree, And there he sat and said to me: "Ho, Mr. Wang, there's a sheep on the hill, Which I wish very much you would catch and kill; You may eat meat three times a day, And I'll eat the parts that you throw away." Pull up your black beans, Pull up your brown, Then light your lamp When the sun goes down. If you wear your hat on the side of your head, You'll have a lazy wife 'tis said, If a slouchy coat and slipshod feet, You'll have a wife who loves to eat. One grab silver, Two grabs gold, Three, don't laugh And you'll grow old. The dragon pagoda, It touches the sky, The dragon pagoda, Thirteen stories high. Like a little withered flower, That is dying in the earth, I am left alone at seven, By her who gave me birth. With my papa I was happy, But I feared he'd take another, And now my papa's married, And I have a little brother. And he eats good food, While I eat poor, And cry for my mother, Whom I'll see no more. Just outside my door, I heard someone say, A man bit a dog in a dangerous way; Such a message I n'er for a moment could stand, So I took up the door and I opened my hand, I snatched up the dog I should say double-quick And threw him with all of my force at a brick; The brick--I'm afraid you will not understand-- I found in a moment had bitten my hand; I mounted a chair, on a horse I was borne, I blew on a drum, and I beat on a horn. There was a little girl and she dreamed, folks say, That her future mother-in-law came one day, And gold and plated presents brought, And a flowered gown and embroidered coat. Pat a cake, pat a cake, Little girl fair, There's a priest in the temple Without any hair. You take a tile, And I'll take a brick, And we'll hit the priest In the back of the neck. The wily Emperor, Ch'in Shih Huang, He built a wall both great and strong; The steps were narrow, but the wall was stout, So it kept the troublesome Tartars out. Hard worm beans Without any bother, A wife he has married And doesn't want his mother. He must leave his mother, Or quarrel with his wife, And thus they are separated All their life. He ate too much, That second brother, And when he had eaten He beat his mother. He pulled up the wick With the candlestick knife, And found he had married A bald-headed wife. Her eyes were askew, And her mouth was awry, And the silly old fellow Was so mad he could cry. A newly made kettle is bright, A newly bought pig is a bother, A new married wife will not eat, But cries and thinks of her mother. There was a little fellow, Who was mischievous, they say, They sent him to the melon-patch To watch it all the day. They told him he must stay there Till the melons all were white, And not come home to mama, Not even in the night. Look at the white-breasted crows overhead! My father shot once, and ten crows tumbled dead. When boiled or when fried, they taste very good, But skin them, I tell you, there's no better food. The thieving old magpie has taken our food, The chicken eats millet as if it were good, The faithful old watch-dog looks after the house, And the cat has come over to catch us a mouse. As the sun came up, a ball of red, My teacher rode on his horse ahead, While I followed close on my dragon steed, He by the street and I by the mead. Bump, bump go away, Do not let our mama see; If she sees you on baby's head, She'll give no money for nurse's bread. A plum blossom foot, And a pudding face sweet, He's taller when he's sitting Than when standing on his feet. My pretty little son, I love him best of all, Three years I have not seen him, And he's grown so very tall. My horse he can ride, My knife he can take, Can shoulder up my kneading board And help me sell my cake. The tail of one magpie's as long as another, He married a wife and he gave up his mother, When asked by his mother to buy her some cake, He wanted to know how much money 'twould take; When his wife wanted pears he saddled his beast, And started to market to buy her a feast; He took off the peeling with very great airs, And asked her politely to have a few pears. The magpie sells his bean-curd dear. If you owe me, Then you I would see On just five days from the end of the year. This mischievous boy Is jumping around, On his head is a candlestick Weighing a pound; He is able to play All the nine kinds of tricks, From the bell and the foot-ball To wood-ball and sticks. Someone is knocking loud at the door, The dog is making a great uproar; Now I inquire, who can it be? 'Tis only a donkey-man I see, Calling out at the top of his voice: Here's the place to get your rice, Coarse rice or fine, Just to your mind, Rice in the husk, Or cleaned by the wind. I went ten steps outside the gate, Which brought me to the ditches, And there I found some chicken skin, To mend my leather breeches; If there had been no chicken skin, I could not mend my trousers thin. We push the mill, The flour we make, And then for grandma A cake we'll bake. In Spring, plant the turnip, In summer, the beet, When harvest is over, We sow the buckwheat. We pull the big saw, We push the big saw, To saw up the wood, To build us a house, In order that baby May have a good spouse. A purse, a purse, for better or worse, Indeed, would you know it, I've married a purse. My wife's little daughter once fell very ill, And we called for a doctor to give her a pill; He wrote a prescription which now we will give her, In which he has ordered a mosquito's liver, And then in addition the heart of a flea, And half pound of fly wings to make her some tea. There was a little girl, Who would run upon the street, She took rice and changed it For good things to eat. Her mother lost control of her Until she bound her feet, But now she's just as good a girl As you will ever meet. The big fat merchant, He opened up a stall, But had to sell his trousers To get the capital. There were two little sisters went walking one day, Partly for exercise--partly for play, Their kites they took with them they wanted to fly, Were a big centipede and a big butterfly; In a very few moments they floated up high, Like a dragon that seemed to be touching the sky. It has both nose and eyes, But it has not breathed since birth, It cannot go to heaven, And it will not stay on earth. Yellow dog, yellow dog, You stay and watch, While I gather roses In the south rose-patch. The day has come, I hear the cock; Get up and dress, 'Tis six o'clock. On the top of the mount, By the road, on a stone-- Or a big pile of bricks-- Sat a bald-headed crone. On her head were three hairs, Which you'll reckon were thin, In which she was trying To wear a jade pin. She put it in once, But once it fell out; She put it in twice, But twice it fell out. But the old woman said, "I know what I'm about, I'll not put it in And it cannot fall out." While out selling clothes, As our uncle must do, He married a wife Who is aunt to us two. She loves to eat cake, As you'll readily see, For she's left but a half one For brother and me. Do not fear, do not fear, We'll put the pants on mama's dear, Do not cry, do not cry, We'll put the coat on mama's boy. Round bean cakes with red spots bright, The blind who eat them receive their sight; They cure the deaf and heal the lame, And preserve the teeth of the aged dame. The bald who eat them grow a cue, And the priest can read his bible through, They help the Taoist a seat to take. Their virtues are many--buy my cake. The man who eats fears not his wife, And the woman works better all her life. Oh, my dear brother spider, With your stomach big and red, From the eaves you are hanging On a single little thread. The small pug dog, It jumped over there; It has no tail, And it has no hair. It never will bark, If a stranger come, But runs here and there The little boy, He bought some oil, But fell and spilled it On the soil. His mother said: You careless lad, I'll box your ears, Because you're bad. A big, dead snake is lying there, It has no ears and it has no hair; I breathe on it some magic air, And it lives and is running everywhere. Up you go, Down you see, Granny's come To pour the tea; The tea is sweet, The wine is too; There are eighteen camels With clothes for you, The clothes are heavy, And the dragon-fly Has spurted water On your ankle-tie. Sister, sister, Stop your fuss, To-morrow the cart Will come for us; What cart, you ask, The cart, of course, With large, red wheels, And a big, white horse; And in it a beautiful girl, I note, With a squirrel cloak and an otter coat, Her betel-nut bag is a needle-worked charm, And the stem of her pipe is as long as your arm. My little golden sister Rides a golden horse slow, And we'll use a golden whip If the horse doesn't go. A little gold fish In a gold bowl, we see, And a gold colored bird On a gold blossomed tree. A gold plated god In a gold temple stands, With a gold plated baby In her gold plated hands. A cock's comb flower he wears on his head. For his clothes he needs neither thimble nor thread; Though you be a great man, I'd have you know, Ten thousand doors would open if he should crow. The moon shines bright, The moon shines fair, The girl wants wedding gifts to wear in her hair; A few blocks of powder, Some incense tips, And two hundred rouge-pads to paint cheeks and lips. Pound, pound, Pound the rice, The pestle goes up and down so nice, Open the pot, The fire is hot, And if you don't eat I'll feed you rice. Mama has a small baby; Stands up firm, Sits up straight, Won't eat milk, But lives on cake. Good bean sprouts, The water dropping out; Where's the wife that dares to drive her husband's father out? He'd take up a stick, And hit her a lick, And she could only shake her sleeve and run off quick. The little girl Sits on the stool, And sews the shoe And beats the sole. The wolf has come, The tiger has come, The old priest follows, Beating a drum. He stitches the heel, And he stitches the sole, Two measures of millet he gets for the whole; They steam it, or fry it, When hungry they feel, And he eats with his mother a very good meal. All come and see! All come and see! A black hen laid a white egg for me! Oh, look there! Oh, look there! A great, big rat all covered with hair! In the first month, when it is night, If you are wise, your lamp you'll light; And when the second month you meet, If you are hungry you should eat; And in the third month most of all, To build a house you must lay a wall. My nephew is a naughty boy, He comes here every day, He eats until he's very full, And then he runs away. A red pepper flower, Ling, ling, ling, Mama will listen And baby will sing. A mule going up hill, A donkey on the street, Or a horse coming down hill You never ought to beat. A wee little flower-pot, very deep green, With just the sweetest flowers that ever were seen; Mother with her babies playing very funny, Father doing business, making lots of money, Grandpa very old, but never going to die, Grandma just as bright as a star in the sky. A gilt-wood mace, And silvered things, My grandfather plays, And grandmother sings; My grandmother sings till broad daylight, And a baby comes to our home at night; They place the child by the pot on the ground, And it eats rice soup with a sucking sound. The rain has come And has overflowed, The dew and the frost Are on the road. The last of the grass Has drooped its head, The cicada is on it, Frozen dead. My dear little brother, Is fat and is round, A bracelet he wears on his arm, A red chest protector, A green pair of pants, Keep him neither too cool nor too warm. A small tuft of hair On the side of his head, In his cheeks dainty dimples that suit; When he toddles he trembles, To sister he says: "Tum an' buy itty bothy some f'uit." There was an old woman, As I have heard tell, She went to sell pie, But her pie would not sell. She hurried back home, But her door-step was high, And she stumbled and fell And a dog ate her pie. Froggie, old froggie, Come over to me; You'll never go back To your home in the sea. You're an idle old croker As ever I saw, And if not calling papa, You're calling mama. The lazy woman She sweeps the floor, And leaves the dirt Inside the door. She cooks her rice In a dirty pot, And sleeps at night On an old straw cot. The tidy woman Is always clean, No dirt in her home Is ever seen. Her food is fit For a king to eat, And her hair and clothes Are always neat. One, two, three, and an old cow's eye, When a cow's eye's blind she'll surely die; A piece of skin and a melon, too, If you have money I'll sell to you; But if you're without, I'll put you out. You strike three times on the top, you see, And strike three times on the bottom for me, Then top and bottom you strike very fast, And open a door in the middle at last. Three horses are drinking, Three horses are feeding, The two men are fighting, The old woman pleading, The baby is crying, But no one is heeding. Knock at the door, See a face, Smell an odor, Hear a voice, Eat your dinner, Pull your chin, or Ke chih, ke chih. Flowers for sale, Flowers for sale, Come, buy my flowers, Before they get stale. You first cross over and then cross back, And step in the well as you cross the track, And then there is something else you do, Oh, yes, you make a flower-pot too. I water the flowers, I water the flowers, I water them morning and evening hours, I never wait till the flowers are dry, I water them e'er the sun is high; A basin of water, a basin of tea, I water the flowers, they're op'ning, you see; A basin of water, another beside, I water the flowers, they're opening wide. There once was a bald-head, his name it was Lee, No one ever burned so much incense as he; Now, people burn incense to get them an heir, But baldy burned incense to get him some hair. When he found in three days all his hair had returned, He the god gave a coat and more incense he burned; When he found in three days all his hair had dropped out, He upset the god and he kicked him about. Then the god became angry and took up a sword, And made into dippers that bald-headed gourd. When the leaves are green, And full of life, The king will want you For his wife. When the leaves are yellow From time and tide, The king will want you For his bride. If you steal a needle, Or steal a thread, A pimple will grow Upon your head; If you steal a dog Or steal a cat, A pimple will grow Beneath your hat. All over the ground the old black woman rolled, And for not buying powder her husband did scold; He bought her some powder, which she would not use, And for not buying hemp him she'd soundly abuse; He bought her some hemp, but she only got worse, And scolded because he had not bought a horse; He bought her a horse but she never would feed it, And scolded because 'twas a clothes-press she needed; He bought her a clothes-press, but nothing she packed, And scolded because twas a rope that she lacked; He bought her a rope and she hung herself dead, And frightened her husband near out of his head. A scarred-eyed man, He went to the fair, He picked up a turnip And thought it was a pear; He took a big bite, But found it was bitter, And, oh, what a pity, He threw it in the gutter. Old Mr. blind man, come here quick, I see you carry a feeling-stick; To the river side you take your way, And feed the froggies every day; A frog, one day, stuck out his head, And bit your toe, I've heard it said. A small boy came from the south of the farm, With a bamboo basket upon his arm, With mutton bones was the basket filled, From a sheep which his folks that day had killed. A monkey came from a pile of stones To steal that boy's fresh mutton bones, But a big, spotted dog followed close at his heels, To bite a bad monkey whenever he steals. A half of a brick lay there on the road, It upset the boy and he spilt out his load, The dog bit the monkey, the monkey ran away, The boy broke his basket and cried all day. We pull the big saw, And we push it out straight, There's a Punch and a Judy At grandmother's gate, Our sisters and brothers Invite to the show, And all of us, even The baby, shall go. Thistle-seed, thistle-seed, Fly away, fly, The hair on your body Will take you up high; Let the wind whirl you Around and around, You'll not hurt yourself When you fall to the ground. While raking the hay on the mountain, A student came riding along, He was riding a dapple-gray pony, And singing a scrap of a song. To the home of his bride he was going, But her father and mother were out, And he saw, as he pushed the door open, The girl he was thinking about. Her cheeks were as pink as a rose-bud, Her teeth were as white as a pearl, Her lips were as red as a cherry, Most truly a beautiful girl. A great big brother, And a little brother, so, A big bell tower, And a temple and a show, And little baby wee wee, Always wants to go. This one's old, This one's young, This one has no meat, This one's gone To buy some hay, And this one's on the street. Come this way, And make our baby Cool to-day. Wash your face, you little tease, And you'll be free from all disease; Wash your head, your face, and throat, And you shall have a red silk coat. A bald-head is sick, And the second's afraid, The third calls a doctor, The fourth gives him aid. By the fifth he is borne, By the sixth he is buried, The seventh comes crying Because he is worried. When asked by an eighth, Why it was that he cried, He said, "In my home, A dear bald-head has died." "Come, bury him quickly, I fear a great hoard Of the seeds of his spirit Will spring from his gourd." The big dog's gone to the city, The little dog's run away, The egg has fallen and broken, And the oil leaked out, they say, But you be a roller, And hull with power, And I'll be a mill-stone And grind the flour. Pat, pat, A swallow's nest we'll make, And if we pat some money out We'll buy ourselves a cake. The locust trees, See how they grow! Here in their shade We will have a show. Other people's children All have come, But my little girl Is still at home. Just as I speak, She is coming along, Riding a donkey And singing a song. Her parasol open She holds in her hand, Her hair is done up In a neat little band. Beat the drum, beat the drum, We're coming in a chair, Who will clear the way For the girl that's coming here? Beat the drum, beat the drum, See, the chair is coming, Ho'rh ho! clear the way! Don't you hear the drumming? On the top of a mountain There stands a pig-stye And the fighting of parents Has made the child cry. Baby, baby, Don't you cry, Wait, and I'll whip The old man by-and-by. If you chance to be crossing The camel-back bridge, Each step leads you up Till you come to the ridge. The lantern-grass floats On the pond like a sail, The silver-fish bites At the gold-fish's tail. The big-bellied frog Sitting there on the rock, Keeps constantly calling Wa'rh wa, wa'rh wa. Little eyes see pretty things, Little nose smells what is sweet, Little ears hear pleasant sounds, Mouth likes luscious things to eat. We turn the cake, The cake we bake, We put in oil, or pork, or steak And when 'tis done, We'll have some fun, And give a piece to every one. A big cow's horn We will blow, blow, blow, To our sister's wedding feast We will go, go, go. Who will drive the cart? My big brother; Who will eat the feast? A sister of my mother. Who will pack her trunk? My sister, whom you saw; Who will light the fire? Her own mother-in-law. Roast, roast, Roast pig meat, The second pot smells bad, The big pot is sweet; Come, Mrs. Wang, please, And eat pig meat. Up you go, down you see, Here's a turnip for you and me, Here's a pitcher, we'll go to town, Oh, what a pity we've fallen down; What do you see in the heavens bright? I see the moon and the stars at night; What do you see in the earth, pray tell? I see in the earth a deep, deep well; What do you see in the well, my dear? I see a frog, and his voice I hear; What is he saying there on the rock? Get up, get up; ke'rh kua, ke'rh kua. Oh the pumpkin red, oh the gourd decayed, I am my father's mischievous maid; I am my brother's dear little sister; I am my sister-in-law's fly-blister. Father, when I marry, what will you give? A box and a ward-robe you shall receive. Mother, when I marry, what will you bring? A little work-basket full of everything. Brother, when I marry, what will come from you? A fancy cloth towel; think that will do? My happiness, sister, you will not mar? I'll give a broken bottle and a little smashed jar, And send you, you nuisance, away very far. Oh, here we all go to buy us a lock, What kind of a lock shall it be? We'll buy one of silver or buy one of gold, But what shall we use as a key? We'll use a broom handle; if that will not do, With a poker we'll try it alone; But if neither the broom nor the poker will do, We will open it then with a stone. He stuck a feather in his hat, And hurried to the town, And children met him with a horse, For the gates were broken down. On a very high mountain A family dwell, Of ten of their rooms, Nine of them fell. The old man comes out With a great deal of trouble; His wife hobbles after, Her body bent double. Their three-legged dog Is as thin as a rail, And their rat-fearing cat Is minus a tail. You'll find whene'er the new year come, The kitchen god will want a plum; The girls will want some flowers new, The boys will want some crackers, too; A new felt cap will please papa, And sugar-cake will please mama. My boat is turned up at both ends, All storms it encounters it weathers On its body you'll find not a board, But covered all over with feathers. We daily re-load it with rice, 'Tis admired by all whom we meet, You will find not a crack in my boat, But you'll find underneath it two feet: Knocking, knocking, who's at the door? Old Granny Chang, and nothing more. Why don't you enter, granny, dear? The dog will bite me, child, I fear. What are you shaking there at your feet? A string of garlic, good to eat. What are you carrying under your arm? An old fur cloak to keep me warm. Why don't you put the cloak on, granny? Fear the insects will bite me, sonny. Why don't your husband kill such a pest? My husband's gone to the land of rest. Where is the old man's burial spot? There, in the fire-place, under the pot. Why don't you cry for your husband true? A peacock feather On a plum-tree limb, You catch me, And I'll catch him. This little cow eats grass, This little cow eats hay, This little cow drinks water, This little cow runs away, This little cow does nothing, But just lie down all day; We'll whip her.

"I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; "And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever." _In the same Series._ loveliness of Farringford embowered in trees. "Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All around a careless-ordered garden, Close to the ridge of a noble down." "Groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter, stand; And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand." dark-browed, his voice full of deep organ-tones and delicate "Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All around a careless-ordered garden, Close to the ridge of a noble down." "For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, furled In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward, let us range, change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day; Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay." soul-stirring episodes which go unrecorded save by a passing paragraph: and the poem which, perhaps, has held the public fancy "Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. "Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there. Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd; Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred. "Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back thro' the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. "When can their glory fade? O, the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Noble six hundred!" "Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. ... Let no man dream, but that I love thee still." "Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury, Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice: one low light betwixt them burned, Blurred by the creeping mist; for all abroad, Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. There rode an armed warrior to the doors, A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran, Then on a sudden a cry, 'The King.' She sat Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors Rang, coming, prone from off her seat she fell And grovell'd with her face against the floor: There with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King; And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a ghost's, Denouncing judgment, but, tho' changed, the King's. 'Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. ... Let no man dream, but that I love thee still, Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, Hereafter in that world where all are pure We two may meet before high God, and thou Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know I am thine husband--not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. ... But hither shall I never come again, Never lie by thy side: see thee no more-- And while she grovell'd at his feet, She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, And in the darkness o'er her fallen head Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found The casement: 'peradventure,' so she thought, 'If I might see his face, and not be seen.' And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! And near him the sad nuns with each a light, Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore." "Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky. To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.... "And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; "From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March wind sighs In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. "The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. "Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin, and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers and be their sun. "There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate, She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'" "Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin, and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers and be their sun." "Oh, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; "That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; "That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain. "Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last--far off--at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. "So runs my dream; but what am I? An infant crying in the night; An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. "Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life; "That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, "I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, "I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope." diction and delicate sense of sound better exemplified than in "'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape; for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. "'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. "Dear mother Ida, harken, ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. 'My own OEnone, Beautiful-brow'd OEnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n, 'For the most fair,' would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, 'This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: "'But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them, unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' "'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep mid-noon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotus and lilies; and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light feet Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone. And I shall be alone until I die." The afternoon was spent, sometimes in further gardening pursuits, strikes the very key-note of his character. "Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon: Sleep my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep!" conversation, forcible and often racy, was characterised by the Rights"--then comparatively fresh--at considerable length in _The "The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together, dwarf'd or god-like, bond or free. ... For woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse: could we make her as the man, Sweet Love were slain: his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference. Yet in the long years liker must they grow; The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; Till at last she set herself to man, Like perfect music unto noble words; And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers. ... Let this proud watchword rest Of equal; seeing either sex alone Is half itself, and in the marriage ties Nor equal, nor unequal; each fulfils Defect in each, and always thought in thought, Purpose in purpose, will in will they grow, The single pure and perfect animal, The two-cell'd heart beating with one full stroke "No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, Interpreter between the gods and men, Who looked all native to her place, and yet On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved, And girdled her with music." "Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. "Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon: Sleep my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep!" And the loss of his first-born infant had touched him with that infinite poignancy of pathos, which breathes in other lines: "As thro' the land at eve we went And pluck'd the ripened ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O! we fell out, I know not why, And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, O there above the little grave, We kissed again with tears." The dinner-table was enlivened by Tennyson's boundless store of conversation. The supernatural loomed largely. The poet had a "She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side, 'The curse is come upon me,' cried "Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the ways that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers. And the silent isle embowers "Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly, From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, ''Tis the fairy "There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down on Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, "And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near, Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. "A bow-shot from her bower eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. "All in the blue unclouded weather The helmet and the helmet feather, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. "His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his warhorse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river "She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side, 'The curse is come upon me,' cried through _The Brook_ and all the exquisite details of its landscape. "I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. "I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I bubble on the pebbles. "With many a curve my banks I fret, By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. "I wind about, and in and out, With many a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. "And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel. "I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. "I slide, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. "I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; "And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever." starlight, the sea purring in the distance, the seer on the roof "Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The firefly wakens: waken thou with me. "Now lies the Earth all Danaee to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me. "Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. "Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me." And so we leave Alfred Tennyson, at the end of his day, gazing "He lifts me to the golden doors: The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below;" while the discords of earth are hushed beneath the magic of the spheral harmony, and "The Gleam" hovers upward into heaven.

William Walker Atkinson

Dynamic Thought; Or, The Law of Vibrant Energy

1862

----_Dubiam facientia carmina palmam._ JUV. As the mind of man is ever fond of variety, nothing seems better Archibald Scott, written before the Year 1600. Ode to Evening, by the same An Elegy written in a country church-yard, by On the same, by Mr. James Clitherow of Oxford formerly of the University of Aberdeen A Pastoral in the manner of Spenser, from Theocritus, Idyll. 20. By the same Inscribed on a beautiful Grotto near the Water Job, Chapter XXXIX. By a Gentleman of The Child-Birth, in the manner of Gay On a Lady's presenting a Sprig of Myrtle to To a Young Lady with Fontenelle's Plurality Part of the Prologue to Sir David Lyndesay's O'er flowers and herbage green, By Lady Nature chose, Brave King and lovely Queen. When March with varying winds was overpast, And sweet April had with his silver showers Ta'n leave of Nature with an orient blast, And lusty May, that mother is of flowers, Had made the birds begin by tymous hours; Among the tender odours red and white, Whose harmony to her was great delight. In bed at morrow, sleeping as I lay, Methought Aurora with her ruby ene, In at my window looked by the day, And halsit me with visage pale and green; Upon her hand a lark sang frae the spleen, "Lovers, awake out of your slumbering. "See how the lusty morning does upspring." Methought fresh May before my bed upstood, In weed depainted of ilk diverse hue, Sober, benign, and full of mansuetude, In bright attire of flowers, all forged new, Of heavenly colour, white, red, brown and blue, Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus' beams, While all the house illumin'd with her leams. Sluggard, she said, awake anon for shame, And in mine honour something thou go write; The lark has done, the merry day proclaim, Lovers to raise with comfort and delight; Will nought increase thy courage to indite, Whose heart sometime has glad and blissful been, Songs oft to make, under the branches green? Whereto, quoth I, shall I uprise at morrow, For in thy month few birds have I heard sing, They have mare cause to weep and plain their sorrow: Thy air it is not wholsome nor benign, Lord Eolus does in thy season ring, So bousteous are the blasts of his shrill horn, Among thy boughs to walk I have forborn. With that the lady soberly did smile, And said, uprise and do thy observance: Thou did promise in May's lusty while, Then to describe the ROSE of most pleasance Go see the birdis how they sing and dance, And how the skies illumined are bright, Enamell'd richly with new azure light. When this was said, away then went the Queen, And enter'd in a lusty garden gent; And then methought, full hastily beseen, In sark and mantle after her I went Into this garth most dulce and redolent, Of herb and flower, and tender plants most sweet, And the green leaves doing of dew down fleit. The purple sun, with tender rayis red, In orient bright as angel did appear, Through golden skies advancing up his head, Whose gilded tresses shone so wondrous clear, That all the world took comfort far and near, To look upon his fresh and blissful face, Doing all sable frae the Heavens chace. And as the blissful sun drove up the sky, All nature sang through comfort of the light, The minstrels wing'd, with open voices cry, "O Lovers now is fled the dully night, "Come welcome day, that comforts ev'ry wight; "Hail May! hail Flora! hail Aurora sheen, "Hail Princess Nature! hail love's hartsome Queen! Dame Nature gave an inhibition there, To Neptune fierce, and Eolus the bold, Not to perturb the water or the air, That neither blashy shower, nor blasts more cold Should flowers affray nor fowls upon the fold. She bade eke Juno, Goddess of the sky, That she the heaven should keep amene and dry. Also ordain'd that every bird and beast Before her Highness should anon compear; And every flower of virtue most and least, And every herb of fair field far and near, As they had wont in May from year to year; To her their Queen to make obedience, Full low inclining with due reverence. With that anon she sent the swift foot Roe, To bring in alkind beast from dale and down; The restless swallow order'd she to go, And fetch all fowl of great and small renown, And to gar flowers appear of all fassoun: Full craftily conjured she the Yarrow, Which did forth swirk as swift as any arrow. All brought in were in twinkling of an eye, Both beast and bird and flower before the Queen; And first the Lion, greatest of degree, Was summon'd there; and he, fair to be seen, With a full hardy countenance and keen, Before Dame Nature came, and did incline, With visage bold, and courage leonine. This awful beast was terrible of chear, Piercing of look, and stout of countenance, Right strong of corps, of fashion fair, but fear, Lusty of shape, light of deliverance, Red of his colour, as the ruby glance: In field of gold he stood full rampantly, With flower-de-lyces circled pleasantly. This Lady lifted up his claws so clear, And lute him listly lean upon her knee, And crowned him with diadem full dear, Of radious stones most royal there to see, Saying the King of all beasts make I thee; And the protector chief in woods and shaws, Go forth, and to thy lieges keep the laws. Justice exerce, with mercy and conscience, And let no small beast suffer skaith or scorns Of greater beasts, that been of more puissance; Do law alike to Apes and Unicorns, And let no Bugle with his bousteous horns Oppress the meek plough Ox, for all his pride, But in the yoke go quietly him beside. When this was said, with noise and sound of joy, All kind of Quadrupeds in their degree, At once cry'd LAUD, and then VIVE LE ROY, Then at his feet fell with humility; To him they all paid homage and fealty; And he did them receive with princely laits, Whose noble ire his greatness mitigates. Then crowned she the Eagle King of fowls; And sharp as darts of steel she made his pens, And bade him be as just to Whawps and Owls, As unto Peacocks, Papingoes, or Cranes, And make one law for Wicht Fowls, and for Wrens, And let no fowl of rapine do affray, Nor birds devour, but his own proper prey. Then called she all flowers grew in the field, Describing all their fashions and effeirs, Upon the awful THISTLE she beheld. And saw him guarded with a bush of spears, Considering him so able for the wars, A radiant crown of rubies she him gave, And said, in field go forth, and fend the laif. And since thou art a King, be thou discreet, Herb without value hold not of such price, As herb of virtue and of odour sweet; And let no nettle vile, and full of vice, Her fellow with the goodly Flower-de-lyce; Nor let no wild weed full of churlishness, Compare her to the Lilly's nobleness. Nor hold none other flower in such dainty As the fresh ROSE, of colour red and white; For if thou dost, hurt is thine honesty, Considering that no flower is so perfyte, So full of pleasaunce, virtue and delight; So full of blissful angelic beauty, Imperial birth, honour and dignity. Then to the ROSE she did her visage turn, And said, O lusty daughter most benign, Above the Lilly thou art illustrious born, From royal lineage rising fresh and young, But any spot, or macul doing sprung; Come bloom of joy, with richest gems becrown'd, For o'er the laif thy beauty is renown'd. A costly crown with stones clarified bright, This comely Queen did in her head inclose, While all the land illumined of light; Wherefore methought, the flowers did all rejoyce, Crying at once, Hail to the fragrant ROSE! Hail Empress of the herbs! fresh Queen of flowers! To thee be glore and honour at all hours. Then all the birds they sang with voice on height, Whose mirthful sound was marvellous to hear: The Mavys sang, Hail ROSE most rich and right, That does upflourish under Phebus' sphere, Hail plant of youth, hail Prince's daughter dear, Hail blossom breaking out of blood royal, Whose precious virtue is imperial. The Merle she sang, Hail ROSE of most delight, Hail of all flowers the sweet and sovereign Queen: The lark she sang, hail ROSE both red and white, Most pleasant flower of mighty colours twain: Nightingals sang, hail Natures suffragan, In beauty, nurture, and each nobleness, In rich array, renown, and gentleness. The common voice uprose of warblers small, Upon this wise, "O blessed be the hour "That thou wast chose to be our principal, "Welcome to be our Princess crown'd with pow'r, "Our pearl, our pleasance, and our paramour, "Our peace, our play, our plain felicity: "Christ thee conserve from all adversity." Then all the concert sang with such a shout, That I anon awaken'd where I lay, And with a braid I turned me about To see this court, but all were gone away; Then up I lean'd me, halflings in affray, Call'd to my Muse, and for my subject chose To sing the royal THISTLE and the ROSE. Alluding to the Houses of YORK and LANCASTER, which were Oblivion wraps not in her silent shade All human labours. Virtue blooms a flower, That Time's rough hand shall never violate. Still CAROLINE shall live in faithful verse, Sweet nurse of Memory, and in the voice Of grateful Britain. These shall testify How well her calm impartial rule supplied A monarch's absence; these commemorate Her soul contemplative of peaceful Truth And nature, mindful midst the pomp of Courts Of wise retirement, and the silent grove. She stretch'd thro' length'ning shades thy spacious walks, Delightful Richmond, and the terrass rais'd Of regal grandeur, whence the eye discerns Fair Thames with copious waters winding slow Midst pastures, spreading herds, and villages Of aspect neat, and villas wrapt in shades: Fair scene of chearful peace! the lovely sight Frequent she view'd, and bless'd the honour'd reign Of her great Consort, provident and mild. Now wander'd musing thro' the darkening depth Of thickest woods, friendly to solemn thought: Now o'er broad lawns fair opening to the sun. Nor midst her rural plans disdain'd to mix The useful arable, and waving corn With soft turf border'd, and the lowly cot, That half appears, in branching elms obscur'd. Here beauty dwells, assembled from the scenes Of various nature; such as oft inflam'd With rapture Grecian bards, in that fair vale, Thessalian Tempe, or thy favorite soil, Arcadia, erst by awe-struck fancy fill'd With wand'ring forms, the woodland Deities, Light Nymphs and wanton Satyrs, faintly seen Quick glancing thro' the shade at close of eve, By solitary grief shall GEORGE recall Th' endearing manners, the soft speech, that flow'd From his lov'd Consort, virtue mix'd with love, Prudence, and mild insinuating sense: But chief her thoughtful breast of counsels deep Capacious, nor unequal to the weight Of Government. Such was the royal mind Of wise ELIZA, name of loveliest sound To British ears, and pattern fair to Kings: Or she who rules the Scepter of the North Illustrious, spreading o'er a barbarous world The light of arts and manners, and with arms Infests th' astonish'd Sultan, hardly now With scatter'd troops resisting; she drives on The heavy war, and shakes th' Imperial Throne Of old Byzantium. Latest time shall sound The praise of female genius. Oft shall GEORGE Pay the kind tear, and grief of tender words To CAROLINE, thus oft lamenting sad. "Hail sacred shade! by me with endless woe "Still honour'd! ever in my Breast shall dwell "Thy image, ever present to my soul "Thy faithful love, in length of years mature: "O skill'd t'enliven time, to soften care "With looks and smiles and friendship's chearful voice! "Anxious, of Thee bereft, a solitude "I feel, that not the fond condoling cares "Of our sad offspring can remove. Ev'n now "With lonely steps I trace the gloomy groves, "Thy lov'd recesses, studious to recall "The vanish'd bliss, and cheat my wand'ring thoughts "With sweet illusion. Yet I not accuse "Heav'n's dispensation. Prosperous and long "Have been my days, and not unknown to fame, "That dwells with virtue. But 'tis hard to part "The league of ancient friendship, to resign "The home-felt fondness, the secure delight, "That reason nourish'd, and fair fame approv'd." At once to raise our rev'rence and delight, To elevate the mind, and please the sight, To pour in virtue at th' attentive eye, And waft the soul on wings of extacy; For this the painter's art with nature vies, And bids the visionary saint arise; Who views the sacred forms in thought aspires, Catches pure zeal, and as he gazes, fires; Feels the same ardour to his breast convey'd, Is what he sees, and emulates the shade. Thy strokes, great Artist, so sublime appear, They check our pleasure with an awful fear; While, thro' the mortal line, the God you trace, Author himself, and Heir of Jesse's race; In raptures we admire thy bold design, And, as the subject, own the hand divine. While thro' thy work the rising day shall stream, So long shall last thine honour, praise and name. And may thy labours to the Muse impart Some emanation from her sister art, To animate the verse, and bid it shine In colours easy, bright, and strong, as Thine. Supine on earth an awful figure lies, While softest slumbers seem to seal his eyes; The hoary sire Heav'ns guardian care demands, And at his feet the watchful angel stands. The form august and large, the mien divine Betray the founder of Messiah's line. Lo! from his loins the promis'd stem ascends, And high to Heaven its sacred Boughs extends: Each limb productive of some hero springs, And blooms luxuriant with a race of kings. Th' eternal plant wide spreads its arms around, And with the mighty branch the mystic top is crown'd. And lo! the glories of th' illustrious line At their first dawn with ripen'd splendors shine, In DAVID all express'd; the good, the great, The king, the hero, and the man compleat. Serene he sits, and sweeps the golden lyre, And blends the prophet's with the poet's fire. See! with what art he strikes the vocal strings, The God, his theme, inspiring what he sings! Hark--or our ears delude us--from his tongue Sweet flows, or seems to flow, some heav'nly song. Oh! could thine art arrest the flitting sound, And paint the voice in magic numbers bound; Could the warm sun, as erst when Memnon play'd Wake with his rising beam the vocal shade: Then might he draw th' attentive angels down, Bending to hear the lay, so sweet, so like their own. On either side the monarch's offspring shine, And some adorn, and some disgrace their line. Here Ammon glories; proud, incestuous lord! This hand sustains the robe, and that the sword. Frowning and fierce, with haughty strides he tow'rs, And on his horrid brow defiance low'rs. There Absalom the ravish'd sceptre sways, And his stol'n honour all his shame displays: The base usurper Youth! who joins in one The rebel subject, and th' ungrateful son. Amid the royal race, see Nathan stand: Fervent he seems to speak, and lift his hand; His looks th' emotion of his soul disclose, And eloquence from every gesture flows. Such, and so stern he came, ordain'd to bring Th' ungrateful mandate to the guilty King: When, at his dreadful voice, a sudden smart Shot thro' the trembling monarch's conscious heart; From his own lips condemn'd; severe decree! Had his God prov'd so stern a Judge as He. But man with frailty is allay'd by birth; Consummate purity ne'er dwelt on earth: Thro' all the soul tho' virtue holds the rein, Beats at the heart, and springs in ev'ry vein: Yet ever from the clearest source have ran Some gross allay, some tincture of the man. But who is he----deep-musing----in his mind, He seems to weigh, in reason's scales, mankind; Fix'd contemplation holds his steady eyes---- I know the sage; the wisest of the wise. Blest with all man could wish, or prince obtain, Yet his great heart pronounc'd those blessings vain. And lo! bright glitt'ring in his sacred hands, In miniature the glorious temple stands. Effulgent frame! stupendous to behold! Gold the strong valves, the roof of burnish'd gold. The wand'ring ark, in that bright dome enshrin'd, Spreads the strong light, eternal, unconfin'd! Above th' unutterable glory plays } Presence divine! and the full-streaming rays } Pour thro' reluctant clouds intolerable blaze. } But stern oppression rends Reboam's reign; See the gay prince, injurious, proud and vain! Th' imperial sceptre totters in his hand, And proud rebellion triumphs in the land. Curs'd with corruption's ever-fruitful spring, A beardless Senate, and a haughty King. There Asa, good and great, the sceptre bears, Justice attends his peace, success his wars: While virtue was his sword, and Heaven his shield, Without controul the warrior swept the field; Loaded with spoils, triumphant he return'd, And half her swarthy Sons sad Ethiopia mourn'd. But since thy flagging piety decay'd, And barter'd God's defence for human aid; See their fair laurels wither on thy brow, } Nor herbs, nor healthful arts avail thee now, } Nor is heav'n chang'd, apostate prince, but Thou.} No mean atonement does this lapse require; But see the Son, you must forgive the Sire: He, the just prince--with ev'ry virtue bless'd, He reign'd, and goodness all the man possess'd, Around his throne, fair happiness and peace Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and smil'd in ev'ry face. As when along the burning waste he stray'd, Where no pure streams in bubbling mazes play'd, Where drought incumbent on the thirsty ground, Long since had breath'd her scorching blasts around; The Prophet calls, th' obedient floods repair To the parch'd fields, for Josaphat was there. The new-sprung waves, in many a gurgling vein, Trickle luxurious through the sucking plain; Fresh honours the reviving fields adorn, And o'er the desart plenty pours her horn. So, from the throne his influence he sheds, And bids the virtues raise their languid heads: Where'er he goes, attending Truth prevails, Oppression flies, and Justice lifts her scales. See, on his arm, the royal eagle stand, Great type of conquest and supreme command; Th' exulting bird distinguish'd triumph brings, And greets the Monarch with expanded wings. Fierce Moab's sons prevent th' impending blow, Rush on themselves, and fall without the foe. The pious hero vanquish'd Heav'n by pray'r; His faith an army, and his vows a war. Thee too, Ozias, fates indulgent blest And thy days shone, in fairest actions drest; Till that rash hand, by some blind frenzy sway'd, Unclean, the sacred office durst invade. Quick o'er thy limbs the scurfy venom ran, And hoary filth besprinkled all the man. Transmissive worth adorns the pious Son, The father's virtues with the father's throne. Lo! there he stands: he who the rage subdu'd Of Ammon's sons, and drench'd his sword in blood, And dost thou, Ahaz, Judah's scourge, disgrace, With thy base front, the glories of thy race? See the vile King his iron sceptre bear---- His only praise attends the pious Heir; He, in whose soul the virtues all conspire, The best good son, from the worst wicked sire. And lo! in Hezekiah's golden reign, Long-exil'd piety returns again; Again, in genuine purity she shines, And with her presence gilds the long-neglected shrines. Ill-starr'd does proud Assyria's impious Lord Bid Heav'n to arms, and vaunt his dreadful sword; His own vain threats th' insulting King o'erthrow, But breathe new Courage on the gen'rous foe, Th' avenging Angel, by divine command, The fiery sword full-blazing in his hand, Leant down from Heav'n: amid the storm he rode} March'd Pestilence before him; as he trod, } Pale desolation bath'd his steps in blood. } Thick wrapt in night, thro' the proud host he past, Dispensing death, and drove the furious blast; Nor bade destruction give her revels o'er, Till the gorg'd sword was drunk with human gore. But what avails thee, pious Prince, in vain Thy sceptre rescu'd, and th' Assyrian slain? Ev'n now the soul maintains her latest strife, And death's chill grasp congeals the fount of life. Yet see, kind Heav'n renews thy brittle thread, And rolls full fifteen summers o'er thy head; Lo! the receding sun repeats his way, And, like thy life, prolongs the falling day. Tho' nature her inverted course forego, The day forget to rest, the time to flow, Yet shall Jehovah's servants stand secure, His mercy fix'd, eternal shall endure; On them her ever-healing rays shall shine; More mild and bright, and sure, O sun! than thine. At length, the long-expected Prince behold, The last good King; in ancient days foretold, When Bethel's altar spoke his future fame, Rent to its base, at good Josiah's name. Blest, happy prince! o'er whose lamented urn, In plaintive song, all Judah's daughters mourn; For whom sad Sion's softest Sorrow flows, And Jeremiah pours his sweet melodious woes. But now fall'n Sion, once the fair and great, Sits deep in dust, abandon'd, desolate; Bleeds her sad heart, and ever stream her eyes, And anguish tears her, with convulsive sighs. The mournful captive spreads her hands in vain, Her hands, that rankle with the servile chain; Till he, Great Chief! in Heav'n's appointed time, Leads back her children, to their native clime. Fair liberty revives with all her joys, And bids her envy'd walls securely rise. And thou, great hallow'd dome, in ruin spread, Again shall lift sublime thy sacred head. But ah! with weeping eyes, the ancients view A faint resemblance of the old in you. No more th' effulgent glory of thy God Speaks awful answers from the mystic cloud: No more thine altars blaze with fire divine, And Heav'n has left thy solitary shrine. Yet, in thy courts, hereafter shalt thou see } Presence immediate of the Deity, } The light himself reveal'd, the God confess'd in Thee.} And now, at length, the fated term of years The world's desire have brought, and lo! the God appears. The Heav'nly Babe the Virgin Mother bears, And her fond looks confess the parent's cares. The pleasing burden on her breast she lays, Hangs o'er his charms, and with a smile surveys. The Infant smiles, to her fond bosom prest, And wantons, sportive, on the mother's breast. A radiant glory speaks him all Divine, And in the Child the beams of Godhead shine. But now alas! far other views disclose The blackest comprehensive scene of woes. See where man's voluntary sacrifice Bows his meek head, and God eternal dies! Fixt to the Cross, his healing arms are bound, While copious Mercy streams from every wound. Mark the blood-drops that life exhausting roll, And the strong pang that rends the stubborn soul! As all death's tortures, with severe delay, Exult and riot in the noblest prey. And can'st thou, stupid man, those sorrows see, Nor share the anguish which He bears for Thee? Thy sin, for which his sacred Flesh is torn, Points ev'ry nail, and sharpens ev'ry thorn; Canst thou?--while nature smarts in ev'ry wound, And each pang cleaves the sympathetic ground! Lo! the black sun, his chariot backward driv'n, Blots out the day, and perishes from Heav'n: Earth, trembling from her entrails, bears a part, And the rent rock upbraids man's stubborn heart. The yawning grave reveals his gloomy reign, And the cold clay-clad dead, start into life again. And thou, O tomb, once more shalt wide display, Thy satiate jaws, and give up all thy prey. Thou, groaning earth shalt heave, absorpt in flame, As the last pangs convulse thy lab'ring frame; When the same God unshrouded thou shalt see, Wrapt in full blaze of pow'r and Majesty, Ride on the clouds; whilst, as his chariot flies, The bright effusion streams through all the skies. Then shall the proud dissolving mountains glow, And yielding rocks in fiery rivers flow: The molten deluge round the globe shall roar, And all man's arts and labour be no more. Then shall the splendors of th' enliven'd glass Sink undistinguish'd in the burning mass. And O! till earth, and seas, and Heav'n decay, Ne'er may that fair creation fade away; May winds and storms those beauteous colours spare, Still may they bloom, as permanent as fair, All the vain rage of wasting time repell, And his Tribunal see, whose Cross they paint so well. Fair morn ascends: fresh zephyr's breath Blows liberal o'er yon bloomy heath; Where, sown profusely, herb and flower, Of balmy smell, of healing power, Their souls in fragrant dews exhale, And breathe fresh life in ev'ry gale. Here, spreads a green expanse of plains, Where, sweetly-pensive, Silence reigns: And there, at utmost stretch of eye, A mountain fades into the sky; While winding round, diffus'd and deep, A river rolls with sounding sweep. Of human art no traces near, I seem alone with nature here! Here are thy walks, O sacred HEALTH! The Monarch's bliss, the Beggar's wealth; The seasoning of all good below, The sovereign friend in joy or woe. O Thou, most courted, most despis'd: And but in absence duly priz'd! Power of the soft and rosy face! The vivid Pulse, the vermil grace, The spirits when they gayest shine, Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine! O sun of life! whole heavenly ray Lights up, and chears our various day, The turbulence of hopes and fears, The storm of fate, the cloud of years, Till nature with thy parting light, Reposes late in Death's calm night: Fled from the trophy'd roofs of state, Abodes of splendid pain and hate; Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep, Hot Riot would his anguish steep, But tosses through the midnight shade, Of death, of life, alike afraid; For ever fled to shady cell, Where Temperance, where the Muses dwell; Thou oft art seen, at early dawn, Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn: Or on the brow of mountain high, In silence feasting ear and eye, With song and prospect, which abound From birds, and woods, and waters round. But when the sun, with noon-tide ray, Flames forth intolerable day; While Heat sits fervent on the plain, With Thirst and Languor in his train; (All nature sickening in the blaze) Thou, in the wild and woody maze, That clouds the vale with umbrage deep, Impendent from the neighbouring sleep, Wilt find betimes a calm retreat, Where breathing Coolness has her seat. There plung'd amid the shadows brown, Imagination lays him down; Attentive in his airy mood, To every murmur of the wood: The bee in yonder flow'ry nook; The chidings of the headlong brook; The green leaf quivering in the gale; The warbling hill, the lowing vale; The distant woodman's echoing stroke; The thunder of the falling oak. From thought to thought in vision led, He holds high converse with the Dead; Sages or Poets. See, they rise! And shadowy skim before his eyes. Hark! Orpheus strikes the lyre again, That softened savages to men: To whom its moral will was given. Fathers and friends of human kind! They form'd the nations, or refin'd, With all that mends the head and heart, Enlightening truth, adorning art. Thus musing in the solemn shade; At once the sounding breeze was laid: And Nature, by the unknown law, Shook deep with reverential awe. A browner night involv'd the bower: When issuing from the inmost wood, Appear'd fair Freedom's GENIUS good. O Freedom! sovereign boon of Heav'n; Great Charter, with our being given; For which the patriot, and the sage, Have plan'd, have bled thro' ev'ry age! High privilege of human race, Beyond a mortal monarch's grace: Who could not give, who cannot claim, What but from God immediate came! The Prince of all the feather'd kind, That with spread wings out-flies the wind, And tow'rs far out of human sight To view the shining orb of light: This Royal Bird, tho' brave and great, And armed strong for stern debate, No tyrant is, but condescends Oft-times to treat inferior friends. One day at his command did flock To his high palace on a rock, The courtiers of ilk various size That swiftly swim in chrystal skies; Thither the valiant Tarsels doup, And here rapacious Corbies croup, With greedy Gleads, and sly Gormahs, And dinsom Pyes, and chattering Dawes; Proud Peacocks, and a hundred mae, Brush'd up their pens that solemn day, Bow'd first submissive to my Lord, Then took their places at his board. Meantime while feasting on a fawn, And drinking blood from Lamies drawn, A tuneful ROBIN trig and young, Hard-by upon a burr-tree sung. He sang the EAGLE's royal line, His piercing eye, and right divine To sway out-owre the feather'd thrang, Who dread his martial bill and fang: His flight sublime, and eild renew'd, His mind with clemency endow'd; In softer notes he sang his love, More high, his bearing bolts for Jove. The Monarch Bird with blitheness heard The chaunting little silvan Bard, Call'd up a Buzzard, who was then His favourite, and chamberlain. Swith to my treasury, quoth he, And to yon canty ROBIN gie As muckle of our current gear As may maintain him thro' the year; We can well spar't, and it's his due; He bade, and forth the Judas flew, Straight to the branch where ROBIN sung, And with a wicked lying tongue, Said ah! ye sing so dull and rough, Ye've deaf'd our lugs more than enough, His Majesty has a nice ear, And no more of your stuff can bear; Poke up your pipes, be no more seen At court, I warn you as a frien. He spake, while ROBIN's swelling breast, And drooping wings his grief exprest; The tears ran hopping down his cheek, Great grew his heart, he could not speak, No for the tinsel of reward, But that his notes met no regard: Strait to the shaw he spread his wing, Resolv'd again no more to sing, Where princely bounty is supprest By such with whom They are opprest; Who cannot bear (because they want it) That ought should be to merit granted. Written before the year 1600. O Parent of each lovely muse, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse! O'er all my artless songs preside, My footsteps to thy temple guide! To offer at thy turf-built shrine, In golden cups no costly wine; No murder'd fatling of the flock, But flowers and honey from the rock. O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare; Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd, Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magic wand; Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow 'Mid chearless Lapland's barren snow; Whose rapid wings thy flight convey, Thro' air, and over earth and sea: While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes; O lover of the desart, hail! Say, in what deep and pathless vale: Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Midst falls of water you reside: 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between: 'Midst forest dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke; Where never human art appear'd, Nor ev'n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd; Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne. Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell, To thy unknown sequester'd cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor; And on whose top an hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each ev'ning warbling thee to rest. Then lay me by the haunted stream, Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream; In converse while methinks I rove With Spencer thro' a fairy grove; Till suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear; And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd, By the sweetly-soothing sound! Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead, Sometimes thro' the yellow mead; Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lilly-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads: Where Echo walks steep hills among, List'ning to the shepherd's song. Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy, Can long my pensive mind employ; Haste, FANCY, from the scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy! Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh; Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels, and the house of woe; To gothic churches, vaults and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast and faded cheek, Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek. Or to some Abby's mould'ring tow'rs, Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles, lest the tottering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall. Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire; I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat; The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear: Give me another horse I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Whence is this rage?----what spirit, say, To battle hurries me away? 'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war; There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Where tumult and destruction reign; Where mad with pain, the wounded steed, Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field, Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield. O guide me from this horrid scene To high-archt walks, and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun The fervors of the mid-day sun. The pangs of absence, O remove, For thou can'st place me near my love. Can'st fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss; While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence. When young-eyed spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose; When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale, When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks, When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold; At every season, let my ear Thy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear. O warm enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane, To utter an unhallow'd strain; Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save, when with smiles thou bid'st me sing. O hear our prayer, O hither come From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb, On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave. O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who fill'd with unexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Who with some new, unequall'd song, May rise above the rhyming throng. O'er all our list'ning passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain: With terror shake, and pity move, Rouze with revenge, or melt with love. O deign t' attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottos talk; Teach him to scorn, with frigid art, Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart; Like light'ning, let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; With native beauties win applause, Beyond cold critic's studied laws: O let each Muse's fame encrease, O bid Britannia rival Greece! Hail meek-ey'd Maiden, clad in sober grey, Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves; As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes, Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves. When Phaebus sinks behind the gilded hills; You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk; The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews, And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk. The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat To inmost bow'rs, and cooling caverns ran; Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance, Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan. To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair, Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene; And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field, Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green. The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock, His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies; Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour, And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies. Now ev'ry Passion sleeps: desponding Love, And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride; An holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul, Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside. O modest EVENING! oft let me appear A wandering votary in thy pensive train; Listening to every wildly-warbling note, That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain. If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear; Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales, O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; Now teach me, Maid compos'd, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with it's stillness suit, As musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding star arising shews His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in flowers the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still, The Pensive Pleasure's sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, Or up-land fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut, That from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport, Beneath thy ling'ring light: While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, sure-found beneath thy sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy fav'rite name! Far from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright, The pointed crystals shot their trembling light, From dripping moss where sparkling dew-drops fell, Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed shell, Pale ISIS lay; a willow's lowly shade Spread its thin foliage o'er the sleeping maid; Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breast In careless folds loose flow'd her zoneless vest; While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow, In all the awful negligence of woe; Her urn sustain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vase Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all its grace; Here, full with life, was heav'n-taught Science seen, Known by the laurel wreath, and musing mien: There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace sedate and bland, Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand; While solemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas green, At well-mark'd distance close the sacred scene. On this the Goddess cast an anxious look, Then dropt a tender tear, and thus she spoke: Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace The mimic charms of this prophetic vase; Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes View on yon plain the real glories rise. Yes, ISIS! oft hast thou rejoic'd to lead Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead; Oft hast thou stopt thy pearly car to gaze, While ev'ry Science nurs'd it's growing bays; While ev'ry Youth with fame's strong impulse fir'd, Prest to the goal, and at the goal untir'd, Snatch'd each celestial wreath, to bind his brow, The Muses, Graces, Virtues could bestow. E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train, And ranks her troops on Mem'ry's ample plain; See! the firm leaders of my patriot line, See HOUGH superior to a tyrant's doom Smile at the menace of the slave of Rome, Each soul whom truth could fire, or virtue move, Each breast, strong panting with it's country's love, All that to Albion gave the heart or head, That wisely counsel'd, or that bravely bled, All, all appear; on me they grateful smile, The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toil To me with filial reverence they bring, And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd spring. Ah! I remember well yon beachen spray, There ADDISON first tun'd his polish'd lay; 'Twas there great CATO'S form first met his eye, In all the pomp of free-born majesty; "My son, he cry'd, observe this mein with awe, "In solemn lines the strong resemblance draw; "The piercing notes shall strike each British ear; "Each British eye shall drop the patriot tear! "And rous'd to Glory by the nervous strain, "Each Youth shall spurn at slav'ry's abject reign, "Shall guard with CATO'S zeal Britannia's laws, "And speak, and act, and bleed in freedom's cause." The Hero spoke; the bard assenting bow'd The lay to liberty and CATO flow'd; While Echo, as she rov'd the vale along, Join'd the strong cadence of his Roman song. But ah! how Stillness slept upon the ground, How mute Attention check'd each rising sound; Scarce stole a breeze to wave the leafy spray, Scarce trill'd sweet Philomel her softest lay, When LOCKE walk'd musing forth; e'en now I view Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow, View Candor smile upon his modest cheek, And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break. 'Twas here the sage his manly zeal exprest, Here stript vain falshood of her gaudy vest; Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind, E'er long to burst in blessings on mankind; E'er long to shew to reason's purged eye, Proud of this wond'rous son, sublime I stood, (While louder surges swell'd my rapid flood) Then vain as Niobe, exulting cry'd, Ilissus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide; Tho' Plato's steps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring glade, Tho' fair Lycaeum lent it's awful shade, Tho' ev'ry Academic green imprest It's image full on thy reflecting breast, Yet my pure stream shall boast as proud a name, And Britain's ISIS flow with Attic fame. Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic boast? See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast; See! Hydra Faction spread it's impious reign, Poison each breast, and madden ev'ry brain: Hence frontless crouds, that not content to fright The blushing Cynthia from her throne of night, Blast the fair face of day; and madly bold, To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold; To Freedom's foes, ah! see the goblet crown'd, Hear plausive shouts to Freedom's foes resound; The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt, The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt; Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam, Now sheds, by stealth, a partial private gleam, In some lone cloister's melancholy shade, Where a firm few support her sickly head, Despis'd, insulted by the barb'rous train, Who scour like Thracia's moon-struck rout the plain, Sworn foes like them to all the Muse approves, All Phaebus favours, or Minerva loves. Are these the sons my fost'ring breast must rear, Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care? Must these go forth from my maternal hand To deal their insults thro' a peaceful land, And boast while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue groans, That "ISIS taught Rebellion to her Sons?" Forbid it heaven! and let my rising waves Indignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves! In England's cause their patriot floods employ, As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy. Is this deny'd? then point some secret way Where far far hence these guiltless streams may stray; Some unknown channel lend, where Nature spreads Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads, There, where a hind scarce tunes his rustic strain, Where scarce a pilgrim treads the pathless plain, Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide Saw yon majestic structures crown it's side; Forget, that e'er my rapt attention hung Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue; Calm and resign'd my humbler lot embrace, And pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace. _Quid mihi nescio quam, proprio cum Tybride Romam, Semper in ore geris? referunt si vera parentes, Hanc urbem insano nullus qui marte petivit Laetatus violasse redit. Nec numina sedem Destituunt._---- CLAUDIAN. On closing flow'rs when genial gales diffuse The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews; When chaunts the milk-maid at her balmy pail, And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale; Charm'd by the murmurs of the quiv'ring shade, O'er ISIS' willow-fringed banks I stray'd: And calmly musing thro' the twilight way, In pensive mood I fram'd the Doric lay. When lo! from op'ning clouds, a golden gleam Pour'd sudden splendors o'er the shadowy stream; And from the wave arose it's guardian queen, Known by her sweeping stole of glossy green; While in the coral crown that bound her brow, Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough. As the smooth surface of the dimply flood, The silver-slipper'd ISIS lightly trod, From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd, And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd. No more, my son, the rural reed employ, Nor trill the trifling strain of empty joy; No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit To notes of pastoral pipe or oaten flute. For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls, To the dear Muse afflicted Freedom calls: When Freedom calls, and OXFORD bids thee sing, Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phoebus' spite, The venal sons of slavish CAM, unite; To shake yon tow'rs, when Malice rears her crest, Shall all my sons in silence idly rest? Still sing, O CAM, your fav'rite Freedom's cause; Still boast of Freedom, while you break her laws: To pow'r your songs of Gratulation pay, To courts address soft flattery's soothing lay. What tho' your gentle MASON'S plaintive verse Has hung with sweetest wreaths MUSAEUS' hearse; What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe, Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow? Yet strove his Muse, by same or envy led, To tear the laurels from a sister's head?---- Misguided youth! with rude unclassic rage To blot the beauties of thy whiter page; A rage that sullies e'en thy guiltless lays, And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays. Let GRANTA boast the patrons of her name, Each pompous fool of fortune and of fame: Still of preferment let her shine the queen, Prolific parent of each bowing dean: Be her's each prelate of the pamper'd cheek, Each courtly chaplain sanctify'd and sleek; Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive, On fat pluralities supinely thrive: Still let her senates titled slaves revere, Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer; For tinsel'd courts their laurel'd mount despise, In stars and strings superlatively wise: No longer charm'd by virtue's golden lyre, Who sung of old amid th'Aonian choir, Where CAM, slow winding thro' the breezy reeds, With kindly wave his groves of laurel seeds. 'Tis ours, my son, to deal the sacred bay, Where Honour calls, and Justice points the way; To wear the well-earn'd wreath which merit brings. And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings. Scorning, and scorn'd by courts, yon Muses' bow'r Still nor enjoys, nor asks the smile of pow'r. Tho' wakeful Vengeance watch my chrystal spring, Tho' persecution wave her iron wing, And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies, "These destin'd feats be mine" exulting cries; On ISIS still each gift of fortune waits, Still peace and plenty deck my beauteous gates. See Science walks with freshest chaplets crown'd; With songs of joy my festal groves resound; My muse divine, still keeps her wonted state, The front erect, and high majestic gait: Green as of old, each oliv'd portal smiles, And still the graces build my Parian piles: My Gothic spires in ancient grandeur rise, And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies. Ah should'st thou fall (forbid it heav'nly pow'rs!) Dash'd into dust with all thy cloud-capt tow'rs; Who but would mourn to British virtue dear, What patriot could refuse the manly tear! What British MARIUS could refrain to weep O'er mighty CARTHAGE fall'n, a prostrate heap! E'en late when RADCLIFFE'S delegated train Auspicious shone in ISIS' happy plain; When yon proud dome, fair Learning's amplest shrine, Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine; Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause, To RADCLIFFE due, and ISIS' honour'd cause? What free-born crouds adorn'd the festive day, Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay! How each brave breast with honest ardors heav'd, When SHELDON'S fane the patriot band receiv'd; While, as we loudly hail'd the chosen few, Rome's awful senate rush'd upon our view! O may the day in latest annals shine, That made a BEAUFORT, and an HARLEY mine: Then bade them leave the loftier scene awhile, The pomp of guiltless state, the patriot toil, For bleeding Albion's aid the sage design, To hold short dalliance with the tuneful Nine. Then Music left her golden sphere on high, And bore each strain of triumph from the sky; Swell'd the full song, and to my chiefs around, Pour'd the full Paeans of mellifluous sound. My Naiads blythe the floating accents caught, And list'ning danc'd beneath their pearly grot: In gentler eddies play'd my wanton wave, And all my reeds their softest whispers gave; Each lay with brighter green adorn'd my bow'rs, And breath'd a fresher fragrance on my flow'rs. But lo! at once the swelling concerts cease, And crouded theatres are hush'd in peace. See, on yon sage how all attentive stand, To catch his darting eye, and waving hand. Hark! he begins, with all a TULLY'S art To pour the dictates of a CATO'S heart. Skill'd to pronounce what noblest thoughts inspire, He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire; Bold to conceive, nor tim'rous to conceal, What Britons dare to think, he dares to tell. 'Tis his alike the ear and eye to charm, To win with action, and with sense to warm; Untaught in flow'ry diction to dispense The lulling sounds of sweet impertinence; In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize, Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rise; Bids happier days to ALBION be restor'd, Bids ancient Justice rear her radiant sword; From me, as from my country, wins applause, And makes an OXFORD'S a BRITANNIA'S cause. While arms like these my steadfast sages wield, While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield; Say, shall the PUNY CHAMPION fondly dare To wage with force like this, scholastic war? Still vainly scribble on with pert pretence, With all the rage of pedant impotence? Say, shall I foster this domestic pest, This parricide that wounds a mother's breast? Thus in the stately ship that long has bore Britain's victorious cross from shore to shore, By chance, beneath her close sequester'd cells, Some low-born worm, a lurking mischief dwells; Eats his blind way, and saps with secret toil The deep foundations of the watry pile. In vain the forest lent its stateliest pride, Rear'd her tall mast, and fram'd her knotty side; In vain the thunder's martial rage she stood, With each fierce conflict of the stormy flood; More sure the reptile's little arts devour, Than waves, or wars, or Eurus' wintry pow'r, Ye venerable bow'rs, ye seats sublime, Clad in the mossy vest of fleeting time; Ye stately piles of old munificence, At once the pride of Learning and defence, Where ancient Piety, a matron hoar, Still seems to keep the hospitable door; Ye cloisters pale, that length'ning to the sight, Still step by step to musings mild invite; Ye high-archt walks where oft the bard has caught The glowing sentiment, the lofty thought; Ye temples dim, where pious duty pays Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praise; Lo! your lov'd ISIS, from the bord'ring vale, With all a mother's fondness bids you hail!---- Hail, OXFORD, hail! of all that's good and great, Of all that's fair, the guardian and the seat; Nurse of each brave pursuit, each generous aim, By truth exalted to the throne of fame! Like Greece in science and in liberty, As Athens learn'd, as Lacedaemon free! Ev'n now, confess'd to my adoring eyes, In awful ranks thy sacred sons arise; With ev'ry various flower their temples wreath'd, That in thy gardens green its fragrance breath'd, Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds, Thy crouding bards immortal CHAUCER leads: His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing choir, And beams on all around celestial fire: With graceful step see ADDISON advance, The sweetest child of Attic Elegance: To all, but his belov'd embrace deny'd, See LOCKE leads reason, his majestic bride: See sacred HAMMOND, as he treads the field, With godlike arm uprears his heav'nly shield. All who, beneath the shades of gentle peace, Best plan'd the labours of domestic ease; Who taught with truth, or with persuasion mov'd; Who sooth'd with numbers, or with sense improv'd; Who told the pow'rs of reason or refin'd, All, all that strengthen'd or adorn'd the mind; Each priest of health, who mix'd the balmy bowl, To rear frail man, and stay the fleeting soul; All croud around, and echoing to the sky, Hail, OXFORD, hail! with filial transport cry. And see yon solemn band! with virtuous aim, 'Twas theirs in thought the glorious deed to frame: With pious plans each musing feature glows, And well weigh'd counsels mark their meaning brows: "Lo! these the leaders of thy patriot line," These from thy source the fires of freedom caught: How well thy sons by their example taught! While in each breast th' hereditary flame Still blazes, unextinguish'd and the same! Nor all the toils of thoughtful peace engage, 'Tis thine to form the hero as the sage. I see the sable-suited prince advance With lillies crown'd, the spoils of bleeding France, EDWARD----the Muses in yon hallow'd shade Bound on his tender thigh the martial blade: Bade him the steel for British freedom draw, And OXFORD taught the deeds that CRESSY saw. And see, great father of the laureat band, The BRITISH KING before me seems to stand. He by my plenty-crowned scenes beguil'd, And genial influence of my seasons mild, Hither of yore (forlorn, forgotten maid) The Muse in prattling infancy convey'd; From Gothic rage the helpless virgin bore, And fix'd her cradle on my friendly shore: Soon grew the maid beneath his fost'ring hand, Soon pour'd her blessings o'er th' enlighten'd land. Tho rude the dome, and humble the retreat, Where first his pious care ordain'd her seat, Lo! now on high she dwells in Attic bow'rs, And proudly lifts to heav'n her hundred tow'rs. He first fair Learning's and Britannia's cause Adorn'd with manners, and advanc'd with laws; He bade relent the Briton's savage heart, And form'd his soul to social scenes of art, Wisest and best of kings!----with ravish'd gaze Elate the long procession he surveys: Joyful he smiles to find, that not in vain He plan'd the rudiments of Learning's reign: Himself he marks in each ingenuous breast, With all the founder in the race exprest: With rapture views, fair Freedom still survive In yon bright domes (ill-fated fugitive) (Such seen, as when the goddess pour'd the beam Unsullied on his ancient diadem) Well-pleas'd that in his own Pierian seat She plumes her wings, and rests her weary feet; That here at last she takes her fav'rite stand, "Here deigns to linger, ere she leave the land." RADCLIFFE'S library. Alfred. Regis Romani. V. Virg. AEn. 6. Aurea nunc, olim sylvestribus horrida dumis. Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd, Whom neigb'ring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumbers, never found. While calmly poor, I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my chearful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire. With timely care I'll sow my little field, And plant my orchard with it's master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range the sheaves along the sunny land. If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home, And not a little chide it's thoughtless dam. What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast? Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy sink at last to rest. Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride, By shady rivers indolently stray, And with my DELIA walking side by side, Hear how they murmur, as they glide away. What joy to wind along the cool retreat, To stop and gaze on DELIA as I go! To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, And teach my lovely scholar all I know! Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream, In silent happiness I rest unknown; Content with what I am, not what I seem, I live for DELIA, and myself alone. Ah foolish man! who thus of her possest, Could float and wander with ambition's wind, And if his outward trappings spoke him blest, Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind. With her I scorn the idle breath of praise, Nor trust to happiness that's not our own, The smile of fortune might suspicion raise, But here, I know, that I am lov'd alone. STANHOPE, in wisdom, as in wit divine, May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause, With steady rein his eager wit confine, While manly sense the deep attention draws: Let STANHOPE speak his list'ning country's wrong, My humble voice shall please one partial maid, For her alone, I pen my tender song, Securely sitting in his friendly shade. STANHOPE shall come, and grace his rural friend, DELIA shall wonder at her noble guest, With blushing awe the riper fruit commend, And for her husband's Patron cull the best. Her's be the care of all my little train, While I with tender Indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguish'd from the rest. For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow, In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock, For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow, And sleep extended on the naked rock. Ah! what avails to press the stately bed, And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, By marble fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep. DELIA alone can please, and never tire, Exceed the paint of thought in true delight, With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, And equal rapture glows thro' every night. Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind: In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd. On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er, And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand---- Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare, Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, Tho' I am dead my soul shall love thee still. Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed, Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart! O leave me, DELIA! ere thou see me dead, These weeping friends will do thy mournful part. Let them extended on the decent bier, Convey the corse in melancholy state, Thro' all the village spread the tender tear, While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate. Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more, Invite the stranger to the door; In smoaky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it then, in every clime, Thro' the wide spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage, and rancour fell. The rural pipe, and merry lay No more shall chear the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No strains, but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn, Accurs'd to ages yet unborn! The sons, against their fathers stood, The parent shed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's soul was not appeas'd: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel! The pious mother doom'd to death, Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath, The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread, Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend, And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies. Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns; Resentment of my country's fate, Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathizing verse shall flow, "Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn "Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn." The Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefather's of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joy, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory, lead but to the grave. Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault, If memory to these no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desart air. Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood: Some mute inglorious MILTON here may rest, Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense, kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to dye. This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Still in their ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 'Brushing with hasty dews away, 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 'His listless length at noontide wou'd he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 'Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 'The next with dirges due in sad array, 'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. 'Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 'There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, 'By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found; 'The red-breast loves to build and warble there, 'And little footsteps lightly print the ground. "Here rests his head upon the lap of earth "A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: "Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, "And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. "Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, "Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: "He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear; "He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. "No farther seek his merits to disclose, "Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, "(There they alike in trembling hope repose) "The bosom of his father and his God. Little I whilom deem'd my artless zeal Should woo the British Muse in foreign land To strains of bitter argument, and teach The mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding verge And oozy current of Parisian Seine, To syllable new sounds in accents strange. But sad occasion calls: who now forbears The last kind office? who but consecrates His off'ring at the shrine of fair Renown To gracious FREDERIC rais'd; tho' but compos'd Of the waste flourets, whose neglected hues Chequer the lonely hedge, or mountain slope? Where are those hopes, where fled th' illusive scenes That forgeful fancy plan'd, what time the bark Stem'd the salt wave from Albion's chalky bourn? Then filial Piety and parting Love Pour'd the fond pray'r; "Farewell, ye less'ning cliffs, "Fairer to me, than ought in fabled song "Or mystic record told of shores Atlantic! "Favour'd of heav'n, farewell! imperial isle, "Native to noblest wits, and best approv'd "In manly science, and advent'rous deed! "Celestial Freedom, by rude hand estrang'd "From regions once frequented, with Thee takes "Her stedfast station, fast beside the throne "Of scepter'd Rule, and there her state maintains "In social concord, and harmonious love. "These blessings still be thine, nor meddling fiend "Stir in your busy streets foul Faction's roar; "Still thrive your growing works, and gales propitious "Visit your sons who ride the watry waste; "And still be heard from forth your gladsome bow'rs "Shrill tabor-pipes, and ev'ry peaceful sound. "Nor vain the wish, while GEORGE the golden scale "With steady prudence holds, and temp'rate sway. "And when his course of earthly honours run, "With lenient hand shall FREDERIC sooth your care, "Rich in each princely quality, mature "In years, and happiest in nuptial choice. "Thence too arise new hopes, a playful troop "Circles his hearth, sweet pledges of that bed, "Which Faith, and Joy, and thousand Virtues guard. "His be the care t' inform their ductile minds "With worthiest thoughts, and point the ways of honour. "How often shall he hear with fresh delight "Their earnest tales, or watch their rising passions "With timorous attention; then shall tell "Of justice, fortitude and public weal, "And oft the while each rigid precept smooth "With winning tokens of parental love!" Thus my o'erweening heart the secret stores Of Britain's hope explor'd, while my strain'd sight Pursued her fading hills, till wrapt in mist They gently sunk beneath the swelling tide. Nor slept those thoughts, whene'er in other climes I mark'd the cruel waste of foul oppression, Saw noblest spirits, and goodliest faculties, To vassalage and loathsome service bound. Then conscious preference rose; then northward turn'd My eye, to gratulate my natal soil. How have I chid with froward eagerness Each veering blast, that from my hand witheld The well known characters of some lov'd friend, Tho' distant, not unmindful? Still I learn'd Delighted, what each patriot plan devis'd Of arts, or glory, or diffusive commerce. Nor wanted its endearment every tale Of lightest import. But oh! heavy change, What notices come now? Distracted scenes Of helpless sorrow, solemn sad accounts; How fair AUGUSTA watch'd the weary night Tending the bed of anguish; how great GEORGE Wept with his infant progeny around; How heav'd the orphan's and the widow's sigh, That follow'd FREDERIC to the silent tomb. For well was FREDERIC lov'd; and well deserv'd: His voice was ever sweet, and on his steps Attended ever the alluring grace Of gentle lowliness and social zeal. Him shall remember oft the labour'd hind, Relating to his mates each casual act Of courteous bounty. Him th' artificer, Plying the varied woof in sullen sadness, Tho' wont to carrol many a ditty sweet. Soon too the mariner, who many moons Has counted, beating still the foamy surge, And treads at last the wish'd-for beach, shall stand Appall'd at the sad tale, and soon shall steal Down his rough cheek th' involuntary tear. Be this our solace yet, all is not dead; The bright memorial lives: for his example Shall Hymen trim his torch, domestic praise Be countenanc'd, and virtue fairer shew. In age succeeding, when another GEORGE, To ratify some weighty ordinance Of Britain's peers conven'd, shall pass beside Those hallowed spires, whose gloomy vaults enclose, Shrouded in sleep, pale rows of scepter'd kings, Oft to his sense the sweet paternal voice And long-remember'd features shall return; Then shall his generous breast be new inflam'd To acts of highest worth, and highest fame. These plaintive strains from ALBION far away, I lonely meditate at even-tide; Nor skill'd nor studious of the raptur'd lay; But still remembring oft the magic sounds, Well-measur'd to the chime of Dorian lute, Or past'ral stop, which erst I lov'd to hear On ISIS' broider'd mead, where dips by fits The stooping osier in her hasty stream. Hail WOLSEY'S spacious dome! hail, ever fam'd For faithful nurture, and truth's sacred lore, Much honour'd parent! You my duteous zeal Accept, if haply in thy laureat wreath You deign to interweave this humble song. 'Twas on the evening of that gloomy day, When FREDERIC, ever lov'd, and ever mourn'd, (Such heav'n's high will, and who shall disobey?) To earth's cold womb in holy pomp return'd: With sullen sounds, the death-denouncing bell Proclaim'd aloud the dismal tale of woe, The pealing organ join'd the solemn knell, In mournful notes, majestically slow. The full-voic'd choir, in stoles of purest white, With frequent pause, the soul-felt anthem raise; While o'er the walls in darkest sable dight, A thousand tapers pour'd their holy blaze. In high devotion wrapt, the mitred sage, With energy sublime, the rites began; While tears from every sex, and every age, Bewail'd the prince, the father, and the man. "Who, when our sov'reign liege to fate shall yield, "Shall prop, like him, Britannia's falling state? "Who now the vengeful sword of justice wield, "Or ope, like him, sweet Mercy's golden gate? "Who shall to Arts their pristine honours bring, "Rear from the dust fair Learning's laurell'd head, "Or bid rich commerce plume her daring wing? "Arts, Learning, Commerce are in FREDERIC dead. "Who now shall tend, with fond, paternal care, "The future guardians of our faith and laws? "Who teach their breasts with patriot worth to dare, "And die with ardour, in Britannia's cause? "And who, ah! who, with soft endearing lore, "Shall sooth, like him, the royal mourner's breast? "Her lord, her life, her FREDERIC is no more."-- Deep groans and bitter wailings speak the rest. Then, when at length the awful scene was clos'd, And dust to dust in holy hope consign'd; All to their silent homes their steps dispos'd, To feed on solitary woe the mind; All but Lorenzo;--he with grief dismay'd; Nor heeding ought but FREDERIC'S hapless fate, Musing along the cloyster'd temple stray'd, Till lonely midnight clos'd th' impervious gate. But when each lamp by slow degrees expir'd, And total night assumes her silent reign, Sudden he starts, with wild amazement fir'd, And big with horror traverses the fane. The vaulted mansions of th' illustrious dead Inspire his shudd'ring soul with ghastly fears, Dire shapes, and beck'ning shades around him tread, And hollow voices murmur in his ears. There, as around the monumental maze Darkling he wanders, a resplendent gleam Shoots o'er th' illumin'd isle a distant blaze, Pale as the glow-worm's fire, or Cynthia's beam. With glory clad, th' imperial shrines among, Four royal shapes on iv'ry thrones were plac'd, High o'er their heads four airy diadems hung, Which never yet their maiden brows had grac'd. The first was he, whom CRESSY'S glorious plain Has fam'd for martial deeds and bold emprize; Nor less his praise in Virtue's milder strain, Just, humble, learned, merciful and wise. Next ARTHUR sat, at whose auspicious birth In one sweet flower the blended roses join'd; And HENRY next, fair plant of Scottish earth, The hope, the joy of ALBION and mankind. Yet green in death, the last majestic shade Wore gracious FREDERIC'S mild, endearing look; To him the rest obeysance courteous paid, And EDWARD thus the princely form bespoke: "All hail! illustrious partner of our fate, "For whom, as once for us, Britannia bleeds; "Hail! to the mansions of the good and great, "Where crowns immortal wait on virtuous deeds. "The same our fortune, as our worth the same, "(To worth like ours short date doth heav'n assign) "As one our fortune, one shall be our fame, "And long record our deathless names shall join. "But oh! I tremble for Britannia's state, "May guardian pow'rs avert the dire presage! "For well she knows, at our untimely fate "How heav'n's dread vengeance smote each sinful age. "The regal staff aspiring BOLINGBROKE "Snatch'd with rude grasp from RICHARD'S princely hand; "Loos'd from hell's confines, civil Discord shook "The dubious throne, and tore the bleeding land. "When ARTHUR died, imperious HENRY'S thirst "Of subject's blood, nor heeded sex nor age; "His wives a sacrifice to vagrant lust, "His nobles victims to tyrannic rage. "When pious CHARLES in right fraternal reign'd, "Rebellion proudly stalk'd from shore to shore, "Her laws, her rights, her holy faith profan'd, "And dy'd the guilty land with royal gore. "Yet ah! may pity move relenting heav'n! "Enough she groans beneath her present woe; "Enough to vengeance is already given; "Her FREDERIC'S dead;--there needs no other blow." Scarce had he spoken, when the bird of day 'Gan morn's approach with clarion shrill declare, At once th' unbodied phantoms fade away, The fond illusion all dissolves in air. _Te dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila coeli, Adventumque tuum; tibi suaveis daedala tellus Submittit flores; tibi rident aequora ponti; Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine coelum._ Hence, iron-scepter'd WINTER, haste To bleak Siberian waste! Haste to thy polar solitude; Mid cataracts of ice, From many an airy precipice, Where, ever beat by sleety show'rs, Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs; Amid whose howling iles and halls, Where no gay sunbeam paints the walls, On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud, Thy brows in many a murky cloud. E'en now, before the vernal heat, Sullen I see thy train retreat: Thy ruthless host stern EURUS guides, That on a ravenous tiger rides, Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shewn Shipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown: Grim AUSTER, dropping all with dew, In mantle clad of watchet hue: And COLD, like Zemblan savage seen, Still threatening with his arrows keen; And next, in furry coat embost With icicles, his brother FROST. WINTER farewell! thy forests hoar, Thy frozen floods delight no more; Farewell the fields, so bare and wild! But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild, Sweetest SUMMER! haste thee here, Once more to crown the gladden'd year. Thee APRIL blythe, as long of yore, Bermudas' lawns he frolick'd o'er, With muskie nectar-trickling wing, (In the new world's first dawning spring,) To gather balm of choicest dews, And patterns fair of various hues, With which to paint in changeful dye, The youthful earth's embroidery; To cull the essence of rich smells In which to dip his new-born bells; Thee, as he skim'd with pinions fleet, He found an infant, smiling sweet; Where a tall citron's shade imbrown'd The soft lap of the fragrant ground. There on an amaranthine bed, Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed; Till soon beneath his forming care, You bloom'd a goddess debonnair; And then he gave the blessed isle Aye to be sway'd beneath thy smile: There plac'd thy green and grassy shrine, With myrtle bower'd and jessamine: And to thy care the task assign'd With quickening hand, and nurture kind, His roseate infant-births to rear, Till Autumn's mellowing reign appear. Haste thee nymph! and hand in hand, With thee lead a buxom band; Bring fantastic-footed Joy, With Sport that yellow-tressed boy. Leisure, that through the balmy sky, Chases a crimson butterfly. Bring Health that loves in early dawn To meet the milk-maid on the lawn; Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace, Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess! And that sweet stripling, Zephyr, bring, Light, and for ever on the wing. Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean On river-margins, mossy green. But who is she, that bears thy train, Pacing light the velvet plain? The pale pink binds her auburn hair, Her tresses flow with pastoral air; 'Tis May the Grace----confest she stands By branch of hawthorn in her hands: Lo! near her trip the lightsome Dews, Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues; With whom the pow'rs of Flora play, And paint with pansies all the way. Oft when thy season, sweetest Queen, Has drest the groves in liv'ry green; When in each fair and fertile field Beauty begins her bow'r to build; While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown, Puts her matron-mantle on, And mists in spreading steams convey More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay; Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feet Contemplation hoar to meet, As slow he winds in museful mood, Near the rush'd marge of CHERWELL'S flood; Or o'er old AVON'S magic edge, Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge, All playful yet, in years unripe, To frame a shrill and simple pipe. There thro' the dusk but dimly seen, Sweet ev'ning objects intervene: His wattled cotes the shepherd plants, Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants. The woodman, speeding home, awhile Rests him at a shady stile. Nor wants there fragrance to dispense Refreshment o'er my soothed sense; Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom, Nor grass besprent, to breathe perfume: Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet To bathe in dew my roving feet: Nor wants there note of Philomel, Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell: Nor lowings faint of herds remote, Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cott: Rustle the breezes lightly borne Of deep-embattel'd ears of corn: Round ancient elm, with humming noise, Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice. Meantime, a thousand dies invest The ruby chambers of the West! That all aslant the village tow'r A mild reflected radiance pour, While, with the level-streaming rays Far seen its arched windows blaze: And the tall grove's green top is dight In russet tints, and gleams of light; So that the gay scene by degrees Bathes my blythe heart in extasies; And Fancy to my ravish'd sight Pourtrays her kindred visions bright. At length the parting-light subdues My soften'd soul to calmer views, And fainter shapes of pensive joy, As twilight dawns, my mind employ, Till from the path I fondly stray In musings lapt, nor heed the way; Wandering thro' the landscape still, Till Melancholy has her fill; And on each moss-wove border damp, The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp. But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour, Sits throned in his highest tow'r; Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, lead To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead: To mix in rural mood among The nymphs and swains, a busy throng; Or, as the tepid odours breathe, The russet piles to lean beneath: There as my listless limbs are thrown On couch more soft than palace down; I listen to the busy sound Of mirth and toil that hums around; And see the team shrill-tinkling pass, Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass. But ever, after summer show'r, When the bright sun's returning pow'r, With laughing beam has chas'd the storm, And chear'd reviving nature's form; By sweet-brier hedges, bathed in dew, Let me my wholsome path pursue; There issuing forth the frequent snail, Wears the dank way with slimy trail, While as I walk, from pearled bush; The sunny-sparkling drop I brush; And all the landscape fair I view Clad in robe of fresher hue: And so loud the blackbird singe, That far and near the valley rings. From shelter deep of shaggy rock The shepherd drives his joyful flock; From bowering beech the mower blythe With new-born vigour grasps the scythe; While o'er the smooth unbounded meads His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads. But ever against restless heat, Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat, O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oak Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock; Haunted by that chaste nymph alone, Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone, Which, as they gush upon the ground, Still scatter misty dews around: A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove, Its side with mantling woodbines wove; Cool as the cave where Clio dwells, Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells; Or noon-tide grott where Sylvan sleeps In hoar Lycaeum's piny steeps. Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay, While all without is scorch'd in day; Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath His with'ring hawthorn on the heath; The drooping hedger wishes eve, In vain, of labour short reprieve! Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands Smote with keen heat, the trav'ler stands: Low sinks his heart, while round his eye Measures the scenes that boundless lie, Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn, Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn. How does he with some cooling wave To slake his lips, or limbs to lave! And thinks, in every whisper low, He hears a bursting fountain flow. Or bear me to yon antique wood, Dim temple of sage Solitude! But still in fancy's mirror seen Some more romantic scene would please, There within a nook most dark, Where none my musing mood may mark; Let me in many a whisper'd rite The Genius old of Greece invite, With that fair wreath my brows to bind, Which for his chosen imps he twin'd, Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore, On clear Ilissus' laureat shore.---- Till high on waving nest reclin'd, The raven wakes my tranced mind! Or to the forest-fringed vale Where widow'd turtles love to wail, Where cowslips clad in mantle meek, Nod their tall heads to breezes weak: In the midst, with sedges grey Crown'd, a scant riv'let winds its way, And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths, Around an oozy freshness breathes. O'er the solitary green, Nor cott, nor loitering hind is seen: Nor aught alarms the mute repose, Save that by fits an heifer lows: A scene might tempt some peaceful sage To rear him a lone hermitage; Fit place his pensive eld might chuse On virtue's holy lore to muse. Yet still the sultry noon t' appease Some more romantic scene might please; Or fairy bank, or magic lawn, By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn. Or bow'r in Vallambrosa's shade, By legendary pens pourtray'd. Haste let me shroud from painful light, On that hoar hill's aereal height, In solemn state, where waving wide, Thick pines with darkening umbrage hide The rugged vaults, and riven tow'rs Of that proud castle's painted bow'rs, Whence HARDYKNUTE, a baron bold, In Scotland's martial days of old, Descended from the stately feast, Begirt with many a warrior-guest, To quell the pride of Norway's king, With quiv'ring lance and twanging string. As thro' the caverns dim I wind, Might I that holy legend find, By fairies spelt in mystic rhimes, To teach enquiring later times, What open force, or secret guile, Dash'd into dust the solemn pile. But when mild Morn in saffron stole First issues from her eastern goal; Let not my due feet fail to climb Some breezy summit's brow sublime, Whence nature's universal face, Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace; The misty streams that wind below, With silver-sparkling lustre glow; The groves, and castled cliffs appear Invested all in radiance clear; O! every village-charm beneath! The smoke that mounts in azure wreath! O beauteous, rural interchange! The simple spire, and elmy grange! CONTENT, indulging blissful hours, Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs, And cattle rouz'd to pasture new, Shake jocund from their sides the dew. 'Tis thou, alone, O SUMMER mild, Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild: Whene'er I view thy genial scenes: Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens; What fires within my bosom wake, How glows my mind the reed to take! What charms like thine the muse can call, With whom 'tis youth and laughter all; With whom each field's a paradise, And all the globe a Bow'r of bliss! With thee conversing, all the day, I meditate my lightsome lay. These pedant cloisters let me leave, To breathe my votive song at eve, In valleys where mild whispers use; Of shade and stream, to court the muse; While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge, I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge. But when life's busier scene is o'er, And Age shall give the tresses hoar, I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome, And make an humble thatch my home, Which sloaping hills around enclose, Where many a beech and brown oak grows; Beneath whose dark and branching bow'rs It's tides a far-fam'd river pours: By nature's beauties taught to please, Sweet Tusculane of rural ease! Still grot of Peace! in lowly shed Who loves to rest her gentle head. For not the scenes of Attic art Can comfort care, or sooth the heart: Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye, For gold, and Tyrian purple fly. Thither, kind heav'n, in pity lent, Send me a little, and content; The faithful friend, and chearful night, The social scene of dear delight: The conscience pure, the temper gay, The musing eve, and idle day. Give me beneath cool shades to sit, Rapt with the charms of classic wit: To catch the bold heroic flame, That built immortal Graecia's fame. Nor let me fail, meantime, to raise The solemn song to Britain's praise: To spurn the shepherd's simple reeds And paint heroic ancient deeds: To chaunt fam'd ARTHUR'S magic tale, And EDWARD, stern in fable mail. Or wand'ring BRUTUS' lawless doom, Or brave BONDUCA, scourge of Rome; O ever to sweet Poesie, Let me live true votary! She shall lead me by the hand, Queen of sweet smiles, and solace bland! She from her precious stores shall shed Ambrosial flow'rets o'er my head: She, from my tender youthful cheek, Can wipe, with lenient finger meek, The secret and unpitied tear, Which still I drop in darkness drear. She shall be my blooming bride, With her, as years successive glide, I'll hold divinest dalliance, For ever held in holy trance. As late I strove LUCILLA'S lip to kiss, She with discurtesee reprov'd my will; Dost thou, she said, affect so pleasaunt bliss, A simple shepherd, and a losell vile? Not Fancy's hand should join my courtly lip To thine, as I myself were fast asleep. As thus she spake, full proud and boasting lasse, And as a peacocke pearke, in dalliance, She bragly turned her ungentle face, And all disdaining ey'd my shape askaunce: But I did blush, with grief and shame yblent, Like morning-rose with hoary dewe besprent. Tell me, my fellows all, am I not fair? Has fell enchantress blasted all her charms? Whilom mine head was sleek with tressed hayre, My laughing eyne did shoot out love's alarms: E'en KATE did deemen me the fairest swain, When erst I won this girdle on the plain. My lip with vermil was embellished, My bagpipes notes loud and delicious were, The milk-white lilly, and the rose so red, Did on my face depeinten lively cheere, My voice as soote as mounting larke did shrill, My look was blythe as MARGARET'S at the mill. But she forsooth, more fair than MADGE or KATE, A dainty maid, did deign not shepherd's love; Nor wist what THENOT told us swains of late; That VENUS sought a shepherd in a grove; Nor that a heav'nly god who PHOEBUS hight, To tend his flock with shepherds did delight.---- Ah! 'tis that VENUS with accurst despight, That all my dolour, and my shame has made! Nor does remembrance of her own delight, For me one drop of pity sweet persuade? Aye hence the glowing rapture may she miss, Like me be scorn'd, nor ever taste a kiss. The Graces sought in yonder stream, To cool the fervid day, When love's malicious godhead came, And stole their robes away. Proud of the theft, the little god Their robes bade DELIA wear; While they, asham'd to stir abroad, Remain all naked here. Where now are all my flatt'ring dreams of joy! MONIMIA, give my soul her wonted rest;-- Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye, Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast. Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call, With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour; Lead Beauty thro' the mazes of the ball, Or press her wanton in love's roseate bow'r. For me, no more I'll range th' empurpled mead, Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around; Nor wander thro' the woodbine's fragrant shade, To hear the music of the grove resound. I'll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall, Where fancy paints the glimm'ring taper blue, Where damps hang mould'ring on the ivy'd wall, And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew: There leagu'd with hopeless anguish and despair, Awhile in silence o'er my fate repine; Then, with a long farewell to love and care, To kindred dust my weary limbs consign. Wilt thou, MONIMIA, shed a gracious tear On the cold grave where all my sorrows rest? Wilt thou strew flow'rs, applaud my love sincere, And bid the turf lie light upon my breast! Temperant vites, neque Formiani Pocula colles._ HORAT. Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils, Hail JUICE benignant! O'er the costly cups Of riot-stirring wine, unwholsome draught, Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night; My sober ev'ning let the tankard bless, With toast embrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught, While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast! Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my soul A Calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed Its opiate influence. What tho' sore ills Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals Or chearful candle, (save the make-weight's gleam Haply remaining) heart-rejoicing ALE Chears the sad scene, and every want supplies. Meantime, not mindless of the daily task Of Tutor sage, upon the learned leaves Of deep SMIGLECIUS much I meditate; While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid, The thought-perplexing labour to pursue, Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friends Congenial call me from the toilsome page, To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt, Where ALE, thy votaries in full resort, Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair Of monumental oak and antique mould, That long has stood the rage of conquering years Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair Smoaks rosy Justice, when th' important cause, Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape, In all the majesty of paunch he tries) Studious of ease, and provident, I place My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round Returns replenish'd, the successive cup, And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy: While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hours In innocent delight, amusive Putt On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews. Nor reck'ning, name tremendous, me disturbs, Nor, call'd for, chills my breast with sudden fear; While on the wonted door, expressive mark, The frequent penny stands describ'd to view, In snowy characters and graceful row.---- Hail, TICKING! surest guardian of distress! Beneath thy shelter pennyless I quaff The chearful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart New oysters cry'd:--tho' much the poet's friend, Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain, Accept this tribute of poetic praise!---- Nor Proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof Of pot-house snug to visit: wiser he The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house Of JAMES or JUGGINS, where the grateful breath Of loath'd tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm; But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite, While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl, Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler ALE: In vain----the Proctor's voice arrests their joys; Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess! Nor less by day delightful is thy draught, All-pow'rful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweets Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon, When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand Not unexperienc'd; while the tedious toil Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea, Companion meet of languor-loving nymph: Be mine each morn with eager appetite And hunger undissembled, to repair To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain'd, Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days Our ancestors robust with liberal cups Usher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sons Of modern times: Nor ever had the might Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed With British ALE improving British worth. With ALE irriguous, undismay'd I hear The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome Importunate: whether the plaintive voice Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear; Or barber spruce with supple look intrude; Or taylor with obsequious bow advance; Or groom invade me with defying front And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds (Whene'er or Phoebus shone with kindlier beams, Or luckier chance the borrow'd boots supply'd) Had panted oft beneath my goring steal. In vain they plead or threat: All-powerful ALE Excuses new supplies, and each descends With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks: E'en SPACEY with indignant brow retires, Fiercest of duns! and conquer'd quits the field. Why did the gods such various blessings pour On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands So soon the short-liv'd bounty to recall?---- Thus, while improvident of future ill, I quaff the luscious tankard unrestrain'd, And thoughtless riot in unlicens'd bliss; Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!) Th' unpitying Bursar's cross-affixing hand Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career. Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields A sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies; Nor SHEPPARD barbarous matron, longer gives The wonted trust, and WINTER ticks no more. Thus ADAM, exil'd from the beauteous scenes Of Eden griev'd, no more in fragrant bow'r On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade or vale, No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot; But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness, And unrejoicing solitudes to trace: Thus too the matchless bard, whole lay resounds The SPLENDID SHILLING'S praise, in nightly gloom Of lonesome garret pin'd for chearful ALE; Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue, Mean follower, like him with honest love Of ALE divine inspir'd, and love of song. But long may bounteous heav'n with watchful care Avert his hapless lot! Enough for me That burning with congenial flame I dar'd His guiding steps at distance to pursue, And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains. When now, mature in classic knowledge, The joyful youth is sent to college, His father comes, an humble suitor, With bows and speeches to his tutor, "Sir, give me leave to recommend him, "I'm sure you cannot but befriend him; "I'll warrant that his good behav'our "Shall justify your future favour; "And for his parts, to tell the truth, "My son's a very forward youth; "He's young indeed, but has a spirit, "And wants but means, to shew his merit; "Has _Horace_ all by heart,--you'd wonder, "And mouths out _Homer_'s greek like thunder. "If you'd but venture to admit him, "A scholarship would nicely fit him; "That he succeeds 'tis ten to one, "Your vote and interest, Sir,--'tis done." Our candidate at length gets in, A hopeful scholar of Coll. Trin. A scholarship not half maintains, And college-rules are heavy chains; So scorning the late wish'd-for prize, For a fat fellowship he sighs. When, nine full tedious winters past, His utmost wish is crown'd at last; That utmost wish no sooner got, Again he quarrels with his lot.-- "These fellowships are pretty things, "We live indeed like petty kings; "But who can bear to spend his whole age "Amid the dullness of a college; "Debarr'd the common joys of life, "And what is worse than all--a wife! "Would some snug benefice but fall, "Ye feasts, and gaudies, farewell all! "To offices I'd bid adieu "Of Dean, Vice-Praes,--nay Bursar too; "Come tithes, come glebe, come fields so pleasant, "Come sports, come partridge, hare and pheasant." Well--after waiting many a year, A living falls,--two hundred clear. With breast elite beyond expression, He hurries down to take possession; With rapture views the sweet retreat,-- "What a convenient house! how neat! "The garden how compleatly plann'd! "And is all this at my command! "For fuel here's good store of wood,-- "Pray god, the cellars be but good! Continuing this fantastic farce on, He now commences country parson; To make his character entire, He weds a----cousin of the 'squire; Not over-weighty in the purse; But many doctors have done worse. Content at first,--he taps his barrel, Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel; Finds his church-wardens have discerning Both in good liquor and good learning; With tythes his barns replete he sees, And chuckles o'er his surplice-fees; Studies to find out latent dues, Smokes with the 'squire,--and clips his yews; Of Oxford pranks, facetious tells, And, but on sundays, hears no bells. But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast By cares domestic is opprest; Each day some scene of woe commences By new and unforeseen expences; And soon the butcher's bill, and brewing, Threaten inevitable ruin; For children more expences yet, "Why did I sell my college life (He cries) "for benefice and wife! "Oh could the days once more but come, "When calm I smoak'd in common room, "And din'd with breast untroubled, under "The picture of our pious founder; "When, for amusement, my tyrannic "Sway could put freshmen in a pannic; "When impositions were supplied "To light my pipe--or sooth my pride! "No cares of family oppress'd me, "Nor wife by day--nor night distress'd me. "Each day receiv'd successive pleasure, "Or spent in reading, or in leisure; "And every night I went to bed "Without a christ'ning in my head." O trifling head, and fickle heart!-- Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art! A dupe to follies yet untry'd, And sick of pleasure's scarce enjoy'd; Each prize obtain'd, thy rapture ceases, And in the search alone it pleases. This goodly frame what virtue so approves, And testifies the pure etherial spirit As mild Benevolence? She with her sister Mercy still awaits Beside th' eternal throne of Jove, And measures forth with unwithdrawing hand The blessings of the various year, Sunshine or show'r, and chides the madding tempest. With her the heaven-bred nymph meek Charity, Shall fashion ONSLOW forth in fairest portrait; And with recording care Weave the fresh wreath that flow'ring virtue claims. But oh, what muse shall join the band? He long has sojourn'd in the sacred haunts, And knows each whisp'ring grot and glade Trod by Apollo, and the light-foot Graces. How then shall awkward gratitude And the presumption of untutor'd duty Attune my numbers all too rude? Little he recks the meed of such a song; Yet will I stretch aloof, And when I tell of Courtesy, Of well-attemper'd Zeal, Of awful Prudence soothing fell Contention, Where shall the lineaments agree But in thee, ONSLOW? You, your wonted leave Indulge me, nor misdeem a Soldier's bold emprize; Who in the dissonance of barb'rous war, Long train'd, revisits oft the sacred treasures Of antique memory; Or where sage Pindar reins his fiery car, Through the vast vault of heaven secure, Or what the Attic muse that Homer fill'd, Her other son, thy Milton taught, Or range the flow'ry fields of gentle Spenser. And ever as I go, allurements vain Cherish a feeble fire, and feed my idle Fancy: O cou'd I once Charm to their melody my shrilling reeds! To HENRYS and to EDWARDS old, Dread names! I'd meditate the faithful song; Or tell what time BRITANNIA, Whilom the fairest daughter of old Ocean, In loathly disarray, dull eyes, And faded cheek, wept o'er her abject sons: Till WILLIAM, great deliverer, Led on the comely train, gay Liberty, Religion, matron staid, With all her kindred goddesses; Justice with steady brow, Trim Plenty, laureat Peace, and green-hair'd Commerce, In flowing vest of thousand hues. Fain would I shadow out old Bourbon's pile Tott'ring with doubtful weight, and threat'ning cumbrous fall; Or trace our navy, where in tow'ring pride O'er the wide-swelling waste it rolls avengeful. As when collected clouds Forth from the gloomy south in deep array, Athwart the dark'ning landscape throng, Fraught with loud storms, and thunder's dreadful peal, At which the murd'rer stands aghast, And wasting Riot ill dissembles terror. How headlong Rhone and Ebro erst distain'd With moorish carnage, quakes thro' all her branches! Soon shall I greet the morn, When, Europe sav'd, BRITAIN and GEORGE'S name Shall sound o'er Flandria's level field, Familiar in domestic meriment; Or by the jolly mariner Be carol'd loud adown the echoing Danube. The just memorial of fair deeds Still flourishes, and like th' untainted soul Blossoms in freshest age, above The weary flesh, and envy's rankling wound. Such after years mature In full account shall be thy meed. O! may your rising hope Well principled in ev'ry virtue bloom! Till a fresh-springing flock implore With infant hands a grandsire's pow'rful pray'r, Or round your honour'd couch their prattling sports persue. This elegant Poem was written by a Gentleman well known in the Declare, if heav'nly wisdom bless thy tongue, When teems the MOUNTAIN-GOAT with promis'd young; The stated seasons tell, the month explain, When feels the bounding HIND a mother's pain; While, in th' oppressive agonies of birth, Silent they bow the sorrowing head to earth? Why crop their lusty seed the verdant food? Why leave their dams, to search the gloomy wood? Say, whence the WILD-ASS wantons o'er the plain, Sports uncontroul'd, unconscious of the rein? 'Tis his o'er scenes of solitude to roam, The waste his house, the wilderness his home; He scorns the crouded city's pomp and noise, Nor heeds the driver's rod, nor hears his voice; At will on ev'ry various verdure fed, His pasture o'er the shaggy cliffs is spread. Will the fierce UNICORN obey thy call, Enslav'd to man, and patient of the stall? Say, will he stubborn stoop thy yoke to bear, Say, canst thou think, O wretch of vain belief, His lab'ring limbs will draw thy weighty sheaf? Or canst thou tame the temper of his blood With faithful feet to trace the destin'd road? Who paints the PEACOCK'S train with radiant eyes, And all the bright diversity of dies? Whose hand the stately OSTRICH has supply'd With glorious plumage, and her snowy pride? Thoughtless she leaves amid the dusty way, Her eggs, to ripen in the genial ray; Nor heeds, that some fell beast, who thirsts for blood, Or the rude foot may crush the future brood. In her no love the tender offspring share, No soft remembrance, no maternal care: For God has steel'd her unrelenting breast, Nor feeling sense, nor instinct mild imprest, Bade her the rapid-rushing steed despise, Outstrip the rider's rage, and tow'r amidst the skies. Didst thou the HORSE with strength and beauty deck? Hast thou in thunder cloath'd his nervous neck? Will he, like groveling grashoppers afraid, Start at each sound, at ev'ry breeze dismay'd? A cloud of fire his lifted nostrils raise, And breathe a glorious terror as they blaze. He paws indignant, and the valley spurns, Rejoycing in his might, and for the battle burns. When quivers rattle, and the frequent spear Flies flashing, leaps his heart with languid fear? Swallowing with fierce and greedy rage the ground, "Is this, he cries, the trumpet's warlike sound?" Eager he scents the battle from afar, And all the mingling thunder of the war. Flies the fierce HAWK by thy supreme command, To seek soft climates, and a southern land? Who bade th' aspiring EAGLE mount the sky, And build her firm aerial nest on high? On the bare cliff, or mountain's shaggy steep, Her fortress of defence she dares to keep; Thence darts her radiant eye's pervading ray, Inquisitive to ken the distant prey. Seeks with her thirsty brood th' ensanguin'd plain, There bathes her beak in blood, companion of the slain. In yonder grave a Druid lies Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its Poet's sylvan grave! In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love thro' life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here, And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear To hear the Woodland Pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep. But Thou, who own'st that earthy bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail? Or tears, which Love and Pity shed That mourn beneath the gliding sail! Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die; And Joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek Nature's Child, again adieu! The genial meads assign'd to bless The life, shall mourn thy early doom, Their hinds, and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes, O! vales, and wild woods, shall He say In yonder grave Your Druid lies! The harp of AEOLUS, of which see a description in the CASTLE OF The doleful dumps I sing, and tearful woes, Of MARIAN teeming with unlawful throes: The sheenest lass in Berkshire was she known, Of all that butter sell to Reading town: Not the seven sisters could o'er her prevail, The golden farmer's daughters of the vale, Tho' every Oxford muse their charms has sung And gravest doctors join'd the tuneful throng. Ye peers! who careless of ambition, chuse To court the labours of the past'ral muse; And all the wond'rous bards who try the lay Where black Cam rolls, or Isis' eddies play, Assist the labours of an humble swain, Rude to the pipe, and novice on the plain. Nine months successive now had rolled round, Since MARIAN first the pleasing mischief found; In vain her hands had cull'd th' abortive weed, Nor aught avail'd the 'pothecary's aid. Her womb began with fatal size to swell, And sick'ning qualms the blushful secret tell: Then all in sad despair she made her moan, Lodona's waters echoed groan for groan. "Ah! faithless COLIN CLOUT! ah, luckless I! "And canst thou, cruel! from thy MARIAN fly? "How often hast thou suck'd my panting breath? "How often swore to love me true till death? "But to the Justice I'll reveal my plight, "And with a constable pursue thy flight. "Ah! how unequal, as our parson preaches, "Are this world's goods! and sure he rightly teaches; "For what to maidens brings eternal stain, "(Sad management!) gives honour to the swain. "'Twas on the blithest morn of all the year, "When new-born May bids every shepherd chear; "When artful maids their rival fancies shew, "And well-wrought garlands bloom on ev'ry bough; "When gaudy fairs bespangle every street, "And lowing cows the novel pasture greet; "Fresh rose I, MARIAN hight, from rustic bed, "The morning dream still hov'ring o'er my head; "Gay shews and sweethearts had employ'd my thought, "The kiss imprinted, and the fairing bought! "From lavander I drew the tucker'd smock, "And hosen boastful of a various clock; "The silver'd knot well scollop'd on my head, "And donn'd the sunday gown berob'd with red. "Thus all bedight, and ready for the fair, "I sat impatient with a wistful air, "Expecting COLIN CLOUT, my perjur'd swain, "Who always follow'd MARIAN on the plain: "With him the moon-light walk I us'd to tread, "With him I danc'd upon the sportive mead; "That very morn had taught the snails to crawl, "And print mysterious letters on the wall. "At length he came, and I with joyous meed "Mounted behind him on the pillion'd steed: "Sweetly I sung, he whistled to the lay, "Sweetly I sung the song, and sung the day: "_What beauteous scenes_ began the tuneful tale! "And next I humm'd _the sweets of Arno's vale_; "Then MOLLY MOGG, fair damsel of the Rose, "And _lovely_ PEGGY, taste of London beaux. "And now in view gay Reading strikes our eyes, "And all the dainties of the fair arise: "Here Birmingham its boasted ware displays, "There leather breeches hight, and bodice stays; "Here posied garters flutter'd in the way, "There painted hobby-horses seem to neigh; "Here belles in gingerbread all gilded over, "And little gew-gaw H----YS act the lover. "Shepherds and nymphs from every part repair, "All who from Oxford hills direct the share, "Who fell the forest, or who mow the mead, "Or drag in little boats the finny breed: "Her wide-mouth'd sons low-seated Henley sends, "And smoky Okingham it's tribute lends. "But far did MARIAN all the rest outvie, "No cheek so ruddy, nor so black an eye; "Scarce DOLLY C----K the daughter of the may'r, "With all the flaxen ringlets of her hair, "With all the snowy fulness of her breast, "In blithsome features might with me contest. "All youths ambitiously around me strove, "Each gave some chosen emblem of his love; "One queintly bought the garters for my thighs, "While simple archness sparkled in his eyes. "But all their fairings unsuccessful prove, "Still true to COLIN CLOUT I held my love. "----Ah! sly deceiver! you enclasp'd my arm, "And seem'd my saviour, while you meant my harm; "Far too unequal was the high reward, "My maidenhead must pay thee for thy guard; "Already warm'd with joy you win my heart, "And stamp a little COLIN e'er we part. "--Yet now, when nature fills my womb, to fly-- "Nor yet one tear to issue from thine eye-- "My slighted love to quick resentment turns; "Lo my blood rises, and my cheek all burns! "O I could tear thee as I tear this glove-- "Go, horrid monster! I despise thy love, "Thy oaths I quit, thy fairings I resign, "Forget, renounce thee, hate whate'er was thine. "No christian mother bound thy infant head, "Some Turk begat thee, or some Papist bred; "Or dropt on Cambrian hills, a squalid brat, "Some she-goat suckled thee with savage teat. "--Go to thy drab, whoe'er has won thy heart, "And may the pox devouring make thee smart; "My vengeful ghost shall haunt thee o'er the plain, "Yes, thou shalt suffer, villain, for my pain. "--But ah! my rage relents, my sorrow flows; "Come COLIN! faithless shepherd! ease my woes. "And must I in the sheet opprobrious stand? "Thy plight is troth'd, ah! come and give thy hand: "My conscience starts, whene'er I hear a knell, "And is a little love deserving hell? "Too hard a penance for a sin so slight! "Ah how my heart misgives me every night! "When sleep has clos'd my sorrow-streaming eyes, "Then ghastly dreams, and hateful thoughts arise: "All unaccompany'd methinks I go "O'er Irish bogs, a wilderness of woe! "Ah! my wits turn! strange phantoms round me fly! "Lo! I am chang'd into a goosb'ry pye! "Forbear to eat me up, inhuman rabble! "Cocks crow, ducks quake, hens cackle, turkies gabble." Thus as she rav'd, her womb with rueful throes Did to the light a lusty babe disclose: Long while she doubted of the smirking boy, Or on her knee to dandle, or destroy; Love prompted her to save, and Pride to drown, At length Pride conquer'd, and she dropt her son. The Rev. Dr. WILKES wrote a poem upon them. _Nec tibi diva parens, generis nec Dardanus auctor, Perfide, sed duris genuit te cautibus horrens Caucasus, Hyrcanaeque admorunt ubera tigres._ _I, sequere Italiam ventis, &c. Spero equidem mediis, siquid pia numina, &c._ _Omnibus umbra locis adero, dabis, improbe, poenas._ _----Semperque relinqui Sola sibi, semper longam_ incomitata _videtur Ire viam, & Tyrios deserta quaerere terra, Eumenidum veluti demens videt agmina Pentheus, &c._ What fears, what terrors does thy gift create! Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate! The myrtle, ensign of supreme command, (Consign'd by VENUS to MELISSA'S hand) Not less capricious than a reigning fair, Oft favours, oft rejects the lover's care. In myrtle groves oft sings the happy swain, In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain; The myrtle crowns the happy lovers heads, Th' unhappy lovers graves the myrtle spreads; Oh! then the meaning of thy gift impart, And cure the throbbings of an anxious heart; Soon must this bough, as you shall fix his doom, Adorn PHILANDER'S head, or grace his tomb. In this small work all nature's wonders see, The soften'd features of philosophy. In truth by easy steps you here advance, Truth, as diverting as the best romance. Long had these arts to sages been confin'd, None saw their beauty, till by poring blind; By studying spent, like men that cram too full, From Wisdom's feast they rose not chear'd, but dull: The gay and airy smil'd to see 'em grave, And fled such wisdom like TROPHONIUS' cave. Justly they thought they might those arts despise, Which made men sullen, ere they could be wise. Brought down to sight, with ease you view 'em here; Tho' deep the bottom, yet the stream is clear. Your flutt'ring sex still valued science less; Careless of any, but the arts of dress. Their useless time was idly thrown away On empty novels, or some new-born play. The best, perhaps, a few loose hours might spare For some unmeaning thing, miscall'd a pray'r. In vain the glittering orbs, each starry night, With mingling blazes shed a flood of light: Each nymph with cold indiff'rence saw 'em rise; And, taught by fops, to them preferr'd her eyes. None thought the stars were suns so widely sown, None dreamt of other worlds, besides our own. Well might they boast their charms, when ev'ry fair Thought this world all, and hers the brightest here. Ah! quit not the large thoughts this book inspires, For those thin trifles which your sex admires; Assert your claim to sense, and shew mankind, That reason is not to themselves confin'd. The haughty belle, whose beauty's awful shrine. 'Twere sacrilege t' imagine not divine, Who thought so greatly of her eyes before, Bid her read this, and then be vain no more. How poor ev'n You, who reign without controul, If we except the beauties of your soul! Should all beholders feel the same surprize; Should all who see you, see you with my eyes; Were no such blasts to make that beauty less; Should you be what I think, what all confess: 'Tis but a narrow space those charms engage; One Island only, and not half an Age. Being the BIRTH-DAY of a very beautiful YOUNG LADY. Hail eldest of the monthly train, Sire of the winter drear, DECEMBER, in whose iron reign Expires the chequer'd year: Hush all the blust'ring blasts that blow, And proudly plum'd in silver snow Smile gladly on this blest of days; The livery'd clouds shall on thee wait, And PHOEBUS shine in all his state, With more than summer rays. Tho' jocund JUNE may justly boast Long days and happy hours; Tho' AUGUST be POMONA'S host, And MAY be crown'd with flow'rs; Tell JUNE his fire and crimson dyes By HARRIOT'S blush, and HARRIOT'S eyes Eclips'd and vanquish'd fade away; Tell AUGUST, thou canst let him see A richer, riper fruit than He, A sweeter flow'r than MAY. In the kalendies of Januarie, When fresche PHOEBUS by moving circulair From Capricorn was enter'd in Aquarie, With blastis that the branches made full bare, The snow and sleet perturbit all the air, And flemit FLORA from everie bank and bus, Throuch support of the austeir Eolus. Efter that I the lang wynteris night Had lyne waking in my bed allone Throw hevy thought, that na way sleep I micht, Remembering of divers thingis gone; Sa up I rois, and cleithit me anone By this fair Titan with his lemis licht O'er all the land had spred his banner bricht. With cloke and hude I dressit me belive, With dowbill schone, and myttains on my handis, Howbeit the air was richt penetratyve, Zet fure I forth lansing outhort the landis, Towards the sea, to schort me on the sandis Because unblomit was baith bank and bray, And sa as I was passing by the way, I met dame FLORA in dule weid disagysit, Quilk into May was dulce and delectabill, With stalwart stormis hir sweetness was surprisit, Hir heavinlie hewis war turnit into sabill, Quilkis umguile war to Luffaris amiabill, Fled from the froist, the tender flouris I saw Under dame Nature's mantill lurking law. The small fowlis in flockis saw I flee To nature makand lamentatioun, They lichtit down beside me on ane tree, Of thair complaint I had compassioun, And with ane piteous exclamation They said "blyssit be somer with his flouris, "And waryit be thou wynter with thy schowris. "Allace AURORE, (the sillie lark did cry) "Quhair has thou left thy balmy liquour sweit, "That us rejoisit mounting in the sky? "Thy silver dropps are turned into sleit. "Of fair PHEBUS quhair is the holsum heit, "Quhy tholis thow thy hevinlie plesand face, "With mystie vapouris to be obscurit, allace! "Quhair art thou May, with June thy sister schene "Weill bordourit with daseis of delyte? "And gentill Julie, with thy mantill grene, "Enamelit with rosis reid and quhyte? "Now auld and cauld Januar in dispyte "Reissis from us all pastime and plesure "Allace! quhait gentle hart may this indure? "Ovirsilit ar with cloudis odious "The goldin skyis of the orient, "Changeing in sorrow our sing melodious, "Quhilk we had wont to sing with gude intent, "Resoundand to the hevinnis firmament, "But now our day is changed into the nicht," With that they rose and flew forth of my sicht. Stately stept he east the wa, And stately stept he west, Full seventy zeirs he now had sene, With skerss sevin zeirs of rest. He livit quhen Britons breach of faith Wroucht Scotland meikle wae. And ay his sword told to their cost, He was their deidly fae. Hie on a hill his castle stude, With halls and touris a hicht, And guidly chambers fair to se, Quair he lodgit mony a knicht. His Dame sa peirless anes and fair, For chast and bewtie deimt, Nae marrow had in all the land, Saif ELENOR the queen. Full thirtein sons to him scho bare, All men of valour stout; In bluidy ficht with sword in hand, Nyne lost their lives bot doubt; Four zit remain, lang may they live To stand my liege and land: Hie was their fame, hie was their micht, And hie was their command. Great luve they bare to FAIRLY fair, Their sister saft and deir, And gowden glist her hair. Quhat waefou wae hir bewtie bred? Waefou to zung and auld, Waefou I trow to kyth and kin, As story ever tauld. The king of Norse in summer tyde, Puft up with power and micht, Landed in fair Scotland the yle, With mony a hardy knicht: The tydings to our gude Scots king Came, as he sat at dyne, With noble chiefs in braif aray, Drinking the blude-reid wyne. "To horse, to horse, my ryal liege, "Zour faes stand on the strand, "Full twenty thousand glittering spears "The king of Norse commands. Bring me my steed Mage dapple grey, Our gude king raise and cryd, A trustier beast in all the land A Scots king nevir seyd. Go little page, tell HARDYKNUTE, That lives on hill so hie, To draw his sword, the dreid of faes, And haste and follow me. The little page flew swift as dart Flung by his master's arm, Cum down, cum down lord HARDYKNUTE, And rid zour king frae harm. Then reid, reid grow his dark-brown cheiks, Sae did his dark-brown brow; His luiks grew kene, as they were wont, In dangers great to do; He hes tane a horn as grene as glass, And gien five sounds sae shrill, That treis in grene wode schuke thereat, Sae loud rang ilka hill. His sons in manly sport and glie, Had pass'd the summer's morn, Quhen lo! down in a grassy dale, They heard their fatheris horn. That horn, quod they, neir sounds in peace, We haif other sport to byde; And sune they heyd them up the hill, And sune were at his syde. Late, late the zestrene I weind in peace To end my lengthen'd lyfe, My age micht weil excuse my arm Frae manly feats of stryfe; But now that NORSE dois proudly boast Fair Scotland to inthrall, Its neir be said of HARDYKNUTE He feard to ficht or fall. ROBIN of Rothsay, bend thy bow, Thy arrows shoute sae leil, Many a comely countenance They haif turnd to deidly pale: Brade THOMAS tak ze but zour lance, Ze need nae weapons mair, Gif ze ficht weit as ze did anes Gainst Westmorland's serfs heir. MALCOM, licht of fute as stag That runs in forest wyld, Get me my thousands thrie of men Well bred to sword and schield: Bring me my horse and harnisine My blade of metal cleir; If faes kend but the hand it bare, They sune had fled for feir. Farewell my dame sae peirless gude, And take her by the hand, Fairer to me in age zou seim, Than maids for bewtie fam'd: My zoungest son sall here remain To guard these stately towirs, And shut the silver bolt that keips Sae fast zour painted bowirs. And first scho wet her comely cheiks, And then hir boddice grene, Hir silken cords of twirtle twist, Weil plett with silver schene; And apron set with mony a dice Of neidle-wark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ze may guess, Saif that of FAIRLY fair. And he has ridden owre muir and moss, Owre hills and mony a glen, Quhen he came to a wounded knicht, Making a heavy mane; Here maun I lye, here maun I die, By treacheries false gyles; Witless I was that eir gaif faith To wicked womans smiles. Sir knicht, gin ze were in my bowir, To lean on silken seat, To ladyis kindly care zoud prove, Quha neir stend deidly hate; Hir self wald watch ze all the day, Hir maids a deid of nicht; And FAIRLY fair zour heart wald cheir, As scho stands in zour sicht. Aryse zoung knicht, and mount zour steid, Full lowns the shynand day, Cheis frae my menzie quhom ze pleis, To leid ze on the way. With smyless luke, and visage wan, The wounded knicht reply'd, Kynd chiftain, zour intent pursue, For here I maun abyde. To me nae after day nor nicht, Can eir be sweit or fair, But sune beneath sum draping tree, Cauld death sall end my care. With him nae pleiding micht prevail, Brave HARDYKNUTE in to gain, With fairest words and reason strong, Strave courteously in vain. Syne he has gane far hynd attowre, Lord CHATTANS land sae wyde, That lord a worthy wicht was ay, Quhen faes his courage seyd: Of Pictish race by mothers syde, Quhen Picts ruld Caledon, Lord CHATTAN claimd the princely maid, Quhen he saift Pictish crown. Now with his serfs and stalwart train, He reicht a rysing heicht, Quhair braid encampit on the dale, Norss menzie lay in sicht; Zonder my valiant sons and serfs, Our raging revers wait, On the unconquerit Scottish swaird, To try with us thair fate. Mak orisons to him that saift Our sauls upon the rude, Syne braifly schaw zour veins ar filld With Caledonian blude. Then furth he drew his trusty glaive, Quhyle thousands all arround, Drawn frae their sheaths glanst in the sun, And loud the bougills sound. To join his king adoun the hill In hast his merch he made, Quhyle, playand pibrochs, minstralls meit Afore him stately strade; Thryse welcome, valziant stoup of weir, Thy nations scheild and pryde; Thy king nae reason has to feir Quhen thou art by his syde. Quhen bows were bent and darts were thrawn, For thrang scarce could they flie, The darts clove arrows as they met, The arrows dart the trie. Lang did they rage and ficht full ferss, With little skaith to man, But bludy, bludy was the field, Or that lang day was done. The king of Scots that findle bruik'd The war that luikd like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow, Sen bows seimt but delay: Quoth noble ROTHSAY, myne I'll keip, I wate its bleid a skore. Hast up my merry men, cryd the king, As he rade on before. The king of Norse he socht to find, With him to mense the faucht, But on his forehead there did licht A sharp unsonsie shaft; As he his hand put up to find The wound, an arrow kene, O waefou chance! there pinnd his hand In midst betwene his ene. Revenge, revenge, cryd ROTHSAYS heir, Your mail-coat sall nocht byde The strength and sharpness of my dart; Then sent it through his syde: Another arrow weil he markd, It persit his neck in twa, His hands then quat the silver reins, His law as eard did fa. Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleids. Again with micht he drew And gesture dreid his sturdy bow, Fast the braid arrow flew: Wae to the knicht he ettled at, Lament now quene ELGREID, Hie dames to wail zour darlings fall, His zouth and comely meid. Take aff, take aff his costly jupe (Of gold weil was it twynd, Knit lyke the fowlers net throuch quhilk His steilly harness shynd) Take NORSE, that gift frae me, and bid Him venge the blude it beirs; Say, if he face my bended bow, He sure nae weapon fears. Proud NORSE with giant body tall, Braid shoulder and arms strong, Cryd, quhair is HARDYKNUTE sae famd, And feird at Britains throne? Tho Britons tremble at his name, I sune sall make him wail, That eir my sword was made sae sharp, Sae saft his coat of mail. That brag his stout heart coud na byde. It lent him zouthfou micht: I'm HARDYKNUTE this day, he cryd, To Scotlands king I hecht, To lay thee low at horses hufe, My word I mean to keip. Syne with the first strake eir he strake, He garrd his body bleid. NORSE ene like gray gosehawks staird wyld, He sicht with shame and spyte; Disgracd is now my far-famd arm That left thee power to stryke: Then gaif his head a blaw sae fell, It made him doun to stoup, As law as he to ladies usit, In courtly gyse to lout. Full sune he reis'd his bent body, His bow he marvelld sair, Sen blaws till then on him but darrd As touch of FAIRLY fair: NORSE ferliet too as sair as he To se his stately luke, Sae sune as eir he strake a fae, Sae sune his lyfe he tuke. Quair lyke a fyre to hether set, Bauld THOMAS did advance, A sturdy fae with luke enragd Up towards him did prance; He spurd his steid throw thickest ranks The hardy zouth to quell Quha stude unmusit at his approach His furie to repel. That schort brown shaft sae meanly trimd, Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir, But dreidfull seims the rusty point! And loud he leuch in jeir. Aft Britains blude has dimd its shyne This poynt cut short their vaunt; Syne piercd the boisteris bairded cheik, Nae tyme he tuke to taunt. Schort quhyle he in his sadill swang, His stirrip was nae stay, Sae feible hang his unbent knee, Sure taken he was fey: Swith on the hardened clay he fell, Richt far was heard the thud, But THOMAS luikt not as he lay, All waltering in his blude. With cairles gesture mynd ummuvit On raid he north the plain, His seim in thrang of fiercest stryfe, Quhen winner ay the same; Nor zit his heart dames dimpelit cheik, Coud meise saft luve to bruik, Till vengeful ANN returnd his scorn, Then languid grew his luke. In thrawis of death, with wallowit cheik All panting on the plain, The fainting corps of warriors lay, Neir to aryse again; Neir to return to native land, Nae mair with blythsome sounds, To boist the glories of the day, And schaw their shyning wounds. On Norways coast the widowit dame May wash the rock with teirs, May lang luke owre the schiples seis Befoir hir mate appeirs. Ceise, EMMA, ceise to hope in vain, Thy lord lyis in the clay, The valziant Scots nae revers thole To carry lyfe away. There on a lie quhair stands a cross Set up for monument, Thousands full fierce that summers day Filld kene waris black intent. Let Scots quhyle Scots, praise HARDYKNUTE Let NORSE the name ay dreid, Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird, Sal latest ages reid. Loud and chill blew the westlin wind, Sair beat the heavy showir, Mirk grew the nicht, eir HARDYKNUTE Wan neir his stately towir; His towir that usd with torches bleise To shyne sae far at nicht, Seimd now as black as mourning weid, Nae marvel sair he sichd. Thairs nae licht in my lady's bowir, Thairs nae licht in my hall; Nae blink shynes round my FAIRLY fair, Nor ward stands on my wall. Quhat bodes it? ROBERT, THOMAS say, Nae answer fits their dreid. Stand back, my sons, I'll be zour gyde, But by they past with speid. As fast I haif sped owre Scotlands faes, There ceist his brag of weir, Sair schamit to mynd ocht but his dame, And maiden FAIRLY fair. Black feir he felt, but quhat to feir He wist not zit with dreid; Sair schuke his body, sair his limbs, And all the warrior fleid. Once more I join the Thespian quire, And taste th' inspiring fount again: O parent of the Graecian lyre, Admit me to thy secret strain.---- And lo! with ease my step invades The pathless vale and opening shades, Till now I spy her verdant seat; And now at large I drink the sound, While these her offspring, list'ning round, By turns her melody repeat. I see ANACREON smile and sing: His silver tresses breathe perfume; His cheek displays a second spring Of roses taught by wine to bloom. Away, deceitful cares, away! And let me listen to his lay! While flow'ry dreams my soul employ; While turtle-wing'd the laughing hours Lead hand in hand the festal pow'rs, Lead Youth and Love, and harmless Joy. Broke from the fetters of his native land, Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords, With louder impulse, and a threat'ning hand, The Lesbian patriot smites the sounding chords: Ye wretches, ye perfidious train, Ye curst of Gods and free-born men, Ye murd'rers of the laws, Tho' now you glory in your lust, Tho' now you tread the feeble neck in dust, Yet time and righteous JOVE will judge your dreadful cause. But lo, to SAPPHO'S mournful airs Descends the radiant queen of love; She smiles, and asks what fonder cares Her suppliant's plaintive measures move: Why is my faithful maid distrest? Who, SAPPHO, wounds thy tender breast? Say, flies he?----Soon he shall pursue: Shuns he thy gifts?----He too shall give: Slights he thy sorrows?----He shall grieve, And bend him to thy haughtiest vow. But, O MELPOMENE, for whom Awakes thy golden shell again? What mortal breath shall e'er presume To echo that unbounded strain? Majestic, in the frown of years, Behold, the Man of Thebes appears: For some there are, whose mighty frame The hand of JOVE at birth endow'd With hopes that mock the gazing crowd; As eagles drink the noontide flame. While the dim raven beats his weary wings, And clamours far below.----Propitious Muse, While I so late unlock thy hallow'd springs, And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse, To polish Albion's warlike ear This long-lost melody to hear, Thy sweetest arts imploy; As when the winds from shore to shore, Thro' Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore, Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy. But oft amid the Graecian throng, The loose-rob'd forms of wild desire With lawless notes intun'd thy song, To shameful steps dissolv'd thy quire. O fair, O chaste, be still with me From such profaner discord free: While I frequent thy tuneful shade, No frantic shouts of Thracian dames, No satyrs fierce with savage flames Thy pleasing accents shall invade. Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat The fairest flow'rs of Pindus glow; The vine aspires to crown thy seat, And myrtles round thy laurel grow. Thy strings attune their varied strain, To ev'ry pleasure, every pain, Which mortal tribes were born to prove, And strait our passions rise or fall, As at the wind's imperious call The ocean swells, the billows move. When midnight listens o'er the slumb'ring earth, Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear: When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth, With airy murmurs touch my op'ning ear. And ever watchful at thy side, Let wisdom's awful suffrage guide The tenour of thy lay: To her of old by JOVE was giv'n To judge the various deeds of earth and heav'n; 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway. Oft as from stricter hours resign'd I quit the maze where science toils, Do thou refresh my yielding mind With all thy gay, delusive spoils. But, O indulgent, come not nigh The busy steps, the jealous eye Of gainful care, and wealthy age, Whose barren souls thy joys disdain, And hold as foes to reason's reign Whome'er thy lovely haunts engage. With me, when mirth's consenting band Around fair friendship's genial board Invite the heart-awakening hand, With me salute the Teian chord. Or if invok'd at softer hours, O seek with me the happy bow'rs That hear DIONE'S gentle tongue; To beauty link'd with virtue's train, To love devoid of jealous pain, There let the Sapphic lute be strung. But when from envy and from death to claim A hero bleeding for his native land; Or when to nourish freedom's vestal flame, I hear my genius utter his command, Nor Theban voice, nor Lesbian lyre From thee, O Muse, do I require, While my prophetic mind, Conscious of pow'rs she never knew, Astonish'd grasps at things beyond her view, Nor by another's fate hath felt her own confin'd.

Elizabeth Harrison

Christmas-Tide

1849

Obvious punctuation repaired.

Matilda Sager

A Survivor's Recollections of the Whitman Massacre

1839

And other Verse And other Verse. There's a whisper of life in the grey dead trees, And a murmuring wash on the shore, And a breath of the South in the loitering breeze, To tell that a winter is o'er. While free, at last, from its fetters of ice The river is clear and blue, And cries with a tremulous quivering voice For the launch of the White Canoe. Oh, gently the ripples will kiss her side, And tenderly bear her on; For she is the wandering phantom bride Of the river she rests upon; She is loved with a love that cannot forget, A passion so strong and true, That never a billow has risen yet To peril the White Canoe. So come when the moon is enthroned in the sky, And the echoes are sweet and low, And Nature is full of the mystery That none but her children know; Come, taste of the rest that the weary crave, But is only revealed to a few: When there's trouble on shore, there's peace on the wave, To-night, sweetheart, when all about me lay In shadow deep the wood, I felt my soul within me reel and sway And pulse my sluggish blood, As when along a quiet land-locked bay Swells some resistless flood. My spirit leapt from out its earthly prison, Higher and ever higher, Until it reached those barriers Elysian Where the eternal fire Creates one great impassable division Twixt us and our desire. Up, till it left the regions of the night, Of sorrow and of fear, Emerging into that soft mellow light, That radiance pure and clear, Where Love reigns all supreme, and all is bright If only Love be near. There through sweet meadows, on by brimming streams, Wandered my soul at will, And saw such forms as haunt our loveliest dreams And, waking, haunt us still; Voices like music, smiles like sunny beams Lost in a rippling rill. But ah! my soul saw one supremely fair, One form the most divine, One face enhaloed all with golden hair, In beauty most benign, Surpassing all the perfect beauty there: Heart of my heart, 'twas thine! My soul went forth, but all grew strange and dim-- Meadow and stream were gone-- I heard a sound as of a far-off hymn By night winds softly blown; Then all around me seemed to sink and swim, And I am here alone. Pale Moon, whose tranquil orb resplendent sails The ethereal main; thy curved prow For ever braving the celestial gales, Serene and slow: Myriads of Stars, that ever dot the blue Great vault of heaven: eyes that keep Eternal watch, unshaken, strong, and true, Yet never sleep: Ye southern Zephyrs, redolent with balm Of myrtle, orange, and the rose; Blowing from islands where the fronded palm In beauty grows: Wind of the North, whose trumpet voice can shake The shuddering echoes of the cave; Storm-born, blast-driven; thou, whose breath doth make The mighty wave: Perpetual Fire, whose never-dying flame Consumes the glowing heart of earth, Until a wide destruction shall proclaim A second birth: Tell me, oh! mighty concourse, have ye seen In all this great infinity Of worlds unborn and planets that have been, A place for me? Silent around me a cathedral dim, Still throbbing with the echoes of a hymn, Lifted its ghostly arches, great and grim; Slowly the worshippers had filed away; Untenanted the vacant cloisters lay; As even followed on the steps of day; But one remained, who bent his reverent head Where graven figures slumber with the dead, And spake with faltering accents, and he said: "Light, light, more light; Great Father, give me light; I cannot see my way, so dark the night; My finite heart shrinks from the infinite. "Anon the shadow lifts: my straining eyes One moment see that which before me lies; This fades, and new-born hope within me dies. "I looked for sunshine, yet there cometh rain; My sweetest pleasure turneth into pain: I would sink back to nothingness again. "Beliefs are but perpetual ideas, The gospel worketh only on my fears, In bitterness and sorrow, void of tears; "In one God I believe, eternally Omnipotent and present, and that He Rules Heaven and Hell, the earth, the sky, the sea. "As carnal life by carnal love is given, So life divine by love divine is proven, Of which the fountain head is God in Heaven. "That since each body is the fleshly home Of something better, something not our own, So God all faults but foulness will condone. "For I believe impurity is sin Against the Spirit life that dwells within Creating Father and created men; "That every soul is judged true and well According to the light that on it fell: No light, no judgment; strong light, Heaven or Hell. "All this and more; Great Father, I have heard Of Thy dear Son; my heart expectant stirred To welcome Him, confessing I had erred. "Nay, said humanity within me, nay, I cannot grasp this mystery, so stay Until I comprehend, and I obey: "I would, yet cannot--herein lies my grief. Thy Son spake comfort to the dying thief, So speak to me and help mine unbelief." Here the voice faltered, ceased. God, can it be The morn has dawned on him and not on me? Is this the Publican, I Pharisee? Others their nectar from the goblet sip; I draw sweet solace from thine amber lip. "A feast of reason and a flow of soul" Lurk in the perfumed vapors of thy bowl. Some scoff, and say I err from nature's rules-- Tobacco's poison; but, friend, some are fools. If times are hard, no comrade like to thee; If prosperous, thou'rt the priest of jollity. Browned in my service, silver-rimmed through age, Thy smouldering fire, reflection's heritage; When the day comes, old friend, and I'm dead broke, Then just one puff--we'll both go up in smoke. Supposing that when we were wed, love, And two were reduced into one, That a hot-tempered word should be said, love, And thoughtlessly mischief be done; That you should be proud and offended. And I should be heartless and cold: Do you think that our peace would be ended, The tale of our happiness told? Supposing that children should come, love, It may be a girl and a boy, And my heart should go forth to the one, love, The other your pride and your joy; Do you think that although so divided, Yet we still in our plans could agree, And always the best be provided, For our dear ones by you and by me? Supposing that times were so bad, love, That ends couldn't possibly meet-- And I should get weary and sad, love, While you were still hopeful and sweet; Do you think you'd inspirit and cheer me, And help me to weather the gale, That your presence would ever be near me, Your courage not falter or fail? Supposing, you darling old stupid, That all this should happen, and more, Do you think that the youngster called Cupid Would fly, and his reign would be o'er? No; the bond of affection would stay, dear, Independent of pocket or purse; As a wife I would honor, obey, dear, And love you "for better for worse." The Widower's Lullaby. Dost remember, dear one, floating On a moonlit silver sea; Stars above us, depths beneath us, Shadows covering you and me? Ever drifting, spellbound, silent, Down a shimmering track of light; While around the gloom was throbbing With the mystery of night. Mute our lips; what need of speaking? But our heart chords were as tense As a bowstring stretched to breaking: Every look was eloquence. Till my soul had burst its barriers, And I told you my desire; Told of love, undying passion, Strong as ocean, pure as fire. You nor moved, nor sighed, nor answered, Pale your cheek was as your dress, But the golden lashes drooping Gave response, and it was "Yes." That was five long years ago, dear, Can you hear me as I speak? For again I see the lashes Falling on a pallid cheek. Still, and ah! so silent sleeping, Motionless you take your rest; I've your pledge of love beside me, And your image in my breast. Just one golden head you gave me, Little one with eyes of blue; See, she nestles to my shoulder: Darling, can you see us two? Sleep, little one, sleep, Safe and strong is thy father's arm, He will guard thee from every harm, Soothe thee with kisses soft and warm Sleep, little one, sleep. Sleep, little one, sleep; Close the lids on the wondering eyes, Deep and blue as the summer skies. Far in the west the sunset dies: Sleep, little one, sleep. Sleep, little one, sleep, Thou art more than the world to me, All my life shall be spent for thee, Till Nature comes with her lullaby: Sleep, little one, sleep. Once long ago, a summer night in June, When earth lay still beneath a waning moon. And never sound or rustle in the wood Save the dull thunder of a far-off flood, Hurling itself in ruin to the deep O'er a great gulf, I lay and strove to sleep. The stars were out; I watched with aching eye Their slow grand march across a cloudless sky, But rest came not; when suddenly I heard, Far in the slumbering forest, one lone bird Give three sweet calls, as if in pure delight To fling its soul in music through the night! Like a cool hand upon a fevered brow Came that dear song; all fear had vanished now, Steady my pulse, sunk in oblivion's arms Forgetful as a child of past alarms. Ye who have doubts--who is it has them not? Ye who have fears, and troubled anxious thought, When the storm lulls, will, if ye list aright, Hear a bird singing in your darkest night. One night, with some unquietness and dread, And fear of boding ill within my soul, I fell to sleep; before me, like a scroll, Lay bare the coming years. In them I read, Clear writ as in a book or chart, the vast Futurity, with all its joy and grief, Success and failure, love, hate, unbelief And faith, and that blind parting at the last; Whereat my soul recoiled, nor could it bear To muse on so much labor; better far Not to have been, or else to be perchance Or consciousness; but with the morning star I woke, and thanked God for my ignorance. Thou, with the black stone stem, what of the past? Where are the cunning hands that fashioned thee? Where are the stern brown lips that placidly Drew comfort from thee 'neath the towering mast Of some old pine; or, patient to the last, Toiled over thee? Perchance thou wert a god Worshipped and feared by those whose light feet trod The dim green aisles of that cathedral vast: But now thine incense rises, and I see The still north land, and hear the otter dive, The rapids calling, and the great trout leap; And smoking here it seemeth like to me As if some dead hands touched the hands alive, In token of the fellowship we keep. Silence again, sweetheart, the shadows grow, I watch the white stars climb into the sky, Hear the dull rapids' softened lullaby In smothered thunder, brooding sweet and low; Catch in the east the pallid silver glow Of a new moon, that floating pure and clear In perfect promise of the fuller sphere, Dips this dim world in glory, mounting slow. Not always had the heavens such a charm; Last year the rapids were not half so sweet, The wind had not such rythmic melody, Till, Love, love came, and fanned the cold 'heart warm, Attuned to music chords still incomplete, And set the whole night whispering of thee. It came through the fields of air, It came through the silent night, Borne low on a sigh of a western breeze, Like the far-off voice of tumultuous seas, In a tempest's waning might. I heard the wonderful song, It made its home in my breast; The music of all the world was there, it hushed all murmur of pain or care, A psalm of infinite rest. Ever more clear and pure, Ever more strong and sweet; Till some kindred chord in the outer air, In response to the melody throbbing there, Sang "come" to my restless feet. I heard the mysterious call, I rose and followed it straight, O'er many a mount, through many a dale, Past blazing meadow and shady vale, To the sunset's roseate gate. And never a halt or stop, Till the song I could scarcely hear; It had sunk to an echo, faint and dim, Of some melodious wonderful hymn, So I knew that the end was near. Lower and fainter yet, And more imperceptible still, As I journeyed on; but I climbed one day, With courage that faltered, so steep the way, The crest of a long, long hill. There, far as the eye could scan, Was naught but the fathomless deep, While down at the crag's great base the waves Crept in and out of the blind black caves And whispered ever of sleep. I looked at my hair, 'twas white; My hands were bony and long; The years of my life had vanished and fled, Though they seemed but days that had quickly sped In pursuit of that fugitive song. Then out of the ocean's heart Came swelling a grand refrain, And through it there pulsed an angelic voice: "Now weary mortal, rejoice, rejoice, Thou hast come to thy rest again; "The song that stole into thy breast Was the song of an earthly love, It was but an echo, faint, yet true, Of that mightier song that is pealing through The musical halls above." Then prone on the storm-swept bluff, My face to a golden sky, The breezes played with my toil-stained dress, And I waited and prayed in my loneliness To taste of the worst, and die. So out of the void, a sound From the vast dim space, a breath That fanned the flickering flame of life Till it flared, went out, and ended the strife-- I slept, and the sleep was Death. My heart within me stirred with a nameless trouble and dread Of evil that should betide, and a voice in my bosom said: The foul outbalance the fair, the many oppressed by the few. Answer me, mortal master, after the battle is fought, Six feet of earth for a couch, mayhap a stone, then--what?" How could I answer my heart? When suddenly in my breast There fell a hush as of a wind sinking at eve to rest; The voice within me was stilled, and I felt its murmuring cease, For somewhere out of infinity an angel had whispered "Peace." Again 'twas night, and on the wave The moon in silver lay; Vanished had all the petty cares And troubles of the day. No sound in all the wide expanse, No rustle in the wood, Save when some evening zephyr stirred In whispers on the flood. Breathless and motionless she stood, Twas as a world were waiting there-- Waiting for God to come. Then back, through long dead years, her heart Winged its reflective flight, To ponder childhood's days again, To muse on past delight. A mist came o'er her eyes, her gaze Had spanned the wide gulf o'er, Old voices spake, old scenes recurred, Old friendship lived once more. Serene the skies, no fear, no care, No tempest and no storm, Wild birds and sunshine in the air, And south winds sweet and warm. Ah! perfect youth, ah! perfect life, Free as a cloud above, Ah! fount whence spring the purest hopes, Whence flows the purest love. For if ambition's wildest dreams Success should crown, in truth The cup she holds were tasteless still Beside the wine of youth. All silent now, ah! for the power Again those tales to tell, To wake afresh those sleeping chords That memory loves so well. But, echoing clear and low, those notes, That song, we still may hear, For faintly yet its music floats In old age atmosphere. The summer is dead, for the air is chill, And winter is nigh again; The maples ablaze on each ruddy hill Are dripping with crimson rain; Black dusk comes hard on the steps or day, The breath of the south that blew, Has turned to the north, and bids me say How wildly she leapt at each measured stroke, And mounted the curling swell; How the white foam hung at her bows like smoke, When the great waves rose and fell; No terror for her could a tempest find, No wrath in a frowning sky; Her birth was the union of sea and wind, Her life is a mystery. She swam like a ghost through the ghostly night, That bowed but to her as queen; She sped like a wraith in the silver light. Or a spirit of things unseen: As a leaf in the autumn she sank to sleep, By babbling ripples caressed, And lay in the arms of the cradling deep, On the river's responsive breast. The summer is dead, and alas! no more May we wander, alone and free, By still deep pools and the shadowy shore, And the rapids' soft lullaby; Farewell, farewell, to the peace that lies In that solitude deep and blue; An answering voice from the great stream sighs,

Various

The Boston Cooking-School Magazine (Vol. XV, No. 2, Aug.-Sept., 1910)

To Thee, My Native Land, AMERICA! My heart with pride is filled: my lips exult Because Thou art my Home--my Fatherland. Set in the firmament of fadeless blue, I bare my head and hail the Stars and Stripes, My Country calls! I give what I possess,-- All! _All_ I say! and giving thus, regret That my poor contribution to thy needs, In hours of peril when dark war-clouds loom, Is such a paltry thing When measured by the debt of gratitude I owe for LIBERTY. All that I am and have belongs to Thee. Where Freedom glows and glorifies Mankind, I consecrate My flood-tide strength, my substance--life itself! And rate not this as sacrifice That gives me pleasure to repay In this small way Thy boon and bounty, priceless LIBERTY. If you can find, within, a single line To give you pleasure, then the pleasure's mine; But if you fail and whine, or _josh_ like Billings, You might (I say you _might_!) get back your shillings. But better yet! Bestow this Book of Verses On some friend-foe you love with hate and curses, And your revenge will be attained thereafter For, when he reads it, he will die with laughter. And, Cheerful Reader, if this work contains A soporific for your bulging brains So that you'll _rave about it_ to your neighbors, I'll feel repaid for all rebuffs and labors. Though "Wisdom sometimes borrows, sometimes lends," You'll borrow trouble lending this to friends; But earn my thanks if, when you've praised or shown it, You'll sit upon the lid and never loan it: For ev'ry copy sold, thru friends or slapbacks, Just puts Mo'lasses on my buckwheat flapjacks. And, Critic Friend, who halts Ambition's flight And ties the can to Aspiration's kite, Pray recollect that when _you_ plied the pen And had some stuff accepted now and then, Your tales, O! Henry, did not prove inviting Or else you'd be no Cynic but still writing. There stands a MAN! unyielding and defiant, A master LEADER, bold and self-reliant. He seeks no conquest but his lance is set Against the ruthless Despot's parapet. Alert and conscious of his strength, his thrust Is sure and timely, for his cause is just. Invincible, he rallies to his cause Those who love Justice and respect the laws. To skulking traitors and to spying foes He shows no mercy, but his heart o'erflows For those oppressed, who live, nay! who exist Where arrogance and tyranny persist: But, tho distressed by all this human grief, He weeps not idly, but _compels_ relief: And those he serves by act or speech or pen, One Hundred Million _freemen_, shout, AMEN! "Safe for Democracy the world must be, And all its bondaged peoples shall be free!" So spake the MAN: America thus voiced Its ultimatum, and the Earth rejoiced! Intensely human, cast from mortal clay In Nature's mould, one epoch-making day, Behold a MAN! he seems a higher sort, Refined with purest gold from God's Retort And filled with skill and wisdom, Heaven-sent: God bless and keep our peerless PRESIDENT! To those who never heard my Songs before, And those _who have_, and _want to nevermore_, This Rhapsody, with all its pithy phrases, Has passed the Censors with the highest praises. Released by favor of the Board's caprice, It takes its proper place--a masterpiece! Soft pedal, please! The Knockers are outclassed, And Genius finds its recompense at last! Whene'er I read about this war-time pelf It makes me sick: I can't contain myself! The profits on the _die_-stuffs sent to France Make Croesus' wealth a trifling circumstance; And what the Farmers get for mules and wheat Makes fortunes hitherto quite obsolete. In by-gone days the Bards were praised and pensioned Who now are at the Front--and rarely mentioned: And all these hardships they endure while men _Who write big checks_, thus scandalize the pen. The Writers should throw off their yokes and collars And drill their brains to cultivate the dollars. The talents they possess are strictly mental And can't be utilized for food and rental. Their thoughts are capital, but who'll invest In Sonnet Stock without some _interest_? Or who'd take stock in Poem Plants? Alack! He who invests expects the yellowback. But here I'm talking _money_: what a joke For one to thus discourse who's always broke! Since "money talks" we'll suffer it to speak,-- "I am the thing that countless millions seek; Greed's inspiration, Evil's very root, The Nemesis of those in my pursuit. Kings pay me homage, pawn their crowns to me And, deathless, I enslave their progeny. Men famed for noble deeds, who court my smile, Ofttimes surrender probity to guile: Who, needy, follows my uncertain path, I may elude and favor him who hath,-- For I have wings, and lightning speeds my flight,-- Wealthy to-day, a pauper overnight! The Ticker tells the tale from day to day: Brings joy to some, to others dire dismay." This Work is copyrighted just to show To what low depths the Pirate Press will go. They borrow thunder from the Vulcan forge, Then draw the fire and put the smut on George. Each song or verse, it seems to me, should be Distinguished by originality If nothing else (the matter may be sloppy,-- But that's no matter if there's ample copy) So that the Author's face could be unmasked And recognized without a question asked; Or, so identify Calliope By strident notes of high-toned quality; Or thus detect some Poet's "fist" and style By I. O. U.'s unhonored yet awhile. The Pirates thus would cease perforce their trade, And Bacon would not be confused with Ade. In all my songs I do the work myself, And draw no inspiration from the Shelf. Perhaps my lines would be more read, if cribbed, But George and I, you know, have never fibbed, And what is more, I think my lines are sweeter Than those of Dante, with infernal meter; And more heroic, and not half so sad As Homer's couplets in the _Ill_iad; And far more musical and much prettier Than those by Tennyson or by Whittier. Each bar is known to me, its licensee, And ev'ry note has had my scrutiny: I also watch my pauses, moods and tenses, And have no words with fair amanuenses. If you could see my workshop (do not ask it!) You'd find more "carbons" in my paper-basket, More rough, unpolished diamonds there immured Than you, Dear Reader, ever have endured. That's what I lack! If ever born again I'd requisition Hebrew sire and dam, Something akin, methinks, to Abraham, Gloss o'er their flaws, and turn them into cash. Tho' sore oppressed they're still the Chosen Few: A _few_ in numbers but a mighty host When reckoned by the things that count the most,-- I mean _achievements_, won by toilsome stages In spite of persecutions thru the Ages. I see these Davids watching o'er their flocks In Palestine. (To-day they watch their stocks And clip the coupons from their bonds, you see, Just as they sheared the lambs in Galilee.) _There_ milk and honey in abundance vied To keep the Simple Simons satisfied; But _here_ to luxuries the Josephs cling, And milk the honey from most everything. Time was when you were treated with disdain But now the tune is quite a changed refrain, And Gentiles everywhere take special pains To pay respectful tribute to your brains! Behold your ancient hills and rugged rocks; Your fruitful valleys with their golden shocks Of Grain that, grouped around the stately dates, Seem to defy the _threshing_ that awaits! Here olives ripen 'neath the summer skies And yield rich oil,--first Standard Oil supplies; 'Twas here the mighty Samson filled with awe The Philistines and flayed them with his jaw; (No man before, or since, thus courted fame, For woman holds these records in _her_ name.) And here wise Solomon refused the vote In statecraft matters to the Petticoat; But when the Referendum was installed The wise old King's objection was Recalled. And then there's David caring for his sheep, And big Goliath (_rocking_ him to sleep). And Jehu with his pair of chestnut colts Trotting the highway down like thunderbolts. If Jehu _reined_ to-day he'd swap his stable For high-power Auto, with a foreign label, And hold the record for the Shore Road trip From Tyre to Sidon at a lightning clip,-- And make his whiskers, driven by the breeze, Look like a storm-tossed frigate on the seas. There's Jacob dreaming, seeing more than Esau, And giving him the double-cross and hee-haw; Obtaining Esau's birthright (Silly Dupe!) For three brass spheroids and a bowl of soup. He traded for it--didn't have to buy it! 'Cause Brother Hairy, glutton, wouldn't diet. But "chickens come back home to roost," forsooth, And Jacob in his dotage learned this truth, When Leah's sons, of ordinary clay, Put Rachel's Joseph in the consomme. As Financiers the palm has been bestowed, In panegyric, melody and ode, On Jacob's sons. The caravans, that passed Thru burning sands, from cities far and vast, Into their land that teemed with grain and gold, Were richly laden. Thus they bought and sold, Exchanging corn and cattle, hides and honey For finest silks and linens, gems and money,-- Until, thru bargain-insight, skill and daring, They cornered all the fabrics used for wearing, And then proceeded, with discerning lust, To hump themselves and form a Camel Trust. The Traders who had plied this Cargo Route Could never, in their deals, get cash to boot From Jacob's sons. Sometimes a fleece or skin, Of little size and worth, would be thrown in, But shekels--No! And so the nomad Sheik In quest of easy picking; Turk and Greek; The wily Fellah from the distant Nile Whose gaudy gewgaw "gems" reflect his guile; The sleepy Peddlers from the Land of Nod, Who still shekinah on ancestral sod; And all the Wise Men from the Eastern marts Who plan their ventures by the Astral charts, Plotted and vowed, by Imps and Endor Witches, To wrest from Jacobs Brothers all their riches. So, working now with Bulls, anon with Bears; Rigging the market to advance their wares Or to depress the House of Jacobs' shares, It looked as if the plotters might make good Against the unsuspecting Brotherhood. But patiently the Brethren stood their ground, Unmindful of the rumors passed around, Or baits to tempt Cupidity thrown out, That throttle Judgment and put Sense to rout,-- Until the market, unsupported, broke: Then, feigning sleep, they suddenly awoke And took possession of the Stock Exchange. Like beaten curs or mongrels with the mange The Plotters cringed. The _Shorts_ in wild dismay To cover ran, but Zounds! they had to pay Four prices to the Brethren who controlled The entire issue of the short stock sold. And thus the Brethren made a tidy sum, Keeping their standing in Financialdom. Keen businessmen, they sold or bought as well, But never showed _anxiety_ to sell. So Jacob's Sons became, as was their bent, The mighty Merchants of the Orient. No goose that ever layed a golden egg Would needs have come to one of them to beg For life or respite. "Nay! Lay on, Good Goose! We'll shield thee and thy gander from abuse!" Long-headed and kind-hearted, in such cases Their noses were not lopped to spite their faces. Too wise they were: they had too good a teacher To make the nose too prominent a feature! While yet the goose was itching for the nest They egged her on and Quack! she did the rest. A goose she would appear to give so much To those who had--but Life is ever such. But Jacob's Sons like Isaac, sturdy Oak, Made no complaint but bore their golden yolk, And, thrifty men, in many baskets stored The golden ovals and increased their hoard. And so their nests were feathered, as we know, But cautious men they were, who didn't crow. And so we see them on the filmy screens, Matching their talents 'gainst the Philistines: And looking close, we notice that the Brothers Have bigger _stacks_ before them than the others. And then there's Job, the Paradox, who toils To show good humor when beset by boils; And Jinxy Jonah, ducked and rudely whaled, Because he had no passport when he sailed. (Whene'er I see the Ocean Mammal spout Methinks it's habit--_spewing Jonah out_.) Delilah's "next"! Tonsorial Adept-- A cutting up while headstrong Samson slept. Shear nonsense--that man's vigor could be sapped Because he had a haircut when he napped, Or lose his nerve, e'en at the yawning grave, Tho' just escaping by the closest shave. With Samson's case a multitude compare, For men miss greatness ofttimes by a hair. 'Twas his conceit that made him lose his nerve, As long-haired, whiskered men, bereft, deserve. The facts are these: that Samson used to wear A wig with ringlets, 'cause his head was bare. One night, in playful mood, Delilah stole Up to his cot and touched the poor old soul For his toupee. He woke, chagrined, and fled Because his capillary roots were dead. What transformation! Thus the Man of Might And went to writing verses from that minute Finding his strength, not _on_ his head, but in it. The first or most pronounced is Nebu'nezzar. (_Too long_ this monstrous name has been derided, And so the _chad_, for rhythm, is elided.) "Neb" is enough, for short, and apropos The King waxed wroth because these three live wires Passed thru his melting pots and furnace fires Without a burn: remarkable endurance! Because protected by good Fire Insurance. He paid the price for arson ere he died, Was kept lit up and rightly classified Among the beasts: and now that all is over 'Tis safe to say he did not live in clover, But roamed the pastures, when he lost his pull, And grazed himself to death: he was _some_ bull. Then next we come to Ruth, the Moabite: Her husband Chilion (not her!) one night Blew out the gas, and Ruth was thus bereft; But Naomi, her Ma-in-Law, was left To comfort her: and jolly well she did it! For Ruth's great grief soon ceased or else she hid it. Then to Naomi's Land the two repaired, Their love enhanced by sorrows they had shared. And so the elder of the widowed twain Set out to find, for Ruth, another swain; And all her schemes, 'tis said, succeeded so as To marry Ruth to wealthy kinsman Boaz. Unselfish? No! _She_ was too old to wed, So Ruth agreed to give her board and bed, Trusting to Boaz not to spoil her plan Who swallowed hook and line like any man. The attic room, or one just off the hall, Was where Naomi nightly had to crawl; And all her meals, unleavened bread and 'taters, Were eaten in the kitchen with the waiters,-- For Boaz, when the honeymoon was spent, Tightened his purse-strings--wouldn't spend a cent! And Naomi as welcome was, I think, As hungry roaches in the kitchen sink. This is the only case,--I know no other! Where widowed wife abided husband's mother; Or, where a woman, in such circumstance, Would give her son's relict another chance. There's Baal and those exalting Gods of brass; And Balaam, Prophet: but we'll let him pass! And John the Baptist, man who lost his head To fair Salome, tho she cut him dead. There's Absalom the Vain, whose hair was long, Who, in the final parting, got in wrong: And Pharaoh, with chariots and fighters Who, half-seas over, when the King dropped in, Punished the latter for his divers sin, And rescued on the Red Sea bar his folk, Athirst for freedom from the Ptolemy yoke. While yet the rushes bent beneath the blast Of Red Sea winds, a prodigy was cast. (From common _mold_, perhaps, but 'tis enough To know that he was made of proper stuff.) And little did the Tempest wot his noise Was silence likened to the bawling boy's. The Earth breathed on the shape and gave it speech, Or something vocally akin, a screech. Thus Moses had his coming out--and lo! He rushed into the arms of Fairy O (Daughter of Pharaoh, the mighty King) Who bore him to the Palace 'neath her wing. Fed on the Milk of Kindness to begin, With Medica Materia thrown in, He grew until appointed, by decree, Thus Doctor Moses hung his shingle out, And soon his fame was heralded about. To doctors since, no fame like his doth cling: No Specialist: he doctored everything! He analyzed and stopped the human leak; (His patience was rewarded, so to speak) He charged his people to eschew the swine, And made the Ten Commandments seem benign. Not only as Physician did he rate, But as a Surgeon: he could amputate! He cut off Pharaoh in his pursuit And, by this operation, gained repute. He set his people right and made no bones Of driving lepers from the Safety Zones; He gave them tablets for their moral healing, Knowing their pulses without even feeling. His praises now resound from every lip Still 'long the Nile the pink-winged curlews flock Where Moses took his henchmen out of hock; The minions of AEolus hurtle on, Leaving a trail of foam the waves upon,-- Stopping anon, where restless driftwood crushes The lotus pads that hover near the rushes, To chant a requiem and breathe a prayer Over the spot that cradled Moses there. If modern doctors would obey the rule Of common sense prescribed by Moses' School; If they would note our pulses and our looks Instead of feeling of our pocket-books And judging circulation by the latter, We'd sometimes know, perhaps, just what's the matter. What doctor now would diagnosis make And call it simple, old-time belly-ache, Charging a trifling fee to cure the pain? Ah, no! those days will not return again! No more, alas! will green-fruit cramps delight us, For colic now is styled appendicitis. By leaps and bounds have grown the "trifling fees"; "Five hundred!" now, succeeds "One Dollar, please!" And germs, in league with doctors, have their station At vital points to force inoculation, So that our Systems pay a pretty price For ev'ry nostrum, ev'ry fake device Known to the School of Quacks: and so we suffer Imposed upon by patentee and duffer. O, for a Moses! That's our crying need-- To cure Physicians of unbridled greed And probe, no matter where it hurts, the cause Of Doctors' strange immunity from laws. O! for an instrument--an act or sermon-- Of Moses' kind--to cut the germ from German! And lead them from the Wilderness of Vice Whose hearts were warm but now have turned to ice! All these and many more increase the lustre And Abraham? We save him for the last, Tho first in line, renowned Iconoclast. Of all the Israelites, the men of mark, Who else compares with this grand Patriarch? And who besides, of all the racial roots, Developed half the lusty leaves and shoots, Strong limbs and branches, virile seed? _some_ trunk! The Ark, with all this luggage, would have sunk! And so 'twere well the Deluge didst o'erwhelm The Earth, ere this, with Noah at the helm, Else to preserve the chosen and elite Of Israel's line would needs have taxed a fleet. I love these ancient tribesmen who illumine The Archives of the Past: they were so human! Their frailties were but habits of the Race Since Father Adam set the human pace Hitched up with Eve who, chafing at the bit, Did well her part or bit, in spite of it. But all their mortal weaknesses were nil Compared with virtues that their Records fill; And good or bad, or medium or fair, No Tribe excelled their morals anywhere. They freely gave their tithes, but did it pay To advertise their wealth? a give away! And so their pockets have been worn and frayed By frequent contributions they have made To Charity and Church. I hope and pray They've saved a little for a rainy day! I think they have! for Money talked,--confessed That Hebrews were the ones he liked the best, Because they never slighted or abused him, And always were so careful how they used him. You've come into your own and come to stay! The Promised Land is yours, but what is more, The Earth and Seas and Skies with all their store. You wandered from Judea, but why care? Because your home is here as well as there; And we would miss you just as much, I vum, As those who wait you in Capernaum; For Broadway would despair and sackcloth don If you should leave New York for Ascalon. No more, thank God! will Infidels profane Jerusalem. For centuries the stain Of Turkish rule has laid its unclean hand But now the Prophet's promise is fulfilled, As Men of Allenby, God's Sword, restore The Holy City: _yours_ forevermore. O, Mighty Atlas, thou hast borne the load Of hapless peoples smarting from the goad Of Tyranny, until thy giant strength Seems overtaxed and doomed to break at length. Unless thy vim endures with steadfast force; Unless thy Ship of State keeps on its course; Unless thou gird thy loins and stand astride, Colossus-like, the struggles that betide-- While all the Furies strive, the Turk and Hun, To sap thy power--undo what thou hast done-- Of what avail will all thy efforts be Against the tottering walls of Tyranny? And to what purpose will have lived thy men Who won imposing fame with sword or pen? And what, I pray, will all thy thousands slain Avail thy Empire if they've died in vain? The Ostrich has his wings, but not for flight; He flies _on foot_ when danger is in sight; His mate lays eggs upon the desert reaches And "sands" them over when the leopard screeches. The eggs, thus mounded, fall an easy prey To feline foragers who slink that way. The Ostrich, thus, guards not his nest: instead He hides, in burning sands, his shameless head And lets his monoplane and rudder be Stripped of their plumage by an enemy. Ostriches should Carry And use their Feathers For Dusting over the Desert. The Squirrel is quite a different kind of fowl: He works while others sleep, the sly old owl! And stores up food, against the rainy day, In secret nooks, from forest thieves away. When winter comes, or when besieged by foes, Securely housed he feasts and thumbs his nose And ridicules starvation: he's immune! While others, shiftless, sing another tune. The Squirrel, you see, is much misfortune spared In times of stress because he is prepared. From the Squirrel's Diary. A Heifer on the Railroad Crossing stood Chewing Contentment's Cud, as heifers should,-- When, rushing madly, "late again," there came The Noonday Mail. The Heifer was to blame For choosing her position, I would say, The Cow was unprepared! Her switching tail Failed signally to flag the Noonday Mail. But why keep beefing over milk that's spilled? She heeded not the sign and thus was killed. Heifers with Unprotected Flanks should not Invite Rear-guard Actions. The Busy Bee improves the shining hours And gathers honey from the fragrant flowers. When Winter comes, forsaking field and rill, He _hivernates_, but lives in clover still. While Famine stalks without, his Home, _Sweet_ Home Is stored with tempting food from floor to dome. He never lacks, nor has to buy, but cells His surplus food gleaned from the flower-fringed dells. A thrifty fellow is the Busy Bee And fortified against Emergency. A Bee's Ears The Mule is well equipped but lacks the _mind_; His strategy is in his heels, behind. If pointed wrong, his practice is not dreaded, But kick he will, no matter how he's headed. With foresight lacking, hindsight to the fore, He'll be just simple Mule forevermore; Without the range or sight he'll blaze away And thwart his purpose with his brazen bray. If well-directed effort were his cult No fortress could withstand his catapult. A Mule should Conserve Not Shoot-off his Mouth. The Burglar, have you noticed? never troubles To look for petty loot in obscure hovels. He packs his kit and steals adown the road To Gaspard Moneybags' renowned abode. He knows the house-plan ("inside" dope, no doubt) And when he's _in_, old Moneybags is _out_. But Jimmy does not dent the window-sash; He enters _thru the door_ and gets the cash. Prepared? Well, yes! He knew just where to look, For Nora hung the key upon the hook. Team-work is It pays to be Prepared, you see, and so The Snail in Armored Car goes safe, tho' slow; And Alligators in their Coats of Mail Withstand assaults where those, defenceless, fail. The Tortoise totes his Caripace around And dwells in safety where his foes abound; While Wasps, with poisoned javelins, defend Successfully their offspring to the _end_. A Sheep with ramparts has no thought of fear, But guards his buttress when his foes appear, And any Skunk can frighten and harass An Army with Asphyxiating Gas. How I loved her! There on the gate we'd lean, (The dear, old gate that never gave away The loving nothings we were wont to say) From day to day, And sometimes after dark; She was my Angel-Sweetheart, just sixteen. But I was shy! And while I longed to taste The nectar of her lips, I was afraid To draw her to my breast and kiss the Maid: But I essayed! And this is what I drew-- "There's Papa with the bulldog, so make haste!" What could I do? The "bark" was flecked with foam, And old man Jones was meaner than a cur; So there I stood 'twixt fear, and love of her And didn't stir Until they came: and then I kissed them _all_ Good-bye and _beat it home_. My Country vast and grand, I weep for thee! Lurk in thy Cactus brakes, Gloat o'er thy murd'rous deeds: To cure thy crying needs, Call Diaz back. Poison your lands and skies: Behold your graves! Carranza's waving beard By Pancho's Band is feared, And will be till he's sheared Or dyes or shaves. Where'er you go! Buzzards and Vultures reign Over a million slain; And Mescal is the bane Let murders cease! Keep Freedom's fires aglow Where La Frijoles grow; Throw up your Sombrero Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire: We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill; Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire Till Passion be consumed, but not until. Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent-- His quiver empty and his bow unstrung-- And peers into the pleasing Past, content To live, unmoved, his memories among. _Some_ drive! From tee to green in one: par, three! That's putting proper English on, you see! And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up To easy putting distance from the cup. Who is this man? Professional, no doubt! He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out; And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks, A new low record for the Piedmont Links. See with what confidence he wends his way The Fairway thru to make his hole out play! The Gallery, expectant, follows thru To see the Champion go down in _two_. Then to the ball he makes his last address, (The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess) And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow. Alas for human frailty! See it flit Across the green into the sandy pit! The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware! While he invoked the Deity in prayer. And then he played his third, but topped the sphere, The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer. A halo hung around the Stranger's head It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead, For what he said, in type is not displayed Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid. Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal! The Player loses all his self-control And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din, When Caddie trails the ball and _kicks it in_! Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks The weary Golfers on their inward treks; And close beside, beneath the porch's shade, The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade And other cheering drinks, within the law; But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw? Yes! I've done my bit, as you fellows would say, If serving one's country deserves any praise: Two years at the front, then an arm shot away! And this is my "cross" in reward for those days. But I can do more! While there's blood in my veins I'll give the last drop, while the hoof of the Hun Polluted and cloven in Alsace remains: Until France is free we must fight: every one! Of course I'll go back to the trenches again: My wound is fast healing and soon will be sound; Six chevrons have I, but I'll fight with the men Who fill up the shell-holes like moles in the ground. I'll charge with the Boys when they hurdle the top, The Tri-color lashed to my half-useless arm, With pistol or sword in my hand, till I drop: For Freedom is menaced: Go sound the alarm! France needs every son, be they crippled or strong, To rid our fair land of the murderous horde: So flock to the Colors, Brave Boys: come along! And fight till the Glory of France is restored! Our women are outraged, our children enslaved; Up, Frenchmen! and strike till the last dying breath! We can _never_ turn back, so be it engraved On our spears and escutcheons,--_Vengeance or Death_! Down by the village runs the stream Once placid, now a raging flood: Behold it, by the day's last gleam Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood. The Chapel bell has tolled its last; The trees are bare, tho this be Spring: Death's shroud is on the village cast, And Ruin reigns o'er everything. A grist of carnage clogs the Mill, And shells have razed the quondam homes: Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill, Whose cellars are but catacombs. Beyond the village, Refugees Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief, Or, _gassed_, implore on bended knees For death, despairing of relief. With bayonets and faces set The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led, Present a gruesome parapet,-- Thus, _still defending_, tho they're dead. If Bad Bill is found in Metz, We'll not vouch for what he gets! If in Essen he is caught, Shades of Bismarck! Watch him faint When he finds his Empire _ain't_! To our Sweethearts we said "Knit," We must go and do our Bit! How d'ye do, Pierrot? Pierrette? We are friends of Lafayette! Wait until our Drive begins,-- Bill, you'll suffer for your sins! Sick 'em, Prince! We'll tie the fuse Onto Frederich Wilhelm's shoes. When we occupy Cologne-- Phew! How big and strong you've grown! We will paint each shop and lodge With bright red in camouflage! Then to Carlsbad we will swing; Need the baths like everything! Frauleins leave your fears behind; We don't war on womankind! We are filled with fire and zeal: Watch us pick the locks to Kiel! We are coming to our own In Lorraine across the Rhone! When our Flocks of Eaglets fly-- Dunder! Blitzen! Bill, Good-bye! Sun eclipsed! The Geezer's dead. We slipped thru you; Hindenberg? Ach, let him rant! He won't stop us _'cause he can't_! Zepps and Taubs are falling down; Butcher Bill will lose his crown; Watch your step, you Horrid Hun, You can't _goosestep_ when you _run_! Hooray for the crimson, white and blue! 'Rah for Old Glory! _Chapeau bas vous!_ 'Rah for the Tri-Color! We're at home In _la belle_ France by the _eau de_ Somme; Hooray for our Allies true and brave! We'll all sweep thru like a tidal wave Over the _top_ in a mighty Drive-- And never stop while the HUNDS survive! O, the comfort we feel When we finish a meal Consisting of rice cakes and whey; Because beyond question There's no indigestion At the end of a Meatless day. When the "buck" dough doth rise From y'East to the skies And hot griddled pancakes--oh, say! With sausages frying There's no use denying Your welcome, O Wheatless day. When the house is afrost Without fuel: its cost Is more than we're able to pay: With our hearts all aglow We can thaw ice or snow Making light of a Heatless day. When there's discord with wife There's a shadow on life That once was so sunny and gay; But billing and cooing Subordinate stewing At the end of a Sweetless day! When will beefsteak and ham Not be sold by the gram? How long will these high prices stay? Show contrition and tears At the dawn of a Cheatless day. Do their Indian dance And scalp all the Huns in the fray, The Kaiser will holler, With rope for a collar, At the end of his Ruthless day! While now 'tis meet to eat fish, eggs and maize, _Vice_ meat and wheat whene'er we dine or sup, So be it! but this protest I would raise-- In spite of warnings--veal keeps bobbing up! O Sun and Skies, that Hoover o'er our Fields Where Grains implanted lie, and Silos stand,-- Pour out thy Warmth and Rains till Hunger yields Thruout the World to our blest _Fodder_land! I seem to have taken a new lease on life Since the little one came; I've lost the old grouch, and I say to my wife, Do you think I'm to blame Because I have changed in my feelings towards you Since the Little One came? The furnace, 'tis true, gave me something to do, But I think it a shame That some tiny tie like the Little One here (How is Snooks for a name?) Was not sooner left on our doorstep, my dear! The Store takes my time, but a very small part,-- It's all over at four! I've cut Clancy's out and have made a new start; All my cronies are sore! But what do I care? I have mended my ways, So I rush from the Store And hasten back home where the Little One plays On the rugged hall floor, And pick him up quick (O, how pretty he looks!) Without shutting the door; So anxious I am to caress little _Snooks_. The chafing-dish chafes and the Joy-car is sore; We have given them up! The Two-step and Bridge are tabooed evermore; We've cut out the movies and dining about For our own modest sup; And billiards and golfing, I've cut them both out! With playthings and drum (and a ruppy, tup, tup!) Loaded up like a Krupp, I beat it to Snooky,--our _English Bull Pup_. Run along, Little Girl! for it's bed-time now: Your Dollies are sleepy and poor old Bow-wow Is weary and lonesome, curled up in a heap-- 'Twould take little rocking to put him to sleep! Your Teddy Bear's growling: or is it a snore? Perhaps he objects to his bed on the floor? So pick up your treasures and when prayers are said-- Run along, Little Girl, and climb in to bed! Run along, Little Girl! The Sandman is here; You've crowded too much into one day, I fear! Poor, little, tired Girlie, you've worked at your play Till the bloom of your cheeks has faded away. To-morrow, again, you can sit by the fire And dress all your Dollies in gala attire. Say, Good Night! to your thimble, needle and seams; Run along, Little Girl, and sweet be your dreams! Run along, Little Girl, and cover up tight! Nor Bogeymen glaring when you are awake; For they're _bad_ little girls that Bogeymen take. To-morrow Bow-wow can be hitched to your sled And draw you to Grandma's to see Piggie fed; No harm can befall you when Mother is near; Run along, Little Girl, and God bless you, Dear! Picture a Home with love aglow and laughter Reverberating from each joist and rafter; A sweet-faced Mother kissing you "Good Night"! With "Go to sleep! lest Santa Claus take fright And dashes by--leaving no books or toys For naughty, wide-eyed, little girls and boys." Then see her tip-toe down the stairs, and trim The tree--a toy on ev'ry outstretched limb; The rocking-horse and wagon at the base, And candy-stockings in the big fireplace: For thus we retrospect to show, no other Would scheme and work and "fabricate" like Mother To make our Christmas Day a grand fruition, And keep the secret of its sweet tradition. We have arrived! America is First! Here Freedom cradled; here its paean burst Upon the ears of nations, near and far Thruout the world; though Thraldom still obscures The Guiding Star where Tyranny endures. 'Twas ever thus till Boston's "Reb" array Upset King George's teapot in the Bay, And Pegasus, whom we Revere, astride His high-bred hobby, warned the countryside. Before that time the Briton played the game Of _pour la tea_ or Golf (its proper name). With confidence and brassie nerve, methinks, Until they struck a Bunker on our links That thwarted all their prowess--'pon my soul! And left them groggy at the nineteenth hole. But still they puttered 'round and drank our rum Till Washington's avenging time had come; When, with his army, steeled at Valley Forge, He, George the First, uncrowned the other George, And all the "red-breasts," from our eyries shooed Where now the Bird of Freedom guards his brood. The stars are agleam in their azurine field, Diffusing effulgence afar; But magnitude, lustre and fixedness yield To the glorious Service Star. In aureate setting, a pendant aglare, Is the radiant Service Star; That blazes with fire like a rare solitaire, A gift to the Valkyr of War. Protect thou our treasure, O, Valkyr! Restore From Valhalla's Dungeons, where Death's torrents pour, Our sanctified Service Star! Some day when the war is ended And we sail from France away, With sorrow and longings blended, Back home to America; And we live once more in Blighty A thousand years in a day, Where the Old Folks watch and pray: Some day, when we hit the pillow Again on a box-spring bed, As snug as an armadillo With his shell-protected head; When bugles refrain from tooting, And noises of battle stop; When victory ends recruiting, Or charging Over the Top: _Some_ day! when we're thru with fighting And the beaten Hun retreats; When the Cooties cease from biting And we sleep between the sheets! And now behold the Merchant Submarine! Only its peeking periscope is seen, But what a cyclorama it reveals To those below! Thru surging seas it steals And vies with dolphins, porpoises and sharks To keep apace with brigantines and barks; And, tho itself unseen, it's proud to show To what low depths a submarine can go. The Cyclops sees as well by night as day; Its father, Neptune, gives it right of way: Amphibious, it rides the Ocean's crest, Or in its sunken Gardens takes its rest. This new-type boat we designate as It Because no other pronoun seems to fit. No water-laden craft could be a He, Nor one unspoken could be rated She. The Germans call it _unter_: O. U. Cargo! They aim to close the bar on the embargo. Beneath the waves no lurching doth it feel But speeds its course upon an even keel. With duplex engines and a double crew, (It's "manned" by mermaids when it's hid from view). It scoffs at dangers, tho they lurk around, And shuts its _eye_ to perils that abound. There's scant spare space, but still its ribs enfold A priceless cargo in its shallow hold. Past hostile ships into a neutral haven, It comes up smiling with all flags a wavin'. But now these "Cargo Craft" throw off disguise And cut our neutral throats: it's no surprise Their solemn Treaties, would thus lie in wait And murder innocents without emotion, Making a shambles of the outraged Ocean. Now lashed to fury, see the waves rebel And sweep these Prussian Pirates down to Hell! No longer neutral the Avenging Sword Is in our hands to smite the Hun-hound horde. The God of Joshua, in righteous wrath Will, in its flight thru empyrean path, Command the Sun to stop: it is His will! Till _Kultur_ be effaced--and not until. Of Liberty, before thy shrine we pause And offer grateful prayer that thou art Right In making demonstration of thy Might. Without a thought of Conquest doth thou draw Thine honored sword for Liberty and Law, That Nations of a common tongue, tho weak, May gain the Peace with Freedom that they seek; And occupy again, when battles cease, Their places in the Firmament of Peace. Fight on! Defender of the Cause! till Truth Shall banish Tyranny and Wars forsooth, And throttle _Kultur_ and its godless School, Till Teutons, purged, obey the Golden Rule! A Soul reclaimed, an Atom born anew: Its fire burns on, tho flickering at the last, And finds its grand fulfillment, Love, in you. Why should we dread the Messenger of Death? Who comes as friend when sufferings beset, And gives surcease of pain with final breath So that Life leaves, rejoiced, without regret. O, Hun, from what low beast didst thou descend? That thou shouldst have the lust to kill and rend; The bestial passion to enjoy the groans Of suffering victims, while you crunch their bones Or gouge their eyes, that mutely plead in vain For quick oblivion and ease from pain? Of ponderous cast and savage mien, what teat, With Hatred filled and Passion's fiery heat, Reared thee more wolf than man? ill-bred,--a curse To thine own kind, and to the Universe! Italians, hold! Rienzi pleads again Against the Tyrants: hold if ye be men! Let not the foe despoil your fertile lands Or wrest historic treasures from your hands! Guard well your daughters! Shield your budding sons! Lest they be maimed or murdered by the Huns. Soldiers of Italy, would ye be slaves To Teuton hordes? Behold the sacred graves Of Garibaldi and your martyred dead Who made ye Freemen! Wouldst be slaves instead? The Alpine Passes that were yours are lost; Your Northern Rivers have been reached and crossed; Hold, Romans, hold! Halt further Teuton gains, And drive their looting legions from your plains! Hold! Men of Italy! Your wall of steel Can save fair Venice from the Despot's heel: Hold! Every man! for Honor, Country, Home-- The Lamb that accompanied Mary Without aid of cudgel or rope, Was raised by her sire Elder Berry, And washed with dioxygen soap. Its fleece, like the linen-spread table, Was snow-white: the lambkin was prized And kept from the sheep in the stable Who never were deodorized. The lamb had a yearning for knowledge, And schoolward would follow the lass Till she was admitted to college, A graduate out of his class. Then sheep-eyes were made by the teacher, And Mary was quick to decide 'Twixt him and the poor, woolly creature Who made lambentations and died. She married her Teacher,--a lesson! Dyspeptic and old, he's a fright! Her thoughts fail of fitting expression, So she lams her own kids just for spite. She looks at her spouse with deep loathing, And sighs for her dead quadruped, And wishes the "wolf in sheep's clothing"-- Her husband, were dead in his stead. Alas, lass! You've forded the ferry; Your tombstone was graven for two; The lamb, chiseled there, stands for Mary, And the _Old English_ MARY for yew. The lamb reached the end of his tether When Mary ascended on High, But surely, in spite of the wether, They'll meet in the Sweet Bye-and-Bye. I shot an arrow: how it sang! It was a poisoned arrow! And when it turned, a boomerang, It chilled me to the marrow. I know not where the arrow struck, And care but little whether It came straight back or ran amuck Upon the near-by heather. But _this_ I know; however fast The arrow homeward scurried, My getaway was unsurpassed-- For, Goodness, how I hurried! The almost-King of Verdun, still uncrowned, Wearied of _driving_, walked the ramparts 'round To see his father, Mr. William Kaiser, Who was to him an Oracle and wiser. "O Sire! Inform me! Tell your first-born son, Who caused the War, and why it was begun? Who slipped the leash, and what was the excuse For turning Europe's rabid War Dogs loose? Did you? Or was it Cousin George, or Nick Who stacked the cards and played the dirty trick? Who sawed the bridge and pulled the props away?" "My Son, I swear by all the periscopes And Zeppelins to which I pin my hopes; By all the Ocean Sharks and Bats a-sky, By Gott-in-Himmel! As I hope to die, _I'm_ not to blame! I didn't use the spurs, Or try to overwork Geographers! I fought for Peace, and ne'er defiance hurled, Altho' the Fatherland _should_ rule the world. But here's the truth: a secret I'll disclose! A stranger 'twas who made us come to blows! It happened thus: a mighty Nimrod came From Afric wilds, where he had played the game Until his cudgel bore a hundred nicks, (A record this for all Prodigious Sticks) But there was courage in his Nobel phiz; And in his stride were energy and grace Enough to make the goose-step commonplace. I took him to my Palace, as my guest, And poured libations from the cellar's _best_, (He was a _certified_ non-drinker--See? So just accord this proper secrecy!) And then arranged to hold a Grand Review Of all my Armies and Reservists too. 'De-lighted!' said my guest, and nothing more, As we reviewed my legions corps by corps; But this blunt comment signified his zeal, And so I mobilized my fleet at Kiel; And on my Royal Yacht, my guest and I Watched the maneuvres as my ships passed by. 'De-lighted, Bill!' the Hardy Hunter shouted-- 'With such a fleet I'd have the whole world routed; And with your armies I would soon disperse Such praise was pleasing to my ears, altho My Wasps and Devil-fish I didn't show: I deemed it best to _meld_ this 'hundred aces' When all my ships and men were in their places. Had he seen _these_, I knew he would advise The conquest of the Earth and Seas and Skies: But, Shades of Bismarck! _that_, you understand Might prove a strain upon the Fatherland. And so I kept the Peace, but thought about The many martial plans we figured out; And how the cost of my Frontier Defences Compared with his proposed campaign expenses. You see, Mein Heir, this man was full of guile And caused the War: this Bey of Oyster Isle. He hypnotized me: put it in my mind So blame me not! The fault I must disown, And put the guilt on Theodore alone! Whatever comes anon, I'm not whipped yet! And with it all, I have but one regret-- That _he_ was not impressed to lead my drive To Petersburg to take the Czar alive; And then, a Marshal, ordered to Paree To capture it and bring it back to me; Then take my fleet, the English Channel over And put King George to rout and bombard Dover; And then supplant the Sultan, take his Fez And lead my peerless Forces to Suez. While _you_ have failed, and Hindenburg and Mack, _He_ never fizzles when he makes attack. See what I've missed! for, _see what he has done_! And yet his vast campaign is just begun. He leads his Legions, Bull Moose, Calf and Cow To capture a Convention _even now_." An orderly approached the Royal Pair Just at this stage and left despatches there. He stood at close attention, hand to head, While this absorbing cablegram was read-- "Outflanked and captured; resignation tendered; Mooses dehorned and all the herd surrendered! Am looking for another job already,-- Would take the German Presidency--Teddy." The Kaiser turned, looked at the Prince and wept, While noxious gases o'er the bulwarks crept. "Do you really, truly love me, with a love that mocks at Fate?" Cried the rustic, buxom maiden to her lover at the gate; "Yes, my Pet! And when Dame Fortune smiles upon us we will wed; And the angels, smiling on him, heard his vow to "e'er be true." Come, Comrades, gather 'round the festal board And quaff the sparkling Water from the gourd! _This_ is the drink that Adam's Tribe imbibed Before the Wines of Gath were diatribed. (Methinks some other brand was drunk by Cain The day that Abel ruthlessly was slain.) And won, against all other potions there, You'll never know, until you take a sip Its power to soothe, and cool the fevered lip. Had Noah _stuck to_ water he would shine As undisputed Master of the Brine. The Water-wagon that he launched, at first Steered Noah straight but didn't cure his thirst: So when he _spoke_ the Ararat Cafe He soon fell off,--his rudder washed away. But wallward turn the picture you're beholding And hang more cheerful paintings on the moulding! Behold a _watercolor_ of eclat! This, fair Rebecca had the skill to _draw_: She stands beside the well and plies the sweep, While sweat and blushes o'er her features creep. Such grace and poise, such strength and skill, Such sweeping gestures and unbending will Are indices of Abstinence complete; (We can't abstain from loving you, Petite!) Upon her head she rests the dripping urn And goes straight home: she doesn't _dare_ to turn! Don't stumble, Miss! Or suffer teasing boys To cause derangement of your equipoise! But keep your head and waver not at all Lest you be deluged by the waterfall! So daily to the pool Rebecca strayed And drank the water, when she didn't wade: And thus her framework waxed like iron; I trust 'Twas ne'er assailed or undermined by rust. So, fill the gourd and pass it to your friend! It's Safety First and safety to the end. No headaches lurk within, no tinge of sorrow, No dark forebodings or remorse to-morrow! And furthermore, it isn't hard to take: If you've not tried it, _do_, for Mercy's sake! Behold the Oaken Bucket, hanging high, By Bards and Singers lauded to the sky. It never touched, in all its useful days, A thing but water. Here fair Psyche plays Beside the spring that mirrors all her graces. (Would you object to _water in_ such cases?) Now mark the fate befalling Jack and Jill Because they slipped and let the water spill; And see poor Tantalus for water crying, Thus punished for his sins,--athirst and dying! And note this "Titian," called "The Drunkard's Fate," In which the crimson hues predominate. He holds the lamp-post in his close embrace And has a package from Pat Murphy's place To carry home. His eyes are red and dim, So close the bar and turn the hose on him! This drink was ever priceless, yet it's free; And so we offer without bar or price Enough of THIS to put your thirst on ice. So drink to WATER, while the billows swell: The World wants Prohibition--and all's WELL! Canst Thou, in all this babel, build aright Freedom's Palladium? The long, black night That, ages thru, hath dimmed your yearning eyes And dulled your minds, still hovers o'er your skies. A rift there was, disclosing to your view The Dawn of Day, but then the darkness grew Yet more intense, as if the Sun rebelled At such a cheerless greeting and withheld Its Light. And now again Night reigns supreme, But just beyond the Day is all agleam. Sad-eyed and weary, Thou must suffer more, Until thy supermen have paid the score For outraged daughters, murdered sons and wives; For ravaged homesteads, and brave soldiers' lives. Be not dismayed! Altho your Cup of Woe Is full to overflowing from the blow; Tho Justice seems indifferent to your prayer, And ruin stalks about you everywhere. The day of reckoning is near at hand, When Justice will restore your pillaged Land, And Vengeance will unsheath its righteous blade And flay the Teutons till your score is paid. When we're tired of reading essays, Tho they be a mental treat; When we're bored by social callers, Be they ever so elite; When we crave some relaxation Or the Foursome's incomplete, We S. O. S. or telephone To our Friends across the Street. When our larder needs renewing Or our ice succumbs to heat; When the signs of Drought are brewing 'Cause our "stock" is incomplete; And our chairs are insufficient When we have some guests to seat, Why, we just go out and borrow From our Friends across the Street. When we're worried or in trouble, And our projects meet defeat; When our prospects seem quite hopeless,-- Life seems bitter that was sweet; When we lose our nerve and falter 'Cause the rough way wounds our feet, We can always find sweet comfort In our Friends across the Street. When we end, at last, our journey And the saintly Peter greet, Or descend to Realms Infernal Where the Goats, rejected, bleat, We would never feel contented, Whether mixed with Chaff or Wheat, If we couldn't be together With our Friends across the Street. I left this Vale of Tears to gain repose, And change, for Harp and Wings, my worldly clothes; There's no redress, so if I _fall_ from grace I'll be quite cool enough for _either_ place. Go not the way I went, O Mortal Man! But follow out a more successful plan, Lest you, as I am now, remorseful be For imitating U. S. Currency. For forty cents an hour I slaved At Delpont's Powder Mills; And all the money that I saved Scarce paid my funeral bills. Erected to our father is this stone: He couldn't leave the whiskey flask alone; To Spirit World he vanished from our sight; We hope he's very snug, and _know_ he's tight. Above the clouds I sojourn now, The twinkling stars between, Because I tried to figure how To cook with gasolene. I'm _dead_ all right, but not quite _all right_ dead, For schemes of vengeance hurtle thru my head; My wife eloped, a cheating chicken she; Forsook her nest, and then flew back to me With all her brood: I love her as I useter But I'm a-laying for that other Rooster. I followed Father with the rake The day he scythed the clover; So _green_, he cut _me_, by mistake And my heydays were over. Here sleeps, at last, our little baby Yorick! _We_ couldn't make him _without paregoric_. I'm not averse to being dead, But this I do despise,-- To have a tombstone at my head Inscribed with blooming lies: "A faithful spouse, a parent kind; Alas, too soon he went!" But this is all they had in mind-- To get my last red cent. Assembled here my Wife is, Helen Nation: 'Twas gasoline that caused the separation, Which shows how very short the mortal lease is,-- I think 'twas lucky to have saved the pieces! Here let me rest without a sigh or tear, I've learned my lesson--not to interfere! If I could live my mortal life agin My Mother, famous for her pies Lies buried 'neath this shaft; I wonder if, in Paradise, She still pursues her craft? She'll be too much engrossed, 'twould seem, In picking on the lyre To give attention to a scheme To bake without a fire. But if perchance she had the dough And couldn't make it rise, I'm sure she'd know just where to go To look for _heat_ supplies. He called me "Liar!" Like a flash My honor I defended, Until his razor cut a gash So deep, that I was ended. If I could live my life again I'd not invite an issue But say, when villified, Amen! And thus preserve my tissue. The Morning Sun, with golden dart, Crept to Milady's bed; And as he drew the screens apart A halo crowned her head. Such radiance he'd never viewed; Enraptured, he surveyed Her virgin charms: beatitude! He stooped and kissed the maid. Entranced because her splendor seemed To dazzle as it shone, He conjured all his wiles and beamed Her burning cheeks upon. And then she woke, Milady fair, Enchanted by his art, To find, 'midst fires a slumb'ring there, His dart had pierced her heart. And so the Morning Sun can gain Milady when he tries, But Midnight Sons must lose, 'tis plain, Because they're late to rise. O, Thou, who thru the sink doth blithely go; (O, Little Roach, how could you _sink_ so low?) Who pipeth all your kin from kitchens near Wherever crumbs of comfort may appear; Who layeth siege, in mural cracks or trenches, Where grease spots lure or rampant be the stenches; Who hideth in the dough when bread is rising,-- I ask you to a Feast, of my devising,-- To eat these _powders_, 'round the plumbing placed, Until your glutted carcass be effaced. O, Little Roach, if you would selfish be And not "ring in" your whole fool family, We'd tolerate you: nay, a pet would make you If you'd not scamper all our pie and cake thru! How they rollick and ring With delight as they sing Like birds on the wing. With your balm and bouquet; How you gladden the day Like Fairies at play. How they thrill and enthrall, How they hurtle and call With shrill caterwaul. O, Winter's bleak Breath! How it freezes and saith To the ice-vested wraith, "Thou'rt shrouded in Death." 'Tis said that Mary, she of Reader note, Was wrapped up in her lamb--her lambskin coat-- E'en after his demise, beatified. He served her well, and for his mistress dyed. Then Mary died, and took angelic form, Because the lambskin (used to keep her warm) Gave her the anthrax: what a cruel blow To be thus snatched above from furbelow! My Shepherd careth for His flock: Beneath a cloudless sky In pastures green, by spring-cleft rock, In luxury I lie. He brings contentment to my soul And leads me to the Light, By which I see the Heav'nly goal From dismal depths of Night. Though Poverty attend my way And sorrow fills my heart, Thy Guidance will disaster stay, So good and pure Thou art! Thou, in the presence of my foes, Bestoweth favors rare, And giveth pleasure and repose In answer to my prayer. To such a Shepherd I will give My everlasting love, And glory in the Hope--to live With Him, at last, Above. True Friends are rare: who counts them by the score Is blest indeed, for we have, seldom, more. If we possess just one real, _trusting_ friend Who shares our troubles, loyal to the end; Who, when we fall, will help us to our feet; Who finds with us contentment most complete; Whose pocket-book and heart are open thrown Whether we need affection or a loan, And makes no record of the favor done, But gives, with equal pleasure, either one-- That's Friendship _true_! If I had twenty such, With all their purses open to my touch, And each disposed to "stake" me and forget The circumstance and measure of the debt, I'd soon be on the road to ease and plenty, But wish I had _such_ friendships _more than twenty_. Shall Women vote? Shall Demon Rum survive Or be, thru Woman Suffrage, flayed alive? These are the questions that engross the nation: Shall Women vote or be kept on probation? Are they not gentle, honest, sweet and kind? A single missing virtue we can't find, And yet we say--"Stay home and can the cherries! You're far too frail and fine for statecraft worries! The Sacred Home for you! Just 'tend your chicks! You'd soil your hands to mix in Politics! And then there's scrubbing, cooking and a few Odd jobs besides: you couldn't ballot _too_!" But how absurd! Fair Woman, in her wrath, Will make our future course a thorny path: Unless we meet her fairly in these matters, She'll tear our senseless arguments to tatters, And rule _both_ Home and State to suit herself, Putting deceitful _man_ upon the shelf. As sure as death or taxes, day or night, She'll have the _vote_ without, or _with_ a fight; And those of us who counsel Peace, as best, Should not oppose and put her to the test; And when she _gets_ the vote, by force or gift, The clouds obscuring Temperance will lift; For all the Wets will vanish, ev'ry one! Evaporate like mists before the sun. True, Women drink; it's foolish to deny it! But not as men do--as a steady diet; They'll take a punch, or sip a little claret, But when it comes to liquor--they can't bear it. And so we ask again--shall Women vote? Shall men surrender to the petticoat And give up all their freedom and their tipples Just to return to Lacteal Life and Nipples? The War is on! Nebraska bids defiance Hereafter all our barley, wheat and corn Will be quite unresponsive to the _horn_. The _essence_ of the grain will be tabooed And ev'ry seed accounted for as _food_. No more will Barleycorn assail our vitals No more will Liquor check our ardent thirst, And so we'll go from bad, perhaps, to worst. If we must _eat_, perforce, and never rum it, What will befall the man who has to gum it; Whose teeth are absent and who food eschews, Drawing his daily nourishment from booze; Who can't obtain a single drop of gin To comfort and sustain the man within? Pleading for drinks, unheeded he'll grow wheezy, But he'll improve his breath if he'll Speak Easy. The Drunkard's fate would be a dreadful warning, Who, having "opened" Riley's place each morning Found, one cold dawn, the foot-rail gone and read-- "Soft Drinks for Sale" where Schnapps was sold instead. Picture his sorrow! See him pallid grow When told the facts: a spectacle of woe! Back to his wife he slinks: he couldn't face her! Because he missed his usual "morning bracer." The Place is sold: it's now a candy store Where Schnapps will be dispensed _with_ evermore. Good-bye, Old Demijohn; Decanters, too! His life will empty be--and so are you! Where once the Canteen flourished 'neath our flag, Now Prohibition flags the soldier's jag; And where Josephus keeps his arid log The water-pitcher has succeeded grog. Some Commonwealths already have the pluck To ban, humanely, those who _chase the duck_; And other States have punished Rum enough To have compassion on the _boot-leg_ stuff. Thus Prohibition grows: but so does wheat And corn and rye: I wonder which will beat? But what of Woman? Where's her rightful freedom? They ought to have the vote, because we need 'em To purge our land of drunkenness and crime And save our striplings from the slough and slime. Why _shouldn't_ Women vote? Perhaps they may! Should Drunkards or Illiterates say nay? Could citizens of foreign birth refuse To give our Native Daughters what they choose? Our Native Sons with chivalry invoke Fair play for women,--freedom from the yoke; And shouldn't other Freemen rise in flocks To help our Women win the Ballot Box? The trouble lies, not _here_, but with the Bosses Who trade in graft and deal in _double crosses_. The sooner we eliminate this class The quicker will _full freedom_ come to pass. But watch the Anti! Make her hold her tongue, Or duck her in the pond, the geese among; Or lock her in the booth, without a mirror, Where she can't see herself and we can't hear her. Thus, neck and neck, these two great questions lead: Will men be equal to their Country's need? If one Reform upon the other waits, Speed Equal Suffrage to the White House gates, Will follow as the tape pursues the ticker! But if, perchance, the Dry's should get a trimmin', _Smile_, if you please,--but don't _prohibit_ Women! Once more, Good Friends, we're gathered 'round the board To feel the joys of fellowship restored. There's nothing like them! _Friends_ can't be replaced, Nor thoughts of them from Memory be effaced! Of course we form _new_ friendships, but I feel That these, like _old_ ones, are not staunch and real. It takes long years to _prove_ our friends, you know,-- Those who are steadfast in our weal or woe. So here's to you, Miss Prim! and you, Miss Prude! We wouldn't have you different if we could! Two Roses rare you are, and sweet; I ween You were not doomed to bloom and blush unseen. I've seen your cheeks suffused with crimson hues; (Dame Nature's _make-up_ is the rouge you use!) I've seen your lips in saucy challenge perked; (But for your protests, they'd be overworked!) I've seen your eyes with mischief filled and tears; (But I could never _pity_ you, My Dears!) I've seen your breasts with agitation heave; (Your _hearts_ must be affected, I believe!) I've seen your shapely forms pass in review Before my lonely couch, in dreams of you,-- And what I haven't seen, some little bird Has told me all about. Upon my word, If what he says be true, what I have _heard_ To what I've seen, methinks, would be preferred. Then here's to Friendship! What more potent force Doth link mankind together? Love, of course, Doth fetter us betimes, but Time must say Whom we shall cherish, whom to cast away. When Love and Friendship, heart and hand, are bound, What more of Joy can compass us around? So, Friends and Sweethearts, Comrades tried and true, We pledge our love and loyalty to you! Somewhere, sometime, I've heard it said, or read That Fools butt in where Angels fear to tread. A single "Angel" with a Pack of Fools Is not enough to change established rules; And so, I think, the "Angel" in this case Should bear, alone, the onus and disgrace,-- For Angels should know better than to swoop Upon the Dove of Peace and fowl her coop. The Good Ship Squirrel has left our shores behind To measure human breath 'gainst Ocean Wind. "Laden with Nuts" her clearance shows. Four Bells! She's off! to fight for Peace with all those shells. No Port, however, figures in her quest, Her "papers" show,--and this is manifest! The Dove of Peace, perched on the mizzen-top, Hath disappointments sticking in her crop. The peaceful bird is shy and very frail; Can't stand the weight of salt upon her tail; The War has made her nervous, and the roar Of many cannon made the poor bird soar. Up springs a storm! The Dove's white feathers show, While Nuts are cracking on the deck below. And then an iceberg looms against the sky, But still the Dove is far too proud to fly; But when, anon, a periscope appears The Bird of Peace is overcome by fears, And "beats it" to the iceberg's crystal crest, Where she prepares to build her neutral nest. The Submarine atop the billows now, Stands by the Squirrel until she dips her bow And sinks beneath the waves; then looks above And takes a parting broadside at the Dove. The "Angel" then, in Neptune's sky-machine Ascendeth in a blaze of gasoline; The Dove, marooned, broods over many things, Nestling her poor _cold feet_ beneath her wings. Regenerate, the Angel has returned From empyrean Flight, to Earth, and learned (I think Saint Peter gave him sound advice!) To keep the Pacifistic Germ on ice Until a Luther, if there still remains One decent man where Wilhelm Caesar reigns, Denounces all the crimes of Germany, And proselytes to crush Autocracy. Went fast to sleep; Losing her sheep. There were ninety and nine of these lambkins that fled When poor, little Bo was asleep in her bed; And when they returned they were _mutton_ instead. O, what a stew! What could Bo do? Went up the hill, Their pail to fill. The water was _running_: they didn't pursue, But filled up their growler with Double X Brew, And Jill, in a measure, was full, and Jack too. Both had a thirst: Jack's was the worst: He tumbled first. Had the right knack; Cornered the snack. His fortune grew fast from that one Christmas plum; His profits on 'Change showed a marvelous sum, Till he soon had Financialdom under his thumb. O! what a wiz! Jack knew his biz: All now is his. Knew how to _bowl_. No high-balls were spared at his nocturnal spread, And the fumes of the liquor would strike in his head Till, knocked off his pins, he was set up in bed. Jackass or king Will have his fling: Lived in a shoe: Children there too. Their home was too cramped for a dozen or more, But others have suffered from tight shoes before, So the latch-string was always hung out on the door. To upper skies Good old sole flies, With all her ties. The Drews and Jack Horner lived on the same street: Jack gambled with Hymen and Drew Marguerite, And love for his sole-mate affected his feet. There ne'er was a "comeback" to poor Jack and Jill; The King followed after them going "down hill," And Bo, left alone, is a sheepish maid still. I was sitting in the parlor With my Sweetheart on my knee, And the fireplace lights and shadows Heavy grew she towards the morning, When the gold-fringed sunbeams leap: _She_ was wide awake as ever But my leg was fast asleep. Flesh is weak and so I shifted My loved load, as best I could, From the numb knee to the other; From the leg of flesh to wood. Then I felt my Sweetheart shiver, And I realized her state When she drew a white-ash sliver From the leg _articulate_. You'll not rue it If you save some Human Craft From the rocks where fierce gales blew it, Using Kindness for a raft. O, dare to do! Be kind and true To the friends you make thru life; Then High Heaven will reward you With immunity from strife. Were a dyin', Would you go into his lair And attempt to soothe his cryin'? Do it! Do it, if you _dare_! The Parson tied the Hymen knot That made two halves a whole; The while a speculating what Would be his marriage toll. The Groom, when he had kissed the Bride, Was taken with the chills: Her icy lips could not abide Osculatory thrills. But soon his fever was effaced; His hand obeyed his will, And in the Parson's palm he placed A soiled One Dollar Bill. "Anathema!" the preacher cried,-- "Thou reptile of the Earth!" The Groom replied--"Then take the Bride! I think it's all she's worth!" Now goeth forth the Swell elite, With patent leathers on his feet; With collar spotless, cuffs to suit, In truth bon-ton, from hat to boot. A bootblack, with an eye to biz, With dirty hands and ugly phiz, Beholds him as he goes, and throws Banana peels beneath his toes. Along the pave Adonis trips; He steps upon the peel, and slips Into the juicy gutter: His eyes are filled with fire and ire, But water, muck and mire conspire To drown the words he'd utter. Go where you will, the stars will _shine_, And so will Tony, I opine: But O! the stars Adonis spied When he went "out," a sewerside. Years have passed since I, an urchin, Drove the Cow, so sleek and prime, Down the path, where crows were perchin' Those were days well worth one's living, When I watched, with joy sublime, What the generous Cow was giving Later on, when we grew older, Father gave us each a dime-- Me and Bill--to milk and _hold_ her, But, alas! we came to grieving: Bill was kicked and smeared with grime, And the Cow boo-booed on leaving-- "Come around some _udder_ time!" The husky Corn has pushed ahead with silken locks atop; O, Brother, ain't it shocking? And Colonels are expecting quite a bumper Bourbon crop-- Saloonward they are flocking! For ev'ry still has coils of worms illicitly abounding Where sour-mash mixtures simmer. The hillside Stills their fragrance breathe, and wood birds are a My jug is in the hollow: So fill it up, but watch your step and Secret Service hounding! The scent is sweet to follow. The Cotton Bolls are bursting forth with weevils in the sepals; Come, Dinah, get to picking! And rush the staple to the mart to clothe the naked peoples! Or you will get a licking! The baleful Gins are all prepared to do the fibre-squeezing: Get busy, Massa Willie! And set the weevils back a bit, and save the folks from freezing! The possum's cooking, Honey! And when the work is thru we'll do our banjo stunts, and ragging And get our "Cakewalk" money. My heart is aflame with a love that enslaves My passion for thee is afire; My soul is athirst for the love that it craves, And you are the one I admire. Pray speak, Dear! and say your affections are mine, And all the sweet charms you possess; Then I will surrender my wishes to thine And be but thy slave, I confess. When she answered, at length, I felt very sure I'd pleaded my cause quite enough; "You're the one man on earth I _couldn't endure_, So cut out that comedy stuff!" I went to school, like any lad, And learned to read and write: With pencil, books and writing-pad I grew quite erudite. Promoted soon, my Teacher thought I would some day, be great; And so painstakingly he taught Me how to conjugate. And talked to me about the Moon, Till I was rated, very soon, A graduate, I searched the skies For orbs unknown before, Determined that I'd specialize In Astronomic lore: But how to buy a telescope And all the charts required? An _attick_ was my only hope Of all the things desired: And so I compromised and bought Binoculars and case, And ev'ry night the Stars I sought At Daly's Burlesque Place. The one, bright, meteoric Flame In all that stellar group, Soon _fell for me_; then took my name And quit the Burlesque Troupe. But I'm eclipsed! the Satellite That twinkles in the crib, Keeps Mother _pinning_, day and night, A didy or a bib. "Beware the dog!" Beware the Logothete! The Octoped with elephantine feet: (I mean by this--with the _big understanding_; The Byzantine Pup of Theodore's branding.) A thousand years chained to Hellespont's brink, He never once whimpered or lapped up a drink. Hydrophobia? No! just aphasia, 'Cause he couldn't cross over to Asia. He feeds upon figures (he'll cipher an eight!) And starts ev'ry meal with a twelve or sixteen, Then multiplies units to munch on between. Voracity thus as an integer stands For his diurnal gorge on multiplicands. Numerical strength makes the Logothete thrive, And fractions he dotes on--just eats 'em alive! He lashes his tail by Marmora's flood, But eats from the hand of Sultan Ahmud; A collar of gold, set with aquamarines, Makes him the envy of Justin's near-queens; His Kennel-Kiosque (the hyphen's germane!) Rivals the harems of Constantine's reign. Innocuous? No! nor yet desuetude, For he daily absorbs whole columns of food. His teeth are as sharp as the Damaskeene blade That severed the chains on the Macedon maid; And as keen as the knife avenging the dame Who was sold to the Sheik in Mesopotame. But the point that I make--no whimper or yelp Had ever been voiced by this Logothete whelp Until Archaeologists, searching the grounds, Unearthed dogmatisms and bitumen sounds Of the highest known pitch, resembling a whine Or unrav'ling snarls of the Octopedine. And thus they've exploded the silence complete Tradition ascribes to the old Logothete-- And so, in unleashing this Byzantine Pup, They merit grave censure for _digging things up_. There's music in the Eagle's shriek; There's ditto in the Lion's roar, But discord marks the Bolshevik Because the Bear doth growl no more. The Dogs of War are out of tune,-- No harmony doth move the critters: Unless they cease their fighting soon The wounded whelps will have no litters. Jerusalem! the Turk is spent! The bagpipes took his breath, I think. The Crescent now is badly bent, And Allah's cause is on the blink. The Bulgar too has shot his bolt, And soon will quit--the poor pariah! For now there's rumor of revolt The Hun is playing with the Slav-- But Cossack, too, can smear the salve, And 'twixt them twain doth Peace fall flat. Some day the Dove of Peace will swoop With long, befigured _bill_, and put it Against the Vulture-Kultur coop And make the Prussian Junkers _foot it_. Newspaper Item, Athens, Pa., July 29: The archaeologists who are traversing the Susquehanna River Valley, visiting sites of Indian villages and digging up aborigines and other relics, are said to have made a most astounding discovery on the Murray farm, near here, in finding the bones of sixty-eight pre-historic men. The average height of these men when their skeletons were assembled was seven feet, while many were much taller. Additional evidence of their gigantic size is found in the massive stone battle axes in their graves. The average age of these men is said to have been from thirty to forty. Another amazing point of this discovery is the allegation that "perfectly formed skulls were found from which horns grew straight out from the head." The Homestead of Satan, they say, has been found Near Athens, P. A., in a hole in the ground; And people are flocking from Athens and Sayre To view the remains of their ancestors there. When Satan established himself in this zone He found it distasteful to live all alone; So he went to Towanda in quest of a bride, And then tilled the soil till his seed multiplied. So scores of young Devils at Murray's were born That measured five cubits between hoof and horn. Each one was equipped with a tail and two wings, And _asbestos garments_ at Nick's Sulphur Springs. And that's why you find all their skeletons here In good preservation: but isn't it queer That Devils at Athens, the place of their birth, Were the sole legatees of Hell upon Earth? But Devils, like men, reach the ends of their ropes, And have disappointments and unfulfilled hopes,-- So Satan discovered, too late we are told, The climate at Murray's was too beastly cold. His imps all contracted pneumonia and died; So he buried them here in the Pit, side by side, Where they've been unmolested till now, and unsung. And there their bones bleached, in the Sulphuric Pits, Until Archaeologists came with their kits And made excavations, not thinking of harm, But raising the devil at Rube Murray's Farm. Now Satan's _exposed_ and his ossified get, (A few yet remain in the flesh, I regret!) And Murray of Athens is living, I wot On skeletons dug from this Hell-enic spot. The Busy Bee, to gather honey, goes Touching the clover bloom and then the rose; An easy prey, the clover blossom yields Its treasures garnered from the fragrant fields; But all the sweetness that the rose adorns, Protected is from theft by jealous thorns. The Bee, ergo, in quest the flowers among, Gets sometimes honey and gets sometimes _stung_. The snow is falling on the hemlock boughs: Courage, Comrade, Spring will come again! The birds are leaving the evergreen trees, And that's why they are not deciduous. O, Winter! I shake thy icy hand, And, shaking, shovel the beautiful snow: But what shall I do with such an abundance? It is already piled high in my neighbor's yard, And he is watching me from his attic window. And yet more snow! How pure you seem tho' falling! This is the Ape, made famous, you'll agree, By Darwin's Evolution Theory. His destiny fulfilled, he rests at ease With tribal Apes, Baboons and Chimpanzees; Preferring, so, to recreation find, Than with his tailless counterpart, Mankind, A doubtful branch of his posterity: And makes a _monkey_, thus, of you and me. This is the Bug, unable to resist The blandishments of Entomologist. He soon succumbs to net or trap or pin And fills his place the _cabinet_ within. A volume then explains his habits, source, And all his secrets and his aims of course; Which leads me to conclude, when facts are dug, The Man of Science is the biggest "Bug." Darling, I my vigil keep Close beside you, while you sleep. Let the Dream of Love abide! Cupid will not be denied; For he whispers to you now, And prints kisses on your brow; While his velvet finger tips Hush the protest on your lips. Wake, My Love! And do not chide Cupid pleading by your side! Darkness lingers in the skies Till the light of your bright eyes Adds new brilliance to the sun: Not till then is Day begun! Ope your lips and speak one word-- Sweetest cadence ever heard! Loose your tresses! Let them rest On your snowy, virgin breast, And entwine these roses rare In the ringlets nestling there. Wake, My Love! The sunbeams shed Golden treasures on your head; While AEolus woos your cheeks, And exacts the kiss he seeks. Love, aquiver, draws his bow And demands that sleep must go; For a jealous elf is he Who will brook no rivalry. So let Love a Kingdom make Happy indeed is he who goes And heedeth not the lure of those Who from His precepts stray. With joy observeth he the acts The Master doth proclaim, And, day or night, no fervor lacks To bless His holy name. And he shall be a fruitful tree Deep-rooted in the Truth; And not a leaf shall withered be Nor fruitage cease, forsooth. But those who follow not the Course The Master hath decreed, Shall shrivel and decay, perforce, And barren be their seed. It follows then, that those who sin Must turn again to clay, While righteous men are gathered in For God rewards the Pure in Heart And knoweth all their needs; While those who from his ways depart Shall be like broken reeds. Peace? do you say? When my homestead is razed, And Death stalks the fields where my cattle once grazed; And the Dear One is dead Whom I courted and wed, The Joy of my Life when the hearthstone fires blazed. Peace? What a travesty! Give back my wife And the brave little son, who gave up his life That she might escape From the murder or rape Of helmeted hordes in the unequal strife! Peace? Where is my father? Cleaning your shoes! Like a thousand old men you maim and abuse. He was true to his Land, So you cut off his hand And left him but slav'ry or famine to choose. Peace? My wounds cry aloud: Never! I say Till your legions are killed or driven away And my country is free: But, stay! What's that to me, Since all my own Loved Ones lie murdered to-day? No!! _Not_ Peace, but REVENGE! Here is my gun-- Surrendered? O, No! for its work is not done: When my bayonet's sting Smites the heart of your King, And your hell-hounds are flayed,--_then_ Peace will be _won_! I see her creeping 'long the nursery floor,-- A dainty, blue-eyed Babe, scarce old enough To realize 'tis _she_ whom I adore,-- She is a priceless diamond in the rough. Again I see her playing with a host Of noisy, kindergarten girls and boys; She seems to me the fairest and the most Refined: a _pure gold_ girl without alloys. And thus from stage to stage I watch the maid As she develops like the budding rose, And then, Ah me! I'm jealously afraid That she admires me less than other beaux. And then, anon, I see her on the knee Of Willie Jones: I think she shouldn't oughter! But then my Courtship Days come back to me-- _Just like her Ma!_ She is my only Daughter! There's a dear, little spot, near my Hoosier hometown, Where the mortgage runs up as the buildings run down, That I love to return to, a restful retreat, Just to slush around there with the mud on my feet. There's the forked, wormy apple-tree, dead to the bark, And the sickle and grindstone, brought out of the Ark; And the Shed, where I fled, with my illicit pipe, To assuage stomach-aches when green apples were "ripe." There's the collar and churn, _worn_ by Dash day by day, And the chain that prevented his running away; And the yoke for the oxen--Haw, Buck! and Gee, Bride! And the Troth for the Squealers the hen-house beside. There's the Dovecote, unroofed, and the sweep by the well, And the ooze in the barnyard and natural-gas smell: There's the hayrake and silo; the tin weathervane, And the two, moss-grown graves where the Old Folks were lain. And the milk-stools are there, and the cowpath and stile; And a few hardy scarecrows remain yet awhile; And the taxes, unpaid, still appear on the book So I keep coming back, to my old Hoosier shack, To inhale the sweet mildew of hay in the stack, And to drink from the spring where the bull-frogs abound That protect the young cowslips that grow all around. Now the mortgage is due and the int'rest unpaid, And I can't get a cent for the place, I'm afraid; But I love to return here, at vacation time, Just to revel again in the mud and the slime. The Paleface undertook, with sword and gun, To civilize the Redskins one by one; And Lo attempted, with his bow and arrow, To sap the Paleface of his very marrow. As fast as one, on either side, was slain Another took his place to fight again; Thus both the warring tribes said--"What's the use?" And straightway called a halt and signed a truce. Then Paleface planned and dug--and _well_ of course-- A pit for Lo, without resort to force; And Lo, in turn, a counter plan invented To clear the forests where the Paleface tented. And so the Paleface, from his fullness, gave A cask of Laughing Water to each Brave; And Lo, whose giving was an artful knack, Took up the scent and sent tobacco back. So, Time discloses how each plan availed; Which won, at last, and which, in order, failed, For now in _Peace_ the Paleface moves about, While Lo and Laughing Water _fight it out_. He was the first to fly--Darius Green! But Green had trouble with his _crude_ machine And failed to make a mark for lofty flying, And so he just _dropped out_ and gave up trying. And caches on the bank his homespun clothes; Then headlong leaps into the pool below Where Imps of Darkness destined are to go. An alligator sees the urchin dive And, Holy Moses! swallows him alive, Not thinking that the Afric _strength_, thus caged, Would prove his match and master when engaged: But so it did! for Fate evolved a plan To snatch the "charcoal" from the saurian; And as the latter spewed and lashed his tail, (A tale like Jonah wrestling with the whale) The lad escaped; of course he had to shout some! So overjoyed was he at such an _outcome_. When Aaron Burr decided to invite His hated rival to a pistol fight, He knew, of course, because his aim was wicked, That his opponent, in advance, was licked. And thus the scheme of Providence began To canonize the Hamiltonian. Had Mary tied her lambkin in the barn, There might have been a different kind of yarn. She could have said "I leave you" with the bull, Or "I'll return anon," and pulled the wool; The lamb could have replied--"What's all this for? I'll meet you, Mary, in the abattoir!" But No! They had to make the sheep the goat And tie a siren bell around his throat, And make him go to school. "Kids," as a rule, Would rather _much_ be killed than go to school. Had Nero played on burning Rome the hose Instead of fiddling while the blazes rose, He might have been, in Fame's Retort, a hero, But quite another part this Caesar played, The part of Arson in red robes arrayed. He watched the fire, in all its flares and phases, Quite unconcerned, but fiddled on like blazes. But Nero didn't finish what he started Because, while Rome still burned, his E string parted. Tho Julius Caesar's Wars our lives inspire This Caesar wouldn't even fight a fire; Nor would he lead the Roman Legions, tho He was reputed skillful with the bow; Perhaps the smoke-screen from the burning city Was planned to hide the discords of his ditty; And when at last this King is placed on trial, This verdict will prevail,--his work was viol. Had Antony been less a Marc and kept His armor on while Cleopatra slept, He might have been a Conqueror of note And, traitor to his country, judged to be A Soldier less than Slave to Lingerie. Some Commentators--and I blush with shame-- Contend that "Cle" and Sheba were the same: If this contention's true, as I surmise, It follows that King Solomon was wise; And so was Sheba when she left his regions By camel-carriage for the Roman Legions,-- Leaving the King, with all his wives and breeders, To pine for her among the stately cedars. I'm not quite sure, but who's the bigger dunce? The King? Or Marc, who got in wrong _but once_? The oldtime Reader taught us self-reliance (But this refers to school-days--not to Science!) And pointed out, in no uncertain style, Examples we should follow or revile. Old Rover, for example, was to me The highest standard of true loyalty. He used to hang around the playground gate And there for Bones, his Master, sit and wait, Though Bones, poor dunce, each day when school was over, Was kept and spanked, but waited still old Rover. The Reader states that Rover, too, was fleet, And never knew the anguish of de feet; And had a face so honest, ear so quick, That he could steal a bone and dodge a stick. That's all the Reader says, but I believe He grew too diabetic to retrieve, And so was cast aside--the poor old brute! Because the mange affected his hirsute; Was driven from the confines of his birth Because not prized: Great Scott! a Kennelworth: And so, a rover still, thus doomed to flea Far from his home and consanguinity; But, cast adrift in sinking bark, O, Setter! Than wienerwursts or sausages is better! There was a time when Henry Clay awoke To see his fame and name go up in smoke. His reputation only went this far, That he was featured as a choice cigar. Before that day, when his renown was ripe, He also was distinguished as a pipe. Eliminating all attempts at joking, He was thus honored then, and still is smo-King. Had Eve, a woman of unusual birth, Who had the love of ev'ry man on earth, Been given what the modern wife receives, Fine frocks and hats instead of wreaths and leaves; A mansion, bank-account and car or carriage, Hers would have been the first ideal marriage. But selfish Adam took her to a cavern (Our present bridal parties seek a tavern.) And made her wash and sew and hem and haw With fitting meekness 'cause his word was law. First Lady of the Land, she should have had 'em-- All creature comforts but the stingy Adam. Faithful to husband, she should have instead Broken her marriage vows upon his head. No wonder she was tempted: if she fell 'Twas circumstantial, else she wouldn't tell. Hear the perfume of the belles, Social belles! What a loud auroma, a monopoly in smells! How they stinkle, stinkle, stinkle, When the corsage bursts in sight! While the powder in each wrinkle And the gewgaw gems that twinkle Make them ugly in the light; Reeking scent, scent, scent, When they're upright, prone or bent While the sachet begs for freedom, and the musk, revolting, yells Belles, belles, belles, On the weary, bleary, smeary Social Belles. Hear the monstrous Schoolhouse bells, Direful bells! What a dirge of irony their ting-a-ling expels! Like the chanticleer at morn, How they torture us, and warn We must hurry or be canned At call of roll. How they peel their tunics and Whoop 'er up, with tireless tongues, to beat the band; What a toll! O, you blatant, brazen shells! You ringers for Mephisto, from superheated hells, With your knells! Truth compels That we voice our joy with yells 'Cause you're hung and bound in cells While we're swearing and despairing, O, you bells, bells, bells, Wicked bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, O, you rocking, mocking, shocking Schoolhouse bells! Do ye know me mon Sandy,--Sandy the Piper? 'E's 'ome on a leave, with 'is chin shot away! They wouldn't a 'armed 'im, but some blooming sniper Just slipped 'im a slug from a roof in Bombay. 'Ow did it all 'appen? Well, just one battalion Was left in the Barracks: the rest 'ad been sent To guard the new Viceroy, with Major MacCallion: It was dubbed the "'Ot Scotch," this 12th Regiment. The Colonel was sick with a Jungle disorder, And 'arf of the time was well out of 'is 'ead; And when the Sepoys, from the 'Yderbad Border Revolted and rushed us, the Colonel was dead. So Sandy and men were besieged and near choking, And most the battalion was killed or 'ad fell, While the fiends in the street, like devils a stoking, Were firing this 'ell 'ole with bullet and shell. 'Twas 'ere that me Sandy broke out thru a window, Disguised as a Rajah, with turban and sword; And so, quite unnoticed (they thought him a Indoo!) 'E soon joined the ranks of the mutinous 'orde. And then 'e 'arrangued 'em ('e knew all their jargon!) And urged 'em to scatter and uphold the law; But 'ere 'e was thru 'e was sick of 'is bargain When a bloody bomb-bullet 'alf shattered 'is jaw. So Sandy's back 'ome, but his features are altered: What a close shave 'e 'ad! 'is face is a sight! But when duty called 'e was there and ne'er faltered: With toot, shoot or Hoot, Mon! 'e mixed in the fight. 'Is goatee is gone, with the chin where 'e grew it: 'E was once very bonnie when 'e was a lad; And 'is bagpipe would charm me: my, 'ow 'e blew it! When 'e marched with 'is squad, a playing like mad. And I makes o'er 'im still, tho Sandy's not pretty, But a 'ero 'e is in Northlands and South: A gude wife I've been, tho I think it a pity That Sandy was given to _shoot off 'is mouth_. Ben Franklin was a Jester of the sort That fused, with wit, rare wisdom in retort; And, on his mettle, tempered by a smile His irony could hold them _all_ awhile. King Louis' Court to impotence made plea Before the onslaughts of his repartee. His well-aimed jibes were quite as hard to dodge As meteors agleam with persiflage. His oily tongue worked on a swinging swivel, For he _spat out_ his thoughts and didn't drivel. The Quakers, in his absence, had attacks Of blues, because they missed his almanacs; And Frenchmen soon began to understand And praise his jokes (in England contraband). He said to Louis, "Sire, the skies are down; I wouldn't give a Fillip for your crown." And added, "Nay, I wouldn't give a sou! There's just one Philip, but sixteen of you!" He had no fear, you see, of raining Kings, And, with umbrella raised, enjoyed his flings. Such pointed puns _disfavor_ oft beget, But Louis laughed and so did Lafayette. Tho galley slave, like creatures of his type, He broke his chains, when Freedom's plans were ripe, And put the U. S. A. upon the chart, Allied to France, thru diplomatic art. To-day Ben Bolt, who clipped the lion's claws, For lightning work gets thunderous applause. The thunderbolts obeyed at his command, And currents, insubordinate, were canned. He kept the Upper Regions on the string And shocked the Lower World like everything. All praise to Franklin, Diplomatic Star! He went where he was sent, but not _too far_: And tho he flew his mortal kite so high, Poor Richard's name illuminates the sky. The bale consigned to O. U. Crook, Upholsterer--marked, USE NO HOOK, Was not curled hair or even moss, Nor yet a mixture or a cross, "This Davenport was made to wear; Fine leather and best camel hair!" Said Crook (a patent skin all right, But all the "hair" was out of sight). And so Crook sold the lounge or couch To some poor Boob with gold-filled pouch; And also sold an easy chair (The Easy Mark was stuffed for fair.) And thus he plied his artful trade (A better Craftsman ne'er was made) Until the shavings, dyed and curled, Resembled hair for all the world. O, baleful occupation his! The way he made his mattresses Would make a lounging layman sick. He sold for cash and gave no tick tick-- A mark-down sale Crook staged in time-- "Such bed-rock prices are a crime," "I get my hair by camel-train": But all his "hair" was cut in Maine-- And then a fire occurred at length To bolster Crook's financial strength: The _glue_ that mocked the incensed air Mistaken was for burning hair; Beware the pine-tree's fibrous heart! But this gave Crook his fiscal start, And now a tall, pine shaft is seen Above Crook's grave; 'tis evergreen-- To-day's her birthday: I'll not say which one,-- But I have known her twenty years or more When courtship days were joyously begun, And she had reached her sixteenth year, before. And so her age is no concern of mine: She may have dropped a birthday now and then, But surely she's improved with age like wine: I wouldn't wish her in her _teens_ again. And she's my Pal! O, yes, we love, of course! But feel, besides, the joy of comradeship That finds expression at Love's very source In language of the heart--not of the lip. And so she is my everlasting pride: To Beauty's very pinnacle she's grown! Thru life we'll seek our pleasures side by side; Her heart athrob with love for me alone. O, yes! we're splendid friends, Old Jack and I: He's growing grave and wrinkles now appear Where once the smiles his cheeks were wont to ply. He's losing all his energy, I fear. I married him some twenty years ago When dancing was a chief delight of his; But now alone I trip the Terpsic toe, For poor, old Jack has got the rheumatiz. He's aging fast: I see it every day! He's fat and short of breath, yet how he snores! His few remaining hairs are saffron-grey, For nicotine keeps oozing from his pores. He seems so childish, but I humor him Altho my friends declare I'm such a dunce. Wrinkled, rheumatic; bare of brains and vim-- Good-bye, Old Jack! You were a good one _once_! We bivouac here and barely get acquainted Until the furlough ends; then we are sainted, Whether our acts deserve rebuke or praise. When we are _dead_ the recollection stays Of virtues only: vices are excused, But to the _living_ pardon is refused. And yet, alive, I'd rather be unsung, Than any Saint the catacombs among. Tho critics flay me and the censors sneer, 'Twere better so, than praises on my bier. And so we walk life's slender rope till, bing! We slip and fall or someone cuts the string. Ambition lures us, but the pinkest peach Is always just beyond us, out of reach: And when, at last, we think we are in line To cross the threshold, lo! the Full House sign. We never quite obtain the golden urn Tho rainbows beckon every way we turn. Who ever found, I ask you, all he sought? Our best endeavors ofttimes come to naught: And yet we trudge along, loath to confess We're only groping in a wilderness; Plodding the sands that burn our feet, and hurt; Seeking the Promised Land, our just desert. Had Caesar reached the zenith of his life When Brutus cut his friendship with the knife? The ladder broke and he was headlong flung While setting foot upon the topmost rung. Thus picture Caesar giving up the ghost Just when he reached the pinnacle, almost! Did Bonaparte receive his proper due? He _got_ it, but too late, at Waterloo. He played with fire, aroused the seething crater, And now, with Nick, inhabits the Equator. So we conclude, delving the lines between, He might as well have clung to Josephine. Tho Tell's renown illumes the Alpine sky Whose target was the Apple of his eye, As much distinction, and applause to boot, Should be bestowed on William's steady _shoot_: More praise to him, than the Toxopholite, Who held the apple but eschewed a bite! The _worst_ of us hath goodness in his breast; The _best_ of us but fails, put to the test,-- So, in arrears, we strive to pay the price For Fortune's frowns or Fate's disastrous dice Until we're bankrupt or too spent to wrest Long hoped-for treasure from Mad Mammon's chest. Tho life hath ups and downs, the weeping willow Our ends shapes better than the downy pillow. It takes stern measures to incline the bantling, In right direction, without switch or scantling. The optimist with farthings in his pouch, Gets more enjoyment than the wealthy Grouch; Thus cheerfulness, a product underrated, In every household should be cultivated. Give me the man who, tho in direst straits, Will thumb his sharp proboscis at the Fates; Who'll take the flimsy fire escape, or dive Into the net, glad to get out alive; Who, tho the skies be unpropitious, crowds His way along, unmindful of the clouds; Who never quits, in life's unequal bout, But keeps on fighting till he's counted out. 'Tis April Sixth! A _year_ of War and yet The Hun lines hold: Louvain is unavenged. Thru battles yet unstaged, and Comfort when, From War's Inferno comes the phantom file, The endless, ghastly file of martyred dead. Daughters of Belgium, thy vestal tears Make _womanhood_ still more an honored name; And Germany, when Reason reappears, Must dearly pay for her revolting shame! Awake, Americans! Our task is grim; For Hell and all the Imps of Sin deride The Code of Morals, spit upon the Cross, Drive torturing nails into the bleeding flesh Of all Mankind who follow Him thru paths Made plain and gladsome by the Golden Rule; And foist vile _kultur_ as Refinement's height. And what of skulking Sharks, scum of the sea, That prey on Innocents, while o'er them fly Poised to inflict a further agony, The Vampire Bats that violate the sky? Behold the ravaged homes of Serbia! Where are her people? Ask the godless Goths Whose Car of Kultur crushed beneath its wheels This stalwart Race! Ask, too, the Bulgar hordes, The mountain wolves, who pounce upon and rend, In guise of Pacifiers of the Land, Those who escaped the onslaughts of the Huns. Tho sapped by hunger and disease; tho crushed By overwhelming numbers of the foe, Thy Star, O, Serb, when battles' din be hushed, Shall rise again, suffused with Freedom's glow! Now in the sacred name of God our guide, Can we indifferent be to ravishment, Wanton destruction, murder steeped in hate-- This loathsome litter whelped by Junkerdom? 'Tis _ours_ to dare and crush this monstrous THING: Our Allies worn and bleeding, struggle on. Armenian tears, a flood of pent-up grief, Flow on and on, a torrent of despair. Rape! Murder! Pillage! Is there no relief For Niobe, deserted, weeping there? Nation Invincible, unsheath thy blade! God be thy leader: Justice be thy Sword! Nor pause until the ruthless BEAST is flayed With sated steel--and Liberty restored! Under a passing cloud the moon was hid. I really was delighted to be rid Of _Super_ light, for I was with my Nell, And I could see by her bright eyes as well. We didn't need the aid of spheres above, For that's _our_ proper sphere--a making love. Midst whispering pines we pledged our love aloud, And thus our plight began _beneath a cloud_. AMERICA! Our home, our native land! The joy of it--the rapture! when we say-- We who are freemen and can understand-- This is our heritage--the U. S. A.! Hewn from the virgin forests by our sires, And launched by giants capable and true, Our Ship of State was manned, when Freedom's fires Were beacon lights, by sturdy, godly crew,-- And so hath kept, steered by the Guiding Star Of Faith, her steadfast course, thru shoal or blast, Aloof from sirens luring from afar, With Stars and Stripes still waving at the mast. Here in our Land, where Plenty hath its store, Where fertile fields teem with abundant grain, Hunger ne'er casts its shadow on the door, And Famine hath no lodge on hill or plain. In truth doth Luxury with Plenty vie To fill our laps with all the luscious things That Nature doth provide--loath to deny The satisfaction that such bounty brings. To us was Freedom's heritage bequeathed To have and hold while life and pride remain: And so our sword must ever be unsheathed To guard this priceless boon from hurt or stain-- So that the war-worn hosts in Europe's maze, Who fight against the Despot's ruthless spear, May see the light of Liberty ablaze, Diffusing matchless splendor over here; And, friendly beacon, be to them a sign And Bow of Promise, in their dismal sky, The Light of Hope eternally to shine In God's resplendent galaxy on High. But grim starvation, at the board, presides Across the seas, where once the farmsteads poured Autumnal wealth--and Desolation rides Rough shod along where tramped the Prussian horde. No life remains: the fields are stark and sere; The forests, leaf and branch and root, are fled; The flowers lie trampled on the soldier's bier: Destroyed are e'en the shelters of the dead. The gardens that held plenty in their wombs Are stripped and barren as the sands of Dearth, And now, instead, keep vigil o'er the tombs Of demigods, redeemers of the Earth. The vineyards where the fragrant fruitage hung To cheer the peaceful peasant in his toil Are desolate where Death his shroud has flung Upon the breadth of France's sacred soil. Wrecked are the homesteads: buzzard broods abound Where shell-holes gape, and heaps of carnage rise Above the naked bosom of the ground, Mutely denying guilt, in sacrifice. Still with the jackal at her wounds doth France Fight on unmindful of her pains, and lo! We hear her call and, seizing shield and lance, Crusader-like, to her assistance go. Her cause is just: we make her Cause our own! For Liberty doth in the balance swing, And we must guard her, if we fight alone To rid the world of this malignant _Thing_ That, in the guise of Kultur, hides its hoofs And horns, its tail and spear and hideous face, And, as a pious priest, on Moslem roofs, Extols itself, usurping Allah's place. What blasphemy! Obsessed to germinate Its propaganda, its infernal cult; Condoning Cain's offense, instilling hate, It strikes with poison, dirk and catapult Against the precepts of the Prince of Peace; But hatred, lust and war will never cease Until God's Sword destroys this monstrous curse. Audaciously the Priests of Kultur strive To spread their doctrine, but the graven god Against the Living Christ cannot survive, And in His time will scourged be with His rod. And so our Ship of State to battle hastes, All sails a-drawing, sheets secure and taut, Manned by a stalwart crew, stripped to the waists, Inspired by battles that our fathers fought. In port at last whence Lafayette once sailed To aid our fight that made Britannia halt, They take their stand where Frenchmen never failed To hold the Verdun forts against assault. A mighty effort this! To send our force Three thousand miles, thru shark-infested sea, Beneath dark skies where vultures lay their course, To face the foe and ransom Liberty, Thru sacrificial offering of our sons; To arm and clothe five million men, and then Build, to convey and feed them, countless tons Of mighty vessels--transports, merchantmen; To furnish, in addition, vast supplies To allied Powers whose Cause we have embraced, To hearten them--to strengthen friendly ties And stay the hand that layeth Europe waste. A task indeed! But let it not be thought By foemen or by those whom we befriend That Liberty our trust, so dearly bought, Will not be guarded to the very end. Tho Hercules the Strong should heave in sight And challenge us to tests of thews and nerve, We'd enter the arena in our might And win new honors for the Land we serve; For Antaeus and all the myths of old 'Gainst whom the supermen of yore engaged, Were never half so mighty, half so bold As peaceful freemen, righteously enraged: And all the modern Bullies who presume To dominate the world against the Right, Must see their day-dreams doomed to blackest gloom When Truth prevails against the Imps of Night. So let us fabricate in forge and mill; So let us plant and nurture grain and seed; So let us labor and conserve until There be an end to Kultur's cruel creed. Each one of us must fight or toil or save; _Co-ordination_ be our battle song; Hardships endure and gravest dangers brave If we would victors be and right the wrong. God's ways to mortal eyes are not revealed, But Faith our guidance is thru War's grim task, And with His help the _Hosts of Sin_ must yield And Satan be denuded of his mask. I like the good old-fashioned way-- A handshake or a slap,-- The boys who jab your ribs and say "You're all right, Bill, Old Chap!" I like the lad who sees you first And always shouts your name,-- Who, tho your luck be at its worst, Says--"Cheer up, Bill! Be game!" I like the chum who's always glad To soothe you when you're ill,-- Who, when he finds you broke and sad, Says--"Here's a Dollar, Bill!" I'd like to grab him by the throat And hold his mouth tight shut,-- Who, questioned, makes you out the goat-- Go where the winds keep vigil o'er the trees, Rocking the tender saplings in the breeze; Go where the sunbeams play on rill and stream, Making the purling waters all agleam; Go where the birds rehearse their songs and trills In cool retreats, led by the Whippoorwills; Go where the bees, midst clover blooms, indulge Their honey habit till their bellies bulge; Go where the trout, in alder-arbored brooks, Abate their hunger but eschew the hooks; Go where the flowers, by fairy weavers spun, Pour out their grateful incense to the Sun; Go where the deer in secret nooks disport And Nature, clad in verdure, holds her Court; Go where--nay, stay! Yonder the artist stands, With brush and prismy palette in her hands, Before her easel, where the canvas seems A masterpiece in wondrous color schemes. What artistry! What fascinating views Dame Nature paints! Behold the rainbow hues That tint the dainty flowers and make the rose Blush to its sepals when it seeks repose; That tinge the moors and fields and turquoise sky, And stain the Autumn leaves with crimson dye! So tarry here, where moss and bluebells grow Upon the floor of Nature's Studio! With heads uncovered and with cautious tread Approach ye here! where lie our martyred dead In graves unmarked, here, there and everywhere: So lest, ashamed, ye trample them, beware! God bless our Allies! damn the Huns! And consecrate our swords and guns! They say that a stitch that is timely saves nine: You haven't your needle? O, well then, take mine; And all my Dream Outfit--my pipe and my dope! I've smoked my last hemp _to the end of my rope_.

William J. (William James) Flynn

The Barrel Mystery

1867

"Let's dance to the brown old earth to-night!" Cried one little flake of snow; "The autumn days have all passed by,-- I'm tired of my home here in the sky." So they all agreed to go. They dressed themselves in a misty film Of purest pearly white; Their feet were clad in velvet down, As soft and white as the filmy gown They wore to the dance that night. Wrapped 'round with a drape of raveled gauze Were these little fays so fair. When out from a cloud a pale star beamed, Bright diamonds sparkled, laughed, and gleamed In their fleecy, tangled hair. All ready, so pretty a crowd were they That naught could their charms enhance; Then softly and quickly they sped away, For the whisp'ring wind was the cab that they Rode in to the snowflakes' dance. They flew over housetop, hilltop, dell, With dances and with delight. Though ne'er did sound of their presence tell; Wherever their fairy footsteps fell, All turned to a crystal white. In the daintiest robes the trees were dressed, That ever you'd wish to see; The wayworn traveler, he was blessed, And stroked, and kissed, and soft-caressed, By these fays in rapturous glee. Into every crevice and crack they peeped, They danced till the morning light; They left the print of their tiny feet O'er country road and city street, In frolicsome fun that night. When the rosy face of the morning sun Peeped timidly out to view, He beheld the earth, last night so brown, Arrayed in a snow-white velvet gown That sparkled like dancing dew. 'Tis sunrise o'er the eastern hills. All hail! thou lovely morn! Thy tender blush, thy mellow light Proclaim "The autumn's born." All nature is so wondrous fair, Bedecked with golden sheen-- A fleecy cloudlet, here and there, In azure sky is seen. The gold and crimson leaves that give The trees their autumn gown, Are scattered by the gentle breeze Upon the meadows brown. Tho' summer flow'rs that were so fair Have faded, one by one, The goldenrod, in beauty rare, Her reign has just begun. The grapevines now are laden with Sweet clusters, oh, so blue! And scattered o'er the orchard ground Are rosy apples, too. Oh, who could sigh for summer skies, For summer flowers and trees, For singing birds and rainbow showers, 'Mid autumn scenes like these? As sinks the glorious "King of Day" Adown the western sky, He bathes the trees and hilltops in A flood of crimson dye. He sets the westland all aglow Before he sinks away; So endeth, as a beauteous dream, This lovely autumn day. Welcome, sweet May! With thy sunshine and showers Thou'st driven away Old winter's dark hours. Poor fellow! he seemed rather loth to depart, Till thou, with thy sunshine, compelled him to start. Welcome, sweet May! Welcome, sweet May! That bringest to me, Wherever I stray, A sweet memory, When fragrant pink blossoms hung thick overhead, And love lay asleep in a violet bed. Welcome, sweet May! Welcome, sweet May! With thy sunshine and showers, When young love awoke From sleep 'mong the flowers. Each year, in thy sunshine, 'neath heavens of blue, With thy sweet, fragrant blossoms he's wakened anew. Welcome, sweet May! 'Tis the dearest, coolest place I can find; There the locust and the wild grape entwined Float their dewy fragrance ever O'er the dancing St. Joe river On the wings of the soft drowsy wind. In the coziest of homes, neat and new, Dwell its people so kind-hearted and true. Not a wall or tower high Mars the tender, sunlight sky, Or shuts out the glad rainbow from view. When a dwelling for his mate is in quest, Does the robin find its shelter the best. There his sweetest notes he brings, And a flood of music flings O'er your head as you pass 'neath his nest. There are morning-glories dripping with dew, And the dogwood blossoms hang over you. In a drowse of rapture sweet Does this vale look up to meet, And to bask in the smile of the blue? Would your soul free from troubles be made? All its worries and its burdens unlade? From the tumult and the heat Of the noisy city street, Take yourself to the bliss of its shade. There you'll drink till you stagger as you plod, Of the sweets from the blossom-spangled sod, While your weary frame is drenched, And your thirsty soul is quenched, In a shower of the great love of God. The above is a description of the Lakeside addition to Ft. Enchanting dawn of autumn days, So clear, so cool, so calm, O'er all creation breathing forth Thy sweet refreshing balm! The woodland dons its brightest hue, Its rainbow-tinted gown; Each soft and dreamy breeze that blows Brings showers of crimson down. Old earth now groans beneath her load Of grain and fruited vine, That thickly hangs o'er orchard wall, And drips with mellow wine. The birds fly lazily above, Bathed in thy misty light, While on the hillside loll the kine In morning's gold delight. Wrapped in thy folds of golden mist, This restless soul of mine Is lulled into a blissful dream Of peace and love divine. Sweet flower, what cold, unfeeling hand Hath plucked thee from that shady land Where clear, cool waters lie, And velvet mosses kissed thy feet? Who took thee from thy loved retreat, And left thee here to die? Thou fairest gem of all the earth-- E'en bonnie wilds that gave thee birth Thy petals' sweetness hold. I drink thy breath in fragrant draught, Sweeter than royal lips e'er quaffed From cups of burnished gold. Who took thee from thy crystal home, Where finny tribes delight to roam And frisk in morning play; Where never harsher sound was heard Than fall of leaf or trill of bird, Or winds that softly sway The trees that bend thy nook above, And, bending, whispered low of love To thee, my bonnie flower, Or whir of swallows' silken flight Across the waves, the calm delight Of evening's dappling shower? Although thou'rt crushed beneath my feet, Thy dewy fragrance is more sweet Than at thy frail life's dawn. Thus, flow'r of love and purity, This lesson I have learned of thee: That when my friends are gone, And fate's rude tread has crushed my heart, Its blossoms shall more sweets impart Than at its first love's dawn. How still the morn! no leaf is stirred, Nor fruited branches sway, Save now and then, from dewy glen, A breath of new-mown hay, Or blossoms of the summertide, Is wafted up the mountain side. How softly floats the cuckoo's song Across the sleeping vale; In mystic glee the echo free Gives back the fairy tale. The stream, in drowsy ecstasy, Is gurgling onward to the sea. The lark swims slowly in the blue, The giant oaks so high, In sunlit haze their branches raise, As if to kiss the sky. We hear above the twittering birds, The placid lowing of the herds. The silvery laughter from the lips Of children at their play; And in the rill below the mill The horses paw and neigh; While youths and maidens plight their vows, And workmen sing behind the plows. The noon is here, the sky is clear And tender as the morn; The ploughman's blest with perfect rest, Where noontime shade is born. The bird has ceased his song to trill; The lowing of the herd is still. Unnoticed, a dark speck appears Above the trees!--on high At rapid pace and fast increase It scuds across the sky! Nor stops to rest o'er sea or lands, Till o'er this lovely vale it stands An instant, then, as if possessed Of some aerial deil, With shriek and yell this imp of hell Swoops down upon the vale! Snatches the giant oaks from earth That nourished them and gave them birth, And hurls them 'gainst the mountain side!-- One sweep of its black wings, And all is o'er! And as before The streamlet laughs and sings; But carries on its sunny tide Fragments of debris to the wide And surging sea,--the shattered boughs Of oaks that proudly grew Beside the stream,--is it a dream? No, there's a baby's shoe! The sunset's crimson rays are shed Soft o'er the dying and the dead. While angels hover near and spread Their dewy shadows o'er The vale where morn in joy was born-- A blackened pile! But for The song of one lone whip-poor-will, Like to the morning, all is still! 'Tis evening; on Winona Lake The last glad sunbeams rest, Shedding their golden glories o'er Her soft and silken breast. And as my little boat glides forth Into their light, behold! The splashes from my oars are like Great drops of liquid gold. And now a softer, richer hue O'erspreads the western sky; Trees, hilltops, water--everything Seems bathed in crimson dye. And o'er the bosom of the lake Soft summer breezes glide, Bringing incense from the lilies On the other side. I wonder, oh, I wonder so, If in that world of bliss Where sunsets never come, there's aught More beautiful than this. Oh, Father Time, if thou from me All else that's lovely take, Leave only in my memory This sunset on the lake. Thou'rt bonnie, my steed, though a bit out of style, We've traveled together full many a mile; Yet nothing can give me such perfect delight As to spring to thy saddle and spin out of sight, Away from the city of turmoil and strife, Away from the cares that beset business life, To a shady, green-carpeted country retreat, Where hearts ever loving may placidly beat. Away over pathways with dewdrops bespangled, Where myrtle and wild morning-glory are tangled, And the violet borrows its velvety hue From the God-given radiance of heaven's own blue. And cowslips and buttercups grow where we tread, The breeze whispers soft through the trees overhead, As showers of pink blossoms, with fragrance so rare, They shed o'er the ground, over us,--everywhere. Thou faithful old friend, always ready to go; Ne'er found out of order like others I know; And when off we go for a nice little spin, Unlike others, thou'st never left me to "walk in." Exchange for another that's handsome and new! No, no, bonnie steed, I will not part with you. But when thou art old and thy usefulness o'er, In a nice, cozy attic thy frame I will store, And every day, be it sunshine or rain, I'll steal to thy side and in fancy again We'll skim the green meadows, my steed, you and I, 'Mong the flowers that grow 'neath the soft, tender sky. Then come, let us bask in the dewy delight Of the country--hi! ho! we are soon out of sight. Though a bit out of style, just the same is thy speed. I love thee! I love thee! my bonnie bright steed. Oh, balmy night--a night in June-- What endless beauties thine! Hast thou a balm thou'lt gently breathe O'er tired souls like mine? The cricket 'neath the old porch floor Chirps forth a merry lay; The roses nod and smile at me-- "A sweet good-night," they say. Oh, cricket, hush your merry song; How can you be so gay? Ye roses bow your crimson heads, And mourn my vanished day. How oft from the din of the hard city street, The show and the splendor, in fancy, my feet Stray backward through paths that are dripping with dew, To an old-fashioned garden my babyhood knew. A wealth of red roses hung over the wall, And, laden with pink, downy peaches, a tall And willowy tree did its long branches sway O'erhead, as you passed, in an inviting way; While from its green shelter the oriole's song Rode on the soft breezes the summer day long. The currant-bush flourished in rows near the wall, The sugar corn waved its soft leaves over all; And buttercups, daisies and peonies grew, The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue; The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweet Lifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meet The first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet pea Wound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and we To drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled, While sunflowers nodded to us as we filled Our baskets with blossoms for table bouquets, Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze; Or, with aprons outspread, in our childish delight, The butterfly chased in his foraging flight 'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief, That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf. But long years ago the old garden was sold! Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold; Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath grass-tangles hid, For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'mid The flowers that blossom her pallet above, Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love; And singing their lullaby sweetest where lies My playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes. And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness here Is past, to the place that my bosom holds dear I may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the tree Where robin and oriole chirrup in glee, While my soul slips away from the spot that I love, To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above. I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe, Where the moonbeams love to loiter; Watching the ripples come and go And the willow trees their shadows throw On the mystic, murm'ring water. As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank, Where the pale rays glint and quiver Through the silvered leaves, a perfumed breeze So softly swayed the willow trees, And dappled the laughing river. The waters murmured so low and sweet, Then an echo, soft and clear,-- Not the sound of lute or song of bird, But the sweetest music ever heard, Fell on my enchanted ear. The silvered ripples all leaped for joy! And over the waters glancing I saw, in the light, a pretty sight; In an ecstasy of glad delight, The ripples all were dancing. They danced in the midst where the stars look down-- No shadowy branch to hide them; They danced where the willows kiss the stream, Then back again in the moonlight's gleam, And the fish peeped out and eyed them. They danced in the shade of the iron bridge, Where the aspen's shadows play; And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled, And spangles dropped on each little head, As they laughed and danced away. Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down, The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown; Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare, He rides on the wind to the great everywhere. He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown; And over each window in country and town, With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen, He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen, Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers, And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers. But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bells You hear the old pessimist counting his ills. With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he, "Such nasty cold weather I never did see; The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all, For danger of breaking a leg by a fall; Unless a few days bring a great change about, The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out." But roguish old Winter soon bundles his pack Of ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back, And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his stead The Goddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head; And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew, She stole from the heart of the violet blue; A voice--O, the music that swells on the air From fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,--everywhere, Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers, She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers. Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim, And says the fair goddess has no charms for him. "'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheat Will rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat; Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight, Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night. A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!" And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail. At last this fair goddess descends from the throne, Gives place to another we've all loved and known. Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain, With silken folds falling and rising again, As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays; Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze, Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers, That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers. As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads, O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds! Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled, The murmuring pessimist never is stilled. He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow, "I don't see the use of such hot weather now; 'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine-- Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine." And thus the old pessimist grumbles away The brightness and joy of the long summer day. He teases the evening, he teases the morn, Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born. She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine, Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine; And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree, And ears that are golden as golden can be. Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown, A garland of goldenrod forming her crown, In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands, And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands; While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust, Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust; The winter comes on altogether too fast, The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast; My bills, they increase, while my business is slow; I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know! There's no satisfaction on land or on sea, For nothing is what I desire it to be." Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret, Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget? Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so great Forgetteth the things which His hands did create? The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night, Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight. He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue, And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew; Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed? Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade? In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside, It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied. The richest of treasures to thee will be given, If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven. The night is past, the thunder's roar In distance dies away; And in the east, a gleam of light Foretells the coming day; And women, bearing spices sweet, Are hast'ning on their way Toward that tomb, so dark and deep, Where Jesus' body lay. "But who," these faithful women ask, And pause upon their way,-- "When we have reached our Master's tomb, Who'll roll the stone away?" At last they reach the hallowed spot,-- The tomb that Joseph made, Wherein, three days before, their loved And loving Lord was laid. The glory of the golden sun Fills budding woods with light, The morning dewdrops sparkle on The Easter lilies white. Sweet odor from the hyacinth Upon the breeze is borne; All nature now proclaims with joy, "It is the world's first morn!" The women stand beside the tomb In deep surprise and fear; For lo! the stone is rolled away-- Their Master is not there. Stays not, but hastens on That she may tell the wondrous news She tells them and they come with her Unto the hallowed place, And find it just as she has said-- Of Jesus there's no trace. Then silently they turn and go Each on his way--save one; 'Tis loving Mary Magdalene Who stays and weeps alone. She's thinking now of days when friends Away from her all turned, When thoughtless Mary Magdalene By all the world was spurned. How Jesus, in His wondrous love, Had touched her heart within, And led her into righteous paths From those of vilest sin. And as she weeps, she stoops and looks Into the sepulcher, And sees two angels sitting there Who kindly say to her: "Why weepest thou, oh, woman?" And Magdalene replies, "Because they've taken away my Lord; I know not where He lies." As Mary speaks she turns around-- Another form is there! She thinks it is the gardener, Who kindly says to her: "Whom seekest thou, oh, woman? Why stand ye weeping there?" Says Mary, "If you've borne Him hence, Oh, please, sir, tell me where." The Saviour's loving heart is touched; (For it is He who speaks-- Her loving Lord and Master, whom So earnestly she seeks). He draws a little closer now, That she her Lord may know, And answers only, "Mary," In accents soft and low. She raises now her tearful eyes, They are no longer blind; For none but He could speak her name So tenderly and kind. Forgetting, in her love so blind The cause for which He'd died,-- Forgetting _all_ save at His feet No harm can her betide, With beating heart and outstretched arms She flies her Lord to greet. "Rabboni!" then she kneels among The lilies at His feet. He looks with tend'rest pity on That face with tears still wet, And says "You must not touch me now; I will not leave you yet. "But by and by I will ascend Unto my God and thine; Go thou and tell, when thou dost find Those true disciples mine." The day is spent, the lily folds Her leaves upon her breast; The violets close their dewy eyes And sweetly sink to rest. The westland crimson glory fades From hilltop, wood, and lawn, Night's tender dews fall softly o'er The world's First Easter Dawn. There's a country o'er the billows deep, As fair as fair can be; Its north is bounded by mountains high, With sunlit summits that kiss the sky, Its south by the boundless sea. A stream flows down the mountain side, And swells to the great Ganges; Its placid depths, unknown, untold, Reflect the sunlight's orient gold, Then rest in southern seas. The silken palms their branches wave As soft as summer sails; And drowsy winds, so passing fair, With odors laden, strange and rare, Blow soft o'er sunbright vales. And nestling close 'mong shelt'ring hills The bamboo huts are seen; Like golden billows fall and rise The seas of grain 'neath Indian skies, By woods of silvered green. The date, the orange, the fig grow ripe In that golden country, where Through fragrant meads the pathways lead. Wouldst see God's handiwork indeed? Go view the sunset there! 'Tis veiled in clouds of splendid hue, In melting colors rare: Church domes in crimson waves are dyed, And everything seems glorified-- Thank God there are churches there! Where once the starry heavens looked down, And wept a nation's blindness, Which knew no God to soothe its grief, And women--slaves! found no relief In love or human kindness, Millions of homes to-day rejoice And praise our God above; Millions have learned the hymn to swell, Through missionaries, sent to tell Of Him whose name is Love. But millions still are left in doubt, In darkness and alone; Their restless souls are wrung with grief, They find no respite or relief In heathen gods of stone. They've never heard of Him who gave Their glorious sun-kissed shores; God grant that we our efforts lend To teach them of a loving Friend Whom Freedom's land adores. Prosper, O Lord, this land of ours, So glad, so proud, so free, That we may missionaries send Till all that beauteous India land Has learned to worship Thee. Nothing we give our Father's cause Escapes His watchful eyes; To deck the crown we'll surely wear Weary of the tumult of the town, Of the burdens and the cares that weigh me down, Of oppression, greed, and strife, Of the din of city life, Disappointments that my noblest efforts crown. Weary of the world's vain, gilded styles, Though my moments he with softest words beguiles; Though he warble ne'er so blandly, His old heart is false though friendly, For he lingers near me but when fortune smiles. Weary of his griefs and empty show, To the quiet woods alone I love to go, And in sweet repose abide Where the sylvan echoes ride On October's drowsy winds that whisper low. Where the bonnie squirrel flits among the trees, And the quail his piping flings upon the breeze, Where the gold and brown leaves quiver O'er the winding, osiered river, Bearing on its soft, low music to the seas. And the forest oak, so grand, majestic, high, With his rainbow-mantled branches woos the sky, And the wind a fairy story Breathing o'er the maple's glory, Brings it down in twirling crimson showers, where lie Many springtime flowers, fast asleep, Spreading over them a cover warm and deep; And the sunlight glints and spangles Through the wild and woody tangles, Where alone the eye of God doth vigils keep. Standing there on wild, leaf-covered sod, Where perhaps no human foot before hath trod My storm-tossed soul is blest In a halo of sweet rest, All alone within the crimson wood with God. Violet, sweet violet, Of modest, dainty grace, Why dost thou hide among the grass Thy pretty velvet face? Thine eyes are filled with dew, thy breath Makes sweet the air of spring; Thy whispers low, sweet memories Of other springtimes bring. Sweet olden, golden springtimes, When bluebirds sang so gay, As I plucked thy sister blossoms From a woodland far away, With her, whose eyes, in color, Sweet flow'r, were just like you, And like you grew in radiance From drinking heaven's blue. Each spring, as lisping children, As romping schoolgirls, too, Our feet were bathed in violet banks That dripped with melting dew; Our souls were bathed in bliss divine, As all day long we basked In sweet and fragrant winds we knew Had kissed them as they passed. But when the summer sun shone hot, Their slender stems were dried; Their modest heads bent lower, and Their fragrant blossoms died; And could we pierce to-day the blue Of heaven's dome so fair, Methinks we'd see them blooming in Celestial glory there! Culled by our angel Emma, In a rapturous clime, that lies In the radiant, springtime glory Of the fields of Paradise! (To my sister Emma.) I've just seen the first robin of spring, Emma, And he's warbling a sweet little song, Bringing back tender mem'ries of you, Emma, And of joys that to childhood belong. He was singing a song to his mate, Emma, A sweet song of happiness and love, And it echoed thro' woodland and dale, Emma, Over valley and hilltop and grove. Oh, those happy, happy days gone by, Emma, Their memory is ever dear to me; Oh, those old golden, glorious days, Emma, When I played 'mong the flowers with thee. Bringing back tender mem'ries of you, Emma, When life seemed only a song, Holding neither a sorrow nor tear, Emma, As we played 'mong the flowers all day long. We gathered the mosses and ferns, Emma, The cowslips and violets so blue, And the crab-apple blossoms so sweet, Emma, And the sweet, mellow May-apple, too. You remember the old apple-tree, Emma, With its wide-spreading branches o'erhead? Such perfume I have never since found, Emma, As its sweet, fragrant blossoms did shed. But now we are far, far apart, Emma, The sunny days of childhood are o'er, But we'll roam hand in hand 'mong the flowers, Emma, That bloom on the Bright Golden Shore. Tired of laughter, tired of play, Baby mine, On my breast thy tresses lay, Baby mine. Cooing, loving, prattling, too,-- Shine and showers the whole day thro', Tires a bonnie thing like you, Baby mine. Little violets so blue, Baby mine, Close their eyes now wet with dew, Baby mine, Saying, sweetheart, unto you, Close those orbs of azure hue, Where that glimpse of heaven gleams thro', Baby mine. Whence that dimpled foot and hand, Baby mine? Came they here at love's command, Baby mine? Or did angels, in their flight, Drop this little blossom white On the stream of time one night, Baby mine? Dimples guard thy crimson lips, Baby mine; Prints of fairy finger-tips, Baby mine. Now the shade of angel wings Sweet repose upon thee brings,-- Silken soft thy slumberings, Baby mine. Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, my dear, Nothing can harm you, for mother is near. The journey is short, and the stars twinkle bright O'er your path into Byloland, baby, good-night. Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, my pet, Grasses that cover your pathway are wet Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, good-night. Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, sweetheart of mine, Rest from their prattle those red lips of thine. Bridges you cross in your Byloland flight Sway to your footsteps, my baby, good-night. Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, baby, my love, Angels are watching thy cradle above. Thy feet into Byloland's dreamy delight Have entered, then rest, little pilgrim, good-night. This is the month of roses, dear, The sweetest time of all the year. Field, woodland, roadside,--everywhere, Is clad in crimson beauty rare. The very earth beneath our feet Is covered with their petals sweet; Where'er we go the balmy air Is laden with sweet fragrance rare. And now and then, dear, we may see The cheerful, busy little bee From out this dainty, crimson flow'r, Sip nectar for his winter store. The sky is blue, and there and here We see a fleecy cloud appear; Nor tongue nor pen can e'er portray The beauties of this sweet June day. In mem'ry, dear, it takes me back Along life's sunny backward track Just thirteen years, to a sweet June day And a little cot, not far away, Where roses bloomed, and song of bird Throughout the livelong day was heard; But never was this song so gay As on that blissful, bright June day. Within that little nut-brown cot, On earth the dearest, sweetest spot, A wee pink flower, both sweet and gay, First opened to the light of day. As time flew by on fairy wing, This wee pink flower, this dainty thing, Of all our love demanded part, And twined its tendrils 'round each heart. Sometimes, without, 'twas dark and dreary, But all within this cot was cheery, Because this little floweret gay Chased gloom and shadows all away. This dainty thing, so dear to me, This little flower I have in thee. 'Neath blue June sky and rainbow shower, Long live earth's purest, sweetest flower. Don't you remember, oh, brother mine! What fun we had at Christmas-time, Out on the old farm, you and I-- That home we loved in days gone by? How up in the loft we used to climb For nuts, stored there in autumn-time, To crack and eat by the dear old fire, While the cheerful blaze leaped high'r and high'r? And when it was time to go to bed, How each tired, sleepy little head Was laid on a pillow, soft and white, To dream of Christmas the livelong night? And how in the morn, before 'twas light, Our eyes were opened wide and bright, As we ran a race down the high old stair, To see if "Santa" had been there, And brought his bundle of toys with him, And filled our stockings up to the brim? But dear old "Santa" would always stop And fill them full to the very top. Then we'd away to the old hillside, The country shoemaker's cot beside-- Just 'round the corner, near the wood, Where the tall old beech-tree grew and stood. And the snowbirds hopped on its boughs awry As our brand-new sled went whizzing by; And down to the foot of the hill we'd go, Over the crystal Christmas snow. Oh, could life's downward journey be As free from care for you and me; Our hearts be filled with the same glad rays Of those olden, golden Christmas days! When life was so sunny, bright, and new, Oh, brother mine! for me and you. A happier home none ever had Than ours, holding hearts so light and glad. But those happy Christmas days of yore To us will come again no more; For she who chased all our care away Sings a Christmas anthem in heaven to-day. When evening shadows gather round, And work of day is done, When down the west horizon sinks The glorious, golden sun, And sweetly sing the whip-po-wils Ode to the closing day, Back to my home among the hills My visions often stray. Tho' time from mem'ry may efface All else that's sweet and tender, Those happy olden, golden days I ever shall remember. Oh, happy, olden, golden days, Oh, days with sunshine laden, When I wandered o'er those verdant hills With a little brown-eyed maiden. Where flowers were fair and fields were green, And trees with blossoms lade, 'Twas there I met and loved and wooed A little brown-eyed maid; And oftentimes she'd sing to me As o'er those verdant, flowery hills We gaily strolled along. But that was years, long years ago, Yet o'er and o'er again In dreams I'm with my brown-eyed love, And hear that sweet refrain. Tho' death's cold frost has touched my flower, And bid its life depart, Yet still within my soul doth live My little brown-eyed sweetheart. I know two eyes--two jet-black eyes, Yet fond and true and tender. I see them in the twinkling stars, And in the glowing ember. You girls may talk of sweet blue eyes, Or on soft brown eyes tarry, But I will take those jet-black eyes, So sparkling, bright, and merry. They come to me at twilight hour, They come in morning early, They come my every joy to share, Those jet-black eyes so merry. They come at noon, and when I'm sad They look at me so kindly, Their ever-tender, sparkling glance Dwells on me, oh, so fondly. I know two eyes--two jet-black eyes, Yet fond and true and tender; They're bright as any twinkling star Up in the heavens yonder. I look into those sparkling eyes, Those jet-black eyes so merry, And see within their radiant depths The love-light of my "dearie." Cupid looked forth one bright spring day, And whispered, "Now I must away. Old winter, with his frost and snow, Took his departure long ago. "O'er roadside, field, and woodland, too, Sweet violets grow, with eyes so blue; Blossoms of every hue and shade The balmy air with perfume lade. "There's light and sunshine everywhere; All nature is so wondrous fair; E'en from the woods the wild birds sing A welcome to the newborn spring. "This surely is my harvest time, To make men bow at Love's sweet shrine; For all around, below, above, Will help me make men fall in love." So from beneath his flow'ry tent He started on this mission bent. First to the halls of wealth and rank Went cunning Cupid with his prank. On reaching them, to his dismay, Those halls in deepest quiet lay; And music, once the food of love, Could not be heard below, above. So Cupid's little wings he spread, And, flying, to himself he said, "The lawyer will be in, I know, He's poring o'er his books, I trow. "Poor fellow, what a lot is his! To be shut up a day like this, From sunlight, flowers, and wild bird's song, Trying to balance right and wrong. "I'll take my tiny little dart, And lightly touch the lawyer's heart, And show him how love's sweet, glad light Can make his dingy office bright." But when he reached the longed-for spot, He found the studious lawyer not. These words he read upon the door, "The lawyer will be in at four." "To the office of the doctor kind I'll go," said he, "for there I'll find Him tending to his patients' ills With soothing balms and dainty pills." But doctor's doors were closed, and lo! Just as poor Cupid turned to go, These words he read 'twixt tears, alack! "At six the doctor will be back." Next to the dentist man he flew, And called upon the merchant, too; In every place, the city 'round, But not a bit of game he found. "Well, well!" said Cupid, with a moan, "The world has cold and heartless grown." So once again his wings he spread, And over country roads he sped, Back toward his home among spring flowers, And shady walks, and leafy bowers; But as he flew the stream beside, A crowd of wheelmen there he spied. "Ha! ha!" laughed he, "I've found them all, Both short and tall, both great and small. Oh, what a pretty lad I see Gliding along so merrily! "With pretty boots laced to the knee, His limbs how shapely, blithe, and free; If I can get such game as he, This trip a grand success will be." So, saying this, his bow he bent, And through the air his arrow sent; Straight toward this pretty lad it flew, And pierced his bosom through and through. "My! wasn't that a blissful aim. I'll fly to earth and get my game." But when he reached that laddie's side He looked perplexed, then horrified. Then quickly rose and flew away, And as he went was heard to say: "Oh, what a blunder! Now I see Fort Wayne is not the place for me; "For, counting now my time and cost, This lovely day is worse than lost. My wings are weary, brain's awhirl, For, oh, 'twas but a Bloomer Girl!" 'Tis morning at Manila, The first dawn of the May; Along the eastern horizon We see the light of day. As spreads its golden splendor And drives away the night, The hills that guard the islands Are decked with diamonds bright. The cocoa palms so olden, Now robed in silvered green, Stretch their broad branches heav'nward To golden fields serene. And yon cathedral spire gleams With glory from the skies; The beauty of the Sabbath Across the city lies. A little bay rests softly Among those sun-kissed isles, Reflecting heaven's azure, And basking in God's smiles. Upon its sleeping waters A Spanish squadron lies; Her flags unfurl their folds, and Upon sweet breezes rise. Lo! another fleet approaches, More beauteous and grand; The flag she bears so proudly Has waved o'er Freedom's land! She comes across the billows, And in Freedom's cause to-day The smoke and fire of battle Look! on Fort Cavite they're firing! Their efforts now prevail; 'Tis shattered into splinters, And Spanish cheeks grow pale The cannons belch forth thunder! The shells burst thick and fast! With might charge Freedom's heroes, Amid the purple blast. The handsome flagship Reina Christina's sinking now; She's robed in flames and ruin, From th' Olympia's snowy bow. Now all the Spanish squadron, Its proud and dauntless crew, Sinks 'mid the storm of battle, 'Neath troubled waters blue. Nor falls a single hero In Freedom's cause so true, While fighting 'neath the banner That's red and white and blue. The Philippines are freed from All tyrant rule and reign, _Avenged_ the noble sailors On board our gallant Maine! The gory hands of Spain are In ocean waters laved, O'er whose enchanted bosom This morn her banner waved. Hills, mountains, vales, and rocks ring With shouts of victory, As falls the sunset's crimson Across the earth and sea. And Dewey's noble squadron, That bravely won the day, On drowsy winds is floating "Old Glory" o'er the bay. All hail! our great commander, Thou hero of the sea, With your brave and noble boys you Have captured victory. Your name is wreathed in glory, Its praises will be sung Wherever Freedom's flag is To Freedom's breezes flung. The guns you've fired to-day, On the first of flow'ring May, Will thunder o'er Spain's hilltops Ten thousand miles away! Fling higher Freedom's emblem! Long may its colors wave Where God has given victory To Freedom's noble brave. Just off the coast of an isle that lies Where silver'd, feathery palm-trees rise As if their branches would kiss the skies So blue, so far away; When woke each vale the Sabbath bell, On seas that gently rose and fell, Our nation's warships lay. As dreamily, lazily basking, they In quiet tropical sunshine lay, In sight of a placid, sleeping bay, Where anchored the Spaniard's ships, "A big boat's coming from the bay! The Spaniard's squadron comes this way!" Came loud from a lookout's lips. As one by one came the fleet of Spain Across the bay, toward the main, With hope in each bosom they once again Launched forth on open sea. "Each man to his gun!" the commodore cried, And the warships plowed through the cloven tide, In the trail of the enemy. "Full speed ahead! Open fire!" The commodore's voice rose high'r and high'r, 'Midst smoke and flames to the enemy nigh'r, The gallant fleet plunged on. The cannons poured forth fire and thunder, The great shells cleft the waves asunder, As gun replied to gun. Right through the hot hell-fire and shell, Through mist and smoke and shot that fell O'er ship and boiling sea, pell-mell, Charged Freedom's heroes true. For o'er the battle's smoke and fury Waved high the synonym of glory,-- Great crashing volleys, long and loud, Swept from the decks the Spaniards proud, Then wrapped their boats in a smoky shroud, And left them beached and burning. Their decks in human blood were laved, O'er which the yellow banner waved So vauntingly that morning. That eve the sunset's crimson ray Touched gently, softly, tenderly The waves that moaned where the lost fleet lay,-- The pride of Spain erstwhile,-- And crowned the man who climbed the height To plant "Old Glory's" spangles bright On sun-kissed Cuba's Isle. We'd been a talkin'--me and Ma-- A deal about our Bill. He wuz well nigh onto thirty, And gettin' older still. He wa'n't a lazy lad, you see, Wuz tall and strong and big, But to accomplish anything He must git up and dig. Next we sot out to talk of Sal; She wa'n't a hansum lass, But luvin'er or kinder soul Ne'er stepped on medder grass. Sez I, "Good wimmen never grows Frum idle gals, 'tis true;" So we decided Sally should Airn her own livin' too. And then we talked about the twins,-- Joe allus wuz a truant cuss, And oft I've wallerp'd him Fer runnin' 'way from skule to watch The ships cum in at sea. He allus said, "When I'm a man, A sailor I will be." Wuz allus gettin' inter scraps On politicks at skule; It wa'n't no use to send 'im, He broke ever' gol-durned rule. But Jim wuz sort o' studious; He keered a heap fer books. Lazy? I guess! On summer days He'd find the shady nooks And lay and read, while me and Bill Got out and dun the work, And airned a decent livin' fer This lazy, wuthless shirk. But Sue, she wuz a hansum gal; Her cheek wuz like the rose; Her breth wuz sweet as any breeze The June-time ever blows. Her eyes wuz dark and full of fire, Her cheeks wuz churry red, Her body sort o' willery, But she'd a haughty head. But if you wanted her to work She never could be found; And, mebby, if you scoured the farm And all the country round, You'd find her sittin' in a tree A-whistlin' o' the tune She'd heered the medder lark a-singin' To the skies o' June. And so one nite I called 'em in, I think jest arter tea. Sez I, "We've clothed and edecated you-- Yer Ma and me; But now we're gettin' old, our j'ints O' roomatism tells, And it's high time fer you to airn A livin' fer yoursel's." Our kids wuz proud as eny Indiany's ever grown, And so, afore another month They left us all alone. Bill went to Philadelphy town And hired to a store As keeps all sorts o' things in lots, Oh, millions,--mebby more. Sal went to work fer Deken Dobbs, And Joe went off to sea; But Jim turned out an editor-- A mighty man wuz he. Along kum one o' them air shows With gals that danced and sang; And, spite of all her ma could say, Our Sue, she j'ined the gang. As years went by our Bill he wed A hansum city wife, And went to livin' in accord With high-dad city life. The children kum till he possessed O' them a mammoth fold; And ever'thing he teched jest seemed To turn to yaller gold. Sal, wed to Deken Dobbs's son, Wuz happy, but so poor; And meny children played around Her country cabin door. But then she loved that wuthless man, And p'raps, when all is told, She's happier 'n she would 'a' bin If she had wed fer gold. The last I heered of rompin' Sue, I b'lieve it wuz a "hit" They called it that she made in France, And ever' night she'd git Great piles o' flowers, roses and sich, O' yaller, red and white; And ever' time she danced she fetched Ten thousan' francs a night! But Jim--poor Jim! our lazy boy-- He did'nt fare so well; He's good in larnin', but, somehow, His paper didn't sell. But why it didn't I can't tell, And of'n wonder yit; Fer when the people brung in stuff As fer his paper writ Thet didn't sound jest right to him, And wuzn't right in looks, He allus tuk and made it right, Fer Jim wuz good in books. He know'd about the president, Congress and senate, too; Could tell you all that they hed done And what they'd ort to do. And when he found he couldn't make Enuff to buy a bike, He _walked_ off down the railroad track But do you know that wuthless Joe Turned out the best of all? When down-trod Cuby needed help, He answered duty's call, An' what he taught ol' haughty Spain I guess she'll not forget; Fer the way he licked them Spanyards Wuz a caution, now, you bet! The people all went wild about His bravery and fame, An' now he's got an "Admiral" Hitched on afore his name. But nairy youngster would 'a' knowed What in his brain-pan lay 'F I hadn't said, "Git up and dust!" To them that summer day. Noble fellow, faithful friend! Devoted, kind, and true; In all this wide, wide world I've found No one who loves like you. Faithful dog, rememb'rest thou (Oh, lucky day for thee!) When thou, a friendless puppy, came To beg a crust from me? Then thou wast hungry, footsore, cold, Thy sides were lank and thin; But when I saw thy friendly face I gladly took thee in. Now thou art beautiful and plump. Thy fur is soft and sleek, A pretty collar buckled round Thy noble, glossy neck. But thou, oh, noble, trusty friend, Repay'st this care of mine A thousand-fold, for who could spurn Devotion such as thine? I know if thou, in time to come, Some other friend should find, Thou wilt not say of me harsh words And sentences unkind. So they who would our friendship scorn-- My fondness would reprove,-- Would better come to thee and learn True gratitude and love. There's somebody stayin' aroun' our house-- I don't know who or where-- That sneaks about an' follers me out An' in an' ever'where I go; an' 'sturbs my skates an' things, An' scatters 'em all about; But you bet your stuff it'll go mighty tough With 'im when I find 'im out! Though I hang my hat an' coat away, Up on the peg with care, I'll just be bound they can't be found When I want 'em,--anywhere. When I've hunted for 'em till I'm late for school, An' mad as one ol' March hare, An' a dozen more, right down on the floor I'll find that hat, just where Somebody's went an' throwed it down,-- It's the same with my books each day, My bat an' ball, my mittens an' all, Though I'm sure I put 'em away. But I tell you this: if I ever find Who that meddlesome "somebody" is, I'll rout 'im, an' scout 'im, an' all that's about 'im, I'll learn 'im to mind his biz. We sing of the hero of battle, We cherish and worship his name; Of the hero of old, and the hero of gold, Of him who has honor and fame. The hero of love's tender passion, Who basks in its mystical ray, As we journey along, but never a song For the hero we meet every day. The one who can face, aye, so bravely His losses, rebuffs, and defeat; Whose heart will not break though the world may forsake,-- From the enemy will not retreat. Who never will murmur at fate, when It seems an unmerciful foe, But struggles along with a heart true and strong, And strikes a far nobler blow. Though his last golden castle is shattered And sown to the wind long ago, Each one that he meets with a warm smile he greets,-- His burden we never may know. But hark! sweetest melodies mingle With the din of earth's tumult and strife-- Heaven's joyous bells ring and archangels sing For the hero of every-day life. Oh, where is that beautiful city, mamma, The one that is called Fort Wayne? Does it rest in the light of a clear blue sky, 'Way out on a sandy plain? Or may it be found where the roses climb Over trellises built so high That if you would pluck off the topmost one You'd have to climb up to the sky? Or where all the streets are so smooth and so clean That buggies and bicycles, too, Glide along with all ease in the sweet dreamy breeze, Like balloons in soft heavens of blue? Mother: Not there, my child, not there. Fort Wayne is a hustling city, my dear, On the banks of the old Maumee, Where most of the folks are too busy to care The beauties of nature to see. 'Tis a place where they all pay a tax, my dear, For repairing the street, you know, That they all may enjoy their bicycles, dear, As "bumpety bump" they go. And should you e'er enter that city, my dear, Be sure that you always look down, Or first thing you know in a rut you will go, And find yourself flat on the ground. Or if 'tis not you that is flat on the ground, Your bicycle ruined will be-- There are tacks, broken beer-bottles strewn all around, And your tire will be punctured, you see. Fort Wayne is the city of "tags," my dear, As every taxpayer knows; Tags on their horses, their wheels, and their dogs, And tags from their heads to their toes. When its people go into the country, my dear, To enjoy its cool breezes and shade, They are bangled and spangled with tags, my dear, Till they look like a circus parade. It is there, my child, it is there. Oh, servant faithful, tried, and true, Through sunshine, storm, and shower, Thy face for nearly forty years Has graced the court-house tower; Thy hands have never idle hung, Thy face was always cheery, Thy ever-swinging pendulum Seemed never, never weary. When we were late to work or school, How gently didst thou chide us, Telling in soft and muffled chimes How swiftly time glides by us. Oh, how the workman loved thy voice, When thou, at set of sun, Proclaimed in softest, sweetest chimes, That his day's work was done. But to us all it lost its charm, And sounded cross and surly, When wakened by its loud alarm In morning, oh, so early! The maple trees that spread their boughs O'er the court-house yard below, Each year yield up their foliage To winter's frost and snow. The birds that nest and sing among Their boughs in summer time, When winter winds begin to blow, All seek a sunny clime. But thou, oh, tried and faithful one, Wert always just the same, Keeping the time with merry chime Through sunshine, snow, and rain. For forty years thou'st kept the time, While in the court below Stood he who perpetrated crime, Waiting his doom to know; And when a murderer was tried, Who, for a little pay, Did take the life of a trusting friend, In a hut not far away, "One, two, three," we heard thee say, In measured tones and slow, As forth, to be tried in heav'nly courts, His blood-stained soul did go. Oh, cruel was thy fate, old clock! For many days ago Thy old familiar face was crushed By workmen's sturdy blow. They say they'll build a new court-house, And that they will replace By timepiece handsome, bright and new Thy old storm-beaten face. Then thou, oh, servant tried and true, Through storm, sunshine, and show'r, The music of thy mellow chimes We'll hear again no more. Some day the misty shadow That covers your heaven of blue, Will melted be, and you will see The rainbow gleaming through. The tears you've shed in silence For love that was wasted here-- Be still, O soul! They'll find their goal, Afterwhile, somewhere. Though deeds of tend'rest kindness Oft bitter reproaches bring, As the drowning bee that you'd set free Repays you with a sting. The pain you bear in silence, For confidence wasted here Will blossoms yield in a sun-kissed field, Afterwhile, somewhere. Though years of honest labor Success has never crowned, No fruit they brought, though nobly wrought, Dire Fate has always frowned. The seed you've sown with patience, The labor you've wasted here, Again will bloom in the harvest-home, Afterwhile, somewhere.

Anne Douglas Sedgwick

Paths of Judgement

1873

_How the Christmas Tree was brought to Nome_ _Melchior's Ride_ _The Witch's Child_ _The Apple-blossom Switch_ "_I Ought to Mustn't_" _The Little Girl from Town_ _The Giant's Daughter_ _The Blossoms of To-morrow_ _Tip's Kitten_ Happy thou, a winter comer, Happier with the snows around thee Than if rosy-fingered summer In thy cradle-nest had crowned thee. Tender is the night, and holy: Little clouds, like cherub faces, Up the moon path, drifting slowly, Vanish in the heavenly spaces. Clothed in splendor, past our earth night, Sphere on sphere is chanting _Nowel_: Child, thy birthnight keeps a Birthnight Dearest in all Time's bestowal! He who slept within a manger Guards the pillow thou art pressing-- Sent thee hither, little stranger, Blest--to be our Christmas Blessing! Resting her curly head on my knee, And slipping her small hand into mine, My baby girl asks how many there'll be On Christmas day when we dine. Though I've told her before, and she knows very well, "There'll be grandpa and grandma," I repeat, And mamma's old friend, Miss Madeline; And--let me see--ah, yes, that is eight, And Mr. Brownell makes nine! As I close my story I hear a sigh, The curly head closer nestles, and then, In a sad little voice, "How many are I?" "My darling! At least you are ten!" With doll in arms to court she came,-- A mite of tender years Between her sobs she put the case, Her eyes brimmed up with tears. "They've put my mamma into jail-- And oh, I love her so! She's very good--my mamma is-- Please, won't you let her go?" "Just look! She made this doll for me" (She held it up to view). The judge did look. "Don't cry," he said, "We'll see what we can do." "What charge against the prisoner, clerk?" "Sold apples in the street. She had no license, and, when fined, The fine she could not meet." "My mamma's good. Please, let her go." The judge looked down and smiled; "So well you've pleaded, she shall be Your Christmas Present, child." "Now take this paper, little one, It sets your mother free. She should be very proud of you; Go, tell her so, from me." With doll in arms away she went, And soon the prison gained; And when her mother clasped her close, The happy child explained: "A kind, good man like Santa Claus, With hair as white as snow, He let you out because--because I asked him too, you know!" When Poebe brought the wood and coal; To lay the fire, what did she see But Baby--dropped upon one knee And peering up the chimney-hole! She never turned her little head, With all its curly, yellow hair: I asked, "What are you doing there?" "Me look for Santa Taus!" she said. "It may be late and stormy and cold When Santa Claus reaches our street; And Santa, you know, is very old, So I'll leave him something to eat." "And what do you think he would like, dear heart," "Something nice and sweet," she said; "Jelly and jam, and a cranberry tart, And a _teenty_ piece of bread!" So there on the sideboard is Santa's feast, Which her own small hands have spread; Jelly and jam,--three kinds at least, And a tart--but _where is the bread_?" Night of the winter--winter and night in the city of Nome, There where the many are dwelling, but no man yet has a home! Desolate league upon league, ice-pack and tundra and hill; And the dark of the year when the gold-hunter's rocker and dredge Of the brigantine fast in the ice-pack this many and many a week; Thus, in the indolent dark of the year, in the city of Nome, They were passing the time as they might, but ever their thoughts Said the Man from the East, "In God's country now (where we'd all Then the Man from the South arose: "I allow, if the Tree could be I'd 'tend to the fruit myself, and stand ye a treat all round!" "Done!" said the Man from the West (the youngest of all was he). "I'll lose my claim in the ruby sand--or I'll find the Tree!" The restless Aurora is waving her banners wide through the dome, And the Man from the West is off, while yet they are sleeping in Off, ere the low-browed dawn, with Eskimo, sledge, and team: He is leaving the tundra behind, he is climbing the source of the On, beyond Sinrock--on, while the miles and the dim hours glide-- 'Tis a hundred miles or more; but his team is strong, is swift, And brief are his slumbers at night, in the lee of the feathery drift! And they cheered with a will when the Man from the West with his prize came home! Chained to his sledge, like a king of old to the conqueror's car! Said the Man from the East, "Leave the Christmas dinner and trimmings to me!" "Of this holy-tide what canst know,-- Thou a pagan--thou Of the leafless bough? My leaves are green, my scarlet berries shine At thought of things divine!" To the Holly spake the Mistletoe: "Matters not, my leafless boughs but show Berries pale as pearl-- Ask yon boy and girl! If human mirth and love be not some sign Of share in things divine!" THE FIREBRAND (_Northern Ohio, Christmas Eve, 1804_) Hark to a story of Christmas Eve In the lonely days of yore: 'Tis of the measureless, savage woods By the great lake's windy shore-- Of mother and child, in a firelit span, Where the wilderness bows to the toil of man! "Christmas is coming, and father'll be here; Through the woods he is coming, I know! Over his shoulder his ax is laid, And his beard is white with snow! Yes, but look in the fire, my child, At the strange cities there, so bright and so wild!" "Mother, what are those restless flames That close by the window pass?" "Only the firelight fairies, child, That dance on the window-glass! But look, how the sparks up the chimney fly, Up, and away, to the snowy sky!" "Oh, listen, what are those shuddering cries,-- Mother, what can they be?" "Only the branches that grate on the roof, When the wind bends down the tree! Now sing me the song I've taught to you, That I, myself, as a little child knew!" "But, mother, those flames dart back and forth-- Like balls of fire they play! And those shuddering cries are at the door; "My child! Your father's whistle I hear-- Say a prayer for him--he is coming near!" She has seized the tongs, she has snatched a brand, And waved it abroad at the door! Through the drifting snow a form she sees-- He is safe, in a moment more; Safe--and afar are those shuddering cries, And the baleful lights of the _wolves' red eyes_! Thus did it chance on a Christmas Eve, In the days that are long since fled; But a light so brave, and a gleam so true, Through the waste of the years is shed, As I think of that blazing, windblown brand, Waved at the door by a slim, white hand! The good man sat before the fire, And oftentimes he sighed; The good wife softly wept the while Her evening work she plied: One year ago this happy time The little Marie died! "And surely, now, if she had lived, She would have reached my knee!" "And surely, now, if she had lived, How cunning would she be!" In fancy each a darling face Beside their hearth could see. The door swung wide--a gust of wind The fitful candle blew; 'Twas Franz, the awkward stable-boy, His clattering step they knew. "But Franz, speak up, speak up, and tell What thing has chanced to you!" His round blue eyes with wonder shone, His bashful fears had fled: "I saw--I saw the cattle kneel Upon their strawy bed; And in a manger lay the Child-- A light shone round His head!" "He must have dreamed," the good man said, "A vision, it would seem." "Nay, master, for the light shone bright On stall and loft and beam." Then said the good wife, "I, perhaps, Might go and dream this dream!" No further words, but forth she fared, With Franz to lead the way. They reached the barn, whose sagging door Shot out a yellow ray; The kine did kneel upon the straw, As truthful Franz did say! And there--oh, lovely, lovely sight, Oh, pleading, tender sight! Within a manger, lapped in hay, A smiling, rosy mite The good wife saw, and nearer held The lantern's yellow light. She took the foundling in her arms, And on its sleeping face Her tears and kisses fell in one: "How great is Heaven's grace! It is the Christ-Child's gift to me, To ease the aching place!" Long, long ago, in dear Provence, we three! Three children, ruddy with the _midi_ sun (And blither none the all-seeing sun might see), How happy when the harvest-time was done, The last slow drop from out the winepress run; And when the frost at morn was thick like snow; And when Clotilde at evening sang and spun, And old folk, by the new fire's ruddy glow, Would tell, as I do now, the tales of long ago! Those tales--ah, most of all, we begged to hear The tales our grandsires from their grandsires had-- How, in the darkening undertime of year, When with first-fallen snow the fields were clad, That blessed time when nothing can be sad (Such peace through Christ's dear might encircles all), How, then, the sleeping hives made murmur glad-- The white ox knelt within his littered stall, And voices strange and sweet were heard through heaven to call! We were three children--Rene, Pierre, Annette. The little sister listened, wonder-eyed; Each held her hand (that touch, I feel it yet!), And all three drank those tales of Christmas tide. The leaden-footed time how shall we bide? How many days and hours we know full well, Almost the little minutes that divide! Meanwhile, like music of a hidden bell, Our beating hearts keep up the chime, _Noel_, _Noel_! One thing there was, desired above all things: "Say, will they come (as ever from of old)-- The wise, the good, the three great Eastern Kings, Who brought rich gifts,--frankincense, myrrh, and gold?" How often of their names had we been told-- Balthasar, Melchior, Gaspard,--splendid all, Wide-turbaned, sandal-shod, and purple-stoled, Perhaps upon white steeds, curbed-in, and tall, Or else on camels with the velvet-soft footfall! "Will they at vespers be, on Holy Night? And will they stop and see the little shrine Where Jesus lies beneath the Star's true light, As when, at first, they found him by that sign?" "Hush, Rene, hush! and if the eve be fine, Thou--yes, all three--shall go to meet the Kings. But children--mark ye well these words of mine! Each way, of four, to town the traveler brings; So it may chance ye miss them in your wanderings." Such sage replies our questions would receive. The Holy Time drew near, and yet more near; At last, it was the morning of the Eve, All day we swayed from lovely hope to fear. "'Too early?' Nay, 'tis twilight, mother dear-- At least, so very soon the sun will set!" "Your warmest coats--the air is sharp and clear. And in your hurry, children, don't forget That baby feet tire soon--remember p'tite Annette!" "No, no! I do not tire, though fast I run!" Ah, how we laughed to see the red lips pout-- The small sweet pride that would not be outdone In such a race, by brothers big and stout! "Annette the first shall see the Kings, no doubt"-- It was our grandsire spake with twinkling eye. "Yes, yes; she shall," impatient to be out, We answered. Once beneath the deepening sky, We ever took the sunset way--as late birds thither fly! For thus we reasoned with one grave consent: If yonder star above our mountain's crest Should be that Eastern star for guidance lent, Then must the Kings be journeying from the West. So on we ran, past harvest fields at rest, Past sheepfolds where the flock of summer dreamed (Full soon they would be kneeling, as we guessed!) And on, and on--and now, at times, it seemed Far down the twilight road rich banners waved and gleamed. But ever of enchanted weft they proved, On sunset's pageant field emblazoned low; And caravans, still moving as we moved, At length, for straggling olive trees would show. Then, while less confident our pace would grow, Wiser than I--a twelvemonth and a day, Would Rene counsel: Might it not be so-- As we had heard our own dear mother say-- _The roads are four_--the Kings had come another way? No time to lose. We took the homeward track, The Kings at vespers might be lingering still. Soon were we in the church. Alack, alack! The Kings had passed; for though they bore good will To our good parish, yet must they fulfil The prayers of all; and there were other folk Who, if unvisited, would take it ill. "'Tis said they must reach Arle by midnight stroke; Sweet spices they have left--judge by the censer's smoke!" We boys took manfully this frown of Fate; But tears stood in petite Annette's blue eyes. "Another year, my precious,--thou canst wait; Besides, to-morrow morn a fine surprise There'll be for children who are sage and wise. Gifts--but I may not tell you now, my child."-- 'Twas mother-love that did such cure devise For bud-nipped hopes and hearts unreconciled; We slept, and dreamed, on this--and then, the morning smiled! Time passed. We never saw the Kings. Ah, well-- At least the two of us saw not, I know. But how shall I the wonder of it tell? There came a winter wild and dim with snow. It seemed to us that sheeted ghosts did go Upon the wind, that never ceased to moan. And one of us with fever was laid low: Like leaves the little hands were tossed and thrown, And on her cheek the rose of fever was o'erblown! The storm was done. The day threw off its shroud-- ('Twas Christmas Eve--till then by all forgot), And suddenly, across a scarp of cloud One crimson flame, a parting sunbeam shot. It reached Annette upon the low, white cot, It touched our mother's face, Madonna-mild. With dreaming eyes that saw us, yet saw not, Petite Annette threw out her hand and smiled: "Pierre! The Kings have come, and with them is a Child!" Long, long ago in dear Provence was grief. In vain the troubadour may sing Noel! In vain the birds give thanks for Christmas sheaf, In vain I heard, "God loved Annette so well That He hath taken her to heaven to dwell." No comfort till Rene would whisper me: "O brother, think upon it--who can tell?-- Perhaps there was no other way, to _see_! And, Pierre, remember how she told the news to thee!" The little town is muffled all in snow; Yet there _Weihnachten_ love is burning clear. And on each door three letters in a row Proclaim the Three Kings' Day is drawing near. Oh, then will Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar Ride through the country on their horses white! And all the people, live they far or near, Will early rise and follow with delight. And never will the great procession stop Till they Christkindlein and his mother greet: Then on their knees the turbaned kings will drop, And fill her lap with gifts, and kiss his feet; For they will find her, sitting still and meek Upon a bench beside some stable-shed, Her soft hair brushing dear Christkindlein's cheek, And sunshine brightness all around each head! Then, while the old folk smile through happy tears, Blame not the children if a shout they raise When little _Esel_, with his pointed ears, Leans o'er the fence with puzzled, wistful gaze. There, too, the gentle, great black ox will stand: Folk say he knelt at night in strawy stall; Perchance he knows these kings from Eastern land, For now he lifts his head with lowing call! In many parts of Southern Germany it is a custom to place on the outer door the initials of the three kings--C. M. B. _Esel_--German for "donkey," Melchior rides from door to door, Large Christmas doles he seeks; A pannier wide receives the store, Yet never a word he speaks! The _nougat_ bells so merrily ring Yet never a note he hears; He gathers the gifts the good folk bring, And onward still he steers. The children laugh, and the children chaff, He sits so stiff and straight, And grandpere waves, with his thorn-tree staff, A greeting at the gate! Olives and almonds, and cheese and bread, And the pack on his back grows stout! Let the hungry poor to their fill be fed, While the _nougat_ bells ring out. Thus, Melchior rides from door to door, Seeking of all his fee; And their presents into his pannier pour, Yet never a whit cares he! For a wicker-work man is Melchior droll, A wicker-work man, and no more; But the people love him, with heart and soul, As he rides from door to door! "Great stir among the shepherd folk; To Bethlehem they go, To worship there a God whose head On straw is laid full low; Upon the lovely newborn Child Their gifts will they bestow. "But I, who am as poor as Job-- A widowed mother I, Who for my little son's sweet sake For alms to all apply-- Ah, what have I that I can take The Child of Love most high? "Thy cradle and thy pillow, too, My little lamb forlorn, Thou sorely needest them--no, no, I cannot leave thee shorn! I cannot take them to the God That in the straw was born." Oh, miracle! The nursing babe-- The babe e'en as he fed-- Smiled in his tender mother's face, And, "Go, go quick!" he said; "To Jesus, to my Saviour, take My kisses and my bed." The mother, all thrilled through and through, To heaven her hands did raise; She gave the babe her breast, then took The cradle--went her ways,... And now, at Bethlehem arrived, To Mary Mother says: That heaven on earth hath shed, O Virgin Mother, hear the word My little babe hath said: To Jesus, to my Saviour, take My kisses and my bed. "Here, Mary, here the cradle is; Thy need is more than mine; Messiah all-divine! And let me kiss, upon my knees, That darling Babe of thine!" The blessed Virgin, then, at once, Right glad of heart, bent low, And in the cradle laid her Child, And kissed him, doing so. Then with his foot St. Joseph rocked The cradle to and fro. "Now, thanks to thee, good woman, thanks, For this that thou hast done." Thus say they both, with friendly looks. "Of thanks I merit none; Yet, holy Mother, pity me, For sake of thy dear Son." Since then a happy soul was hers; God's blessing on her fell; One of the Twelve her child became, That with our Lord did dwell. Thus was this story told to me, Which I afar would tell. 'Tis Elfinell--a witch's child, From holy minster banned.... Again the old glad bells ring out Through all the Christmas land. No gift might she receive or give, Nor kneel to Mary's child: She watched from far the joyous troop That past the Crib defiled; Far in the shadow of the porch, Yet even there espied: "Now, hence away, unhallowed Elf!" The sacristan did chide. "Hence, till some witness thou canst bring Of gift received from thee, In His dear name, whose birth we sing, But this shall never be!" Poor Elfinell--she turned away: "Though none for me may speak, Yet there be those may take my gift; And them I go to seek!" So, flitting light through lonesome fields By summer long forgot, She crossed the valley drifted deep-- The brook in icy grot; And gained, at last, a still, white wood All hung with flowers of snow: There, down she sat, and quaintly called In tender tones and low. They heard and came--the doe and fawn, The squirrel and the hare, And dwellers shy in earthy homes, And wanderers of the air! To these she gave fresh leaves of kale. To those the soft white bread, Or filberts smooth, or yellow corn; So each and all she fed. She fed them from her hand--she sighed; "Might you but speak for me, And say, ye took my Christmas gift, Then, I the Crib might see!" At this, those glad, wild creatures join, And close the child around; They draw her on, she scarce knows how, Across the snowy ground! They crowd with soft, warm, furry touch; They stoop with frolic wing: Grown strangely bold, to haunts of men The elfin child they bring! They reach the town, the minster door; The door they straightway pass; And up the aisle and by the priest That saith the holy mass. Nor stay, until they reach the Crib With all its wreathen greens; And there above, with eyes of love, The witch-child looks and leans! Spake, then, the priest to all his flock: "Forbid no more this child! To speak for her, God sendeth these, His loved ones of the wild! "'Twas God that made them take her gift, Our stubborn hearts to shame! Melt, hearts of ours; and open, hands, And give in Christ's dear name." Thus, Elfinell with gifts was showered, The while, beside the altar's font, The ban was washed away. A carven stall the minster shows, Whereon ye see the priest priest-- The kneeling child--and clustering forms Of friendly bird and beast. Babushka sits before the fire Upon a winter's night; The driving winds heap up the snow, Her hut is snug and tight; The howling winds,--they only make Babushka's more bright! She hears a knocking at the door: So late--who can it be? She hastes to lift the wooden latch, No thought of fear has she; The wind-blown candle in her hand Shines out on strangers three. Their beards are white with age, and snow That in the darkness flies; Their floating locks are long and white, But kindly are their eyes That sparkle underneath their brows, Like stars in frosty skies. "Babushka, we have come from far, We tarry but to say, A little Prince is born this night, Who all the world shall sway. Come, join the search; come, go with us, Who go our gifts to pay." Babushka shivers at the door: "I would I might behold The little Prince who shall be King, But ah! the night is cold, The wind so fierce, the snow so deep, And I, good sirs, am old." The strangers three, no word they speak, But fade in snowy space! Babushka sits before her fire, And dreams, with wistful face: "I would that I had questioned them, So I the way might trace! "When morning comes with blessed light, I'll early be awake; My staff in hand I'll go,--perchance, Those strangers I'll o'ertake; And, for the Child some little toys I'll carry, for His sake." The morning came, and, staff in hand, She wandered in the snow. She asked the way of all she met, But none the way could show. "It must be farther yet," she sighed; "Then farther will I go." And still, 'tis said, on Christmas Eve, When high the drifts are piled, With staff, with basket on her arm, Babushka seeks the Child: At every door her face is seen,-- Her wistful face and mild! Her gifts at every door she leaves; She bends, and murmurs low, Above each little face half-hid By pillows white as snow: "And is He here?" Then, softly sighs, "Nay, farther must I go!" I shall never forget Cimabue's Madonna, No, nor the niche close by in the wall, Where, on the straw, the Bambino was lying, While the oxen knelt in the stall. Rude are the images, tinsel the flowers; But a tear to the eye unconsciously starts, Beholding the tribute the children have rendered, In the votive gift of "hearts"! Among them a little gold watch was hanging, That told of some sick child's treasured wealth, Sent with a prayer that his Christmas present Might be the good gift of health! In Sulz-am-Neckar, when night shuts down, And the Christmas Eve has come, All through the little snow-white town There's a joyous stir and hum. Now here and now there, along the street, From windows wide open flung, Float childish laughter and prattle sweet In the kindly German tongue. For the happy moment at last is here, When each child a letter sends, Directed to _Christkindlein_ dear-- The Children's Friend of Friends! Then, out at the window--strung on a thread, The precious letter is cast; Though far and high on the night wind sped, 'Twill be found and read at last! In Sulz-am-Neckar, prompt as the day, The children awake to find Among the Christmas branches gay _Christkindlein's_ answer kind! It was a gleaner in the fields,-- The fields gleaned long ago: The evening wind swept down from heights Already brushed with snow. The gleaner turned to right, to left, With searching steps forlorn; The stubble-blade beneath her feet Was sharp as any thorn. But as she stooped, and as she searched, Half blind with gathering tears, Beside her in the field stood One Whose voice beguiled her fears: "What seek ye here, this bitter eve, The harvest long gone by?" She lifted up her weary face, She answered with a sigh: "I seek but some few heads of wheat To nail against the wall, To feed at morn the blessed birds, When with loud chirps they call. "Poor ever have I been, God knows! Yet ne'er so poor before, But they might taste their glad Noel Beside my cottage door." Then answer made that Presence sweet, "Go home, and trust right well The birds beside your cottage door Shall find their glad Noel." And so it was--from soundest sleep The gleaner woke at morn, To see, nailed up beside her door, A sheaf of golden corn! And thereupon the birds did feast,-- The birds from far and wide: All know it was Our Lord Himself That goodly sheaf supplied! "And wherefore," the finch to the starling said, On the Christmas sheaf, as they hungrily fed, "Wherefore do now the children of men Open their hands, when, again and again, They drove us away from their plenteous store, From the corn in the field, from the threshing-floor?" "That," said the starling, "I'll try to explain: They are feasting, themselves, and they spare us this grain; For oft, as they feast and make merry, they sing, 'Peace upon earth and good will'----" "But this thing" (Said the finch), "we birds have been singing all year, Then, why not before have they shared their good cheer?" I heard the swaying pine trees speak, As I went down the glen: "Next year," said one, "the wind shall seek, But find me not again!" "I shall go forth upon the seas, A mast, or steering-beam; On me shall breathe the tropic breeze, Above, strange stars shall gleam.' "And I--the ax shall cleave my grain, And many times divide; From my dear brood I'll shed the rain, And roof their ingleside." Then up and spake a slender shaft, That like an arrow grew; "No breeze my leafless stem shall waft, No ax my trunk shall hew-- But though a single hour is mine, How happy shall I be! Young hearts shall leap, young eyes shall shine To greet their Christmas tree!" They stood on the brow of Heaven's hill; The stars beneath them were glancing bright, And the air was clear and still. "That is the Earth that dazzles so-- That shines with a glad and a radiant light-- That is the Earth where, long ago, I was born on the Christmas Night!" Thus said the one, and the other replied, "Forever dear is the Earth in my sight; For there, full long ago, I died, On the holy Christmas Night!" (_Just after Christmas_) Little one, little one, open your arms, Now are your wishes come true, come true! Here is a love with a thousand charms, And see! she is reaching her hands out to you! Put the old doll by, asleep let her lie, And open your arms to welcome the new. Little one, little one, play your sweet part, Mother-love lavishes treasure untold. Whisper fond words, and close to your heart, Your warm little heart, the new idol enfold. ('Tis so with us all,--to worship we fall Before the new shrine, forgetting the old!) Little one, little one, wherefore that sigh? Weary of playing the long day through? But there's something that looks like a tear in your eye, And your lips--why, your lips are quivering, too! Do I guess aright?--it is coming night, And you cry for the old--you are tired of the new? Little one, little one, old loves are best; And the heart still clings though the hands loose their hold! Take the old doll back, in your arms she shall rest, When you wander away to the dreamland fold. (With all, even so,--ere to sleep we go, The wavering heart wavers back to the old!) It was the daughter of a fairy witch,-- A sweet, though wayward child. "Go, naughty Elfinella, bring a switch From yonder fruit tree wild!" (It was the charming time of all the year,-- The darling month of May And every bush and thicket, far and near, With leaves and flowers was gay.) Poor Elfinella heard, and off she went, With lagging steps and slow, To where, amidst the wild, a fruit tree bent, Her branches spreading low. With blossomy boughs the motherly old tree The tearful child begirt: "My twigs are clothed with flowers; and you will see The switch will never hurt!" She broke a branch, with blossoms thickly set, And lightly homeward tripped,-- The switch was used--but little did she fret; For she with flowers was whipped! Baby was out with Papa for a walk. When their friends they met, it was "Oh!" and "Ah!" "What a darling she is!" "Can the little kid talk?" "Well--no; I don't think that she can," said Papa, "Though she seems to understand." She was only two, but she understood, And her small, rosy mouth was made up to cry-- But no! she would _talk_--she would show that she could. She said with a wave of her hand! They were looking through their book With pictures of the Zoo; Both too young to read the text, But each the pictures knew. Will was three, and Ray was five-- And five years old is _old_! When his wiser brother spoke, Will did as he was told! "Look! I've found the _efalunt_!" "Don't say _efalunt_," said Ray. Said their mother: "You should tell Little brother what to say." "Don't say efalunt--that's wrong; It's _efalint_!" said Ray. "_Efalint_!" said little Will, In his confiding way. Once more she dipped her pen in ink, And wrote: "I love you dearly." "And now," she said, and stopped to think, She had folded her hands, and had never stirred Nor even spoken one little word. In fact, she was good as good could be, While the grown folks talked, and sipped their tea At last, a small voice from the corner we heard: "Nobody pays any pension to me!" The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low, And I opened the door just in time to see The last of the coveted caramels go, While a look imploring was cast on me, "I ought to mustn't, I know!" The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low,-- To punish, alas! no courage I had: And I did as, perhaps, you yourself might do,-- I kissed her, right there, so sweet and so bad! But "I ought to mustn't," I knew! He was six years old, just six that day, And I saw he had something important to say, As he held in his hand a broken toy: He looked in my face for an instant, and then He said, with a sigh, and a downcast eye, "If I could live my life over again, I think I could be a better boy!" What can the children in cities do, The children shut in from wholesome sport-- The children that live, all winter through, In the dark little flat at the end of the court? Yet a comfort they have (and a beautiful one!), Though the days are chill and the days are short; At noon, for a moment, looks in the sun, In the dark little flat at the end of the court. Then, the dazzled baby drops his toy, Down tumbles the four-year-old's tottering fort-- "Sunshine!" they all cry out, in their joy, In the dark little flat at the end of the court. Us children liked her, though she was so queer, When she came out to Pleasantville, last year; She "mustn't walk upon the grass," she said: We asked her _why_?--and she just shook her head! Oh, yes, us children liked the little kid, Although she didn't know one thing _we_ did, And said the oddest things you ever heard; She saw a goose, and asked, "_What kind o' bird?_" Us children liked the little kid, oh, yes! She wa'n't a bit afraid to tear her dress; One day, when she went barefoot, just like us, She got a stone-bruise; but she didn't _fuss_! Oh, yes! us children liked her, but oh, my! We had to teach her how to play "high spy"; She came to see us,--called our house "_a flat_"-- I wonder now--what _could_ she mean by that? A flower for every day That slips the sheath of jealous Night in May! The violet at our feet, The lilac's honeyed bough, The wind-flower frail and sweet, The apple-blossom now-- Each keeps its promise, as Love keeps its vow: A flower for every day in flowerful May! A song for every day That breaks in music from the heart of May! The warbler mid new leaves, The lark in fields remote, The housewren at our eaves, The oriole's haunting note When orchard blooms down fitful zephyrs float: A song for every day in songful May! A joy for every day That stirs the heart to count its joys in May! Now Fear and Doubt take flight, Borne down the season's stream; Grief grows a shape of light, And melts, a tender dream! Now but to be alive is boon supreme-- A joy for every day in joyful May! Be thanks for every day That from thy heaven thou dost send in May! My morn an anthem wake, My noon sweet incense bear Of labor for thy sake, My evening breath a prayer. For bloom--for song--for joy--shed everywhere, Be thanks to thee each day in thankful May! There's a day-dream strange and sweet, Softly hovering in the air: Now it stays the restless feet, Now, it smoothes the wayward hair. Now, it droops the curly head, Propped upon the window-sill-- Parts the lips of rosebud red, While the eyes with fancies fill. Sunbeams from the summer sky Kiss the arm so round and bare: There's a day-dream sweet and shy, Softly hovering in the air! Is that dream of field or wood, Mossy bank, or violet dell, Thrush's nest, with downy brood Lately prisoned in the shell? Comes that dream from fairyland, Blown about in wondrous ways, Like a skein of gossamer fanned By a troop of laughing fays? Or, upon some elfin brook, Wing of dragon-fly for sail, Passing many a wildflower nook Did it drift so light and frail? Little dreamer, if I dared, I would say, "your day-dream tell!" But it never can be shared, And one word would break its spell! A flower-soft hand once took my own,-- That touch I never shall forget! A strange voice spoke--so strange a tone Mine ear had never met! (The flower-soft fingers closer twined): The touch of one born blind! They thrilled me so, the tears came fast; But in glad haste she led the way; Through hall and open door we passed Into a garden gay. Her share was but a little space. It bloomed with pansies dark and bright; And each looked up with elfin grace, As though to win her sight. She smiled--the pansy-faces smiled Through tears--or was it morning dew? I could not stay those fingers swift, She plucked me all the flowers she had! I never shall have any gift So sweet as this,--so sad! Forgotten, in a chamber lone, The hooded Cradle, brown and old, Began to rock, began to moan, "Where are the babes I used to hold?" "To men and women they are grown, And through the world their way must make." The Cradle rocked and made its moan, "My babes no single step could take!" "A helmsman one, on wide seas blown, His sinewy hands the wheel employs." The Cradle rocked and made its moan, "My babes could scarcely grasp their toys." "And one, with words of winning tone, God's shepherd, goes the lost to seek." The Cradle rocked and still made moan, "The babes I held no word could speak!" "And one, with children of her own,-- Her life is toil and love and prayer!" The Cradle rocked and still made moan, "My babes of babes could take no care!" "Now all that once were mine are flown But one, that still with me shall bide"-- (The Cradle ceased to rock, to moan)-- "The sweetest one--the babe who died!" A long time ago in Childhood's Land, A troop of sweet ladies I knew, If the truth must be told, I myself Was their lady's maid, patient and true! I served them, I dressed them, I took them to walk, I made the fine clothes that they wore; Very dainty,--and delicate, too, were they all, For they never arose until four! Wide were their flounces of crimson or white, A little old fashioned for now; Prim were their figures--ah, yes, I must own, Their heads they never could bow! Their heads were so round and so small and so green-- Not clever nor learned were they; But then, they were only Four o'Clock Ladies, And their life, 'twas a short one and gay! Did I behold the Lady of the Lake Part the cool water with a slender hand? And brought she for her loved knight errant's sake Out of some liquid crypt the magic brand? I dreamed it was the Lady of the Lake-- I did but dream! Again I looked, and knew The water lily, white as winter's flake, But with a heart all gold and fragrant dew. It was a day in warm July, It was a far countree; The bees were humming in the flowers That filled the linden tree. The linden made a cooling shade For many a yard around, And flecks of sunlight here and there Did dot the shady ground. A long, low, easy seat there was Beneath the linden green; And _Kinderbank_ across the back In letters large was seen. I did not need that word to read, To know the Children's Seat; For there the grass was trodden down By many little feet. Upon this day the _Kinderbank_ Was full as it could be, With children sitting in a row, A pleasant sight to see. Each little woman bent her head, Too busy far to speak; Each had a lock of yellow hair Slipped down across her cheek. Each little woman pursed her lips Into a rosebud small, And never knew how fast time flew-- So busy were they all. One made the knitting-needles click, With shining head bent low, And earnest eyes intent to see The winter stocking grow. Another, toiling at a seam, The thread drew in and out; And once she sighed--so hard she tried To make the stitches stout! But ever, as they worked away, And would not look around, They watched the little ones that played Before them on the ground. The little ones they laughed and cooed, And talked their baby-talk; Their feet so bare were rosy-fair-- For only one could walk! His flaxen hair in ringlets stood Upon his serious head; His eyes so blue were serious, too; And, drawing near, I said: "Whose precious baby boy is this, So thoughtful and so sweet?" Then up and spoke a little maid, Of those upon the seat: "This baby--he belongs to me. He goes just where I go; And I'm his Little Mother--yes, _My_ mother told me so! "She said that he was mine 'all day.' And so it must be true; I brushed his hair--I take good care, As she herself would do. "And I'm quite sure that I can cure, And drive the pain away, With kisses, if my baby hurts His little hand at play!" "And whose are all these babies here? We all are Little Mothers--yes, _Our_ mothers told us so!" The Little Mothers all looked up, And each did nod her head: "Our mothers told us so!" "Ah, then 'Tis true, indeed," I said. I left them as I found them, there Beneath the linden tree; And often since that day I've thought I'd like to go and see If still the Little Mothers sit Upon the Children's Seat, And watch their babies as they play And tumble at their feet. In German, the Children's Seat. When Monte Morello is capped with snow, And the wind from the north comes whistling down, It is chill to rise with the morning star, In the "City of Flowers"--in Florence town. Light is the sleep of the old, for they know How brief are their few remaining days; But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long, And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways. So, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light, But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young, And his dreaming ears were loath to hear The daybreak bell's awakening tongue. For it seemed to speak with old Tafi's voice, "Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!" Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor, Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept. Busy all day with his quick, young hands,-- Busy his thoughts with a project bold. "The master will find," he said to himself, "'Tis not well to work in the dark and the cold!" But the master, unheeding the prentice lad, Matched the mosaics fine and quaint; Till his tablets of stone revealed the forms Of Mother and Child, of cherub and saint. Buonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks, And, prying in crevice of wall or ground, With a patience and skill boys only know, Thirty great beetles the truant found. As many wax tapers, then, he took-- Thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more), And presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow, On its broad black back a candle bore. Next morning, ere dawn, when Tafi awoke, Ere his lips could frame their usual call, A sight he beheld that froze his veins-- An impish procession of tapers small! Slowly they came, and slowly went (And they seemed to pass through a crack 'neath the door): So slowly they moved, he counted them all, Thirty they numbered, nor less, nor more! "Surely, some evil these hands have wrought, That the powers of darkness invade my cell!" And many an _Ave_ the master said, To reverse and undo the unholy spell. When daylight was come, Buonamico he told: "A good lad ever thou wert, and indeed, Wise for thy years; and, therefore, speak out, And, as best thou canst, this mystery read." "May it not be," Buonamico said, "The powers of darkness, that good men hate, Are vexed with my master, who falters not In faithful service, early and late?" "Ay, that they are," said the master, "no doubt!" Said the prentice-boy, "_Their_ time is night, And it _may_ be they like not this wondrous work Which thou risest to do ere peep of light!" "Well hast thou counseled," the master replied, "So young of years--so sage in thy thought; I will rise no more ere the day hath dawned-- A work of light should in light be wrought!" Thus runs the legend, which also saith Spite of his pranks Buonamico became, When the years were fled, and Tafi was gone, A painter who rivaled his master's fame. Upon a day of olden days, A royal lad at school, In mischief apt, with many a prank, Defied the good dame's rule. But England's prince no rod might strike, Though rich was his desert; Another must the penance bear, Another feel the hurt! The "whipping-boy" stood forth to take The blows he had not earned; Full meek he stood; no sense of wrong Within his bosom burned. Young Edward saw the rod upraised, His "whipping-boy" to smite; And suddenly his princely soul Revolted at the sight. The shame, the shame, the tingling shame No blood of kings could brook! Forward he sprung, the falling rod In his own hand he took: "Mine is the blame--be mine the shame For what I only wrought; Let none but me endure the pain My deed alone has brought!" Thus on a day of days, it chanced, A royal schoolboy learned That noble hearts in every age A coward's shield have spurned. In Rome, beside the Forum, A cobbler had his shop, Where, on his way to school, The schoolboy loved to stop. The sheets of well-tanned leather Hung all about the wall; The cobbler stitched and scolded, Bent over last and awl. 'Twas not the cobbler's scolding At which the schoolboys laughed, Nor did they care to watch His cunning handicraft. It was a dapper person With coat as black as night, That offered to the schoolboy An all-year-round delight-- A droll yet silent person, "Good morrow"--all his speech; He stood upon a rostrum, As though to teach or preach. It was the cobbler's raven, "Good morrow!" clear and loud He called, with mimic laughter That charmed the truant crowd, Until, at last, reminded Of lecture, and of ferrule To point his apologue. And now, would Master Corvus, To while the time away, Look 'round, to see what mischief He might devise to-day. Alas, the raven's cunning No bound nor measure knew; Alas, the cobbler's temper-- It never better grew! And when his choicest leather Embossed with claw and beak, He saw--upon the raven Swift vengeance he did wreak! Which done, morose and sullen, He sat him down once more; Nor scolded when the schoolboys Called through the open door: "Good morrow, Master Corvus!"... No shrill and joyous croak Responded from within; And then their anger broke. "How daredst thou kill the raven,-- The better man of two?" They seized and beat the cobbler, Till he for life did sue. Then took they Master Corvus From where he lifeless lay-- Their dear and droll companion, And carried him away. Said one, "There is a duty Which to our friend we owe: In life we gave him honor, And honor still we'll show!" "That will we!" cried they warmly (Young Romans long ago)-- "In life we gave him honor, And honor still we'll show!" Next day, along the Forum, With slow and measured tread, Defiled the long cortege Of Master Corvus dead. His bier was heaped with garlands, A piper went before; And (as they had been kinsmen) Two blacks the casket bore. Then, down the Via Sacra The sad procession moved, While at their doors and windows The people all approved. And thus to Master Corvus Full rites his friends did pay, And buried him, 'tis said, With lightly sprinkled earth Above his glossy breast-- With stone, and due inscription, _Hic jacet_--and the rest. 'Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter, And so with my hero it was, I think, "P. Abbott,"--if Philip or Paul or Peter, 'Twill never be known; there's a missing link. The legend declares (without praise or censure) A youth had been challenged to sleep all night In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure, But madcap adventures were his delight. You may see the stone that was brought from Scone, And above it, the armchair, old and shabby, Where every king has _once_ had his throne. Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser, And at least three queens of the English land-- In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor, Crown on the head and scepter in hand. Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches It once did hold, both of gems and gold; But you still may see the Gothic niches Where the sick awaited the cure of old. Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess, Alike might they hope for the good saint's aid; As token that not in vain had they prayed. 'Twas St. Edward's Day, and the throng, gladhearted With the blessing of peace had gone its way; The last red beam of the sun had departed, And twilight spread through the chapel gray. And the marble kings on their marble couches Once more they are lying in state, alone Save for a nimble shadow that crouches Behind the stone that was brought from Scone; And the aged verger was never the wiser, As he passed that stone and the oaken chair; Though watchful was he as watchful miser, He never discovered my hero was there. When the keys at his leather girdle jingled, How loud did they sound in young Abbott's ear! And when they were still, how the silence tingled! How dim was the light!--yet why should he fear? The night was before him, the shadows were dreary As forth from his hiding-place he crept. There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary, And into the chair he crept and slept. Never before, and nevermore since then, Hath any but royalty sat in that chair; But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then-- Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair! But with the dawn his slumbers were broken, And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright. "'Twere folly," he cried, "if I left no token To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night." So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly, As pleased him best, on that ancient seat. And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly-- But never a one forbade the feat! Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted; And when the old verger returned for the day, "I warrant," he muttered, with bent brows knitted, "Something uncanny hath passed this way!" With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages, This of a mischievous youth is shown: "P. Abbott,"--a name that has lasted for ages, Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne! My story's of the olden day Beside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,-- My story's of a runaway,-- The Giant Niedeck's little daughter! She wanders at her own sweet will, Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses: A dozen steps--she climbs the hill, A dozen more--a vineyard crosses! The pine trees young aside are brushed, As though they were but nodding grasses; She laughs aloud--the birds are hushed, And hide away until she passes! She heeds them not,--the giant mite, So bent upon her own wild pleasure; And now she sees a wondrous sight, A curious thing for her to treasure! "Oh, what a lovely toy I've found!" She clapped her hands in childish wonder. (The great trees trembled, miles around, The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.) A plowman with his horse,--the toy,-- A plowman at his daily drudging: She snatched them up with eager joy; And home the giant child went trudging. She reached the castle out of breath, And from her pocket (says my fable) She drew the ploughman, scared to death, And laid him swooning on the table. And then away in haste she sped, To bring her nurse and lady mother; "Now, burn my wooden dolls," she said. "Live toys are best--I'll have no other!" The giant lady, fair and mild, Thus spake unto her little daughter: "Go, take the plowman back, my child, To fields beside the blue Rhine water. "Though weak and small, his heart is great; And Liebchen, if we kept him here, All day, beside his cottage gate, Would weep for him his children dear." Then back the giant child did go, And left the plowman where she found him; And when the sun was sinking low, He started up and looked around him. "I must have dreamed," he laughed outright, As when some sudden fancy pleases; "And I will tell my dream to-night When Gretchen for a story teases!" I was too young, they said (I was not seven), But I would understand, as I grew older, Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven. But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,-- When first I came, and all was strange and lonely, My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder! And there she stays all day; at evening only, Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her. The soldier woke at the quail's first note, At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay: "O bird, that calls from the fields of home, What do my darlings so far away?" "They are up and ready to roam; They scatter the dew with their small bare feet, And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet." The soldier paused on the dusty march, And stooped by the cooling stream to drink: "O river, that runs through the fields of home, What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?" "Farther and farther they roam-- They are sending their mimic fleets adrift; And they follow them borne on my current swift." The soldier sank on the twilight sward, And the vigilant lights were thronging above; "O stars that shine on the fields of home, What do they now, whom most I love?" "They have ceased to roam, to roam,-- And are lisping a prayer at their mother's knee; And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!" My little one will die to-night (Then break, my heart, oh, break!); But 'twill not be a lonely flight Her tender soul shall take. For there, where smoky clouds are spread, That blot the sunset sky, Are many dying, many dead, And others yet to die. My child loved soldiers so! And they, Whene'er they passed this door, Would toss her in their arms, in play, And laugh when she cried, "More!" So, when she passes hence to-night, They, too,--the brave, the strong, As up they climb the heavenly height, Will bear her soul along! With spirit lances shining clear, They reach God's citadel:-- My little one will have no fear, With friends she loves so well. The flowers, the haunted flowers of May, They bring delight, they bring heartache; What wondrous things to me they say! So bright--so dim, so sad--so gay, No stem of theirs I dare to break-- The flowers--the haunted flowers of May! When lip to lip they softly lay-- As soft, as still, as flake on flake, What wondrous things to me they say! For lo! there comes with them to play, A child, whose feet no imprint make-- The flowers--the haunted flowers of May! From Childhood's Land they take their way, They bloom but for that flower-child's sake-- What wondrous things to me they say! With them it lives, their little day; With them, each new-born year, 'twill wake; The flowers--the haunted flowers of May, What wondrous things to me they say! 'Tis Midnight of the Year, when streams beneath a fretted roof retire. The wistful-eyed and moaning dreams of other days begin to peep. But when, amid the softening rain, aloft, so mellow and so clear, There are so many, many young! So many, in thy world, O Spring, And scarcely yet they find a tongue, Their wants to cry, their joys to sing. There are so many, many young young-- Be tender to such tenderness; And let soft arms be round them flung, Keep them from blight, from weather stress! White lambs upon the green-lit sward, And dappled darlings of the kine-- O Spring, have them in watch and ward And mother them--for all are thine. There are so many, many young! Thine, too, the wild mouse and her brood Within a last year's bird's-nest swung-- And all shy litters of the wood! There are so many, many young young-- Guard all--guard closeliest this year's nest; Oh, guard, for Joy, the songs unsung Within the thrush's speckled breast! A recent convention of Nature's musicians (Their entire resolutions the Owlet quotes) Took "high southern ground," and, from lofty positions, All muffled in feathers and down, to their throats, Resolved to expel, without any conditions, The cuckoo-like fellow who stole their best notes. With spirit the Song-sparrow opened the session; "I'm with you," whistled the Oriole, "I Would like him subjected to public confession"-- "And fined!" the Vireo said with a sigh. "Pshaw!" hissed the Wren, with ruffled aggression, "Pluck him, I say, and then bid him fly!" Answered the Brown Thrush, high in his palace, "'Tis true I have taken your notes--less or more-- And mingled them well (for I bear you no malice), Just as the wines some wizard of yore Would mingle together, then pour from his chalice Magic new wine never tasted before!" Day to the washing seas, and to the patient land, And to the little nautilus upon the sand. Day to the toiler gone afield, and to the child, And to the peetweet's brood amid the marshes wild. While these awake to toil and those awake to play, How glad are all that breathe, that night has winged away! For light and life are friends, and night their ancient foe. Awake, ye birds, to song, ye buds, begin to blow! The sun was shining, after rain, The garden gleamed and glistened; I heard a humblebee complain-- I bent me down and listened. Around a nodding stalk he flew, That bore white lilies seven; And five were opened wide, and two Slept in their lily heaven. The foolish bee, the grumbling bee, That might have found a palace (As any one beside could see) Within the honeyed chalice-- The grumbling bee, the foolish bee, Still hummed one note of sorrow: "Oh, that to-day would give to me The blossoms of to-morrow." From bud to bud, the livelong hour, I saw him pass and hover, And pry about each fast-shut flower, Some entrance to discover. A discontented mind, no doubt, A moral here should borrow; I only say: "Don't fret about The blossoms of to-morrow!" (_In Scotland it was an old custom for the young people on Easter Oh, fine it is at Easter To hunt the wild fowl's nest! A rush o' wings--a feather From aff a broodin' breast-- A twinkle o' the heather-- An' weel ye ken the rest! Before we've ta'en a dewbit, A' in the morning gray, It's callin' ane anither In haste to be away-- It's cryin', "Wish me, mither, The best luck o' the day!" An' mither's gi'en us kisses, Wi' little sighs between; An' if a teardrop's blinkin' Within her tender een, It's, maybe, that she's thinkin' O' Easters that hae been! Then lads and lassies scatter, To hunt the eggs sae white; They thither run, an' hither, An' shout in their delight! An' if twa hunt thegither, They ken it isna right! No laddie to a lassie Of hidden nest may tell; Nor lass of laddie ask it, But she maun seek hersel'! Wha brings the fullest basket-- Guid luck wi' him shall dwell! Oh, fine it is at Easter To hunt the wild fowl's nest; An' when the sun is beamin', It's hame we'll gang in haste; For now the brose is steamin,' The chair for us is placed! But oh! for a' the pleasure, Ae thing I canna thole-- The puir wild birdie's greetin'-- It's pierced my verra soul! I hear ilk ane repeatin', "It was my eggs ye stole!" This side the deeper wood, Of somber oak and pine, A dryad sisterhood Upon the hill's incline, In poised expectance stand, As waiting but the sign, To dance a saraband! The oaks and pines, alway, A darkling mystery hide. In Lady-Grove, all day, The cheerful sunbeams glide; And many a singing brood In peace and joy abide With this lov'd sisterhood. Their raiment fair is wove Of tender green and white: And put their trance to flight; For if they once were freed-- My Silver Birches light-- Ah, what a dance they'd lead! Shadow Brook creeps round the hill, Shadow Brook darts past the mill-- Coming from the wood, in haste Seeks again its native waste! Meanwhile, every friend it meets For protection it entreats; Saying: "Willows, close around, That my path may not be found! Grass and sedges interlace, Throw a veil across my face! Clematis and gold-thread weave Meshes that can best deceive! Celandine and gentian rise, And my ripples help disguise! Pebbles, do not tempt to play Lest my laughter should betray! Silent as my minnows are, I would glide afar, afar: Help me, friends, to reach the wood, And its happy solitude, Where I have my chosen bed Of the brown leaves underspread." Thus, in ways it knoweth best, Shadow Brook runs on its quest, Shadow Brook--a hermit stream-- Finding life a pleasant dream. I listened to a summer brook That rippled past my shady seat; Now far, now near, now vague, now clear, The music of its liquid feet. Few tones the slender rillet has has-- That few how sweet, how soothing sweet! A live delight, by day, by night, The music of its liquid feet! While there I mused, a songbird lit And swung above my shady seat: He heard the brook, and straightway took The music of its liquid feet! A bird's bright glance on me he bent,-- A bird's glance, fearless yet discreet; As who might say, "This roundelay Of liquid joy I can repeat!" The mimic carol done, once more He needs must try its measures sweet;-- Again, again, that rippling strain My songbird did repeat, repeat! Since then I've learned that human breasts To few and simple measures beat; O blessed bird, my heart-warm word I, too, repeat, repeat, repeat! Thrifty the folk in the town of Soleure, And they steadily ply their fathers' trade; Proud are they, too, that, year after year, The watches and clocks of the world they have made. Click go the seconds, kling go the hours, In the town of Soleure the time is well kept! Ever, new steel they cut and trim, While into the street the filings are swept. Only waste metal, unfit for use; But it catches the sunshine and glitters still-- And what are those thrushes doing there, Each with a scrap of steel in its bill? The watchmaker's boy has paused with his broom, And he follows the birds with a boy's keen eye; Their secret he learns, and whither they go, In the leafy tent of yon linden high! Their secret he guards the springtime through, And he smiles when he hears the young ones call; "Never had birdlings a cradle like theirs-- Surely to them can no harm befall!" When the leaves are flying and birds are flown, 'Tis out on the linden bough he swings-- The fearless lad that he is--and thence, A wonderful nest of steel he brings! It yet may be seen in the town of Soleure, To show how the skill of the birds began At the point where human skill fell short; For they used what was waste in the hands of man. Where, think you, a little gray finch in the far wide West Chose (of all places!) to build and to brood her nest? Well, I will tell you the tale that the hunter told: (Strange things has he seen--this hunter grizzled and old.) He spoke of the cattle that came to no herder's call, Roaming the fenceless prairie from springtime to fall. A shot from his rifle laid low the king of the herd-- When, hark! the sharp cry of a circling and hovering bird! What did it mean? The hunter drew in his rein, And leaped to the ground, where dead lay the lord of the plain! Stilled was the beating heart, and glazed were the eyes; The fluttering bird circled higher, and sharper her cries; While, finer and fainter, yet many, and all as keen, Came cries from below, as in answer. What could it mean? The hunter bent down; and his heart with wonder was stirred, When he saw, between the wide horns, the nest of a bird, Like a crown which the prairie's monarch might choose to wear On his shaggy forelock, and lined with the friendly hair! The hunter stood still, abashed in the midst of the plain, To hear the little gray mother's cry of pain, And the faint fine voices of nestlings answer the cry; While their fearless friend lay dead between earth and sky! All in Fairyland it chanced, As the leaves upon the bough In the autumn breezes danced! Said the Thrush unto his mate. "We must soon be gone from here; No one else would stay so late!" But his mate did sorely grieve: "My dear nest upon this bough It will break my heart to leave!" But the thrush's children, too, Perched around, began to cry, "Oh, whatever shall we do?" Never such a nest as ours; We would rather have it, _here_, Than Bermuda and the flowers!" Pleaded then the thrush's mate: "Let us take the nest, my dear, It is light and we are eight!" But the thrushes, with a cheer, Took that nest from off the bough-- Firmly, now, with beak and claw; Spread your wings, and never fear,-- _You_ to push, and _you_ to draw!" So the thrushes took their nest, Every one his strength applied; But the youngest 'twas thought best Should be snugly tucked inside. All in Fairyland it chanced! There is nothing more to say; Ere the morn was far advanced, They were miles and miles away! Out from the aerie beloved we flew, Now through the white, and now through the blue; Glided beneath us hilltop and glen, River and meadow and dwellings of men! We flew, we flew through the regions of light And the wind's wild paean followed our flight! Free of the world, we flew, we flew-- Bound to each other alone,--we two! To the shivering migrant we called "Adieu!" Mid the frost-sweet weather, we flew, we flew! Till, hark from below! the hiss of lead, And one of us dropped, as a plume is shed! Around and around I flew, I flew, Wheeling my flight, ever closer I drew! There, on the earth, my beloved lay, With a crimson stain on her breast-plumes gray! And creatures of earth we had scorned before, Now measured the wings that would lift no more: And I stooped, as an arrow is shot from the height, And sought to bear her away in my flight flight-- Away to our aerie far to seek! Well did I fight with talons and beak; But the craven foe, in their numbers and might, Bore her in triumph out of my sight! Black-cap, madcap, Never tired of play, What's the news to-day? "Faint-heart, faint-heart, Winter's coming up this way, And the winter comes to stay!" Black-cap, madcap, Whither will you go, Now the storm-winds blow? "Faint-heart, faint-heart, In the pine boughs, thick and low, We are sheltered from the snow!" Black-cap, madcap, In the snow and sleet, What have you to eat? "Faint-heart, faint-heart, Seeds and berries are a treat, When the frost has made them sweet!" Black-cap, madcap, Other birds have flown To a summer zone! "Faint-heart, faint-heart, When they're gone, we black-caps own Our white playground all alone!" Her children all were gathered round her, One olden, golden day; Between her tender, drooping eyelids She watched them feed or play. Upon the lion's living velvet She pillowed her fair head; A white fawn pushed its dewy muzzle Beneath the hand that fed. A goldfinch clung upon a ringlet That brushed her wide, smooth brow; And, thence, right merrily he answered His comrades on the bough. But at her feet there lay a sleeper, Of subtly-fashioned limb; Whose motion, force and will to be, Kept yet their prison dim. And round about his couch of slumber The rest a space did make: "Your peace" (the Mother told her children) "Is broken, if he wake! "Lo! this--the best of all created-- Shall yet an evil bring: And ye in doubt shall graze the pasture, And ye in fear shall sing. "For your dear sake, my lesser children, I keep him long asleep; Play on, sing on, a happy season-- His dreams be passing deep!" Thus, while her children gathered round her, And while Man sleeping lay, The fair Earth-Mother softly murmured, "It is your Golden Day!" When the leaves are gone, the birds are gone, And 'tis very silent at the dawn. Snowbird, nuthatch, chickadee,-- Come and cheer the lonely tree! When the leaves are gone, the flowers are gone, Fast asleep beneath the ground withdrawn. Flowers of snow, so soft and fine-- Clothe the shivering branch and vine! I would like to lift the curtain Hides the past from mortal view, For a glimpse of one Thanksgiving When New England still was new. I would like to see that feast day Bradford for his people made, Ere the onset of the winter, That their hearts might be upstayed. First he sent a score of yeomen, Skilled in woodcraft, sure of aim; All one day they spent in hunting, That there might be store of game. Fathers, brothers (aye, and lovers!), Home they bring the glossy deer; Some but praise their hunter's prowess, Some, soft-hearted, drop a tear. I would like to see those housewives, Busy matrons, maidens too, Watching by the ripening oven, Bending o'er the home-made brew. I would like to see the feasting Where the snowy cloth is spread; Here shall no one be forgotten, Here shall all be warmed and fed. Welcome, too, ye friendly shadows At the white man's feast and sport, Tufted warriors, grave onlooking, Massasoit and his court. Home they come from Cuba Libre; And they march with hastening feet Underneath the floating banners, Up the thronged and ringing street. When you cheer your sunburnt heroes, Don't forget their pensioners small, Led along, or perched on shoulder, Four-foot, furry "mascots" all! Comrades of the march and bivouac, Sharers of the cup and can, All unconscious of their portion In the drama played by man. Did they bring, perchance, good fortune (As they brought their owners joy)? Ask the youth who owns the "mascot"-- For a soldier's but a boy! I wonder what charm there can be in fur? The kitten curls up and begins to purr, The puppy tumbles about in the rug In his silly way and gives it a hug, And mousekin, that even a shadow can scare, For a moment lies still in the long, soft hair Then slips away to its home in the wall. Can it be--poor darlings! that each and all Believe 'tis their mother, and hasten to her? All babies, I think, love old Mother Fur; For my little brother--too little to speak-- See how he nestles his peach-blossom cheek In the velvet coat that the tiger wore, As it lies stretched out at length on the floor! Tiger, if you were alive--dear me! I shudder to think how cruel you'd be. No doubt in your day you did harm enough, But now you're safe as my tippet or muff! You, too, I will call (since you never can stir) Old Mother Fur, kind Mother Fur! We live in a cave the wild-rose bushes hide, For my kittens and I were turned out of the house. There are plenty of birds here, on every side-- And a bird I must catch, for I can't find a mouse! Keep still in the nest, O my birdlings dear, While I search for a worm! Do not chirrup one word! There's a cruel tigress crouching so near-- For her hungry cubs she is seeking a bird! The friend of both to pity was stirred, And a wish divided, her heart possessed: "May you hungry kittens lack never a bird"-- "May you birdlings dear be safe in your nest!" Quoth the little brown bat: "I rise with the owl,-- Wisest and best of the feathered fowl; Let other folks rise, if they will, with the lark, And be early and bright--I am early and dark!" Quoth the little brown bat: "I'm awake and up, When the night-moth sips from the lily's white cup; While the firefly lanterns are searching the sky, I am glancing about, with fiery eye!" Quoth the little brown bat: "The night has its noon As well as its day--and I'm friends with the moon. Many a secret she tells me alone, Which never a bird or a bee has known!" Quoth the little brown bat: "There is house-room for me, When the winter comes, in some hollow tree; Or under barn eaves, near the fragrant hay, I sleep the dull winter hours away." Bounce, a wire-haired Terrier; Tip, a tortoise-shell Cat; An old and faithful Servant of both. Prologue by Old Servant, as follows: We three before the fire, one night, Had but its flickering blaze for light-- My dog, my cat, on either side; I mused, while they grew sleepy-eyed. But, if they waked, or if they slept, Still each some watch on other kept. Now what is this, good Bounce, good Tip, That mars your perfect fellowship? Speak up! Speak up! you, Tip,--you, Bounce, Your mutual grievances announce. At this my dog awoke from doze, Drew near, and thrust a foolish nose Beneath my hand; then, deeply sighed. Her gold-stone eyes Tip opened wide, The middle of the hearth she took, And cast on Bounce a scornful look; And then, this colloquy began, Which I record as best I can. Dear Mistress, plainly I must speak; The simple truth would never say And his own foolish act betray betray-- BOUNCE (_interrupting pleadingly_): Oh, do not heed her, Mistress dear; Think how I love you, guard you, cheer! TIP (_proceeds with withering disregard_): When all we creatures were assigned Our places with your human kind, ('Twas long ago) while some became Your slaves--as spiritless as tame, We two, as friends, beneath your roof Were lodged, because we each gave proof proof-- BOUNCE (_licking Old Servant's hand_): Yes, yes--I of my faithfulness-- Man calls on me in all distress! You blundering, careless beast, be still! My cleanliness, my grace, my skill, Did, quite as much myself commend! That we should live, not slave, but friend To Master Man was then agreed: But since of caution there is need, We asked a written document; To which our Master did consent. Puffed up with confidence and pride, _He_ took the document to hide. and buries his nose deeper under old Servant's hand_ He hid it in his old bone-cave; And then, no further thought he gave The precious charter of our rights-- Engaged in noisy bouts and fights! Bounce (_excitedly_): There was foul play, O Mistress mine-- The other creatures did combine! Hush! 'twas your carelessness, in chief, That gave the chance to knave and thief! The jealous Ox and Horse conspired, And then, the villain Rat they hired To delve in darkness underground Till he the precious charter found, And brought the Horse and Ox, who thought Their liberty could thus be bought,-- The tiresome creatures! To this day They drudge and drudge, the same old way! The Ox, the Ass, the Horse--these all Divided with the Rat their stall, And from their mangers grain they gave-- Such price they paid the thievish knave! What loss was ours, we scarce can know-- The charter we could never show! I might have had a dais spread With crimson velvet, and been fed On golden finches every day; But, as for _him_ (_indicating Bounce_), he's naught to say (He lost the charter of our rights)-- When flogged, or chained on moonlight nights! Upon one subject, only, we Can always heartily agree, You, careless Dogs, we, careful Cats-- Our common enemy-- himself_ Old Servant (_starting up suddenly_): Ah, who said "Rats!" just now--and where? And why cannot you two play fair? corner of the hearth, and Bounce to be sound asleep, his nose deeply buried between his forepaws. Old Servant rubs her eyes, then smiles thoughtfully, and settles back in easy-chair_ "Whose dog is Jack?" He belongs to this street. Needs anti-fat--has too much to eat. "Houseless and homeless?"--Well I guess not; In the whole of this block there isn't a tot But has had Jack home to board and to sleep, And he pays 'em in fun, every cent of his keep. He's the best-natured dog, and the smartest, too; No end of the tricks we've taught him to do. Got a heap of sense in his yellow hide! He's the wonderf'lest dog on the whole East Side; Why, even the dog-man doesn't know What breed Jack is,--for he told me so! The dog-catchers came a'most every day, But Jack knew their cart, and he'd hide away; Then out he'd come, laughing, when they'd got past. Can't _guess_ how he ever was cotched at last; But he was, and they boosted him into their cart, And nobody there could take his part. My! but the little kids cried like mad, And us bigger ones, too,--we felt just as bad; For he'd rode us all on his old yellow back. It looked as though it was all up with Jack, And I watched him go; but he cocked one eye As much as to say, "I'll be back by and by." The look that he gave me--it made me _think_; And I thought of a plan as quick as wink And I says, "Feller-citizens, ladies and gents, I guess that we've each of us got a few cents, And we'll club together and have a show, And charge a price, not high nor low; And we'll raise the money, right here and now, That'll buy Jack back by to-morrow--that's how! Tony, the Eyetalian boy, he'll sing; And Patsy McGovern'll do his handspring; And Ikey Aarons'll swallow his knife, And make us all think he's taking his life, And little Freda, she'll pass round the hat, She'll smile and say nothing--she's just good for that!" Well, we emptied our pockets--you bet we did!-- Every one of us big 'uns and each little kid Ran home for their banks as fast as they could; And we raised the money, and all felt good; And next day, early, we brought Jack back. So, now, things run in the same old track, But he's got his license and _don't have to hide_! And we've bought him a _byootiful collar beside_. Skye, of Skye, when the night was late, And the burly porter drowsy grew, Ran down to the silent pier, to wait Till the boat came in with its hardy crew. Skye, of Skye, as he sat on the pier, Turned seaward ever a watchful eye, And his shaggy ears were pricked to hear The plash of oars, as the boat drew nigh. Skye, of Skye, when they leaped ashore, Greeted the crew with a joyful cry-- Kissed their hands, and trotted before To the inn that stood on the hilltop high. Within, was the porter sound asleep-- They could almost hear his lusty snore: Then Skye, of Skye, with an antic leap, Would pull on the bellrope that swung by the door. Then was the bolt drawn quickly back back-- Then did the jolly crew stream in; And--"Landlaird, bring us your best auld sack!" And--"Aweel, aweel, where hae ye been?" Then Skye, of Skye, on the beach-white floor, Sanded that day by the housemaid neat, Lay down to rest him--his vigils o'er, With his honest nose between his feet. But Skye, of Skye as he rolled his eye On the friendly crowd, heard his master say, "Na, na, that doggie ye couldna buy-- Not though his weight in gold ye would pay!" Skye, of Skye, they have made him a bed On the wind-swept cliff, by the ocean's swell; On the stone they have reared above his head, You may see a little dog ringing a bell. The master,--he loved my kitten, my kitten; She was still too weak to stand, When he placed her upon one hand, And over it laid the other, And looked at me kindly, and said, "Tip, you're a proud little mother!" For they'd left me but one, my kitten, my kitten-- As sweet as a kitten could be-- And I loved her for all the three They had taken away without warning. I watched her from daylight till dark, Watched her from night until morning! I never left my kitten, my kitten (For I feared--and I loved her so!) Till I thought it time she should know That cats in the house have a duty, And a right to be proud of their skill, As well as their grace and their beauty. I only left my kitten, my kitten, A few short moments in all, To punish the mouse in the wall, Each day growing bolder and bolder; And I brought her the mouse to show What kittens must do when older. I brought her the mouse--my kitten, my kitten! I tossed it, I caught it for her; But she would not see, nor stir. My heart it beat fast and faster; And I caught her up in my mouth, And carried her so, to the master. I thought he would help--my kitten, my kitten! And I laid her down at his feet-- (Never a kitten so sweet, And he knew that I had no other!) But he only said, "Poor Tip, 'Tis a sad day for you, little mother!" The wind comes down the chimney with a sigh, The kettle sings, chain-swung from grimy hook, While ticks the clock unseen on mantel high. The black cat holds the cosiest chimney-nook, Straight in the blaze his gold-stone eyeballs look, And children four do pay him flattering court. The baby brings to him its picture-book, And shows the way to build a castled fort. The black cat shares, indeed, their every thought and sport. The black cat came to us a twelvemonth since; The black cat is a stranger with us yet; We treat him well; we call him our Black Prince. So thick and glossy is his coat of jet You well might say that you have never met A cat so lordly, though he seems to brood Over some wrong he never can forget. We know that he could tell us, if he would-- Our dear Black Prince, so sad, so gentle, and so good! "You prattle, children. Fritz, bestir yourself! The fire needs wood, so hungry is the wind; And Elsa, bring the platters from the shelf And lay the table. You, too, Gretchen, mind, For you of late are carelessly inclined, And brittle is the _blaue glocken_ ware. Make haste, else will your father come and find, For all his day's hard work, but churlish fare. Full sure I am no man works harder anywhere." The good house-mother speaks, and not in vain, For promptly all her willing brood obey. They hear the dead leaves click against the pane, Updriven by the wind in its mad play. "One might be thankful that one need not stray On such a night as this--'tis just the night When the Wild Huntsman (as the people say), With all his hounds is scouring heaven's height, And you may see him if, as now, the moon be bright." "It is an old and foolish tale. Be still, For now, I think, your father's step I hear, Though not the tune he whistles down the hill. He comes--is at the door. Why, goodman, dear, You're out of breath! Bad news you bring, I fear." "Bad news" (the goodman smiles, with half a frown), "But not for us; and so take heart of cheer. I own I'm out of breath--but sit ye down And hear the strangest thing e'er happened in this town." The children gather at their father's knees And, wonder-eyed, the coming story wait-- The story strange, the story sure to please. The black cat, who absorbed their cares but late, Is left to hold his solitary state. "'Twas thus," the father said, "as I came home, I reached the ruined castle's postern gate Just at the time the bats begin to roam And dart with heedless wings about the ivied gloam; "When, on my left, along the crumbling wall, Sharp-graved against the pallid afterglow, I saw a funeral train, with sweeping pall, And mournful bearers in a double row. I rubbed my eyes, I looked again, and lo! No human forms composed that funeral train!" (The black cat's eyes of gold-stone glitter so! He rises from the spot where he hath lain And listens well, as one who does not list in vain.) "Folk say the Schloss was ever haunted ground; But tell us, father, what those mourners were." The father answered, smiling as he frowned: "Now, if 'twere told by some strange traveller, I'd say, 'Too much you tax our faith, good sir.' But truth was ever priceless unto me. Those mourners, clad in somber coats of fur, _Were cats--no more, nor less_! This I did see, And that the dead grimalkin was of high degree." Up, up the chimney go the sparks apace; Up, up, to vanish in the gusty sky. The black cat--look! he leaves his wonted place, And hark! he speaks: "_Then, king of cats am I!_" And with this first and last word for good-by, Up, up the chimney he hath vanished quite. "Our dear, our good Black Prince!" the children cry; "We always thought he should be king by right, But we shall miss him sadly, both by day and night." The legend saith (I know no more than you, Reader of fairy lore with fancy fraught), That humble hearth nor evil fortune knew, Nor discontent. Long time the children sought For tidings of the lost; yet heard they naught; But sometimes, of a winter eventide, When all was bright within, the children thought That, when they called up through the chimney wide, Thence, with a gentle purr, their olden friend replied. Wept the Child that no one knew, Wandering on, without a clew; Wept so softly none did stay; So, farther yet, he went astray. Cried the Lamb that missed the fold, Trembling more from fear than cold-- "I am lost, and thou art lost-- Both upon the wide world tossed! Why not wander on together, Through the bright or cloudy weather?" Then the Child that no one knew Looked through eyes that shone like dew. Laughed, and wept, "Lost as I am, Come with me, thou poor lost Lamb!" Moaned the youngling wood-dove left By the flock, of flight bereft, "Thou art lost, and we are lost-- All upon the wide world tossed! Why not wander on together, Through the bright or cloudy weather?" Then the Child that no one knew Closer to the nestling drew, Hand beneath, and hand above, Thus he held the quivering Dove. Still they wander on together, Through the bright or cloudy weather,-- Comrades in the lonesome wild; Child and Lamb and nestling Dove,-- Blest their hearth, and blest their field, Who to these a shelter yield. I sighed for flowers, in wintry hours When gardens were a loveless waste; Mine eye fell on the pavement stone, There flowers and flowers and flowers were traced. For me alone, the pavement stone, That garden pleasance did prepare; Or else, would others stop to see What flowers and flowers and flowers bloom there! The stars are falling, are falling, By stream-side and meadow and wood; They silence the whispering leaves; And swiftly and softly they brood The robin's lone nest in the eaves. The stars are falling, are falling, Yet Night has lost never a one, Of all that are gathered below; To-morrow they'll melt in the sun-- For these are the stars of the snow. The stars are falling, are falling-- Look! On your sleeve is a star! Six-pointed and perfect its form, Six-pointed its comrades are,-- All, gems of this wonder-storm! Slow through the light and silent air, Up climbs the smoke on its spiral stair-- The visible flight of some mortal's prayer; The trees are in bloom with the flowers of frost, But never a feathery leaf is lost; The spring, descending, is caught and bound Ere its silver feet can touch the ground; So still is the air that lies, this morn, Over the snow-cold fields forlorn, 'Tis as though Italy's heaven smiled In the face of some bleak Norwegian wild; And the heart in me sings--I know not why-- 'Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky! June in the sky! Ah, now I can see The souls of roses about to be, In gardens of heaven beckoning me, Roses red-lipped, and roses pale, Fanned by the tremulous ether gale! Some of them climbing a window-ledge, Some of them peering from wayside hedge, As yonder, adrift on the aery stream, Love drives his plumed and filleted team; The Angel of Summer aloft I see, And the souls of roses about to be! And the heart in me sings--the heart knows why-- 'Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky. O mother, tuck the children in, And draw the curtains round their heads; And mother, when the storms begin, Let storms forbear those cradle beds. And if the sleepers wake too soon, Say, "Children, 'tis too early yet!" And hush them with a sleepy tune, And closer draw the coverlet. O Mother Earth, be good to all The little sleepers in thy care; And when 'tis time to wake them, call A beam of sun, a breath of air! Said the robin to his mate In the dripping orchard tree: "Our dear nest will have to wait Till the blue sky we can see. Birds can neither work nor play, For the rain rains every day, And the rain rains all the day!" Said the violet to the leaf: "I can scarcely ope my eye; So, for fear I'll come to grief, Close along the earth I lie. All we flowers for sunshine pray, But the rain rains every day, And the rain rains all the day!" And the children, far and wide, They, too, wished away the rain; All their sports were spoiled outside By the "black glove" at the pane. Very dull indoors to stay While "the rain rains every day, And the rain rains all the day!" Up and down the murmurs run, Shared by child and bird and flower. Suddenly the golden sun Dazzled through a clearing shower. Then they all forgot to say That "the rain rains every day, And the rain rains all the day!" When the Little Girl said Good by, At the turn of the road, on the hill, Was there a tear in her eye? And why did she keep so still? When the Little Girl said Good by, She never looked back at all! Was there a tear in her eye? I thought I could hear it fall! And then were the flowers more sweet, And the grass breathed a long, low sigh-- I know--for I heard my heart beat-- There _was_ a tear in her eye!

Various

Encyclopaedia Britannica, 11th Edition, "Lefebvre, Tanneguy" to "Letronne, Jean Antoine" Volume 16, Slice 4

_Head Master of King Edward's School, Retford_; THE FLIGHT FROM TROY _Frontispiece_ purpose. And as he spake he cast his great spear at the Horse, so that it sounded again. But the Gods would not that Troy should be saved. Then they bade him tell on, and he said,-- sacrifice. Then did many forebode evil for me. Ten days did the soothsayer keep silence, saying that he would not give any one to brought on Troy.'" forth, till the sea by Sigeum shone with the light. Then, scarce friends. Come now, let us change our shields, and put upon us the Then was Aeneas severed from the rest, having with him two only, Astyanax to his grandfather, climbed on to the roof, and joined casting the while stones and javelins and all that came to their hands. Meanwhile others sought to break down the gates of the palace, guarded them. Then, as a river bursts its banks and overflows the So she made the old man sit down in the midst. But lo! there came And as he spake the old man cast a spear, but aimless and without peoples and countries in the land of Asia, was slain that night, Gorgon shield; and how Father Jupiter himself stirs up the enemy thunder." father, and the father at the altar. Was it for this, kind Mother So spake the spirit, and, when Aeneas wept and would have spoken, But when Aeneas had ended these words, straightway the place was island of Crete, wherein is a mountain, Ida. There was the first So they offered sacrifice, a bull to Neptune and a bull to the honour, and make their city ruler over many nations. Faint not, mighty men of valour; a land of vineyards and wheat. There is our So saying, she departed. But when great fear was fallen upon all, And while she spake there came Helenus from the city with a great But after certain days were passed, Aeneas, seeing that the wind remember this, at all places and times, before all other Gods to worship Juno, that thou mayest persuade her, and so make thy way And when the seer had ended these sayings he commanded his people Helenus spake to us. Ply your oars, my comrades, and let us fly And when it was morning, lo! there came forth from the woods a Then she went, thinking these things in her heart, to the land of Deiopeia, I will give thee to wife." bodies Simois rolled down to the sea!" quicksands of the Syrtis. And another, in which sailed the men of Then he bade the waves be still; also he scattered the clouds and Wherefore endure unto the day of prosperity." Then her father kissed her once and again, and answered smiling, To whom Aeneas, "I have not seen nor heard sister of thine, O whither do ye go?" heart, or dwell so remote from man, that we are ignorant of these succour them that suffer." So saying she led Aeneas into her palace; also she sent to his dissembled with her tongue, and spake, "Who would not rather have marvellous creature, moving very swiftly with feet and wings, and destruction. And now forsooth comes the messenger of Jupiter with dwellings below to hear thy doom." house-top. And in her dreams the cruel Aeneas seemed to drive her Then did Aeneas in great fear start from his sleep, and call his companions, saying, "Wake, and sit on the benches, and loose the Then she spake to old Barce, who had been nurse to her husband dwellings of men and of Gods. And Anna her sister heard it, and called the people together. close, struck on a jutting piece of the rock, and the oars were Then said Entellus, "Think not, Acestes, that I am fearful, or should go forth to the battle." altogether consumed, even as a star that shoots across the sky by Acestes had given horses of Sicily. And when these came forth there was much shouting and clapping of But while the men of Troy were busy with the games, Juno prepared solemnity." rolling before the wind. And Ascanius, in the midst of his And while Aeneas thought on these things he slept. And lo! in his perish, even one life for many." Thetis and the virgin Panopea. choosing by lot seven of their children who should be given as a Misenus, after him, to this day. Then he took comfort and departed. But when they came near to the through the seams thereof. Yet did they come safe across. "Come, and I will show thee them that shall come after thee. That humble, and to subdue the proud." called Caieta. afterwards they set sail, and passed by the island wherein dwelt Circe, who is the daughter of the Sun. Pleasantly doth she sing, favourable winds, so that they passed quickly by that land. beholding the thing, cried, "There cometh a stranger who shall be Dardanus, and abode in the land of Troy." Then Ilioneus made answer, saying, "Great King, we have not gone garments which the women of Troy have worked with their hands." son-in-law of whom the prophets had spoken. At the last he spake, grant, men of Troy, that which ye ask. Also we regard these your horses, and took to Aeneas the gifts and the message of peace. Then straightway Alecto betook herself to the dwelling of King mothers pressed their children to their breasts. whetstone. And in five cities did they set up anvils to make arms Now the greatest of the chiefs were these: Next came, with horses that none might surpass, Aventinus, son of shields on their left arms, and their swords were shaped as Last of all came Camilla the Volscian, with a great company on myrtle-wood, as the shepherds are wont. So the chiefs were gathered together, and much people with them, Pallantium. These wage war continually with the Latins. To them So they feasted; and the priests, even the Salii, being in two dwelling, though indeed it be small and lowly. Think not, then, Then he led him within the palace, and bade him rest on a couch, whereon was spread the skin of an African bear. And even before he had made an end of speaking, Venus gave them a Etruscans and Tarchon, their leader, had pitched their camp. Now in the mean time Venus had bestirred herself for her son, for Gorgon's head, lopped at the nape, with rolling eyes. But the god thickets even to the ridge of the hill. Their hair was wrought in And she spread her wings and mounted to heaven by the arch of the Then Euryalus made answer: "One thing I ask thee more. I have a Then he gave him his own sword, with its scabbard of ivory, and But they answered nothing, making haste to fly. Then Volscens Now there was a tower upon the wall, which the Italians sought to conquered, now to be besieged again? What madness brought you to Now there were two youths, sons of Alcanor of Mount Ida, tall as vengeance for his brother. And he cried, "This is not thy city of themselves in close array, so that Turnus could not but give way before them. Just so a lion is driven back by a crowd of men. soothsayer, came leading a thousand men from Pisa; and Astyr, the Nymphs, which once had been his ships. And one of these, by name Pallas made a cruel difference between them, for from Thymber he battle. And when Halaesus, the companion of Agamemnon, would have corslet, and pierced the breast of Pallas from front to back. And Lucagus and Liger. And Liger, who indeed drave the horses, cried So the battle had an end. And the next day, early in the morning, Then spake Drances. (Now Drances had great jealousy of Turnus. But while they disputed there came a messenger unto the palace Aconteus, and drave him from his horse with the shock, as a nothing." Then she slew Orsilochus and Butes, mighty men of Troy. Then did Tarchon the Tuscan rebuke his horsemen, calling each by defiedst the men of Troy. Neither hath it profited thee to be the But when Camilla was dead her companions fled, and the Rutulians Now for a space Turnus spake not for wrath. Then he said, "Be not Then Amata cried to him, saying, "Fight not, I beseech thee, with The next day the men of Italy and the men of Troy measured out a canst, from death; or cause that they break this covenant." But all the while the righteous Aeneas, having his head bare, and battle. Then did the whole array make for the walls of the city. And some warders at the gates, and cast javelins at them who stood on the Then also did other ill fortune befall the Latins, for when Queen But the cry that went up from the city came to the ears of Turnus Then for a while Turnus stood speechless, and shame and grief and threatened that he would destroy the city if any should help him. Then spake Jupiter to Juno, where she sat in a cloud watching the Then Jupiter sent a Fury from the pit. And she took the form of a _Seventh Thousand, Crown 8vo, price 5s. cloth._ _Head Master of King Edward's School, Retford_; Author of "Stories from Virgil." "A book which ought to become an English classic. It is full of the pure Homeric flavour, and we think we may predict that it will retain its place in our literature."--_Spectator._ "All Mr. Church's stories are told with rare grace and "We can give Mr. Church no higher praise than that he has succeeded in his undertaking. We doubt whether the first and greatest of story-tellers has ever before been so appropriately rendered for children."--_Academy._ "Mr. Church has long since proved himself a ripe and good scholar, though he had not given evidence of the special Homeric insight which this charming volume displays."--_Saturday Review._ _Conducted by the Rev. A. J. CHURCH, M.A., The _Saturday Review_ says:--"We cannot too warmly hail this series. If all the schoolmasters in England were to adopt it they would have fewer occasions to complain of boys not having read their notes, and fewer grumblings on the part of patresfamilias at the heavy items of the book bill." Each volume of Selections contains sufficient matter for the work of a Term, with Notes by a Competent Editor. First Latin Grammar. Rev. T. White, LL.D. 1s. Cicero--Select Passages. Rev. W. J. Brodribb, M.A. 10d. SEELEY, JACKSON, & HALLIDAY 54, Fleet St., London.

Leader Scott

The Cathedral Builders: The Story of a Great Masonic Guild

1837

_All rights reserved_ Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1912. New and revised edition, June, 1913. They closed her Eyes Captain Stratton's Fancy An Old Song re-sung St. Mary's Bells The Harper's Song Four bells were struck, the watch was called on deck, All work aboard was over for the hour, And some men sang and others played at check, Or mended clothes or watched the sunset glower. The bursting west was like an opening flower, And one man watched it till the light was dim, But no one went across to talk to him. He was the painter in that swift ship's crew, Lampman and painter--tall, a slight-built man, Young for his years, and not yet twenty-two; Sickly, and not yet brown with the sea's tan. Bullied and damned at since the voyage "Being neither man nor seaman by his tally," He bunked with the idlers just abaft the galley. His work began at five; he worked all day, Keeping no watch and having all night in. His work was what the mate might care to say; He mixed red lead in many a bouilli tin; His dungarees were smeared with paraffin. "Go drown himself" his round-house mates advised him, And all hands called him "Dauber" and despised him. Si, the apprentice, stood beside the spar, Stripped to the waist, a basin at his side, Slushing his hands to get away the tar, And then he washed himself and rinsed and dried; Towelling his face, hair-towzelled, eager eyed, He crossed the spar to Dauber, and there stood Watching the gold of heaven turn to blood. They stood there by the rail while the swift ship Tore on out of the tropics, straining her sheets, Whitening her trackway to a milky strip, Dim with green bubbles and twisted water meets, Her clacking tackle tugged at pins and cleats, Her great sails bellied stiff, her great masts leaned: They watched how the seas struck and burst and greened. Si talked with Dauber, standing by the side. "Why did you come to sea, painter?" he said. "I want to be a painter," he replied, "And know the sea and ships from A to Z, And paint great ships at sea before I'm dead; Ships under skysails running down the Trade-- Ships and the sea; there's nothing finer made. "But there's so much to learn, with sails and ropes, And how the sails look, full or being furled, And how the lights change in the troughs and slopes, And the sea's colours up and down the world, And how a storm looks when the sprays are hurled High as the yard (they say) I want to see; There's none ashore can teach such things to me. "And then the men and rigging, and the way Ships move, running or beating, and the poise At the roll's end, the checking in the sway-- I want to paint them perfect, short of the noise; And then the life, the half-decks full of boys, The fo'c'sles with the men there, dripping wet: I know the subjects that I want to get. "It's not been done, the sea, not yet been done, From the inside, by one who really knows; I'd give up all if I could be the one, But art comes dear the way the money goes. So I have come to sea, and I suppose Three years will teach me all I want to learn And make enough to keep me till I earn." Even as he spoke his busy pencil moved, Drawing the leap of water off the side Where the great clipper trampled iron-hooved, Making the blue hills of the sea divide, Shearing a glittering scatter in her stride, And leaping on full tilt with all sails drawing, Proud as a war-horse, snuffing battle, pawing. "I cannot get it yet--not yet," he said; "That leap and light, and sudden change to green, And all the glittering from the sunset's red, And the milky colours where the bursts have been, And then the clipper striding like a queen Over it all, all beauty to the crown. I see it all, I cannot put it down. "It's hard not to be able. There, look there! I cannot get the movement nor the light; Sometimes it almost makes a man despair To try and try and never get it right. Oh, if I could--oh, if I only might, I wouldn't mind what hells I'd have to pass, Not if the whole world called me fool and ass." Down sank the crimson sun into the sea, The wind cut chill at once, the west grew dun. "Out sidelights!" called the mate. "Hi, where is he?" The Boatswain called, "Out sidelights, damn you! Run!" "He's always late or lazing," murmured one-- "The Dauber, with his sketching." Soon the tints Of red and green passed on dark water-glints. Darker it grew, still darker, and the stars Burned golden, and the fiery fishes came. The wire-note loudened from the straining spars; The sheet-blocks clacked together always the same; The rushing fishes streaked the seas with flame, Racing the one speed noble as their own: What unknown joy was in those fish unknown! Just by the round-house door, as it grew dark, The Boatswain caught the Dauber with, "Now, you; Till now I've spared you, damn you! now you hark: I've just had hell for what you didn't do; I'll have you broke and sent among the crew If you get me more trouble by a particle. Don't you forget, you daubing, useless article! "You thing, you twice-laid thing from Port Mahon!" Then came the Cook's "Is that the Dauber there? Why don't you leave them stinking paints alone? They stink the house out, poisoning all the air. Just take them out." "Where to?" "I don't care where. I won't have stinking paint here." From their plates: "That's right; wet paint breeds fever," growled his mates. He took his still wet drawings from the berth And climbed the ladder to the deck-house top; Beneath, the noisy half-deck rang with mirth, For two ship's boys were putting on the strop: One, clambering up to let the skylight drop, Saw him bend down beneath a boat and lay His drawings there, till all were hid away, And stand there silent, leaning on the boat, Watching the constellations rise and burn, Until the beauty took him by the throat, So stately is their glittering overturn; Armies of marching eyes, armies that yearn With banners rising and falling, and passing by Over the empty silence of the sky. The Dauber sighed there looking at the sails, Wind-steadied arches leaning on the night, The high trucks traced on heaven and left no trails; The moonlight made the topsails almost white, The passing sidelight seemed to drip green light. And on the clipper rushed with fire-bright bows; He sighed, "I'll never do't," and left the house. "Now," said the reefer, "up! Come, Sam; come, Si, Dauber's been hiding something." Up they slid, Treading on naked tiptoe stealthily To grope for treasure at the long-boat skid. "Drawings!" said Sam. "Is this what Dauber hid? Lord! I expected pudding, not this rot. Still, come, we'll have some fun with what we've got." They smeared the paint with turpentine until They could remove with mess-clouts every trace Of quick perception caught by patient skill, And lines that had brought blood into his face. They wiped the pigments off, and did erase, With knives, all sticking clots. When they had done. Under the boat they laid them every one. All he had drawn since first he came to sea, His six weeks' leisure fruits, they laid them there. They chuckled then to think how mad he'd be Finding his paintings vanished into air. Eight bells were struck, and feet from everywhere Went shuffling aft to muster in the dark; The mate's pipe glowed above, a dim red spark. Names in the darkness passed and voices cried; The red spark glowed and died, the faces seemed As things remembered when a brain has died, To all but high intenseness deeply dreamed. Like hissing spears the fishes' fire streamed, And on the clipper rushed with tossing mast, A bath of flame broke round her as she passed. The watch was set, the night came, and the men Hid from the moon in shadowed nooks to sleep, Bunched like the dead; still, like the dead, as when Plague in a city leaves none even to weep. The ship's track brightened to a mile-broad sweep; The mate there felt her pulse, and eyed the spars: South-west by south she staggered under the stars. Down in his bunk the Dauber lay awake Thinking of his unfitness for the sea. Each failure, each derision, each mistake, There in the life not made for such as he; A morning grim with trouble sure to be, A noon of pain from failure, and a night Bitter with men's contemning and despite. This in the first beginning, the green leaf, Still in the Trades before bad weather fell; What harvest would he reap of hate and grief When the loud Horn made every life a hell? When the sick ship lay over, clanging her bell, And no time came for painting or for drawing, But all hands fought, and icy death came clawing? Hell, he expected,--hell. His eyes grew blind; The snoring from his messmates droned and snuffled, And then a gush of pity calmed his mind. The cruel torment of his thought was muffled, Without, on deck, an old, old, seaman shuffled, Humming his song, and through the open door A moonbeam moved and thrust along the floor. The green bunk curtains moved, the brass rings clicked, The Cook cursed in his sleep, turning and turning, The moonbeams' moving finger touched and picked, And all the stars in all the sky were burning. "This is the art I've come for, and am learning, The sea and ships and men and travelling things. It is most proud, whatever pain it brings." He leaned upon his arm and watched the light Sliding and fading to the steady roll; This he would some day paint, the ship at night, And sleeping seamen tired to the soul; The space below the bunks as black as coal, Gleams upon chests, upon the unlit lamp, The ranging door hook, and the locker clamp. This he would paint, and that, and all these scenes, And proud ships carrying on, and men their minds, And blues of rollers toppling into greens, And shattering into white that bursts and blinds, And scattering ships running erect like hinds, And men in oilskins beating down a sail High on the yellow yard, in snow, in hail. With faces ducked down from the slanting drive Of half-thawed hail mixed with half-frozen spray, The roaring canvas like a thing alive, Shaking the mast, knocking their hands away, The foot-ropes jerking to the tug and sway, The savage eyes salt-reddened at the rims, And icicles on the south-wester brims. And sunnier scenes would grow under his brush, The tropic dawn with all things dropping dew, The darkness and the wonder and the hush, The insensate grey before the marvel grew; Then the veil lifted from the trembling blue, The walls of sky burst in, the flower, the rose, All the expanse of heaven a mind that glows. He turned out of his bunk; the Cook still tossed, One of the other two spoke in his sleep. A cockroach scuttled where the moonbeam crossed; Outside there was the ship, the night, the deep. "It is worth while," the youth said; "I will keep To my resolve, I'll learn to paint all this. My Lord, my God, how beautiful it is!" Outside was the ship's rush to the wind's hurry, A resonant wire-hum from every rope, The broadening bow-wash in a fiery flurry, The leaning masts in their majestic slope, And all things strange with moonlight: filled with hope By all that beauty going as man bade, He turned and slept in peace. Eight bells were made. Next day was Sunday, his free painting day, While the fine weather held, from eight till eight. He rose when called at five, and did array The round-house gear, and set the kit-bags straight; Then kneeling down, like housemaid at a grate, He scrubbed the deck with sand until his knees Were blue with dye from his wet dungarees. Soon all was clean, his Sunday tasks were done; His day was clear for painting as he chose. The wetted decks were drying in the sun, The men coiled up, or swabbed, or sought repose. The drifts of silver arrows fell and rose As flying fish took wing; the breakfast passed, Wasting good time, but he was free at last. Free for two hours and more to tingle deep, Catching a likeness in a line or tint, The canvas running up in a proud sweep, Wind-wrinkled at the clews, and white like lint, The glittering of the blue waves into glint; Free to attempt it all, the proud ship's pawings, The sea, the sky--he went to fetch his drawings. Up to the deck-house top he quickly climbed, He stooped to find them underneath the boat. He found them all obliterated, slimed, Blotted, erased, gone from him line and note. They were all spoiled: a lump came in his throat, Being vain of his attempts, and tender skinned-- Beneath the skylight watching reefers grinned. He clambered down, holding the ruined things. "Bosun," he called, "look here, did you do these: Wipe off my paints and cut them into strings, And smear them till you can't tell chalk from cheese? Don't stare, but did you do it? Answer, please." The Bosun turned: "I'll give you a thick ear! Do it? I didn't. Get to hell from here! "I touch your stinking daubs? The Dauber's daft." A crowd was gathering now to hear the fun; The reefers tumbled out, the men laid aft, The Cook blinked, cleaning a mess kid in the sun. "What's up with Dauber now?" said everyone. "Someone has spoiled my drawings--look at this!" "Well, that's a dirty trick, by God, it is!" "It is," said Sam, "a low-down dirty trick, To spoil a fellow's work in such a way, And if you catch him, Dauber, punch him sick, For he deserves it, be he who he may." A seaman shook his old head wise and grey. "It seems to me," he said, "who ain't no judge, Them drawings look much better now they're smudge." "Where were they, Dauber? On the deck-house? Where?" "Under the long-boat, in a secret place." "The blackguard must have seen you put them there. He is a swine! I tell him to his face: I didn't think we'd anyone so base." "Nor I," said Dauber. "There was six weeks' time Just wasted in these drawings: it's a crime!" "Well, don't you say we did it," growled his mates, "And as for crime, be damned! the things were smears-- Best overboard, like you, with shot for weights; Thank God they're gone, and now go shake your ears." The Dauber listened, very near to tears. "Dauber, if I were you," said Sam again, "I'd aft, and see the Captain and complain." A sigh came from the assembled seamen there. Would he be such a fool for their delight As go to tell the Captain? Would he dare? And would the thunder roar, the lightning smite? There was the Captain come to take a sight, Handling his sextant by the chart-house aft. The Dauber turned, the seamen thought him daft. The Captain took his sights--a mate below Noted the times; they shouted to each other, The Captain quick with "Stop," the answer slow, Repeating slowly one height then another. The swooping clipper stumbled through the smother, The ladder brasses in the sunlight burned, The Dauber waited till the Captain turned. There stood the Dauber, humbled to the bone, Waiting to speak. The Captain let him wait, Glanced at the course, and called in even tone, "What is the man there wanting, Mr. Mate?" The logship clattered on the grating straight, The reel rolled to the scuppers with a clatter, The Mate came grim: "Well, Dauber, what's the matter?" "Please, sir, they spoiled my drawings." "Who did?" "They." Whom d'you complain of?" "No one." "No one?" "No, sir." "Well, then, go forward till you've found them. Go, sir. If you complain of someone, then I'll see. Now get to hell! and don't come bothering me." "But, sir, they washed them off, and some they cut. Look here, sir, how they spoiled them." "Never mind. Go shove your head inside the scuttle butt, And that will make you cooler. You will find Nothing like water when you're mad and blind. Where were the drawings? in your chest, or where?" "Under the long-boat, sir; I put them there." "Under the long-boat, hey? Now mind your tip. I'll have the skids kept clear with nothing round them; The long-boat ain't a store in this here ship. Lucky for you it wasn't I who found them. If I had seen them, Dauber, I'd have drowned them. Now you be warned by this. I tell you plain-- Don't stow your brass-rags under boats again. "Go forward to your berth." The Dauber turned. The listeners down below them winked and smiled, Knowing how red the Dauber's temples burned, Having lost the case about his only child. His work was done to nothing and defiled, And there was no redress: the Captain's voice Spoke, and called "Painter," making him rejoice. The Captain and the Mate conversed together. "Drawings, you tell me, Mister?" "Yes, sir; views: Wiped off with turps, I gather that's his blether. He says they're things he can't afford to lose. And found the dance a bear dance. They were hidden Under the long-boat's chocks, which I've forbidden." "Wiped off with turps?" The Captain sucked his lip. "Who did it, Mister?" "Reefers, I suppose; Them devils do the most pranks in a ship; The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose." "I can't take notice of it till he knows. How does he do his work?" "Well, no offence; He tries; he does his best. He's got no sense." "Painter," the Captain called; the Dauber came. "What's all this talk of drawings? What's the matter?" "They spoiled my drawings, sir." "Well, who's to blame? The long-boat's there for no one to get at her; You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatter Gear up and down where it's no right to be, And suffer as result, don't come to me. "Your place is in the round-house, and your gear Belongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things? Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here." "But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings." "I want no argument nor questionings. Go back where you belong and say no more, And please remember that you're not on shore." The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away-- They eyed his going with a bitter eye. "Dauber," said Sam, "what did the Captain say?" The Dauber drooped his head without reply. "Go forward, Dauber, and enjoy your cry." The Mate limped to the rail; like little feet Over his head the drumming reef-points beat. The Dauber reached the berth and entered in. Much mockery followed after as he went, And each face seemed to greet him with the grin Of hounds hot following on a creature spent. "Aren't you a fool?" each mocking visage meant. "Who did it, Dauber? What did Captain say? It is a crime, and there'll be hell to pay." He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke; The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest. "Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke"-- He puffed his pipe--"and let the matter rest. Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast; Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces, And let this painting business go to blazes. "What good can painting do to anyone? I don't say never do it; far from that-- No harm in sometimes painting just for fun. Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at. Your job's to fill your bones up and get fat; Rib up like Barney's bull, and thick your neck. Throw paints to hell, boy; you belong on deck." "That's right," said Chips; "it's downright good advice. Painting's no good; what good can painting do Up on a lower topsail stiff with ice, With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue? Painting won't help you at the weather clew, Nor pass your gaskets for you, nor make sail. Painting's a balmy job not worth a nail." The Dauber did not answer; time was passing. He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool. The wind was dropping, and the sea was glassing-- New realms of beauty waited for his rule; The draught out of the crojick kept him cool. He sat to paint, alone and melancholy. "No turning fools," the Chips said, "from their folly." He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line, And then came peace, and gentle beauty came, Turning his spirit's water into wine, Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame: O, joy of trying for beauty, ever the same, You never fail, your comforts never end; O, balm of this world's way; O, perfect friend! They lost the Trades soon after; then came calm, Light little gusts and rain, which soon increased To glorious northers shouting out a psalm At seeing the bright blue water silver fleeced; Hornwards she rushed, trampling the seas to yeast. There fell a rain-squall in a blind day's end When for an hour the Dauber found a friend. Out of the rain the voices called and passed, The stay-sails flogged, the tackle yanked and shook. Inside the harness-room a lantern cast Light and wild shadows as it ranged its hook. The watch on deck was gathered in the nook, They had taken shelter in that secret place, Wild light gave wild emotions to each face. One beat the beef-cask, and the others sang A song that had brought anchors out of seas In ports where bells of Christians never rang, Nor any sea mark blazed among the trees. By forlorn swamps, in ice, by windy keys, That song had sounded; now it shook the air From these eight wanderers brought together there. Under the poop-break, sheltering from the rain, The Dauber sketched some likeness of the room, A note to be a prompting to his brain, A spark to make old memory reillume. "Dauber," said someone near him in the gloom, "How goes it, Dauber?" It was reefer Si. "There's not much use in trying to keep dry." They sat upon the sail-room doorway coaming, The lad held forth like youth, the Dauber listened To how the boy had had a taste for roaming, And what the sea is said to be and isn't. Where the dim lamplight fell the wet deck glistened. Si said the Horn was still some weeks away, "But tell me, Dauber, where d'you hail from? Eh?" The rain blew past and let the stars appear; The seas grew larger as the moonlight grew; For half an hour the ring of heaven was clear, Dusty with moonlight, grey rather than blue; In that great moon the showing stars were few. The sleepy time-boy's feet passed overhead. "I come from out past Gloucester," Dauber said; "Not far from Pauntley, if you know those parts; The place is Spital Farm, near Silver Hill, Above a trap-hatch where a mill-stream starts. We had the mill once, but we've stopped the mill; My dad and sister keep the farm on still. We're only tenants, but we've rented there, Father and son, for over eighty year. "Father has worked the farm since grandfer went; It means the world to him; I can't think why. They bleed him to the last half-crown for rent, And this and that have almost milked him dry. The land's all starved; if he'd put money by, And corn was up, and rent was down two-thirds.... But then they aren't, so what's the use of words. "Yet still he couldn't bear to see it pass To strangers, or to think a time would come When other men than us would mow the grass, And other names than ours have the home. Some sorrows come from evil thought, but some Comes when two men are near, and both are blind To what is generous in the other's mind. "I was the only boy, and father thought I'd farm the Spital after he was dead, And many a time he took me out and taught About manures and seed-corn white and red, And soils and hops, but I'd an empty head; Harvest or seed, I would not do a turn-- I loathed the farm, I didn't want to learn. "He did not mind at first, he thought it youth Feeling the collar, and that I should change. Then time gave him some inklings of the truth, And that I loathed the farm, and wished to range. Truth to a man of fifty's always strange; It was most strange and terrible to him That I, his heir, should be the devil's limb. "Yet still he hoped the Lord might change my mind. I'd see him bridle-in his wrath and hate, And almost break my heart he was so kind, Biting his lips sore with resolve to wait. And then I'd try awhile; but it was Fate: I didn't want to learn; the farm to me Was mire and hopeless work and misery. "Though there were things I loved about it, too-- The beasts, the apple-trees, and going haying. And then I tried; but no, it wouldn't do, The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying. And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying, 'O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pass; It's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was. "'And now you won't learn farming; you don't care. The old home's nought to you. I've tried to teach you; I've begged Almighty God, boy, all I dare, To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you. Boy, for your granfer's sake I do beseech you, Don't let the Spital pass to strangers. Squire Has said he'd give it you if we require. "'Your mother used to walk here, boy, with me; It was her favourite walk down to the mill; And there we'd talk how little death would be, Knowing our work was going on here still. You've got the brains, you only want the will-- Don't disappoint your mother and your father. I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.' "But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read. Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue, Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed, And how she feared she'd live to see me hung. And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young. And when we three would sit to supper, Jane Would fillip dad till dad began again. "'I've been here all my life, boy. I was born Up in the room above--looks on the mead. I never thought you'd cockle my clean corn, And leave the old home to a stranger's seed. Father and I have made here 'thout a weed: We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years. And now I go down to the grave in tears.' "And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat, And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowing And then I'd creep away and sail my boat, Or watch the water when the mill was going. That's my delight--to be near water flowing, Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks, Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks. "And one day father found a ship I'd built; He took the cart-whip to me over that, And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt, Went up and hid in what we called the flat, A dusty hole given over to the cat. She kittened there; the kittens had worn paths Among the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths. "And putting down my hand between the beams I felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear: A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams. Where spiders had had nests for many a year. It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear, Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's life Was not her own while she was father's wife. "There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint. March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three, Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint. The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be. That was a holy afternoon to me; That book a sacred book; the flat a place Where I could meet my mother face to face. "She had found peace of spirit, mother had, Drawing the landscape from the attic there-- Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad, Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair. That rotting sketch-book showed me how and where I, too, could get away; and then I knew That drawing was the work I longed to do. "Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled, And every penny I could get I spent On paints and artist's matters, which I spoiled Up in the attic to my heart's content, Till one day father asked me what I meant; The time had come, he said, to make an end. Now it must finish: what did I intend? "Either I took to farming, like his son, In which case he would teach me, early and late (Provided that my daubing mood was done), Or I must go: it must be settled straight. If I refused to farm, there was the gate. I was to choose, his patience was all gone, The present state of things could not go on. "Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke. The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour, And something told me father's heart was broke, For all he stood so set and looked so sour. Jane took a duster, and began to scour A pewter on the dresser; she was crying. I stood stock still a long time, not replying. "Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round. 'Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room, His boots went clop along the stony ground Out to the orchard and the apple-bloom. A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom; I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned. She was dead white but for her eyes that burned. "'You're breaking father's heart, Joe,' she began; 'It's not as if----' she checked, in too much pain. 'O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man; You're giving him our mother over again. It's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain; You know what store he sets on leaving this To (it's too cruel)--to a son of his. "'Yet you go painting all the day. O, Joe, Couldn't you make an effort? Can't you see What folly it is of yours? It's not as though You are a genius or could ever be. O, Joe, for father's sake, if not for me, Give up this craze for painting, and be wise And work with father, where your duty lies.' "'It goes too deep,' I said; 'I loathe the farm; I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind. Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm; Father would see it, if he were not blind. I was not built to farm, as he would find. O, Jane, it's bitter hard to stand alone And spoil my father's life or spoil my own.' "'Spoil both,' she said, 'the way you're shaping now. You're only a boy not knowing your own good. Where will you go, suppose you leave here? How Do you propose to earn your daily food? Draw? Daub the pavements? There's a feckless brood Goes to the devil daily, Joe, in cities Only from thinking how divine their wit is. "'Clouds are they, without water, carried away. And you'll be one of them, the way you're going, Daubing at silly pictures all the day, And praised by silly fools who're always blowing. And you choose this when you might go a-sowing, Casting the good corn into chosen mould That shall in time bring forth a hundred-fold.' "So we went on, but in the end it ended. I felt I'd done a murder; I felt sick. There's much in human minds cannot be mended, And that, not I, played dad a cruel trick. There was one mercy: that it ended quick. I went to join my mother's brother: he Lived down the Severn. He was kind to me. "And there I learned house-painting for a living. I'd have been happy there, but that I knew I'd sinned before my father past forgiving, And that they sat at home, that silent two, Wearing the fire out and the evening through, Silent, defeated, broken, in despair, My plate unset, my name gone, and my chair. "I saw all that; and sister Jane came white-- White as a ghost, with fiery, weeping eyes. I saw her all day long and half the night, Bitter as gall, and passionate and wise. 'Joe, you have killed your father: there he lies. You have done your work--you with our mother's ways.' She said it plain, and then her eyes would blaze. "And then one day I had a job to do Down below bridge, by where the docks begin, And there I saw a clipper towing through, Up from the sea that morning, entering in. Raked to the nines she was, lofty and thin, Her ensign ruffling red, her bunts in pile, Beauty and strength together, wonder, style. "She docked close to the gates, and there she lay Over the water from me, well in sight; And as I worked I watched her all the day, Finding her beauty ever fresh delight. Her house-flag was bright green with strips of white; High in the sunny air it rose to shake Above the skysail poles' most splendid rake. "And when I felt unhappy I would look Over the river at her; and her pride, So calm, so quiet, came as a rebuke To half the passionate pathways which I tried; And though the autumn ran its term and died, And winter fell and cold December came, She was still splendid there, and still the same. "Then on a day she sailed; but when she went My mind was clear on what I had to try: To see the sea and ships, and what they meant, That was the thing I longed to do; so I Drew and worked hard, and studied and put by, And thought of nothing else but that one end, But let all else go hang--love, money, friend. "And now I've shipped as Dauber I've begun. It was hard work to find a dauber's berth; I hadn't any friends to find me one, Only my skill, for what it may be worth; But I'm at sea now, going about the earth, And when the ship's paid off, when we return, I'll join some Paris studio and learn." He stopped, the air came moist, Si did not speak; The Dauber turned his eyes to where he sat, Pressing the sail-room hinges with his cheek, His face half covered with a drooping hat. Huge dewdrops from the stay-sails dropped and spat. Si did not stir, the Dauber touched his sleeve; A little birdlike noise came from a sheave. Si was asleep, sleeping a calm deep sleep, In some old haunted temple buried deep Under the desert sand, sterile and red. The Dauber shook his arm; Si jumped and said, "Good yarn, I swear! I say, you have a brain-- Was that eight bells that went?" He slept again. Then waking up, "I've had a nap," he cried. "Was that one bell? What, Dauber, you still here?" "Si there?" the Mate's voice called. "Sir," he replied. The order made the lad's thick vision clear; A something in the Mate's voice made him fear. "Si," said the Mate, "I hear you've made a friend-- Dauber, in short. That friendship's got to end. "You're a young gentleman. Your place aboard Is with the gentlemen abaft the mast. You're learning to command; you can't afford To yarn with any man. But there ... it's past. You've done it once; let this time be the last. The Dauber's place is forward. Do it again, I'll put you bunking forward with the men. "Dismiss." Si went, but Sam, beside the Mate, Timekeeper there, walked with him to the rail And whispered him the menace of "You wait"-- Words which have turned full many a reefer pale. The watch was changed; the watch on deck trimmed sail. Sam, going below, called all the reefers down, Sat in his bunk and eyed them with a frown. "Si here," he said, "has soiled the half-deck's name Talking to Dauber--Dauber, the ship's clout. A reefer takes the Dauber for a flame, The half-deck take the round-house walking out. He's soiled the half-deck's honour; now, no doubt, The Bosun and his mates will come here sneaking, Asking for smokes, or blocking gangways speaking. "I'm not a vain man, given to blow or boast; I'm not a proud man, but I truly feel That while I've bossed this mess and ruled this roast Si must ask pardon, or be made to squeal. Down on your knees, dog; them we love we chasten. Jao, pasea, my son--in English, Hasten." Si begged for pardon, meekly kneeling down Before the reefer's mess assembled grim. The lamp above them smoked the glass all brown; Beyond the door the dripping sails were dim. The Dauber passed the door; none spoke to him. He sought his berth and slept, or, waking, heard Rain on the deck-house--rain, no other word. Our of the air a time of quiet came, Calm fell upon the heaven like a drouth; The brass sky watched the brassy water flame. Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered south Slowly, with no white bone across her mouth; No rushing glory, like a queen made bold, The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled. There the four leaning spires of canvas rose, Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting, White like the brightness that a great fish blows When billows are at peace and ships are drifting; With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting, The courses tugged their tethers: a blue haze Drifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze. There the great skyline made her perfect round, Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue; A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound, The haze wrought all things to intenser hue. In tingling impotence the Dauber drew As all men draw, keen to the shaken soul To give a hint that might suggest the whole. A naked seaman washing a red shirt Sat at a tub whistling between his teeth; Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt. A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath, The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath, And little slaps of spray came at the roll On to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole. He watched it, painting patiently, as paints, With eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil, Watching the passing of the Holy Grail; The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail, The spears that pass, the memory and the passion, The beauty moving under this world's fashion. But as he painted, slowly, man by man, The seamen gathered near; the Bosun stood Behind him, jeering; then the Sails began Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood, Saying, "That hit the top-knot," every time. Cook mocked, "My lovely drawings; it's a crime." Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowd Stood at his elbow, muttering as he drew; The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud, "This is the ship that never got there. You Look at her here, what Dauber's trying to do. Look at her! lummy, like a Christmas-tree. That thing's a ship; he calls this painting. See?" Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward; then "Sir," said the Bosun, "come and see the sight! Here's Dauber makes a circus for the men. He calls this thing a ship--this hell's delight!" "Man," said the Mate, "you'll never get her right Daubing like that. Look here!" He took a brush. "Now, Dauber, watch; I'll put you to the blush. "Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine." He drew her swiftly from a memory stored. "God, sir," the Bosun said, "you do her fine!" "Ay," said the Mate, "I do so, by the Lord! I'll paint a ship with any man aboard." They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait. "There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate. When he had gone, the gathered men dispersed; Yet two or three still lingered to dispute What errors made the Dauber's work the worst. They probed his want of knowledge to the root. "Bei Gott!" they swore, "der Dauber cannot do 't; He haf no knolich how to put der pense. Der Mate's is goot. Der Dauber haf no sense." "You hear?" the Bosun cried, "you cannot do it!" "A gospel truth," the Cook said, "true as hell! And wisdom, Dauber, if you only knew it; A five year boy would do a ship as well." "If that's the kind of thing you hope to sell, God help you," echoed Chips. "I tell you true, The job's beyond you, Dauber; drop it, do. "Drop it, in God's name drop it, and have done! You see you cannot do it. Here's the Mate Paints you to frazzles before everyone; Paints you a dandy clipper while you wait. While you, Lord love us, daub. I tell you straight, We've had enough of daubing; drop it; quit. You cannot paint, so make an end of it." "That's sense," said all; "you cannot, why pretend?" The Dauber rose and put his easel by. "You've said enough," he said, "now let it end. Who cares how bad my painting may be? I Mean to go on, and, if I fail, to try. However much I miss of my intent, If I have done my best I'll be content. "You cannot understand that. Let it be. You cannot understand, nor know, nor share. This is a matter touching only me; My sketch may be a daub, for aught I care. You may be right. But even if you were, Your mocking should not stop this work of mine; Rot though it be, its prompting is divine. "You cannot understand that--you, and you, And you, you Bosun. You can stand and jeer, That is the task your spirit fits you to, That you can understand and hold most dear. Grin, then, like collars, ear to donkey ear, But let me daub. Try, you, to understand Which task will bear the light best on God's hand." The wester came as steady as the Trades; Brightly it blew, and still the ship did shoulder The brilliance of the water's white cockades Into the milky green of smoky smoulder. The sky grew bluer and the air grew colder. Southward she thundered while the westers held, Proud, with taut bridles, pawing, but compelled. And still the Dauber strove, though all men mocked, To draw the splendour of the passing thing, And deep inside his heart a something locked, Long pricking in him, now began to sting-- A fear of the disasters storm might bring; His rank as painter would be ended then-- He would keep watch and watch like other men. And go aloft with them to man the yard When the great ship was rolling scuppers under, Burying her snout all round the compass card, While the green water struck at her and stunned her; When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunder Boomed from the black to windward, when the sail Booted and spurred the devil in the gale For him to ride on men: that was the time The Dauber dreaded; then the test would come, When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime, And all the air was blind with flying scum; When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce hum In weather riggings died into the roar Of God's eternal never tamed by shore. Once in the passage he had worked aloft, Shifting her suits one summer afternoon, In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft, Shaking the points, making the tackle croon. But that was child's play to the future: soon He would be ordered up when sails and spars Were flying and going mad among the stars. He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled, Not by the height so much as by the size, And then the danger to the man unskilled In standing on a rope that runs through eyes. "But in a storm," he thought, "the yards will rise And roll together down, and snap their gear!" The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear. Sometimes in Gloucester he had felt a pang Swinging below the house-eaves on a stage. But stages carry rails; here he would hang Upon a jerking rope in a storm's rage, Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuage The beating of the storm, clutching the jack, Beating the sail, and being beaten back. High in the night, reeling great blinding arcs As the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb, The deck below a narrow blur of marks, The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks, Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away, Salting the horizontal snow with spray. A hundred and fifty feet above the deck, And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sit Upon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check, While half a dozen seamen work on it; Held by one hand, straining, by strength and wit To toss a gasket's coil around the yard, How could he compass that when blowing hard? And if he failed in any least degree, Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack, He might go drown himself within the sea, And add a bubble to the clipper's track. He had signed his name, there was no turning back, No pardon for default--this must be done. One iron rule at sea binds everyone. Till now he had been treated with contempt As neither man nor thing, a creature borne On the ship's articles, but left exempt From all the seamen's life except their scorn. But he would rank as seaman off the Horn, Work as a seaman, and be kept or cast By standards set for men before the mast. Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bent The storm-suit ready for the expected time; The mighty wester that the Plate had lent Had brought them far into the wintry clime. At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime, The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear, The wind had edge, the testing-time was near. And then he wondered if the tales were lies Told by old hands to terrify the new, For, since the ship left England, only twice Had there been need to start a sheet or clew, Then only royals, for an hour or two, And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold. What were these gales of which the stories told? The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tell Too often, and too fiercely, not to know That being off the Horn in June is hell: Hell of continual toil in ice and snow, Frostbitten hell in which the westers blow Shrieking for days on end, in which the seas Gulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze. Such was the weather he might look to find, Such was the work expected: there remained Firmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind, And be the first, however much it pained, And bring his honour round the Horn unstained, And win his mates' respect; and thence, untainted, Be ranked as man however much he painted. He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloft A lower topsail, hard with rope and leather, Such as men's frozen fingers fight with oft Below the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather. The arms upon the yard hove all together, Lighting the head along; a thought occurred Within the painter's brain like a bright bird: That this, and so much like it, of man's toil, Compassed by naked manhood in strange places, Was all heroic, but outside the coil Within which modern art gleams or grimaces; That if he drew that line of sailor's faces Sweating the sail, their passionate play and change, It would be new, and wonderful, and strange. That that was what his work meant; it would be A training in new vision--a revealing Of passionate men in battle with the sea, High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling; And men through him would understand their feeling, Their might, their misery, their tragic power, And all by suffering pain a little hour; High on the yard with them, feeling their pain, Battling with them; and it had not been done. He was a door to new worlds in the brain, A window opening letting in the sun, A voice saying, "Thus is bread fetched and ports won, And life lived out at sea where men exist Solely by man's strong brain and sturdy wrist." So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses, Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shout Where the taut gantline passes and repasses, Heaving new topsails to be lighted out. It was most proud, however self might doubt, To share man's tragic toil and paint it true. He took the offered Fate: this he would do. That night the snow fell between six and seven, A little feathery fall so light, so dry-- An aimless dust out of a confused heaven, Upon an air no steadier than a sigh; The powder dusted down and wandered by So purposeless, so many, and so cold, Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled. Rolled till she clanged--rolled till the brain was tired, Marking the acme of the heaves, the pause While the sea-beauty rested and respired, Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse. Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws. "Lock up your paints," the Mate said, speaking light: "This is the Horn; you'll join my watch to-night!" All through the windless night the clipper rolled In a great swell with oily gradual heaves Which rolled her down until her time-bells tolled, Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves. The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves, Startles of water made the swing ports gush, The sea was moaning and sighing and saying "Hush!" It was all black and starless. Peering down Into the water, trying to pierce the gloom, One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brown Heaving and dying away and leaving room For yet another. Like the march of doom Came those great powers of marching silences; Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas. They set the Dauber to the foghorn. There He stood upon the poop, making to sound Out of the pump the sailor's nasal blare, Listening lest ice should make the note resound. She bayed there like a solitary hound Lost in a covert; all the watch she bayed. The fog, come closelier down, no answer made. Denser it grew, until the ship was lost. The elemental hid her; she was merged In mufflings of dark death, like a man's ghost, New to the change of death, yet thither urged. Then from the hidden waters something surged-- Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech, A noise like one slow wave on a still beach. Mournful, and then again mournful, and still Out of the night that mighty voice arose; The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill. Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those? Mournful, from things defeated, in the throes Of memory of some conquered hunting-ground, Out of the night of death arose the sound. "Whales!" said the Mate. They stayed there all night long Answering the horn. Out of the night they spoke, Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong, But were still noble underneath the stroke. They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke; The men came peering to the rail to hear, And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer. A wall of nothing at the world's last edge, Where no life came except defeated life. The Dauber felt shut in within a hedge, Behind which form was hidden and thought was rife, And that a blinding flash, a thrust, a knife Would sweep the hedge away and make all plain, Brilliant beyond all words, blinding the brain. So the night passed, but then no morning broke-- Only a something showed that night was dead. A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke, And the fog drew away and hung like lead. Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red; Like glowering gods at watch it did appear, And sometimes drew away, and then drew near. Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell, But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy, Shutting the visible sea in like a well; Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy, Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody. The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scattering Splashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering. Then Polar snow came down little and light, Till all the sky was hidden by the small, Most multitudinous drift of dirty white Tumbling and wavering down and covering all-- Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall, Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast, Coming on no known air, but blowing past. And all the air seemed full of gradual moan, As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowing The mort for gods cast out and overthrown, Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going. Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing; The Dauber felt the prelude had begun. The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sun Show and pass by, gleam from one towering prison Into another, vaster and more grim, Which in dull crags of darkness had arisen To muffle-to a final door on him. The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim, The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track. In the south-west the dimness dulled to black. Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!" The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come: Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck, Down clattered flying kites and staysails: some Sang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled, And from the south-west came the end of the world. "Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling "Lee-ay, lee-ay!" quick, high, came the men's call; It was all wallop of sails and startled calling. "Let fly!" "Let go!" "Clew up!" and "Let go all!" "Now up and make them fast!" "Here, give us a haul!" "Now up and stow them! Quick! By God! we're done!" The blackness crunched all memory of the sun. "Up!" said the Mate. "Mizen top-gallants. Hurry!" The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sails Slatted and shook; out of the black a flurry Whirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails. Painting and art and England were old tales Told in some other life to that pale man, Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran. He struck a ringbolt in his haste and fell-- Rose, sick with pain, half-lamed in his left knee; He reached the shrouds where clambering men pell-mell Hustled each other up and cursed him; he Hurried aloft with them: then from the sea Came a cold, sudden breath that made the hair Stiff on the neck, as though Death whispered there. A man below him punched him in the side. "Get up, you Dauber, or let me get past." He saw the belly of the skysail skied, Gulped, and clutched tight, and tried to go more fast. Sometimes he missed his ratline and was grassed, Scraped his shin raw against the rigid line. The clamberers reached the futtock-shrouds' incline. Cursing they came; one, kicking out behind, Kicked Dauber in the mouth, and one below Punched at his calves; the futtock-shrouds inclined It was a perilous path for one to go. "Up, Dauber, up!" A curse followed a blow. He reached the top and gasped, then on, then on. And one voice yelled "Let go!" and one "All gone!" Fierce clamberers, some in oilskins, some in rags, Hustling and hurrying up, up the steep stairs. Before the windless sails were blown to flags, And whirled like dirty birds athwart great airs, Ten men in all, to get this mast of theirs Snugged to the gale in time. "Up! Damn you, run!" The mizen topmast head was safely won. "Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laid Out on the yard, gripping the yard, and feeling Sick at the mighty space of air displayed Below his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling. A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling. He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack. A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back. The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose. He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent, Clammy with natural terror to the shoes Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent; He saw the water darken. Someone yelled, "Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held. Darkness came down--half darkness--in a whirl; The sky went out, the waters disappeared. He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurl The ship upon her side. The darkness speared At her with wind; she staggered, she careered, Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go; He saw his yard tilt downwards. Then the snow Whirled all about--dense, multitudinous, cold-- Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek, Which whiffled out men's tears, deafened, took hold, Flattening the flying drift against the cheek. The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak. The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's sound Had devilish malice at having got her downed. How long the gale had blown he could not tell, Only the world had changed, his life had died. A moment now was everlasting hell. Nature an onslaught from the weather side, A withering rush of death, a frost that cried, Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hail Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail. "Cut!" yelled his mate. He looked--the sail was gone, Blown into rags in the first furious squall; The tatters drummed the devil's tattoo. On The buckling yard a block thumped like a mall. The ship lay--the sea smote her, the wind's bawl Came, "loo, loo, loo!" The devil cried his hounds On to the poor spent stag strayed in his bounds. "Cut! Ease her!" yelled his mate; the Dauber heard. His mate wormed up the tilted yard and slashed, A rag of canvas skimmed like a darting bird. The snow whirled, the ship bowed to it, the gear lashed, The sea-tops were cut off and flung down smashed; Tatters of shouts were flung, the rags of yells-- And clang, clang, clang, below beat the two bells. "O God!" the Dauber moaned. A roaring rang, Blasting the royals like a cannonade; The backstays parted with a cracking clang, The upper spars were snapped like twigs decayed-- Snapped at their heels, their jagged splinters splayed, Like white and ghastly hair erect with fear. The Mate yelled, "Gone, by God, and pitched them clear!" "Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!" The Dauber followed where he led: below He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow. He saw the streamers of the rigging blow Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast, Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice, Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage, An utter bridle given to utter vice, Limitless power mad with endless rage Withering the soul; a minute seemed an age. He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail, Thinking that comfort was a fairy-tale Told long ago--long, long ago--long since Heard of in other lives--imagined, dreamed-- There where the basest beggar was a prince To him in torment where the tempest screamed, Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed Things that a man could know: soul, body, brain, Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain. "Leave that!" the Bosun shouted; "Crojick save!" The splitting crojick, not yet gone to rags, Thundered below, beating till something gave, Bellying between its buntlines into bags. Some birds were blown past, shrieking: dark, like shags, Their backs seemed, looking down. "Leu, leu!" they cried. The ship lay, the seas thumped her; she had died. They reached the crojick yard, which buckled, buckled Like a thin whalebone to the topsail's strain. They laid upon the yard and heaved and knuckled, Pounding the sail, which jangled and leapt again. It was quite hard with ice, its rope like chain, Its strength like seven devils; it shook the mast. They cursed and toiled and froze: a long time passed. Two hours passed, then a dim lightening came. Those frozen ones upon the yard could see The mainsail and the foresail still the same, Still battling with the hands and blowing free, Rags tattered where the staysails used to be. The lower topsails stood; the ship's lee deck Seethed with four feet of water filled with wreck. An hour more went by; the Dauber lost All sense of hands and feet, all sense of all But of a wind that cut him to the ghost, And of a frozen fold he had to haul, Of heavens that fell and never ceased to fall, And ran in smoky snatches along the sea, Leaping from crest to wave-crest, yelling. He Lost sense of time; no bells went, but he felt Ages go over him. At last, at last They frapped the cringled crojick's icy pelt; In frozen bulge and bunt they made it fast. Then, scarcely live, they laid in to the mast. The Captain's speaking trumpet gave a blare, "Make fast the topsail, Mister, while you're there." Some seamen cursed, but up they had to go-- Up to the topsail yard to spend an hour Stowing a topsail in a blinding snow, Which made the strongest man among them cower. More men came up, the fresh hands gave them power, They stowed the sail; then with a rattle of chain One half the crojick burst its bonds again. They stowed the sail, frapping it round with rope, Leaving no surface for the wind, no fold, Then down the weather shrouds, half dead, they grope; That struggle with the sail had made them old. They wondered if the crojick furl would hold. "Lucky," said one, "it didn't spring the spar." "Lucky!" the Bosun said, "Lucky! We are! She came within two shakes of turning top Or stripping all her shroud-screws, that first quiff. Now fish those wash-deck buckets out of the slop. Here's Dauber says he doesn't like Cape Stiff. This isn't wind, man, this is only a whiff. Hold on, all hands, hold on!" a sea, half seen, Paused, mounted, burst, and filled the main-deck green. The Dauber felt a mountain of water fall. It covered him deep, deep, he felt it fill, Over his head, the deck, the fife-rails, all, Quieting the ship, she trembled and lay still. Then with a rush and shatter and clanging shrill Over she went; he saw the water cream Over the bitts; he saw the half-deck stream. Then in the rush he swirled, over she went; Her lee-rail dipped, he struck, and something gave; His legs went through a port as the roll spent; She paused, then rolled, and back the water drave. He drifted with it as a part of the wave, Drowning, half-stunned, exhausted, partly frozen, He struck the booby hatchway; then the Bosun Leaped, seeing his chance, before the next sea burst, And caught him as he drifted, seized him, held, Up-ended him against the bitts, and cursed. "This ain't the George's Swimming Baths," he yelled; "Keep on your feet!" Another grey-back felled The two together, and the Bose, half-blind, Spat: "One's a joke," he cursed, "but two's unkind." "Now, damn it, Dauber!" said the Mate. "Look out, Or you'll be over the side!" The water freed; Each clanging freeing-port became a spout. The men cleared up the decks as there was need. The Dauber's head was cut, he felt it bleed Into his oilskins as he clutched and coiled. Water and sky were devils' brews which boiled, Boiled, shrieked, and glowered; but the ship was saved. Snugged safely down, though fourteen sails were split. Out of the dark a fiercer fury raved. The grey-backs died and mounted, each crest lit With a white toppling gleam that hissed from it And slid, or leaped, or ran with whirls of cloud, Mad with inhuman life that shrieked aloud. The watch was called; Dauber might go below. "Splice the main brace!" the Mate called. All laid aft To get a gulp of momentary glow As some reward for having saved the craft. The steward ladled mugs, from which each quaff'd Whisky, with water, sugar, and lime-juice, hot, A quarter of a pint each made the tot. Beside the lamp-room door the steward stood Ladling it out, and each man came in turn, Tipped his sou'-wester, drank it, grunted "Good!" And shambled forward, letting it slowly burn: When all were gone the Dauber lagged astern, Torn by his frozen body's lust for heat, The liquor's pleasant smell, so warm, so sweet, And by a promise long since made at home Never to taste strong liquor. Now he knew The worth of liquor; now he wanted some. His frozen body urged him to the brew; Yet it seemed wrong, an evil thing to do To break that promise. "Dauber," said the Mate, "Drink, and turn in, man; why the hell d'ye wait?" "Please, sir, I'm temperance." "Temperance are you, hey? That's all the more for me! So you're for slops? I thought you'd had enough slops for today. Go to your bunk and ease her when she drops. And--damme, steward! you brew with too much hops! Stir up the sugar, man!--and tell your girl How kind the Mate was teaching you to furl." Then the Mate drank the remnants, six men's share, And ramped into his cabin, where he stripped And danced unclad, and was uproarious there. In waltzes with the cabin cat he tripped, Singing in tenor clear that he was pipped-- That "he who strove the tempest to disarm, Must never first embrail the lee yardarm," And that his name was Ginger. Dauber crept Back to the round-house, gripping by the rail. The wind howled by; the passionate water leapt; The night was all one roaring with the gale. Then at the door he stopped, uttering a wail; His hands were perished numb and blue as veins, He could not turn the knob for both the Spains. A hand came shuffling aft, dodging the seas, Singing "her nut-brown hair" between his teeth; Taking the ocean's tumult at his ease Even when the wash about his thighs did seethe. His soul was happy in its happy sheath; "What, Dauber, won't it open? Fingers cold? You'll talk of this time, Dauber, when you're old." He flung the door half open, and a sea Washed them both in, over the splashboard, down; "You' silly, salt miscarriage!" sputtered he. "Dauber, pull out the plug before we drown! That's spoiled my laces and my velvet gown. Where is the plug?" Groping in pitch dark water, He sang between his teeth "The Farmer's Daughter." It was pitch dark within there; at each roll The chests slid to the slant; the water rushed, Making full many a clanging tin pan bowl Into the black below-bunks as it gushed. The dog-tired men slept through it; they were hushed. The water drained, and then with matches damp The man struck heads off till he lit the lamp. "Thank you," the Dauber said; the seaman grinned. "This is your first foul weather?" "Yes." "I thought Up on the yard you hadn't seen much wind. Them's rotten sea-boots, Dauber, that you brought. Now I must cut on deck before I'm caught." He went; the lamp-flame smoked; he slammed the door; A film of water loitered across the floor. The Dauber watched it come and watched it go; He had had revelation of the lies Cloaking the truth men never choose to know; He could bear witness now and cleanse their eyes. He had beheld in suffering; he was wise; This was the sea, this searcher of the soul-- This never-dying shriek fresh from the Pole. He shook with cold; his hands could not undo His oilskin buttons, so he shook and sat, Watching his dirty fingers, dirty blue, Hearing without the hammering tackle slat, Within, the drops from dripping clothes went pat, Running in little patters, gentle, sweet, And "Ai, ai!" went the wind, and the seas beat. His bunk was sopping wet; he clambered in. None of his clothes were dry; his fear recurred. Cramps bunched the muscles underneath his skin. The great ship rolled until the lamp was blurred. He took his Bible and tried to read a word; Trembled at going aloft again, and then Resolved to fight it out and show it to men. Faces recurred, fierce memories of the yard, The frozen sail, the savage eyes, the jests, The oaths of one great seaman, syphilis-scarred, The tug of leeches jammed beneath their chests, The buntlines bellying bunts out into breasts. The deck so desolate-grey, the sky so wild, He fell asleep, and slept like a young child. But not for long; the cold awoke him soon, The hot-ache and the skin-cracks and the cramp, The seas thundering without, the gale's wild tune, The sopping misery of the blankets damp. A speaking-trumpet roared; a sea-boot's stamp Clogged at the door. A man entered to shout: "All hands on deck! Arouse here! Tumble out!" The caller raised the lamp; his oilskins clicked As the thin ice upon them cracked and fell. "Rouse out!" he said. "This lamp is frozen wick'd. Rouse out!" His accent deepened to a yell. "We're among ice; it's blowing up like hell. We're going to hand both topsails. Time, I guess, We're sheeted up. Rouse out! Don't stay to dress!" "Is it cold on deck?" said Dauber. "Is it cold? We're sheeted up, I tell you, inches thick! The fo'c'sle's like a wedding-cake, I'm told. Now tumble out, my sons; on deck here, quick! Rouse out, away, and come and climb the stick. I'm going to call the half-deck. Bosun! Hey! Both topsails coming in. Heave out! Away!" He went; the Dauber tumbled from his bunk, Clutching the side. He heard the wind go past, Making the great ship wallow as if drunk. There was a shocking tumult up the mast. "This is the end," he muttered, "come at last! I've got to go aloft, facing this cold. I can't. I can't. I'll never keep my hold. "I cannot face the topsail yard again. I never guessed what misery it would be." The cramps and hot-ache made him sick with pain. The ship stopped suddenly from a devilish sea, Then, with a triumph of wash, a rush of glee, The door burst in, and in the water rolled, Filling the lower bunks, black, creaming, cold. The lamp sucked out. "Wash!" went the water back, Then in again, flooding; the Bosun swore. "You useless thing! You Dauber! You lee slack! Get out, you heekapoota! Shut the door! You coo-ilyaira, what are you waiting for? Out of my way, you thing--you useless thing!" He slammed the door indignant, clanging the ring. And then he lit the lamp, drowned to the waist; "Here's a fine house! Get at the scupper-holes"-- He bent against it as the water raced-- "And pull them out to leeward when she rolls. They say some kinds of landsmen don't have souls. I well believe. A Port Mahon baboon Would make more soul than you got with a spoon." Down in the icy water Dauber groped To find the plug; the racing water sluiced Over his head and shoulders as she sloped. Without, judged by the sound, all hell was loosed. He felt cold Death about him tightly noosed. That Death was better than the misery there Iced on the quaking foothold high in air. And then the thought came: "I'm a failure. All My life has been a failure. They were right. It will not matter if I go and fall; I should be free then from this hell's delight. I'll never paint. Best let it end to-night. I'll slip over the side. I've tried and failed." So in the ice-cold in the night he quailed. Death would be better, death, than this long hell Of mockery and surrender and dismay-- This long defeat of doing nothing well, Playing the part too high for him to play. "O Death! who hides the sorry thing away, Take me; I've failed. I cannot play these cards." There came a thundering from the topsail yards. And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind, And staggered out to muster, beating back The coward frozen self of him that whined. Come what cards might he meant to play the pack. "Ai!" screamed the wind; the topsail sheet went clack; Ice filled the air with spikes; the grey-backs burst. "Here's Dauber," said the Mate, "on deck the first. "Why, holy sailor, Dauber, you're a man! I took you for a soldier. Up now, come!" Up on the yards already they began The leaping topsail thundered like a drum. The frozen snow beat in the face like shots. The wind spun whipping wave-crests into clots. So up upon the topsail yard again, In the great tempest's fiercest hour, began Probation to the Dauber's soul, of pain Which crowds a century's torment in a span. For the next month the ocean taught this man, And he, in that month's torment, while she wested, Was never warm nor dry, nor full nor rested. But still it blew, or, if it lulled, it rose Within the hour and blew again; and still The water as it burst aboard her froze. The wind blew off an ice-field, raw and chill, Daunting man's body, tampering with his will; But after thirty days a ghostly sun Gave sickly promise that the storms were done. A great grey sea was running up the sky, Desolate birds flew past; their mewings came As that lone water's spiritual cry, Its forlorn voice, its essence, its soul's name. The ship limped in the water as if lame. Then in the forenoon watch to a great shout More sail was made, the reefs were shaken out. A slant came from the south; the singers stood Clapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune, Old as the sea, a fillip to the blood. The upper topsail rose like a balloon. "So long, Cape Stiff. In Valparaiso soon," Said one to other, as the ship lay over, Making her course again--again a rover. Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell. Clear rang the songs, "Hurrah! Cape Horn is bet!" The combless seas were lumping into swell; The leaking fo'c'sles were no longer wet. More sail was made; the watch on deck was set To cleaning up the ruin broken bare Below, aloft, about her, everywhere. The Dauber, scrubbing out the roundhouse, found Old pantiles pulped among the mouldy gear, Washed underneath the bunks and long since drowned During the agony of the Cape Horn year. He sang in scrubbing, for he had done with fear-- Fronted the worst and looked it in the face; He had got manhood at the testing-place. Singing he scrubbed, passing his watch below, Making the round-house fair; the Bosun watched, Bringing his knitting slowly to the toe. Sails stretched a mizen skysail which he patched; They thought the Dauber was a bad egg hatched. "Daubs," said the Bosun cheerly, "can you knit? I've made a Barney's bull of this last bit." Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun took Some marline from his pocket. "Here," he said, "You want to know square sennit? So fash. Look! Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread. I've known an engineer would give his head To know square sennit." As the Bose began, The Dauber felt promoted into man. It was his warrant that he had not failed-- That the most hard part in his difficult climb Had not been past attainment; it was scaled: Safe footing showed above the slippery slime. He had emerged out of the iron time, And knew that he could compass his life's scheme; He had the power sufficient to his dream. Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue. The ship was standing north, the Horn was rounded; She made a thundering as she weltered through. The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded. More sail was piled upon her; she was hounded North, while the wind came; like a stag she ran Over grey hills and hollows of seas wan. She had a white bone in her mouth: she sped; Those in the round-house watched her as they ate Their meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread. "Good old!" they cried. "She's off; she's gathering gait!" Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate. "Good old!" they cried. "Oh, give her cloth! Hurray! For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay! "She smells old Vallipo," the Bosun cried. "We'll be inside the tier in three weeks more, Lying at double-moorings where they ride Off of the market, half a mile from shore, And bumboat pan, my sons, and figs galore, And girls in black mantillas fit to make a Poor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca." Eight bells were made, the watch was changed, and now The Mate spoke to the Dauber: "This is better. We'll soon be getting mudhooks over the bow. She'll make her passage still if this'll let her. Oh, run, you drogher! dip your fo'c'sle wetter. Well, Dauber, this is better than Cape Horn. Them topsails made you wish you'd not been born." "Yes, sir," the Dauber said. "Now," said the Mate, "We've got to smart her up. Them Cape Horn seas Have made her paint-work like a rusty grate. Oh, didn't them topsails make your fishhooks freeze? A topsail don't pay heed to 'Won't you, please?' Well, you have seen Cape Horn, my son; you've learned. You've dipped your hand and had your fingers burned. "And now you'll stow that folly, trying to paint. You've had your lesson; you're a sailor now. You come on board a female ripe to faint. All sorts of slush you'd learned, the Lord knows how. Cape Horn has sent you wisdom over the bow If you've got sense to take it. You're a sailor. My God! before you were a woman's tailor. "So throw your paints to blazes and have done. Words can't describe the silly things you did Sitting before your easel in the sun, With all your colours on the paint-box lid. I blushed for you ... and then the daubs you hid. My God! you'll have more sense now, eh? You've quit?" "No, sir." "You've not?" "No, sir." "God give you wit. "I thought you'd come to wisdom." Thus they talked, While the great clipper took her bit and rushed Like a skin-glistening stallion not yet baulked, Till fire-bright water at her swing ports gushed; Poising and bowing down her fore-foot crushed Bubble on glittering bubble; on she went. The Dauber watched her, wondering what it meant. To come, after long months, at rosy dawn, Into the placid blue of some great bay. Treading the quiet water like a fawn Ere yet the morning haze was blown away. A rose-flushed figure putting by the grey, And anchoring there before the city smoke Rose, or the church-bells rang, or men awoke. And then, in the first light, to see grow clear That long-expected haven filled with strangers-- Alive with men and women; see and hear Its clattering market and its money-changers; And hear the surf beat, and be free from dangers, And watch the crinkled ocean blue with calm Drowsing beneath the Trade, beneath the palm. Hungry for that he worked; the hour went by, And still the wind grew, still the clipper strode, And now a darkness hid the western sky, And sprays came flicking off at the wind's goad. She stumbled now, feeling her sail a load. The Mate gazed hard to windward, eyed his sail, And said the Horn was going to flick her tail. Boldly he kept it on her till she staggered, But still the wind increased; it grew, it grew, Darkening the sky, making the water haggard; Full of small snow the mighty wester blew. "More fun for little fish-hooks," sighed the crew. They eyed the taut topgallants stiff like steel; A second hand was ordered to the wheel. The Captain eyed her aft, sucking his lip, Feeling the sail too much, but yet refraining From putting hobbles on the leaping ship, The glad sea-shattering stallion, halter-straining, Wing-musical, uproarious, and complaining; But, in a gust, he cocked his finger, so: "You'd better take them off, before they go." All saw. They ran at once without the word "Lee-ay! Lee-ay!" Loud rang the clew-line cries; Sam in his bunk within the half-deck heard, Stirred in his sleep, and rubbed his drowsy eyes. "There go the lower to'gallants." Against the skies Rose the thin bellying strips of leaping sail. The Dauber was the first man over the rail. Three to a mast they ran; it was a race. "God!" said the Mate; "that Dauber, he can go." He watched the runners with an upturned face Over the futtocks, struggling heel to toe, Up to the topmast cross-trees into the blow Where the three sails were leaping. "Dauber wins!" The yards were reached, and now the race begins. Which three will furl their sail first and come down? Out to the yard-arm for the leech goes one, His hair blown flagwise from a hatless crown, His hands at work like fever to be done. Out of the gale a fiercer fury spun. The three sails leaped together, yanking high, Like talons darting up to clutch the sky. The Dauber on the fore-topgallant yard Out at the weather yard-arm was the first To lay his hand upon the buntline-barred Topgallant yanking to the wester's burst; He craned to catch the leech; his comrades cursed; One at the buntlines, one with oaths observed, "The eye of the outer jib-stay isn't served." "No," said the Dauber. "No," the man replied. They heaved, stowing the sail, not looking round, Panting, but full of life and eager-eyed; The gale roared at them with its iron sound. "That's you," the Dauber said. His gasket wound Swift round the yard, binding the sail in bands; There came a gust, the sail leaped from his hands, So that he saw it high above him, grey, And there his mate was falling; quick he clutched An arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away. A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched, Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutched With vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled, And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled, The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft, And blankness settling on him and great pain; And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft, And topsail sheet-blocks shaking at the chain. He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brain Swirled in a circle while he watched the sky. Infinite multitudes of snow blew by. "I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said. "Down on the bloody deck!" the Captain screamed. The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped. His pain was real enough, but all else seemed. Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamed Tilting upon him; others came, the Mate ... They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait For other things to come. He saw them there. "It will go on," he murmured, watching Si. Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air, The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by. "More water," said the Mate. "Here, Bosun, try. Ask if he's got a message. Hell, he's gone! Here, Dauber, paints." He said, "It will go on." Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spoke With the intenseness of a fading soul Whose share of Nature's fire turns to smoke, Whose hand on Nature's wheel loses control. The eager faces glowered red like coal. They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast. "It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed. Those from the yard came down to tell the tale. "He almost had me off," said Tom. "He slipped. There come one hell of a jump-like from the sail.... He clutched at me and almost had me pipped. He caught my 'ris'band, but the oilskin ripped.... It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone. I made a grab to catch him; so did John. "I caught his arm. My God! I was near done. He almost had me over; it was near. He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one." "Well," said the Mate, "we cannot leave him here. Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear. We'll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you, He's dead, poor son; there's nothing more to do." Night fell, and all night long the Dauber lay Covered upon the table; all night long The pitiless storm exulted at her prey, Huddling the waters with her icy thong. But to the covered shape she did no wrong. He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bell The night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell. Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear sky The wind roared all night long; and all night through The green seas on the deck went washing by, Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew. But little of it all the Dauber knew-- The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet, The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat. He was off duty. So it blew all night, And when the watches changed the men would come Dripping within the door to strike a light And say, "He come a cruel thump, poor chum." Or, "He'd a-been a fine big man;" or, "He ... A smart young seaman he was getting to be." Or, "Damn it all, it's what we've all to face! ... I knew another fellow one time ..." then Came a strange tale of death in a strange place Out on the sea, in ships, with wandering men. In many ways Death puts us into pen. The reefers came down tired and looked and slept. Below the skylight little dribbles crept Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow, Following the roll and dripping, never fast, But dripping on the quiet form below, Like passing time talking to time long past. And all night long "Ai, ai!" went the wind's blast, And creaming water swished below the pale, Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail. At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bells They bore him to the gangway, wading deep, Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hells That flung his carriers over in their sweep. They laid an old red ensign on the heap, And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying, Washed by the sea while the old man was praying Out of a borrowed prayer-book. At a sign They twitched the ensign back and tipped the grating A creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine. The muffled figure tilted to the weighting; It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating. Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared; The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared. "Mister, shake out your reefs," the Captain called. "Out topsail reefs!" the Mate cried; then all hands Hurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled, Singing that desolate song of lonely lands, Of how a lover came in dripping bands, Green with the wet and cold, to tell his lover That Death was in the sea, and all was over. Fair came the falling wind; a seaman said The Dauber was a Jonah; once again The clipper held her course, showing red lead, Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain. The waves bowed down before her like blown grain; Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short, Before the tier's bells rang her into port. Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells, The new-come beauty stately from the sea, Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells, Treading the bubbles down. With three times three They cheered her moving beauty in, and she Came to her berth so noble, so superb; Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb. Then in the sunset's flush they went aloft, And unbent sails in that most lovely hour, When the light gentles and the wind is soft, And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower. Working aloft they saw the mountain tower, Snow to the peak; they heard the launch-men shout; And bright along the bay the lights came out. And then the night fell dark, and all night long The pointed mountain pointed at the stars, Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle's song Screamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars. On her intense crags where the air is sparse The stars looked down; their many golden eyes Watched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise. Silent the finger of the summit stood, Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows. Then the sun's coming turned the peak to blood, And in the rest-house the muleteers arose. And all day long, where only the eagle goes, Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones falling Fill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling. Bells. Two bells (one forward, one aft) which are struck every half-hour in a certain manner to mark the passage of the watches. Block. A sheaved pulley. Bows. The forward extremity of a ship. Brace-blocks. Pulleys through which the braces travel. Braces. Ropes by which the yards are inclined forward or aft. Bumboat pan. Soft bread sold by the bumboat man, a kind of sea costermonger who trades with ships in port. Chocks. Wooden stands on which the boats rest. Clew-lines. Ropes by which the lower corners of square sails are Clews. The lower corners of square sails. Foot-ropes. Ropes on which men stand when working aloft. compartments for the two watches, and fitted with wooden bunks. Sometimes it is even fitted with lockers and an iron water-tank. Foxes. Strands, yarns, or arrangements of yarns of rope. Frap. To wrap round with rope. Galley. The ship's kitchen. Gaskets. Ropes by which the sails are secured in furling. Halliards. Ropes by which sails are hoisted. Hawse. The bows or forward end of a ship. Kites. Light upper sails. Logship. A contrivance by which a ship's speed is measured. Marline. Tarry line or coarse string made of rope-yarns twisted together. Mate. The First or Chief Mate is generally called the Mate. Pins. Iron or wooden bars to which running rigging is secured. Poop-break. The forward end of the after superstructure. Reel. A part of the machinery used with a logship. "Sails." The sailmaker is meant. Scuttle-butt. A cask containing fresh water. Shackles. Rope handles for a sea-chest. Shroud-screws. Iron contrivances by which shrouds are hove taut. Skid. A wooden contrivance on which ship's boats rest. Slatting. The noise made by sails flogging in the wind. Slush. Grease, melted fat. Spit brown. To chew tobacco. Square sennit. A cunning plait which makes a four-square bar. Stow. To furl. Tackle (pronounced "taykel"). Blocks, ropes, pulleys, etc. Take a caulk. To sleep upon the deck. Trucks. The summits of the masts. When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts, And long before this wandering flesh is rotten The dates which made me will be all forgotten; And none will know the gleam there used to be About the feast days freshly kept by me, But men will call the golden hour of bliss "About this time," or "shortly after this." Men do not heed the rungs by which men climb Those glittering steps, those milestones upon Time, Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth, Those moments of the soul in years of earth They mark the height achieved, the main result, The power of freedom in the perished cult, The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds, Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds. By many waters and on many ways I have known golden instants and bright days; The day on which, beneath an arching sail, I saw the Cordilleras and gave hail; The summer day on which in heart's delight I saw the Swansea Mumbles bursting white, The glittering day when all the waves wore flags And the ship _Wanderer_ came with sails in rags; That curlew-calling time in Irish dusk When life became more splendid than its husk, When the rent chapel on the brae at Slains Shone with a doorway opening beyond brains; The dawn when, with a brace-block's creaking cry, Out of the mist a little barque slipped by, Spilling the mist with changing gleams of red, Then gone, with one raised hand and one turned head; The howling evening when the spindrift's mists Broke to display the four Evangelists, Snow-capped, divinely granite, lashed by breakers, Wind-beaten bones of long since buried acres; The night alone near water when I heard All the sea's spirit spoken by a bird; The English dusk when I beheld once more (With eyes so changed) the ship, the citied shore, The lines of masts, the streets so cheerly trod (In happier seasons) and gave thanks to God. All had their beauty, then bright moments' gift, Their something caught from Time, the ever-swift. All of those gleams were golden; but life's hands Have given more constant gifts in changing lands, And when I count those gifts, I think them such As no man's bounty could have bettered much: The gift of country life, near hills and woods Where happy waters sing in solitudes, The gift of being near ships, of seeing each day A city of ships with great ships under weigh, The great street paved with water, filled with shipping, And all the world's flags flying and seagulls dipping. Yet when I am dust my penman may not know Those water-trampling ships which made me glow, But think my wonder mad and fail to find Their glory, even dimly, from my mind, And yet they made me: not alone the ships But men hard-palmed from tallying-on to whips, The two close friends of nearly twenty years, Sea-followers both, sea-wrestlers and sea-peers, Whose feet with mine wore many a bolt-head bright Treading the decks beneath the riding light. Yet death will make that warmth of friendship cold And who'll know what one said and what one told Our hearts' communion and the broken spells When the loud call blew at the strike of bells? No one, I know, yet let me be believed A soul entirely known is life achieved. Years blank with hardship never speak a word Live in the soul to make the being stirred, Towns can be prisons where the spirit dulls Away from mates and ocean-wandering hulls, Away from all bright water and great hills And sheep-walks where the curlews cry their fills, Away in towns, where eyes have nought to see But dead museums and miles of misery And floating life unrooted from man's need And miles of fish-hooks baited to catch greed And life made wretched out of human ken And miles of shopping women served by men. So, if the penman sums my London days Let him but say that there were holy ways, Dull Bloomsbury streets of dull brick mansions old With stinking doors where women stood to scold And drunken waits at Christmas with their horn Droning the news, in snow, that Christ was born; And windy gas lamps and the wet roads shining And that old carol of the midnight whining, And that old room (above the noisy slum) Where there was wine and fire and talk with some Under strange pictures of the wakened soul To whom this earth was but a burnt-out coal. O Time, bring back those midnights and those friends, Those glittering moments that a spirit lends That all may be imagined from the flash The cloud-hid god-game through the lightning gash Those hours of stricken sparks from which men took Light to send out to men in song or book. Those friends who heard St. Pancras' bells strike two Yet stayed until the barber's cockerel crew. Talking of noble styles, the Frenchman's best, The thought beyond great poets not expressed, The glory of mood where human frailty failed, The forts of human light not yet assailed, Till the dim room had mind and seemed to brood Binding our wills to mental brotherhood, Till we became a college, and each night Was discipline and manhood and delight, Till our farewells and winding down the stairs At each grey dawn had meaning that Time spares, That we, so linked, should roam the whole world round Teaching the ways our brooding minds had found Making that room our Chapter, our one mind Where all that this world soiled should be refined. Often at night I tread those streets again And see the alley glimmering in the rain, Yet now I miss that sign of earlier tramps A house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps, The secret house where once a beggar stood Trembling and blind to show his woe for food. And now I miss that friend who used to walk Home to my lodgings with me, deep in talk, Wearing the last of night out in still streets Trodden by us and policemen on their beats And cats, but else deserted; now I miss That lively mind and guttural laugh of his And that strange way he had of making gleam, Like something real, the art we used to dream. London has been my prison; but my books Hills and great waters, labouring men and brooks, Ships and deep friendships and remembered days Which even now set all my mind ablaze I saw the old Roman ruins white with pinks And felt the hillside haunted even then By not dead memory of the Roman men. And felt the hillside thronged by souls unseen Who knew the interest in me and were keen That man alive should understand man dead So many centuries since the blood was shed. And quickened with strange hush because this comer Sensed a strange soul alive behind the summer. That other day on Ercall when the stones Were sunbleached white, like long unburied bones, While the bees droned and all the air was sweet From honey buried underneath my feet, Honey of purple heather and white clover Sealed in its gummy bags till summer's over. Then other days by water, by bright sea, Clear as clean glass and my bright friend with me, The cove clean bottomed where we saw the brown Red spotted plaice go skimming six feet down And saw the long fronds waving, white with shells, Waving, unfolding, drooping, to the swells; That sadder day when we beheld the great And terrible beauty of a Lammas spate Roaring white-mouthed in all the great cliff's gaps Headlong, tree-tumbling fury of collapse, While drenching clouds drove by and every sense Was water roaring or rushing or in offence, And mountain sheep stood huddled and blown gaps gleamed Where torn white hair of torrents shook and streamed. That sadder day when we beheld again A spate going down in sunshine after rain, When the blue reach of water leaping bright Was one long ripple and clatter, flecked with white. And that far day, that never blotted page When youth was bright like flowers about old age Fair generations bringing thanks for life To that old kindly man and trembling wife After their sixty years: Time never made A better beauty since the Earth was laid Than that thanksgiving given to grey hair For the great gift of life which brought them there. Days of endeavour have been good: the days Racing in cutters for the comrade's praise, The day they led my cutter at the turn Yet could not keep the lead and dropped astern, The moment in the spurt when both boats' oars Dipped in each other's wash and throats grew hoarse And teeth ground into teeth and both strokes quickened Lashing the sea, and gasps came, and hearts sickened And coxswains damned us, dancing, banking stroke, To put our weights on, though our hearts were broke And both boats seemed to stick and sea seemed glue, The tide a mill race we were struggling through And every quick recover gave us squints Of them still there, and oar tossed water-glints And cheering came, our friends, our foemen cheering, A long, wild, rallying murmur on the hearing-- "Up with her, Starboard," and at that each oar Lightened, though arms were bursting, and eyes shut And the oak stretchers grunted in the strut And the curse quickened from the cox, our bows Crashed, and drove talking water, we made vows Chastity vows and temperance; in our pain We numbered things we'd never eat again If we could only win; then came the yell "Starboard," "Port Fore," and then a beaten bell Rung as for fire to cheer us. "Now." Oars bent Soul took the looms now body's bolt was spent, "Damn it, come on now," "On now," "On now," "Starboard." "Port Fore." "Up with her, Port"; each cutter harboured Ten eye-shut painsick stragglers, "Heave, oh, heave," Catcalls waked echoes like a shrieking sheave. "Heave," and I saw a back, then two. "Port Fore." "Starboard." "Come on." I saw the midship oar And knew we had done them. "Port Fore." "Starboard." "Now." I saw bright water spurting at their bow Their cox' full face an instant. They were done. The watchers' cheering almost drowned the gun. We had hardly strength to toss our oars; our cry Cheering the losing cutter was a sigh. Other bright days of action have seemed great: Wild days in a pampero off the Plate; Good swimming days, at Hog Back or the Coves Which the young gannet and the corbie loves; Surf-swimming between rollers, catching breath Between the advancing grave and breaking death, Then shooting up into the sunbright smooth To watch the advancing roller bare her tooth, And days of labour also, loading, hauling; Long days at winch or capstan, heaving, pawling; The days with oxen, dragging stone from blasting, And dusty days in mills, and hot days masting. Trucking on dust-dry deckings smooth like ice, And hunts in mighty wool-racks after mice; Mornings with buckwheat when the fields did blanch With White Leghorns come from the chicken ranch. Days near the spring upon the sunburnt hill, Plying the maul or gripping tight the drill. Delights of work most real, delights that change The headache life of towns to rapture strange Not known by townsmen, nor imagined; health That puts new glory upon mental wealth And makes the poor man rich. But that ends, too, Health with its thoughts of life; and that bright view That sunny landscape from life's peak, that glory, And all a glad man's comments on life's story And thoughts of marvellous towns and living men And what pens tell and all beyond the pen End, and are summed in words so truly dead They raise no image of the heart and head, The life, the man alive, the friend we knew, The mind ours argued with or listened to, None; but are dead, and all life's keenness, all, Is dead as print before the funeral, Even deader after, when the dates are sought, And cold minds disagree with what we thought. This many pictured world of many passions Wears out the nations as a woman fashions, And what life is is much to very few, Men being so strange, so mad, and what men do So good to watch or share; but when men count Those hours of life that were a bursting fount, Sparkling the dusty heart with living springs, There seems a world, beyond our earthly things, Gated by golden moments, each bright time Opening to show the city white like lime, High towered and many peopled. This made sure, Work that obscures those moments seems impure, Making our not-returning time of breath Dull with the ritual and records of death, That frost of fact by which our wisdom gives Correctly stated death to all that lives. Best trust the happy moments. What they gave Makes man less fearful of the certain grave, And gives his work compassion and new eyes. The days that make us happy make us wise. I cannot tell their wonder nor make known Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone, But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale, Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale, Pour their heart's blood to flourish one green leaf, Follow some Helen for her gift of grief, And fail in what they mean, whate'er they do: You should have seen, man cannot tell to you The beauty of the ships of that my city. That beauty now is spoiled by the sea's pity; For one may haunt the pier a score of times, Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes, Yet never see those proud ones swaying home With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam, Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine, Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine, As once, long since, when all the docks were filled With that sea-beauty man has ceased to build. Yet, though their splendour may have ceased to be, Each played her sovereign part in making me; Now I return my thanks with heart and lips For the great queenliness of all those ships. And first the first bright memory, still so clear, An autumn evening in a golden year, When in the last lit moments before dark The _Chepica_, a steel-grey lovely barque, Came to an anchor near us on the flood, Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood. Then come so many ships that I could fill Three docks with their fair hulls remembered still, Each with her special memory's special grace, Riding the sea, making the waves give place To delicate high beauty; man's best strength, Noble in every line in all their length. _Ailsa_, _Genista_, ships, with long jibbooms, The _Wanderer_ with great beauty and strange dooms, _Liverpool_ (mightiest then) superb, sublime, The _California_ huge, as slow as time. The _Copley_ swift, the perfect _J. T. North_, The loveliest barque my city has sent forth, Dainty _John Lockett_ well remembered yet, The splendid _Argus_ with her skysail set, Stalwart _Drumcliff_, white-blocked, majestic _Sierras_, Divine bright ships, the water's standard-bearers; _Melpomene_, _Euphrosyne_, and their sweet Sea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet; _Corunna_ (in whom my friend died) and the old Long since loved _Esmeralda_ long since sold. _Centurion_ passed in Rio, _Glaucus_ spoken, _Aladdin_ burnt, the _Bidston_ water-broken, _Yola,_ in whom my friend sailed, _Dawpool_ trim, Fierce-bowed _Egeria_ plunging to the swim, _Stanmore_ wide-sterned, sweet _Cupica_, tall _Bard_, Queen in all harbours with her moon sail yard. Though I tell many, there must still be others, McVickar Marshall's ships and Fernie Brothers', _Lochs_, _Counties_, _Shires_, _Drums_, the countless lines Whose house-flags all were once familiar signs At high main-trucks on Mersey's windy ways When sunlight made the wind-white water blaze. Their names bring back old mornings, when the docks Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks, Their raking masts below the Custom House And all the marvellous beauty of their bows. Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers, Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers, _Umbria_, _Etruria_, noble, still at sea, The grandest, then, that man had brought to be. Forever jealous racers, out and home. The _Alfred Holt's_ blue smoke-stacks down the stream, The fair _Loanda_ with her bows a-cream. Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners, The marks and styles of countless ship-designers, Lost _Cotopaxi_, all well known to me. These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory, Her memory of old song or comrade's story, Still in my mind the image of life's need, Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed. "They built great ships and sailed them" sounds most brave Whatever arts we have or fail to have; I touch my country's mind, I come to grips With half her purpose, thinking of these ships That art untouched by softness, all that line Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine, That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty Born of a manly life and bitter duty, That splendour of fine bows which yet could stand The shock of rollers never checked by land. That art of masts, sail crowded, fit to break, Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake, The life demanded by that art, the keen Eye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean,-- They are grander things than all the art of towns, Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns, They are my country's line, her great art done By strong brains labouring on the thought unwon, They mark our passage as a race of men, Earth will not see such ships as those again. Man with his burning soul Has but an hour of breath To build a ship of Truth In which his soul may sail, Sail on the sea of death. For death takes toll Of beauty, courage, youth, Life's city ways are dark, Men mutter by; the wells Of the great waters moan. O death, O sea, O tide, The waters moan like bells. No light, no mark, The soul goes out alone On seas unknown. Stripped of all purple robes, Stripped of all golden lies, I will not be afraid. Truth will preserve through death; Perhaps the stars will rise, The stars like globes. The ship my striving made May see night fade. They closed her eyes, They were still open; They hid her face With a white linen, And, some sobbing, Others in silence, From the sad bedroom All came away. The night-light in a dish Burned on the floor, It flung on the wall The bed's shadow, And in that shadow One saw sometimes Drawn in sharp line The body's shape. The day awakened At its first whiteness With its thousand noises; The town awoke Before that contrast Of life and strangeness, Of light and darkness. I thought a moment _My God, how lonely_ _The dead are!_ From the house, shoulder-high To church they bore her, And in a chapel They left her bier. There they surrounded Her pale body With yellow candles And black stuffs. At the last stroke Of the ringing for the souls An old crone finished Her last prayers. She crossed the narrow nave; The doors moaned, And the holy place Remained deserted. From a clock one heard The measured ticking, And from some candles The guttering. All things there Were so grim and sad, So dark and rigid, That I thought a moment, _My God, how lonely_ _The dead are!_ From the high belfry The tongue of iron Clanged, giving out His sad farewell. Crape on their clothes, Her friends and kindred Passed in a row, Making procession. In the last vault, Dark and narrow, The pickaxe opened A niche at one end; There they laid her down. Soon they bricked the place up, And with a gesture Bade grief farewell. Pickaxe on shoulder The grave-digger, Singing between his teeth, Passed out of sight. The night came down; It was all silent, Lost in the shadows I thought a moment. _My God, how lonely_ _The dead are!_ In the long nights Of bitter winter, When the wind makes The rafters creak, When the violent rain Lashes the windows, Lonely, I remember That poor girl. There falls the rain With its noise eternal. There the north wind Fights with the rain. Stretched in the hollow Of the damp bricks Perhaps her bones Freeze with the cold. Does the dust return to dust? Does the soul fly to heaven? Is all vile matter, Rottenness, filthiness? I know not. But There is something--something That I cannot explain, Something that gives us Loathing, terror, To leave the dead So alone, so wretched. In a dark corner of the room, Perhaps forgotten by its owner, Silent and dim with dust, I saw the harp. How many musics slumbered in its strings, As the bird sleeps in the branches, Waiting the snowy hand That could awaken them. Ah me, I thought, how many, many times Genius thus slumbers in a human soul, Waiting, as Lazarus waited, for a voice To bid him "Rise and walk." I saw the ramparts of my native land, One time so strong, now dropping in decay, Their strength destroyed by this new age's way That has worn out and rotted what was grand. I went into the fields: there I could see The sun drink up the waters newly thawed, And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed; Their miseries robbed the day of light for me. I went into my house: I saw how spotted, Decaying things made that old home their prize. My withered walking-staff had come to bend; I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted, And there was nothing on which I set my eyes That was not a reminder of the end. That blessed sunlight that once showed to me My way to heaven more plain more certainly, And with her bright beam banished utterly All trace of mortal sorrow far from me, Has gone from me, has left her prison sad, And I am blind and alone and gone astray, Like a lost pilgrim in a desert way Wanting the blessed guide that once he had. Thus with a spirit bowed and mind a blur I trace the holy steps where she has gone, By valleys and by meadows and by mountains, And everywhere I catch a glimpse of her. She takes me by the hand and leads me on, And my eyes follow her, my eyes made fountains. One sunny time in May When lambs were sporting, The sap ran in the spray And I went courting, And all the apple boughs Were bright with blossom, I picked an early rose For my love's bosom. And then I met her friend, Down by the water, Who cried "She's met her end, That gray-eyed daughter; That voice of hers is stilled Her beauty broken." O me, my love is killed, My love unspoken. She was too sweet, too dear, To die so cruel, O Death, why leave me here Her voice went to the bone, So true, so ringing, And now I go alone, Winter or springing. Would I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease, The song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the seas. Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to fail, And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the mail; The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the Christ, In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail. The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims the West, The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest; But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits, That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends the Quest. It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the fell, And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to Christ, Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears, Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years; There's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar, Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees, Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas. We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red, And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done, We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won. We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests, Sinking, in the sucking quagmires, to the sunburn on our breasts, The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down, There was gear there'd make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town, Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil, Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil; Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica bronze, And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we steers, Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears. And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair, And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there. It's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind, I'd be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and go To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know, And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for years By the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears. Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white, And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight; But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delight Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French, And some'll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench; But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose, But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows; For it's that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung, And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue; But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice, And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses' eyes; But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. Oh some that's good and godly ones they hold that it's a sin To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin; But I'm for toleration and for drinking at an inn, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan. Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits, And there's a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes; So I'm for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots, Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan. I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing, With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold; And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing, Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold; The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled. I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering, With roses in red thread worked upon her sails; With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering, Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales, Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails. I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking, With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks, With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking, Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks, It's pleasant in Holy Mary By San Marie lagoon, The bells they chime and jingle From dawn to afternoon. They rhyme and chime and mingle, They pulse and boom and beat, And the laughing bells are gentle And the mournful bells are sweet. Oh, who are the men that ring them, The bells of San Marie, Oh, who but sonsie seamen Come in from over sea, And merrily in the belfries They rock and sway and hale, And send the bells a-jangle, And down the lusty ale. It's pleasant in Holy Mary To hear the beaten bells Come booming into music, Which throbs, and clangs, and swells, From sunset till the daybreak, From dawn to afternoon. In port of Holy Mary On San Marie lagoon. Oh London Town's a fine town, and London sights are rare, And London ale is right ale, and brisk's the London air, And busily goes the world there, but crafty grows the mind, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to leave behind. Then hey for croft and hop-yard, and hill, and field, and pond, With Breden Hill before me and Malvern Hill beyond. The hawthorn white i' the hedgerow, and all the spring's attire Oh London girls are brave girls, in silk and cloth o' gold, And London shops are rare shops, where gallant things are sold, And bonnily clinks the gold there, but drowsily blinks the eye, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry by. Then, hey for covert and woodland, and ash and elm and oak, Tewkesbury inns, and Malvern roofs, and Worcester chimney smoke, The apple trees in the orchard, the cattle in the byre, And all the land from Ludlow town to Bredon church's spire. Oh London tunes are new tunes, and London books are wise, And London plays are rare plays, and fine to country eyes, And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry through. So hey for the road, the west road, by mill and forge and fold, Going by Daly's shanty I heard the boys within Dancing the Spanish hornpipe to Driscoll's violin, I heard the sea-boots shaking the rough planks of the floor, But I was going westward, I hadn't heart for more. All down the windy village the noise rang in my ears, Old sea boots stamping, shuffling, it brought the bitter tears, The old tune piped and quavered, the lilts came clear and strong, There were the grey stone houses, the night wind blowing keen, But I was going westward, and the ship waited me. The blue laguna rocks and quivers, Dull gurgling eddies twist and spin, The climate does for people's livers, It's a nasty place to anchor in Is Spanish port, Fever port, The town begins on the sea-beaches, And the town's mad with the stinging flies, The drinking water's mostly leeches, It's a far remove from Paradise Is Spanish port, Fever port, There's sand-bagging and throat-slitting, And quiet graves in the sea same, Stabbing, of course, and rum-hitting, Dirt, and drink, and stink, and crime, In Spanish port, Fever port, All the day the wind's blowing From the sick swamp below the hills, All the night the plague's growing, And the dawn brings the fever chills, In Spanish port, Fever port, You get a thirst there's no slaking, You get the chills and fever-shakes, Tongue yellow and head aching, And then the sleep that never wakes. And all the year the heat's baking, The sea rots and the earth quakes, In Spanish port, Fever port, I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain: I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain. Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode, But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road. Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind, For we go seeking a city that we shall never find. There is no solace on earth for us--for such as we-- Who search for a hidden city that we shall never see. Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the rain, And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road again. We seek the City of God, and the haunt where beauty dwells, And we find the noisy mart and the sound of burial bells. Never the golden city, where radiant people meet, But the dolorous town where mourners are going about the street. We travel the dusty road till the light of the day is dim, And sunset shows us spires away on the world's rim. We travel from dawn to dusk, till the day is past and by, Seeking the Holy City beyond the rim of the sky. Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blest abode, But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road. When the last sea is sailed, when the last shallow's charted, When the last field is reaped, and the last harvest stored, When the last fire is out and the last guest departed, Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, be good to me, O Lord. And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder, In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar, Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me under To the cold tunny-fish's home where the drowned galleons are. And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing, Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foam About the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steering Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home. The dawn comes cold: the haystack smokes, The green twigs crackle in the fire, The dew is dripping from the oaks, And sleepy men bear milking-yokes Slowly towards the cattle-byre. Down in the town a clock strikes six, The grey east heaven burns and glows, The dew shines on the thatch of ricks, A slow old crone comes gathering sticks, The red cock in the ox-yard crows. Beyond the stack where we have lain The road runs twisted like a snake (The white road to the land of Spain), The road that we must foot again, Though the feet halt and the heart ache. Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song, Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong. Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man. Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time. God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme, So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky, Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by, Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord. Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin, Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn, Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends. Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends. The twilight comes; the sun Dips down and sets, The boys have done Play at the nets. In a warm golden glow The woods are steeped. The shadows grow; The bat has cheeped. Sweet smells the new-mown hay; The mowers pass Home, each his way, Through the grass. The night-wind stirs the fern, A night-jar spins; The windows burn In the inns. Dusky it grows. The moon! The dews descend. Love, can this beauty in our hearts One road leads to London, One road runs to Wales, My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails. One road leads to the river, As it goes singing slow; My road leads to shipping, Where the bronzed sailors go. Leads me, lures me, calls me To salt green tossing sea; A road without earth's road-dust Is the right road for me. A wet road heaving, shining, And wild with seagulls' cries, A mad salt sea-wind blowing The salt spray in my eyes. My road calls me, lures me West, east, south, and north; Most roads lead men homewards, My road leads me forth To add more miles to the tally Of grey miles left behind, In quest of that one beauty God put me here to find. The perfect disc of the sacred moon Through still blue heaven serenely swims, And the lone bird's liquid music brims The peace of the night with a perfect tune. This is that holiest night of the year When (the mowers say) may be heard and seen The ghostly court of the English queen, Who rides to harry and hunt the deer. And the woodland creatures cower awake, A strange unrest is on harts and does, For the maiden Dian a-hunting goes, And the trembling deer are afoot in the brake. They start at a shaken leaf: the sound Of a dry twig snapped by a squirrel's foot Is a nameless dread: and to them the hoot Of a mousing owl is the cry of a hound. Oh soon the forest will ring with cries, The dim green coverts will flash: the grass Will glow as the radiant hunters pass After the quarry with burning eyes. The hurrying feet will range unstayed Of questing goddess and hunted fawn, Till the east is grey with the sacred dawn, And the red cock wakens the milking maid. This sweetness trembling from the strings The music of my troublous lute Hath timed Herodias' daughter's foot; Setting a-clink her ankle-rings Whenas she danced to feasted kings. Where gemmed apparel burned and caught The sunset 'neath the golden dome, To the dark beauties of old Rome My sorrowful lute hath haply brought Sad memories sweet with tender thought. When night had fallen and lights and fires Were darkened in the homes of men, Some sighing echo stirred:--and then The old cunning wakened from the wires The old sorrows and the old desires. Dead Kings in long forgotten lands, And all dead beauteous women; some Whose pride imperial hath become Old armour rusting in the sands And shards of iron in dusty hands, Have heard my lyre's soft rise and fall Go trembling down the paven ways, Till every heart was all ablaze-- Hasty each foot--to obey the call To triumph or to funeral. Could I begin again the slow Sweet mournful music filled with tears, Surely the old, dead, dusty ears Would hear; the old drowsy eyes would glow, Old memories come; old hopes and fears, And time restore the long ago. So beautiful, so dainty-sweet, So like a lyre's delightful touch-- A beauty perfect, ripe, complete That art's own hand could only smutch And nature's self not better much. So beautiful, so purely wrought, Like a fair missal penned with hymns, So gentle, so surpassing thought-- A beauteous soul in lovely limbs, A lantern that an angel trims. So simple-sweet, without a sin, Like gentle music gently timed, Like rhyme-words coming aptly in, To round a mooned poem rhymed To tunes the laughing bells have chimed. The cleanly rush of the mountain air, And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees, Are the only things that wander there. The pitiful bones are laid at ease, The grass has grown in his tangled hair, And a rambling bramble binds his knees. To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell, The only requiem bells that rang Were the harebell and the heather bell. Hushed he is with the holy spell In the gentle hymn the wind sang, And he lies quiet, and sleeps well. He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun; The misty rain and the cold dew Have altered him from the kingly one Whom his lady loved, and his men knew, And dwindled him to a skeleton. The vetches have twined about his bones, The straggling ivy twists and creeps In his eye-sockets: the nettle keeps Vigil about him while he sleeps. Over his body the wind moans With a dreary tune throughout the day, In a chorus wistful, eerie, thin As the gulls' cry, as the cry in the bay, The mournful word the seas say When tides are wandering out or in. Weary the cry of the wind is, weary the sea, Weary the heart and the mind and the body of me, Would I were out of it, done with it, would I could be A white gull crying along the desolate sands. Outcast, derelict soul in a body accurst, Standing drenched with the spindrift, standing athirst, For the cool green waves of death to arise and burst In a tide of quiet for me on the desolate sands. Would that the waves and the long white hair of the spray Would gather in splendid terror, and blot me away To the sunless place of the wrecks where the waters sway Gently, dreamily, quietly over desolate sands. There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend. Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child. O wanderer into many brains, O spark the emperor's purple hides, You sow the dusk with fiery grains When the gold horseman rides. O beauty on the darkness hurled, Be it through me you shame the world. Under all her topsails she trembled like a stag, The wind made a ripple in her bonny red flag; So she passed swaying, where the green seas run, Her wind-steadied topsails were stately in the sun; There was glitter on the water from her red port light, So she passed swaying, till she was out of sight. Long and long ago it was, a weary time it is, The bones of her sailor-men are coral plants by this; Coral plants, and shark-weed, and a mermaid's comb, And if the fishers net them they never bring them home. It's rough on sailors' women. They have to mangle hard, And stitch at dungarees till their finger-ends are scarred, Thinking of the sailor-men who sang among the crowd, Hoisting of her topsails when she sailed so proud. I hold that when a person dies His soul returns again to earth; Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise Another mother gives him birth. With sturdier limbs and brighter brain The old soul takes the roads again. Such is my own belief and trust; This hand, this hand that holds the pen, Has many a hundred times been dust And turned, as dust, to dust again; These eyes of mine have blinked and shone All that I rightly think or do, Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast, Is curse or blessing justly due For sloth or effort in the past. My life's a statement of the sum Of vice indulged, or overcome. I know that in my lives to be My sorry heart will ache and burn, And worship, unavailingly, The woman whom I used to spurn, And shake to see another have The love I spurned, the love she gave. And I shall know, in angry words, In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear, A carrion flock of homing-birds, The gibes and scorns I uttered here. The brave word that I failed to speak And as I wander on the roads I shall be helped and healed and blessed; Dear words shall cheer and be as goads To urge to heights before unguessed. My road shall be the road I made; All that I gave shall be repaid. So shall I fight, so shall I tread, In this long war beneath the stars; So shall a glory wreathe my head, So shall I faint and show the scars, Until this case, this clogging mould, Be smithied all to kingly gold. When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood, And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes, And changed her glorious beauty into mud By his old skill in hateful wizardries; When an old lichened marble strives to tell How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers; When rheumy grey-beards say, "I knew her well," Showing the grave to curious worshippers; When all the roses that she sowed in me Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed, Leaving no greenery on any tree That her dear hands in my heart's garden laid, Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull, These songs may keep her memory beautiful. It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest. "Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away. It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, Will you not come home, brother, home to us again? The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run; It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes," Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries. It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong. Her heart is always doing lovely things, Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers; Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings, Delighting all my undelightful hours. She plays me like a lute, what tune she will, No string in me but trembles at her touch, Shakes into sacred music, or is still, Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such. And in the dusty tavern of my soul Where filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine, Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl, Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine. All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse, Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers. Being her friend, I do not care, not I, How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down; Her word's sufficient star to travel by, I count her quiet praise sufficient crown. Being her friend, I do not covet gold, Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure; To sit with her, and have her hand to hold, Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure. Being her friend, I only covet art, A white pure flame to search me as I trace In crooked letters from a throbbing heart The hymn to beauty written on her face. Troy Town is covered up with weeds, The rabbits and the pismires brood On broken gold, and shards, and beads Where Priam's ancient palace stood. The floors of many a gallant house Are matted with the roots of grass; The glow-worm and the nimble mouse Among her ruins flit and pass. And there, in orts of blackened bone, The widowed Trojan beauties lie, And Simois babbles over stone And waps and gurgles to the sky. Once there were merry days in Troy, Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals, The passing chariots did annoy The sunning housewives at their wheels. And many a lovely Trojan maid Set Trojan lads to lovely things; The game of life was nobly played, They played the game like Queens and Kings. So that, when Troy had greatly passed In one red roaring fiery coal, The courts the Grecians overcast Became a city in the soul. In some green island of the sea, Where now the shadowy coral grows In pride and pomp and empery The courts of old Atlantis rose. In many a glittering house of glass The Atlanteans wandered there; The paleness of their faces was Like ivory, so pale they were. And hushed they were, no noise of words In those bright cities ever rang; Only their thoughts, like golden birds, About their chambers thrilled and sang. They knew all wisdom, for they knew Who learned, in ancient Babilu, The beauty of immortal things. They knew all beauty--when they thought The air chimed like a stricken lyre, The elemental birds were wrought, The golden birds became a fire. And straight to busy camps and marts The singing flames were swiftly gone; The trembling leaves of human hearts Hid boughs for them to perch upon. And men in desert places, men Abandoned, broken, sick with fears, Rose singing, swung their swords agen, And laughed and died among the spears. The green and greedy seas have drowned That city's glittering walls and towers, Her sunken minarets are crowned With red and russet water-flowers. In towers and rooms and golden courts The shadowy coral lifts her sprays; The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts, The shark doth haunt her hidden ways. But, at the falling of the tide, The golden birds still sing and gleam, The Atlanteans have not died, Immortal things still give us dream. The dream that fires man's heart to make, To build, to do, to sing or say A beauty Death can never take, An Adam from the crumbled clay. Born for nought else, for nothing but for this, To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat, To think how comely sweet her body is, And learn the poem of her face by rote. Born for nought else but to attempt a rhyme That shall describe her womanhood aright, And make her holy to the end of Time, And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight. Born for nought else but to expressly mark The music of her dear delicious ways; Born but to perish meanly in the dark, Yet born to be the man to sing her praise. Born for nought else: there is a spirit tells My lot's a King's, being born for nothing else. It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth My soul has many an old decaying room Hung with the ragged arras of the past, Where startled faces flicker in the gloom, And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast. Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death, A something like a worm gnawing a brain, That bids me heed what bitter lesson saith The blind wind beating on the window-pane. None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can-- I pass them through at night with hidden head; Lock'd rotting rooms her eyes must never scan, Floors that her blessed feet must never tread. Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know, Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow. Since I have learned Love's shining alphabet, And spelled in ink what's writ in me in flame, And borne her sacred image richly set Here in my heart to keep me quit of shame; Since I have learned how wise and passing wise Is the dear friend whose beauty I extol, And know how sweet a soul looks through the eyes, That are so pure a window to her soul; Since I have learned how rare a woman shows As much in all she does as in her looks, And seen the beauty of her shame the rose, And dim the beauty writ about in books; All I have learned, and can learn, shows me this-- How scant, how slight, my knowledge of her is. I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. When Death has laid her in his quietude, And dimmed the glow of her benignant star, Her tired limbs shall rest within a wood, In a green glade where oaks and beeches are, Where the shy fawns, the pretty fawns, the deer, With mild brown eyes shall view her spirit's husk; The sleeping woman of her will appear, The maiden Dian shining through the dusk. And, when the stars are white as twilight fails, And the green leaves are hushed, and the winds swoon, The calm pure thrilling throats of nightingales Shall hymn her sleeping beauty to the moon. All the woods hushed--save for a dripping rose, All the woods dun--save where a glow-worm glows. Brimming the quiet woods with holiness, The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn, The delicate, shy, dappled deer will press Soft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn. The little pretty rabbits running by. Will pause among the dewy grass to peep, Their thudding hearts affrighted to espy The maiden Dian lying there asleep. Brown, lustrous, placid eyes of sylvan things Will wonder at the quiet in her face, While from the thorny branch the singer brings Beauty and peace to that immortal place. Until the grey dawn sets the woods astir The pure birds' thrilling psalm will mourn for her. In the dark womb where I began My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her. Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind. If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me. What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my mouthless body leeched Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached? What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed. O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed. No rose but fades: no glory but must pass: No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets. Her beauty must go underneath the grass, Under the long roots of the violets. O, many glowing beauties Time has hid In that dark, blotting box the villain sends. He covers over with a coffin-lid Mothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends. Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned, Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay, All are as blossoms blowing down the wind, Things the old envious villain sweeps away. And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll, Death brings another April to the soul. All the sheets are clacking, all the blocks are whining, The sails are frozen stiff and the wetted decks are shining; The reef's in the topsails, and it's coming on to blow, And I think of the dear girl I left long ago. Grey were her eyes, and her hair was long and bonny, Golden was her hair, like the wild bees' honey. And I was but a dog, and a mad one to despise, The gold of her hair and the grey of her eyes. There's the sea before me, and my home's behind me, And beyond there the strange lands where nobody will mind me, No one but the girls with the paint upon their cheeks, Who sell away their beauty to whomsoever seeks. There'll be drink and women there, and songs and laughter, Peace from what is past and from all that follows after; And a fellow will forget how a woman lies awake, Lonely in the night watch crying for his sake. Black it blows and bad and it howls like slaughter, And the ship she shudders as she takes the water. Hissing flies the spindrift like a wind-blown smoke, And I think of a woman and a heart I broke. Twilight. Red in the west. Dimness. A glow on the wood. The teams plod home to rest. The wild duck come to glean. O souls not understood, What a wild cry in the pool; What things have the farm ducks seen That they cry so--huddle and cry? Only the soul that goes. Over the globe of the moon, Over the wood that glows. Wings linked. Necks a-strain, A rush and a wild crying. A cry of the long pain In the reeds of a steel lagoon. In a land that no man knows. O, the sea breeze will be steady, and the tall ship's going trim, O, we have been with the Spaniards, and far and long on the sea; O, the gold glints bright on the wind-vane as it shifts above the And the water of the bar of Salcombe is muttering about the bows. O, the salt sea tide of Salcombe, it wrinkles into wisps of foam, My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old, And hand in hand go tottering down the hill, May we be rich in love's refined gold, May love's gold coin be current with us still. May love be sweeter for the vanished days, And your most perfect beauty still as dear As when your troubled singer stood at gaze In the dear March of a most sacred year. May what we are be all we might have been, And that potential, perfect, O my friend, And may there still be many sheafs to glean In our love's acre, comrade, till the end. And may we find, when ended is the page, Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage. The following pages are advertisements of recent important poetry "It is tremendously strong."--_Current Opinion_. "--recreates a wholly new drama of existence."--WILLIAM STANLEY "Originality, force, distinction, and deep knowledge of the human "They are truly great pieces."--_Kentucky Post_. "A vigor and sincerity rare in modern English literature."--_The *The Story of a Round-House, and other Poems* "John Masefield is the most interesting poetic personality of the literature."--_Boston Transcript_. "A remarkable poem of the sea."--_San Francisco Chronicle_. "Vivid and thrillingly realistic."--_Current Literature_. Author of "Daily Bread," "Womenkind," etc. pain."--_Abridged from an article in "The Outlook."_

C. J. (Charles James) Wills

The Pit Town Coronet: A Family Mystery, Volume 1 (of 3)

1842

Black Riders came from the sea. There was clang and clang of spear and shield, And clash and clash of hoof and heel, Wild shouts and the wave of hair In the rush upon the wind: Thus the ride of Sin. Three little birds in a row Sat musing. A man passed near that place. Then did the little birds nudge each other. They said, "He thinks he can sing." They threw back their heads to laugh, With quaint countenances They regarded him. They were very curious, Those three little birds in a row. In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, "Is it good, friend?" "It is bitter--bitter," he answered; "But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart." Yes, I have a thousand tongues, And nine and ninety-nine lie. Though I strive to use the one, It will make no melody at my will, But is dead in my mouth. Once there came a man Who said, "Range me all men of the world in rows." And instantly There was terrific clamor among the people Against being ranged in rows. There was a loud quarrel, world-wide. It endured for ages; And blood was shed By those who would not stand in rows, And by those who pined to stand in rows, Eventually, the man went to death, weeping. And those who staid in bloody scuffle Knew not the great simplicity. God fashioned the ship of the world carefully With the infinite skill of an All-Master Made He the hull and the sails, Held He the rudder Ready for adjustment. Erect stood He, scanning his work proudly. Then--at fateful time--a Wrong called, And God turned, heeding. Lo, the ship, at this opportunity, slipped slyly, Making cunning noiseless travel down the ways. So that, forever rudderless, it went upon the seas Going ridiculous voyages, Making quaint progress, Turning as with serious purpose Before stupid winds. And there were many in the sky Who laughed at this thing. Mystic Shadow, bending near me, Who art thou? Whence come ye? And--tell me--is it fair Or is the truth bitter as eaten fire? Fear not that I should quaver, For I dare--I dare. Then, tell me! I looked here; I looked there; Nowhere could I see my love. She was in my heart. Truly, then, I have no complaint, For though she be fair and fairer, She is none so fair as she In my heart. I stood upon a high place, And saw, below, many devils Running, leaping, And carousing in sin. One looked up, grinning, And said, "Comrade! Brother!" Should the wide world roll away, Leaving black terror, Limitless night, Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand Would be to me essential, If thou and thy white arms were there, And the fall to doom a long way. In a lonely place, I encountered a sage Who sat, all still, Regarding a newspaper. He accosted me: "Sir, what is this?" Then I saw that I was greater, Aye, greater than this sage. I answered him at once, "Old, old man, it is the wisdom of the age." The sage looked upon me with admiration. "and the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the heads of the children, even unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me." Well, then, I hate thee, Unrighteous Picture; Wicked Image, I hate thee; So, strike with thy vengeance The heads of those little men Who come blindly. It will be a brave thing. If there is a witness to my little life, To my tiny throes and struggles, He sees a fool; And it is not fine for gods to menace fools. There was crimson clash of war. Lands turned black and bare; Women wept; Babes ran, wondering. There came one who understood not these things. He said, "Why is this?" Whereupon a million strove to answer him. There was such intricate clamor of tongues, That still the reason was not. "Tell brave deeds of war." Then they recounted tales,-- "There were stern stands "And bitter runs for glory." Ah, I think there were braver deeds. Chanty, thou art a lie, A toy of women, A pleasure of certain men. In the presence of justice, Lo, the walls of the temple Are visible Through thy form of sudden shadows. There were many who went in huddled procession, They knew not whither; But, at any rate, success or calamity Would attend all in equality. There was one who sought a new road. He went into direful thickets, And ultimately he died thus, alone; But they said he had courage. Some little blades of grass Stood before God. "What did you do?" Then all save one of the little blades Began eagerly to relate The merits of their lives. This one stayed a small way behind, Presently, God said, "And what did you do?" The little blade answered, "Oh, my Lord, "Memory is bitter to me, "For, if I did good deeds, "I know not of them." Then God, in all His splendor, Arose from His throne. "Oh, best little blade of grass!" He said. A god in wrath Was beating a man; He cuffed him loudly With thunderous blows That rang and rolled over the earth. All people came running. The man screamed and struggled, And bit madly at the feet of the god. The people cried, "Ah, what a wicked man!" "Ah, what a redoubtable god!" A learned man came to me once. He said, "I know the way,--come." And I was overjoyed at this. Together we hastened. Soon, too soon, were we Where my eyes were useless, And I knew not the ways of my feet I clung to the hand of my friend; But at last he cried, "I am lost." There was, before me, Mile upon mile Of snow, ice, burning sand. And yet I could look beyond all this, To a place of infinite beauty; And I could see the loveliness of her Who walked in the shade of the trees. When I gazed, All was lost But this place of beauty and her. When I gazed, And in my gazing, desired, Then came again Mile upon mile, Of snow, ice, burning sand. Once I saw Mountains angry, And ranged in battle-front. Against them stood a little man; Aye, he was no bigger than my finger. I laughed, and spoke to one near me, "Will he prevail?" "Surely," replied this other; "His grandfathers beat them many times." Then did I see much virtue in grandfathers,-- At least, for the little man Who stood against the Mountains. Places among the stars, Soft gardens near the sun, Keep your distant beauty; Shed no beams upon my weak heart. Since she is here In a place of blackness, Not your golden days Nor your silver nights Can call me to you. Since she is here In a place of blackness, Here I stay and wait. I saw a man pursuing the horizon; Round and round they sped. I was disturbed at this; I accosted the man. "It is futile," I said, "You can never"-- "You lie," he cried, And ran on. Behold, the grave of a wicked man, And near it, a stern spirit. There came a drooping maid with violets, But the spirit grasped her arm. "No flowers for him," he said. The maid wept: "Ah, I loved him." But the spirit, grim and frowning: "No flowers for him." Now, this is it-- If the spirit was just, Why did the maid weep? There was set before me a mighty hill, And long days I climbed Through regions of snow. When I had before me the summit-view, It seemed that my labor Had been to see gardens Lying at impossible distances. A youth in apparel that glittered Went to walk in a grim forest. There he met an assassin Attired all in garb of old days; He, scowling through the thickets, And dagger poised quivering, Rushed upon the youth. "Sir," said this latter, "I am enchanted, believe me, "To die, thus, "In this medieval fashion, "According to the best legends; Then took he the wound, smiling, And died, content. "Truth," said a traveller, "Is a rock, a mighty fortress; "Often have I been to it, "Even to its highest tower, "From whence the world looks black." "Truth," said a traveller, "Is a breath, a wind, "A shadow, a phantom; "Long have I pursued it, "But never have I touched "The hem of its garment." And I believed the second traveller; For truth was to me A breath, a wind, A shadow, a phantom, And never had I touched The hem of its garment. Behold, from the land of the farther suns I returned. And I was in a reptile-swarming place, Peopled, otherwise, with grimaces, Shrouded above in black impenetrableness. I shrank, loathing, Sick with it. And I said to him, "What is this?" He made answer slowly, "Spirit, this is a world; "This was your home." Supposing that I should have the courage To let a red sword of virtue Plunge into my heart, Letting to the weeds of the ground My sinful blood, What can you offer me? A gardened castle? A flowery kingdom? What? A hope? Then hence with your red sword of virtue. Many workmen Built a huge ball of masonry Upon a mountain-top. Then they went to the valley below, And turned to behold their work. "It is grand," they said; They loved the thing. Of a sudden, it moved: It came upon them swiftly; It crushed them all to blood. But some had opportunity to squeal. Two or three angels Came near to the earth. They saw a fat church. Little black streams of people Came and went in continually. And the angels were puzzled To know why the people went thus, And why they stayed so long within. There was one I met upon the road Who looked at me with kind eyes. He said, "Show me of your wares." And this I did, Holding forth one. He said, "It is a sin." Then held I forth another; He said, "It is a sin." Then held I forth another; He said, "It is a sin." And so to the end; Always he said, "It is a sin." And, finally, I cried out, "But I have none other." Then did he look at me With kinder eyes. "Poor soul!" he said. I stood upon a highway, And, behold, there came Many strange pedlers. To me each one made gestures. Holding forth little images, saying, "This is my pattern of God. "Now this is the God I prefer." But I said, "Hence! "Leave me with mine own, "And take you yours away; "I can't buy of your patterns of God, "The little Gods you may rightly prefer." A man saw a ball of gold in the sky; He climbed for it, And eventually he achieved it-- It was clay. Now this is the strange part: When the man went to the earth And looked again, Lo, there was the ball of gold. Now this is the strange part: It was a ball of gold. Aye, by the Heavens, it was a ball of gold. I met a seer. He held in his hands The book of wisdom. "Sir," I addressed him, "Let me read." "Think not that I am a child, "For already I know much "Of that which you hold. He smiled. Then he opened the book And held it before me.-- Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind. On the horizon the peaks assembled; And as I looked, The march of the mountains began. As they marched, they sang, "Aye! We come! We come!" The ocean said to me once, "Yonder on the shore "Is a woman, weeping. "I have watched her. "Go you and tell her this,-- "Her lover I have laid "In cool green hall. "There is wealth of golden sand "And pillars, coral-red; "Two white fish stand guard at his bier. "Tell her this "That the king of the seas "Weeps too, old, helpless man. "The bustling fates "Heap his hands with corpses "Until he stands like a child, "With surplus of toys." The livid lightnings flashed in the clouds; The leaden thunders crashed. A worshipper raised his arm. "Hearken! Hearken! The voice of God!" "Not so," said a man. "The voice of God whispers in the heart "So softly "That the soul pauses, "Making no noise, "And strives for these melodies, "Distant, sighing, like faintest breath, "And all the being is still to hear." And you love me? I love you. You are, then, cold coward. Aye; but, beloved, When I strive to come to you, Man's opinions, a thousand thickets, My interwoven existence, My life, Caught in the stubble of the world Like a tender veil,-- This stays me. No strange move can I make Without noise of tearing. I dare not. If love loves, There is no world Nor word. All is lost Save thought of love And place to dream. You love me? I love you. You are, then, cold coward. Aye; but beloved-- Love walked alone. The rocks cut her tender feet, And the brambles tore her fair limbs. There came a companion to her, But, alas, he was no help, For his name was Heart's Pain. I walked in a desert. And I cried, "Ah, God, take me from this place!" A voice said, "It is no desert." I cried, "Well, but-- "The sand, the heat, the vacant horizon." A voice said, "It is no desert." There came whisperings in the winds "Good bye! Good bye!" Little voices called in the darkness: "Good bye! Good bye!" Then I stretched forth my arms. There came whisperings in the wind: "Good bye! Good bye!" Little voices called in the darkness: "Good bye! Good bye!" I was in the darkness; I could not see my words Nor the wishes of my heart. Then suddenly there was a great light-- "Let me into the darkness again." Tradition, thou art for suckling children, Thou art the enlivening milk for babes; But no meat for men is in thee. But, alas, we all are babes. Many red devils ran from my heart And out upon the page, They were so tiny The pen could mash them. And many struggled in the ink. It was strange To write in this red muck Of things from my heart. "Think as I think," said a man, "Or you are abominably wicked; "You are a toad." And after I had thought of it, I said, "I will, then, be a toad." Once there was a man,-- Oh, so wise! In all drink He detected the bitter, And in all touch He found the sting. At last he cried thus: "There is nothing,-- "No life, "There is nothing save opinion, "And opinion be damned." I stood musing in a black world, Not knowing where to direct my feet. And I saw the quick stream of men Pouring ceaselessly, Filled with eager faces, A torrent of desire. I called to them, "Where do you go? What do you see?" A thousand voices called to me. A thousand fingers pointed. I know not of it. But, lo! in the far sky shone a radiance Ineffable, divine,-- A vision painted upon a pall; And sometimes it was, And sometimes it was not. I hesitated. Then from the stream Came roaring voices, So again I saw, And leaped, unhesitant, And struggled and fumed With outspread clutching fingers. The hard hills tore my flesh; The ways bit my feet. At last I looked again. No radiance in the far sky, Ineffable, divine; No vision painted upon a pall; And always my eyes ached for the light. Then I cried in despair, "I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?" The torrent turned again its faces: And at the blindness of my spirit They screamed, You say you are holy, And that Because I have not seen you sin. Aye, but there are those Who see you sin, my friend. A man went before a strange god,-- The god of many men, sadly wise. And the deity thundered loudly, Fat with rage, and puffing, "Kneel, mortal, and cringe "And grovel and do homage "To my particularly sublime majesty." The man fled. Then the man went to another god,-- The god of his inner thoughts. And this one looked at him With soft eyes Lit with infinite comprehension, And said, "My poor child!" Why do you strive for greatness, fool? Go pluck a bough and wear it. It is as sufficing. My lord, there are certain barbarians Who tilt their noses As if the stars were flowers, And thy servant is lost among their shoe-buckles. Fain would I have mine eyes even with their eyes. Fool, go pluck a bough and wear it. Blustering god, Stamping across the sky With loud swagger, I fear you not. No, though from your highest heaven You plunge your spear at my heart, I fear you not. No, not if the blow Is as the lightning blasting a tree, I fear you not, puffing braggart. If thou can see into my heart That I fear thee not, Thou wilt see why I fear thee not, And why it is right. So threaten not, thou, with thy bloody spears, Else thy sublime ears shall hear curses. Withal, there is one whom I fear; I fear to see grief upon that face. Perchance, Friend, he is not your god; If so, spit upon him. By it you will do no profanity. Ah, sooner would I die Than see tears in those eyes of my soul. "It was wrong to do this," said the angel. "You should live like a flower, "Holding malice like a puppy, "Waging war like a lambkin." "Not so," quoth the man Who had no fear of spirits; "It is only wrong for angels "Who can live like the flowers, "Holding malice like the puppies, "Waging war like the lambkins." A man toiled on a burning road, Never resting. Once he saw a fat, stupid ass Grinning at him from a green place. The man cried out in rage, "Ah! Do not deride me, fool! "I know you-- "All day stuffing your belly, "Burying your heart "In grass and tender sprouts: "It will not suffice you." But the ass only grinned at him from the green place. A man feared that he might find an assassin; Another that he might find a victim. One was more wise than the other. With eye and with gesture You say you are holy. I say you lie; For I did see you Draw away your coats From the sin upon the hands Of a little child. The sage lectured brilliantly. Before him, two images: "Now this one is a devil, "And this one is me." He turned away. Then a cunning pupil Changed the positions. Turned the sage again: "Now this one is a devil, "And this one is me." The pupils sat, all grinning, And rejoiced in the game. But the sage was a sage. Walking in the sky, A man in strange black garb Encountered a radiant form. Then his steps were eager; Bowed he devoutly. "My Lord," said he. But the spirit knew him not. Upon the road of my life, Passed me many fair creatures, Clothed all in white, and radiant. To one, finally, I made speech: "Who art thou?" But she, like the others, Kept cowled her face, And answered in haste, anxiously, "I am Good Deed, forsooth; "You have often seen me." "Not uncowled," I made reply. And with rash and strong hand, Though she resisted, I drew away the veil And gazed at the features of Vanity She, shamefaced, went on; And after I had mused a time, I said of myself, There was a man and a woman Who sinned. Then did the man heap the punishment All upon the head of her, And went away gayly. There was a man and a woman Who sinned. And the man stood with her. As upon her head, so upon his, Fell blow and blow, And all people screaming, "Fool!" He was a brave heart. He was a brave heart. Would you speak with him, friend? Well, he is dead, And there went your opportunity. Let it be your grief That he is dead And your opportunity gone; For, in that, you were a coward. There was a man who lived a life of fire. Even upon the fabric of time, Where purple becomes orange And orange purple, This life glowed, A dire red stain, indelible; Yet when he was dead, He saw that he had not lived. There was a great cathedral. To solemn songs, A white procession Moved toward the altar. The chief man there Was erect, and bore himself proudly. Yet some could see him cringe, As in a place of danger, Throwing frightened glances into the air, A-start at threatening faces of the past. Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground, Why do you stand, expectant? Do you hope to see it In one of your withered days? With your old eyes Do you hope to see The triumphal march of Justice? Do not wait, friend Take your white beard And your old eyes To more tender lands. Once, I knew a fine song, --It is true, believe me,-- It was all of birds, And I held them in a basket; When I opened the wicket, Heavens! They all flew away. I cried, "Come back, little thoughts!" But they only laughed. They flew on Until they were as sand Thrown between me and the sky. If I should cast off this tattered coat, And go free into the mighty sky; If I should find nothing there But a vast blue, Echoless, ignorant,-- What then? God lay dead in Heaven; Angels sang the hymn of the end; Purple winds went moaning, Their wings drip-dripping With blood That fell upon the earth. It, groaning thing, Turned black and sank. Then from the far caverns Of dead sins Came monsters, livid with desire. They fought, Wrangled over the world, A morsel. But of all sadness this was sad,-- A woman's arms tried to shield The head of a sleeping man From the jaws of the final beast. A spirit sped Through spaces of night; And as he sped, he called, He went through valleys Of black death-slime, Ever calling, Their echoes From crevice and cavern Mocked him: Fleetly into the plains of space He went, ever calling, Eventually, then, he screamed, Mad in denial, "Ah, there is no God!" A swift hand, A sword from the sky, Smote him, And he was dead.

Robert E. (Robert Ervin) Howard

Jewels of Gwahlur

1906

De Bosschère's study of Elskamp A divagation from Jules Laforgue edited by Ezra Pound I had wished to give but a brief anthology of French poems, Foreign criticism, if honest, can never be quite the same as home Mallarmé; that Mallarmé, perhaps unread, is apt to be slightly After a man has lived a reasonable time with the two volumes of Oh! laissez-moi seulement reprendre haleine, Et vous aurez un livre enfin de bonne foi. En attendant, ayez pitié de ma misère! Que je vous sois à tous un être bienvenu! Et que je sois absous pour mon âme sincère, Comme le fut Phryné pour son sincère nu. (_On a des principes_) Elle disait, de son air vain fondamental: "Je t'aime pour toi seul!"--Oh! là, là, grêle histoire; Oui, comme l'art! Du calme, ô salaire illusoire Du capitaliste Idéal! Elle faisait: "J'attends, me voici, je sais pas"... Le regard pris de ces larges candeurs des lunes; --Oh! là, là, ce n'est pas peut-être pour des prunes, Qu'on a fait ses classes ici-bas? Mais voici qu'un beau soir, infortunée à point, Elle meurt!--Oh! là, là; bon, changement de thème! On sait que tu dois ressusciter le troisième Jour, sinon en personne, du moins Dans l'odeur, les verdures, les eaux des beaux mois! Et tu iras, levant encore bien plus de dupes Vers le Zaïmph de la Joconde, vers la Jupe! Il se pourra même que j'en sois. Comme ils vont molester, la nuit, Au profond des parcs, les statues, Mais n'offrant qu'au moins dévêtues Leur bras et tout ce qui s'ensuit, En tête-à-tête avec la femme Ils ont toujours l'air d'être un tiers, Confondent demain avec hier, Et demandent _Rien_ avec âme! Jurent "je t'aime" l'air là-bas, D'une voix sans timbre, en extase, Et concluent aux plus folles phrases Par des: "Mon Dieu, n'insistons pas?" Jusqu'à ce qu'ivre, Elle s'oublie, Prise d'on ne sait quel besoin De lune? dans leurs bras, fort loin Des convenances établies. _Quia voluit consolari_ Ses yeux ne me voient pas, son corps serait jaloux; Elle m'a dit: "monsieur ..." en m'enterrant d'un geste; Elle est Tout, l'univers moderne et le céleste. Soit, draguons donc Paris, et ravitaillons-nous, Tant bien que mal, du reste. Les Landes sans espoir de ses regards brûlés, Semblaient parfois des paons prêts à mettre à la voile ... Sans chercher à me consoler vers les étoiles, Ah! Je trouverai bien deux yeux aussi sans clés, Au Louvre, en quelque toile! Oh! qu'incultes, ses airs, rêvant dans la prison D'un _cant_ sur le qui-vive au travers de nos hontes! Mais, en m'appliquant bien, moi dont la foi démonte Les jours, les ciels, les nuits, dans les quatre saisons Je trouverai mon compte. Sa bouche! à moi, ce pli pudiquement martyr Où s'aigrissent des nostalgies de nostalgies! Eh bien, j'irai parfois, très sincère vigie, Du haut de Notre-Dame aider l'aube, au sortir, De passables orgies. Mais, Tout va la reprendre!--Alors Tout m'en absout Mais, Elle est ton bonheur!--Non! je suis trop immense, Trop chose. Comment donc! mais ma seule présence Ici-bas, vraie à s'y mirer, est l'air de Tout: Je te vas dire: moi, quand j'aime, C'est d'un cœur, au fond sans apprêts, Mais dignement élaboré Dans nos plus singuliers problèmes. Ainsi, pour mes mœurs et mon art, C'est la période védique Qui seule a bon droit revendique Ce que j'en "attelle à ton char." Comme c'est notre Bible hindoue Qui, tiens, m'amène à caresser, Avec ces yeux de cétacé, Ainsi, bien sans but, ta joue. Permettez, ô sirène, Voici que votre haleine Embaume la verveine; C'est l'printemps qui s'amène! --Ce système, en effet, ramène le printemps, Avec son impudent cortège d'excitants. Otez donc ces mitaines; Et n'ayez, inhumaine, Que mes soupirs pour traîne: Ous'qu'il y a de la gêne ... --Ah! yeux bleus méditant sur l'ennui de leur art! Et vous, jeunes divins, aux soirs crus de hasard! Du géant à la naine, Vois, tout bon sire entraîne Quelque contemporaine, Prendre l'air, par hygiène ... --Mais vous saignez ainsi pour l'amour de l'exil! Pour l'amour de l'Amour! D'ailleurs, ainsi soit-il. T'ai-je fait de la peine? Oh! viens vers les fontaines Où tournent les phalènes --Pimbêche aux yeux vaincus, bellâtre aux beaux jarrets. Donnez votre fumier à la fleur du Regret. Voilà que son haleine N'embaum' plus la verveine! Drôle de phénomène ... Hein, à l'année prochaine? --Vierges d'hier, ce soir traîneuses de fœtus, A genoux! voici l'heure où se plaint l'Angélus. Nous n'irons plus au bois, Les pins sont eternels, Les cors ont des appels!... Neiges des pâles mois, Vous serez mon missel! --Jusqu'au jour de dégel. _Qu'on attend dans les Quartiers Aisés_ Menez l'âme que les Lettres ont bien nourrie, Les pianos, les pianos, dans les quartiers aisés! Premiers soirs, sans pardessus, chaste flânerie, Aux complaintes des nerfs incompris ou brisés. Ces enfants, à quoi rêvent-elles, Dans les ennuis des ritournelles? --"Préaux des soirs, Christs des dortoirs! "Tu t'en vas et tu nous laisses, Tu nous laiss's et tu t'en vas, Défaire et refaire ses tresses, Broder d'éternels canevas." Jolie ou vague? triste ou sage? encore pure? O jours, tout m'est egal? ou, monde, moi je veux? Et si vierge, du moins, de la bonne blessure, Sachant quels gras couchants ont les plus blancs aveux Mon Dieu, a quoi done rêvent-elles? A des Roland, à des dentelles? --"Cœurs en prison, Lentes saisons! "Tu t'en vas et tu nous quittes, Tu nous quitt's et tu t'en vas! Couvents gris, chœurs de Sulamites, Sur nos seins nuls croisons nos bras." Fatales clés de l'être un beau jour apparues; Psitt! aux hérédités en ponctuels ferments, Dans le bal incessant de nos étranges rues; Ah! pensionnats, théâtres, journaux, romans! Allez, stériles ritournelles, La vie est vraie et criminelle. --"Rideaux tirés, Peut-on entrer? "Tu t'en vas et tu nous laisses, Tu nous laiss's et tu t'en vas, La source des frais rosiers baisse. Vraiment! Et lui qui ne vient pas...." Il viendra! Vous serez les pauvres cœurs en faute, Fiancés au remords comme aux essais sans fond, Et les suffisants cœurs cossus, n'ayant d'autre hôte Qu'un train-train pavoisé d'estime et de chiffons Mourir? peut-être brodent-elles, Pour un oncle à dot, des bretelles? Si tu savais! Tu t'en vas et tu nous quittes, Tu nous quitt's et tu t'en vas, Mais tu nous reviendras bien vite Guérir mon beau mal, n'est-ce pas?" Et c'est vrai! l'Idéal les fait divaguer toutes; Vigne bohème, même en ces quartiers aisés. La vie est là; le pur flacon des vives gouttes Sera, _comme il convient_, d'eau propre baptisé. Aussi, bientôt, se joueront-elles De plus exactes ritournelles. "--Seul oreiller! Mur familier! "Tu t'en vas et tu nous laisses, Tu nous laiss's et tu t'en vas, Que ne suis-je morte à la messe! O mois, ô linges, ô repas!" sensitiveness of French perception, and the fact that he knew a Un couchant des Cosmogonies! Ah! que la Vie est quotidienne.... Et, du plus vrai qu'on se souvienne, Comme on fut piètre et sans génie.... L'Art sans poitrine m'a trop longtemps bercé dupe. Si ses labours sont fiers, que ses blés décevants! Tiens, laisse-moi bêler tout aux plis de ta jupe Qui fleure le couvent. Laforgue was a purge and a critic. He laughed out the errors of Maupassant, perhaps a thousand from the original. emotions; of his own unperturbed sincerity. Je ne suis pas "ce gaillard-là!" ni Le Superbe! Mais mon âme, qu'un cri un peu cru exacerbe, Est au fond distinguée et franche comme une herbe. One may discriminate between Laforgue's tone and that of his unconsciously, or a mere playing with phrases. But there is good Un air d'hydrocéphale asperge. Prevention of All Human Activities, are impossible in the wake of Que loin l'âme type Qui m'a dit adieu Parce que mes yeux Manquaient de principes! Elle, en ce moment. Elle, si pain tendre, Oh! peut-être engendre Quelque garnement. Car on l'a unie Avec un monsieur, Ce qu'il y a de mieux, Mais pauvre en génie. Corbière seems to me the greatest poet of the period. "La Rapsode La Palud, 27 août, jour du Pardon. Bénite est l'infertile plage Où, comme la mer, tout est nud. Sainte est la chapelle sauvage Grand'tante du petit Jésus, En bois pourri dans sa soutane Riche ... plus riche que Crésus! Contre elle la petite Vierge, Fuseau frêle, attend l'_Angélus_; Au coin, Joseph, tenant son cierge, Niche, en saint qu'on ne fête plus... C'est le Pardon.--Liesse et mystères-- Déjà l'herbe rase a des poux.... _Sainte Anne, Onguent des belles-mères!_ _Consolation des époux!_ Des paroisses environnantes: Ils viennent tous planter leurs tentes, Trois nuits, trois jours,--jusqu'au lundi. Trois jours, trois nuits, la palud grogne, Selon l'antique rituel, --Chœur séraphique et chant d'ivrogne-- _Mère taillée à coups de hache,_ _Tout cœur de chêne dur et bon;_ _Sous l'or de ta robe se cache_ _L'âme en pièce d'un franc Breton!_ _--Vieille verte à la face usée_ _Comme la pierre du torrent, Par des larmes d'amour creusée,_ _Séchée avec des pleurs de sang ..._ _--Toi, dont la mamelle tarie_ _S'est refait, pour avoir porté_ _Une mâle virginité!_ _--Servante-maîtresse altière,_ _Très haute devant le Très-Haut;_ _Au pauvre monde, pas fière,_ _Dame pleine de comme-il-faut!_ _--Bâton des aveugles! Béquille_ _Des vieilles! Bras des nouveau-nés!_ _Mère de madame ta fille!_ _Parente des abandonnés!_ _--O Fleur de la pucelle neuve!_ _Fruit de l'épouse au sein grossi!_ _Reposoir de la femme veuve ..._ _Et du veuf Dame-de-merci!_ _Médaille de cuivre effacé!_ _Gui sacré! Trèfle quatre-feuille!_ _Mont d'Horeb! Souche de Jessé!_ _--O toi qui recouvrais la cendre,_ _Qui filais comme on fait chez nous,_ _Quand le soir venait à descendre,_ _Tenant l'_ENFANT _sur tes genoux;_ _Toi qui fus là, seule, pour faire_ _Son maillot à Bethléem,_ _Et là, pour coudre son suaire_ _Des croix profondes sont tes rides,_ _Tes cheveux sont blancs comme fils...._ _--Préserve des regards arides_ _Fais venir et conserve en joie_ _Ceux à naître et ceux qui sont nés,_ _Et verse, sans que Dieu te voie,_ _L'eau de tes yeux sur les damnés!_ _Reprends dans leur chemise blanche_ _Rappelle à l'éternel Dimanche_ _Les vieux qui traînent en longueur:_ _--Dragon-gardien de la Vierge,_ _Garde la crèche sous ton œil._ _Que, près de toi, Joseph-concierge_ _Garde la propreté du seuil!_ _Prends pitié de la fille-mère,_ _Du petit au bord du chemin...._ _Si quelqu'un leur jette la pierre,_ _Que la pierre se change en pain!_ _--Dame bonne en mer et sur terre,_ _Montre-nous le ciel et le port,_ _Dans la tempête ou dans la guerre...._ _O Fanal de la bonne mort!_ _Humble: à tes pieds n'as point d'étoile,_ _Humble ... et brave pour protéger!_ _Dans la nue apparaît ton voile,_ _Pâle auréole du danger._ _--Aux perdus dont la vie est grise,_ _(--Sauf respect--perdus de boisson)_ _Montre le clocher de l'église_ _Et le chemin de la maison._ _Prête ta douce et chaste flamme_ _Aux chrétiens qui sont ici...._ _Ton remède de bonne femme_ _Pour tes bêtes-à-corne aussi!_ _Montre à nos femmes et servantes_ _L'ouvrage et la fécondité...._ _--Le bonjour aux âmes parentes_ _Qui sont bien dans l'éternité!_ _--Nous mettrons un cordon de cire,_ _De cire-vierge jaune autour_ _De ta chapelle et ferons dire_ _Ta messe basse au point du jour._ _Préserve notre cheminée_ _Des sorts et du monde malin...._ _A Pâques te sera donnée_ _Une quenouille avec du lin._ _Si nos corps sont puants sur terre,_ _Ta grâce est un bain de santé;_ _Répands sur nous, au cimetière,_ _Ta bonne odeur de sainteté._ _--A l'an prochain!--Voici ton cierge:_ _(C'est deux livres qu'il a coûté)_ _Sans oublier la Trinité._ ... Et les fidèles, en chemise, _Sainte Anne, ayez pitié de nous!_ Font trois fois le tour de l'église En se traînant sur leurs genoux, Et boivent l'eau miraculeuse Où les Job teigneux ont lavé Leur nudité contagieuse.... _Allez: la Foi vous a sauvé!_ C'est là que tiennent leurs cénacles Les pauvres, frères de Jésus. --Ce n'est pas la cour des miracles, Les trous sont vrais: _Vide latus!_ Sont-ils pas divins sur leurs claies Qu'auréole un nimbe vermeil Ces propriétaires de plaies, Rubis vivants sous le soleil!... En aboyant, un rachitique Secoue un moignon désossé, Coudoyant un épileptique Qui travaille dans un fossé. Là, ce tronc d'homme où croit l'ulcère, Contre un tronc d'arbre où croît le gui, Ici, c'est la fille et la mère Dansant la danse de Saint-Guy. Cet autre pare le cautère De son petit enfant malsain: --L'enfant se doit a son vieux père.... --Et le chancre est un gagne-pain! Un _visité par Gabriel_, Dans l'extase de l'innocence.... --L'innocent est (tout) près du ciel!-- --Tiens, passant, regarde: tout passe. Car il est en état de grâce.... --Et la Grâce est l'Eternite!-- Parmi les autres, après vêpre, Qui sont d'eau bénite arrosés, Un cadavre, vivant de lèpre, Fleurit, souvenir des croisés.... Puis tous ceux que les Rois de France Guérissaient d'un toucher de doigts.... --Mais la France n'a plus de Rois, Et leur dieu suspend sa clémence. Une forme humaine qui beugle Contre le _calvaire_ se tient; C'est comme une moitié d'aveugle: Elle est borgne et n'a pas de chien.... C'est une rapsode foraine Qui donne aux gens pour un liard Du _Juif Errant_ ou _d'Abaylar_. Elle hâle comme une plainte, Comme une plainte de la faim. Et, longue comme un jour sans pain, Lamentablement, sa complainte.... --Ça chante comme ça respire, Triste oiseau sans plume et sans nid Vaguant où son instinct l'attire: Autour des Bon-Dieu de granit.... Ça peut parler aussi, sans doute, Ça peut penser comme ça voit: Toujours devant soi la grand'route.... --Et, quand c'a deux sous, ça les boit. --Femme: on dirait, hélas!--sa nippe Lui pend, ficelée en jupon; Sa dent noire serre une pipe Eteinte.... Oh, la vie a du bon!-- Son nom.... ça se nomme Misère. Ça s'est trouvé né par hasard. Ça sera trouvé mort par terre.... La même chose--quelque part. Si tu la rencontres, Poète, Avec son vieux sac de soldat: Pour sa pipe, un peu de tabac!... Tu verras dans sa face creuse Se creuser, comme dans du bois, Un sourire; et sa main galeuse Te faire un vrai signe de croix. Il vint aussi là--fourmilière, Bazar où rien n'est en pierre, Où le soleil manque de ton. --Courage! On fait queue.... Un planton Vous pousse à la chaîne--derrière!-- --Incendie éteint, sans lumière; Des seaux passent, vides ou non.-- Là, sa pauvre Muse pucelle Fit le trottoir en _demoiselle._ Ils disaient: Qu'est-ce qu'elle vend? --Rien.--Elle restait là, stupide, N'entendant pas sonner le vide Et regardant passer le vent.... Là: vivre à coups de fouet!--passer En fiacre, en correctionnelle; Repasser à la ritournelle, Se dépasser, et trépasser!-- --Non, petit, il faut commencer Par être grand--simple ficelle-- Pauvre: remuer l'or à la pelle; Obscur: un nom à tout casser!... Le coller chez les mastroquets, Et l'apprendre à des perroquets Qui le chantent ou qui le sifflent-- --Musique!--C'est le paradis Des mahomets ou des houris, Des dieux souteneurs qui se giflent! nationale épique" or "inventeur de la larme écrite" at the Un beau jour--quel métier!--je faisais, comme ça --Elle qui,--La Passante! Elle, avec son ombrelle! Vrai valet de bourreau, je la frôlai....--mais Elle Me regarda tout bas, souriant en dessous, Et--me tendit sa main, et.... m'a donné deux sous. _Cinq heures du soir_ Depuis huit jours, j'avais déchiré mes bottines Aux cailloux des chemins. J'entrais à Charleroi, --_Au Cabaret Vert_: je demandai des tartines De beurre et du jambon qui fût à moitié froid. Bienheureux, j'allongeai les jambes sous la table Verte: je contemplai les sujets très naïfs De la tapisserie.--Et ce fut adorable, Quand la fille aux tétons énormes, aux yeux vifs, --Celle-là, ce n'est pas un baiser qui l'épeure!-- Rieuse, m'apporta des tartines de beurre, Du jambon tiède, dans un plat colorié, Du jambon rose et blanc parfumé d'une gousse D'ail,--et m'emplit la chope immense, avec sa mousse Que dorait un rayon de soleil arriéré. Ils ont greffé dans des amours epileptiques Leur fantasque ossature aux grands squelettes noirs De leurs chaises; leurs pieds aux barreaux rachitiques S'entrelacent pour les matins et pour les soirs Ces vieillards ont toujours fait tresse avec leurs sièges. or in the octave of Comme d'un cercueil vert en fer-blanc, une tête De femme à cheveux bruns fortement pommadés D'une vieille baignoire émerge, lente et bête, Montrant des déficits assez mal ravaudés; Puis le col gras et gris, les larges omoplates Qui saillent; le dos court qui rentre et qui ressort, --La graisse sous la peau paraît en feuilles plates Et les rondeurs des reins semble prendre l'essor. Quand le front de l'enfant plein de rouges tourmentes, Implore l'essaim blanc des rêves indistincts, Il vient près de son lit deux grandes sœurs charmantes Avec de frêles doigts aux ongles argentins. Elles asseoient l'enfant auprès d'une croisée Grande ouverte où l'air bleu baigne un fouillis de fleurs, Et, dans ses lourds cheveux où tombe la rosée, Promènent leurs doigts fins, terribles et charmeurs. Il écoute chanter leurs haleines craintives Qui fleurent de longs miels végétaux et rosés Et qu'interrompt parfois un sifflement, salives Reprises sur la lèvre ou désirs de baisers. Il entend leurs cils noirs battant sous les silences Parfumés; et leurs doigts électriques et doux Font crépiter, parmi ses grises indolences, Voilà que monte en lui le vin de la Paresse, Soupir d'harmonica qui pourrait délirer; L'enfant se sent, selon la lenteur des caresses, Sourdre et mourir sans cesse un désir de pleurer. On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans. --Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade, Des cafés tapageurs aux lustres éclatants! --On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade. Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin! L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupière; Le vent chargé de bruits,--la ville n'est pas loin-- A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de bière.... Elle était fort déshabillée, Et de grands arbres indiscrets Aux vitres penchaient leur feuillée Malinement, tout près, tout près. Assise sur ma grande chaise. Mi-nue elle joignait les mains. Sur le plancher frissonnaient d'aise --Je regardai, couleur de cire Un petit rayon buissonnier Papillonner, comme un sourire Sur son beau sein, mouche au rosier. --Je baisai ses fines chevilles. Elle eut un long rire très mal Qui s'égrenait en claires trilles, Une risure de cristal.... Se sauvèrent: "Veux-tu finir!" --La première audace permise, Le rire feignait de punir! --Pauvrets palpitant sous ma lèvre, Je baisai doucement ses yeux: --Elle jeta sa tête mièvre En arrière: "Oh! c'est encor mieux!... "Monsieur, j'ai deux mots à te dire...." --Je lui jetai le reste au sein Dans un baiser, qui la fit rire D'un bon rire qui voulait bien.... --Elle était fort déshabillée Et de grands arbres indiscrets, Aux vitres penchaient leur feuillée Malinement, tout près, tout près. certitude. Fleur hypocrite, Fleur du silence. Rose couleur de cuivre, plus frauduleuse que nos joies, rose couleur de cuivre, embaume-nous dans tes mensonges, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose au visage peint comme une fille d'amour, rose au cœur prostitue, rose au visage peint, fais semblant d'être pitoyable, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose à la joue puérile, ô vierges des futures trahisons, rose à la joue puérile, innocente et rouge, ouvre les rets de tes yeux clairs, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose aux yeux noirs, miroir de ton néant, rose aux yeux noirs, fais-nous croire au mystère, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur d'or pur, ô coffre-fort de l'idéal, rose couleur d'or pur, donne-nous la clef de ton ventre, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur d'argent, encensoir de nos rêves, rose couleur d'argent prends notre cœur et fais-en de la fumée, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose au regard saphique, plus pâle que les lys, rose au regard saphique, offre-nous le parfum de ton illusoire virginité, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose au front pourpre, colère des femmes dédaignées, rose au front pourpre dis-nous le secret de ton orgueil, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose au front d'ivoire jaune, amante de toi-même, rose au front d'ivoire jaune, dis-nous le secret de tes nuits virginales, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose aux lèvres de sang, ô mangeuse de chair, rose aux lèvres de sang, si tu veux notre sang, qu'en ferions-nous? bois-le, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur de soufre, enfer des désirs vains, rose couleur de soufre, allume le bûcher où tu planes, âme et flamme, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur de pêche, fruit velouté de fard, rose sournoise, rose couleur de pêche, empoisonne nos dents, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur de chair, déesse de la bonne volonté, rose couleur de chair, fais-nous baiser la tristesse de ta peau fraîche et fade, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose vineuse, fleur des tonnelles et des caves, rose vineuse, les alcools fous gambadent dans ton haleine: souffle-nous l'horreur de l'amour, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose violette, ô modestie des rillettes perverses, rose violette, tes yeux sont plus grands que le reste, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose rose, pucelle au cœur désordonné, rose rose, robe de mousseline, entr'ouvre tes ailes fausses, ange, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose en papier de soie, simulacre adorable des grâces incréées, rose en papier de soie, n'es-tu pas la vraie rose, fleur du silence. Rose couleur d'aurore, couleur du temps, couleur de rien, ô sourire du Sphinx, rose couleur d'aurore, sourire ouvert sur le néant, nous t'aimerons, car tu mens, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose blonde, léger manteau de chrôme sur des épaules frêles, ô rose blonde, femelle plus forte que les mâles, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence! Rose en forme de coupe, vase rouge où mordent les dents quand la bouche y vient boire, rose en forme de coupe, nos morsures te font sourire et nos baisers te font pleurer, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose toute blanche, innocente et couleur de lait, rose toute blanche, tant de candeur nous épouvante, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur de bronze, pâte cuite au soleil, rose couleur de bronze, les plus durs javelots s'émoussent sur ta peau, fleur hypocrite fleur du silence. Rose couleur de feu, creuset spécial pour les chairs réfractaires, rose couleur de feu, ô providence des ligueurs en enfance, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose incarnate, rose stupide et pleine de santé, rose incarnate, tu nous abreuves et tu nous leurres d'un vin très rouge et très bénin, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose en satin cérise, munificence exquise des lèvres triomphales, rose en satin cérise, ta bouche enluminée a posé sur nos chairs le sceau de pourpre de son mirage, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose au cœur virginal, ô louche et rose adolescence qui n'a pas encore parlé, rose au cœur virginal, tu n'as rien à nous dire, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose groseille, honte et rougeur des péchés ridicules, rose groseille, on a trop chiffonné ta robe, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur du soir, demi-morte d'ennui, fumée crépusculaire, rose couleur du soir, tu meurs d'amour en baisant tes mains lasses, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose bleue, rose iridine, monstre couleur des yeux de la Chimère, rose bleue, lève un peu tes paupières: as-tu peur qu-on te regarde, les yeux dans les yeux, Chimère, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence! Rose verte, rose couleur de mer, ô nombril des, sirènes, rose verte, gemme ondoyante et fabuleuse, tu n'es plus que de l'eau dès qu'un doigt t'a touchée, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose escarboucle, rose fleurie au front noir du dragon, rose escarboucle, tu n'es plus qu'une boucle de ceinture, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose couleur de vermilion, bergère énamourée couchée dans les sillons, rose couleur de vermilion, le berger te respire et le bouc t'a broutée, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose des tombes, fraicheur émanée des charognes, rose des tombes, toute mignonne et rose, adorable parfum des fines pourritures, tu fais semblant de vivre, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose brune, couleur des mornes acajous, rose brune, plaisirs permis, sagesse, prudence et prévoyance, tu nous regardes avec des yeux rogues, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose ponceau, ruban des fillettes modèles, rose ponceau, gloire des petites poupées, es-tu niaise hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose rouge et noire, rose insolente et secrète, rose rouge et noire, ton insolence et ton rouge ont pâli parmi les compromis qu'invente la vertu, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose ardoise, grisaille des vertus vaporeuses, rose ardoise, tu grimpes et tu fleuris autour des vieux bancs solitaires, rose du soir, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose pivoine, modeste vanité des jardins plantureux, rose pivoine, le vent n'a retroussé tes feuilles que par hasard, et tu n'en fus pas mécontente, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose neigeuse, couleur de la neige et des plumes du cygne, rose neigeuse, tu sais que la neige est fragile et tu n'ouvres tes plumes de cygne qu'aux plus insignes, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose hyaline, couleur des sources claires jaillies d'entre les herbes, rose hyaline, Hylas est mort d'avoir aimé tes yeux, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose opale, ô sultane endormie dans l'odeur du harem, rose opale, langueur des constantes caresses, ton cœur connait la paix profonde des vices satisfaits, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose améthyste, étoile matinale, tendresse épiscopale, rose améthyste, tu dors sur des poitrines dévotes et douillettes, gemme offerte à Marie, ô gemme sacristine, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose cardinale, rose couleur du sang de l'Eglise romaine, rose cardinale, tu fais rever les grands yeux des mignons et plus d'un t'épingla au nœud de sa jarretière, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Rose papale, rose arrosée des mains qui bénissent le monde, rose papale, ton cœur d'or est en cuivre, et les larmes qui perlent sur ta vaine corolle, ce sont les pleurs du Christ, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. Fleur hypocrite, Fleur du silence. Si j'ai parlé De mon amour, c'est à l'eau lente Qui m'écoute quand je me penche Sur elle; si j'ai parlé De mon amour, c'est au vent Qui rit et cuchote entre les branches; Si j'ai parlé de mon amour, c'est à l'oiseau Qui passe et chante Avec le vent; Si j'ai parlè C'est a l'écho. Si j'ai aimé de grand amour, Triste ou joyeux, Ce sont tes yeux; Si j'ai aimé de grand amour, Ce fut ta bouche grave et douce, Ce fut ta bouche; Si j'ai aimé de grand amour, Ce furent ta chair tiède et tes mains fraîches, Et c'est ton ombre que je cherche. He has joined himself to the painters of contemporary things in: Tous deux étaient beaux de corps et de visages, L'air francs et sages Avec un clair sourire dans les yeux, Et, devant eux, Debout en leur jeunesse svelte et prompte, Je me sentais courbé et j'avais presque honte D'être si vieux. Les ans Sont lourds aux épaules et pèsent Aux plus fortes De tout le poids des heures mortes, Les ans Sont durs, et brève La vie et l'on a vite des cheveux blancs; Et j'ai déjà vécu beaucoup de jours. Les ans sont lourds.... Et tous deux me regardaient, surpris de voir Celui qu'ils croyaient autre en leur pensée Se lever pour les recevoir Vêtu de bure et le front nu Et non pas, comme en leur pensée, Drapé de pourpre et lauré d'or. Et je leur dis: "Soyez tous deux les bienvenus." Ce fut alors Que je leur dis: "Mes fils, quoi, vous avez monté la côte Sous ce soleil cuisant d'août Jusqu'à ma maison haute, O vous Qu'attend là-bas peut-être, au terme du chemin Le salut amoureux de quelque blanche main! Si vous avez pour moi allongé votre route Peut-être, au moins mes chants vous auront-ils aidés, De leurs rythmes présents en vos mémoires, A marcher d'un jeune pas scandé Je n'ai jamais désiré d'autre gloire Sinon que les vers du poète Plussent à la voix qui les répète. Si les miens vous ont plu: merci, Car c'est pour cela que, chantant Mon rêve, après l'avoir conçu en mon esprit, Depuis vingt ans, J'habite ici." Et, d'un geste, je leur montrai la chambre vide Avec son mur de pierre et sa lampe d'argile Et le lit où je dors et le sol où, du pied, Je frappe pour apprendre au vers estropié A marcher droit, et le calame de roseau Dont la pointe subtile aide à fixer le mot Sur la tablette lisse et couverte de cire Dont la divine odeur la retient et l'attire Et le fait, dans la strophe en fleurs qu'il ensoleille, Mystérieusement vibrer comme une abeille. Et je repris: "Mes fils, Les ans Sont lourds aux épaules et pèsent Aux plus fortes De tout le poids des heures mortes. Les ans Sont durs, la vie est brève Et l'on a vite des cheveux blancs, Si quelque jour, En revenant d'où vous allez, Vous rencontriez sur cette même route, Entre les orges et les blés, Des gens en troupe Montant ici avec des palmes à la main, Dites-vous bien Que si vous les suiviez vous ne me verriez pas Comme aujourd'hui debout en ma robe de laine Qui se troue a l'épaule et se déchire au bras, Mais drapé de pourpre hautaine Peut-être--et mort Et lauré d'or!" Je leur ai dit cela, pour qu'ils le sachent, Car ils sont beaux tous deux de corps et de visages, L'air francs et sages Avec un clair sourire aux yeux, Parce qu'en eux Peut-être vit quelque désir de gloire, Je leur ai parlé ainsi pour qu'ils sachent Ce qu'est la gloire, Ce qu'elle donne, Ce qu'il faut croire De son vain jeu, Et que son dur laurier ne pose sa couronne Que sur le front inerte et qui n'est plus qu'un peu Déjà d'argile humaine où vient de vivre un Dieu. Il est ainsi de pauvres cœurs avec en eux, des lacs de pleurs, qui sont pâles, comme les pierres d'un cimetière. Il est ainsi de pauvres dos plus lourds de peine et de fardeaux que les toits des cassines brunes, parmi les dunes. Il est ainsi de pauvres mains, comme feuilles sur les chemins, comme feuilles jaunes et mortes, devant la porte. Il est ainsi de pauvres yeux humbles et bons et soucieux et plus tristes que ceux des bêtes, sous la tempête. Il est ainsi de pauvres gens, aux gestes las et indulgents sur qui s'acharne la misère, au long des plaines de la terre. Two men, half-Americans, Vielé-Griffin and Stuart Merril, won for Si l'on te disait: Maître! Le jour se lève; Voici une aube encore, la même, pâle; Maître, j'ai ouvert la fenêtre, L'aurore s'en vient encor du seuil oriental, Un jour va naître! --Je croirais t'entendre dire: Je rêve. Si l'on te disait: Maître, nous sommes là, Vivants et forts, Comme ce soir d'hier, devant ta porte; Nous sommes venus en riant, nous sommes là, Guettant le sourire et l'étreinte forte, --On nous répondrait: Le Maître est mort. Des fleurs de ma terrasse, Des fleurs comme au feuillet d'un livre, Des fleurs, pourquoi? Voici un peu de nous, la chanson basse Qui tourne et tombe, --Comme ces feuilles-ci tombent et tournoient-- Voici la honte et la colère de vivre Et de parler des mots--contre ta tombe. Lâche comme le froid et la pluie, Brutal et sourd comme le vent, Louche et faux comme le ciel bas, L'Automne rôde par ici, Son bâton heurte aux contrevents; Ouvre la porte, car il est là. Ouvre la porte et fais-lui honte, Son manteau s'emloche et traine, Ses pieds sont alourdis de boue; Jette-lui des pierres, quoi qu'il te conte, Ne crains pas ses paroles de haine: C'est toujours un rôle qu'il joue. Dans la chambre qui fleure un peu la bergamote, Ce soir, lasse, la voix de l'ancien clavecin Chevrote des refrains enfantins de gavotte. La blême lune allume en la mare qui luit, Miroir des gloires d'or, un émoi d'incendie. Tout dort. Seul, à mi-mort, un rossignol de nuit Module en mal d'amour sa molle mélodie. Plus ne vibrent les vents en le mystère vert Des ramures. La lune a tu leurs voix nocturnes: Mais à travers le deuil du feuillage entr'ouvert Pleuvent les bleus baisers des astres taciturnes. Tailhade's satires seem rough if one come upon them straight from Le vieux monsieur, pour prendre une douche ascendante, A couronné son chef d'un casque d'hidalgo Qui, malgré sa bedaine ample et son lumbago, Lui donne un certain air de famine avec Dante. Ainsi ses membres gourds et sa vertebre à point Traversent l'appareil des tuyaux et des lances, Tandis que des masseurs, tout gonflés d'insolences, Frottent au gant de crin son dos où l'acné point. Oh! l'eau froide! la bonne et rare panacée Qui, seule, raffermit la charpente lassée Et le protoplasma des sénateurs pesants! Voici que, dans la rue, au sortir de sa douche, Le vieux monsieur qu'on sait un magistrat farouche Tient des propos grivois aux filles de douze ans. Dans le bar où jamais le parfum des brévas Ne dissipa l'odeur de vomi qui la navre Triomphent les appas de la mère Cadavre Dont le nom est fameux jusque chez les Howas. Brune, elle fut jadis vantée entre les brunes, Tant que son souvenir au Vaux-Hall est resté. Et c'est toujours avec beaucoup de dignité Qu'elle rince le zinc et détaille les prunes. A ces causes, son cabaret s'emplit le soir, De futurs avoués, trop heureux de surseoir Quelque temps à l'étude inepte des _Digestes_, Des Valaques, des riverains du fleuve Amoor Qui s'y viennent former aux choses de l'amour. Ce qui fait que l'ancien bandagiste renie Le comptoir dont le faste alléchait les passants, C'est son jardin d'Auteuil où, veufs de tout encens, Les zinnias ont l'air d'être en tôle vernie. C'est là qu'il vient, le soir, goûter l'air aromal Et, dans sa rocking-chair, en veston de flanelle, Aspirer les senteurs qu'épanchent sur Grenelle Les fabriques de suif et de noir animal. Bien que libre-penseur et franc-maçon, il juge Le dieu propice qui lui donna ce refuge Où se meurt un cyprin emmy la pièce d'eau, Où, dans la tour mauresque aux lanternes chinoises, --Tout en lui préparant du sirop de framboises-- Sa "demoiselle" chante un couplet de Nadaud. From this beneficent treatment of the amiable burgess; from this Dans les cafés d'adolescents Moréas cause avec Frémine: L'un, d'un parfait cuistre a la mine, L'autre beugle des contre-sens. Rien ne sort moins de chez Classens Que le linge de ces bramines. Dans les cafés d'adolescents, Moréas cause avec Frémine. Désagrégeant son albumine, La Tailhède offre quelque encens: Maurras leur invente Commine Et ça fait roter les passants, Dans les cafés d'adolescents. Entre les sièges ou des garçons volontaires Entassent leurs chalants parmi les boulingrins, La famille Feyssard, avec des airs sereins, Discute longuement les tables solitaires. La demoiselle a mis un chapeau rouge vif Dont s'honore le bon faiseur de sa commune, Et madame Feyssard, un peu hommasse et brune, Porte une robe loutre avec des reflets d'if. Enfin ils sont assis! Or le père commande Des écrevisses, du potage au lait d'amande, Toutes choses dont il rêvait depuis longtemps. Et, dans le ciel couleur de turquoises fanées, Il voit les songes bleus qu'en ses esprits flottant A fait naître l'ampleur des truites saumonées. Let us begin with Jammes' earlier work: J'aime l'âne si doux marchant le long des houx. Il prend garde aux abeilles et bouge ses oreilles; et il porte les pauvres et des sacs remplis d'orge. Il va, près des fosses d'un petit pas cassé. Mon amie le croit bête parce qu'il est poète. Il réfléchit toujours, Ses yeux sont en velours. Jeune fille au doux cœur tu n'as pas sa douceur. J'allai à Lourdes par le chemin de fer, le long du gave qui est bleu comme l'air. Au soleil les montagnes semblaient d'étain. Et l'on chantait: sauvez! sauvez! dans le train, Il y avait un monde fou, exalté, plein de poussière et du soleil d'été. Des malheureux avec le ventre en avant étendaient leurs bras, priaient en les tordant. Et dans une chaire où était du drap bleu, un prêtre disait: "un chapelet à Dieu!" Et un groupe de femmes, parfois, passait, qui chantait: sauvez! sauvez! sauvez! sauvez! Et la procession chantait. Les drapeaux se penchaient avec leurs devises en or. Le soleil était blanc sur les escaliers dans l'air bleu, sur les cloches déchiquetées. Mais sur un brancard, portée par ses parents, son pauvre père tête nue et priant, et ses frères qui disaient: "ainsi soit-il," une jeune fille sur le point de mourir. Oh! qu'elle était belle! elle avait dix-huit ans et elle souriait; elle était en blanc. Et la procession chantait. Des drapeaux se penchaient avec leurs devises en or. Moi je serrais les dents pour ne pas pleurer, et cette fille, je me sentais l'aimer. Oh! elle m'a regardé un grand moment, une rose blanche en main, souriant. Mais maintenant où es-tu? dis, où es-tu, Es-tu morte? je t'aime, toi qui m'as vu. Si tu existes, Dieu, ne la tue pas, elle avait des mains blanches, de minces bras. Dieu ne la tue pas!--et ne serait-ce que pour son père nu-tête qui priait Dieu. La jeune fille est blanche, elle a des veines vertes au poignets, dans ses manches ouvertes. On ne sait pas pourquoi elle rit. Par moments elle crie et cela est percant. Est-ce qu'elle se doute qu'elle vous prend le cœur en cueillant sur la route des fleurs. On dirait quelquefois qu'elle comprend des choses. Pas toujours. Elle cause tout bas je l'ai vu ... j'ai ri"--Elle dit comme ça. Quand un jeune homme souffre, d'abord elle se tait: elle ne rit plus, tout étonnée. elle remplit ses mains de piquants de bruyères de fougères. Elle est grande, elle est blanche, elle a des bras très doux, Elle est très droite et penche le cou. The poem beginning: Tu seras nue dans le salon aux vieilles choses, fine comme un fuseau de roseau de lumière et, les jambes croisées, auprès du feu rose tu écouteras l'hiver Oh weh, soll mir nun nimmermehr hell leuchten durch die Nacht noch weisser denn ein Schnee ihr Leib so wohl gemacht? Der trog die Augen mein, ich wähnt, es sollte sein des lichten Monden Schein, da tagte es. Il va neiger dans quelques jours. Je me souviens de l'an dernier. Je me souviens de mes tristesses au coin du feu. Si l'on m'avait demandé: qu'est-ce? j'aurais dit: laissez-moi tranquille. Ce n'est rien. J'ai bien réfléchi, l'année avant, dans ma chambre, pendant que la neige lourde tombait dehors. J'ai réfléchi pour rien. A présent comme alors je fume une pipe en bois avec un bout d'ambre. Ma vieille commode en chêne sent toujours bon. Mais moi j'étais bête parce que ces choses ne pouvaient pas changer et que c'est une pose de vouloir chasser les choses que nous savons. Pourquoi donc pensons-nous et parlons-nous? C'est drôle; nos larmes et nos baisers, eux, ne parlent pas, et cependant nous les comprenons, et les pas d'un ami sont plus doux que de douces paroles. indispensable. It is one of the first half dozen books that a man Cest drôle.... Cette petite sera bête comme ces gens-là, comme son père et sa mère. Et cependant elle a une grâce infinie. Il y a en elle l'lntelligence de la beauté. C'est délicieux, son corsage qui n'existe pas, son derrière et ses pieds. Mais elle sera bête comme une oie dans deux ans d'ici. Elle va jouer. _(Benette joue la valse des elfes)_ Il y a quelqu'un qui veut parler à monsieur. Qui est-ce? Je ne sais pas. Un homme ou une femme? Un homme. Un commis-voyageur, Vous me le foutez belle! Je ne sais pas, monsieur. Faites entrer au salon. Laissez-moi achever d'achever ces cerises. _Le Poète (dans son salon)_ A qui ai-je l'honneur de parler, monsieur? Monsieur, je suis le cousin de votre ancienne maîtresse. De quelle maîtresse? Je ne vous connais pas. Et puis qu'est-ce que vous voulez? Monsieur, ecoutez-moi. On m'a dit que vous êtes bon. Ce n'est pas vrai. Il me bourre avec une telle agitation que je ne vais jamais pourvoir tirer de l'air. D'abord, de quelle maîtresse me parlez-vous? De qui, pretendez-vous? Non. Vous pretendez de qui j'ai été l'amant? Oui, monsieur. Où habitez-vous? J'habite les environs de Mont-de-Marsan. Enfin que voulez-vous? Savoir si monsieur serait assez complaisant pour me donner quelque chose. Et si je ne vous donne le pas, qu'est-ce que vous ferez? Oh! Rien monsieur. Je ne vous ferai rien. Non.... Tenez, voila dix francs, et foutez-moi la paix. (_Le monsieur s'en va, puis le poète sort._) It must not be thought that these very "modern" poets owe their Madeline-aux-serpents might be William Morris on Rapunzel: Et votre chevelure comme des grappes d'ombres, Et ses bandelettes à vos tempes, Et la kabbale de vos yeux latents,-- Madeline-aux-serpents, Madeline. Pourquoi vos lèvres à mon cou, ah, pourquoi Vos lèvres entre les coups du hache du roi! Madeline, et les cordaces et les flûtes, Les flûtes, les pas d'amour, les flûtes, vous les voulûtes, Hélas! Madeline, la fête, Madeline, Ne berce plus les flots au bord de l'île, Et mes bouffons ne crèvent plus des cerceaux Au bord de l'île, pauvres bouffons. Pauvres bouffons que couronne la sauge! Et mes litières s'effeuillent aux ornières, toutes mes litières à grand pans De nonchaloir, Madeline-aux-serpents.... Dans son rêve le vieux Prince de Touraine voit passer en robe verte à longue traîne Yeldis aux yeux charmeurs de douce reine. Au verger où sifflent les sylphes d'automne mignonne Isabelle est venue de Venise et veut cueillir des cerises et des pommes. He was writing rhymed vers libre in 1903, possibly stimulated by translations in a volume called "Poésie Arabe." This book has an extremely interesting preface. I have forgotten the name of the Croise tes jambes fines et nues Dans ton lit, Frotte de tes mignonnes mains menues Le bout de ton nez; Frotte de tes doigts potelés et jolis, Les deux violettes de tes yeux cernés, Et rêve. Du haut du minaret arabe s'échappe La mélopée triste et brève De l'indiscret muezzin Qui nasillonne et qui éternue, Et toi tu bâilles comme une petite chatte, Tu bâilles d'amour brisée, Et tu songes au passant d'Ormuz ou d'Endor Qui t'a quittée ce matin En te laissant sa légère bourse d'or Et les marques bleues de ses baisers. Je viens vers vous, mon cher Elskamp Comme un pauvre varlet de cœur et de joie Vient vers le beau seigneur qui campe Sous sa tente d'azur et de soie. En hiver, dans la chambre claire, Tout en haut de la maison, Le poêle de faïence blanche, Cerclé de cuivre, provincial, doux, Chauffait mes doigts et mes livres. Et le peuplier mandarine, Dans le soir d'argent dédoré, Dressait, en silence, ses branches, Devant ma fenêtre close. --Mère, le printemps aux doigts tièdes A soulevé l'espagnolette De mes fenêtres sans rideaux. Faites taire toutes ces voix qui montent Jusqu'à ma table de travail. --Ce sont les amies de ma mère Et de la mère de ton père, Qui causent de leurs maris morts, Et de leurs fils partis. --Avec, au coin de leurs lèvres, Ces moustaches de café au lait? Et dans leurs mains ces tartines? Dans leurs bouches ces Kouguelofs? --Ce sont des cavales anciennes Qui mâchonnent le peu d'herbe douce Que Dieu veut bien leur laisser. --Mère, les maîtres sensibles Lâchent les juments inutiles Dans les prés, non dans mon jardin! --Sois tranquille, mon fils, sois tranquille, Elles ne brouteront pas tes fleurs. --Mère, que n'y occupent-elles leurs lèvres, Et leurs trop courtes dents trop blanches De porcelaine trop fragile! --Mon fils, fermez votre fenêtre. Mon fils, vous n'êtes pas chrétien! Il avait su gagner à lui Beaucoup d'hommes ensemble, Et son bonheur était de croire, Quand il avait quitté la foule, Que chacun des hommes l'aimait Et que sa présence durait Innombrable et puissante en eux, Or un jour il en suivit un Qui retournait chez soi, tout seul, Et il vit son regard s'éteindre Dès qu'il fut un peu loin des autres. C'est seulement parce qu'on a soif qu'on entre y boire; C'est parce qu'on se sent tomber qu'on va s'y asseoir. On n'y est jamais à la fois qu'un ou deux Et l'on n'est pas forcé d'y raconter son histoire. Celui qui entre.... mange lentement son pain Parce que ses dents sont usées; Et il boit avec beaucoup de mal Parce qu'il a de peine plein sa gorge. Quand il a fini, Il hésite, puis timide Va s'asseoir un peu A côté du feu. Ses mains crevassées épousent Les bosselures dures de ses genoux. Then of the other man in the story: "qui n'était pas des nôtres.... "Mais comme il avait l'air cependant d'être des nôtres!" Ces gens hélas, ne croyaient pas Qu'il fut venu a l'improviste Et ils attendaient l'un et l'autre Que brusquement et d'un haleine il exposat La grave raison de sa venue. Only when he gets up to go, "ils osèrent comprendre" Il leur promit de revenir. Mais avant de gagner la porte Il fixa bien dans sa mémoire Le lieu ou s'abritait leur vie. Il regarda bien chaque objet Et puis aussi l'homme et la femme, Tant il craignait au fond de lui De ne plus jamais revenir. nerve-centre, the dynamic centre of the group, Les marchands sont assis aux portes des boutiques; Ils regardent. Les toits joignent la rue au ciel Et les pavés semblent féconds sous le soleil Comme un champ de maïs. Les marchands ont laissé dormir près du comptoir Le désir de gagner qui travaille dès l'aube. On dirait que, malgré leur âme habituelle, Une autre âme s'avance et vient au seuil d'eux-mêmes Comme ils viennent au seuil de leurs boutiques noires. Je croyais les murs de ma chambre imperméables. Or ils laissent passer une tiède bruine Qui s'épaissit et qui m'empêche de me voir, Le papier à fleurs bleues lui cède. Il fait le bruit Du sable et du cresson qu'une source traverse. L'air qui touche mes nerfs est extrêmement lourd. Ce n'est pas comme avant le pur milieu de vie Ou montait de la solitude sublimée. Voilà que par osmose Toute l'immensité d'alentour le sature. Il charge mes poumons, il empoisse les choses, Il sépare mon corps des meubles familiers, Les forces du dehors s'enroulent à mes mains. Rien ne cesse d'être intérieur. La rue est plus intime à cause de la brume. emotional content coherent. The opposite of Lewis's giant appears in: Je suis l'esclave heureux des hommes dont l'haleine Flotte ici. Leur vouloirs s'écoule dans mes nerfs; Ce qui est moi commence à fondre. Troupes and herds appear in his earlier work: Le troupeau marche, avec ses chiens et son berger, Il a peur. Çà et là des réverbères brûlent, Il tremble d'être poursuivi par les étoiles. La foule traine une écume d'ombrelles blanches La grande ville s'évapore, Et pleut à verse sur la plaine Qu'elle sature. Je suis un habitant de ma ville, un de ceux Qui s'assoient au théâtre et qui vont par les rues Je cesse lentement d'être moi. Ma personne Semble s'anéantir chaque jour un peu plus C'est à peine si je le sens et m'en étonne. On ne m'a pas donné de lettres, ces jours-ci; Personne n'a songé, dans la ville, à m'écrire, Oh! je n'espérais rien; je sais vivre et penser Tout seul, et mon esprit, pour faire une flambée, N'attend pas qu'on lui jette une feuille noircie. Mais je sens qu'il me manque un plaisir familier, J'ai du bonheur aux mains quand j'ouvre une enveloppe; But such statements as: Je me plais beaucoup trop à rester dans les gares; Accoude sur le bois anguleux des barrières, Je regarde les trains s'emplir de voyageurs. Mon esprit solitaire est une goutte d'huile Sur la pensée et sur le songe de la ville Qui me laissent flotter et ne m'absorbent pas. And I think if one opens him almost anywhere one can discern the authentic accent of a man saying something, not the desultory impagination of rehash. Romains is my chief concern. I can not give a full exposition of It might be fairer to Romains to say simply he has chosen, or All France is not to be found in Paris. The adjective "French" is "People employ them to complete a system of things and with the "In like manner we must know the groups that englobe us, not by "Yet I think the groups are in the most agitated stage of their expression (from the non-existing up to the autonomous creature). themselves without catastrophe, the single elements do not perish accustomedness. "I have not yet met a group fully divine. None has had a real I retain, however, my full suspicion of agglomerates. "Ici, la solitude est plus accentuée: souvent, pendant de longues Un vieux bourg flamand tel que peint Teniers; trees bathing in water. "Son univers était limité par: 'le grand peuplier'; une statue de Mallarmé's one appearance in the sea-port: "Le bruit et les cris qui furent poussés pendant la conférence de _avertis_, est toujours l'homme îvre ou fou." rhétorique fut pour Longfellow, il traduisait 'Song of (sic) "Entre le voyant et ceux qui le sanctifient il y a un précipice Et l'hiver m'a donné la main, J'ai la main d'Hiver dans les mains, et dans ma tête, au loin, il brûle les vieux étés de canicule; et dans mes yeux, en candeurs lentes, très blanchement il fait des tentes, dans mes yeux il fait des Sicile, puis des îles, encore des îles. Et c'est tout un voyage en rond trop vite pour la guérison à tous les pays ou l'on meurt au long cours des mers et des heures; et c'est tout un voyage au vent sur les vaisseaux de mes lits blancs qui houlent avec des étoiles à l'entour de toutes les voiles, or j'ai le goût de mer aux lèvres comme une rancœur de genièvre bu pour la très mauvaise orgie des départs dans les tabagies; puis ce pays encore me vient: un pays de neiges sans fin.... Marie des bonnes couvertures, faites-y la neige moins dure et courir moins comme des lières mes mains sur mes draps blancs de fièvre. I recently received a letter from Albert Mockel, written with a _Monsieur et cher confrère,_ Merci de votre amiable envoi. La _Little Review_ m'est sympathique à l'extrème. En la feuilletant j'ai cru voir renaître ce temps doré de ferveur et de belle confiance où, adolescent encore, et tâtonnant un peu dans les neuves régions de l'Art, je fondai à Liège notre _Little Review_ à nous, _La Wallonie_. Je retrouve justement quelques livraisons de cette revue et je vous les envoie; elles ont tout au moins le mérite de la rareté. Vous mon cher confrère, déjà ne marchez plus à tâtons mais je vous soupçonne de n'être pas aussi terriblement, aussi criminellement jeune que je l'étais à cette époque-là. Et puis trente ans ont passé sur la littérature, et c'est de la folie d'hier qu'est faite la sagesse d'aujourd'hui. Alors le Symbolisme naissait; grâce à la collaboration de mes amis, grace à Henri de Régnier et Pierre M. Olin qui dirigèrent la revue avec moi, _La Wallonie_ en fut l'un des premiers foyers. Tout était remis en question. On aspirait è plus de liberté à une forme plus intense et plus complète plus musicale et plus souple, à une expression nouvelle de l'éternelle beauté. On s'ingeniait on cherchait.... Tâtonnements? Certes et ils étaient inévitables. Mais vif et ardent effort, désintéressement absolu, foi juvénile et surtout "No compromise with the public taste".... N'y a-t-il point la quelques traits de ressemblance avec l'œuvre que vous tentez aujourd'hui en Amérique, et, à trente années d'intervale, une sorte de cousinage? C'est pourquoi mon cher confrère, j'ai lu avec tant de plaisir la _Little Review_ dont vous avez eu la gentillesse de m'adresser la collection. Croyez-moi sympathiquement vôtre, With a native mistrust of _la belle phrase_; of _"temps doré," "ferveur," "belle confiance"_, etc., and with an equally native superiority to any publication not printed LARGE, I opened _La Ses purs ongles très haut dédiant leur onyx, L'Angoisse ce minuit, soutient, lampadophore, Maint rêve vespéral brûle par le phénix Que ne recueille pas de cinéraire amphore Sur les crédences, au salon vide: nul ptyx, Aboli bibelot d'inanité sonore, (Car le maître est allé puiser des pleurs au Styx Avec ce seul objet dont le Néant s'honore.) Mais proche la croisée au nord vacante, un or Agonise selon peut-être le décor Des licornes ruant du feu contre une nixe, Elle, défunte nue en le miroir encor Que, dans l'oubli fermé par le cadre, se fixe De scintillations sitôt le septuor. Pas les rafales à propos De rien comme occuper la rue Sujette au noir vol des chapeaux; Mais une danseuse apparue Tourbillon de mousseline ou Fureur éparses en écumes Que soulève par son genou Celle même dont nous vécûmes Pour tout, hormis lui, rebattu Spirituelle, ivre, immobile Foudroyer avec le tutu, Sans se faire autrement de bile Sinon rieur que puisse l'air De sa jupe éventer Whistler. En casque de cristal rose les baladines, Dont les pas mesurés aux cordes des kinnors Tintent sous les tissus de tulle roidis d'ors, Exultent de leurs yeux pâles de xaladines. Toisons fauves sur leurs lèvres incarnadines, Bras lourds de bracelets barbares, en essors Moelleux vers la lueur lunaire des décors, Elles murmurent en malveillantes sourdines: "Nous sommes, ô mortels, danseuses du Désir, Salomés dont les corps tordus par le plaisir Leurrent vos heurs d'amour vers nos pervers arcanes. Prosternez-vous avec des hosannas, ces soirs! Car, surgissant dans des aurores d'encensoirs, Sur nos cymbales nous ferons tonner vos crânes." "Dolores, O hobble and kobble Dolores. O perfect obstruction on track." The particular sort of fine workmanship shown in this sonnet of Hanton is gently didactic: "Déjà peinent maints moissonneurs dont la mémoire est destinée à vivre." Amants des rythmes en des strophes cadencées, Des rimes rares aux splendeurs évocatoires, Laissant en eux comme un écho de leurs pensées, Comme un parfum de leurs symboles en histoires: Tels les poètes vont cherchant en vrais glaneurs Les blonds épis qui formeront leur riche écrin. Ils choisiront, comme feraient les bons vanneurs, Parmi les blés passés au crible, le beau grain. Et germera cette semence bien choisie, Entre les roses et les lys, pour devenir Riche moisson de la fertile fantaisie. L'ardent soleil de Messidor fera jaunir Les tiges souples d'une forte poésie Qui dresseront leurs fiers épis vers l'avenir! En la langueur accidentelle de ta dentelle où meurt mon cœur Un profil pleure et se voit tel en le pastel du divin leurre Qu'or végétal de lys s'enlise au froid santal Si n'agonise occidental qui s'adonise. En sa robe où s'immobilisent les oiseaux, Une émerge des fleurs comme une fleur plus grande. Comme une fleur penchée au sourire de l'eau, Ses mains viennent tresser la traînante guirlande Pour enchaîner le Dragon vert--et de légende! Qui de ses griffes d'or déchire les roseaux, Les faisceaux de roseaux: banderolles et lances. Et quand le soir empourprera le fier silence De la forêt enjôleuse de la Douleur, Ses doigts, fuseaux filant au rouet des murmures Les beaux anneaux fleuris liant les fleurs aux fleurs, Ses doigts n'auront saigné qu'aux épines peu dures. Un soir de joie, un soir d'ivresse, un soir de fête, --Et quelle fête, et quelle ivresse, et quelle joie!-- Tu vins. L'impérial ennui sacrait ta tête; Et tu marchais dans un bruit d'armure et de soie. Tu dédaignas tous les bijoux et l'oripeau De ruban, de dentelle et d'éphémère fleur.... Hermétique, ta robe emprisonnait ta peau. Oui, la fourrure seule autour de ta pâleur. Tu parus. Sous tes yeux que le kh'ol abomine, Le bal fut la lugubre et dérisoire histoire. Les hommes des pantins qu'un vice mène et mine. Les femmes, cœurs et corps fanés,--et quel déboire! Elle est folle, c'est sûr, elle est folle la chère; Elle m'aime à n'en pas douter, mais elle est folle, Elle m'aime et, compatissez à ma misère, Avec tous, avec toutes, elle batifole. Un passe.... Elle s'élance à lui, cœur présumé.... Elle s'offre et le provoque, puis elle fuit Vers ailleurs.... si fidèle encore au seul-aimé, Mais elle est folle et je m'éplore dans la nuit. Pour quelque amie aux délicatesses félines, Elle glisse vers les caresses trop profondes. ... "Tu vas, folle, oublier mes rancœurs orphelines." Mais sa lèvre pensive hésite aux toisons blondes. De la neige qui tombe adoucissante et blanche, Tant de villages, tant de chaumines qui sont Pour le reste d'un soir doucement assoupies, Car le neige s'étend en de molles charpies Sur les blessures des vieilles briques qui n'ont Rien senti d'une Sœur sur leur rougeur qui saigne! Mais, ô neige, c'est toi la Sœur au halo blanc Qui consoles les murs malades qu'on dédaigne Et mets un peu d'ouate aux pierres s'éraflant. Las! rien ne guérira les chaumines--aïeules Qui meurent de l'hiver et meurent d'être seules.... Et leurs âmes bientôt, au gré des vents du nord. Dans la fumée aux lents départs, seront parties Cependant que la neige, à l'heure de leur mort, Leur apporte ses refraîchissantes hosties! Rodenbach is authentic. Me voici: J'étais là dès hier, et dès sa veille, Ailleurs, ici; Toute chair, a paré, un soir, mon âme vieille Comme l'éternité du désir que tu vêts. La nuit est claire au firmament.... Regarde avec tes yeux levés: Voici--comme un tissu de pâle feu fatal Qui fait épanouir la fleur pour la flétrir-- Monvoile où transparaît tout assouvissement Qui t'appelle à la vie et qui t'en fait mourir. La nuit est claire au firmament vital.... Mes mythes, tu les sais: Je suis fille du Cygne, Je suis la lune dont s'exubèrent les mers Qui montent, tombent, se soulèvent; Et c'est le flot de vie exultante et prostrée, le flot des rêves, le flot des chairs, le flux et le reflux de la vaste marée. Mon doute--on dit l'Espoir--fait l'action insigne: Je suis reine de Sparte et celle-là de Troie, Par moi, la douloureuse existence guerroie Je meus toute inertie aux leurres de ma joie, Hélène, Séléné, flottant de phase en phase, Je suis l'Inaccédée et la tierce Hypostase Et si je rejetais, désir qui m'y convies, Mon voile qui promet et refuse l'extase, Ma nudité de feu résorberait les Vies.... _(Complete number devoted to his poems.)_ Mockel is represented by several poems rather too long to La nuit au loin s'est effacée comme les lignes tremblantes d'un rêve; la nuit s'est fondue au courant du Passé et le jour attendu se lève. Regardez! en les courbes molles des rideaux une heure attendue se révèle et ma fenêtre enfin s'éclaire, cristalline du gîvre où se rit la lumière. Une parure enfantine de neiges habille là-bas d'immobiles eaux et c'est les cortèges des fées nouvelles à tire d'ailes, à tire d'ailes du grand lointain qui toutes reviennent aux flocons de ce jour en neiges qui s'épèle. Des courbes de mes rideaux clairs --voici! c'est un parfum de ciel!-- blanc des guirlandes de l'hiver le jeune matin m'est apparu avec un visage de fiancée. Des fées (ah je ne sais quelles mortelles fées) jadis elles vinrent toucher la paupière d'un être enfantin qui mourut. Son âme, où se jouait en songes la lumière, diaphane corolle épanouie au jour son âme était vive de toute lumière! Lui, comme un frère il suivait ma course et nous allions en confiants de la montagne à la vallée par les forêts des chênes, des hêtres --car eux, les ancêtres, ils ont le front grave ils virent maints rêves des autres âges et nous parlent, très doucement, comme nos Pères. Mais voyez! à mes rideaux pâles le matin glisse des sourires; car la Fiancée est venue car la Fiancée est venue avec un simple et très doux visage, avec des mots qu'on n'entend pas, en silence la Fiancée est apparue comme une grande sœur de l'enfant qui mourut; et les hêtres, les chênes royaux des forêts par douce vocalise égrenant leur parure, les voix ressuscitées en la plaine sonore et toute la forêt d'aurore quand elle secoue du crépuscule sa chevelure, tout chante, bruit, pétille et rayonne car la céleste Joie que la clarté délivre d'un hymne répercute aux miroirs du futur le front pâle où scintille en étoiles le givre. _--Albert Mockel in "La Wallonie," Dernier fascicule, '92._ Un chant dans une nuit sans air.... --La lune plaque en métal clair Les découpures du vert sombre. ... Un chant; comme un écho, tout vif Enterré, là, sous le massif.... --Ça se tait; viens, c'est là, dans l'ombre.... Un crapaud! --Pourquoi cette peur, Près de moi, ton soldat fidèle! Vois-le, poète tondu, sans aile, Rossignol de la boue.... _Vois-tu pas son œil de lumière...._ Non, il s'en va, froid, sous sa pierre. Bonsoir--ce crapaud-là c'est moi. Mon cœur est un Néron, enfant gâté d'Asie, Qui d'empires de rêve en vain se rassasie. Mon cœur est un noyé vidé d'âme et d'essors, Qu'étreint la pieuvre Spleen en ses ventouses d'or. C'est un feu d'artifice, hélas! qu'avant la fête, A noyé sans retour l'averse qui s'embête. Mon cœur est le terrestre Histoire-Corbillard Que traînent au néant l'instinct et le hazard Mon cœur est une horloge oubliée à demeure Qui, me sachant défunt, s'obstine à marquer l'heure. Et toujours mon cœur ayant ainsi déclamé, En revient à sa complainte: Aimer, être aimé! Et cette pièce, d'une ironie concentrée: L'Art sans poitrine m'a trop longtemps bercé dupe. Si ses labours sont fiers, que ses bles décevants! Tiens, laisse-moi bêler tout aux plis de ta jupe Qui fleure le couvent. La Génie avec moi, serf, a fait des manières; Toi, jupe, fais frou-frou, sans t'inquièter pourquoi.... Mais l'Art, c'est l'Inconnu! qu'on y dorme et s'y vautre, On ne peut pas l'avoir constamment sur les bras! Et bien, ménage au vent! Soyons Lui, Elle et l'Autre. Et puis n'insistons pas. Qui m'aima jamais? Je m'entête Sur ce refrain bien impuissant Sans songer que je suis bien bête De me faire du mauvais sang: Vendange chez les Arts enfantins; sois en fête D'une fugue, d'un mot, d'un ton, d'un air de tête. Vivre et peser selon le Beau, le Bien, le Vrai? O parfums, ô regards, ô fois! soit, j'essaierai. ... Va, que ta seule étude Soit de vivre sans but, fou de mansuétude-- published work by Elskamp, Merrill, Griffin, Louys, Maeterlinck, If the date is insufficiently indicated by Mallarmé's allusion to "eaux-fortes de Mlle Mary Cassatt ... Lucien Pissaro, Sisley ... lithographies de Fantin-Latour ... Odillon Redon." Prose poetry, that doubtful connection, appears at times even to advantage: "Je vous remercie de m'avoir révélé Laforgue que je connaissais _"Max Elskamp"; essai par Jean De Bosschère. Bibliothèque de And the great labor, this labor of translation, of making America "You will, I think, hold me warranted in believing that between Flaubert said of the War of 1870: "If they had read my _Education conquests are made in the laboratory, that Curie with his minute Henry James was aware of the spherical form of the planet, and susceptible to a given situation, and to the tone and tonality of situations, what contingencies would befit or display certain characters. We are hardly asked to accept them as happening. characters. Hardy, with his eye on the Greek tragedians, has produced an epic comparable to the Grettir Saga than to the novels of Mr. Hardy's Englishness, Germanness, Americanness, which chemicals too little His statement that he never went down town has been urged greatly He has written history of a personal sort, social history well Lexington or Newton "Old Place" or somewhere of that sort in New Still if one is seeking a Spiritual Fatherland, if one feels the One can but make one's own suggestion:-- I "go easy" on the more cobwebby volumes; the most Jamesian are James does not "feel" as solid as Flaubert; he does not give us "Le jour où l'analyse cruelle que mon ami, M. Zola, et peut-être If ever one man's career was foreshadowed in a few sentences of another, Henry James's is to be found in this paragraph. International Episode," "Four Meetings," good work. occasions like the present, and in general, meet foreigners with comprehensive way and on the evening of the seven, when worldly incarnate the abstraction. shams--_those_ they'll swallow by the bucket!' I looked up at the "Count Vogelstein was still young enough in diplomacy to think it striking, and I know not what he thought of the nature of this particular evidence." For further style in vignette: bead-like eyes, which occasionally changed their direction, alone appeared to have been happily arrested." Pandora's approach to her parents: romanticism. cocoanuts hurled at an aunt sally. "Already, at hungry twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were fifty and popular," "a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite irreproachable and insufferable person" or (for the whole type) "put such ignorance into her cleverness?" The main feeling in "The Awkward Age" is satiric. The dashes of Page 133. "And it might have been apparent still to our sharp "Washington Square," etc., bulk large in the very small amount of uncanonical books. "The special shade of its identity was thus that it was not conscious--really not conscious of anything in the world; or was Or later, when dealing with a pre-Y.-M.-C.-A. America. One is impatient for Henry James to do people. meagrely furnished with associations or perceptions. Allow me my _piéton's_ shrug for the man who has gone only by train. forty--part of which must go into desuetude, have perhaps done so whatsoever with a gleam of fun in his make-up). The great artists among men of letters have occasionally and by tradition burst into an _Ars Poetica_ or an _Arte nuevo de hacer situation." working-free from incongruities inherent in the first vague preconceptions of the plot. Thus: (b) James's care not to repeat figures from earlier novels. Not a (c) Considerations of the effect of a fourth main character; of (b) The opposed character's perception of this. (c) Effect of all this on third character. (In this case female, attracted to "man-of-action" quality). (b) Caution not to let author's interest in fascinating auxiliary (b) Act of this auxiliary person reaches through to main action. (a) Further determination of his hero. (In this case an absolute non-producer, non-accumulator.) (c) Decision how the main "coup" or transfer shall slide through. Of the actual writing in the three posthumous books, far the most This holds, despite anything that may be said of his fuss about social order, social tone. I naturally do not drag in political Ford Madox Hueffer's volume on Henry James. It is my personal feeling at the moment that _La Fille Elisa_ is Page numbers in Collected Edition. This is a highly untechnical, unimpressionist, in fact almost Most good poetry asserts something to be worth while, or damns a Neither prose nor drama can attain poetic intensity save by Recast from an article in _The Future._ _followed by notes_ contemporary coats. "Ch'hanno perduto il ben del intelletto" apperception, this particular awareness was his "message." condensation of Fabre's knowledge of insects to "Amas ut facias pulchram" another, and as dull as steel rails in a desert. "My true life is in the unspoken words of my body." "La virginité n'est pas une vertu, c'est un état; c'est une sous-division des couleurs." Ingenium nobis ipsa puella facit, this is perhaps balanced by "De fine amor vient science et beauté"; and constantly in the troubadours. De Gourmont's wisdom is not wholly unlike the wisdom which those In 1898, "PAYS LOINTAIN" (reprinted from magazine publication of "Douze crimes pour l'honneur de l'infini." "Marguerite Rouge," "Sœur de Sylvie," "Danaette," are all of them "Pourtant il y a des yeux au bout des doigts." "Femmes, conservatrices des traditions milésiennes." Heterogeneous as the following paragraphs: "Demain les œuvres de Renan, de Taine, de Verlaine, de Villiers signification, l'histoire les a employés dë tous temps, mais la politique. Le mâle est l'hostie ordinaire. "Le caractère fondamental du citoyen est donc le dévouement, la réveillerez plus libres le lendemain." _Les Faiseurs de Statues._ "Or un écrivain, un poète, un philosophe, un homme des régions quelque-chose de rétrograde qui froisse les vrais démocrates. Françaises, protester aussi sottement contre des innovations non "L'esthétique est devenue elle aussi, un talent personnel." "Comme tous les écrivains qui sont parvenus à comprendre la vie, "Parti de la chanson de Saint Léger, il en est, dit-on, arrivé au mentioned. We find typical Gourmont in the essay on Rictus: "Mais le ciel gris est plein de tristesse câline inéffablement douce aux cœurs chargés d'ennuis." The essay on the Goncourt is important, and we find in it typical l'histoire. One is rather glad M. Hello is dead. Ghil is mentionable, and the admirations franches." _On Edouard Dujardins._ commerciales." _On Alfred Voilette._ "Le nu de l'art contemporain est un nu d'hydrothérapie. "L'art doit être à la mode ou créer la mode. "La propriété est nécessaire, mais il ne l'est pas qu'elle reste toujours dans les mêmes mains. "Le roman historique. Il y a aussi la peinture historique, subjectif. l'influence des littératures étrangères sur notre littérature. dépasserait à peine le comique involontaire. L'étude de Racine ne "Le style, c'est de sentir, de voir, de penser, et rien plus. "Le style est une spécialisation de la sensibilité. "Une idée n'est qu'une sensation défraîchie, une image effacée. laissèrent nos admirations adolescentes. "Rien ne pousse à la concision comme l'abondance des idées." _Le "D'un Pays Lointain." "Le Songe d'une Femme." "Lilith, suivi de Théodat." "Couleurs, suivi de Choses Anciennes." "Lettres d'un Satyre." "Le Livre des Masques" (Ier. et IIème.) "Physique de l'Amour." "Pendant l'Orage." J'ai lu avec plaisir votre longue lettre, qui m'expose si clairement la nécessité d'une revue unissant les efforts des Américains, des Anglais, et des Français. Pour cela, je vous servirai autant qu'il sera en mon pouvoir. Je ne crois pas que je puisse beaucoup. J'ai une mauvaise santé et je suis extrêmement fatigué; je ne pourrai vous donner que des choses très courtes, des indications d'idées plutôt que des pages accomplies, mais je ferai de mon mieux. J'espère que vous réussirez à mettre debout cette petite affaire littéraire et que vous trouverez parmi nous des concours utiles. Evidemment si nous pourions amener les Américains à mieux sentir la vraie littérature française et surtout à ne pas la confondre avec tant d'œuvres courantes si médiocres, cela serait un résultat très heureux. Sont-ils capables d'assez de liberté d'esprit pour lire, sans être choqués, mes livres par example, elle est bien douteux et il faudrait pour cela un long travail de préparation. Mais pourquoi ne pas l'entreprendre? En tous les pays, il y a un noyau de bons esprits, d'esprits libres, il faut leur donner quelque chose qui les change de la fadeur des magazines, quelque chose qui leur donne confiance en eux-mêmes et leur soit un point d'appui. Comme vous le dites, il faudra pour commencer les amener à respecter l'individualisme français, le sens de la liberté que quelques uns d'entre nous possèdent à un si haut point. Ils comprennent cela en théologie. Pourquoi ne le comprendraient-ils pas en art, en poésie, en littérature, en philosophie. Il faut leur faire voir--s'ils ne le voient pas déjà--que l'individualisme français peut, quand il le faut, se plier aux plus dures disciplines. Conquérir l'Américain n'est pas sans doute votre seul but. Le but du _Mercure_ a été de permettre à ceux qui en valent la peine d'écrire franchement ce qu'il pense--seul plaisir d'un écrivain. Cela doit aussi être le vôtre. Votre bien dévoué, "Are they capable of enough mental liberty to read my books, for countries knots of intelligent people, open-minded; one must give Many thanks for your letter of the other day. I am afraid I must say frankly that I do not think I can open the columns of the _Q.R._--at any rate, at present--to any one associated publicly with such a publication as _Blast._ It stamps a man too disadvantageously. Yours truly, De Gourmont's next communication to me was an inquiry about Gaudier-Brzeska's sculpture. "A German study," Hobson; "A German study," Tarr. Each of the senses has its own particular eunuchs. An historical essayist The new poetry _Il n'y a de livres que ceux où un écrivain s'est raconté lui-même en racontant les mœurs de ses contemporains--leurs rêves, leurs vanités, leurs amours, et leurs folies_.-- De Gourmont uses this sentence in writing of the incontestable lonely men in shirt-sleeves leaning out of windows are as real as his ladies who come and go His "one night cheap hotels" are as much "there" as are his four wax candles in the darkened room, Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb. unrealizable, always apt, half ironic suggestion, and his precise It is complained that Eliot is lacking in emotion. "La Figlia che If the reader wishes mastery of "regular form," the "Conversation "intellect" but "intelligence." There is no intelligence without There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; than in whole pages of regular poetry." Despite the War, despite the paper shortage, and despite those "Lynch began to sing softly and solemnly in a deep bass voice: 'Impleta sunt quae concinit David fideli carmine....' His earlier book, "Dubliners," contained several well-constructed The quality and distinction of the poems in the first half of Mr. Who goes amid the green wood With springtide all adorning her? Who goes amid the merry green wood To make it merrier? Who passes in the sunlight By ways that know the light footfall? Who passes in the sweet sunlight With mien so virginal? The ways of all the woodland Gleam with a soft and golden fire-- For whom does all the sunny woodland Carry so brave attire? O, it is for my true love The woods their rich apparel wear-- O, it is for my true love, That is so young and fair. O, it is for my true love, That is so young and fair. The musician's work is very nearly done for him, and yet how few song-setters could be trusted to finish it and to fill in an accompaniment. The tone of the book deepens with the poem beginning: O sweetheart, hear you Your lover's tale; A man shall have sorrow When friends him fail. For he shall know then Friends be untrue; And a little ashes Their words come to. All day I hear the noise of waters Making moan, Sad as the sea-bird is, when going Forth alone, He hears the wind cry to the waters' The gray winds, the cold winds are blowing I hear the noise of many waters Far below. All day, all night, I hear them flowing To and fro. I hear an army charging upon the land, And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees; Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand, Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers. They cry unto the night their battle-name; I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter; They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame, Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil. They come shaking in triumph their long green hair; They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore: My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone? Incomplete as I write this. His profoundest work, most meditation on life. resurrection, immortality. Bloom and the Venus de Milo. _De la première édition_ Il nous faut demander pardon au public de lui donner ce livre, et l'avertir de ce qu'il y trouvera. Le public aime les romans faux: ce roman est un roman vrai. Il aime les livres qui font semblant d'aller dans le monde: ce livre vient de la rue. Il aime les petites œuvres polissonnes, les mémoires de filles, les confessions d'alcôves, les saletés érotiques, le scandale qui se retrousse dans une image aux devantures des libraires, ce qu'il va lire est sévère et pur. Qu'il ne s'attende point à la photographie décolletée du plaisir: l'étude qui suit est la clinique de l'Amour. Le public aime encore les lectures anodines et consolantes, les aventures qui finissent bien, les imaginations qui ne dérangent ni sa digestion ni sa sérénité: ce livre, avec sa triste et violente distraction, est fait pour contrarier ses habitudes et nuire à son hygiène. Pourquoi donc l'avons-nous écrit? Est-ce simplement pour choquer le public et scandaliser ses goûts? Vivant au dix-neuvième siècle, dans un temps de suffrage universel, de démocratie, de libéralisme, nous nous sommes demandé si ce qu'on appelle "les basses classes" n'avait pas droit au roman; si ce monde sous un monde, le peuple, devait rester sous le coup de l'interdit littéraire et des dédains d'auteurs qui ont fait jusqu'ici le silence sur l'âme et le cœur qu'il peut avoir. Nous nous sommes demandé s'il y avait encore, pour l'écrivain et pour le lecteur, en ces années d'égalité où nous sommes, des classes indignes, des malheurs trop bas, des drames trop mal embouchés, des catastrophes d'une terreur trop peu noble. Il nous est venu la curiosité de savoir si cette forme conventionnelle d'une littérature oubliée et lune société disparue, la Tragédie, était définitivement morte; si, dans un pas sans caste et pauvres parleraient à l'intérêt, à l'émotion, à la pitié aussi haut que les misères des grands et des riches; si, en un mot, les larmes qu'on pleure en bas pourraient faire pleurer comme celles qu'on pleure en haut. Ces pensées nous avaient fait oser l'humble roman de "Sœur Philomène," en 1861; elles nous font publier aujourd'hui "Germinie Lacerteux." Maintenant, que ce livre soit calomnié: peu lui importe. Aujourd'hui que le Roman s'élargit et grandit, qu'il commence à être la grande forme sérieuse, passionnée, vivante, de l'étude littéraire et de l'enquête sociale, qu'il devient, par l'analyse et par la recherche psychologique, l'Histoire morale contemporaine, aujourd'hui que le Roman s'est imposé les études et les devoirs de la science, il peut en revendiquer les libertés et les franchises. Et qu'il cherche l'Art et la Vérité; qu'il montre des misères bonnes à ne pas laisser oublier aux heureux de Paris; qu'il fasse voir aux gens du monde ce que les dames de charité ont le courage de voir, ce que les reines d'autrefois faisaient toucher de l'œil à leurs enfants dans les hospices: la souffrance humaine, présente et toute vive, qui apprend la charité; que le Roman ait cette religion que le siècle passé appelait de ce large et vaste nom: _Humanité_; il lui suffit de cette conscience: son droit est là. difference between "cubism," _nature-morte-ism_ and the vortex of The animality and the animal satire, the dynamic and metallic differentiations between the two authors are to the detriment of "Tarr" is the most vigorous and volcanic English novel of our time. Lewis is the rarest of phenomena, an Englishman who has achieved the triumph of being also a European. He is the only English writer who can be compared with Dostoievsky, and he is more rapid than Dostoievsky, his mind travels with greater celerity, with more unexpectedness, but he loses none of Dostoievsky's effect of mass and of weight. Tarr is a man of genius surrounded by the heavy stupidities of the half-cultured latin quarter; the book delineates his explosions in this oleaginous milieu; as well as the débâcle of the unintelligent emotion-dominated Kreisler. They are the two titanic characters in contemporary English fiction. Wells's clerks, Bennett's "cards" and even Conrad's Russian villains do not "bulk up" against them. Only in James Joyce's "Stephen Dedalus" does one find an equal intensity, and Joyce is, by comparison, cold and meticulous, where Lewis is, if uncouth, at any rate brimming with energy, the man with a leaping mind. Despite its demonstrable faults I do not propose to attack this novel. It is a serious work, it is definitely an attempt to express, and very largely a success in expressing, something. The "average novel," the average pages is nothing of the sort; it is merely a third-rate mind's imitation of a perfectly well-known type-novel; of Hardy, or Mr. Wells, or Mrs. Ward, or some other and less laudable proto-or necro-type. A certain commercial interest attaches to the sale of these mimicries and a certain purely technical or trade or clique interest may attach to the closeness or "skill" of the aping, or to the "application" of a formula. The "work," the opus, has a purely narcotic value, it serves to soothe the tired mind of the reader, to take said "mind" off its "business" (whether that business be lofty, "intellectual," humanitarian, sordid, acquisitive, or other). There is only one contemporary English work with which "Tarr" can be compared, namely James Joyce's utterly different "Portrait of the Artist." The appearance of either of these novels would be a recognized literary event had it occurred in any other country in Europe. Joyce's novel is a triumph of actual writing. The actual arrangement of the words is worth any author's study. Lewis on the contrary, is, in the actual writing, faulty. His expression is as bad as that of Meredith's floppy sickliness. In place of Meredith's mincing we have something active and "disagreeable." But we have at any rate the percussions of a highly energized mind. In both Joyce and Lewis we have the insistent utterance of men who are once for all through with the particular inanities of Shavian-Bennett, and with the particular oleosities of the Wellsian genre. The faults of Mr. Lewis' writing can be examined in the first twenty-five pages. Kreisler is the creation of the book. He is roundly and objectively set before us. Tarr is less clearly detached from his creator. The author has evidently suspected this, for he has felt the need of disclaiming Tarr in a preface. Tarr, like his author, is a man with an energized mind. When Tarr talks at length; when Tarr gets things off his chest, we suspect that the author also is getting them off his own chest. Herein the technique is defective. It is also defective in that it proceeds by general descriptive statements in many cases where the objective presentment of single and definite acts would be more effective, more convincing. It differs from the general descriptiveness of cheap fiction in that these general statements are often a very profound reach for the expression of verity. In brief, the author is trying to get the truth and not merely playing baby-battledore among phrases. When Tarr talks little essays and makes aphorisms they are often of intrinsic interest, are even unforgettable. Likewise, when the author comments upon Tarr, he has the gift of phrase, vivid, biting, pregnant, full of suggestion. The engaging if unpleasant character, Tarr, is placed in an unpleasant milieu, a milieu very vividly "done." The reader retains no doubts concerning the verity and existence of this milieu (Paris or London is no matter, though the scene is, nominally, in Paris). It is the existence where: "Art is the smell of oil paint, Henri Murger's _Vie de Bohême_, corduroy trousers, the operatic Italian model ... quarter given up to Art.--Letters and other things are round the corner. "... permanent tableaux of the place, disheartening as a Tussaud's of The Flood." attempted to portray delicacies of common sense, and gossamer-like back-slidings into the Inane, that would have puzzled a bile-specialist. He would occasionally exploit his blackguardly appearance and black-smith's muscles for a short time ... his strong piercing laugh threw A.B.C. waitresses into confusion." This person wonders if Tarr is a "sound bird." Tarr is not a sound bird. His conversational attack on Hobson proceeds by a brandishing of false dilemma, but neither Hobson nor his clan, nor indeed any of the critics of the novel (to date) have observed that this is Tarr's faulty weapon. Tarr's contempt for Hobson is as adequate as it is justifiable. "Hobson, he considered, was a crowd.--You could not say he was an individual.--He was a set. He sat there a cultivated audience.--He had the aplomb and absence of self-consciousness of numbers, of the herd--of those who know they are not alone.... "For distinguishing feature Hobson possessed a distinguished absence of personality.... Hobson was an humble investor." Tarr addresses him with some frankness on the subject: "As an off-set for your prying, scurvy way of peeping into my affairs you must offer your own guts, such as they "You have joined yourself to those who hush their voices to hear what other people are saying.... "Your plumes are not meant to fly with, but merely to slouch and skip along the surface of the earth.--You wear the livery of a ridiculous set, you are a cunning and sleek domestic. No thought can come out of your head before it has slipped on its uniform. All your instincts are drugged with a malicious languor, an arm, a respectability, invented by a set of old women and mean, cadaverous little boys." Hobson opened his mouth, had a movement of the body to speak. But he relapsed. "You reply, 'What is all this fuss about? I have done the best for myself.'--I am not suited for any heroic station, like yours. I live sensibly, cultivating my vegetable ideas, and also my roses and Victorian lilies.--I do no harm to anybody." "That is not quite the case. That is a little inexact. Your proceedings possess a herdesque astuteness; in the scale against the individual weighing less than the Yellow Press, yet being a closer and meaner attack. Also you are essentially _spies_, in a scurvy, safe and well-paid service, as I told you before. You are disguised to look like the thing it is your function to betray--What is your position?--You have bought for eight hundred pounds at an aristocratic educational establishment a complete mental outfit, a program of manners. For four years you trained with other recruits. You are now a perfectly disciplined social unit, with a profound _esprit de corps_. The Cambridge set that you represent is an average specimen, a cross between a Quaker, a Pederast, and a Chelsea artist.--Your Oxford brothers, dating from the Wilde decade, are a stronger body. The Chelsea artists are much less flimsy. The Quakers are powerful rascals. You represent, my Hobson, the _dregs_ of Anglo-Saxon civilization! There is nothing softer on earth.--Your flabby potion is a mixture of the lees of Liberalism, the poor froth blown off the decadent nineties, the wardrobe-leavings of a vulgar Bohemianism with its headquarters in Chelsea! "You are concentrated, systematic slop.--There is nothing in the universe to be said for you.... "A breed of mild pervasive cabbages, has set up a wide and creeping rot in the West of Europe.--They make it indirectly a peril and a tribulation for live things to remain in the neighborhood. You are a systematizing and vulgarizing of the individual.--You are not an individual...." and later: "You are libeling the Artist, by your idleness." Also, "Your pseudo-neediness is a sentimental indulgence." All this swish and clatter of insult reminds one a little of Papa It _is_ due to the fact that we have here a highly-energized mind company, and that of her only child. At that we may leave it. "Tarr" "had no social machinery, but the "Tarr" really gets at something in his last long discussion with Joyce says something of the sort very differently, he is full of technical scholastic terms: "_stasis, kinesis_," etc. Any careful Mr. Strachey, acting as funeral director for a group of bloated reputations, is a welcome addition to the small group of men who philosophy, and in some cases exacts stiff definitions. expressing an idolization of the British Victorian character. Still it is hard to see how any people save those _che hannoo perduto il ben del intelletto_ The next essay is a very different matter. Mr. Strachey, without "The brooch, which was designed by the Prince Consort, bore a St. interests." In 1910 Mr. Manning published, with the almost defunct and wholly "When Merodach, King of Uruk, sat down to his meals, he made his enemies his footstool, for beneath his table he kept an hundred kings with their thumbs and great toes cut off, as signs of his power and clemency. When Merodach had finished eating he shook the crumbs from his napkin, and the kings fed themselves with two fingers, and when Merodach observed how painful and difficult this operation was, he praised God for having given thumbs to man. "'It is by the absence of things,' he said, 'that we learn their use. Thus if we deprive a man of his eyes we deprive him of sight, and in this manner we learn that sight is the function of the eyes.' "Thus spake Merodach, for he had a scientific mind and was curious of God's handiwork. And when he had finished speaking, his courtiers applauded him." Adam is afterwards discovered trespassing in Merodach's garden or conversation at the house of Euripides, "A Friend of Paul," a This book is not to be neglected by the intelligent reader (_avis "Others" Anthology for 1917. This last gives, I think, the first criticism. The anthology displays also Mr. Williams' praiseworthy opacity. The broad backed hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm to us.... Yet he is merely flesh and blood. Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock. The hippo's feeble steps may err In compassing material ends, While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends. The potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree, But fruits of pomegranate and peach Refresh the Church from over sea. At mating time the hippo's voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God. The hippopotamus's day Is past in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way-- The Church can sleep and feed at once I saw the potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God, in loud hosannas. Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold. He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr'd virgins kist, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist. I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon! Or possibly (fantastic, I confess) It may be Prester John's balloon Or an old battered lantern hung aloft To light poor travelers to their distress." She then: "How you digress!" And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain The night and moonshine, music which we seize To body forth our own vacuity." She then: "Does this refer to me?" "Oh no, it is I who am inane." "You, madam, are the eternal humorist, The eternal enemy of the absolute, Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist! With your air indifferent and imperious At a stroke our mad poetics to confute:--" And--: "Are we then so serious?" Prince Rupert's drop, paper muslin ghost, White torch "with power to say unkind Things with kindness and the most Irritating things in the midst of love and Tears," you invite destruction. You are like the meditative man With the perfunctory heart; its Carved cordiality ran To and fro at first, like an inlaid and royal Immutable production; Then afterward "neglected to be Painful" and "deluded him with Loitering formality, Doing its duty as if it did not," Presenting an obstruction To the motive that it served. What stood Erect in you has withered. A Little "palmtree of turned wood" Informs your once spontaneous core in its Immutable reduction. Mina Loy has been equally subject to something like international "So here we might dispense with her Gina being a female But she was more than that Being an incipience a correlative an instigation to the reaction of man From the palpable to the transcendent Mollescent irritant of his fantasy Gina had her use Being useful contentedly conscious She flowered in Empyrean From which no well-mated woman ever returns Sundays a warm light in the parlor From the gritty road on the white wall anybody could see it Shimmered a composite effigy Madonna crinolined a man hidden beneath her hoop. Patience said Gina is an attribute And she learned at any hour to offer The dish appropriately delectable What had Miovanni made of his ego In his library What had Gina wondered among the pots and pans One never asked the other." These lines are not written as Henry Davray said recently in the "Mercure de France," that the last "Georgian Anthology" poems are conviction that there is nothing meaningless in his book, "Al que Now that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished masonry, Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances, Ripples at Philæ, in and out, And lips, my Lesbian, Wall flowers that once were flame. Your hair is my Carthage And my arms the bow, And our words the arrows To shoot the stars, Who from that misty sea Swarm to destroy us. But you there beside me--- Oh! how shall I defy you, Who wound me in the night With breasts shining like Venus and like Mars? The night that is shouting Jason When the loud eaves rattle As with waves above me, Blue at the prow of my desire. O prayers in the dark! O incense to Poseidon! Old men who have studied every leg show in the city Old men cut from touch by the perfumed music-- polished or fleeced skulls that stand before the whole theatre in silent attitudes of attention,-- old men who have taken precedence over young men and even over dark-faced husbands whose minds are a street with arc-lights. for whom we find no excuses.... There's my things drying in the corner; that blue skirt joined to the gray shirt-- I'm sick of trouble! Lift the covers if you want me and you'll see the rest of my clothes-- though it would be cold lying with nothing on! I won't work and I've got no cash. What are you going to do about it? But I've my two eyes and a smooth face and here's this! look! it's high! There's brains and blood in there-- my name's Robitza! can go to the devil-- and drawers along with them! What do I care! My two boys? Let the rich lady care for them they'll beat the school let them go to the gutter-- that ends trouble. This house is empty isn't it? Then it's mine because I need it. Oh, I won't starve while there's the Bible to make them feed me. Try to help me if you want trouble or leave me alone-- that ends trouble. The county physician is a damned fool and you can go to hell! You could have closed the door when you came in; do it when you go out. I'm tired. That is the root of the matter; there is good journalism and bad Section 211 of the United States Criminal Code provides: substance; any and every paper, writing, advertisement, or The capitals are my own. individual. Francesco d'Assisi: The thought of what America would be like If the classics had a wide circulation Troubles my sleep, The thought of what America, The thought of what America, The thought of what America would be like If the classics had a wide circulation Troubles my sleep, Nunc dimittis, Now lettest thou thy servant, Now lettest thou thy servant Depart in peace. The thought of what America, The thought of what America, The thought of what America would be like If the classics had a wide circulation.... Oh well! It troubles my sleep. London. Essay first published in _Poetry_, 1917. (A divagation from Jules Laforgue) There arose, as from a great ossified sponge, the comic-opera, pink-lemonade sellers. To-morrow the galley would be gone. Death-duties. (Lunch was brought in.) "Grand equatorial, 22 yards inner tube length, revocable cupola This exhibit came at last in its turn. They were let down in a The unfortunate publicist stiffened. "Idealogue!" said the Nephew. The Nephew readjusted his collar. A subdued cortège reascended. Collars-of-the-Fleece in the idea that these would be a suitable segregation. circonflex, her teeth with still paler gums showing their And she was going to speak.... The Tetrarch bulged in his cushions, as if she had already said The princes were puzzled. "Concessions by the five senses to an "Bis, bis, brava!" cried her audience. Still she waited. Salome wound on in summary rejection of theogonies, theodicies, comparative wisdoms of nations (short shift, tone of recitative). expressions of animals, chances." Salome, milk-sister to the Via Lactea, seldom lost herself in As soon as she had got it, Salome, inspired by the true spirit of She had an idea, however. She perhaps lowered her eyes, out of respect to Orion, stiffening The sacred author of this work, Genesis, complied with the ideas acceptable to his era; it was almost necessary; for without this divinities to untangle chaos. The Phœnicians had been long navigators as the Phœnicians should not have had a few decent antiquity: _Finxit in effigiem moderantum cuncta deorum._ "He created them male and female." If God or the secondary gods created man male and female in their "And he rested the seventh day." commentator makes his own Eden. "Eat not of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil." It is "If you eat of the fruit you shall die." "God made them tunics of skin." "The Lord put his mark upon Cain." "And Abraham, having arrayed his people (there were of them three exaggeration. inconvenience from one's excerpted foreskin, but one would defend _O miseras hominium mentes! O pectora caeca!_ Translated from an eighteenth-century author. The reader will remember in Landor's Chinese dialogues, when the The reader is referred to our heading: "Subject to authority". Our author's treatment of Ezekiel merits equal attention. En Ar. Daniel was of Ribeyrac in Perigord, under Lemosi, near to Miells-de-ben ren Sit pren Chanssos grazida C'Arnautz non oblida. "cum super atria velum "Candida purpureum simulatas inficit umbras." And in Dante we have much in the style of: "Que jes Rozers per aiga que l'engrois." "Velut ales, ab alto "Quae teneram prolem produxit in æra nido," although he talks so much of Virgil. And at the end of "Doutz brais," is a verset like the verset of a Reviens, ami; trop longue est ta demeure: Elle me fait avoir peine et doulour. Mon esperit te demande à toute heure. Reviens, ami; trop longue est ta demeure. Car il n'est nul, fors toi, qui me sequerre, Ne secourra, jusques à ton retour. Reviens, ami; trop longue est ta demeure: Elle me fait avoir peine et doulour. And in: Le corps s'en va, mais le cœur vous demeure. And in: On doit le temps ainsi prendre qu'il vient: Tout dit que pas ne dure la fortune. Un temps se part, et puis l'autre revient: On doit le temps ainsi prendre qu'il vient. Je me comforte en ce qu'il me souvient Que tous les mois avons nouvelle lune: On doit le temps ainsi prendre qu'il vient: Tout dit que pas ne dure la fortune. Which is much what Bernart de Ventadour has sung: "Per dieu, dona, pauc esplecham d'amor Va sen lo temps e perdem lo melhor." "Ab l'alen tir vas me l'aire," "Lo clar temps vei brunezir E'ls auzeletz esperdutz, Que'l fregz ten destregz e mutz E ses conort de jauzir. Donc eu que de cor sospir Per la gensor re qu'anc fos, Tan joios Son, qu'ades m'es vis Que folh' e flor s'espandis. D'amor son tug miei cossir...." Pensar de lieis m'es repaus E traigom ams los huoills cranes, S'a lieis vezer nols estuich. "Una figura de la donna mia" Can chai la fueilla dels ausors entrecims, El freitz s'ergueilla don sechal vais' el vims, Dels dous refrims vei sordezir la brueilla; Mas ieu soi prims d'amor, qui que s'en tueilla. When sere leaf falleth from the high forkèd tips, And cold appalleth dry osier, haws and hips, Coppice he strips of bird, that now none calleth. Fordel my lips in love have, though he galleth. Though all things freeze here, I can naught feel the cold, For new love sees, here my heart's new leaf unfold; So am I rolled and lapped against the breeze here: Love who doth mould my force, force guarantees here. Aye, life's a high thing, where joy's his maintenance, Who cries 'tis wry thing hath danced never my dance, I can advance no blame against fate's tithing For lot and chance have deemed the best thing my thing. Of love's wayfaring I know no part to blame, All other paring, compared, is put to shame, Man can acclaim no second for comparing With her, no dame but hath the meaner bearing. I'ld ne'er entangle my heart with other fere, Although I mangle my joy by staying here I have no fear that ever at Pontrangle You'll find her peer or one that's worth a wrangle. She'd ne'er destroy her man with cruelty 'Twixt here 'n' Savoy there feeds no fairer she, Than pleaseth me till Paris had ne'er joy In such degree from Helena in Troy. She's so the rarest who holdeth me thus gay, The thirty fairest can not contest her sway; 'Tis right, par fay, thou know, O song that wearest Such bright array, whose quality thou sharest. Chançon, nor stay till to her thou declarest: "Arnaut would say me not, wert thou not fairest." Lancan son passat li giure E noi reman puois ni comba, Et el verdier la flors trembla Sus el entrecim on poma, La flors e li chan eil clar quil Ab la sazon doussa e coigna M'enseignon c'ab joi m'apoigna, Sai al temps de l'intran d'April. When the frosts are gone and over, And are stripped from hill and hollow, When in close the blossom blinketh From the spray where the fruit cometh, The flower and song and the clarion Of the gay season and merry Bid me with high joy to bear me Through days while April's coming on. Though joy's right hard to discover, Such sly ways doth false Love follow, Only sure he never drinketh At the fount where true faith hometh; A thousand girls, but two or one Of her falsehoods over chary, Stabbing whom vows make unwary Their tenderness is vilely done. The most wise runs drunkest lover, Sans pint-pot or wine to swallow, If a whim her locks unlinketh, One stray hair his noose becometh. When evasion's fairest shown, Then the sly puss purrs most near ye. Innocents at heart beware ye, When she seems colder than a nun. See, I thought so highly of her! Trusted, but the game is hollow, Not one won piece soundly clinketh; All the cardinals that Rome hath, Yea, they all were put upon. Her device is "Slyly Wary." Cunning are the snares they carry, Yet while they watched they'd be undone. Whom Love makes so mad a rover, 'll take a cuckoo for a swallow, If she say so, sooth! he thinketh There's a plain where Puy-de-Dome is. Till his eyes and nails are gone, He'll throw dice and follow fairly --Sure as old tales never vary-- For his fond heart he is foredone. Well I know, sans writing's cover, What a plain is, what's a hollow. I know well whose honor sinketh, And who 'tis that shame consumeth. They meet. I lose reception. 'Gainst this cheating I'd not parry Nor amid such false speech tarry, But from her lordship will be gone. Sir Bertran, sure no pleasure's won Like this freedom naught, so merry 'Twixt Nile 'n' where the suns miscarry To where the rain falls from the sun. When I see leaf, and flower and fruit Come forth upon light lynd and bough, And hear the frogs in rillet bruit, And birds quhitter in forest now, Love inkirlie doth leaf and flower and bear, And trick my night from me, and stealing waste it, Whilst other wight in rest and sleep sojourneth. The sixth is in the following pattern, and the third strophe translates: Hath a man rights at love? No grain. Yet gowks think they've some legal lien. But she'll blame you with heart serene That, ships for Bari sink, mid-main, Or cause the French don't come from Gascony And for such crimes I am nigh in my shroud, Since, by the Christ, I do such crimes or none. Autet e bas entrels prims fuoills Son nou de flors li ram eil renc E noi ten mut bec ni gola Nuills auzels, anz braia e chanta En son us; Per joi qu'ai d'els e del temps Chant, mas amors mi asauta Quils motz ab lo son acorda. _"Cadahus En son us."_ Now high and low, where leaves renew, Come buds on bough and spalliard pleach And no beak nor throat is muted; Auzel each in tune contrasted Letteth loose Wriblis spruce. Joy for them and spring would set Song on me, but Love assaileth Me and sets my words t' his dancing. I thank my God and mine eyes too, Since through them the perceptions reach, Porters of joys that have refuted Every ache and shame I've tasted; They reduce Pains, and noose Me in Amor's corded net. Her beauty in me prevaileth Till bonds seem but joy's advancing. My thanks, Amor, that I win through; Thy long delays I naught impeach; Though flame's in my marrow rooted I'd not quench it, well't hath lasted, Burns profuse, Held recluse Lest knaves know our hearts are met, Murrain on the mouth that aileth, So he finds her not entrancing. He doth in Love's book misconstrue, And from that book none can him teach, Who saith ne'er's in speech recruited Aught, whereby the heart is dasted. Words' abuse Doth traduce Worth, but I run no such debt. Right 'tis in man over-raileth He tear tongue on tooth mischancing. That I love her, is pride, is true, But my fast secret knows no breach. Since Paul's writ was executed Or the forty days first fasted, Could produce Her similar, where one can get Charms total, for no charm faileth Her who's memory's enhancing. Grace and valor, the keep of you She is, who holds me, each to each, She sole, I sole, so fast suited, Other women's lures are wasted, And no truce But misuse Have I for them, they're not let To my heart, where she regaleth Me with delights l'm not chancing. Arnaut loves, and ne'er will fret Love with o'er-speech, his throat quaileth, Braggart voust is naught t' his fancy. In the next poem we have the chatter of birds in autumn, the onomatopœia obviously depends upon the "_-utz, -etz, -ences_ and L'aura amara Fais bruoilss brancutz Quel doutz espeissa ab fuoills, Els letz Dels auzels ramencs Ten balps e mutz, E non-pars; Per qu'eu m'esfortz De far e dir A mains per liei Que m'a virat bas d'aut, Don tem morir Sils afans no m'asoma. The bitter air Strips panoply From trees Where softer winds set leaves, And glad Now in brakes are coy, Scarce peep the wee And un-mates. What gaud's the work? What good the glees? What curse I strive to shake! Me hath she cast from high, In fell disease I lie, and deathly fearing. So clear the flare That first lit me To seize Her whom my soul believes; If cad Blabs, slanders, my joy Counts little fee And their hates. I scorn their perk And preen, at ease. Can she, and wake Such firm delights, that I Am hers, froth, lees Bigod! from toe to earring. Amor, look yare! Know certainly The keys: How she thy suit receives; Nor add 'Twere folly to annoy. I'm true, so dree No debates Shake me, nor jerk. My verities Turn terse, And yet I ache; Her lips, not snows that fly Have potencies To slake, to cool my searing. Behold my prayer, (Or company Of these) Seeks whom such height achieves; Well clad Her, and would not cloy. Heart apertly Thought. Hope waits 'Gainst death to irk: False brevities And worse! To her I raik. Sole her; all others' dry I count not worth the leering. Ah, visage, where Each quality But frees One pride-shaft more, that cleaves Me; mad frieks (O' thy beck) destroy, And mockery Me, and rates. Yet I not shirk Thy velleities, Me not, nor slake Desire. God draws not nigh To Dome, with pleas Wherein's so little veering. Now chant prepare, And melody To please The king, who'll judge thy sheaves. Worth, sad, Here; double employ Hath there. Get thee Full, and cates, Gifts, go! Nor lurk Here till decrees And ring thou take. Cross the wide seas But "Rome" disturbs my hearing. At midnight mirk, In secrecies I nurse My served make In heart; nor try My melodies At other's door nor mearing. The eleventh canzo is mainly interesting for the opening bass En breu brisaral temps braus, Eill bisa busina els brancs Qui s'entreseignon trastuich De sobreclaus rams de fuoilla; Car noi chanta auzels ni piula M' enseign' Amors qu'ieu fassa adonc Chan que non er segons ni tertz Ans prims d'afrancar cor agre. Briefly bursteth season brisk, Blasty north breeze racketh branch, Branches rasp each branch on each Chirms now no bird nor cries querulous; So Love demands I make outright A song that no song shall surpass For freeing the heart of sorrow. Love is glory's garden close, And is a pool of prowess staunch Whence get ye many a goodly fruit If true man come but to gather. Dies none frost bit nor yet snowily, For true sap keepeth off the blight Unless knave or dolt there pass.... The gracious thinking and the frank Clear and quick perceiving heart Have led me to the fort of love. Finer she is, and I more loyal Than were Atlanta and Meleager. To think of her is my rest And both of my eyes are strained wry When she stands not in their sight, Believe not the heart turns from her, For nor prayers nor games nor violing Can move me from her a reed's-breadth. The most beautiful passages of Arnaut are in the canzo beginning: Doutz brais e critz, Lais e cantars e voutas Aug dels auzels qu'en lor latins fant precs Quecs ab sa par, atressi cum nos fam A las amigas en cui entendem; E doncas ieu qu'en la genssor entendi Dei far chansson sobre totz de bell' obra Que noi aia mot fais ni rima estrampa. Sweet cries and cracks and lays and chants inflected By auzels who, in their Latin belikes, Chirm each to each, even as you and I Pipe toward those girls on whom our thoughts attract; Are but more cause that I, whose overweening Search is toward the Noblest, set in cluster Lines where no word pulls wry, no rhyme breaks gauges. No culs de sacs nor false ways me deflected Hers, for whom my hungry insistency Passes the gnaw whereby was Vivien wracked; Day-long I stretch, all times, like a bird preening, And yawn for her, who hath o'er others thrust her As high as true joy is o'er ire and rages. Welcome not lax, and my words were protected Not blabbed to other, when I set my likes On her. Not brass but gold was 'neath the die. That day we kissed, and after it she flacked O'er me her cloak of indigo, for screening Me from all culvertz' eyes, whose blathered bluster Can set such spites abroad; win jibes for wages. God who did tax not Longus' sin, respected That blind centurion beneath the spikes And him forgave, grant that we two shall lie Within one room, and seal therein our pact, Yes, that she kiss me in the half-light, leaning To me, and laugh and strip and stand forth in the lustre Where lamp-light with light limb but half engages. The flowers wax with buds but half perfected; Tremble on twig that shakes when the bird strikes-- But not more fresh than she! No empery, Though Rome and Palestine were one compact, Would lure me from her; and with hands convening I give me to her. But if kings could muster In homage similar, you'd count them sages. Mouth, now what knacks! What folly hath infected Thee? Gifts, that th' Emperor of the Salonikes Or Lord of Rome were greatly honored by, Or Syria's lord, thou dost from me distract; O fool I am! to hope for intervening? From Love that shields not love! Yea, it were juster To call him mad, who 'gainst his joy engages. The slimy jacks with adders' tongues bisected, I fear no whit, nor have; and if these tykes Have led Galicia's king to villeiny---- His cousin in pilgrimage hath he attacked-- We know--Raimon the Count's son--my meaning Stands without screen. The royal filibuster Redeems not honor till he unbar the cages. I should have seen it, but I was on such affair, Seeing the true king crown'd here in Estampa. Vermeil, green, blue, peirs, white, cobalt, Close orchards, hewis, holts, hows, vales, And the bird-song that whirls and turns Morning and late with sweet accord, Bestir my heart to put my song in sheen T'equal that flower which hath such properties, It seeds in joy, bears love, and pain ameises. Sols sui qui sai lo sobrefan quern sortz Al cor d'amor sofren per sobramar, Car mos volers es tant ferms et entiers Cane no s'esduis de celliei ni s'estors Cui encubric al prim vezer e puois: Qu'ades ses lieis die a lieis cochos motz, Pois quan la vei non sai, tant l'ai, que dire. I only, and who elrische pain support Know out love's heart o'er borne by overlove, For my desire that is so firm and straight And unchanged since I found her in my sight And unturned since she came within my glance, That far from her my speech springs up aflame; Near her comes not. So press the words to arrest it. I am blind to others, and their retort I hear not. In her alone, I see, move, Wonder.... And jest not. And the words dilate Not truth; but mouth speaks not the heart outright: I could not walk roads, flats, dales, hills, by chance, To find charm's sum within one single frame As God hath set in her t'assay and test it. And I have passed in many a goodly court To find in hers more charm than rumor thereof.... In solely hers. Measure and sense to mate, Youth and beauty learnèd in all delight, Gentrice did nurse her up, and so adyance Her fair beyond all reach of evil name, To clear her worth, no shadow hath oppresst it. Her contact flats not out, falls not off short.... Let her, I pray, guess out the sense hereof For never will it stand in open prate Until my inner heart stand in daylight, So that heart pools him when her eyes entrance, As never doth the Rhone, fulled and untame, Pool, where the freshets tumult hurl to crest it. Flimsy another's joy, false and distort, No paregale that she springs not above.... Her love-touch by none other mensurate. To have it not? Alas! Though the pains bite Deep, torture is but galzeardy and dance, For in my thought my lust hath touched his aim. God! Shall I get no more! No fact to best it! No delight I, from now, in dance or sport, Nor will these toys a tinkle of pleasure prove, Compared to her, whom no loud profligate Shall leak abroad how much she makes my right. Is this too much? If she count not mischance What I have said, then no. But if she blame, Then tear ye out the tongue that hath expresst it. The song begs you: Count not this speech ill chance, But if you count the song worth your acclaim, Arnaut cares lyt who praise or who contest it. Ere the winter recommences And the leaf from bough is wrested, On Love's mandate will I render A brief end to long prolusion: So well have I been taught his steps and paces That I can stop the tidal-sea's inflowing. My stot outruns the hare; his speed amazes. Me he bade without pretences That I go not, though requested; That I make no whit surrender Nor abandon our seclusion: "Differ from violets, whose fear effaces Their hue ere winter; behold the glowing Laurel stays, stay thou. Year long the genet blazes." "You who commit no offences 'Gainst constancy; have not quested; Assent not! Though a maid send her Suit to thee. Think you confusion Will come to her who shall track out your traces? And give your enemies a chance for boasts and crowing? No! After God, see that she have your praises." Coward, shall I trust not defences! Faint ere the suit be tested? Follow! till she extend her Favour. Keep on, try conclusion For if I get in this naught but disgraces, Then must I pilgrimage past Ebro's flowing And seek for luck amid the Lernian mazes. If I've passed bridge-rails and fences, Think you then that I am bested? No, for with no food or slender Ration, I'd have joy's profusion To hold her kissed, and there are never spaces Wide to keep me from her, but she'd be showing In my heart, and stand forth before his gazes. Lovelier maid from Nile to Sences Is not vested nor divested, So great is her bodily splendor That you would think it illusion. Amor, if she but hold me in her embraces, I shall not feel cold hail nor winter's blowing Nor break for all the pain in fever's dazes. Arnaut hers from foot to face is, He would not have Lucerne, without her, owing Him, nor lord the land whereon the Ebro grazes. "_Ingenium nobis ipsa puella facit." Sim fos Amors de joi donar tant larga Cum ieu vas lieis d'aver fin cor e franc, Ja per gran ben nom calgra far embarc Qu'er am tant aut quel pes mi poia em tomba; Mas quand m' albir cum es de pretz al som Mout m'en am mais car anc l'ausiei voler, C'aras sai ieu que mos cors e mos sens Mi farant far lor grat rica conquesta. Had Love as little need to be exhorted To give me joy, as I to keep a frank And ready heart toward her, never he'd blast My hope, whose very height hath high exalted, And cast me down ... to think on my default, And her great worth; yet thinking what I dare, More love myself, and know my heart and sense Shall lead me to high conquest, unmolested. I am, spite long delay, pooled and contorted And whirled with all my streams 'neath such a bank Of promise, that her fair words hold me fast In joy, and will, until in tomb I am halted. As I'm not one to change hard gold for spalt, And no alloy's in her, that debonaire Shall hold my faith and mine obedience Till, by her accolade, I am invested. Long waiting hath brought in and hath extorted The fragrance of desire; throat and flank The longing takes me ... and with pain surpassed By her great beauty. Seemeth it hath vaulted O'er all the rest ... them doth it set in fault So that whoever sees her anywhere Must see how charm and every excellence Hold sway in her, untaint, and uncontested. Since she is such; longing no wise detorted Is in me ... and plays not the mountebank, For all my sense is her, and is compassed Solely in her; and no man is assaulted (By God his dove!) by such desires as vault In me, to have great excellence. My care On her so stark, I can show tolerance To jacks whose joy's to see fine loves uncrested. Miels-de-Ben, have not your heart distorted Against me now; your love has left me blank, Void, empty of power or will to turn or cast Desire from me ... not brittle, nor defaulted. Asleep, awake, to thee do I exalt And offer me. No less, when I lie bare Or wake, my will to thee, think not turns thence, For breast and throat and head hath it attested. Pouch-mouthed blubberers, culrouns and aborted, May flame bite in your gullets, sore eyes and rank T' the lot of you, you've got my horse, my last Shilling, too; and you'd see love dried and salted. God blast you all that you can't call a halt! God's itch to you, chit-cracks that overbear And spoil good men, ill luck your impotence!! More told, the more you've wits smeared and congested. Arnaut has borne delay and long defence And will wait long to see his hopes well nested. approaches the detail of métier.] Wriblis = warblings. This is nearly as bad in the original. Raik = haste precipitate. Make = mate, fere, companion. Longus, centurion in the crucifixion legend. "Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is, brittle." The The dilection of Greek poets has waned during the last pestilent perhaps no worse than "With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving" but bad enough anyway. Of Homer two qualities remain untranslated: the magnificent _παρὰ θῖνα πολυΦλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης_ untranslatable. Note how Pope fails to translate it: There sat the seniors of the Trojan race (Old Priam's chiefs, and most in Priam's grace): The king, the first; Thymœtes at his side; Lampus and Clytius, long in counsel try'd; Panthus and Hicetaon, once the strong; And next, the wisest of the reverend throng, Antenor grave, and sage Ucalegon, Lean'd on the walls, and bask'd before the sun. Chiefs, who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer days like grasshoppers rejoice, A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice. These, when the Spartan queen approach'd the tower, In secret own'd resistless beauty's power: They cried, No wonder, such celestial charms For nine long years have set the world in arms! What winning graces! What majestic mien! She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen! Yet hence, oh Heaven, convey that fatal face, And from destruction save the Trojan race. antithesis, and bathos in "she looks a queen," but there is fine accomplishment in: "Wise through time, and narrative with age," Homer (iii. 156-160) reports their conversation: _Οὐ νέμεσις, Τρὧας καὶ ἐϋκνήμιδας Αχαιοὺς_ _Τοιῇδ ἀμΦὶ γυναικὶ πολὺν χρόνον ἄλγεα πἀσχειν·_ _Αἰῶς ἀθανάτῃσι θεῇς εἰς ὦπα ἔοικεν._ _Ἀλλὰ καὶ ὣς, τοὶη περ εοῦς', ἐν νηυσὶ νεέσθω·_ _Μηδ' ἡμἰν τεκέεσσι τ' 'οπίσσω πῆμα λιποιτο._ Which is given in Sam. Clark's _ad verbum_ translation: "Non _est_ indigne ferendum, Trojanos et bene-ocreatos Archivos Tali de muliere longum tempus dolores pati: Omnino immortalibus deabus ad vultum similis est. Sed et sic, talis quamvis sit, in navibus redeat, Neque nobis liberisque in posterum detrimentum relinquatur." _Τοῖοι ἄρα Τρώων ἡγήτορες ἧντ' ἐπὶ πύργῳ._ _Οἵ δ' ὡς οὦν εἶδον Ἑλένην ἐπὶ πύργον ἰοῦσαν,_ _Ἠκα πρὸς ἀλλήλους ἔηεα πτερόεντ' ἀγόρευον·_ and Sam. Clark as follows: "Tales utique Trojanorum proceres sedebant in turri. Hi autem ut videruut Helenam ad turrim venientem, Submisse inter se verbis alatis dixerunt;" _Ἠκα_ is an adjective of sound, it is purely objective, even "All grave old men, and soldiers they had been, but for age Now left the wars; yet counsellors they were exceedingly sage. And as in well-grown woods, on trees, cold spiny grasshoppers Of beauty, in the queen, ascend, ev'n those cold-spirited peers, So many mis'ries, and so long? In her sweet count'nance shine Looks like the Goddesses. And yet (though never so divine) Before we boast, unjustly still, of her enforced prise, And justly suffer for her sake, with all our progenies, Labor and ruin, let her go; the profit of our land _Ὤς ἄρ ἔφαν' Πρίαμος δ'Ἑλένην έκαλέσσατο φωνῇ_ "Sic dixerunt: Priamus autem Helenam vocavit voce." Chapman is nearer Swinburne's ballad with: "But those three following men," etc. than to his alleged original. "Hélène à ce discours sentit naître en son âme Un doux ressouvenir de sa première flamme; Le désir de revoir les lieux qu'elle a quittés Jette un trouble inconnu dans ses sens agités. Tremblante elle se lève et les yeux pleins de larmes, D'un voile éblouissant elle couvre ses charmes; De deux femmes suivie elle vole aux remparts. La s'étaient assemblés ces illustres vieillards Qui courbés sous le faix des travaux et de l'age N'alloient plus au combat signaler leur courage, Mais qui, près de leur Roi, par de sages avis, Mieux qu'en leurs jeunes ans défendoient leur païs. Dans leurs doux entretiens, leur voix toujours égale Ressembloit aux accents que forme la cigale, Lorsqu'aux longs jours d'été cachée en un buisson, Elle vient dans les champs annoncer la moisson. Une tendre surprise enflamma leurs visages; Frappés de ses appas, ils se disoient entre eux: 'Qui pourroit s'étonner que tant de Rois fameux, Depuis neuf ans entiers aient combattu pour elle? Sur le trône des cieux Vénus n'est pas plus belle. Mais quelque soit l'amour qu'inspirent ses attraits, Puisse Illion enfin la perdre pour jamais, Puisse-t-elle bientôt à son époux rendue, Conjurer l'infortune en ces lieux attendue.'" Hugues Salel (1545), praised by Ronsard, is more pleasing: "Le Roi Priam, et auec luy bon nombre De grandz Seigneurs estoient à l'ombre Lampus, Clytus, excellentz en vertus, Hictaon renomme en bataille, Ucalegon iadis de fort taille, Et Antenor aux armes nompareil Mais pour alors ne seruantz qu'en conseil. La, ces Vieillards assis de peur du Hasle Causoyent ensemble ainsi que la Cignalle Ou deux ou trois, entre les vertes fueilles, En temps d'Esté gazouillant a merveilles; Lesquelz voyans la diuine Gregeoise, Disoient entre eux que si la grande noise De ces deux camps duroit longe saision, Certainement ce n'estoit sans raision: Veu la Beaulté, et plus que humain outrage, Qui reluysoit en son diuin visaige. Ce neantmoins il vauldrait mieulx la rendre, (Ce disoyent ilz) sans guères plus attendre. Pour éviter le mal qui peult venir, Qui la voudra encores retenir." Nicolo Valla is, for him who runs, closer: "Consili virtus, summis de rebus habebant Sermones, et multa inter se et magna loquentes, Arboribus quales gracili stridere cicadæ Sæpe solent cantu, postquam sub moenibus altis Tyndarida aspiciunt, procerum tum quisque fremebat, Mutuasque exorsi, Decuit tot funera Teucros Argolicasque pati, longique in tempore bellum Tantus in ore decor cui non mortalis in artus Est honor et vultu divina efflagrat imago. Diva licet facies, Danauum cum classe recedat Longius excido ne nos aut nostra fatiget Pignora sic illi tantis de rebus agebant." "Dic mihi musa uirum captae post tempora Troiae Qui mores hominum multorum uidit et urbes Multa quoque et ponto passus dum naufragus errat Ut sibi tum sociis uitam seruaret in alto Non tamen hos cupens fato deprompsit acerbo Ob scelus admissum extinctos ausumque malignum Qui fame compulsu solis rapuere iuvencos Stulti ex quo reditum ad patrias deus abstulit oras. Horum itaque exitium memora mihi musa canenti." "Cumprimum effulsit roseis aurora quadrigis Continuo e stratis proies consurgit Ulyxis Induit et uestes humerosque adcomodat ensem Molia denin pedibus formosis uincula nectit Parque deo egrediens thalamo praeconibus omnis Concilio cognant extemplo mandat Achaeos Ipse quoque ingentem properabat ad aedibus hastam Corripiens: gemenique canes comitantor euntem Quumque illi mirum Pallas veneranda decorem Preberer populus venientem suspicit omnis Inque throno patrio ueteres cessere sedenti." "Je te supply Déesse gracieuse, Vouloir chanter l'Ire pernicieuse, Dont Achille fut tellement espris, Que par icelle, ung grand nombre d'espritz Des Princes Grecs, par dangereux encombres, Feit lors descente aux infernales Umbres. Et leurs beaulx Corps privéz de Sépulture Furent aux chiens et aux oiseaulx pasture." "Who in this chamber, sumpteously adornd Sits on your ivory bed, nor could you say, By his rich habit, he had fought to-day: A reveller or masker so comes drest, From splendid sports returning to his rest. Thus did love's Queen warmer desires prepare. But when she saw her neck so heavenly faire, Her lovely bosome and celestial eyes, Amazed, to the Goddess, she replies: Why wilt thou happless me once more betray, And to another wealthy town convey, Where some new favourite must, as now at Troy With utter loss of honour me enjoy." _Iliade_ (Livre VI). Salel. "Adonc Glaucus, auec grace et audace, Luy respondit: 'T'enquiers tu de ma race? Le genre humain est fragile et muable Comme la fueille et aussi peu durable. Car tout ainsi qu'on uoit les branches uertes Sur le printemps de fueilles bien couuertes Qui par les uents d'automne et la froidure Tombent de l'arbre et perdent leur uerdure Puis de rechef la gelée passée, Il en reuient à la place laissée: Ne plus ne moins est du lignage humain: Tel est huy uif qui sera mort demain. S'il en meurt ung, ung autre reuint naistre. Voylà comment se conserue leur estre.'" _Iliade_ (Lib. VI). As in Virgil, Dante, and others. "Quasim gente rogas? Quibus et natalibus ortus? Persimile est foliis hominum genus omne caduciis Quae nunc nata uides, pulchrisque, uirescere sylvis Automno ueniente cadunt, simul illa perurens Incubuit Boreas: quaedam sub uerna renasci Tempora, sic uice perpetua succrescere lapsis, Semper item nova, sic alliis obeuntibus, ultro Succedunt alii luuenes aetate grauatis. Quod si forte iuvat te qua sit quisque suorum Stirpe satus, si natales cognoscere quaeris Forte meos, referam, quae sunt notissima multis." _Iliade_ (Livre IX). Salel. "En Calydon règnoit Oenéus, ung bon Roy qui donnoit De ses beaulx Fruictz chascun an les Primices Aux Immortelz, leur faisant Sacrifices. Or il aduint (ou bien par son uouloir, Ou par oubly) qu'il meit à nonchalloir Diane chaste, et ne luy feit offrande, Dont elle print Indignation grande Encontre luy, et pour bien le punir Feit ung Sanglier dedans ses Champs uenir Horrible et fier qui luy feit grand dommage Tuant les Gens et gastant le Fruictage. Maintz beaulx Pomiers, maintz Arbres reuestuz De Fleur et Fruict, en furent abattuz, Et de la Dent aguisée et poinctue, Le Bléd gasté et la Vigne tortue. Voyant ainsi le piteux Désarroy De son Pays et de sa Gent troublée Proposa lors de faire une Assemblée De bons Veneurs et Leutiers pour chasser L'horrible Beste et sa Mort pourchasser. Ce qui fut faict. Maintes Gens l'y trouvèrent Qui contre luy ses Forces éprouvèrent; Mais à la fin le Sanglier inhumain Estant occis, deux grandes Nations Pour la Dépouille eurent Contentions Les Curetois disoient la mériter, Ceulx d'Etolie en uouloient hériter." "Quand Ulysses fut en la riche tente Du compaignon, alors il diligente De bien lier ses cheuaulx et les loge Soigneusement dedans la même loge Et au rang même ou la belle monture Du fort Gregeois mangeoit pain et pasture Quand aux habitz de Dolon, il les pose Dedans la nef, sur la poupe et propose En faire ung jour à Pallas sacrifice, Et luy offrir à jamais son seruice Bien tost après, ces deux Grecs de ualeur Se cognoissant oppresséz de chaleur, Et de sueur, dedans la mer entrèrent Pour se lauer, et três bien so frotèrent Le col, le dos, les jambes et les cuisses, Ostant du corps toutes les immondices, Estans ainsi refreichiz et bien netz, Dedans des baingz souefs bien ordonnez, S'en sont entréz, et quand leurs corps Ont esté oinctz d'huyle par le dehors. Puis sont allez manger prians Minerue Qu'en tous leurs faictz les dirige et conserue En respandant du uin à pleine tasse, (pour sacrifice) au milieu de la place." abilities. "At postquam ad navem descendimus, et mare, Nauem quidem primum deduximus in mare diuum, Et malum posuimus et vela in navi nigra: Intro autem oues accipientes ire fecimus, intro et ipsi Iuimus dolentes, huberes lachrymas fundentes: Nobis autem a tergo navis nigræ proræ Prosperum ventum imisit pandentem velum bonum amicum Circe benecomata gravis Dea altiloqua. Nos autem arma singula expedientes in navi Sedebamus: hanc autem ventusque gubernatorque dirigebat: Huius at per totum diem extensa sunt vela pontum transientis: Occidit tunc Sol, ombratæ sunt omnes viæ: Hæc autem in fines pervenit profundi Oceani: Illic autem Cimmeriorum virorum populusque civitasque, Caligine et nebula cooperti, neque unquam ipsos Sol lucidus aspicit radiis, Neque quando tendit ad cœlum stellatum, Neque quando retro in terram a cœlo vertitur: Sed nox pernitiosa extenditur miseris hominibus: Navem quidem illuc venientes traximus, extra autem oves Accepimus: ipsi autem rursus apud fluxum Oceani Iuimus, ut in locum perveniremus quem dixit Circe: Hic sacra quidem Perimedes Eurylochusque Faciebant: ego autem ensem acutum trahens a foemore, Foveam fodi quantum cubiti mensura hinc et inde: Circum ipsam autem libamina fundimus omnibus mortuis; Primum mulso, postea autem dulci vino: Tertio rursus aqua, et farinas albas miscui: Multum autem oravi mortuorum infirma capita: Profectus in Ithicam, sterilem bovem, quæ optima esset, Sacrificare in domibus, pyramque implere bonis: Tiresiæ autem seorsum ovem sacrificare vovi Totam nigram, quæ ovibus antecellat nostris: Has autem postquam votis precationibusque gentes mortuorum Precatus sum, oves autem accipiens obtruncavi: In fossam fluebat autem sanguis niger, congregatasque sunt Animæ ex Erebo cadaverum mortuorum, Nymphæque iuvenesque et multa passi senes, Virginesque teneræ, nuper flebilem animum habentes, Multi autem vulnerati æreis lanceis Viri in bello necati, cruenta arma habentes, Qui multi circum foveam veniebant aliunde alius Magno clamore, me autem pallidus timor cepit. Iam postea socios hortans iussi Pecora, quæ iam iacebant iugulata sævo ære, Excoriantes combuere: supplicare autem Diis, Fortique Plutoni, et laudatæ Proserpinæ. At ego ensem acutum trahens a foemore, Sedi, neque permisi mortuorum impotentia capita Sanguinem prope ire, antequam Tiresiam audirem: Prima autem anima Elpenoris venit socii: Nondum enim sepultus erat sub terra lata, Corpus enim in domo Circes reliquimus nos Infletum et insepultum, quoniam labor alius urgebat: Hunc quidem ego lachrymatus sum videns, misertusque sum aio, Et ipsum clamando verba velocia allocutus sum: Elpenor, quomodo venisti sub caliginem obscuram: Prævenisti pedes existens quam ego in navi nigra? Sic dixi: hic autem mini lugens respondit verbo: Nobilis Laertiade, prudens Ulysse, Nocuit mihi dei fatum malum, et multum vinum: Circes autem in domo dormiens, non animadverti Me retrogradum descendere eundo per scalam longam, Sed contra murum cecidi ast autem mihi cervix Nervorum fracta est, anima autem in infernum descendit: Nunc autem his qui venturi sunt postea precor non præsentibus Per uxorem et patrem, qui educavit parvum existentem, Telemachumque quem solum in domibus reliquisti. Scio enim quod hinc iens domo ex inferni Insulam in Æaeam impellens benefabricatam navim: Tunc te postea Rex iubeo recordari mei Ne me infletum, insepultum, abiens retro, relinquas Separatus, ne deorum ira fiam Sed me combure con armis quæcunque mihi sunt, Sepulchramque mihi accumula cani in litore maris, Viri infelicis, et cuius apud posteras fama sit: Hæcque mihi perfice, figeque in sepulchro remum, Quo et vivus remigabam existens cum meis sociis. Sic dixit: at ego ipsum, respondens, allocutus sum: Hæc tibi infelix perficiamque et faciam: Nos quidem sic verbis respondentes molestis Sedebamus: ego quidem seperatim supra sanguinem ensem tenebam: Idolum autem ex altera parte socii multa loquebatur: Venit autem insuper anima matris mortuæ Autolyci filia magnanimi Anticlea, Quam vivam dereliqui iens ad Ilium sacrum, Hac quidem ego lachrymatus sum videns miseratusque sum aio: Sed neque sic sivi priorem licet valde dolens Sanguinem prope ire, antequam Tiresiam audirem: Venit autem insuper anima Thebani Tiresiæ, Aureum sceptrum tenens, me autem novit et allocuta est: Cur iterum o infelix linquens lumen Solis Venisti, ut videas mortuos, et iniucundam regionem? Sed recede a fossa, remove autem ensem acutum, Sanguinem ut bibam, et tibi vera dicam. Sic dixi: ego autem retrocedens, ensem argenteum Vagina inclusi: hic autem postquam bibit sanguinem nigrum, Et tunc iam me verbis allocutus est vates verus: Reditum quæris dulcem illustris Ulysse: Hanc autem tibi difficilem faciet Deus, non enim puto Latere Neptunum, quam iram imposuit animo Iratus, quem ei filium dilectum excæcasti: Sed tamen et sic mala licet passi pervenientis, Si volveris tuum animum continere et sociorum." "And then went down to the ship, set keel to breakers, Forth on the godly sea, We set up mast and sail on the swart ship, Sheep bore we aboard her, and our bodies also, Heavy with weeping; and winds from sternward Bore us out onward with bellying canvas, Circe's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess. Then sat we amidships--wind jamming the tiller-- Thus with stretched sail we went over sea till day's end. Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean, Came we then to the bounds of deepest water, To the Kimmerian lands and peopled cities Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever With glitter of sun-rays, Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven, Swartest night stretched over wretched men there, The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus, And drawing sword from my hip I dug the ell-square pitkin, Poured we libations unto each the dead, First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour, Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads, As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods. Sheep, to Tiresias only; black and a bell sheep. Dark blood flowed in the fosse, Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, Of brides, of youths, and of much-bearing old; Virgins tender, souls stained with recent tears, Many men mauled with bronze lance-heads, Battle spoil, bearing yet dreary arms, These many crowded about me, With shouting, pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts. Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze, Poured ointment, cried to the gods, To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine, Unsheathed the narrow sword, I sat to keep off the impetuous, impotent dead Till I should hear Tiresias. But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor, Unburied, cast on the wide earth, Limbs that we left in the house of Circe, Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other. Pitiful spirit, and I cried in hurried speech: 'Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast? Cam'st thou a-foot, outstripping seamen?' And he in heavy speech: 'Ill fate and abundant wine! I slept in Circe's ingle, But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied, Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-board, and inscribed: "_A man of no fortune and with a name to come._" And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows.' Came then another ghost, whom I beat off, Anticlea, And then Tiresias, Theban, Holding his golden wand, knew me and spoke first: 'Man of ill hour, why come a second time, Leaving the sunlight, facing the sunless dead, and this joyless region? Stand from the fosse, move back, leave me my bloody bever, And I will speak you true speeches.' And I stepped back, Sheathing the yellow sword. Dark blood he drank then, And spoke: 'Lustrous Odysseus Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas, Lose all companions.' Foretold me the ways and the signs. Came then Anticlea, to whom I answered: 'Fate drives me on through these deeps. I sought Tiresias,' Told her the news of Troy. And thrice her shadow Faded in my embrace." "the steep of Delphos leaving." "Dic mihi musa virum captæ post tempora Troiae Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes Multa quoque et ponto passus dum naufragus errat Ut sibi tum sotiis (sociis) vitam servaret in alto Non tamen hos cupiens fato deprompsit acerbo." "Virum mihi dic musa multiscium qui valde multum Erravit ex quo Troiae sacram urbem depopulatus est: Multorum autem virorum vidit urbes et mentem cognovit: Multos autem hic in mare passus est dolores, suo in animo, Liberans suamque animam et reditum sociorum." "Venerandam auream coronam habentem pulchram Canam, quae totius Cypri munimenta sortita est Maritimae ubi illam zephyri vis molliter spirantis Suscitavit per undam multisoni maris, Spuma in molli: hanc autem auricurae Horae Susceperunt hilariter, immortales autem vestes induere: Capite vero super immortali coronam bene constructam posuere Pulchram, auream: tribus autem ansis Donum orichalchi aurique honorabilis: Collum autem molle, ac pectora argentea Monilibus aureis ornabant...." etc. Ernestus, adding by himself the appendices to the Epics, gives us: "Venerandam auream coronam habentem pulchram Canam, quae totius Cypri munimenta sortita est Maritimae, ubi illam zephyri vis molliter spirantis Tulit per undam multisoni maris Spuma in molli: hanc autem auro comam religatae Horae Susceperunt hilariter, immortales autem vestes induere: Caput autem super immortale coronam bene constructam posuere Pulchram, auream, perforatis autem auriculis Donum orichalci preciosi: Collum autem molle ac pectora Candida Monilibus aureis ornabant...." etc. He quotes Matthew Arnold on the Greeks: "their expression is so _Τροιάν Αχαιῶν οὖσαν_, or the later _Τροίαν Ἀχαιοὶ τήδ' ἔχουσ' ἐν ἡπέρα._ "Troy is the greeks'." Even Rossetti has it better than Browning: "Troia the Achaioi hold," and later, "Troia do the Achaioi hold," followed by: "this same day I think a noise--no mixture--reigns i' the city Sour wine and unguent pour thou in one vessel--" "The perfect man his home perambulating!" apperception of the verbal relations. As for the word-sense and phrase-sense, we still hear workmen and "You sez to Bill, etc." Take another test passage: Οὖτός ἐσιν Αγαμέμνων, ἐμὸς Πόσις, νεκρὸς δέ τῆσδε δεξιᾶς χερός Ἔργον δικαίνας τέκτονος. Τάδ' ὦδ ἔχει. "Hicce est Agamemnon, maritus Meus, hac dextra mortuus, Facinus justae artificis. Haec ita se habent." We turn to Browning and find: "--this man is Agamemnon, My husband, dead, the work of this right hand here, Aye, of a just artificer: so things are." Any bungling translation: My husband, Dead by this hand, And a good job. These, gentlemen, are the facts." "Mox sciemus lampadum luciferarum Signorumque per faces et ignis vices, An vere sint, an somniorum instar, Gratum veniens illud lumen eluserit animum nostrum. Praeconem hunc a littore video obumbratum Ramis olivae: testatur autem haec mihi frater Luti socius aridus pulvis, Quod neque mutus, neque accendens facem Materiae montanae signa dabit per fumum ignis." Ah! quo me tandem duxisti? ad qualem domum? "Heu, heu, ecce, ecce, cohibe a vacca Taurum: vestibus involens Nigricornem machina Percutit; cadit vero in aquali vase. Insidiosi lebetis casum ut intelligas velim. Heu, heu, argutae lusciniae fatum _mihi tribuis_: "Heu nuptiae, nuptiae Paridis exitiales Amicis! eheu Scamandri patria unda!" All this howling of Kassandra comes at one from the page, and the "Ohime! lethali intus percussus sum vulnere." "Tace: quis clamat vulnus lethaliter vulneratus?" "Ohime! iterum secundo ictu sauciatus." "Patrari facinus mihi videtur regis ex ejulatu. "At tuta communicemus consilia." "Ego quidem vobis meam dico sententiam," etc. "In bellum nuptam, Auctricem que contentionum, Helenam: Quippe quae congruenter Perditrix navium, perditrix virorum, perditrix urbium, E delicatis Thalami ornamentis navigavit Zephyri terrigenae aura. Et numerosi scutiferi, Venatores secundum vestigia, Remorum inapparentia Appulerunt ad Simoentis ripas Foliis abundantes Ob jurgium cruentum." "War-wed, author of strife, Fitly Helen, destroyer of ships, of men, Destroyer of cities, From delicate-curtained room Sped by land breezes. "Swift the shields on your track, Oars on the unseen traces, And leafy Simois Gone red with blood." "War-wed, contested, (Fitly) Helen, destroyer of ships; of men; Destroyer of cities, "From the delicate-curtained room Sped by land breezes. "Swift on the shields on your track, Oars on the unseen traces. "Red leaves in Simois!" "Rank flower of love, for Troy." "Quippe leonem educavit.... Mansuetum, pueris amabilem.... ... divinitus sacerdos Ates (i.e. Paris) In aedibus enutritus est. "Statim igitur venit Ad urbem Ilii, Ut ita dicam, animus Tranquillae serenitatis, placidum Divitiarum ornamentum Blandum oculourum telum, Animum pungens flos amoris (_Helena_) accubitura. Perfecit autem Nuptiarum acerbos exitus, Mala vicina, malaque socia, Erinnys luctuosa sponsis." Above suggestions should _not_ be followed with intemperance. But "O iniquam Helenam, una quae multas, Multas admodum animas Nunc vero nobilem memorabilem _(Agam. animam),_ Deflorasti per caedem inexpiabilem. Talis erat tunc in aedibus Eris viri domitrix aerumna." "Nequaquam mortis sortem exopta Hisce gravatus; Neque in Helenam iram convertas, Tanquam viriperdam, ac si una multorum Virorum animas Graecorum perdens, Intolerabilem dolorem effecerit." "Mortem haud indignam arbitrar Huic contigisse: Neque enim ille insidiosam cladem Aedibus intulit; sed meum ex ipso Germen sublatum, multum defletam Iphigeniam cum indigne affecerit, Digna passus est, nihil in inferno Glorietur, gladio inflicta Morte luens quae prior perpetravit." "He gets but a thrust once given (by him) Back-pay, for Iphigenia." Morshead is bearable in Clytemnestra's description the beacons. "From Ida's top Hephaestos, Lord of fire, Sent forth his sign, and on, and ever on, Beacon to beacon sped tjie courier-flame From Ida to the crag, that Hermes loves On Lemnos; thence into the steep sublime Of Athos, throne of Zeus, the broad blaze flared. Thence, raised aloft to shoot across the sea The moving light, rejoicing in its strength Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun, Onward and reached Macistus' watching heights." Milton, of course, whom my detractors say I condemn without due circumspection. little."-_Submisse_ means low, quiet, with a secondary meaning of Later continued by l'Abbé de St. Chérroi. We have already seen proof of the vitality and practical value of I have been for the most part moved to my temerity by personal necessary for their cultivation. appropriate nutriment. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day with the Chinese line: Moon rays like pure snow. Perhaps we do not always sufficiently consider that thought is Man sees horse. Contrast the Laocoon statue with Browning's lines: "I sprang to the saddle, and Jorris, and he And into the midnight we galloped abreast." advantage of combining both elements. It speaks at once with the The sun underlying the bursting forth of plants = spring. The sun sign tangled in the branches of the tree sign = east. "Rice-field" plus "struggle" = male. "Boat" plus "water," boat-water, a ripple. correspond to some primary law of nature. The former has the advantage of trying for some natural objective term transference term from of to which force which agent act object Farmer pounds rice. The form of the Chinese transitive sentence, and of the English The intransitive form derives from the transitive by dropping a The beauty of Chinese verbs is that they are all transitive or intransitive at pleasure. There is no such thing as a naturally In the derivation of nouns from verbs, the Chinese language is I trust that this digression concerning parts of speech may have The whole delicate substance of speech is built upon substrata of In this Chinese shows its advantage. Its etymology is constantly I have mentioned the tyranny of mediæval logic. According to this abstraction may be carried on indefinitely and with all sorts of Far worse than this, such logic can not deal with any kind of The moment we use the copula, the moment we express subjective inclusions, poetry evaporates. The more concretely and vividly we In Chinese character each work accumulated this sort of energy in Shakespeare's verbs should underlie all exercises in style. interplays. Sentences must be like the mingling of the fringes of continuous light-bands. conspicuous quality of Chinese poetry. Let us examine our line. Style, that is to say, limpidity, as opposed to rhetoric.--E.P. Even Latin, living Latin had not the network of rules they foist This is a bad example. We can say "I look a fool", "look", Compare Aristotle's _Poetics_.--E.P. These precautions should be broadly conceived. It is not so much Professor Fenollosa is well borne out by chance evidence. The centuries of development in China.--E.P.

Jan François Elias Celliers

Digters uit Suid-Afrika Bloemlesing uit die poësie van die Twede Afrikaanse-Taalbeweging

1865

December. Several reimpressions followed, as did another London Horace's _Ars Poetica_ was one of the most fertile sources for Aristotle's _Poetics_. (217)--constitutes an unspoken comment on Bramston's subject.[E] Bramston's page 27 corresponds to Horace's brief history of the theatre, from Thespis's tragedies that he staged on wagons to the character expected of a modern clergyman. Sometimes the mere fact of changing from a poetic to a political context produces the satire or humour. What is praiseworthy in a In Falsehood Probability imploys, Nor his old Lies with newer Lies destroys. (p. 16) Not unlike Paintings, Principles appear, Some best at distance, some when we are near. (p. 36) More humourous than satirical is the relation between Horace's The Middle way the best we sometimes call. But 'tis in Politicks no way at all. There is no Medium: for the term in vogue On either side is, Honest Man, or Rogue. (pp. 37-38) The conclusion of the poem involves a somewhat more complex transformation. Horace closes with a humourously self-deprecating up-to-date, as shown by his reference to the recent events in the For a son of Christ Church, one of the most Tory Colleges of Tory To _Likelihood_ your _Characters_ confine; Don't turn _Sir Paul_ out, let _Sir Paul_ resign. In _Walpole_'s Voice (if Factions Ill intend) Give _Maidston_ Wit, and Elegance refin'd; To both the _Pelhams_ give the _Scipios_ Mind; To _Cart'ret_, Learning, Eloquence, and Parts; To _George_ the _Second_, give all _English_ Hearts. (p. 13) Such artless art did ever mortal see, Or politicks so void of policy? What bard but this could Pelham's train compare To Roman Scipio's thunder-bolts of war? Did e'er their wars enrich their native isle, With foreign treasures and with Spanish spoil? But hark! and stare with all your ears and eyes! Walpole is friend to Universities! Hail politician bard! we ask not whether A whig or tory; thou art both and neither. Poultney and Walpole each adorn thy lays, Which one for love, and one for money praise. Alike are mention'd, equally are sung Will. Shippen staunch, and slight Sir Wm. Young. Bromley and Wyndham share the motley strain, With Cart'ret, Maidstone, and the Pelhams twain.[F] This critic finds two main faults in the poem: misinformation and journalist: What an Assurance has the Kingdom already given of an unfeigned Affection to their Majesties Persons and Government? How do the People shew that none are acceptable to them, but those that are so to their Majesties? How can Subjects give stronger Proofs of the high Esteem they have their Sovereign in, for Penetration and Wisdom, than those who entirely rely upon the Royal Discerning, and regulate their Conduct by the King's Direction?[L] The Queen is hated, the King despised, their son both the one and the other, and such a spirit of disaffection to the family and general discontent with the present Government is spread all over the Kingdom, that it is absolutely impossible for things to go on in the track they are now Alas Poor Me, you may my fortune guess: I write, and yet Humanity profess: I love the King, the Queen, and Royal Race: I like the Government, but want no Place: Was never in a Plot, my Brain's not hurt; I Politicks to Poetry convert. line 11. Patriots: the self-awarded designation of the major group of Walpole's opponents. principle was to keep France at peace with the rest of Europe. line 12. Repetition Day: a day on which schoolboys recite memorized lessons. P. 7, line 10. Pinkethman: William Pinkethman (or Penkethman) (d. line 12. Maypole: This remarkable barometer of intellectual acquired it and presented it to James Pound to use as a telescope P. 8, line 2. Newer Square: Cavendish Square, according to Horace line 6. The bridge at Putney Ferry was completed in 1729. lines 6-7. "Caleb D'Anvers" was the pseudonym under which appeared _The Craftsman_, the opposition journal directed by Bolingbroke and Pultney. Bramston's expression of ignorance must be ironic. line 12. The "Kentish Petition" was presented to the line 6. the Bar: The Bar marked the outer limit of the House, lines 11-12. The "one cause" is presumably Walpole's patronage. The Cornish constituencies were notoriously corrupt even by eighteenth-century standards, and Walpole cultivated the Scots P. 20, line 8. Polly Peachum is of course the heroine of Gay's _Beggar's Opera_. The role was played by Lavinia Fenton, who typography of which perhaps indicates hasty composition: But you cast them like a Lubboard And did soon dispatch him. line 10. To sell bargains is to return indecent answers to civil questions. lines 7-8. "Oldfieldismus" and "Kibberismus" refer respectively line 11. Tallboy was a booby young lover in Richard Brome's line 14. Cibber's opera is _Love in a Riddle_ (1729), designed P. 29, line 6. Where Edmund Curll stood was in the pillory. line 4. John Banks was the author of _The Unhappy Favourite; or believed her. See Pope's poem on her, _TE_, 6, 259, and Hogarth's throws: i.e., throes, labor pains. P. 35, line 1. Tonson: Jacob Tonson, prominent bookseller. line 9. Cler. Dom. Com.: "Clerk of the House of Commons." P. 36, line 2. Die Martis is Tuesday; Thursday is Die Jovis. line 6. Wyndham: Sir William Wyndham, MP for Somerset 1710-40, printed. The facsimile of _The Art of Politicks_ (1729) is reproduced by permission from a copy of the first edition (Shelf Mark: *PR3326/B287A8; Foxon B383) in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Printed for LAWTON GILLIVER, at _Homer_'s _Head_ against St. _Dunstan_'s Church in _Fleet-Street_. If to a Human Face Sir _James_ should draw A Gelding's Mane, and Feathers of Maccaw, A Lady's Bosom, and a Tail of Cod, Who could help laughing at a Sight so odd? Just such a Monster, Sirs, pray think before ye, When you behold one Man both _Whig_ and _Tory_. Not more extravagant are Drunkard's Dreams, Than _Low-Church_ Politicks with _High-Church_ Schemes. Painters, you'll say, may their own Fancies use, And Freeborn _Britons_ may their _Party_ chuse; That's true, I own: but can one Piece be drawn Speakers profess'd, who Gravity pretend,) With motley Sentiments their Speeches blend:) Begin like Patriots, and like Courtiers end.) Some love to roar, _the Constitution's broke_, And others on the _Nation's Debts_ to joke; Some rail, (they hate a Commonwealth so much,) What e'er the Subject be, against the _Dutch_; While others, with more fashionable Fury, Begin with _Turnpikes_, and conclude with _Fleury_; Some, when th' Affair was _Blenheim_'s glorious Battle, Declaim'd against importing _Irish Cattle_. But you, from what e'er Side you take your Name, Like _Anna_'s _Motto_, always be the same. Outsides deceive, 'tis hard the Truth to know;) _Parties_ from quaint Denominations flow,) As _Scotch_ and _Irish_ Antiquaries show.) The _Low_ are said to take Fanaticks Parts, The _High_ are bloody _Papists_ in their Hearts. Caution and Fear to highest Faults have run; In pleasing both the Parties, you please none. Who in the _House_ affects declaiming Airs, _Whales_ in _Change-Alley_ paints: in _Fish-Street, Bears_. Some Metaphors, some Handkerchiefs display;) These peep in Hats, while those with Buttons play,) And make me think it _Repetition-Day_;) There Knights haranguing hug a neighb'ring Post, And are but _Quorum_ Orators at most. Sooner than thus my want of Sense expose,) I'd deck out Bandy-Legs with Gold-Clock't Hose,) Or wear a Toupet-Wig without a Nose.) Nay, I would sooner have thy Phyz, I swear, Ye _Weekly Writers_ of seditious _News_, Take Care your _Subjects_ artfully to chuse, Write _Panegyrick_ strong, or boldly _rail_, You cannot miss _Preferment_, or a _Goal_. Wrap up your Poison well, nor fear to say What was a Lye last Night is Truth to Day; Tell this, sink that, arrive at _Ridpath_'s Praise, Let _Abel Roper_ your Ambition raise. To Lye fit Opportunity observe, Saving some double Meaning in reserve; But oh, you'll merit everlasting Fame, If you can quibble on Sir _Robert_'s Name. Talk Words scarce known in good Queen _Besse_'s days. New Terms let War or Traffick introduce, And try to bring _Persuading Ships_ in Use. Coin Words: in coining ne'er mind common Sense, Like _South-Sea Stock_, Expressions rise and fall: King _Edward_'s Words are now no Words at all. Did ought your Predecessors Genius cramp? Sure ev'ry Reign may have it's proper Stamp. All Sublunary things of Death partake; What Alteration does a Cent'ry make? Kings and Comedians all are mortal found, _Caesar_ and _Pinkethman_ are under Ground. What's not destroy'd by Times devouring Hand? Where's _Troy_, and where's the _May-Pole_ in the _Strand_? Pease, Cabbages, and Turnips once grew, where Now stands new _Bond-street_, and a newer Square; Such Piles of Buildings now rise up and down; London itself seems going out of _Town_. Our Fathers cross'd from _Fulham_ in a Wherry, Their Sons enjoy a Bridge at _Putney-Ferry_. Think we that modern Words eternal are? Hereafter will be call'd by some plain Man To Things themselves if Time such change affords, Can there be any trusting to our Words. To screen good Ministers from Publick rage,) And how with Party Madness to engage,) We learn from _Addison_'s immortal Page.) The _Jacobite_'s ridiculous Opinion Is seen from _Tickel_'s Letter to _Avignon_. But who puts _Caleb_'s _Country-Craftsman_ out, Is still a secret, and the World's in doubt. Not long since _Parish-Clerks_, with saucy airs, Apply'd _King David_'s _Psalms_ to _State-Affairs_. Some certain _Tunes_ to Politicks belong, On both Sides Drunkards love a Party-Song. If full a-cross the Speaker's Chair I go, Can I be said the _Rules_ o'th' _House_ to know? I'll ask, nor give offence without intent, Nor through meer Sheepishness be impudent. In _Acts of Parliament_ avoid Sublime, Nor e'er Address his Majesty in Rhime; An _Act of Parliament_'s a serious thing, Begins with Year of Lord and Year of King; Keeps close to Form, in every word is strict, When it would _Pains_ and _Penalties_ inflict. Soft Words suit best _Petitioners_ intent; Who e'er harangues before he gives his Vote, Should send sweet Language from a tuneful Throat. _Pultney_ the coldest Breast with Zeal can fire, And _Roman Thoughts_ by _Attick Stile_ inspire; He knows from tedious Wranglings to beguile The serious _House_ into a chearful Smile; When the great Patriot paints his anxious Fears For _England_'s Safety, I am lost in Tears. But when dull Speakers strive to move compassion, I pity their poor Hearers, not the Nation: Unless young _Members_ to the purpose speak, I fall a laughing, or I fall asleep. Can Men their inward Faculties controul? Laugh not in time of _Service_ to your God, Nor bully, when in _Custody_ o'th' _Rod_; Look Grave, and be from Jokes and Grinning far, When brought to sue for Pardon at the _Bar_. If then you let your ill-tim'd Wit appear, Knights, Citizens, and Burgesses will sneer. For Land, or Trade, not the same Notions sire Their Climes are distant, tho' one Cause unites To _Likelihood_ your _Characters_ confine; Don't turn _Sir Paul_ out, let _Sir Paul_ resign. In _Walpole_'s Voice (if Factions Ill intend) Give _Maidston_ Wit, and Elegance refin'd; To both the _Pelhams_ give the _Scipios_ Mind; To _Cart'ret_, Learning, Eloquence, and Parts; To _George_ the _Second_, give all _English_ Hearts. Sometimes fresh Names in Politicks produce, And Factions yet unheard of introduce; And if you dare attempt a thing so new, Make to itself the _Flying-Squadron_ true. To speak is free, no _Member_ is debarr'd: But _Funds_ and _National Accounts_ are hard: Safer on common Topicks to discourse, On these each Coffee-House will lend a hint, Besides a thousand things that are in Print. But steal not Word for Word, nor Thought for Thought: For you'll be teaz'd to death, if you are caught. When Factious Leaders boast increasing strength, Go not too far, nor follow ev'ry Length: Leave room for Change, turn with a grace about, And swear you left 'em, when you found 'em out, With Art and Modesty your Part maintain: And talk like _Col'nel Titus_, not like _Lane_; The Trading-Knight with Rants his Speech begins, But _Titus_ said, with his uncommon Sense, When the _Exclusion-Bill_ was in suspense, I hear a Lyon in the Lobby roar; Say, Mr. Speaker, shall we shut the door And keep him there, or shall we let him in To try if we can turn him out again? Some mighty Blusterers _Impeach_ with noise, And call their Private Cry, the Nation's Voice; From Folio's of Accounts they take their handles, And the whole Ballance proves a pound of Candles; As if _Paul_'s Cupola were brought to bed, After hard Labour, of a small Pin's Head. Some _Rufus_, some the _Conqueror_ bring in, And some from _Julius Caesar_'s days begin. A cunning Speaker can command his chaps, And when the _House_ is not in humour, stops; In Falsehood Probability imploys, Nor his old Lies with newer Lies destroys. If when you speak, you'd hear a Needle fall, And make the frequent _hear-hims_ rend the wall, In matters suited to your Taste engage, Remembring still your Quality and Age. Thy task be this, young Knight, and hear my Song What Politicks to ev'ry Age belong. When _Babes_ can speak, _Babes_ should be taught to say, _King George the Second_'s Health, Huzza, Huzza! _Boys_ should learn _Latin_ for _Prince William_'s sake, And Girls _Louisa_ their Example make. More loves the _Youth_, just come to his Estate, To range the fields, than in the _House_ debate; More he delights in fav'rite Jowler's Tongue, If in one Chase he can two Horses kill, Loud in his Wine, in Women not o'er nice, He damns his Uncles if they give advice; Votes as his Father did, when there's a _Call_, But had much rather, never Vote at all. We take a diff'rent Turn at _Twenty-six_, And lofty thoughts on some Lord's Daughter fix; With Men in Pow'r strict Friendship we persue, With some considerable Post in view. A Man of _Forty_ fears to change his Note, One way to Speak, and t'other way to Vote; Careful his Tongue in Passion to command, Avoids the Bar, and Speaker's Reprimand. In Bags the _Old Man_ lets his Treasure rust, Afraid to use it, or the Funds to trust; When Stocks are low, he wants the heart to buy, And through much caution sees 'em rise too high; Thinks nothing rightly done since _Seventy-eight_, Swears present _Members_ do not talk, but prate: In _Charles the Second_'s days, says he, ye Prigs, _Torys_ were _Torys_ then, and _Whigs_ were _Whigs_. Alas! this is a lamentable Truth, We lose in age, as we advance in youth: I laugh, when twenty will like eighty talk, And old _Sir John_ with _Polly Peachum_ walk. When pockets suffer, and when anger burns, O Thing surpassing faith! Knight strives with Knight, When both have brib'd, and neither's in the right. The Bayliff's self is sent for in that case, And all the Witnesses had face to face. Selected _Members_ soon the fraud unfold, In full Committee of the _House_ 'tis told; Th' incredible Corruption is destroy'd, The Chairman's angry, and th' Election void. Those who would captivate the well-bred throng, Should not too often speak, nor speak too long: Church, nor Church Matters ever turn to Sport, Nor make _St. Stephen's Chappel_, _Dover-Court_. The _Speaker_, when the Commons are assembl'd, May to the _Graecian Chorus_ be resembl'd; 'Tis his the Young and Modest to espouse, And see none draw, or challenge in the _House_: 'Tis his Old Hospitality to use, And three good Printers for the _House_ to chuse; To let each Representative be heard, And take due care the _Chaplain_ be preferr'd, To hear no _Motion_ made that's out of joint, And where he spies his _Member_, make his point. To Knights new chosen in old time would come The _County Trumpet_, and perhaps a _Drum_; Now when a Burgess new Elect appears, When the majority the Town-clerk tells, His Honour pays the Fiddles, Waits, and Bells: Harangues the _Mob_, and is as wise and great, As the most Mystic Oracle of State. When the Duke's Grandson for the County stood, His Beef was fat, and his October good; His Lordship took each Ploughman by the fist, Drunk to their Sons, their Wives and Daughters kiss'd; But when strong Beer their Freeborn Hearts inflames, They sell him Bargains, and they call him Names. Thus is it deem'd in _English_ Nobles wise To stoop for no one reason but to rise. Election matters shun with cautious awe, A Judge by Bribes as much himself degrades, Try not with Jests obscene to force a Smile, Nor lard your Speech with Mother _Needham_'s Stile: Let not your tongue to =Oldphieldismus= run, And =Kibberismus= with abhorrence shun; Let not your looks affected words disgrace, Nor join with silver Tongue a brazen Face; Let not your hands, like Tallboys, be employ'd, And the mad rant of Tragedy avoid. Just in your Thoughts, in your Expression clear, Neither too modest, nor too bold appear. Others in vain a like Success will boast, He speaks most easy, who has study'd most. A Peer's pert Heir has to the Commons spoke A vile Reflection, or a Bawdy Joke; Call'd to the House of Lords, of this beware, 'Tis what the _Bishops Bench_ will never bear. Amongst the _Commons_ is such freedom shown, They lash each other, and attack the Throne: Yet so unskilful or so fearful some, When _James_ the _first_, at great _Britannia_'s helm, Rul'd this word-clipping and word-coining Realm, No words to Royal favour made pretence, But what agreed in sound and clash'd in sense. Thrice happy he! how great that Speaker's praise, Whose ev'ry Period look'd an hundred ways. What then? we now with just abhorrence shun The trifling Quibble, and the School-boys Pun; Tho' no great Connoisseur, I make a shift Just to find out a _Durfey_ from a _Swift_; I can discern with half an eye, I hope, _Mist_ from _Jo Addison_, from _Eusden Pope_: I know a Farce from one of _Congreve_'s Plays, And _Cibber_'s Opera from _Johnny Gay_'s. When pert _Defoe_ his sawcy Papers writ, He from a Cart was Pillor'd for his Wit: By Mob was pelted half a Morning's space, And rotten Eggs besmear'd his yellow face; The _Censor_ then improv'd the list'ning Isle, And held both Parties in an artful Smile. A Scribbling Crew now pinching Winter brings,) That spare no earthly nor no heav'nly things,) But Blasphemy displeases all the Town;) And for defying Scripture, Law, and Crown,) _Woolston_ should pay his Fine, and lose his Gown,) It must be own'd the _Journals_ try all ways To merit their respective Party's praise: They jar in every Article from _Spain_; A War these threaten, those a Peace maintain: Tho' Lye they will, to give 'em all their due, In Foreign matters, and Domestick too. Whoe'er thou art that would'st a _Postman_ write, Enquire all day, and hearken all the night. Might soon exceed th' Intelligence of _France_: To be out-done old _England_ should refuse, But Truth is scarce, the Scene of Action large, And Correspondence an excessive Charge. There are who say, no Man can be a Wit Unless for _Newgate_ or for _Bedlam_ fit; Let Pamphleteers abusive Satyr write, To shew a Genius is to shew a Spite: That Author's Works will ne'er be reckon'd good Who has not been where _Curl_ the Printer stood. Alass Poor Me, you may my fortune guess: I write, and yet Humanity profess; (Tho' nothing can delight a modern Judge, Without ill-nature and a private Grudge) I love the King, the Queen, and Royal Race: I like the Government, but want no Place: And for a Constable, thank God, too high; Was never in a Plot, my Brain's not hurt; I Politicks to Poetry convert. A Politician must (as I have read) Be furnish'd, in the first place, with a _Head_: A _Head_ well fill'd with _Machiavelian_ Brains, And stuff'd with Precedents of former Reigns: Must Journals read, and _Magna Charta_ quote; But acts still wiser, if he speaks by _Note_: Learns well his Lesson, and ne'er fears mistakes: For Ready Money Ready Speakers makes; He must Instructions and Credentials draw, Pay well the Army, and protect the Law: Give to his Country what's his Country's due, But first help _Brothers_, _Sons_, and _Cousins_ too. He must read _Grotius_ upon War and Peace, And the twelve Judges Salary encrease. He must oblige old Friends and new Allies, And find out _Ways and Means_ for fresh _Supplies_. He must the Weavers Grievances redress, And Merchants wants in Merchants words express. Dramatick Poets that expect the Bays, Should cull our Histories for Party Plays; _Wickfort's Embassador_ should fill their head, And the _State-Tryals_ carefully be read: For what is _Dryden_'s Muse and _Otway_'s Plots 'Tis said that _Queen Elizabeth_ could speak, At twelve years old, right _Attick_ full-mouth'd _Greek_; Hence was the Student forc'd at _Greek_ to drudge, If he would be a Bishop, or a Judge. Divines and Lawyers now don't think they thrive, 'Till promis'd places of men still alive: How old is such an one in such a Post? The answer is, he's seventy-five almost: Neither is young, and one's as old as _Paul_'s. Will Men, that ask such Questions, publish books On Tender Subjects with discretion touch, And never say too little, or too much. On Trivial Matters Flourishes are wrong, Motions for Candles never should be long: Or if you move, in case of sudden Rain, To shut the Windows, speak distinct and plain. Unless you talk good _English_ downright Sense, Can you be understood by Serjeant _Spence_? New Stories always should with Truth agree Or Truth's half-Sister, Probability: Scarce could _Toft_'s Rabbits and pretended throws On half the Honourable _House_ impose. When _Cato_ speaks, young _Shallow_ runs away, And swears it is so dull he cannot stay: When Rakes begin on Blasphemy to border, _Bromley_ and _Hanmer_ cry aloud---- _To Order_. The point is this, with manly Sense and ease T' inform the Judgment, and the Fancy please. Praise it deserves, nor difficult the thing, At once to serve one's Countrey and one's King. Such Speeches bring the wealthy _Tonson_'s gain,) From Age to Age they minuted remain,) As Precedents for George the twentieth's Reign.) Is there a Man on earth so perfect found, Who ne'er mistook a word in Sense or Sound? Not Blund'ring, but persisting is the fault; No mortal Sin is _Lapsus Linguae_ thought: Clerks may mistake; consid'ring who 'tis from, I pardon little Slips in _Cler. Dom. Com._ But let me tell you I'll not take his part, If ev'ry _Thursday_ he date _Die Mart_. Of Sputt'ring mortals 'tis the fatal curse, By mending Blunders still to make 'em worse. Men sneer when---- gets a lucky Thought, And stare if _Wyndham_ should be nodding caught. But sleeping's what the wisest men may do, Should the Committee chance to sit 'till Two. Not unlike Paintings, Principles appear, Some best at distance, some when we are near. The love of Politicks so vulgar's grown, My Landlord's Party from his Sign is known: Mark of _French_ wine, see _Ormond_'s Head appear, While _Marlb'rough_'s Face directs to Beer and Beer: Some _Buchanan_'s, the _Pope_'s Head some like best, The _Devil Tavern_ is a standing jest. Whoe'er you are that have a Seat secure, Duly return'd, and from _Petition_ sure, Stick to your Friends in whatsoe'er you say; With strong aversion shun the Middle way: The Middle way the best we sometimes call, But 'tis in Politicks no way at all. A _Trimmer_'s what both Parties turn to sport, By Country hated, and despis'd at Court. Who would in earnest to a Party come, Must give his Vote, not whimsical, but plumb. There is no Medium: for the term in vogue On either side is, Honest Man, or Rogue. Can it be difficult our Minds to show, In all Professions, Time and Pains give Skill, Without hard Study, dare Physicians kill? Can he that ne'er read Statutes or Reports, Give Chamber-Counsel, or urge Law in Courts? But ev'ry Whipster knows Affairs of State, Nor fears on nicest Subjects to debate. A Knight of eighteen hundred pounds a year-- Who minds his Head, if his Estate be clear? Sure he may speak his mind, and tell the _House_, He matters not the Government a Louse. Lack-learning Knights, these things are safely said To Friends in private, at the _Bedford-Head_: But in the _House_, before your Tongue runs on, Consult _Sir James_, _Lord William_'s dead and gone. Words to recall is in no Member's power, One single word may send you to the _Tower_. The wrong'd to help, the lawless to restrain, Thrice ev'ry Year, in ancient _Egbert_'s Reign, The _Members_ to the _Mitchelgemot_ went, In after Ages call'd the _Parliament_; Early the _Mitchelgemot_ did begin T' enroll their Statutes, on a Parchment Skin: For impious Treason hence no room was left, Since when the Senates power both Sexes know Now wholesom Laws young Senators bring in Since such the nature of the _British_ State, The power of _Parliament_ so old and great, Ye 'Squires and _Irish_ Lords, 'tis worth your care) To be return'd for City, Town, or Shire,) Some doubt, which to a Seat has best Pretence, But never any Member feats will do, Without a Head-piece and a Pocket too; Sense is requir'd the depth of Things to reach, And Money gives Authority to Speech. A Man of Bus'ness won't 'till ev'ning dine; Abstains from Women, Company, and Wine: From _Fig_'s new Theatre he'll miss a Night, Tho' Cocks, and Bulls, and _Irish_ Women fight: Nor sultry Sun, nor storms of soaking Rain, The Man of Bus'ness from the _House_ detain: Nor speaks he for no reason but to say, I am a _Member_, and I spoke to day. I speak sometimes, you'll hear his Lordship cry, Because Some speak that have less Sense than I. The Man that has both Land and Money too May wonders in a Trading Borough do: They'll praise his Ven'son, and commend his Port,) Turn their two former Members into Sport,) And, if he likes it, Satyrize the Court.) But at a Feast 'tis difficult to know From real Friends an undiscover'd Foe; The man that swears he will the Poll secure, And pawns his Soul that your Election's sure, Suspect that man: beware, all is not right, He's, ten to one, a Corporation-Bite. Alderman _Pond_, a downright honest Man, Would say, I cannot help you, or I can: To spend your Money, Sir, is all a jest; Matters are settled, set your heart at rest: We've made a Compromise, and, Sir, you know, That sends one Member _High_, and t'other _Low_. But if his good Advice you would not take, He'd scorn your Supper, and your Punch forsake: Leave you of mighty Interest to brag, _Parliamenteering_ is a sort of Itch, That will too oft unwary Knights bewitch. Two good Estates Sir _Harry Clodpole_ spent; Sate thrice, but spoke not once, in Parliament: Two good Estates are gone--Who'll take his word? Oh! should his Uncle die, he'd spend a third: He'd buy a House, his happiness to crown, Within a mile of some good _Borough-Town_; Tag, Rag, and Bobtail to Sir _Harry_'s run, Men that have Votes, and Women that have none: Sons, Daughters, Grandsons, with his Honour dine; He keeps a Publick-House without a Sign. Coolers and Smiths extol th' ensuing Choice, And drunken Taylors boast their right of Voice. Dearly the free-born neighbourhood is bought, They never leave him while he's worth a groat: So Leeches stick, nor quit the bleeding wound, Till off they drop with Skinfuls to the ground. Humano capiti cervicem Pictor equinam Jungere si velit, & varias inducere plumas, Undiq; collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne: Spectatum admissi, risum teneatis, amici? Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum Persimilem, cujus, velit aegri somnia, vanae Fingentur species. Pictoribus atq; Poetis Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas; Scimus, & hanc veniam petimusq; damusq; vicissim: Sed non ut placidis coeant immitia, non ut Serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus agni. Incoeptis gravibus plerumq; & magna professis Purpureus late qui splendeat unus & alter Assuitur pannus, cum lucus & ara Dianae, Aut properantis aquae per amaenos ambitus agros, Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arcus; Sed nunc non erar his locus: & fortasse cupressum, Scis simulare, quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes Navibus, aere dato qui pingitur? amphora caepit Institui, currente rota cur urceus exit? Deniq; sit quidvis simplex duntaxat & unum. Decipimur specie recti; brevis esse laboro, Obscurus fio: sectantem laevia, nervi Deficiunt animique: professus grandia, turget. Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam Delphinum sylvis appingit, fluctibus aprum. In vitium ducit culpae fuga, si caret arte. AEmilium circa ludum faber imus & ungues Exprimet, & molles imitabitur ore capillos; Infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum Nesciet; hunc ego me, si quid componere curem, Non magis esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso Spectandum nigris oculis nigroq; capillo. Sumite materiam vestris, qui scribitis, aequam Viribus; & versate diu, quid ferre recusent, Quid valeant humeri: cui lecta potenter erit res, Nec facundia deseret hunc nec lucidus ordo. Ordinis haec virtus erit & venus, aut ego fallor, Ut jam nunc dicat jam nunc debentia dici: Pleraq; differat, & praesens in tempus omittat. Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum Reddiderit junctura novum; si forte necesse est Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis Continget, dabiturq; licentia sumpta pudenter Et nova sictaq; nuper habebunt verba fidem, si Graeco fonte cadant. ---- licuit, semperque licebit Signatum praesente nota procudere nomen. Ut Sylvae foliis pronos mutantur in annos: Prima cadunt, ita verborum vetus interit aetas, Debemur morti nos nostraq; sive receptus Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet, Regis opus, sterilisve diu palus aptaque remis Vicinas urbes alit & grave sentit aratrum. Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus amnis Doctus iter melius; mortalia facta peribunt, Nedum sermonum stet honos & gratia vivax. Multa renascentur quae jam cecidere, cadentq; Quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus, Quem penes arbitrium est & jus norma loquendi. Res gestae regumq; ducumq; & tristia bella Quo scribi possent numero, monstravit Homerus. Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum, Post etiam voti inclusa est voti sententia compos. Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor Grammatici certant, & adhuc sub judice lis est. Musa dedit fidibus Divos puerosq; Deorum, Et pugilem victorem, & equum certamine primum, Et juvenum curas, & libera vina referre. Descriptas servare vices operumq; colores Cur ego si nequeo ignoroq;, poeta salutor? Cur nescire pudens prave quam discere malo? Versibus exponi tragicis res comica nonvult Indignatur item privatis ac prope socco Dignis carminibus narrari caena Thyestae, Interdum tamen & vocem Comaedia tollit, Iratusq; Chremes tumido delitigat ore. Telephus & Peleus, cum pauper & exul uterq;, Projicit ampullas & sesqui pedalia verba. Non fatis est est pulchra esse Poemata, dulcia sunto. Ut ridentibus arrident, ita flentibus adflent Humani vultus; si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi: tunc tua me infortunia laedent Telephe, vel Peleu; male si mandata loqueris, Aut dormitabo aut ridebo. Format enim Natura prius nos intus ad omnem Fortunarum habitum, &c. Post effert animi motus interprete Lingua ---- tristia maestum Vultum verba decent, &c. Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta, Romani tollent equites peditesq; cachinnum. Intererit multum Divusne loquetur, an Heros: Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli: Colchus, an Assyrius: Thebis nutritus, an Argis. Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convenientia finge Scriptor; honoratum si forte reponis Achillem, Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis; Sit Medea ferox invictaq;, flebilis Ino, Perfidus Ixion, Io vaga, tristis Orestes. Siquid inexpertum scenae committis, & audes Personam formare novam, servetur ad imum Qualis ab incaepto processerit, & sibi constet. Difficile est proprie communia dicere: tuq; Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, Quam si proferres ignota indictaq; primus; Publica materies privati juris erit, si Nec circa vilem patulumq; moraberis orbem, Nec verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus Interpres, nec sic desilies imitator in arctum Unde pedem proferre pudor vetet aut operis lex. Nec sic incipies ut Scriptor Cyclicus olim. Fortunam Priami cantabo & nobile bellum; Quanto rectius hic qui nil molitur inepte, Dic mihi Musa virum captae post tempera Trojae Qui mores hominum multorum vidit & urbes. Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem Quid dignum tanto feret hic promissor hiatu? Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Nec reditum Diomedis ab interitu Meleagri, Nec gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo; Desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit; Atq; ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum. Tu quid ego & populus mecum desideret, audi; Si plausoris eges aulaea manentis, & usq; Sessuri donec cantor, Vos plaudite, dicat, AEtatis cujusq; notandi sunt tibi mores, Mobilibusq; decor naturis dandus & annis. Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, & pede certo Signat humum, gestit paribus colludere, & iram Colligit ac ponit temere, & mutantur in horas. Imberbis juvenis, tandem custode remoto, Gaudet equis canibusq; & aprici gramine campi: Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper, Sublimis, cupidusq; & amata relinquere pernix. Conversis studiis aetas animusq; virilis Quaerit opes & amicitias, infervit honori, Commisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret. Multa senem circum veniunt incommoda, vel quod Quaerit & inventis miser abstinet ac timet uti: Dilator, spe longus iners, avidusq; futuri, Difficilis, querulus, laudator temporis acti Se puero, censor castigatorq; minorum. Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, Multa recedentes adimunt; ne forte viriles Mandentur juveni partes, pueroq; viriles, Semper in adjunctis aevoq; morabimur aptis. Aut agitur res in Scenis, aut acta refertur; Segnius irritant aminos demissa per aures, Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, & quae Ipse sibit tradit Spectator. Quodcunq; ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu Fabula, quae posci vult & spectata reponi; Nec Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus Inciderit, nec quarta loqui persona laboret. Actoris partes Chorus officiumq; virile Defendat: neu quid medios intercinat actus Quod non proposito conducat & haereat apte; Ille bonis faveatq; & concilietur amicis, Et regat iratos, & amet peccare timentes: Ille dapes laudet mensae brevis, ille salubrem Justitiam, legesq; & apertis otia portis; Ille tegat commissa, Deosq; precetur & oret Ut redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis. Tibia non, ut nunc, Orichalco vincta, tubaeq; AEmula, sed tenuis simplexq; foramine pauco, Aspirare & adesse choris erat utilis, &c. Postquam coepit agros extendere victor, & urbem Latior amplecti, muros, &c. Accessit numerisq; modisq; licentia major; Sic etiam fidibus voces crevere severis, Et tulit eloquium insolitum facundia praeceps: Utiliumq; sagax rerum & divina futuri Sortilegis non discrepuit sententia Delphis. Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit ob hircum Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit, eo quod Illecebris erat & grata novitate morandus Spectator, functusq; sacris, & potus, & exlex. Effutire leves indigna Tragoedia versus, Ut festis matrona moveri jussa diebus, Intererit Satyris paulum pudibunda protervis. Non ego inornata & dominantia nomina solum Verbaq; Pisones, Satyrorum scriptor amabo; Nec sic enitar Tragico differre colori Ut nihil intersit Davusne loquatur, an audax Pythias, emuncto lucrata Simone talentum: An custos famulusque Dei Silenus alumni, Ut sibi quivis Speret idem, sudet multum frustraq; laboret. Ne nimium teneris juvenentur versibus unquam, Aut immunda crepent ignominiosaq; dicta: Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus & pater & res, Nec si quid fricti ciceris probat & nucis emtor AEquis accipiunt animis, donantve corona. At nostri proavi Plautinos & numeros & Laudavere sales, nimium patienter utrumq; Ne dicam stulte, mirati; si modo ego & vos Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dictum, Legitimumq; sonum digitis callemus & aure. Ignotum Tragicae genus invenisse Camaenae Dicitur, & plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, Quae canerent agerentq; peruncti faecibus ora; Post hunc personae pallaeq; repertor honestae AEichylus & modicis instravit pulpita tignis, Et docuit magnumq; loqui nitiq; cothurno. Successit vetus his Comaedia non sine multa Laude: sed in vitium libertas excidit, & vim Dignam lege regi; lex est accepta, chorusq; Turpiter obticuit sublato jure nocendi. Nil intentatum nostri liquere Poetae, Nec minimum meruere decus vestigia Graeca Ausi deserere, & celebrare domestica facta: Nee virtute foret clarisve potentius armis, Quam lingua, Latium, si non offenderet unum Quemq; Poetarum limae labor & mora. Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte Credit, & excludit sanos Helicone Poetas Democritus, bona pars non unguem ponere curat, Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenq; Poetae Si tribus Anticyris caput insanabile nunquam Tonsori Licino commiserit; ---- O ego laevus Qui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam: Non alius faceret meliora poemata, verum Nil tanti est: ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum Reddere quae ferrum valet exors ipse secandi; Munus & officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo: Unde parentur opes, quid alat formetq; Poetam: Quid deceat, quid non: quo virtus, quo ferat error. Scribendi recte sapere est & principium & fons: Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartae, Verbaq; provisam rem non invita sequuntur. Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, & quid amicis, Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, & hospes, Quod sit conscripti, quod judicis officium, quae Partes in bellum missi ducis, ille profecto Reddere personae scit convenientia cuiq;. Respicere exemplar vitae morumq; jubebo Doctum imitatorem, & veras hinc ducere voces; Fabula nullius veneris, sine pondere & arte, Valdius oblectat populum meliusq; moratur, Quam versus inopes rerum nugaeq; canorae. Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo Musa loqui, &c. Romani pueri longis rationibus assem Filius urbani, si de quincunce remota est Uncia, quid superest? poteris dixisse, triens, eu Rem poteris servare tuam. ---- redit uncia, quid sit? Semis; at haec animos aerugo & cura peculi Cum semel imbuerit, speramus carmina fingi Posse linenda cedro & laevi servando cupresso? Quicquid praecipies, esto brevis, ut cito dicta Percipiant animi dociles, teneantq; fideles; Omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat. Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris: Nec quodcunq; volet poscat sibi fabula credi, Neu pransae Lamiae vivum puerum extrabat alvo. Centuriae Seniorum agitant expertia frugis: Celsi praetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes. Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci, Lectorem delectando, pariterq; monendo; Hic meret aera liber Sofiis, hic & mare transit, Et longum noto Scriptori prorogat aevium. Sunt delicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus; Non semper feriet quodcunq; minabitur arcus: Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria sudit, Aut humana parum cavit natura: quid ergo? Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usq;, Quamvis est monitus, venia caret: ut citharaedus Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat eidem: Sic mihi qui multum cessat fit Chaerilus ille, Quem bis terq; bonum cum risu mirror, & idem Indignor quandoq; bonus dormitat Homerus; Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum. Ut Pictura Poesis erit, quae si propius stes Te capiet magis & quaedam, si longius abstes; Haec amet obscurum, volet haec sub luce videri; Haec placuit semel, haec decies repetita placebit. O major juvenum ---- hoc tibi dictum Tolle memor, certis medium & tolerabile rebus ---- Mediocribus esse Poetis Non homines, non Dii, non concessere columnae Sic, animis natum inventumq; Poema juvandis, Si paulum a summo discessit, vergit ad imum. Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis: Indoctusq; pilae, discive, trochive, quiescit, Ne spissae risum tollant impune coronae; Qui nescit, versus tamen audet fingere. ---- Liber, & ingenuus, praesertim census equestrem Summam nummorum, vitioq; remotus ab omni. Membranis intus positis, delere licebit Quod non edideris: nescit vox missa reverti. Sylvestres homines facer interpresq; Deorum Caedibus & victu faedo deterruit Orpheus, ---- Fuit haec sapientia quondam Publica privatis secernere, sacra profanis: Concubitu prohibere vago, dare jura maritis: Oppida moliri, leges incidere ligno. ---- Dictae per carmina sortes Et vitae monstrata via est, & gratia regum Pieriis tentata modis: ludusq; repertus, Et longorum operum finis. ---- ne forte pudori Sit tibi Musa lyrae solers & cantor Apollo. Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, Quaesitum est; Ego nec studium sine divite vena, Nec rude quid profit video ingenium; alterius sic Altera poscit opem res & conjurat amice. Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, Multa tulit fecitq; puer; sudavit & alsit, Abstinuit vener & vino, Nunc fatis est dixisse, Ego mira poemata pango: Occupet extremum scabies, mihi turpe relinqui est, Et quod non didici sane nescire fateri. Assentatores jubet ad lucrum ire Poeta Dives agris, dives positis in faenore nummis; Si vero est unctum qui recte ponere possit Et spondere levi pro paupere, & eripere arctis Litribus implicitum, mirabor, si sciet inter Noscere mendacem verumq; beatus amicum. Tu seu donaris, seu quid donare velis cui, Noilto ad versus tibi factos ducere plenum Laetitiae: clamabit enim, pulchre, bene, recte. ---- si carmina condes, Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes Quintilio siquid recitares, corrige sodes Hoc aiebat & hoc: melius te posse negares Bis terque expertum frustra, delere jubelat. Si defendere delictum, quam vertere, malles, Nullum ultra verbum aut operam insumebat inanem, Quin sine rivali teque & tua solus amares. Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urget, ---- dicam Siculiq; poetae Narrabo interium ---- Nec semel hoc fecit, nec si retractus erit, jam Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus: Quem vero arripuit, tenet occiditq; legendo; Non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo.

Henrietta Christian Wright

Children's Stories in American History

VAN ZORN. A Comedy in Three Acts THE PORCUPINE. A Drama in Three Acts _All rights reserved_ Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1917. "Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see, So far beyond the faint edge of the world? D'ye look to see the lady Vivian, Pursued by divers ominous vile demons That have another king more fierce than ours? Or think ye that if ye look far enough And hard enough into the feathery west Ye'll have a glimmer of the Grail itself? And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady, What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?" Because he loved him as he laughed at him, Intoned his idle presence on a day To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone, Had there been in him thought of anything Save what was murmured now in Camelot Of Merlin's hushed and all but unconfirmed Appearance out of Brittany. It was heard At first there was a ghost in Arthur's palace, But soon among the scullions and anon Among the knights a firmer credit held All tongues from uttering what all glances told-- Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon, Fearing he might say more to Lancelot Of Merlin's rumor-laden resurrection Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish, Had sauntered off with his imagination To Merlin's Rock, where now there was no Merlin To meditate upon a whispering town Below him in the silence.--Once he said To Gawaine: "You are young; and that being so, Behold the shining city of our dreams And of our King."--"Long live the King," said Gawaine.-- "Long live the King," said Merlin after him; "Better for me that I shall not be King; Wherefore I say again, Long live the King, And add, God save him, also, and all kings-- All kings and queens. I speak in general. Kings have I known that were but weary men With no stout appetite for more than peace That was not made for them."--"Nor were they made For kings," Gawaine said, laughing.--"You are young Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world Between your fingers, knowing not what it is That you are holding. Better for you and me, I think, that we shall not be kings." Remembering Merlin's words of long ago, Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again, He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard: "There's more afoot and in the air to-day Than what is good for Camelot. Merlin May or may not know all, but he said well To say to me that he would not be King. No more would I be King." Far down he gazed On Camelot, until he made of it A phantom town of many stillnesses, Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings To reign in, without omens and obscure Familiars to bring terror to their days; For though a knight, and one as hard at arms As any, save the fate-begotten few That all acknowledged or in envy loathed, He felt a foreign sort of creeping up And down him, as of moist things in the dark,-- Presuming on his title of Sir Fool, Addressed him and crooned on till he was done: "What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?" Of all dishonest men, I look through Time, For sight of what it is that is to be. I look to see it, though I see it not. I see a town down there that holds a king, And over it I see a few small clouds-- Like feathers in the west, as you observe; And I shall see no more this afternoon Than what there is around us every day, Unless you have a skill that I have not To ferret the invisible for rats." "If you see what's around us every day, You need no other showing to go mad. Remember that and take it home with you; And say tonight, 'I had it of a fool-- With no immediate obliquity For this one or for that one, or for me.'" Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously: "I'll not forget I had it of a knight, Whose only folly is to fool himself; And as for making other men to laugh, And so forget their sins and selves a little, There's no great folly there. So keep it up, As long as you've a legend or a song, And have whatever sport of us you like Till havoc is the word and we fall howling. For I've a guess there may not be so loud A sound of laughing here in Camelot When Merlin goes again to his gay grave In Brittany. To mention lesser terrors, Men say his beard is gone." "Do men say that?" A twitch of an impatient weariness Played for a moment over the lean face "The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing, One of these days."--Gawaine looked hard at him: "If I be too familiar with a fool, I'm on the way to be another fool," He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him: "Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly, And that he shines now as the Lord's anointed, And wears the valiance of an ageless youth Crowned with a glory of eternal peace." "I grant your valiance of a kind of youth To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question; For, though I know no more than any churl Who pinches any chambermaid soever In the King's palace, I look not to Merlin For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb He comes again to Camelot. Time swings A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace Goes down before its edge like so much clover. No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes, Without a trumpet--and without a beard, If what you say men say of him be true-- Nor yet for sudden war." Gawaine, for a moment, And, making nothing of it, looked abroad As if at something cheerful on all sides, And back again to the fool's unasking eyes: Let Merlin stay away from Brittany," Said he, with admiration for the man Whom Folly called a fool: "And we have known him; We knew him once when he knew everything." "He knew as much as God would let him know Until he met the lady Vivian. I tell you that, for the world knows all that; Also it knows he told the King one day That he was to be buried, and alive, In Brittany; and that the King should see The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers, And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods Of many savors, and sweet ortolans. Wise books of every lore of every land Are there to fill his days, if he require them, And there are players of all instruments-- Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms And there forgets that any town alive Had ever such a name as Camelot. So Vivian holds him with her love, they say, And he, who has no age, has not grown old. I swear to nothing, but that's what they say. That's being buried in Broceliande For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy. But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard This tale, or many like it, more than once; And you must know that Love, when Love invites Philosophy to play, plays high and wins, Or low and loses. And you say to me, 'If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay Away from Brittany.' Gawaine, you are young, And Merlin's in his grave." "Merlin said once That I was young, and it's a joy for me That I am here to listen while you say it. Young or not young, if that be burial, May I be buried long before I die. I might be worse than young; I might be old."-- "Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that; A fancy--a mere fancy." Then he smiled: "And such a doom as his may be for you, Gawaine, should your untiring divination Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord. And when you stake your wisdom for a woman, Compute the woman to be worth a grave, As Merlin did, and say no more about it. But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high! Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,--and her love. Gawaine, farewell." And may the devil take you presently." He followed with a vexed and envious eye, Departure, till his gaunt obscurity Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees. "Poor fool!" he murmured. "Or am I the fool? With all my fast ascendency in arms, That ominous clown is nearer to the King Than I am--yet; and God knows what he knows, And what his wits infer from what he sees And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows Of Lancelot, or what I might know now, Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool To springe a friend.... No, I like not this day. There's a cloud coming over Camelot Larger than any that is in the sky,-- Or Merlin would be still in Brittany, With Vivian and the viols. It's all too strange." And later, when descending to the city, Through unavailing casements he could hear The roaring of a mighty voice within, Confirming fervidly his own conviction: He scowled: "Well, I agree with Lamorak." He frowned, and passed: "And I like not this day." Sir Lamorak, the man of oak and iron, Had with him now, as a care-laden guest, Sir Bedivere, a man whom Arthur loved As he had loved no man save Lancelot. Like one whose late-flown shaft of argument Had glanced and fallen afield innocuously, He turned upon his host a sudden eye That met from Lamorak's an even shaft Of native and unused authority; And each man held the other till at length Each turned away, shutting his heavy jaws Again together, prisoning thus two tongues That might forget and might not be forgiven. Then Bedivere, to find a plain way out, Said, "Lamorak, let us drink to some one here, And end this dryness. Who shall it be--the King, The Queen, or Lancelot?"--"Merlin," Lamorak growled; And then there were more wrinkles round his eyes Than Bedivere had said were possible. "There's no refusal in me now for that," The guest replied; "so, 'Merlin' let it be. We've not yet seen him, but if he be here, And even if he should not be here, say 'Merlin.'" They drank to the unseen from two new tankards, And fell straightway to sighing for the past, And what was yet before them. Silence laid A cogent finger on the lips of each Impatient veteran, whose hard hands lay clenched And restless on his midriff, until words Were stronger than strong Lamorak: Began the solid host, "you may as well Say now as at another time hereafter That all your certainties have bruises on 'em, And all your pestilent asseverations Will never make a man a salamander-- Who's born, as we are told, so fire won't bite him,-- Or a slippery queen a nun who counts and burns Herself to nothing with her beads and candles. There's nature, and what's in us, to be sifted Before we know ourselves, or any man Or woman that God suffers to be born. That's how I speak; and while you strain your mazzard, Like Father Jove, big with a new Minerva, We'll say, to pass the time, that I speak well. God's fish! The King had eyes; and Lancelot Won't ride home to his mother, for she's dead. The story is that Merlin warned the King Of what's come now to pass; and I believe it. And Arthur, he being Arthur and a king, Has made a more pernicious mess than one, We're told, for being so great and amorous: It's that unwholesome and inclement cub Young Modred I'd see first in hell before I'd hang too high the Queen or Lancelot; The King, if one may say it, set the pace, Young Borre, he's well enough; but as for Modred, I squirm as often as I look at him. And there again did Merlin warn the King, The story goes abroad; and I believe it." Sir Bedivere, as one who caught no more Than what he would of Lamorak's outpouring, Inclined his grizzled head and closed his eyes Before he sighed and rubbed his beard and spoke: "For all I know to make it otherwise, The Queen may be a nun some day or other; I'd pray to God for such a thing to be, If prayer for that were not a mockery. We're late now for much praying, Lamorak, When you and I can feel upon our faces A wind that has been blowing over ruins That we had said were castles and high towers-- Till Merlin, or the spirit of him, came As the dead come in dreams. I saw the King This morning, and I saw his face. Therefore, I tell you, if a state shall have a king, The king must have the state, and be the state; Or then shall we have neither king nor state, But bones and ashes, and high towers all fallen: And we shall have, where late there was a kingdom, A dusty wreck of what was once a glory-- A wilderness whereon to crouch and mourn And moralize, or else to build once more For something better or for something worse. Therefore again, I say that Lancelot Has wrought a potent wrong upon the King, And all who serve and recognize the King, And all who follow him and all who love him. Whatever the stormy faults he may have had, To look on him today is to forget them; And if it be too late for sorrow now To save him--for it was a broken man I saw this morning, and a broken king-- The God who sets a day for desolation Will not forsake him in Avilion, Or whatsoever shadowy land there be Where peace awaits him on its healing shores." Sir Lamorak, shifting in his oaken chair, Growled like a dog and shook himself like one: "For the stone-chested, helmet-cracking knight That you are known to be from Lyonnesse To northward, Bedivere, you fol-de-rol When days are rancid, and you fiddle-faddle More like a woman than a man with hands With armor an inch thick, as we all know You are, when you're not sermonizing at us. As for the King, I say the King, no doubt, Is angry, sorry, and all sorts of things, For Lancelot, and for his easy Queen, Whom he took knowing she'd thrown sparks already On that same piece of tinder, Lancelot, Who fetched her with him from Leodogran Because the King--God save poor human reason!-- Would prove to Merlin, who knew everything Worth knowing in those days, that he was wrong. I'll drink now and be quiet,--but, by God, I'll have to tell you, Brother Bedivere, Once more, to make you listen properly, That crowns and orders, and high palaces, And all the manifold ingredients Of this good solid kingdom, where we sit And spit now at each other with our eyes, Will not go rolling down to hell just yet Because a pretty woman is a fool. And here's Kay coming with his fiddle face As long now as two fiddles. Sit ye down, Sir Man, and tell us everything you know Of Merlin--or his ghost without a beard. What mostly is it?" Sir Kay, the seneschal, Sat wearily while he gazed upon the two: "To you it mostly is, if I err not, That what you hear of Merlin's coming back Is nothing more or less than heavy truth. But ask me nothing of the Queen, I say, For I know nothing. All I know of her Is what her eyes have told the silences That now attend her; and that her estate Is one for less complacent execration Than quips and innuendoes of the city Would augur for her sin--if there be sin-- Or for her name--if now she have a name. And where, I say, is this to lead the King, And after him, the kingdom and ourselves? Here be we, three men of a certain strength And some confessed intelligence, who know That Merlin has come out of Brittany-- Out of his grave, as he would say it for us-- Because the King has now a desperation More strong upon him than a woman's net Was over Merlin--for now Merlin's here, And two of us who knew him know how well His wisdom, if he have it any longer, Will by this hour have sounded and appraised The grief and wrath and anguish of the King, Requiring mercy and inspiring fear Lest he forego the vigil now most urgent, And leave unwatched a cranny where some worm Or serpent may come in to speculate." "I know your worm, and his worm's name is Modred-- Albeit the streets are not yet saying so," Said Lamorak, as he lowered his wrath and laughed A sort of poisonous apology To Kay: "And in the meantime, I'll be gyved! Here's Bedivere a-wailing for the King, And you, Kay, with a moist eye for the Queen. I think I'll blow a horn for Lancelot; For by my soul a man's in sorry case When Guineveres are out with eyes to scorch him: I'm not so ancient or so frozen certain That I'd ride horses down to skeletons If she were after me. Has Merlin seen him-- This Lancelot, this Queen-fed friend of ours?" Kay answered sighing, with a lonely scowl: "The picture that I conjure leaves him out; The King and Merlin are this hour together, And I can say no more; for I know nothing. But how the King persuaded or beguiled The stricken wizard from across the water Outriddles my poor wits. It's all too strange." Roared Lamorak, forgetting once again The devastating carriage of his voice. "Is the King sick?" he said, more quietly; "Is he to let one damned scratch be enough To paralyze the force that heretofore Would operate a way through hell and iron, And iron already slimy with his blood? Is the King blind--with Modred watching him? Does he forget the crown for Lancelot? Does he forget that every woman mewing Shall some day be a handful of small ashes?" "You speak as one for whom the god of Love Has yet a mighty trap in preparation. We know you, Lamorak," said Bedivere: "We know you for a short man, Lamorak,-- In deeds, if not in inches or in words; But there are fens and heights and distances That your capricious ranging has not yet Essayed in this weird region of man's love. Forgive me, Lamorak, but your words are words. Your deeds are what they are; and ages hence Will men remember your illustriousness, If there be gratitude in history. For me, I see the shadow of the end, Wherein to serve King Arthur to the end, And, if God have it so, to see the Grail Before I die." But Lamorak shook his head: "See what you will, or what you may. For me, I see no other than a stinking mess-- With Modred stirring it, and Agravaine Spattering Camelot with as much of it As he can throw. The Devil got somehow Into God's workshop once upon a time, And out of the red clay that he found there He made a shape like Modred, and another As like as eyes are to this Agravaine. 'I never made 'em,' said the good Lord God, 'But let 'em go, and see what comes of 'em.' And that's what we're to do. As for the Grail, I've never worried it, and so the Grail Has never worried me." Kay sighed. "I see With Bedivere the coming of the end," He murmured; "for the King I saw today Was not, nor shall he ever be again, The King we knew. I say the King is dead; The man is living, but the King is dead. The wheel is broken." "Tut!" said Lamorak; "There are no dead kings yet in Camelot; But there is Modred who is hatching ruin,-- And when it hatches I may not be here. There's Gawaine too, and he does not forget My father, who killed his. King Arthur's house Has more division in it than I like In houses; and if Modred's aim be good For backs like mine, I'm not long for the scene." King Arthur, as he paced a lonely floor That rolled a muffled echo, as he fancied, All through the palace and out through the world, Might now have wondered hard, could he have heard Sir Lamorak's apathetic disregard Of what Fate's knocking made so manifest And ominous to others near the King-- If any, indeed, were near him at this hour Save Merlin, once the wisest of all men, A knight for love of him and his abused Integrity. He might have wondered hard And wondered much; and after wondering, He might have summoned, with as little heart As he had now for crowns, the fond, lost Merlin, Whose Nemesis had made of him a slave, A man of dalliance, and a sybarite. "Men change in Brittany, Merlin," said the King; And even his grief had strife to freeze again A dreary smile for the transmuted seer Now robed in heavy wealth of purple silk, With frogs and foreign tassels. On his face, Too smooth now for a wizard or a sage, Lay written, for the King's remembering eyes, A pathos of a lost authority Long faded, and unconscionably gone; And on the King's heart lay a sudden cold: "I might as well have left him in his grave, As he would say it, saying what was true,-- As death is true. This Merlin is not mine, But Vivian's. My crown is less than hers, And I am less than woman to this man." Then Merlin, as one reading Arthur's words On viewless tablets in the air before him: "Now, Arthur, since you are a child of mine-- A foster-child, and that's a kind of child-- Be not from hearsay or despair too eager To dash your meat with bitter seasoning, So none that are more famished than yourself Shall have what you refuse. For you are King, And if you starve yourself, you starve the state; And then by sundry looks and silences Of those you loved, and by the lax regard Of those you knew for fawning enemies, You may learn soon that you are King no more, But a slack, blasted, and sad-fronted man, Made sadder with a crown. No other friend Than I could say this to you, and say more; And if you bid me say no more, so be it." The King, who sat with folded arms, now bowed His head and felt, unfought and all aflame Like immanent hell-fire, the wretchedness That only those who are to lead may feel-- And only they when they are maimed and worn Too sore to covet without shuddering The fixed impending eminence where death Itself were victory, could they but lead Unbitten by the serpents they had fed. Turning, he spoke: "Merlin, you say the truth: There is no man who could say more to me Today, or say so much to me, and live. But you are Merlin still, or part of him; I did you wrong when I thought otherwise, And I am sorry now. Say what you will. We are alone, and I shall be alone As long as Time shall hide a reason here For me to stay in this infested world Where I have sinned and erred and heeded not Your counsel; and where you yourself--God save us!-- Have gone down smiling to the smaller life That you and your incongruous laughter called Your living grave. God save us all, Merlin, When you, the seer, the founder, and the prophet, May throw the gold of your immortal treasure Back to the God that gave it, and then laugh Because a woman has you in her arms ... Why do you sting me now with a small hive Of words that are all poison? I do not ask Much honey; but why poison me for nothing, And with a venom that I know already As I know crowns and wars? Why tell a king-- A poor, foiled, flouted, miserable king-- That if he lets rats eat his fingers off He'll have no fingers to fight battles with? I know as much as that, for I am still A king--who thought himself a little less Than God; a king who built him palaces On sand and mud, and hears them crumbling now, And sees them tottering, as he knew they must. You are the man who made me to be King-- Therefore, say anything." Merlin, stricken deep With pity that was old, being born of old Foreshadowings, made answer to the King: "This coil of Lancelot and Guinevere Is not for any mortal to undo, Or to deny, or to make otherwise; But your most violent years are on their way To days, and to a sounding of loud hours That are to strike for war. Let not the time Between this hour and then be lost in fears, Or told in obscurations and vain faith In what has been your long security; For should your force be slower then than hate, And your regret be sharper than your sight, And your remorse fall heavier than your sword,-- Then say farewell to Camelot, and the crown. But say not you have lost, or failed in aught Your golden horoscope of imperfection Has held in starry words that I have read. I see no farther now than I saw then, For no man shall be given of everything Together in one life; yet I may say The time is imminent when he shall come For whom I founded the Siege Perilous; And he shall be too much a living part Of what he brings, and what he burns away in, To be for long a vexed inhabitant Of this mad realm of stains and lower trials. And here the ways of God again are mixed: For this new knight who is to find the Grail For you, and for the least who pray for you In such lost coombs and hollows of the world As you have never entered, is to be The son of him you trusted--Lancelot, Of all who ever jeopardized a throne Sure the most evil-fated, saving one, Your son, begotten, though you knew not then Your leman was your sister, of Morgause; For it is Modred now, not Lancelot, Whose native hate plans your annihilation-- Though he may smile till he be sick, and swear Allegiance to an unforgiven father Until at last he shake an empty tongue Talked out with too much lying--though his lies Will have a truth to steer them. Trust him not, For unto you the father, he the son Is like enough to be the last of terrors-- If in a field of time that looms to you Far larger than it is you fail to plant And harvest the old seeds of what I say, And so be nourished and adept again For what may come to be. But Lancelot Will have you first; and you need starve no more For the Queen's love, the love that never was. Your Queen is now your Kingdom, and hereafter Let no man take it from you, or you die. Let no man take it from you for a day; For days are long when we are far from what We love, and mischief's other name is distance. Let that be all, for I can say no more; Not even to Blaise the Hermit, were he living, Could I say more than I have given you now To hear; and he alone was my confessor." The King arose and paced the floor again. "I get gray comfort of dark words," he said; "But tell me not that you can say no more: You can, for I can hear you saying it. Yet I'll not ask for more. I have enough-- Until my new knight comes to prove and find The promise and the glory of the Grail, Though I shall see no Grail. For I have built On sand and mud, and I shall see no Grail."-- "Nor I," said Merlin. "Once I dreamed of it, But I was buried. I shall see no Grail, Nor would I have it otherwise. I saw Too much, and that was never good for man. The man who goes alone too far goes mad-- In one way or another. God knew best, And he knows what is coming yet for me. I do not ask. Like you, I have enough." That night King Arthur's apprehension found In Merlin an obscure and restive guest, Whose only thought was on the hour of dawn, When he should see the last of Camelot And ride again for Brittany; and what words Were said before the King was left alone Were only darker for reiteration. They parted, all provision made secure For Merlin's early convoy to the coast, And Arthur tramped the past. The loneliness Of kings, around him like the unseen dead, Lay everywhere; and he was loath to move, As if in fear to meet with his cold hand The touch of something colder. Then a whim, Begotten of intolerable doubt, Seized him and stung him until he was asking If any longer lived among his knights A man to trust as once he trusted all, And Lancelot more than all. "And it is he Who is to have me first," so Merlin says,-- "As if he had me not in hell already. Lancelot! Lancelot!" He cursed the tears That cooled his misery, and then he asked Himself again if he had one to trust Among his knights, till even Bedivere, Tor, Bors, and Percival, rough Lamorak, Were dubious knaves,--or they were like to be, For cause to make them so; and he had made Himself to be the cause. "God set me right, Before this folly carry me on farther," He murmured; and he smiled unhappily, Though fondly, as he thought: "Yes, there is one Whom I may trust with even my soul's last shred; An old song, not too merry or too sad." The King as one affrighted, the King smiled: "You think because I call for you so late Have you been saying what I say to you, And telling men that you brought Merlin here? No? So I fancied; and if you report No syllable of anything I speak, You will have no regrets, and I no anger. What word of Merlin was abroad today?" "Today have I heard no man save Gawaine, And to him I said only what all men Are saying to their neighbors. They believe That you have Merlin here, and that his coming Denotes no good. Gawaine was curious, But ever mindful of your majesty. He pressed me not, and we made light of it." "Gawaine, I fear, makes light of everything," The King said, looking down. "Sometimes I wish I had a full Round Table of Gawaines. But that's a freak of midnight,--never mind it. Sing me a song--one of those endless things That Merlin liked of old, when men were younger And there were more stars twinkling in the sky. I see no stars that are alive tonight, And I am not the king of sleep. So then, Sing me an old song." Caught sorrow in the King's; and he knew more, In a fool's way, than even the King himself Of what was hovering over Camelot. "O King," he said, "I cannot sing tonight. If you command me I shall try to sing, But I shall fail; for there are no songs now In my old throat, or even in these poor strings That I can hardly follow with my fingers. Forgive me--kill me--but I cannot sing." And shook there while he clutched the King's cold hand And wept for what he knew. I shall not kill my knight, or make him sing. No more; get up, and get you off to bed. There'll be another time for you to sing, So get you to your covers and sleep well." Alone again, the King said, bitterly: "Yes, I have one friend left, and they who know As much of him as of themselves believe And if he be a fool, what else am I Than one fool more to make the world complete? 'The love that never was!' ... Fool, fool, fool, fool!" The King was long awake. No covenant With peace was his tonight; and he knew sleep As he knew the cold eyes of Guinevere That yesterday had stabbed him, having first On Lancelot's name struck fire, and left him then As now they left him--with a wounded heart, A wounded pride, and a sickening pang worse yet Of lost possession. He thought wearily Of watchers by the dead, late wayfarers, Rough-handed mariners on ships at sea, Lone-yawning sentries, wastrels, and all others Who might be saying somewhere to themselves, "The King is now asleep in Camelot; God save the King."--"God save the King, indeed, If there be now a king to save," he said. Then he saw giants rising in the dark, Born horribly of memories and new fears That in the gray-lit irony of dawn Were partly to fade out and be forgotten; And then there might be sleep, and for a time There might again be peace. His head was hot And throbbing; but the rest of him was cold, As he lay staring hard where nothing stood, And hearing what was not, even while he saw And heard, like dust and thunder far away, The coming confirmation of the words Of him who saw so much and feared so little Of all that was to be. No spoken doom That ever chilled the last night of a felon Prepared a dragging anguish more profound And absolute than Arthur, in these hours, Made out of darkness and of Merlin's words; No tide that ever crashed on Lyonnesse Drove echoes inland that were lonelier For widowed ears among the fisher-folk, Than for the King were memories tonight Of old illusions that were dead for ever. The tortured King--seeing Merlin wholly meshed In his defection, even to indifference, And all the while attended and exalted By some unfathomable obscurity Of divination, where the Grail, unseen, Broke yet the darkness where a king saw nothing-- Feared now the lady Vivian more than Fate; For now he knew that Modred, Lancelot, Were less to Merlin, who had made him King, Than one small woman in Broceliande. Whereas the lady Vivian, seeing Merlin Acclaimed and tempted and allured again To service in his old magnificence, Feared now King Arthur more than storms and robbers; For Merlin, though he knew himself immune To no least whispered little wish of hers That might afflict his ear with ecstasy, Had yet sufficient of his old command Of all around him to invest an eye With quiet lightning, and a spoken word With easy thunder, so accomplishing A profit and a pastime for himself-- And for the lady Vivian, when her guile Outlived at intervals her graciousness; And this equipment of uncertainty, Which now had gone away with him to Britain That soon a phantom brood of goblin doubts Inhabited his absence, which had else Been empty waiting and a few brave fears, And a few more, she knew, that were not brave, Or long to be disowned, or manageable. She thought of him as he had looked at her When first he had acquainted her alarm At sight of the King's letter with its import; And she remembered now his very words: "The King believes today as in his boyhood That I am Fate," he said; and when they parted She had not even asked him not to go; She might as well, she thought, have bid the wind Throw no more clouds across a lonely sky Between her and the moon,--so great he seemed In his oppressed solemnity, and she, In her excess of wrong imagining, So trivial in an hour, and, after all A creature of a smaller consequence Than kings to Merlin, who made kings and kingdoms And had them as a father; and so she feared King Arthur more than robbers while she waited For Merlin's promise to fulfil itself, And for the rest that was to follow after: "He said he would come back, and so he will. He will because he must, and he is Merlin, The master of the world--or so he was; And he is coming back again to me Because he must and I am Vivian. It's all as easy as two added numbers: Some day I'll hear him ringing at the gate, As he rang on that morning in the spring, Ten years ago; and I shall have him then For ever. He shall never go away Though kings come walking on their hands and knees To take him on their backs." When Merlin came, She told him that, and laughed; and he said strangely: "Be glad or sorry, but no kings are coming. Not Arthur, surely; for now Arthur knows That I am less than Fate." Ten years ago The King had heard, with unbelieving ears At first, what Merlin said would be the last Reiteration of his going down To find a living grave in Brittany: "Buried alive I told you I should be, By love made little and by woman shorn, Like Samson, of my glory; and the time Is now at hand. I follow in the morning Where I am led. I see behind me now The last of crossways, and I see before me A straight and final highway to the end Of all my divination. You are King, And in your kingdom I am what I was. Wherever I have warned you, see as far As I have seen; for I have shown the worst There is to see. Require no more of me, For I can be no more than what I was." So, on the morrow, the King said farewell; And he was never more to Merlin's eye The King than at that hour; for Merlin knew How much was going out of Arthur's life With him, as he went southward to the sea. Over the waves and into Brittany Went Merlin, to Broceliande. Gay birds Were singing high to greet him all along A broad and sanded woodland avenue That led him on forever, so he thought, Until at last there was an end of it; And at the end there was a gate of iron, Wrought heavily and invidiously barred. He pulled a cord that rang somewhere a bell Of many echoes, and sat down to rest, Outside the keeper's house, upon a bench Of carven stone that might for centuries Have waited there in silence to receive him. The birds were singing still; leaves flashed and swung Before him in the sunlight; a soft breeze Made intermittent whisperings around him Of love and fate and danger, and faint waves Of many sweetly-stinging fragile odors Broke lightly as they touched him; cherry-boughs Above him snowed white petals down upon him, And under their slow falling Merlin smiled Contentedly, as one who contemplates No longer fear, confusion, or regret, May smile at ruin or at revelation. A stately fellow with a forest air Now hailed him from within, with searching words And curious looks, till Merlin's glowing eye Transfixed him and he flinched: "My compliments And homage to the lady Vivian. Say Merlin from King Arthur's Court is here, A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance, Though in effect her friend and humble servant. Convey to her my speech as I have said it, Without abbreviation or delay, And so deserve my gratitude forever." "But Merlin?" the man stammered; "Merlin? Merlin?"-- "One Merlin is enough. I know no other. Now go you to the lady Vivian And bring to me her word, for I am weary." Still smiling at the cherry-blossoms falling Down on him and around him in the sunlight, He waited, never moving, never glancing This way or that, until his messenger Came jingling into vision, weighed with keys, And inly shaken with much wondering At this great wizard's coming unannounced And unattended. When the way was open The stately messenger, now bowing low In reverence and awe, bade Merlin enter; And Merlin, having entered, heard the gate Clang back behind him; and he swore no gate Like that had ever clanged in Camelot, Or any other place if not in hell. "I may be dead; and this good fellow here, With all his keys," he thought, "may be the Devil,-- Though I were loath to say so, for the keys Would make him rather more akin to Peter; And that's fair reasoning for this fair weather." "The lady Vivian says you are most welcome," Said now the stately-favored servitor, "And are to follow me. She said, 'Say Merlin-- A pilgrim and a stranger in appearance, Though in effect my friend and humble servant-- Is welcome for himself, and for the sound Of his great name that echoes everywhere.'"-- "I like you and I like your memory," Said Merlin, curiously, "but not your gate. Why forge for this elysian wilderness A thing so vicious with unholy noise?"-- "There's a way out of every wilderness For those who dare or care enough to find it," The guide said: and they moved along together, Down shaded ways, through open ways with hedgerows. And into shade again more deep than ever, But edged anon with rays of broken sunshine In which a fountain, raining crystal music, Till Merlin's eyes were dim with preparation For sight now of the lady Vivian. He saw at first a bit of living green That might have been a part of all the green Around the tinkling fountain where she gazed Upon the circling pool as if her thoughts Were not so much on Merlin--whose advance Betrayed through his enormity of hair The cheeks and eyes of youth--as on the fishes. But soon she turned and found him, now alone, And held him while her beauty and her grace Made passing trash of empires, and his eyes Told hers of what a splendid emptiness Her tedious world had been without him in it Whose love and service were to be her school, Her triumph, and her history: "This is Merlin," She thought; "and I shall dream of him no more. And he has come, he thinks, to frighten me With beards and robes and his immortal fame; Or is it I who think so? I know not. I'm frightened, sure enough, but if I show it, I'll be no more the Vivian for whose love He tossed away his glory, or the Vivian Who saw no man alive to make her love him Till she saw Merlin once in Camelot, And seeing him, saw no other. In an age That has no plan for me that I can read Without him, shall he tell me what I am, And why I am, I wonder?" While she thought, And feared the man whom her perverse negation Must overcome somehow to soothe her fancy, She smiled and welcomed him; and so they stood, Each finding in the other's eyes a gleam Of what eternity had hidden there. "Are you always all in green, as you are now?" Said Merlin, more employed with her complexion, Where blood and olive made wild harmony With eyes and wayward hair that were too dark For peace if they were not subordinated; "If so you are, then so you make yourself A danger in a world of many dangers. If I were young, God knows if I were safe Concerning you in green, like a slim cedar, As you are now, to say my life was mine: Were you to say to me that I should end it, Longevity for me were jeopardized. Have you your green on always and all over?" "Come here, and I will tell you about that," Said Vivian, leading Merlin with a laugh To an arbored seat where they made opposites: "If you are Merlin--and I know you are, For I remember you in Camelot,-- You know that I am Vivian, as I am; And if I go in green, why, let me go so, And say at once why you have come to me Cloaked over like a monk, and with a beard As long as Jeremiah's. I don't like it. I'll never like a man with hair like that While I can feed a carp with little frogs. I'm rather sure to hate you if you keep it, And when I hate a man I poison him." "You've never fed a carp with little frogs," Said Merlin; "I can see it in your eyes."-- "I might then, if I haven't," said the lady; "For I'm a savage, and I love no man As I have seen him yet. I'm here alone, With some three hundred others, all of whom Are ready, I dare say, to die for me; I'm cruel and I'm cold, and I like snakes; And some have said my mother was a fairy, Though I believe it not." "Why not believe it?" Said Merlin; "I believe it. I believe Also that you divine, as I had wished, In my surviving ornament of office A needless imposition on your wits, If not yet on the scope of your regard. Even so, you cannot say how old I am, Or yet how young. I'm willing cheerfully To fight, left-handed, Hell's three headed hound If you but whistle him up from where he lives; I'm cheerful and I'm fierce, and I've made kings; And some have said my father was the Devil, Though I believe it not. Whatever I am, I have not lived in Time until to-day." A moment's worth of wisdom there escaped him, But Vivian seized it, and it was not lost. Embroidering doom with many levities, Till now the fountain's crystal silver, fading, Became a splash and a mere chilliness, They mocked their fate with easy pleasantries That were too false and small to be forgotten, And with ingenious insincerities That had no repetition or revival. At last the lady Vivian arose, And with a crying of how late it was Took Merlin's hand and led him like a child Along a dusky way between tall cones Of tight green cedars: "Am I like one of these? You said I was, though I deny it wholly."-- "Very," said Merlin, to his bearded lips Uplifting her small fingers.--"O, that hair!" She moaned, as if in sorrow: "Must it be? Must every prophet and important wizard Be clouded so that nothing but his nose And eyes, and intimations of his ears, Are there to make us know him when we see him? Praise heaven I'm not a prophet! Are you glad?"-- He did not say that he was glad or sorry; For suddenly came flashing into vision A thing that was a manor and a palace, With walls and roofs that had a flaming sky Behind them, like a sky that he remembered, And one that had from his rock-sheltered haunt Above the roofs of his forsaken city Made flame as if all Camelot were on fire. The glow brought with it a brief memory Of Arthur as he left him, and the pain That fought in Arthur's eyes for losing him, And must have overflowed when he had vanished. But now the eyes that looked hard into his Were Vivian's, not the King's; and he could see, Or so he thought, a shade of sorrow in them. She took his two hands: "You are sad," she said.-- He smiled: "Your western lights bring memories Of Camelot. We all have memories-- Prophets, and women who are like slim cedars; But you are wrong to say that I am sad."-- "Would you go back to Camelot?" she asked, Her fingers tightening. Merlin shook his head. "Then listen while I tell you that I'm glad," She purred, as if assured that he would listen: "At your first warning, much too long ago, Of this quaint pilgrimage of yours to see 'The fairest and most orgulous of ladies'-- No language for a prophet, I am sure-- Said I, 'When this great Merlin comes to me, My task and avocation for some time Will be to make him willing, if I can, To teach and feed me with an ounce of wisdom.' For I have eaten to an empty shell, After a weary feast of observation Among the glories of a tinsel world That had for me no glory till you came, A life that is no life. Would you go back To Camelot?"--Merlin shook his head again, And the two smiled together in the sunset. They moved along in silence to the door, Where Merlin said: "Of your three hundred here There is but one I know, and him I favor; I mean the stately one who shakes the keys Of that most evil sounding gate of yours, Which has a clang as if it shut forever."-- "If there be need, I'll shut the gate myself," She said. "And you like Blaise? Then you shall have him. He was not born to serve, but serve he must, It seems, and be enamoured of my shadow. He cherishes the taint of some high folly That haunts him with a name he cannot know, And I could fear his wits are paying for it. Forgive his tongue, and humor it a little."-- "I knew another one whose name was Blaise," He said; and she said lightly, "Well, what of it?"-- "And he was nigh the learnedest of hermits; His home was far away from everywhere, And he was all alone there when he died."-- "Now be a pleasant Merlin," Vivian said, Patting his arm, "and have no more of that; For I'll not hear of dead men far away, Or dead men anywhere this afternoon. There'll be a trifle in the way of supper This evening, but the dead shall not have any. Blaise and this man will tell you all there is For you to know. Then you'll know everything." She laughed, and vanished like a humming-bird. The sun went down, and the dark after it Starred Merlin's new abode with many a sconced And many a moving candle, in whose light The prisoned wizard, mirrored in amazement, Saw fronting him a stranger, falcon-eyed, Firm-featured, of a negligible age, And fair enough to look upon, he fancied, Though not a warrior born, nor more a courtier. A native humor resting in his long And solemn jaws now stirred, and Merlin smiled To see himself in purple, touched with gold, And fledged with snowy lace.--The careful Blaise, Having drawn some time before from Merlin's wallet The sable raiment of a royal scholar, Had eyed it with a long mistrust and said: "The lady Vivian would be vexed, I fear, To meet you vested in these learned weeds Of gravity and death; for she abhors Mortality in all its hues and emblems-- Black wear, long argument, and all the cold And solemn things that appertain to graves."-- And Merlin, listening, to himself had said, "This fellow has a freedom, yet I like him;" And then aloud: "I trust you. Deck me out, However, with a temperate regard For what your candid eye may find in me Of inward coloring. Let them reap my beard, Moreover, with a sort of reverence, For I shall never look on it again. And though your lady frown her face away To think of me in black, for God's indulgence, Array me not in scarlet or in yellow."-- And so it came to pass that Merlin sat At ease in purple, even though his chin Reproached him as he pinched it, and seemed yet A little fearful of its nakedness. He might have sat and scanned himself for ever Had not the careful Blaise, regarding him, Remarked again that in his proper judgment, And on the valid word of his attendants, No more was to be done. "Then do no more," Said Merlin, with a last look at his chin; "Never do more when there's no more to do, And you may shun thereby the bitter taste Of many disillusions and regrets. God's pity on us that our words have wings And leave our deeds to crawl so far below them; For we have all two heights, we men who dream, Whether we lead or follow, rule or serve."-- "God's pity on us anyhow," Blaise answered, "Or most of us. Meanwhile, I have to say, As long as you are here, and I'm alive, Your summons will assure the loyalty Of all my diligence and expedition. The gong that you hear singing in the distance Was rung for your attention and your presence."-- "I wonder at this fellow, yet I like him," Said Merlin; and he rose to follow him. The lady Vivian in a fragile sheath Of crimson, dimmed and veiled ineffably By the flame-shaken gloom wherein she sat, And twinkled if she moved, heard Merlin coming, And smiled as if to make herself believe Her joy was all a triumph; yet her blood Confessed a tingling of more wonderment Than all her five and twenty worldly years Of waiting for this triumph could remember; And when she knew and felt the slower tread Of his unseen advance among the shadows To the small haven of uncertain light That held her in it as a torch-lit shoal Might hold a smooth red fish, her listening skin Responded with a creeping underneath it, And a crinkling that was incident alike To darkness, love, and mice. When he was there, She looked up at him in a whirl of mirth And wonder, as in childhood she had gazed Wide-eyed on royal mountebanks who made So brief a shift of the impossible That kings and queens would laugh and shake themselves; Then rising slowly on her little feet, Like a slim creature lifted, she thrust out Her two small hands as if to push him back-- Whereon he seized them. "Go away," she said; "I never saw you in my life before."-- "You say the truth," he answered; "when I met Myself an hour ago, my words were yours. God made the man you see for you to like, If possible. If otherwise, turn down These two prodigious and remorseless thumbs And leave your lions to annihilate him."-- "I have no other lion than yourself," She said; "and since you cannot eat yourself, Pray do a lonely woman, who is, you say, More like a tree than any other thing In your discrimination, the large honor Of sharing with her a small kind of supper."-- "Yes, you are like a tree,--or like a flower; More like a flower to-night." He bowed his head And kissed the ten small fingers he was holding, As calmly as if each had been a son; Although his heart was leaping and his eyes Had sight for nothing save a swimming crimson Between two glimmering arms. "More like a flower To-night," he said, as now he scanned again The immemorial meaning of her face And drew it nearer to his eyes. It seemed A flower of wonder with a crimson stem Came leaning slowly and regretfully To meet his will--a flower of change and peril That had a clinging blossom of warm olive Half stifled with a tyranny of black, And held the wayward fragrance of a rose Made woman by delirious alchemy. She raised her face and yoked his willing neck With half her weight; and with hot lips that left The world with only philosophy Called his to meet them and in one long hush Of capture to surrender and make hers The last of anything that might remain Of what were now their beardless wizardry. Then slowly she began to push herself Away, and slowly Merlin let her go As far from him as his outreaching hands Could hold her fingers while his eyes had all The beauty of the woodland and the world Before him in the firelight, like a nymph Of cities, or a queen a little weary Of inland stillness and immortal trees. "Are you to let me go again sometime," She said,--"before I starve to death, I wonder? If not, I'll have to bite the lion's paws, And make him roar. He cannot shake his mane, For now the lion has no mane to shake; The lion hardly knows himself without it, And thinks he has no face, but there's a lady Who says he had no face until he lost it. So there we are. And there's a flute somewhere, Playing a strange old tune. You know the words: 'The Lion and the Lady are both hungry.'" Fatigue and hunger--tempered leisurely With food that some devout magician's oven Might after many failures have delivered, And wine that had for decades in the dark Of Merlin's grave been slowly quickening, And with half-heard, dream-weaving interludes Of distant flutes and viols, made yet more distant By far, nostalgic hautboys blown from nowhere,-- Were tempered not so leisurely, may be, With Vivian's inextinguishable eyes Between two shining silver candlesticks That lifted each a trembling flame to make The rest of her a dusky loveliness Against a bank of shadow. Merlin made, As well as he was able while he ate, A fair division of the fealty due To food and beauty, albeit more times than one Was he at odds with his urbanity In honoring too long the grosser viand. "The best invention in Broceliande Has not been over-taxed in vain, I see," She told him, with her chin propped on her fingers And her eyes flashing blindness into his: "I put myself out cruelly to please you, And you, for that, forget almost at once The name and image of me altogether. You needn't, for when all is analyzed, It's only a bird-pie that you are eating." "I know not what you call it," Merlin said; "Nor more do I forget your name and image, Though I do eat; and if I did not eat, Your sending out of ships and caravans To get whatever 'tis that's in this thing Would be a sorrow for you all your days; And my great love, which you have seen by now, Might look to you a lie; and like as not You'd actuate some sinewed mercenary To carry me away to God knows where And seal me in a fearsome hole to starve, Because I made of this insidious picking An idle circumstance. My dear fair lady-- And there is not another under heaven So fair as you are as I see you now-- I cannot look at you too much and eat; And I must eat, or be untimely ashes, Whereon the light of your celestial gaze Would fall, I fear me, for no longer time Than on the solemn dust of Jeremiah-- Whose beard you likened once, in heathen jest, To mine that now is no man's." "Are you sorry?" Said Vivian, filling Merlin's empty goblet; "If you are sorry for the loss of it, Drink more of this and you may tell me lies Enough to make me sure that you are glad; But if your love is what you say it is, Be never sorry that my love took off That horrid hair to make your face at last A human fact. Since I have had your name To dream of and say over to myself, The visitations of that awful beard Have been a terror for my nights and days-- For twenty years. I've seen it like an ocean, Blown seven ways at once and wrecking ships, With men and women screaming for their lives; I've seen it woven into shining ladders That ran up out of sight and so to heaven, All covered with white ghosts with hanging robes Like folded wings,--and there were millions of them, Climbing, climbing, climbing, all the time; And all the time that I was watching them I thought how far above me Merlin was, And wondered always what his face was like. But even then, as a child, I knew the day Would come some time when I should see his face, And hear his voice, and have him in my house Till he should care no more to stay in it, And go away to found another kingdom."-- "Not that," he said; and, sighing, drank more wine; "One kingdom for one Merlin is enough."-- "One Merlin for one Vivian is enough," She said. "If you care much, remember that; But the Lord knows how many Vivians One Merlin's entertaining eye might favor, Indifferently well and all at once, If they were all at hand. Praise heaven they're not." "If they were in the world--praise heaven they're not-- And if one Merlin's entertaining eye Saw two of them, there might be left him then The sight of no eye to see anything-- Not even the Vivian who is everything, She being Beauty, Beauty being She, She being Vivian, and so forever."-- "I'm glad you don't see two of me," she said; "For there's a whole world yet for you to eat And drink and say to me before I know The kind of creature that you see in me. I'm withering for a little more attention, But, being woman, I can wait. These cups That you see coming are for the last there is Of what my father gave to kings alone, And far from always. You are more than kings To me; therefore I give it all to you, Imploring you to spare no more of it Than what a cockle-shell would hold for me To pledge your love and mine in. Take the rest, That I may see tonight the end of it; I'll have no living remnant of the dead Annoying me until it fades and sours Of too long cherishing; for Time enjoys The look that's on our faces when we scowl On unexpected ruins, and thrift itself May be a kind of slow unwholesome fire That eats away to dust the life that feeds it. You smile, I see, but I said what I said. One hardly has to live a thousand years To contemplate a lost economy; So let us drink it while it's yet alive And you and I are not untimely ashes. My last words are your own, and I don't like 'em."-- A sudden laughter scattered from her eyes A threatening wisdom. He smiled and let her laugh, Then looked into the dark where there was nothing: "There's more in this than I have seen," he thought, "Though I shall see it."--"Drink," she said again; "There's only this much in the world of it, And I am near to giving all to you Because you are so great and I so little." With a long-kindling gaze that caught from hers A laughing flame, and with a hand that shook Like Arthur's kingdom, Merlin slowly raised A golden cup that for a golden moment Was twinned in air with hers; and Vivian, Who smiled at him across their gleaming rims, From eyes that made a fuel of the night Surrounding her, shot glory over gold At Merlin, while their cups touched and his trembled. He drank, not knowing what, nor caring much For kings who might have cared less for themselves, He thought, had all the darkness and wild light That fell together to make Vivian Been there before them then to flower anew Through sheathing crimson into candle-light With each new leer of their loose, liquorish eyes. Again he drank, and he cursed every king Who might have touched her even in her cradle; For what were kings to such as he, who made them And saw them totter--for the world to see, And heed, if the world would? He drank again, And yet again--to make himself assured No manner of king should have the last of it-- The cup that Vivian filled unfailingly Until she poured for nothing. "At the end Of this incomparable flowing gold," She prattled on to Merlin, who observed Her solemnly, "I fear there may be specks."-- He sighed aloud, whereat she laughed at him And pushed the golden cup a little nearer. He scanned it with a sad anxiety, And then her face likewise, and shook his head As if at her concern for such a matter: "Specks? What are specks? Are you afraid of them?" He murmured slowly, with a drowsy tongue; "There are specks everywhere. I fear them not. If I were king in Camelot, I might Fear more than specks. But now I fear them not. You are too strange a lady to fear specks." He stared a long time at the cup of gold Before him but he drank no more. There came Between him and the world a crumbling sky Of black and crimson, with a crimson cloud That held a far off town of many towers, All swayed and shaken, till at last they fell, And there was nothing but a crimson cloud That crumbled into nothing, like the sky That vanished with it, carrying away The world, the woman, and all memory of them, Until a slow light of another sky Made gray an open casement, showing him Faint shapes of an exotic furniture That glimmered with a dim magnificence, And letting in the sound of many birds That were, as he lay there remembering, The only occupation of his ears Until it seemed they shared a fainter sound, As if a sleeping child with a black head Beside him drew the breath of innocence. One shining afternoon around the fountain, As on the shining day of his arrival, The sunlight was alive with flying silver That had for Merlin a more dazzling flash Than harps, and all the morning stars together,-- That flashed and sang and was not Vivian, Seemed less than echoes of her least of words-- For she was coming. Suddenly, somewhere Behind him, she was coming; that was all He knew until she came and took his hand And held it while she talked about the fishes. When she looked up he thought a softer light Was in her eyes than once he had found there; And had there been left yet for dusky women A beauty that was heretofore not hers, He told himself he must have seen it then Before him in the face at which he smiled And trembled. "Many men have called me wise," He said, "but you are wiser than all wisdom If you know what you are."--"I don't," she said; "I know that you and I are here together; I know that I have known for twenty years That life would be almost a constant yawning Until you came; and now that you are here, I know that you are not to go away Until you tell me that I'm hideous; I know that I like fishes, ferns, and snakes,-- Maybe because I liked them when the world Was young and you and I were salamanders; I know, too, a cool place not far from here, Where there are ferns that are like marching men Who never march away. Come now and see them, And do as they do--never march away. When they are gone, some others, crisp and green, Will have their place, but never march away."-- He smoothed her silky fingers, one by one: "Some other Merlin, also, do you think, Will have his place--and never march away?"-- Then Vivian laid a finger on his lips And shook her head at him before she laughed: "There is no other Merlin than yourself, And you are never going to be old." Oblivious of a world that made of him A jest, a legend, and a long regret, And with a more commanding wizardry Than his to rule a kingdom where the king Was Love and the queen Vivian, Merlin found His queen without the blemish of a word That was more rough than honey from her lips, To cloud the night-wild fire that in her eyes Had yet a smoky friendliness of home, And a foreknowing care for mighty trifles. "There are miles and miles for you to wander in," She told him once: "Your prison yard is large, And I would rather take my two ears off And feed them to the fishes in the fountain Than buzz like an incorrigible bee For always around yours, and have you hate The sound of me; for some day then, for certain, Your philosophic rage would see in me A bee in earnest, and your hand would smite My life away. And what would you do then? I know: for years and years you'd sit alone Upon my grave, and be the grieving image Of lean remorse, and suffer miserably; And often, all day long, you'd only shake Your celebrated head and all it holds, Or beat it with your fist the while you groaned Aloud and went on saying to yourself: 'Never should I have killed her, or believed She was a bee that buzzed herself to death, Judicious distance and wise absences To keep the two of us inquisitive.'"-- "I fear you bow your unoffending head Before a load that should be mine," said he; "If so, you led me on by listening. You should have shrieked and jumped, and then fled yelling; That's the best way when a man talks too long. God's pity on me if I love your feet More now than I could ever love the face Of any one of all those Vivians You summoned out of nothing on the night When I saw towers. I'll wander and amend."-- At that she flung the noose of her soft arms Around his neck and kissed him instantly: "You are the wisest man that ever was, And I've a prayer to make: May all you say To Vivian be a part of what you knew Before the curse of her unquiet head Was on your shoulder, as you have it now, To punish you for knowing beyond knowledge. You are the only one who sees enough To make me see how far away I am From all that I have seen and have not been; You are the only thing there is alive When Merlin was a dream. You are to listen When I say now to you that I'm alone. Like you, I saw too much; and unlike you I made no kingdom out of what I saw-- Or none save this one here that you must rule, Believing you are ruled. I see too far To rule myself. Time's way with you and me Is our way, in that we are out of Time And out of tune with Time. We have this place, And you must hold us in it or we die. Look at me now and say if what I say Be folly or not; for my unquiet head Is no conceit of mine. I had it first When I was born; and I shall have it with me Till my unquiet soul is on its way To be, I hope, where souls are quieter. So let the first and last activity Of what you say so often is your love Be always to remember that our lyres Are not strung for Today. On you it falls To keep them in accord here with each other, For you have wisdom, I have only sight For distant things--and you. And you are Merlin. Poor wizard! Vivian is your punishment For making kings of men who are not kings; And you are mine, by the same reasoning, For living out of Time and out of tune With anything but you. No other man Could make me say so much of what I know As I say now to you. And you are Merlin!" She looked up at him till his way was lost Again in the familiar wilderness Of night that love made for him in her eyes, And there he wandered as he said he would; He wandered also in his prison-yard, And, when he found her coming after him, Beguiled her with her own admonishing And frowned upon her with a fierce reproof That many a time in the old world outside Had set the mark of silence on strong men-- Whereat she laughed, not always wholly sure, Nor always wholly glad, that he who played So lightly was the wizard of her dreams: "No matter--if only Merlin keep the world Away," she thought. "Our lyres have many strings, But he must know them all, for he is Merlin."-- And so for years, till ten of them were gone,-- Ten years, ten seasons, or ten flying ages-- Fate made Broceliande a paradise, Like a discordant, awkward bird of doom, Flew in with Arthur's message. For the King, In sorrow cleaving to simplicity, And having in his love a quick remembrance Of Merlin's old affection for the fellow, Had for this vain, reluctant enterprise Appointed him--the knight who made men laugh, And was a fool because he played the fool. "The King believes today, as in his boyhood, That I am Fate; and I can do no more Than show again what in his heart he knows," Said Merlin to himself and Vivian: "This time I go because I made him King, Thereby to be a mirror for the world; This time I go, but never after this, For I can be no more than what I was, And I can do no more than I have done." He took her slowly in his arms and felt Her body throbbing like a bird against him: "This time I go; I go because I must." And in the morning, when he rode away That once had clanged as if to shut for ever, She had not even asked him not to go; For it was then that in his lonely gaze Of helpless love and sad authority She found the gleam of his imprisoned power That Fate withheld; and, pitying herself, She pitied the fond Merlin she had changed, And saw the Merlin who had changed the world. "No kings are coming on their hands and knees, Nor yet on horses or in chariots, To carry me away from you again," Said Merlin, winding around Vivian's ear A shred of her black hair. "King Arthur knows That I have done with kings, and that I speak No more their crafty language. Once I knew it, But now the only language I have left Is one that I must never let you hear Too long, or know too well. When towering deeds Once done shall only out of dust and words Be done again, the doer may then be wary Lest in the complement of his new fabric There be more words than dust." "Why tell me so?" Said Vivian; and a singular thin laugh Came after her thin question. "Do you think That I'm so far away from history That I require, even of the wisest man Who ever said the wrong thing to a woman, So large a light on what I know already-- When all I seek is here before me now In your new eyes that you have brought for me From Camelot? The eyes you took away Were sad and old; and I could see in them A Merlin who remembered all the kings He ever saw, and wished himself, almost, Away from Vivian, to make other kings, And shake the world again in the old manner. I saw myself no bigger than a beetle For several days, and wondered if your love Were large enough to make me any larger When you came back. Am I a beetle still?" She stood up on her toes and held her cheek For some time against his, and let him go. "I fear the time has come for me to wander A little in my prison-yard," he said.-- "No, tell me everything that you have seen And heard and done, and seen done, and heard done, Since you deserted me. And tell me first What the King thinks of me."--"The King believes That you are almost what you are," he told her: "The beauty of all ages that are vanished, Reborn to be the wonder of one woman."-- "I knew he hated me. What else of him?"-- "And all that I have seen and heard and done, Which is not much, would make a weary telling; And all your part of it would be to sleep, And dream that Merlin had his beard again."-- "Then tell me more about your good fool knight, Already with his pondering on the name And shield of his unshielding nameless father, I'd make a fool of him. I'd call him Ajax; I'd have him shake his fist at thunder-storms, And dance a jig as long as there was lightning, And so till I forgot myself entirely. Not even your love may do so much as that."-- "Thunder and lightning are no friends of mine," Said Merlin slowly, "more than they are yours; They bring me nearer to the elements From which I came than I care now to be."-- "You owe a service to those elements; For by their service you outwitted age And made the world a kingdom of your will."-- He touched her hand, smiling: "Whatever service Of mine awaits them will not be forgotten," He said; and the smile faded on his face,-- "Now of all graceless and ungrateful wizards--" But there she ceased, for she found in his eyes The first of a new fear. "The wrong word rules Today," she said; "and we'll have no more journeys." Although he wandered rather more than ever Since he had come again to Brittany From Camelot, Merlin found eternally Before him a new loneliness that made Of garden, park, and woodland, all alike, A desolation and a changelessness Defying reason, without Vivian Beside him, like a child with a black head, Or moving on before him, or somewhere So near him that, although he saw it not With eyes, he felt the picture of her beauty And shivered at the nearness of her being. Without her now there was no past or future, And a vague, soul-consuming premonition He found the only tenant of the present; He wondered, when she was away from him, If his avenging injured intellect Might shine with Arthur's kingdom a twin mirror, Fate's plaything, for new ages without eyes To see therein themselves and their declension. Love made his hours a martyrdom without her; The world was like an empty house without her, Where Merlin was a prisoner of love Confined within himself by too much freedom, Repeating an unending exploration Of many solitary silent rooms, And only in a way remembering now That once their very solitude and silence Had by the magic of expectancy Made sure what now he doubted--though his doubts, Day after day, were founded on a shadow. For now to Merlin, in his paradise, Had come an unseen angel with a sword Unseen, the touch of which was a long fear For longer sorrow that had never come, Yet might if he compelled it. He discovered, One golden day in autumn as he wandered, That he had made the radiance of two years A misty twilight when he might as well Have had no mist between him and the sun, The sun being Vivian. On his coming then To find her all in green against a wall Of green and yellow leaves, and crumbling bread For birds around the fountain while she sang And the birds ate the bread, he told himself That everything today was as it was At first, and for a minute he believed it. "I'd have you always all in green out here," He said, "if I had much to say about it."-- She clapped her crumbs away and laughed at him: "I've covered up my bones with every color That I can carry on them without screaming, And you have liked them all--or made me think so."-- "I must have liked them if you thought I did," He answered, sighing; "but the sight of you Today as on the day I saw you first, All green, all wonderful" ... He tore a leaf To pieces with a melancholy care That made her smile.--"Why pause at 'wonderful'? You've hardly been yourself since you came back From Camelot, where that unpleasant King Said things that you have never said to me."-- He looked upon her with a worn reproach: "The King said nothing that I keep from you."-- "What is it then?" she asked, imploringly; "You man of moods and miracles, what is it?"-- He shook his head and tore another leaf: "There is no need of asking what it is; Whatever you or I may choose to name it, The name of it is Fate, who played with me And gave me eyes to read of the unwritten More lines than I have read. I see no more Today than yesterday, but I remember. My ways are not the ways of other men; My memories go forward. It was you Who said that we were not in tune with Time; It was not I who said it."--"But you knew it; What matter then who said it?"--"It was you Who said that Merlin was your punishment For being in tune with him and not with Time-- With Time or with the world; and it was you Who said you were alone, even here with Merlin; It was not I who said it. It is I Who tell you now my inmost thoughts." He laughed As if at hidden pain around his heart, But there was not much laughing in his eyes. They walked, and for a season they were silent: "I shall know what you mean by that," she said, "When you have told me. Here's an oak you like, And here's a place that fits me wondrous well To sit in. You sit there. I've seen you there Before; and I have spoiled your noble thoughts By walking all my fingers up and down Your countenance, as if they were the feet Of a small animal with no great claws. Tell me a story now about the world, And the men in it, what they do in it, And why it is they do it all so badly."-- "I've told you every story that I know, "Well, once upon a time there was a King."-- "That has a more commendable address; Go on, and tell me all about the King; I'll bet the King had warts or carbuncles, Or something wrong in his divine insides, To make him wish that Adam had died young." Merlin observed her slowly with a frown Of saddened wonder. She laughed rather lightly, And at his heart he felt again the sword Whose touch was a long fear for longer sorrow. "Well, once upon a time there was a king," He said again, but now in a dry voice That wavered and betrayed a venturing. He paused, and would have hesitated longer, But something in him that was not himself Compelled an utterance that his tongue obeyed, As an unwilling child obeys a father Who might be richer for obedience If he obeyed the child: "There was a king Who would have made his reign a monument For kings and peoples of the waiting ages To reverence and remember, and to this end He coveted and won, with no ado To make a story of, a neighbor queen Who limed him with her smile and had of him, In token of their sin, what he found soon To be a sort of mongrel son and nephew-- And a most precious reptile in addition-- To ornament his court and carry arms, And latterly to be the darker half Of ruin. Also the king, who made of love More than he made of life and death together, Forgot the world and his example in it For yet another woman--one of many-- And this one he made Queen, albeit he knew That her unsworn allegiance to the knight That he had loved the best of all his order Must one day bring along the coming end Of love and honor and of everything; And with a kingdom builded on two pits Of living sin,--so founded by the will Of one wise counsellor who loved the king, And loved the world and therefore made him king To be a mirror for it,--the king reigned well For certain years, awaiting a sure doom; For certain years he waved across the world A royal banner with a Dragon on it; And men of every land fell worshipping The Dragon as it were the living God, And not the living sin." She rose at that, And after a calm yawn, she looked at Merlin: "Why all this new insistence upon sin?" She said; "I wonder if I understand This king of yours, with all his pits and dragons; I know I do not like him." A thinner light Was in her eyes than he had found in them Since he became the willing prisoner That she had made of him; and on her mouth Lay now a colder line of irony Than all his fears or nightmares could have drawn Before today: "What reason do you know For me to listen to this king of yours? What reading has a man of woman's days, Even though the man be Merlin and a prophet?" "I know no call for you to love the king," Said Merlin, driven ruinously along By the vindictive urging of his fate; "I know no call for you to love the king, Although you serve him, knowing not yet the king You serve. There is no man, or any woman, For whom the story of the living king Is not the story of the living sin. I thought my story was the common one, For common recognition and regard." "Then let us have no more of it," she said; "For we are not so common, I believe, That we need kings and pits and flags and dragons To make us know that we have let the world Go by us. Have you missed the world so much That you must have it in with all its clots And wounds and bristles on to make us happy-- Like Blaise, with shouts and horns and seven men Triumphant with a most unlovely boar? Is there no other story in the world Than this one of a man that you made king To be a moral for the speckled ages? You said once long ago, if you remember, 'You are too strange a lady to fear specks'; And it was you, you said, who feared them not. Why do you look at me as at a snake All coiled to spring at you and strike you dead? I am not going to spring at you, or bite you; I'm going home. And you, if you are kind, Will have no fear to wander for an hour. I'm sure the time has come for you to wander; And there may come a time for you to say What most you think it is that we need here To make of this Broceliande a refuge Where two disheartened sinners may forget A world that has today no place for them." A melancholy wave of revelation Broke over Merlin like a rising sea, Long viewed unwillingly and long denied. He saw what he had seen, but would not feel, Till now the bitterness of what he felt Was in his throat, and all the coldness of it Was on him and around him like a flood Of lonelier memories than he had said Were memories, although he knew them now For what they were--for what his eyes had seen, For what his ears had heard and what his heart Had felt, with him not knowing what it felt. But now he knew that his cold angel's name Was Change, and that a mightier will than his Or Vivian's had ordained that he be there. To Vivian he could not say anything But words that had no more of hope in them Than anguish had of peace: "I meant the world ... I meant the world," he groaned; "not you--not me." Again the frozen line of irony Was on her mouth. He looked up once at it. And then away--too fearful of her eyes To see what he could hear now in her laugh That melted slowly into what she said, Like snow in icy water: "This world of yours Will surely be the end of us. And why not? I'm overmuch afraid we're part of it,-- Or why do we build walls up all around us, With gates of iron that make us think the day Of judgment's coming when they clang behind us? And yet you tell me that you fear no specks! With you I never cared for them enough To think of them. I was too strange a lady. And your return is now a speckled king And something that you call a living sin-- That's like an uninvited poor relation Who comes without a welcome, rather late, And on a foundered horse." "Specks? What are specks?" He gazed at her in a forlorn wonderment That made her say: "You said, 'I fear them not.' 'If I were king in Camelot,' you said, 'I might fear more than specks.' Have you forgotten? Don't tell me, Merlin, you are growing old. Why don't you make somehow a queen of me, And give me half the world? I'd wager thrushes That I should reign, with you to turn the wheel, As well as any king that ever was. The curse on me is that I cannot serve A ruler who forgets that he is king." In his bewildered misery Merlin then Stared hard at Vivian's face, more like a slave Who sought for common mercy than like Merlin: "You speak a language that was never mine, Or I have lost my wits. Why do you seize The flimsiest of opportunities To make of what I said another thing Than love or reason could have let me say, Or let me fancy? Why do you keep the truth So far away from me, when all your gates Will open at your word and let me go To some place where no fear or weariness Of yours need ever dwell? Why does a woman, Made otherwise a miracle of love And loveliness, and of immortal beauty, Tear one word by the roots out of a thousand, And worry it, and torture it, and shake it, Like a small dog that has a rag to play with? What coil of an ingenious destiny Is this that makes of what I never meant A meaning as remote as hell from heaven?" "I don't know," Vivian said reluctantly, And half as if in pain; "I'm going home. I'm going home and leave you here to wander. Pray take your kings and sins away somewhere And bury them, and bury the Queen in also. I know this king; he lives in Camelot, And I shall never like him. There are specks Almost all over him. Long live the king, But not the king who lives in Camelot, And all four speckled like a merry nest Of addled eggs together. You made him King Because you loved the world and saw in him From infancy a mirror for the millions. The world will see itself in him, and then The world will say its prayers and wash its face, And build for some new king a new foundation. Long live the King!... But now I apprehend A time for me to shudder and grow old And garrulous--and so become a fright For Blaise to take out walking in warm weather-- Should I give way to long considering Of worlds you may have lost while prisoned here With me and my light mind. I contemplate Another name for this forbidden place, And one more fitting. Tell me, if you find it, Some fitter name than Eden. We have had A man and woman in it for some time, And now, it seems, we have a Tree of Knowledge." She looked up at the branches overhead And shrugged her shoulders. Then she went away; And what was left of Merlin's happiness, Like a disloyal phantom, followed her. He felt the sword of his cold angel thrust And twisted in his heart, as if the end Were coming next, but the cold angel passed Invisibly and left him desolate, With misty brow and eyes. "The man who sees May see too far, and he may see too late The path he takes unseen," he told himself When he found thought again. "The man who sees May go on seeing till the immortal flame That lights and lures him folds him in its heart, And leaves of what there was of him to die An item of inhospitable dust That love and hate alike must hide away; Or there may still be charted for his feet A dimmer faring, where the touch of time Were like the passing of a twilight moth From flower to flower into oblivion, If there were not somewhere a barren end Of moths and flowers, and glimmering far away Beyond a desert where the flowerless days Are told in slow defeats and agonies, The guiding of a nameless light that once Had made him see too much--and has by now Revealed in death, to the undying child Of Lancelot, the Grail. For this pure light Has many rays to throw, for many men To follow; and the wise are not all pure, Nor are the pure all wise who follow it. There are more rays than men. But let the man Who saw too much, and was to drive himself From paradise, play too lightly or too long Among the moths and flowers, he finds at last There is a dim way out; and he shall grope Where pleasant shadows lead him to the plain That has no shadow save his own behind him. And there, with no complaint, nor much regret, Shall he plod on, with death between him now And the far light that guides him, till he falls And has an empty thought of empty rest; Then Fate will put a mattock in his hands And lash him while he digs himself the grave That is to be the pallet and the shroud Of his poor blundering bones. The man who saw Too much must have an eye to see at last Where Fate has marked the clay; and he shall delve, Although his hand may slacken, and his knees May rock without a method as he toils; For there's a delving that is to be done-- If not for God, for man. I see the light, But I shall fall before I come to it; For I am old. I was young yesterday. Time's hand that I have held away so long Grips hard now on my shoulder. Time has won. Tomorrow I shall say to Vivian That I am old and gaunt and garrulous, And tell her one more story: I am old." There were long hours for Merlin after that, And much long wandering in his prison-yard, Where now the progress of each heavy step Confirmed a stillness of impending change And imminent farewell. To Vivian's ear There came for many days no other story Than Merlin's iteration of his love And his departure from Broceliande, Where Merlin still remained. In Vivian's eye, There was a quiet kindness, and at times A smoky flash of incredulity That faded into pain. Was this the Merlin-- This incarnation of idolatry And all but supplicating deference-- This bowed and reverential contradiction Of all her dreams and her realities-- Was this the Merlin who for years and years Before she found him had so made her love him That kings and princes, thrones and diadems, And honorable men who drowned themselves For love, were less to her than melon-shells? Was this the Merlin whom her fate had sent One spring day to come ringing at her gate, Bewildering her love with happy terror That later was to be all happiness? Was this the Merlin who had made the world Half over, and then left it with a laugh To be the youngest, oldest, weirdest, gayest, And wisest, and sometimes the foolishest Of all the men of her consideration? Was this the man who had made other men As ordinary as arithmetic? Was this man Merlin who came now so slowly Towards the fountain where she stood again In shimmering green? Trembling, he took her hands And pressed them fondly, one upon the other, Between his: "I was wrong that other day, For I have one more story. I am old." He waited like one hungry for the word Not said; and she found in his eyes a light As patient as a candle in a window That looks upon the sea and is a mark For ships that have gone down. "Tomorrow," he said; "Tomorrow I shall go away again To Camelot; and I shall see the King Once more; and I may come to you again Once more; and I shall go away again For ever. There is now no more than that For me to do; and I shall do no more. I saw too much when I saw Camelot; And I saw farther backward into Time, And forward, than a man may see and live, When I made Arthur king. I saw too far, But not so far as this. Fate played with me As I have played with Time; and Time, like me, Being less than Fate, will have on me his vengeance. On Fate there is no vengeance, even for God." He drew her slowly into his embrace And held her there, but when he kissed her lips They were as cold as leaves and had no answer; For Time had given him then, to prove his words, A frozen moment of a woman's life. When Merlin the next morning came again In the same pilgrim robe that he had worn While he sat waiting where the cherry-blossoms Outside the gate fell on him and around him, Grief came to Vivian at the sight of him; And like a flash of a swift ugly knife, A blinding fear came with it. "Are you going?" She said, more with her lips than with her voice; And he said, "I am going. Blaise and I Are going down together to the shore, And Blaise is coming back. For this one day Be good enough to spare him, for I like him. I tell you now, as once I told the King, That I can be no more than what I was, And I can say no more than I have said. Sometimes you told me that I spoke too long, And sent me off to wander. That was good. I go now for another wandering, And I pray God that all be well with you." For long there was a whining in her ears Of distant wheels departing. When it ceased, She closed the gate again so quietly That Merlin could have heard no sound of it. Was given through many a dying afternoon To sit and meditate on human ways And ways divine, Gawaine and Bedivere Stood silent, gazing down on Camelot. The two had risen and were going home: "It hits me sore, Gawaine," said Bedivere, "To think on all the tumult and affliction Down there, and all the noise and preparation That hums of coming death, and, if my fears Be born of reason, of what's more than death. Wherefore, I say to you again, Gawaine,-- To you--that this late hour is not too late For you to change yourself and change the King; For though the King may love me with a love More tried, and older, and more sure, may be, Than for another, for such a time as this The friend who turns him to the world again Shall have a tongue more gracious and an eye More shrewd than mine. For such a time as this The King must have a glamour to persuade him." "The King shall have a glamour, and anon," Gawaine said, and he shot death from his eyes; "If you were King, as Arthur is--or was-- And Lancelot had carried off your Queen, And killed a score or so of your best knights-- Not mentioning my two brothers, whom he slew Unarmored and unarmed--God save your wits! Two stewards with skewers could have done as much, And you and I might now be rotting for it." "But Lancelot's men were crowded,--they were crushed; And there was nothing for them but to strike Or die, not seeing where they struck. Think you They would have slain Gareth and Gaheris, And Tor, and all those other friends of theirs? God's mercy for the world he made, I say, And for the blood that writes the story of it. All dead, with all the others that are dead! These years have made me turn to Lamorak For counsel--and now Lamorak is dead." "Why do you fling those two names in my face? 'Twas Modred made an end of Lamorak, Not I; and Lancelot now has done for Tor. I'll urge no king on after Lancelot For such a two as Tor and Lamorak: Their father killed my father, and their friend Was Lancelot, not I. I'll own my fault-- I'm living; and while I've a tongue can talk, I'll say this to the King: 'Burn Lancelot By inches till he give you back the Queen; Then hang him--drown him--or do anything To rid the world of him.' He killed my brothers, And he was once my friend. Now damn the soul Of him who killed my brothers! There you have me." "You are a strong man, Gawaine, and your strength Goes ill where foes are. You may cleave their limbs And heads off, but you cannot damn their souls; What you may do now is to save their souls, And bodies too, and like enough your own. Remember that King Arthur is a king, And where there is a king there is a kingdom Is not the kingdom any more to you Than one brief enemy? Would you see it fall, And the King with it, for one mortal hate That burns out reason? Gawaine, you are king Today. Another day may see no king But Havoc, if you have no other word For Arthur now than hate for Lancelot. Is not the world as large as Lancelot? Is Lancelot, because one woman's eyes Are brighter when they look on him, to sluice The world with angry blood? Poor flesh! Poor flesh! And you, Gawaine,--are you so gaffed with hate You cannot leave it and so plunge away To stiller places and there see, for once, What hangs on this pernicious expedition Would undertake--with you to drum him on? Made ravening into one man twice as mad As either? Is the kingdom of the world, Now rocking, to go down in sound and blood And ashes and sick ruin, and for the sake Of three men and a woman? If it be so, God's mercy for the world he made, I say,-- Your throne is empty, and you may as well Sit on it and be ruler of the world From now till supper-time." Appearing, made reply to Bedivere's Dry welcome with a famished look of pain, On which he built a smile: "If I were King, You, Bedivere, should be my counsellor; And we should have no more wars over women. I'll sit me down and meditate on that." Gawaine, for all his anger, laughed a little, And clapped the fool's lean shoulder; for he loved him And was with Arthur when he made him knight. As if his tongue would make a jest of sorrow: "Sometime I'll tell you what I might have done Had I been Lancelot and you King Arthur-- Each having in himself the vicious essence That now lives in the other and makes war. When all men are like you and me, my lord, When all are rational or rickety, There may be no more war. But what's here now? Lancelot loves the Queen, and he makes war Of love; the King, being bitten to the soul By love and hate that work in him together, Makes war of madness; Gawaine hates Lancelot, And he, to be in tune, makes war of hate; Modred hates everything, yet he can see With one damned illegitimate small eye His father's crown, and with another like it He sees the beauty of the Queen herself; He needs the two for his ambitious pleasure, And therefore he makes war of his ambition; And somewhere in the middle of all this There's a squeezed world that elbows for attention. Poor Merlin, buried in Broceliande! He must have had an academic eye For woman when he founded Arthur's kingdom, And in Broceliande he may be sorry. Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols. God be with him! I'm glad they tell me there's another world, For this one's a disease without a doctor." "No, not so bad as that," said Bedivere; "The doctor, like ourselves, may now be learning; And Merlin may have gauged his enterprise Whatever the cost he may have paid for knowing. We pass, but many are to follow us, And what they build may stay; though I believe Another age will have another Merlin, Another Camelot, and another King. And you, Sir Knight: Gawaine, you have the world Now in your fingers--an uncommon toy, Albeit a small persuasion in the balance With one man's hate. I'm glad you're not a fool, For then you might be rickety, as I am, And rational as Bedivere. Farewell. I'll sit here and be king. God save the King!" But Gawaine scowled and frowned and answered nothing As he went slowly down with Bedivere To Camelot, where Arthur's army waited The King's word for the melancholy march To Joyous Gard, where Lancelot hid the Queen And armed his host, and there was now no joy, While he sat brooding, with his wan cheek-bones Hooked with his bony fingers: "Go, Gawaine," He mumbled: "Go your way, and drag the world Along down with you. What's a world or so To you if you can hide an ell of iron Somewhere in Lancelot, and hear him wheeze And sputter once or twice before he goes Wherever the Queen sends him? There's a man Who should have been a king, and would have been, Had he been born so. So should I have been A king, had I been born so, fool or no: King-Fool, Fool-King; 'twere not impossible. I'll meditate on that and pray for Arthur, Who made me all I am, except a fool. Now he goes mad for love, as I might go Had I been born a king and not a fool. Today I think I'd rather be a fool; Today the world is less than one scared woman-- Wherefore a field of waving men may soon Be shorn by Time's indifferent scythe, because The King is mad. The seeds of history Are small, but given a few gouts of warm blood For quickening, they sprout out wondrously And have a leaping growth whereof no man May shun such harvesting of change or death, Or life, as may fall on him to be borne. When I am still alive and rickety, And Bedivere's alive and rational-- If he come out of this, and there's a doubt,-- May all be lying underneath a weight Of bloody sheaves too heavy for their shoulders, All spent, and all dishonored, and all dead; And if it come to be that this be so, And it be true that Merlin saw the truth, Such harvest were the best. Your fool sees not So far as Merlin sees: yet if he saw The truth--why then, such harvest were the best. I'll pray for Arthur; I can do no more." "Why not for Merlin? Or do you count him, In this extreme, so foreign to salvation That prayer would be a stranger to his name?" Stood up and saw before him an old face Made older with an inch of silver beard, And faded eyes more eloquent of pain And ruin than all the faded eyes of age Till now had ever been, although in them There was a mystic and intrinsic peace Of one who sees where men of nearer sight See nothing. On their way to Camelot, Gawaine and Bedivere had passed him by, With lax attention for the pilgrim cloak They passed, and what it hid: yet Merlin saw Their faces, and he saw the tale was true That he had lately drawn from solemn strangers. "I'll rest my lonely relics for a while On this rock that was mine and now is yours. I favor the succession; for you know Far more than many doctors, though your doubt Is your peculiar poison. I foresaw Long since, and I have latterly been told What moves in this commotion down below To show men what it means. It means the end-- If men whose tongues had less to say to me Than had their shoulders are adept enough To know; and you may pray for me or not, "Sir Fool, you mean," "I'll never pray again for anything, And last of all for this that you behold-- That God has given to me to call Myself. It is indeed the end." Shall name or know today. It was the end Of Arthur's insubstantial majesty When to him and his knights the Grail foreshowed The quest of life that was to be the death Of many, and the slow discouraging Of many more. Or do I err in this?" Alone of all on whom it fell, was calm; There was a Light wherein men saw themselves In one another as they might become-- Or so they dreamed. There was a long to-do, And Gawaine, of all forlorn ineligibles, Rose up the first, and cried more lustily Than any after him that he should find The Grail, or die for it,--though he did neither; For he came back as living and as fit For new and old iniquity as ever. Then Lancelot came back, and Bors came back,-- Like men who had seen more than men should see, And still come back. They told of Percival, Who saw too much to make of this worn life A long necessity, and of Galahad, Who died and is alive. They all saw Something. God knows the meaning or the end of it, But they saw Something. And if I've an eye, Small joy has the Queen been to Lancelot Since he came back from seeing what he saw; For though his passion hold him like hot claws, He's neither in the world nor out of it. Gawaine is king, though Arthur wears the crown; And Gawaine's hate for Lancelot is the sword That hangs by one of Merlin's fragile hairs Above the world. Were you to see the King, The frenzy that has overthrown his wisdom, Instead of him and his upheaving empire, Might have an end." "I came to see the King," Said Merlin, like a man who labors hard And long with an importunate confession. Although your tongue is eager with wild hope To tell me more than I may tell myself About myself. All this that was to be Might show to man how vain it were to wreck The world for self, if it were all in vain. When I began with Arthur I could see In each bewildered man who dots the earth A moment with his days a groping thought Of an eternal will, strangely endowed With merciful illusions whereby self Becomes the will itself and each man swells In fond accordance with his agency. Are swollen thoughts of this eternal will Which have no other way to find the way That leads them on to their inheritance Than by the time-infuriating flame Of a wrecked empire, lighted by the torch Of woman, who, together with the light That Galahad found, is yet to light the world." A wan smile crept across the weary face Before your burial in Broceliande, No wonder your eternal will accords With all your dreams of what the world requires. My master, I may say this unto you Because I am a fool, and fear no man; My fear is that I've been a groping thought That never swelled enough. You say the torch Of woman and the light that Galahad found Are some day to illuminate the world? I'll meditate on that. The world is done For me; and I have been, to make men laugh, A lean thing of no shape and many capers. I made them laugh, and I could laugh anon Myself to see them killing one another Because a woman with corn-colored hair Has pranked a man with horns. 'Twas but a flash Of chance, and Lancelot, the other day That saved this pleasing sinner from the fire That she may spread for thousands. Were she now The cinder the King willed, or were you now To see the King, the fire might yet go out; But the eternal will says otherwise. So be it; I'll assemble certain gold That I may say is mine and get myself Away from this accurst unhappy court, And in some quiet place where shepherd clowns And cowherds may have more respondent ears Than kings and kingdom-builders, I shall troll Old men to easy graves and be a child Again among the children of the earth. I'll have no more of kings, even though I loved King Arthur, who is mad, as I could love No other man save Merlin, who is dead." "Not wholly dead, but old. Merlin is old." The wizard shivered as he spoke, and stared Away into the sunset where he saw Once more, as through a cracked and cloudy glass, A crumbling sky that held a crimson cloud Wherein there was a town of many towers All swayed and shaken, in a woman's hand This time, till out of it there spilled and flashed And there was nothing but a crumbling sky That made anon of black and red and ruin A wild and final rain on Camelot. He bowed, and pressed his eyes: "Now by my soul, I have seen this before--all black and red-- Like that--like that--like Vivian--black and red; Like Vivian, when her eyes looked into mine Across the cups of gold. A flute was playing-- Then all was black and red." Another smile Who shivered in his turn. "The torch of woman," He muttered, "and the light that Galahad found, Will some day save us all, as they saved Merlin. Forgive my shivering wits, but I am cold, And it will soon be dark. Will you go down With me to see the King, or will you not? If not, I go tomorrow to the shepherds. The world is mad, and I'm a groping thought Of your eternal will; the world and I Are strangers, and I'll have no more of it-- Except you go with me to see the King." Said Merlin, sadly. "You and I are old; And, as you say, we fear no man. God knows I would not have the love that once you had For me be fear of me, for I am past All fearing now. But Fate may send a fly Sometimes, and he may sting us to the grave, So driven to test our faith in what we see. Are you, now I am coming to an end, As Arthur's days are coming to an end, To sting me like a fly? I do not ask Of you to say that you see what I see, Where you see nothing; nor do I require Of any man more vision than is his; Yet I could wish for you a larger part For your last entrance here than this you play Tonight of a sad insect stinging Merlin. The more you sting, the more he pities you; And you were never overfond of pity. Had you been so, I doubt if Arthur's love, Or Gawaine's, would have made of you a knight. Nor would you if you could. You call yourself A fool, because the world and you are strangers. What I alone have seen. You are no fool; And surely you are not a fly to sting My love to last regret. Believe or not What I have seen, or what I say to you, But say no more to me that I am dead Because the King is mad, and you are old, And I am older. In Broceliande Time overtook me as I knew he must; And I, with a fond overplus of words, Had warned the lady Vivian already, Before these wrinkles and this hesitancy Inhibiting my joints oppressed her sight With age and dissolution. She said once That she was cold and cruel; but she meant That she was warm and kind, and over-wise For woman in a world where men see not Beyond themselves. She saw beyond them all, As I did; and she waited, as I did, The coming of a day when cherry-blossoms Were to fall down all over me like snow In springtime. I was far from Camelot That afternoon; and I am farther now From her. I see no more for me to do Than to leave her and Arthur and the world Behind me, and to pray that all be well With Vivian, whose unquiet heart is hungry For what is not, and what shall never be Without her, in a world that men are making, Knowing not how, nor caring yet to know How slowly and how grievously they do it,-- Though Vivian, in her golden shell of exile, Knows now and cares, not knowing that she cares, Nor caring that she knows. In time to be, The like of her shall have another name Than Vivian, and her laugh shall be a fire, Not shining only to consume itself With what it burns. She knows not yet the name Of what she is, for now there is no name; Some day there shall be. Time has many names, Unwritten yet, for what we say is old Because we are so young that it seems old. And this is all a part of what I saw Before you saw King Arthur. When we parted, I told her I should see the King again, And, having seen him, might go back again To see her face once more. But I shall see No more the lady Vivian. Let her love What man she may, no other love than mine Shall be an index of her memories. I fear no man who may come after me, And I see none. I see her, still in green, Beside the fountain. I shall not go back. We pay for going back; and all we get Is one more needless ounce of weary wisdom To bring away with us. If I come not, The lady Vivian will remember me, And say: 'I knew him when his heart was young, Though I have lost him now. Time called him home, And that was as it was; for much is lost He stared away into the west again, Where now no crimson cloud or phantom town Deceived his eyes. Above a living town There were gray clouds and ultimate suspense, Now crouched at Merlin's feet in his dejection, Saw multiplying lights far down below, Where lay the fevered streets. At length he felt On his lean shoulder Merlin's tragic hand And trembled, knowing that a few more days Would see the last of Arthur and the first Of Modred, whose dark patience had attained To one precarious half of what he sought: "And even the Queen herself may fall to him," Is that your only fear tonight?" said Merlin; "She may, but not for long."--"No, not my fear; For I fear nothing. But I wish no fate Like that for any woman the King loves, Although she be the scourge and end of him That you saw coming, as I see it now." He swore, for any king, queen, knave, or wizard-- Albeit he was a stranger among those Who laughed at him because he was a fool. "You said the truth, I cannot leave you now," He stammered, and was angry for the tears That mocked his will and choked him. Merlin smiled, I need your word as one of Arthur's knights That you will go on with me to the end Of my short way, and say unto no man Or woman that you found or saw me here. No good would follow, for a doubt would live Unstifled of my loyalty to him Whose deeds are wrought for those who are to come; And many who see not what I have seen, Or what you see tonight, would prattle on For ever, and their children after them, Of what might once have been had I gone down I came to see the King,--but why see kings? All this that was to be is what I saw Before there was an Arthur to be king, And so to be a mirror wherein men May see themselves, and pause. If they see not, Or if they do see and they ponder not,-- I saw; but I was neither Fate nor God. I saw too much; and this would be the end, Were there to be an end. I saw myself-- A sight no other man has ever seen; And through the dark that lay beyond myself I saw two fires that are to light the world." Weighed now as living iron that held him down With a primeval power. Doubt, wonderment, Impatience, and a self-accusing sorrow Born of an ancient love, possessed and held him Until his love was more than he could name, And he was Merlin's fool, not Arthur's now: "Say what you will, I say that I'm the fool Of Merlin, King of Nowhere; which is Here. With you for king and me for court, what else Have we to sigh for but a place to sleep? I know a tavern that will take us in; And on the morrow I shall follow you Until I die for you. And when I die ..."-- Of Merlin a grave humor and a sound Of graver pity, "I shall die a fool." He heard what might have been a father's laugh, Faintly behind him; and the living weight Of Merlin's hand was lifted. They arose, And, saying nothing, found a groping way Down through the gloom together. Fiercer now, The wind was like a flying animal That beat the two of them incessantly With icy wings, and bit them as they went. The rock above them was an empty place Where neither seer nor fool should view again The stricken city. Colder blew the wind Across the world, and on it heavier lay The shadow and the burden of the night; And there was darkness over Camelot. "He writes admirable dialogue, and his characters have strong and characters."--_Kentucky Post._ _Revised edition with additional poems, 12mo, cloth, $1.25_ poetry."--_Review of Reviews._

Thomas Wiltshire

On the Red Chalk of England

EVENING (Milton) TO A SKYLARK (Shelley) TO A SKYLARK (Wordsworth) Romance of the Swan's Nest Home Thoughts from Abroad Song from "Pippa Passes" "Blessed are They that Mourn" Oh, wert Thou in the Cauld Blast There'll Never be Peace BYRON, LORD (George Noel Gordon). She walks in Beauty Lochiel's Warning Say not, the Struggle Naught availeth Where lies the Land to which the Ship would go Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni The Knight's Tomb CORNWALL, BARRY. (See Procter.) On the receipt of my Mother's Picture Elegy written in a Country Churchyard On First Looking into Chapman's Homer On the Sea Abide with Me A Jacobite's Epitaph The Harp that once through Tara's Halls Nora's Vow Antony's Eulogy on Caesar: A Selection Song: "Who is Silvia? what is she?" The Man that hath no Music in Himself: Elaine: A Selection from "The In Heavenly Love abiding _The Land of Song: Book III._ Oh Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned-- To fetters, and the damp vault's day less gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar--for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, O, who would inhabit This bleak world alone? "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee." The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee. The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" Men say it was a stolen tyde-- The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song-- "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think how long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swifte as an arrow, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the time of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadow mote be seene, Save where full fyve miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby! "For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) "The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" "Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward pressed Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls againe. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- Then beaten foam flew round about-- Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I--my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks upon the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and mee: But each will mourn his own (she saith); And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay, That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. "The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. "Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there Sits lonely in her castle hall. "'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." O'er Roslin all that dreary night, A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castle rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from caverned Hawthornden. Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seemed all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmered all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold-- But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle! Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond-- Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! The dews of summer night did fall; The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now naught was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs That issued from that lonely pile. "Leicester!" she cried, "is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity? "No more thou com'st with lover's speed Thy once-beloved bride to see; But, be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. "Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appall. "I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn So merrily sung the livelong day. "If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized? "But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or, 'tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather, ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. "Then, Leicester, why,--again I plead, The injured surely may repine,-- Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine? "Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the livelong day? "The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe. "How far less blest am I than them! Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air. "My spirits flag--my hopes decay-- Still that dread death-bell smites my ear: And many a boding seems to say, Countess, prepare, thy end is near!" Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared, In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring; An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. The mastiff howled at village door, The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour--for never more That hapless countess e'er was seen! And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient mossgrown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveler oft hath sighed And pensive wept the countess' fall, As wand'ring onwards they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown: His scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptered sway; It is enthroned in the heart of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?" Then out spake brave Horatius, "To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods; "And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee." "Horatius," quoth the Consul, "As thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. More hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, And the Fathers grind the low, As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an ax: And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose; And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way; Aunus from green Tifernum, And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum towers O'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath: Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth: Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. The rover of the sea; Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore. Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accursed sail." But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes, A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. But hark! the cry is "Astur"; And lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter Stands savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way?" Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh; The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?" But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, Along that glittering van. There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria's noblest Were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, In the path the dauntless Three. And from the ghastly entrance Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack: But those behind cried, "Forward!" And those before cried, "Back!" And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel, To and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal Dies fitfully away. Yet one man for one moment Stood out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud. "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away, Here lies the road to Rome." Thrice looked he at the city; Thrice looked he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread; And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile ax and lever Have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" Loud cried the Fathers all, "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall!" Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream; And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam. And like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free; And whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace." Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he; The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. "Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day." So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place: But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within; And our good father Tiber Bore bravely up his chin. "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "And bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd. They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plow from morn till night; And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium, Plain for all folk to see; Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee: And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge, In the brave days of old. And still his name sounds stirring As the trumpet-blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within; When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows; When the goodman mends his armor, And trims his helmet's plume; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. Say not, the struggle naught availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide,-- "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest:-- They also serve who only stand and wait." All is finished! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. On the deck another bride Is standing by her lover's side. Shadows from the flags and shrouds, Like the shadows cast by clouds, Broken by many a sunny fleck, Fall around them on the deck. With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms! Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives! Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,--are all with thee! Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gathered in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men revealed The fullness of her face-- Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, godlike, grasps the triple forks, And kinglike, wears the crown: Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes! Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west. Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour: See approach proud Edward's pow'r-- Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law, Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! By our sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!-- Let us do or die! To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke, "Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!" Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee!" As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee! With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, As they watched for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee." The Gordon demands of him which way he goes: "Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, Will cry _hoigh!_ for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "There's brass on the target of barkened bull hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!" He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettledrums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war notes of Bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, and fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the men, Come open your gates, and let me gae free, For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee! A good sword and a trusty hand! A merry heart and true! King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do. And have they fixed the where and when? And shall Trelawny die? Here's twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why! Out spake their captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he: "If London Tower were Michael's hold, We'll set Trelawny free! "We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay, With one and all, and hand in hand, And who shall bid us nay? "And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all, Here's men as good as you. "Trelawny he's in keep and hold, Trelawny he may die; But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will know the reason why!" Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,-- Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Ordained that no man living, from that day, Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. All Araby and Persia held their breath. All but the brave Mondeer.--He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief, For his great heart wanted a great relief, Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square Where once had stood a happy home, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. "Bring me this man," the caliph cried: the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still. "Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit." "Gifts!" cried the friend. He took: and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar." How happy is he born or taught Who serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill: Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death-- Not tied unto the world with care Of prince's ear or vulgar breath; Who hath his ear from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great; Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend-- This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all. How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains. For shame, dear friend; renounce this canting strain. What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? Place, titles, salary, a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends. Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures--love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now, See where the victor victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead: For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer; Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed,--for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-- --Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors: Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the ironbound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah no! for a darker departure is near; The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death bell is tolling: oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale-- --Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Tho' my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the deathbed of fame. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn: Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night work, The frolic architecture of the snow. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. Oh, to be in England now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm tree hole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower! O Pleasant eventide! Clouds on the western side Grow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun: The bees and birds, their happy labors done, Seek their close nests and bide. Screened in the leafy wood The stockdoves sit and brood: The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough But lazily; pauses; and settles now Where once he stored his food. One by one the flowers close, Lily and dewy rose Shutting their tender petals from the moon: The grasshoppers are still; but not so soon Are still the noisy crows. The dormouse squats and eats Choice little dainty bits Beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime; Nibbling his fill he stops from time to time And listens where he sits. From far the lowings come Of cattle driven home: From farther still the wind brings fitfully The vast continual murmur of the sea, The gnats whirl in the air, The evening gnats; and there The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail For prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snail Comes forth, clammy and bare. Hark! that's the nightingale. Telling the selfsame tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale. We call it love and pain, The passion of her strain; And yet we little understand or know: Why should it not be rather joy that so Throbs in each throbbing vein? In separate herds the deer Lie; here the bucks, and here The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn: Through all the hours of night until the dawn They sleep, forgetting fear. The hare sleeps where it lies, With wary half-closed eyes: The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck: Only the fox is out, some heedless duck Or chicken to surprise. Remote, each single star Comes out, till there they are All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp! While close at hand the glowworm lights her lamp Or twinkles from afar. But evening now is done As much as if the sun Day-giving had arisen in the east: For night has come; and the great calm has ceased, The quiet sands have run. Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me! Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away: Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou, who changest not, abide with me! Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word, But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord, Familiar, condescending, patient, free, Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me! Come not in terrors, as the King of kings; But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings: Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea:-- Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me! Thou on my head in early youth didst smile, And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee; On to the close, O Lord, abide with me! I need Thy presence every passing hour: What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power? Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me! I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless: Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory? --I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies: Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:-- In life and death, O Lord, abide with me! The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven-- All's right with the world. A sad man on a summer day Did look upon the earth and say-- "Purple cloud, the hilltop binding, Folded hills, the valleys wind in, Valleys, with fresh streams among you, Streams, with bosky trees along you, Trees, with many birds and blossoms, Birds, with music-trembling bosoms, Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe you To your fellow flowers beneath you, Flowers, that constellate on earth, Earth, that shakest to the mirth Of the merry Titan ocean, All his shining hair in motion! Why am I thus the only one Who can be dark beneath the sun?" But when the summer day was past, He looked to heaven and smiled at last, Self-answered so-- "Because, O cloud, Pressing with thy crumpled shroud Heavily on mountain top,-- Hills, that almost seem to drop, Stricken with a misty death, To the valleys underneath,-- Valleys, sighing with the torrent,-- Waters, streaked with branches horrent,-- Branchless trees, that shake your head Wildly o'er your blossoms spread Where the common flowers are found,-- Flowers, with foreheads to the ground,-- Ground, that shriekest while the sea With his iron smiteth thee-- I am, besides, the only one Who can be bright _without_ the sun." Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow, Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft To give my Love good morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good morrow; To give my Love good morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, Sing birds in every furrow, And from each hill, let music shrill, Give my fair Love good morrow: Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good morrow. To give my Love good morrow Sing birds in every furrow. On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers By the margin, willow-veiled, Slide the heavy barges trailed By slow horses; and unhailed The shallop flitteth silken-sailed, Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market-girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-haired page in crimson clad, Goes by to towered Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two; She hath no loyal knight and true, But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half sick of shadows," said A bowshot from her bower eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazoned baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather The helmet and the helmet feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; On burnished hooves his war horse trode; From underneath his helmet flowed His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra, lirra," by the river She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror cracked from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried In the stormy east wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote And down the river's dim expanse-- Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot; For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of the meadow, By a stream-side on the grass; And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow. Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses, Fills the silence like a speech; While she thinks what shall be done,-- And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach. Little Ellie in her smile Chooses, "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! He shall love me without guile; And to _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds. "And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath; And the lute he plays upon, Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death! "And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs, along the sod, Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. "But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face; He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in; And I kneel here for thy grace.' "Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand-- Till I answer, 'Rise, and go!' For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand. "Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a _yes_ I must not say-- Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' I will utter and dissemble-- 'Light to-morrow with to-day.' "Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong, To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. "Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet-- 'Lo! my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting! What wilt thou exchange for it?' "And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time a glove; But the third time--I may bend From my pride, and answer--'Pardon, If he comes to take my love.' "Then the young foot-page will run-- Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: 'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but _thee_!' "He will kiss me on the mouth Then; and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe-- And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the _two_. Pushing through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads, Past the boughs she stoops, and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted-- And a rat had gnawed the reeds! Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth, I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan's nest among the reeds. Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall. There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago. There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. Since we parted, a month had passed,-- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well sweep near. I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her windowpane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves. Just the same as a month before,-- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- Nothing changed but the hives of bees. Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black. Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go! Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away." But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in. And the song she was singing ever since In my ears sounds on:-- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, And this our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy. But now my own delights I make,-- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of thee, sweet daisy! Thee winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs That she may sun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right: And autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted, Nor grieved if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling. Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;--thou not in vain Art Nature's favorite. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trilled all day, Sits hushed his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour-- But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings highborn Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know-- But where is County Guy? The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song; The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart; And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The wood lark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song-- All meet whom day and care divide,-- But Leonard tarries long! Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Barefooted came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day." As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!" She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess, excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess, excellently bright. I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide, All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, was it meet, that,--no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-- Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall; Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long isle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, 'wildered, he drops from some rock huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam; And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be?-- By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown. The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;-- His soul is with the saints, I trust. Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three,-- (One is lost,--an angel, fled To the azure overhead!) Touch us gently, Time! We've not proud nor soaring wings, Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime;-- Touch us gently, gentle Time! BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_). O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence,--they looked on the ground. In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak tree grew lonely and hoar: "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?"--said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain:--no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed. "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud: "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne-- Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn! Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies wrought! Seven sisters that together dwell; But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly, to left, to right-- Of your fair household, father knight, Methinks you take small heed! Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Away the seven fair Campbells fly; And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow. Cried they, "Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There foot had never been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Amid the loud ebriety of War, With shouts of "la Republique" and "la Gloire," The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag And broadside blazing level with the wave Went down erect, defiant, to their grave Beneath the sea.--Twas but a Frenchman's brag, Yet Europe rang with it for many a year. Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear! And when they tell thee "England is a fen Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey For the first comer," tell how the other day A crew of half a thousand Englishmen Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay! Not with the cheer of battle in the throat, Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command. Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath, But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes! Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeled To face the King of Terrors mid the scaith Of many a hurricane and trenched field? Far other: weavers from the stocking frame; Boys from the plow; cornets with beardless chin, But steeped in honor and in discipline! Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name, Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame, Disaster, and thy Captains held at bay By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay! Here in this leafy place Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence,-- Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves; So this man's eyes are dim;-- Throw the earth over him. What was the white you touched There at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died;-- Message or wish, may be;-- Smooth the folds out and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled!-- Only the tremulous Words of a child;-- Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His--her dead father's--kiss, Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet; That is all. "Marguerite." Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! If the grief died;--but no;-- Death will not have it so. Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so linked together I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne! We twa hae run about the braes, And pu't the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne! We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine: But seas between us braid hae roared, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne! When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' are anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, Where lies the land to which the ship would go; Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go. On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. Said a people to a poet--"Go out from among us straightway! While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine. There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway, Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!" The poet went out weeping--the nightingale ceased chanting, "Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness --"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting, Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under the sun." The poet went out weeping,--and died abroad, bereft there. The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails. And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's. In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings his plaintive song. Green rolls beneath the headlands, Green rolls the Baltic Sea; And there, below the Neckan's feet, His wife and children be. He sings not of the ocean, Its shells and roses pale; Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings, He hath no other tale. He sits upon the headlands, And sings a mournful stave Of all he saw and felt on earth, Far from the kind sea wave. Sings how, a knight, he wandered By castle, field, and town-- But earthly knights have harder hearts Than the sea children own. Sings of his earthly bridal-- Priests, knights, and ladies gay. "--And who art thou," the priest began, "Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?"-- "--I am no knight," he answered; "From the sea waves I come."-- The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed, He sings how from the chapel He vanished with his bride, And bore her down to the sea halls, Beneath the salt sea tide. He sings how she sits weeping 'Mid shells that round her lie. "--False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps; "No Christian mate have I."-- He sings how through the billows He rose to earth again, And sought a priest to sign the cross, That Neckan Heaven might gain. He sings how, on an evening, Beneath the birch trees cool, He sate and played his harp of gold, Beside the river pool. Beside the pool sate Neckan-- Tears filled his mild blue eye. On his white mule, across the bridge, A cassocked priest rode by. "--Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, And play'st thy harp of gold? Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, Than thou shalt Heaven behold."-- But, lo, the staff, it budded! It greened, it branched, it waved. "--O ruth of God," the priest cried out, "This lost sea creature saved!" The cassocked priest rode onwards, And vanished with his mule; But Neckan in the twilight gray Wept by the river pool. He wept: "The earth hath kindness, The sea, the starry poles; Earth, sea, and sky, and God above-- But, ah, not human souls!" In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings this plaintive song. The stream was smooth as glass; we said, "Arise and let's The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; And spread the sail, and strong the oar; we gayly took our way. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay? The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains, The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains; The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay? Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large, Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge. The waves are bright with mirrored light as jacinths on our way. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay? The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see The spreading river's either bank, and surging distantly There booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away. Now shall the sandy bar be crossed, now shall we find the The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night. We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her When once the sandy bar is crossed, and we are in the bay. What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost? What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast? Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away. O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of heaven were unbound. O ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the sea; O ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody,-- Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired! By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._) King Henry held it as life's whole gain That after his death his son should reign. 'Twas so in my youth I heard men say, And my old age calls it back to-day. King Henry of England's realm was he, The times had changed when on either coast "Clerkly Harry" was all his boast. Of ruthless strokes full many a one He had struck to crown himself and his son; And his elder brother's eyes were gone. And when to the chase his court would crowd, The poor flung plowshares on his road, And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!" But all the chiefs of the English land Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand. And next with his son he sailed to France To claim the Norman allegiance: And every baron in Normandy Had taken the oath of fealty. 'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come When the King and the Prince might journey home: For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, And Christmas now was drawing near. Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,-- A pilot famous in seafaring; And he held to the King, in all men's sight, A mark of gold for his tribute's right. "Liege Lord! my father guided the ship From whose boat your father's foot did slip When he caught the English soil in his grip, "And cried: 'By this clasp I claim command O'er every rood of English land!' "He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now In that ship with the archer carved at her prow: "And thither I'll bear, an' it be my due, Your father's son and his grandson too. "The famed White Ship is mine in the bay; From Harfleur's harbor she sails to-day, "With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears And with fifty well-tried mariners." Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one, But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son. "My son and daughter and fellowship Shall cross the water in the White Ship." The King set sail with the eve's south wind, And soon he left that coast behind. The Prince and all his, a princely show, Remained in the good White Ship to go. With noble knights and with ladies fair, With courtiers and sailors gathered there, Three hundred living souls we were: And I Berold was the meanest hind In all that train to the Prince assigned. The Prince was a lawless, shameless youth; From his father's loins he sprang without ruth: Eighteen years till then he had seen, And the devil's dues in him were eighteen. And now he cried: "Bring wine from below; Let the sailors revel ere yet they row: "Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight Though we sail from the harbor at midnight." The rowers made good cheer without check; The lords and ladies obeyed his beck; The night was light, and they danced on the deck. But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay, And the White Ship furrowed the water way. The sails were set, and the oars kept tune To the double flight of the ship and the moon: Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead: As white as a lily glimmered she Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea. And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing! Is a song bird's course so swift on the wing?" And under the winter stars' still throng, From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, The knights and the ladies raised a song. A song,--nay, a shriek that rent the sky, That leaped o'er the deep!--the grievous cry Of three hundred living that now must die. An instant shriek that sprang to the shock As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock. 'Tis said that afar--a shrill strange sigh-- The King's ships heard it and knew not why. Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm 'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm. A great King's heir for the waves to whelm, And the helpless pilot pale at the helm! The ship was eager and sucked athirst, By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced: And like the moil round a sinking cup, The waters against her crowded up. A moment the pilot's senses spin,-- The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din, Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in. A few friends leaped with him, standing near. "Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!" "What! none to be saved but these and I?" "Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!" Out of the churn of the choking ship, Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip, They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip. 'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim The Prince's sister screamed to him. He gazed aloft, still rowing apace, And through the whirled surf he knew her face. To the toppling decks clave one and all As a fly cleaves to a chamber wall. I, Berold, was clinging anear; I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, But I saw his eyes as he looked at her. He knew her face and he heard her cry, And he said, "Put back! she must not die!" And back with the current's force they reel Like a leaf that's drawn to a water wheel. 'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float, But; he rose and stood in the rocking boat. Low the poor ship leaned on the tide: O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, The sister toiled to the brother's side. He reached an oar to her from below, And stiffened his arms to clutch her so. But now from the ship some spied the boat, And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat. And down to the boat they leaped and fell: It turned as a bucket turns in a well, And nothing was there but the surge and swell. The Prince that was and the King to come, There in an instant gone to his doom, Despite of all England's bended knee And maugre the Norman fealty! He was a Prince of lust and pride; He showed no grace till the hour he died. When he should be King, he oft would vow, He'd yoke the peasant to his own plow. O'er him the ships score their furrows now. God only knows where his soul did wake, But I saw him die for his sister's sake. By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._) And now the end came o'er the water's womb Like the last great day that's yet to come. With prayers in vain and curses in vain, The White Ship sundered on the midmain: And what were men and what was a ship, Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip. I, Berold, was down in the sea; And passing strange though the thing may be, Of dreams then known I remember me. Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand When morning lights the sails to land: And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam When mothers call the children home: And high do the bells of Rouen beat When the Body of Christ goes down the street. These things and the like were heard and shown In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone; And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, And not these things, to be all in a dream. The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, And the deep shuddered and the moon shone: And in a straight grasp my arms did span The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; And on it with me was another man. Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea sky, We told our names, that man and I. "O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight, And son I am to a belted knight." "And I am Berold the butcher's son Who slays the beasts in Rouen town." Then cried we upon God's name, as we Did drift on the bitter winter sea. But lo! a third man o'er the wave, And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!" He clutched to the yard with panting stare, And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there. He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he. "Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!" And loosed his hold and sank through the sea. And soul with soul again in that space We two were together face to face: And each knew each, as the moments sped, Less for one living than for one dead: And every still star overhead Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead. And the hours passed; till the noble's son Sighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone! "O farewell, friend, for I can no more!" "Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er. Three hundred souls were all lost but one, And I drifted over the sea alone. At last the morning rose on the sea Like an angel's wing that beat towards me. Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat; Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher boat. The sun was high o'er the eastern brim As I praised God and gave thanks to Him. That day I told my tale to a priest, Who charged me, till the shrift was released, That I should keep it in mine own breast. And with the priest I thence did fare To King Henry's court at Winchester. We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, And he wept and mourned again and again, As if his own son had been slain: And round us ever there crowded fast Great men with faces all aghast: And who so bold that might tell the thing Which now they knew to their lord the King? Much woe I learnt in their communing. The King had watched with a heart sore stirred For two whole days, and this was the third: And still to all his court would he say, "What keeps my son so long away?" And they said: "The ports lie far and wide That skirt the swell of the English tide; "And England's cliffs are not more white Than her women are, and scarce so light Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright; "And in some port that he reached from France The Prince has lingered for his pleasance." But once the King asked: "What distant cry Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?" And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie! Do the fishers fling their nets at sea." And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest When the seamew misses its young from the nest?" 'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread, Albeit they knew not what they said: But who should speak to-day of the thing That all knew there except the King? Then pondering much they found a way, And met round the King's high seat that day: And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, And seldom he spoke and seldom heard. 'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware Of a little boy with golden hair, As bright as the golden poppy is That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss: Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in spring, And his garb black like the raven's wing. Nothing was heard but his foot through the hall, For now the lords were silent all. And the King wondered, and said, "Alack! Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black? "Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall As though my court were a funeral?" Then lowly knelt the child at the dais, And looked up weeping in the King's face. "O wherefore black, O King, ye may say, For white is the hue of death to-day. "Your son and all his fellowship Lie low in the sea with the White Ship." King Henry fell as a man struck dead; And speechless still he stared from his bed When to him next day my rede I read. There's many an hour must needs beguile A King's high heart that he should smile,-- Full many a lordly hour, full fain Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:-- But this King never smiled again. By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._) Safe home, safe home in port! Rent cordage, shattered deck, Tom sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck: But, oh, the joy upon the shore, To tell our voyage,--perils o'er! The prize, the prize secure! The athlete nearly fell; Bare all he _could_ endure, And bare not always well: But he may smile at troubles gone, Who sets the victor-garland on! No more the foe can harm; No more of leaguered camp, And cry of night alarm, And need of ready lamp: And yet how nearly he had failed,-- How nearly had that foe prevailed! The exile is at home! O nights and days of tears, O longings not to roam, O sins, and doubts, and fears: What matter now this bitter fray? The King has wiped those tears away. ST. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM, A.D. 870 (translated by J. M. Neale). GOD moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs, And works His sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain. LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, The night is dark, and I am far from home-- Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene,--one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on. I loved to choose and see my path; but now I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on, O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rose the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest, He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord "And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear-men's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home: Under the shadow of Thy throne Thy saints have dwelt secure; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defense is sure. Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. O God, our help in ages past; Our hope for years to come; Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home! On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place, "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) Not a minute more to wait! "Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. "Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. "Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief." Still the north wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face, As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate Up the English come, too late! So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance, As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle But thou wouldst not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages.... Servants of God!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of His little ones lost-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died! Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardor divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, reinspire the brave. Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide The din of battle and of slaughter rose; He saw God stand upon the weaker side, That sank in seeming loss before its foes; Many there were who made great haste and sold Unto the cunning enemy their swords, He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, And, underneath their soft and flowery words, Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went And humbly joined him to the weaker part, Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content So he could be the nearer to God's heart, And feel its solemn pulses sending blood Through all the widespread veins of endless good. It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad; The house roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church spires flamed, such flags they had A year ago on this very day. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels-- But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered, "And afterward, what else?" Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There's nobody on the house tops now-- Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?"--God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep: The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though with a pierced and bleeding heart And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. We watched her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours. "He giveth his beloved sleep."--PSALM cxxvii. 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this-- "He giveth His beloved, sleep"? What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows?-- He giveth His beloved, sleep. What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. He giveth His beloved, sleep. "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved, sleep. O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delved gold, the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved, sleep. His dews drop mutely on the hill; His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap. More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved, sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word I think their happy smile is _heard_-- "He giveth His beloved, sleep." For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who giveth His beloved, sleep. And, friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; 'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'" How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hushed with buzzing night flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sound of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch A watch case or a common 'larum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. _From "King Henry IV."_ Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft, and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat: Like as my parlor, so my hall And kitchen's small: A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead: Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits, that be There placed by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one: Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day: Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year: The while the conduits of my kine Run cream (for wine.) All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine; But the acceptance,--that must be, O Love Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earthborn care, We smile at pain while Thou art near! Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread, Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near! When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near! On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near! With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearned towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Then there came a day When Allan called his son, and said, "My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die; And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora: she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter; he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wished this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answered short: "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answered madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obeyed my uncle until now, And I have sinned, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you; You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest; let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then, when the farmer passed into the field, He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answered softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bowed down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bowed down And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that helped her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answered Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself; And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back. But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kissed Each other, and set out, and reached the farm. The door was off the latch; they peeped, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her; And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora; take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I asked him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus; 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turned His face and passed--unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have killed my son. I have killed him--but I loved him--my dear son. May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child, So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit. I know not by what name beside I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was trained in Nature's school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbor! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning? O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she ga'ed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee." The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true,-- Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snawdrift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on,-- That e'er the sun shone on; And dark blue is her e'e; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; Like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet,-- Her voice is low and sweet; And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camp allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon,-- Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie." Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem rich and strong, Their battle eve confession. Dear girl! her name he dared not speak; But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie." Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring. Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Of thee from the hilltop looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;-- The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth:"-- As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club moss burs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being. Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The selfsame Power that brought me there brought you. Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Revile him not,--the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall! When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains,-- A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone: from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame! Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's triumph, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man. Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-- O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!-- Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live--with her to die! He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm. In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:-- Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe. Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;-- Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked--as Kosciusko fell. The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air-- On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay. Hark, as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook--red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry! O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell--the Bruce of Bannockburn! Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land, shall see That man hath yet a soul--and dare be free. A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven. Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world. The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. (_The Scene of Gray's Elegy._)] The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense, kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery all he had, a tear: He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all: And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood: at his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile: His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest. To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown: This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That, wild with glee, across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute, insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake--the work was done-- How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And nevermore will be. Oh, fairest of the rural maids! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye. Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths, by foot impressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there. There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stockdove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen; Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear-- I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow. There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays. My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan, or a dove, And well the car, Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty, And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes! they do light All that Love's world compriseth; Do but look on her hair! it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark--her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there, triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? Or nard i' the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she! Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood! Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow. Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. As the palm tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,-- So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,-- Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveler between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came; And lo! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?-- If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? Forever with the Lord! Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality! Here in the body pent, Absent from Him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home. My Father's house on high, Home of my soul! how near, At times, to Faith's foreseeing eye, Thy golden gates appear. Ah! then my spirit faints To reach the land I love, The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above! Yet clouds will intervene, And all my prospect flies; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies. Anon the clouds depart, The winds and waters cease; While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart Expands the bow of peace! Beneath its glowing arch, Along the hallowed ground, I see cherubic armies march, A camp of fire around. I hear at morn and even, At noon and midnight hour, The choral harmonies of Heaven Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. Then, then I feel, that He, Remembered or forgot, The Lord, is never far from me, Though I perceive Him not. When Lazarus left his charnel cave, And home to Mary's house returned, Was this demanded--if he yearned To hear her weeping by his grave? "Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbors met, The streets were filled with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crowned The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unrevealed; He told it not; or something sealed The lips of that Evangelist. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy; for from within were heard Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea. Even such a shell the universe itself Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things; Of ebb and flow, and everduring power; And central peace, subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation. Here you stand, Adore, and worship, when you know it not; Pious beyond the intention of your thought; Devout above the meaning of your will. My little doves have left a nest Upon an Indian tree, Whose leaves fantastic take their rest Or motion from the sea; For, ever there, the sea winds go With sunlit paces to and fro. The tropic flowers looked up to it, The tropic stars looked down, And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown, And glittering eyes that showed their right To gentle Nature's deep delight. And God them taught, at every close Of murmuring waves beyond, And green leaves round to interpose Their choral voices fond, Interpreting that love must be The meaning of the earth and sea. Fit ministers! Of living loves, Theirs hath the calmest fashion, Their living voice the likest moves To lifeless intonation, The lovely monotone of spring And winds, and such insensate things. My little doves were ta'en away From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean rolling gray, And tempest-clouded airs. My little doves,--who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue! And now, within the city prison, In mist and chillness pent, With' sudden upward look they listen For sounds of past content-- For lapse of water, swell of breeze, Or nut fruit falling from the trees. The stir without the glow of passion, The triumph of the mart, The gold and silver as they clash on Man's cold metallic heart-- The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,-- These only sounds are heard instead. Yet still, as on my human hand Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand What human musings mean, (Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine, Are fastened upwardly to mine!) Soft falls their chant as on the nest Beneath the sunny zone; For love that stirred it in their breast Has not aweary grown, And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep. And love that keeps the music, fills With pastoral memories: All echoing from out the hills, All droppings from the skies, All flowings from the wave and wind, Remembered in their chant, I find. So teach ye me the wisest part, My little doves! to move Along the city ways with heart Assured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown. 'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream-- More hard, in Babel's street! But if the soulless creatures deem Their music not unmeet For sunless walls--let _us_ begin, Who wear immortal wings within! To me, fair memories belong Of scenes that used to bless, For no regret, but present song, And lasting thankfulness, And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they. I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields! I will have humble thoughts instead Of silent, dewy fields! My spirit and my God shall be My seaward hill, my boundless sea. As ships becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side: E'en so,--but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged? At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered; Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides,-- To that, and your own selves, be true. But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last! One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare,-- O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there! The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High towards the starlit sky Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun, The night storm on a thousand hills is loud And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. And, therefore, bards of old, Sages and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length, Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown, One lesson of two duties kept at one Though the loud world proclaim their enmity-- Of toil unsevered from tranquillity; Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil, Still do thy quiet ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? so long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thy own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thoughts: entranced in prayer I worshiped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing,--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest,--not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn! Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink; Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Coherald! O, wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad, Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Forever shattered and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded--and the silence came-- "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?" Ye ice falls! ye that from the mountain's brow, Adown enormous ravines slope amain, Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? "God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer; and let the ice plains echo, "God!" "God!" sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soullike sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!" Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou, too, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks! Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast, Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me,--rise, O, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices praises God. Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times have I enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honored of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the scepter and the isle-- Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me-- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides: and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it were a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest-- For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men-- Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him? O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me: My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters, if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men: I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet, 'tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament-- Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read-- And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad: Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For, if you should, O, what would come of it! Will you be patient? will you stay awhile? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it: I fear I wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabbed Caesar; I do fear it. You will compel me, then, to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave? Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii: Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed; And as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all: For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statua, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. Stay, countrymen. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable: What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it: they are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him: For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on: I tell you that which you yourselves do know: And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what: Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not: I must tell you, then: You have forgot the will I told you of. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy five drachmas. Hear me with patience. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever, common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another? Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Followed by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands Lavish Honor showered all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden roses. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevailed, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table lands To which our God himself is moon and sun, Such was he: his work is done, But while the races of mankind endure, Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land, And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; Till in all lands and thro' all human story The path of duty be the way to glory: And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long-illumined cities flame, Their ever loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name. Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters! altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My truelove has mounted his steed, and away Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown! He has doffed the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws; Her King is his leader, her church is his cause; His watchward is honor, his pay is renown,-- God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the North have encircled the crown. There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown With the Barons of England, that fight for the crown? Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier! Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown. By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray; And as he was singing the tears down came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame! My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burthen that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame! Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, (_Chorus_) _Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_ Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counselors; what counsel they? The weary day rins down and dies, The weary night wears through: And never an hour is fair wi' flower And never a flower wi' dew. I would the day were night for me, I would the night were day: For then would I stand in my ain fair land, As now in dreams I may. O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, And loud the dark Durance: But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne Than a' the fields of France; And the waves of Till that speak sae still Gleam goodlier where they glance. O weel were they that fell fighting On dark Drumossie's day: They keep their hame ayont the faem And we die far away. O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, But night and day wake we; And ever between the sea banks green Sounds loud the sundering sea. And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, But sweet and fast sleep they; And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them Is e'en their country's clay; But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day. Strange as night in a strange man's sight, Though fair as dawn it be: For what is here that a stranger's cheer Should yet wax blithe to see? The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, The fields are green and gold; The hill streams sing, and the hillsides ring, As ours at home of old. But hills and flowers are nane of ours, And ours are over sea: And the kind strange land whereon we stand, It wotsna what were we Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, To try what end might be. Scathe and shame, and a waefu' name, And a weary time and strange, Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing Can die, and cannot change. Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, Though sair be they to dree: But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, Mair keen than wind and sea. Ill may we thole the night's watches, And ill the weary day: And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, A waefu' gift gie they; For the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us, The morn blaws all away. On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, The burn rins blithe and fain; There's naught wi' me I wadna gie To look thereon again. On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide: There sounds nae hunting horn That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat Round banks where Tyne is born. The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, The bents and braes give ear; But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, And strange is a' thing near. The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see. But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed That haps my sires at hame! We'll see nae mair the sea banks fair, And the sweet gray gleaming sky, And the lordly strand of Northumberland, And the goodly towers thereby; And none shall know but the winds that blow The graves wherein we lie. To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honors, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Gray-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting place I asked--an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I speak like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. Three fishers went sailing out into the west, Out into the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep And good-by to the bar and its moaning. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide: Careless tenants they! All within is dark as night; In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark, deserted house. Come away: no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. Come away: for life and thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious-- A great and distant city--have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us! I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. O that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit; or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humor interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might,-- But no--what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar," And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed-- Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell--Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. In heavenly love abiding, No change my heart shall fear, And safe is such confiding, For nothing changes here. The storm may roar without me, My heart may low be laid; But God is round about me, And can I be dismayed? Wherever He may guide me, No want shall turn me back; My Shepherd is beside me, And nothing can I lack. His wisdom ever waketh, His sight is never dim, He knows the way He taketh, And I will walk with Him. Green pastures are before me, Which yet I have not seen; Bright skies will soon be o'er me, Where darkest clouds have been. My hope I cannot measure, My path to life is free; My Father has my treasure, And He will walk with me. Deep on the convent roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground, As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee, So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride! But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat. But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone Full summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her "Sister, farewell for ever," and again "Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel; They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle to the end, To save from shame and thrall; But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine; I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain meres I find a magic bark, I leap on board: no helmsman steers; I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And starlike mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain walls A rolling organ harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful Knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their Head, In that fair order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men, To serve as models for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time. I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thoughts, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man. Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made; Our times are in His hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born! Sky--what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! World--how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face! Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star, And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman: one in whom The springtime of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Seems wandering its own wayward will, And yet doth ever flow aright. And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die. Hear what Highland Nora said,-- "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die, And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear, And all the lands both far and near, That ever valor lost or won, I would not wed the Earlie's son." "A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made, and lightly broke; The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost wind soon shall sweep away That luster deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son."-- "The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son." Still in the water lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made; Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; To shun the clash of foeman's steel, No Highland brogue has turned the heel: But Nora's heart is lost and won, --She's wedded to the Earlie's son! Who is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her That she might admired be. Is she kind, as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling; To her let us garlands bring. O Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton Hall Beneath the turrets high, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily,-- "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen." --"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May." Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen. "I read you by your bugle horn And by your palfrey good, I read for you a ranger sworn, To keep the king's greenwood." --"A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night." Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay; I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May! "With burnished brand and musketoon, So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold dragoon That lists the tuck of drum." --"I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. And O! though Brignall banks be fair And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May! "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die! The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen." Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there: Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk? At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, Nobility more nobly to repay? O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate; Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee--and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest; Like a cloud of fire The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among he flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now! There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm, arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! They come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose, The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instills The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms,--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! _From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_ Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies-- The Captains and the Kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet Lest we forget--lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book. The Conqueror's Grave. Good-bye. Sea-shore. Whittier's Seventieth Birthday. Ser Federigo's Falcon. Commemoration Ode (Selections from). Mahmood, the Image-breaker. Skipper Ireson's Ride.

Sir John William Dawson

Facts and fancies in modern science Studies of the relations of science to prevalent speculations and religious belief

1820

Whose sharing my pleasures then, makes cherished the memories of childhood now. _Oh, the golden age of the barefoot time, While life was a fairy tale sung in rhyme, When phantoms grim of a future day Were hid in the mists of the far away; When we carved for ourselves from our June daydreams (Only yesterday now it seems), Statues of greatness, Jim and I, In the mystical realm of the By-and-By! Off for a swim on an afternoon,-- The moments--why would they fly so soon! At the gate stood mother, who never was strong: “I shall worry, boys, if you stay too long.”_ _Gone are the days of the long ago,-- O lagging Time, now you move so slow! The rosy skies of our barefoot days Lie hidden from view by a misty haze. Jim he got tired and slipped away,-- Left me alone to swim and play; The statues of greatness--in vain we planned,-- Never appeared from the sculptor’s hand! And there came a day, I its reckoning keep, When mother, worn out, just dropped asleep,-- Her voice melting into an angel’s song: “I shall wait at the Gate, so don’t stay too long.”_ I’m a-goin’ to leave the country,-- Old folks say ’tis nice and clean, Nothin’ like its air and sunshine In the city’s ever seen. Only filth and smoke and odors, In the city, they allow,-- But the old folks in the country Don’t know nothin’, anyhow! They say there they don’t have sunset Pictures painted on the sky, There the birds don’t do their courtin’ In the meadows on the sly; There’s no hide-and-seek, they tell me, In the hay upon the mow,-- But the old folks in the country Don’t know nothin’, anyhow! There they say the folks are worried, Till their minds they almost lose. No one stops his horse to ask you, All a-smilin’, “What’s the news?” There they don’t have any neighbors, When they’re sick, as we do now,-- But the old folks in the country Don’t know nothin’, anyhow! They say there is so much sorrow, Crime and trouble, sin and shame; But as far as I can reckon, It’s not the city that’s to blame. They say folks don’t mind the Bible, That they’re always in a row,-- But the old folks in the country Don’t know nothin’, anyhow! Yes; I said I’d leave the country, But I’m back again, you see; Neighbors, birds, and flowers, and sunsets, They are good enough for me. Hear that whip-poor-will at vespers? There, he’s almost over now. Ah, the old folks in the country Do know somethin’, anyhow! Work, like a giant, blocked the path,-- I trembled in dismay, Till Method urged, “Attack in parts!” Work’s but a dwarf to-day. Just a raindrop loitering earthward, All alone, Leaves a tiny “telltale story” In the stone. Gravel tossed by teasing water, Down the hill, Shows where once in merry laughter Flowed a rill. In the coal bed dark and hidden, Ferns (how queer!) Left a message plainly saying, “We’ve been here!” You may see where tiny ripples, On the sands, Leave a history written by their Unseen hands. Why, the oak trees, by their bending, Clearly show The direction playful winds blew Years ago! So our _habits_ tell us, little Maids and men, What the history of our whole past Life has been! Said Aaron 1400, a mediæval boy, “I’ll tell you what I’d like so well to know: How far the moon is from us, the sun’s diameter, And how one may predict the rain and snow! I’d like to know the reason for the lightning in the sky, What makes the ocean tides to rise and fall, Why, when you let a body drop, it quickly falls to earth, And if the world we live on can really be a ball! Oh, I’d go to school and study every minute in the day; For all such curious knowledge how I’d strive! If I could only know these things”--he gave a troubled sigh,-- “I’d really be the happiest boy alive!” But Willie 1900 said (a present-century lad), “I wish I’d lived five hundred years ago; This spending time in school-rooms--oh, I wouldn’t have to do, For then these things they didn’t have to know! It’s a nuisance reading history--they didn’t have much then, And as for science--my! ’twas jolly fun, For there wasn’t electricity or sound for boys to learn,-- The discoverers weren’t born--or hardly one! I’d like to live as boys did ten hundred years ago, ‘Cause _they_ had nothing else to do but play! If there wasn’t anything to learn, or more than they had _then_, My! wouldn’t I be happy _every day_!” I s’pose my head is like a chest, With drawers and things inside; Some small for dates and words to spell,-- The rest just deep and wide, For states ’bout which I’ll have to learn, And products, grain and wool! But what I’ll do I’d like to know,-- When every drawer is full! Seated on the village wharf, Where the steamers come and go, Skipper Bailey spins and spins, Ending always, “Don’t you know?” By the dear old kitchen hearth, Briskly walking to and fro, Grandma, singing, spins and spins,-- Years ago ’twas always so. O’er a cave in time of Bruce, Now in attic corners high; What is it that spins and spins? Ah, be wary, little fly! Out along the country road, Over hills and through the vale, Brother Johnny spins and spins, In the early morning pale. ’Mid balls and blocks and Noah’s Ark, Playing on the parlor floor, Willie, laughing, spins and spins,-- Round it turns, then tumbles o’er. Think now of these outs and ins, Then tell what each spins and spins. Shut off from the world with its light and love, A joyless prison-house save in name, With waves of sweltering heat from above,-- From around each corner one meets the same! Only ill-smelling and fetid air Is breathed by the babies God leases there! Not a butterfly blown from the hills of green, Gives a hint of the wonderful life without; Not a rainbow of promise is ever seen,-- Nothing but crime and disease about! No vesper bell calls to praise and prayer,-- Poor little dwarf souls starving there! Never a carol or note of bird, As he melts away in the azure blue, From the tenement house is ever heard; Nor is felt the wealth of diamond dew,-- Only curses and oaths fill the smoky air, To poison the babies God leases there! Poor little tenement souls that grow Away from the flowers--by bricks shut in; Never the sweetness of life to know, Only surrounded by crime and sin! The pleasures of living you sure should share,-- Dear little babies God leases there! He sat for hours on the bank that day, With a serious look--most fishermen’s way,-- Just a waif of a lad with a brimless hat, And pantaloons even much worse than that. Dangling legs, without stockings on, Showed many a mark of brier and thorn, But indifferent he to trifles like these, As he sat and fished in the teasing breeze. I paused as I passed on my way to town, And set for a moment my burden down: “Aren’t you discouraged,” I said with zest, “Fishing so long here without success?” “Oh, no! such fishing just pleases me,” The lad said slowly, “for don’t you see, We can’t all catch--and I for one, In just _a-trying_ get lots of fun!” I picked up my burden and walked away, Wise with the lesson I’d learned that day, And silently blessed my new-found seer,-- This ragged, fishing philosopher! The boy who’s always wishing,-- Why, we pass him on the street, We see him in the office, On the gridiron we meet; It may be in the morning, It’s just the same at night, He’s wishing things would change a bit; They’re not exactly right. He wishes he were smart like Tom, But then, Tom has a “snap”,-- To him things are so easy; _He_ doesn’t care a “rap” How long and hard the lesson. But isn’t this the way: While Tom is hard a-grinding, He is wasting time in play? He wishes he had money, Just enough to treat a friend; He cannot see how Henry Has all he wants to spend. But while he’s idly wishing He were rich like Carl or Bob, Henry has his coat off working,-- He has found an honest job. He wishes he could bat the ball, But when it’s time for practice, He feels a trifle sick. And thus he keeps a-wishing, Never thinks “I can”, and “will”; So where’er you chance to meet him, You will find him wishing still. High are its walls so you can’t see o’er, And so narrow are they that one can’t get in; Nor outward swings its close-barred door Of Love, to welcome one’s kith and kin. The shutter of Sympathy’s never drawn To send forth a message of hope and cheer; The flag on the tower, from eve till dawn, Reads, “I live alone; please don’t come near.” “And who is the inmate,--some witch or elf? And the name of the house? I cannot guess!” The inmate’s a shriveled-up dwarf called Self, And the narrow house is Selfishness! There’s a little hair trunk in the attic stored, Under the rafters packed away; With a heart nigh broken, a mother’s hands Tenderly carried it there one day. The tears fell fast as she closed the lid On the homely trinkets--you’ll call them so,-- That her baby loved, then with one more kiss On the little hair trunk, she turned to go. Now on the lid is the dust of years,-- I wonder what think all the toys within! Do they wish for the baby voice, still so long, To arouse them once more with its boyish din? In the attic I happened to be one day, I couldn’t help taking a tiny peep,-- They were just as he left them, every one,-- Oh, well, perhaps it was foolish to weep! A bottle of beans (they were yellow and black); He called them his “stock,” which he bought and sold; A “Mother Goose Rhymes”--and his finger prints Were still on its covers, now ragged and old! A “Dinah” doll, without any hair,-- All these I found--the others you know, For perhaps a like little trunk you placed Under the rafters, too, long ago! Long years ago, as I’ve been told, a Frog and a speckled Trout “To do as you do--I wonder who’s been putting such stuff in your head! It’s best you’ll find, to spend your time, in studying swimming lore, Learning to dive and float instead of hopping along on shore. hopped on shore!” At last it was time for Frog and Trout their lifework to begin, And they packed their grips and started out at dawn the following shore, And when you see any men with clubs don’t tarry a moment more, But hurry to warn me as I take in the surf my morning bath”,-- “What funny western people, To sit around a table!” “And eat their funny victuals, Boiled in iron kettles, With knives and forks!” “What funny orientals, To squat down on the floor,-- (My, what a fix!) To eat their rice and honey,” Laughed Beth (“how very funny!) With queer chop-sticks!” That oranges plump grew on holly-hock stalks, And lollipops rained all around; That chocolate drops and candy canes Sprung up like mere weeds from the ground! That each dewdrop he saw was a colored balloon; That jack-knives like birds flew about, (To fill up his pocket--all one had to do, Was to chase them a moment about); That every pebble or stone by the road Was a coin, either silver or gold; That it took but a minute to gather them up,-- As many’s you could possibly hold! “How splendid to live in this wonderful land!” And he gave his blue cap a slight twirl; “I’d stay here forever--if it weren’t I’m afraid I might wake up to-morrow a _girl_!” Love makes not hard things _easy_; no, Nor lighter painful stings,-- Love makes us _willing_, each to do Without complaint hard things! In Camel Land--’twas years ago, (As all the early records show)-- Mr. and Mrs. Camel, tall, Had on their backs no hump at all. They were as proud as proud could be Of their physique--as one could see. At home they used to joke and laugh, Because so stooped their friend Giraffe! When their two babies came to bless Their home with camel loveliness, Their joy was full. “Dear wife,” said he, “Our boys are straight as straight can be!” But when their age was six or eight, (It pains me this fact to relate), The parents’ counsels (so they say), The boys neglected to obey. “Oh, sit up straight!” the mother cried, When their round shoulders she espied. “You’ll be humpbacked unless you do,” The father said--“a thing you’ll rue!” But, no! the boys had their own way, Refusing counsel to obey, Until--too late to change, alack! Each had a hump upon his back! How the birds all build their nests, How the woodchuck digs his hole, Why the husband is more colored Why the rabbit’s dark in summer, When in winter he’s so white, What becomes of Baby Partridge When its mother takes affright, How she also is a drummer,-- Mrs. Partridge, ’course I mean,-- How the bee obtains its honey, Why its cells one form are seen,-- Won’t I have a jolly summer; Not a single thing to do, But to learn these nature secrets,-- Then I’ll whisper them to you! It blazes not like a meteor forth, A flash, and then swift to die. Like a star unseen through the clouds and mist, It steadily shines, while by darkness kissed, As it does in the azure sky! I climbed the stairs with grandma,-- ’Twas not very long ago, To the attic--full of rubbish; (P’r’aps I shouldn’t call it so), For her lips were all a-tremble, As she whispered low, “You see, Child, no one can ever realize The scenes they all bring back to me!” Then she drew into the sunlight, From a corner, almost hid, The quaintest, oddest hair trunk, With brass nail words on the lid! Lifting it, she took out slowly (Once she wore it--you can guess), Just the daintiest of garments,-- A faded, sleeveless bridal dress. Just beneath there lay a sampler, Folded o’er some rose leaves wild; “This,” she said (I scarcely heard it), “This I did when but a child.” Near by stood a tiny flax-wheel,-- Round and round the wheel she turned, As with it, a blushing maiden, She her wedding “outfit” earned. Then beside a wooden cradle, Grandma in an arm-chair sat; Rocked it back and forward gently, With her foot--yet stranger’n that, Sang: “_Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber_”,-- And with such a yearning tone, I softly stole away and left her, With her dream scenes all alone! A careless gipsy vagrant, Out at play, ’Midst the corn rows loitering, Lost its way. Climbing up a friendly stalk, Weed Bo-peep Twines its tendril arms about and Falls asleep. Regret--so bitter was the shame! Confessed (’twas with a yearning sigh), “You’d scarce believe--alas! ’tis true; They called him Guy, and he did much And oft his parents blame: “They might have given me,” he said, “A pretty _Bible_ name!” “Well, we might change,” his mother thought; When father heard the news, He paused a moment, then agreed, “I’m willing--you may choose: “Are--are those Bible names?” he said, And drew a heavy sigh: “I think, papa, if you don’t mind, I’m _satisfied_ with Guy!” A tiny blossom,-- Just a lone weed beside the garden wall, Ragged, a little vagrant beggar, Pleading for a drop of sunshine--that was all! There I beheld it, Lifting from the tangled grass its outstretched cup,-- “Take, too, my empty life,” I cried. “With Thy unfailing mercies Fill it up!” An angry Word rushed forward, “I’ll settle the matter,” said he; But the struggle was only augmented By the harsh Word’s agency. Then a Tear of Forgiveness unbidden, Born of a thought above, Stepped in without boast or notice,-- And Enmity changed to Love. Back on the farm in the fifties, How often I heard father say, “Don’t growl if you can’t have it all, boy, Take what you can get--that’s the way!” There were days in the spring during planting, When I couldn’t go over the hill, With my books and slate strapped on my shoulder, To the little red school by the mill. “Never mind,” father said, at my pouting, “If you do have to stay home, my lad, There are weeks of the term yet before you, Take what you can get and be glad!” We often for birds went a-hunting,-- There was game in the woods in his day, And wasn’t it just jolly tramping,-- I really wished no better play! But oh! it was so disappointing, When only one bird I would hit; “Cheer up!” father’s voice was so merry, “And be glad of the one you did get!” There are shrubs in the path by the schoolhouse, I stay now at home every day, But not to drop corn for my father,-- Long ago was his hoe hung away. But I hear those wise words when I grumble, Just as sweet as of old and as mild: “You can’t have it all, so be thankful With what you can get of it, child!” How strange for worlds above, Unnumbered stars, to know, Through space unlimited, Just where to go! Within their trackless course, They vary not, nor fear (Their Maker gave command) Of any danger near. His laws they steadfast heed, Afar off in the blue,-- The God who guides unnumbered stars, Guides you. Little Polly Mary, all the morning hour, Doted on her bonnet with its bright new flower, Wondered if the next day would be bright and clear, Wished the jolly holidays came twenty times a year, Looked without the window when the teacher didn’t see, Watched a golden robin building in the tree-- When the hour came all too quick for Polly to recite, Will you believe, she never got a single answer right! So for failure, on the record-book, her name, alas! was starred, But was it ‘cause, as Polly thought, the lesson was so _hard_! One brother was tall and slim, The other chubby and short,-- Teddy sat looking at them one night, Apparently lost in thought. “Mamma,” he asked, at length, “Which would you like the best,-- For me to grow _north_ and _south_, like Tom, Or like Willie, from _east_ to _west_?” Curly-headed Baby Tom Sleeps in cozy blankets warm, In his crib. Goes to sleep ’neath sunny skies, ’Mid the leaves. Mr. Bruin, night and day, Snoozes all his time away, In his cave. Squirrel-Red, with nuts--a store! In hollow tree-trunk loves to snore, In the wood. Mrs. Woodchuck ’neath some knoll, Drowses in her bed--a hole! Deep in earth. Floweret bulbs nestled together, Doze all through the wintry weather, ’Neath the snow. In the chrysalis hard by, Dreams the sometime butterfly, In corner hid. Oh, what beds! So very queer! Yet to each one just as dear As yours to you! We fall in the habit too often I fear, Of crossing the bridges we never draw near; Though they loom up before us--they seem just ahead, There’s a turn and our feet are in other paths led. We dread the to-morrow, its toil and its care, And feel that its burdens we never can bear; But when the to-morrow blends into to-day, The yesterday’s burdens have all slipped away! Too often we hear: “Yes; ’tis pleasant this morn, But it’s a weather breeder, sure’s you are born!” So, much of God’s sunshine and beauty about Is forced from our lives by “perhaps” or a doubt! Make use of the present--to-morrow may wait,-- To-day’s joys _to-morrow_ are realized too late! Let none of life’s pleasures, God-given, be lost, By crossing a bridge--till it has to be crossed! There’s a queer little town--I wonder if you’ve seen it,-- “Let-some-one-else-do-it” is the name of the place, And all of the people who’ve lived there for ages, Their family tree from the Wearies can trace! The streets of this town, so ill-kept and untidy, And almost deserted from morning till noon, Are “In-just-a-minute”--you’ll see on the lamppost,-- The principal work that they do in this hamlet, (There isn’t a person who thinks it a crime), Is loafing and dozing, but most of the people Are engaged in the traffic of _just-killing-time_! I pray you, don’t dwell in this town overcrowded; There are others near by it most wondrous fair; The roads that lead to them--and each one is open,-- It is human nature maybe to be borne ’long with the crowd, And when they shout and hollo, to hollo just as loud; But there’s a sight o’ pleasure like a draught from nectar’s cup, One needn’t think the only men God ever made are those Who wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,-- I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth, In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth. The inmates bow and ask the Lord to guide their steps aright. The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe, And the rarest wisdom emanates from those whose steps are slow, And those whose eyes are blind to sights that glisten for a day, See glories far transcendent that can never fade away. So I like to loiter back a bit; the crowd may surge along. Perhaps for some it’s pleasant thus to jostle with the throng; But I find my life grows richer, even drinking sorrow’s cup, With the weary and unfortunate who cannot quite keep up! There are heroes who fall ’mid the carnage of battle, There are those who meet death on the foam,-- But greater are those who, unheralded, battle With Fate for the loved ones at home! There is magic in the jingle of the sleighbells, don’t you know, That sets the blood a-tinglin’ till the cheeks are all a-glow; An’ the cares that press upon one, in the merry winter weather, An’ the ringle, Raises lowest spirits high! Hark! the tingle, Jingle, tingle! As the cutter dashes by! When the moon is bright a-shinin’ an’ a-sparkle is the snow, ’Tis the plainest invitation just invitin’ one to go For a rollic an’ a frolic ‘hind a pair of prancin’ steeds,-- The very kind of tonic that a tired body needs,-- How the jingle, An’ the ringle, In the crisp an’ frosty air, An’ the tingle, Jingle, tingle, Hypnotizes anxious care! E’en the stars are all a-twinkle! Hear the merry coasters shout! Happiness is everywhere a-lyin’ loose about! Everybody is as joyful as a new-anointed king,-- Age an’ wrinkles hide their faces while the magic sleighbells Hark! the jingle, An’ the ringle,-- It just sets your soul a-rhyme With the tingle, Jingle, tingle, Of the magic sleighbells’ chime! I’ve built a wall about me, To keep all foes without,-- Anxiety, with all her train, And the grim monster, Doubt! You ask my name? ’Tis Happiness, With which no foe can cope! The wall I’ve built cannot be scaled,-- Its quarried blocks are Hope. What had happened to Emily Foote? Every button was gone from her boot! She noticed that morning that _one_ was loose; “I’ll fix it at bedtime!” Ah, little the use! “Remember my stitches,” grandmother said, As she kindly nodded her dear, wise head. “A ‘corner rent’ in my dress, that’s all,” And Mary ran for her cap and shawl. “I’ll mend it soon--now there isn’t _time_!” How she wished she’d heeded her grandmother’s rhyme! The rent grew long and ever so wide, And kept her at home from the picnic ride. Teddy was playing with ball and bat. “I’ve started a stitch!” “Oh, never mind that,” Answered his chum, jolly Archibald May, “’Twill last as long as we want to play!” “But grandmother says--” “Oh, bother such things!” So soon, the ball was but leather and strings. And grandmother’s stitches--yours and mine? “A stitch in _time_, my dear, saves _nine_!” “I’m sorry,” said Mary, “it’s rainy to-day; When _I_ want it pleasant it’s always the way; It rains, rains, rains!” “To-day I can finish my book,” said Dean; “It’s the jolliest one I ever have seen; For it rains, rains, rains!” “It will fill up the swimming-hole, p’r’aps,” said Ted. “I can dive like a frog if it’s over my head; Glad it rains, rains, rains!” “To-day,” said Herr Steuber, “my plants I’ll set out; I feared they would die because of the drought. Ha! it rains, rains, rains!” “The weather’ll be cooler, and Aunt Polly Haynes May get over her fever,” said Lou, “if it rains-- If it rains, rains, rains!” “I am so glad since such good can be done,” Said Mary, her face bright as yesterday’s sun, “That it rains, rains, rains!” The queerest thing happened (’twas not long ago), To Miss Betty Pringle. Perhaps you don’t know That it made little difference what came to her sight, There never was anything really quite right! The grass was too green, and the sky was too gray, And the wind never blew in a suitable way,-- If it came from the east it was brewing a storm, If it blew from the south ’twas oppressively warm! If the sun shone at all, it was always too bright, And she wished it would hurry and set for the night. If a friend came to see her with something new on, ’Twas “to show off her gewgaws, as sure’s you are born;” If a package were left in which dainties were found, She knew that her friend had an axe to be ground. And so it went on for a twelvemonth or more, Till a queer little stranger appeared at her door, With a case of new glasses of marvellous power, That would change one’s whole vision in less than an hour! At his rat-a-tat-tat! Betty Pringle came out, Much surprised at her brisk little caller, no doubt! “Good morning, my lady!” he said with a smile. “No, no; I’ll not step in--it’s hardly worth while. I’ve heard that your glasses (I cannot tell where) Are of a very poor make--p’r’aps you’d like a new pair.” And will you believe it, new ones she did take, In exchange for her own of the “fault-finding make”! And now Betty’s happy’s a queen need to be, For the beauty about her she’s able to see! The ways diverged--I wondered which I’d take, And as I paused, I watched the people throng Out of the Somewhere, each with hurrying feet,-- To right, to left, they hastened all day long! They bore a heavy burden as they passed, (With every single one it was the same), And each was plainly marked, so all could read (I marvelled greatly at the fact), “My Aim.” And those who took the beaten path, I saw Soon laid their burden down and gazed around. Allured by vain enticements all about, They left their “Aim” forgotten on the ground! But those who took the other way pressed on, Nor feared for pleasure’s sake their “Aim” to lose,-- I now perceived this path was Duty, so No longer pondered which I ought to choose. A blushing little Mayflower Turned away her head, Too polite to let a weed Hear a word she said. “I don’t think it nice at all, (I would make a fuss), Goldenrod should bloom, of course, In the spring with us! “It is hard to wait so long, Till midsummer hours; I should get discouraged, quite, Waiting so for flowers.” Near the wall a modest plant Twinkled in the dew; She heard all that had been said,-- Mayflower never knew. Soon she whispered to a robin; He her secret told,-- “All this waiting means a changing Into sunny gold!” In middle age, before the hearth, Deeply absorbed in counting o’er Successes won, he hardly heard The fall of footsteps on the floor. Behind his chair a fair Youth stood, In phantom shape, and listening heard: “I’m happier now than when a boy!”-- The visitant neither turned nor stirred. Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low, “He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,-- When I slipped slowly from his grasp, He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’ But, no--though learned ’mid falling tears,-- One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!” Discouraged and sad, Work came home, worn out, (Only a part of his task was done), And the Master asked in an anxious tone, If he had been hindered by any one. “A stranger stood by as I toiled,” he said, “A being possessed of gigantic frame!” “He’s stolen your strength,” the Master cried, “And Worry--too true--is the monster’s name!” “The world owes me a living,” p’r’aps you’ve heard a body say, “It is best to take life easy--’tis, in fact, the only way.” So with loiterers and sluggards he in base contentment lies, Some grope always in the valley--really can they ever stop To consider what enchantment hovers round the mountain top? But the man who clambers upward, step by step the weary rise, Obtains vistas only dreamed of--he’s the one who wins the prize! Some wait ever for the morrow--let the present hours slip by: “So little can be done to-day, what’s the use to try?” Notice, he who grasps the moments, lad, every one that flies, A sunless sky, Unaccomplished aim, The flag of Hope at half mast furled,-- A bitter cry, O empty, disappointing world!” A rosy light, Success attained, The banner of Victory to the breezes hurled,-- A cry of might, “The mastery gained, Hail! glorious, God-given world!” A beautiful smile in His service, A beautiful word of cheer, A beautiful act unselfish, A beautiful hint, “He’ll hear.” A beautiful tear sympathetic, A beautiful allaying of strife, A beautiful touch of a brother,-- The result is a beautiful life. Pedro Rionda and his sons, Had left th’ insurgent army For a visit home that day. And ere the time came to depart, To join their ranks once more, José, the little crippled son, Chanced to glance out the door. His pinched face suddenly grew white,-- Yet calm he turned about; “Father, Leandro, Ramé--quick! The Spanish are without!” Pedro Rionda’s heart stood still, He grasped his trusty gun,-- A Spanish army couldn’t make A Cuban patriot run! His breath came quick--he thought aloud, “If we should face the band, They are too many--there’d be three,-- Three less to save the land! “Oh, God! it is the only thing! It’s one or three--José! Think you could keep the devils back Till we are safe away! “It may be death,” he spoke it soft, “When they don’t find us here,-- Our country needs her able men; Speak, José, have you fear?” “No; father, no--quick, brothers, go! It’s all I have to give,-- It matters not if I am shot,-- Our country--it must live!” One long embrace--and they are off! The Spanish balls came whizzing fast,-- He met them, one by one. And when his ammunition’s spent, The three are safe away,-- The Spaniards, crazed at their repulse, Rush in on brave José! “Where, where,--and are the rebels fled, Are they escaped through _you_?” They madly grasped the crippled boy, While flashing swords they drew. All honor be to Cuba’s sons (But let this not suffice) Who perished on the field--there’s, too, The cripple’s sacrifice! Four brothers by the name of Peck, (All Mr. Bushel’s kin), As often as one desires it, Are taken by him in. Eight sisters, the Misses Gallon, When the four Peck brothers are out, In Mr. Bushel’s quarters Have room to move about. Thirty-two cousins, the Quarts--ah, me! What _will_ Mr. Bushel do? Polite and open, he smiles and says, “I’m alone, so there’s room for _you_!” A jingling crowd--the sixty-four Pints, To shelter them, no fun! Mr. Bushel laughs, “I’m empty now, Walk in, come, every one!” Two hundred and fifty-six baby Gills, The tiniest friends and shy,-- “Can we _all_ come in?” Mr. Bushel replies, “I can hold you and not half try!” A jolly good fellow to entertain all, This Mr. Bushel must be! He takes them only one group at a time,-- And each group _makes_ him, you see! A funny little Wish-Man came out of the Somewhere here, (You really should have seen him, he looked so wondrous queer); He had a pack upon his back, stuffed full as full could be, Of wishes for the boys and girls--those living near to me. He said he’d indirectly heard--he couldn’t tell just where,-- That in the town of Discontent were many dwelling there, Who wished for this and wished for that (it really was too bad), Accordingly, he stuffed his pack (and tied around a band), With every single kind of wish now found within the land, And fared he forth from house to house, to please the people all, To one ’twas wealth--a sordid wish; another called for joy; One asked for ease; one beauty took--a worthless sort of toy! And so he gave them this and that, and all seemed happy quite, For which the Wish-Man naturally took very keen delight. But when a stranger passed the town of Discontent, he saw What dire disaster could have brought upon the town this pall! He called upon a wealthy youth, who said, “I’m all at sea,-- What stocks to buy, how to invest--it almost crazes me! Before a rich man I became, I had all sorts of fun, But since my wish, a moment’s joy I haven’t had, not one!” And thus ’twas so all through the town. Each testified the same; Not one was half so happy as before the Wish-Man came. That night, when everything was still, there crept from room to room, They fell upon--the name was changed--upon Contented Town! “Eight long furlongs I’ve gone to-day!” With evident pride said Ethel May. “Three hundred and twenty rods, you know, Is what I’ve been,”--’twas brother Joe. “One thousand, seven hundred and sixty--true! So many yards I’ve walked,” said Prue. “Five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet I’ve gone,” said Ben, “and it can’t be beat!” “Pooh!” laughed Ted, with a knowing smile, “You’ve only gone, each one, a mile!” The castle I love is not set on a hill, No flag from its turret waves, No water flows in its outer moat, Nor its rock foundation laves. My castle is old and its doors flap loose, As though wringing in grief its hands,-- Out by the wall, near the cherry trees, The barn of my childhood stands! Empty the mows where from robbers fierce, We hid in the days gone by, Vacant the stall where Old Dolly stood, And watched as we played “I-spy!” Down in the bay only cobwebs now,-- To my child eyes once so deep, Where secure from escape our prisoners found Themselves in that dungeon-keep! Sometimes on the clean-swept floor we spread Our feasts (’twas baronial hall) Of meats and wines from far over the seas,-- Bread and water composed them all! But never did lord or lady show Disrespect to the loyal host, By a _look_ that the board did not heavily groan With all dainties the world could boast. A heartless echo now only sounds From rafter back to sill, When I call as I did--was it _yesterday_?-- It seems that each beam sadly sighs with me For the days we were wont to play, Safe from temptation (you guarded us well, Old barn,) on the new-mown hay! Down the lane to the pasture bars! My prodigal thoughts once more Go back to my father’s calling me From the narrow back stairway door: “It’s getting late, Bob; the milking’s done!” (He never had more to say); With a bound to the floor I hurriedly dressed, To drive the cows away! A nodded “Good morning” from wayside flower; From every tree a song, (A symphony rare of warbled joy), As the cows slowly browsed along! The sun gently kissed the mist away, That over the valley hung, While odors of incense floated high, From an unseen censer swung. Then, too, when the work in the field was o’er, While heavier chores were done By older men, I trudged along, In the path of the setting sun, Calling, “Co’ bos! co’ bos! co’ bos!” And often the baby stars Played hide-and-seek from behind a cloud, Ere I left the pasture bars. No more do I hear in the city’s din, (And never shall I again), The country sounds in the early morn, As I trudged a-down the lane; But I hope as I near the sunset hour, No sorrow my pathway mars, Greater than that when I called “Co’ bos!” As a boy by the pasture bars!

Frederick Sessions

Literary Celebrities of the English Lake-District

Copyright 1907 by JOHN NIENDORFF For in the morning of our love, there came The spirit singing such entrancing notes, As sweeps the whole empyrian with a flame, Wherein, a dream, pure lofty pleasure floats, And love and beauty find their mellow throats, In glorious fervor, drinking from the golden bowl, The wine of joy that binds them soul to soul, Thou art my muse and thine the phantasy With spirit hand to guide unconsciously. For all I bring thee, minion of thy beauty, This little garland of a memory fruity-- A simple tale, as old as love is old, Of virgin art within a golden mold, Still burning, molten, shaping unto glory-- A matchless song and yet a simple story. How mischief led a cold unwitting boy Along new paths to taste a sudden joy; How curious Love asport from flower to flower, Hath found a sense too sweet to overpower, And yet such magic sweet, that once is tasted, A moment otherwheres were eons wasted; How Cupid, wandering in a lovely valley With arrowed bow, by many a maid must dally, Till Psyche, like a prisms ingathered hues, Into a sudden virgin light he woos. Sweet Psyche princes in a golden land, And Princess still from bounding strand to strand, The fairest maid of any. Cupid heavenly born, Fair son of Beauty's queen, whom to adorn. Needs but to name, Great Venus Queen of Beauty-- Whom to adore was but a solemn duty. This lad whom she hath dowered with all her charms, A voice resistless and soft amorous arms, And named him Love, now raptured, lies, A simple lover in a woman's eyes. A tale of heart and soul, and so of sorrow, In afterwhiles when riches stoop to borrow-- O'erlaying grief with golden filigree. And I would soar on golden wings of song, And in the souls empyrian float along, From height to height of all the heart's dear chimes, To bless thee for the love that thou hast brought, With greater life. Let tender tinkling rhimes, Like pure white doves, lead on the lovely thought. Deep in a woody vale, where crystal streams Run vaguely like the threads of vanished dreams; Where fountains tinkle to the yellow sun Sweet rainbow-tinted hopes, and lightly run, In joyful race unto the distant ocean; Where greeny swards are checked with light and shade, To make a cool retreat for fine emotion; And velvet lawns, than never weft was laid, More intricate designed of pleasing hues, So richly gem'd in Orient pearls of dews Along quaint aisles in mosques of Samarkand, To bear some solemn priest in deep devotion; Where vague far vistas stretch on every hand. To luring scenes; where happy shepherds amble, With happy maids, as light as lambs agambol, Or lie alone, with flocks abrowse by streams, And rear quaint misty cities out of dreams, Along far clouds of pearly shape and lining, In crystal walls and domes of no defining, And people them with shepherds, maids and gods That live for love, until the shepherd nods, And dreams of his own Phillis fairer far,-- Upon a hillock in a shady grove, The heart of this fair scene, its central star, And viewless as the stars of heaven are, With too much light, stood once the house of love. A mansion builded of the rarest stone, Transparent, gem like, carved, and strangely wrought, As some fine architecture in a dream is sought, And gird with fancy's fairest flowers blown. The house of love, and here of balmy days, Its gentle spirits thrid in dreamy maze. And here the days are always balmy, here 'Tis sweet to laugh, and sweet to drop a tear. Its crystal halls in magic mirror walls, Stand empty but for one, while myriad falls Of lover's feet go tripping after her Or him and wild faint odors sweetly stir Through all the room from raptured lovers breathing, While each a rosy crown for aye is wreathing. This is the house of love, the golden key Is faith, sweet faith in joy of living, That doubts the mirror not, nor cares to see What hidden scenes the glass is loth in giving. Here long ago, so runs the gentle tale, Sweet Psyche, wondrous fair and pearly pale, Her young loves virgin brow all softly tinting, With far faint hues of waking loves first hinting, And all enraptured Cupid, arm in arm, Secluded far from rude eyes loveless harm, Have wiled through many a long and gracious hour, Like fair twin bees within a fragrant flower. Such love as they have sipt! Such silent bliss Of raptured bosoms welded with a kiss! Such kisses lavished rich and juicy ripe! Such glorious songs as only lovers pipe! From morn to morn, the lover's boundless season, Unvext with chilly thought, or chilled with reason. Ah! Love thou art a happy reckless boy, To measure ages with a moments joy! Adown the streams of golden waterfalls, On hidden rocks the white faced Lurley calls. Rash wilful Cupid recks without the cost-- If Venus favor not then all is lost. Afar he flies unto her royal throne, To claim the boon of joys that he would own, And bring unto the mount his glorious bride, Immortal thence forever by his side. But Venus, queen of Beauty, waxes wrath, To find new beauty cross her royal path. And shall this son of all her royal favor, Bind to a watery chit of mortal flavor? Not so! A mother's newest plans are older, Than any fancy scheme of youthful molder-- His fate is hers to mold! Then hie away To sport, but think no more to disobey. Old mother Locksmith! Venus is thy name! Of myriad escapades, all back to thee the blame! The angry queen hath ruled, and Love, achaffing At wasted time, hies back to love alaughing. And he hath sworn that she is fairer far Than that proud goddess of the morning star, Albeit queen of Beauty. Here, in mortal line, Our tale should end beneath the smile parental, In Iris tinted shower of peace divine, And blessings less of use than ornamental. But all the mount hath heard this reckless oath, And all the mount aghast, if Venus wroth, Be not the Venus terrible. Alas! Such lovers make sad flowers in the grass. And woful trees by many a dusky stream Embar the fire of many a love's young dream. And grizzly monsters moan in sunken path, Some fiery love that stirred the gods to wrath. But beauty's queen hath brooked no passing jest To penetrate her deep heart's wild unrest. But in the stilly quiet of her wrath, Conceives dark pitfalls for the lover's path. And she that once hath hied to amorous chase, And grieved outstript in love's immortal race, Now calls her white winged swans, on fleecy pinions, To bear her down to earthly love's dominions, For naught of love or sorrow. From a cave, Whence flowed her double fountain bitter wave, Two serpents, green and gray, and mottled golden, Within her chariots hold hath she close folden; Cirque-couchant, glittering, whispering sibilant Deep curses old, they with their fury pant, To strains the subtle bonds of jealous art, And plant deep venomed fangs within her heart. But now the feathry chariot glides along The airy sea, among the sable throng Of darkling hours, whose soundless feet are gliding Unto the amorous dome of Love's abiding. And they have halted, serpents, swans and queen Within a grove that shields them with its screen Of em'rald interlacing. There a little bloom Of nameless hue, and forest wild perfume, She plucks, and crusheth in a bowl of jade. And with her breath a syrup weird hath made, Whose faint escaping break along dim aisles, Of forests, brooding mournful eld, beguiles, Till such a wild heart rending moan hath risen, As never rose within a tortured prison To greet a ray of light. But heark'ning not, She bends above her serpents, breathing hot Upon their heads, een as they pause to strike, This mystic lotion. Lo! what wonders like Hath ever magic seer in lore beholden?-- Each serpent skin a woman's form enfolden, That with that breath of drunken magic lotion Hath sprung to being with an exquisite motion, And such sweet words, as through a thousand years, Have gathered music for a tale of tears. But Lo! one groweth old, and very old,-- A toothless haggard hideous to behold. And one hath grown a marvellous sun-bright creature, Of luscious form and speechless worship's feature. One stands like sunlight on a crested wave, And one like murky darkness in a cave. But each a low obedient knee hath bended, To hear the queenly will thus long suspended. And thus the queen, to her the radiant maiden: "Thou bitter sweet, thou vessel overladen, "In yonder dome a fairer maid than thou, "Sees all her beauty in a lover's vow, "Nor heeds the ripples on that mirror's sheen, "From troubled depths of her fair self unseen. "Go thou, and with thine ointed tongue reverse "The mirror's face, and there thine own immerse; "Remembering still, thou hast a serpent's tongue, "That holds thee slave, till thou hast surely flung "Its glittering barb into that silly heart." Then, like an apparition of a dream, The maid hath vanished, with a hellish gleam. And thus the queen, unto that gruesome hag: "In yonder dome a youth hath founden beauty "Within a maid, and swears all foul and sooty, "That is not there. Thou hast a serpent's eyes, "And seeth so what dreary falsehood lies, "In such a mirror. Go reverse the glass, "And thine the beauty he has wasted on the lass, "He hath not seen." The hory dame is gone. And Venus left within the grove alone, Recalls her swans and mounts the starry air. Then she, the new born maid, as false as fair, Hath found sweet Psyche in the crystal dome, And creeping, like a mad thing to her soul, In friendly guise, exacts a hideous toll For all her blissful life: "How can she bind "Her sunny soul to such a treacherous mind? "And she hath wed a libertine, a rake, "Whom even now her pleasures must forsake "To drink new pleasures with another bride. "And if she creeps in silence to his side "Forsooth unwelcome sights might come unto her." With such foul words the fiend began to woo her, And in her pearly ear hath poured the breath, Of hideous doubt that stabs her soul to death. And then hath wandered with exultant heart, Unto the vales of Crete, her glittering dart, Of barbed tongue, a woman's sweetness singing, And ever more hath myriad minions clinging, Unto her heartless laughter. But no more To grace our tale. And now the haggard hoar, On Cupid's angry ears, with whisperings Of faithless women, and the direful springs Of wasted lives: "And she hath heard the wind "Sing always, maids are false and men are blind, "And in a cavern by the ocean side, "'Tis daily jest of Wind and Sun and Tide, "How Psyche tweaks the gentle Cupid's nose "Between the beds; and Psyche false as fair, "Needs but a whim to lay her treason bare. "This very night, if he will but deny her, "If nothing more, at least 'twere time to try her, "For sooth unwelcome sights might come unto him." With such foul words the witch began to woo him, And in his angry ears hath poured the bane, That sets his heart at riot in his brain. What wonder then if in the lonely night, Sweet Psyche weeps to find her love is slighted; Feels darkness fall upon her trembling light, And throws to wind the vows her love has plighted! And she hath risen from her loveless bed, With all the stealth her grief supplies instead, And steals to Cupid's fine unguarded room, Where she must feast her heart on deeper gloom. Here Cupid, airy souled, hath fall'n asleep, Too filled of love such watch for long to keep, And even now with her in blissful dreams, He roams again, and all the future seems As sweets of old. No little pains of doubt, To mar recalling moments with their rout. All through the halls, such joy of living blent Her soul and his in single ravishment. And Oh! they wander in the flow'ry vale, All through the dewy morn and evening pale, And each to drink the other's loveliness, Despising richest nectar. Even the stress, Of queenly anger now had bode its time, And fresh Aurora speeding to this clime, Hath Venus' royal word to grant his prayer, That with the dawn to clasp his Psyche there, In perfect love, with all the world their own. Ah, promised day! his eager soul hath flown, To meet the morning. On his lonely bed Reclines his happy visionary head, In such sweet dreams. An hour hath lightly flown When o'er his senses steals a softened moan, As when a soul all pent and warp'd in gloom, Hath breathed soul deep, some sudden wild perfume, That is of freedom. Awaked to such surprise, He sees with heart aghast the famished eyes, Of Psyche filling to their very brim With his forbidden beauty, sees for him, The golden future vanish, sees aghast For now he knows his lovely dream hath passed; That soulless doubt hath razed the golden dome Of his high hopes to desert sandy loam. The structured palace falls with all its art, To grieve a valley with an aching heart. From out a darkened corner of the ruin rises, And laughs to view the dismal crisis, That baneful hag. But Ah! what beauty fairer! What luscious form arrayed in raiment rarer! And she hath flown to vales of Thessaly, Where ever more her mocking eyes shall see, A myriad eyes upon her beauty glisten, A myriad ears unto her rumor listen. And Cupid flees in sudden wild despair. To drown his soul within the bitter fountain, Nor Venus now may crown his heart laid bare, Nor any luscious goddess of the mountain. But Psyche wanders, like a saddened rill, To perish in a lonely sandy waste, And all forlorn, with steps that can not haste, For such absorbing grief, she chides his heart That was a glittering palace, now a part Of ruined things. She writes within the sand Some resolution high her grievous heart hath planned-- A sign to mark the spot, some time, some how, A charm to lead her back again. And now A little shrine within a lonely place, Which flow'ry vines with subtle interlace, Hath reared to Demeter, her wearied feet Have found. And all her soul hath flown to meet Her prayer's happiness. It is a bowl, Of crystal dew, where nature paints her soul. And Psyche now, a gentle worshipper, Hath bent sad prayerful knees, and pearly ear, Low for the golden oracle. Sad eyes, In tangled braid of smiles and tears surprise The crystal truth. Lo! she hath seen. And death Seems struggling for her weary, panting breath! What horrid charm of Circe's baneful art! It is a serpent's head, green eyed and swart, With lightning flashes of a forked tongue, And glittering treachery on its forehead hung. Oh! for a generous draft of that sweet moly, To bring dear Psyche back as pure and holy, She kissed, for love, her nectar's brimming chalice, That held serene a limned picture there, Of wealth of beauty framed in golden hair. But nature's shrine guides not the errant feet Of little faith. And sudden prayers all unmeet For crippled love. Ah! where the happy shrine Of boundless heart, and still a tongue divine, In lover's oracles? With holy words Of sweet ablution when the night engirds Each little tear? When never a smile but darkens Its firefly gloom? When never an ear that hearkens. But dulls a moan? And never a scene outspread In mirror drops, but darts a serpent's head? Such bitter moan she made, such bitter moan No grieving Pan on bursting reeds alone, In madness ever made to startled streams. No nightingale her saddest tongueless dreams, Hath sobbed to beauty on a hidden thorn, To swoon in over-music at the morn. But soul is exquisite, the flowers essence, That through its bruises breathes quintessence. And all the suffering of the dateless world, Its rarest, gladdest petals hold enfurled. This is the soul. Yet all its world a thought Of smiling strands and sunlit oceans, fraught With homing argosies. And waneless suns Shine on its passing gonfalons. What e'er the mask, its keener eyes see through it. What e'er the ban its laughter will undo it. What e'er the time, its fleeting thought will span it. What e'er the deed its ancient hour began it. And bruised, unfurl the leaf, the bruise is gone, Yet heal the wound, the essence breathe right on. This is the soul. But Psyche grieves an hour Till every petal in the spirit's flower Is bruised by so much time, and wand'ring far, She yet hath wandered farther, like a star Of aimless race, in melancholy deeps. Her bittered feet have struggled on the steeps. Her moaning soul hath crossed the stygian river. And she hath read the runes of never, never, In wailing spirits of the sunless moors, And piteous quagmires seeking piteous shores. And she, whose mirror was a drop of dew, When golden fancy played upon her ear, Now shrieks where horror strikes her spirit through, Within the gloomy region of a tear. But one that she hath met within the gloom, Some shadow wearied from the lake of doom, Whom she remembers for her ancient self, Hath led her from the low and crumbling shelf, That hangs upon oblivion; bound her tresses, About her brow with old times fond caresses. And to the weeping shade of beauty's fall, Presents a little curious lachrimal, Which she hath wrought with many quaint enlaying Of happy times and tears. Presents it, saying, "This is thy beauty bear it to thy love "And ask no more. Quick to the light above, "Thy wings must bear this precious charm away, "Nor pause till thou deliverest it. The day "Must wane not on thy loveless spirit lorn, "So long." Then swifter than the dainty morn She flies unto her love, and all agleam Her beating fancy lives her future dream. How fair! How fair! But even as she flies, The curious urn must tempt her famished eyes, And she hath paused. Ah! woe betide the lover, That halts to dream, and tempt the soul to steep In th' unrevealed. What lethe fumes discover In such unfathomed deeps, of death or sleep! As if a pearl had golden wings and far Had flown to purple lurings of a star, The gladdest spirit of a precious dream, And fluttering over misty mantled hills, Hath fallen wearied, where her beauty fills, Some fair recess within a mossy dingle, For such a rest, and lieth all amingle With gladdest flowers that ever quivered through To kiss so sweet and strange a drop of dew-- A bit of beauty ravishing the brain, 'Till unremembered dream touch back again And sketch sweet rainbows on the raptured soul, Thus gaining e'en her spirits golden goal Hath Psyche, curious Psyche fallen asleep. Hath fall'n aside and lieth like a gem, Of goddess lost from starry anadem. And here the sun in drinking up the dew, Hath paused to find an ancient thirst renew, And, raptured connoisseur of dewy gems, Would woo the nymph the stony silence hems. But on her pearly cheek his amorous kisses, Fall deadly cold. And all is warm caresses, Unheeded. Lo! His godly art of change, He fain work. And make some rare and strange Addition to the old immortal throng: Behold! Within the raptured skies of song, Another music like the morning star! Poor gentle Echo wandering far Here finds her dear Narcissus kissing lips, As sweet as hers. But while the honey drips Of saddest love he poureth in those ears, Meander's flowery vale a happy whisper hears: "Narcissus, dear Narcissus now is free, "Ah! sweet to sing, e'en though his eyes but see, "This new divine." And pausing on her wings, Her heart is free with old remembered things. Poor wronged Arachne spins, a golden thread, From oak to oak, and hoping wild has fled, Along such path with such a beating heart, To catch some dream that hedged her olden art. It was not meet, in such an artist soul, Should lurk a spider's venom, nor the whole Of godly anger lessens this a bit. And sad Arachne on her beam aflit, Within a shower of hopes her soul doth steep, To weave ah! thus to weave a soul asleep! And Zephyr gathering anemones, Among the flower beds her dear form sees, Whom he of late in scented scarf hath borne, With such fond care, and over seas of corn, Of emerald depth far stretched in dreamy waves, To flowery strands, where happy Flora laves On April morns, he calls his love to view This pearly fancy sleeping in the dew. Sweet Flora goddess of the scented hours Hath woven a dainty wreath of April flowers-- The tend'rest bloom she gathers for the scent In maiden April's lap of wonderment-- A little wreath round head and feet and wing, For Love-at-ease to call a fairy ring, Where those enamored blooms must dance For breezy joy about a soul in trance. Now wing'd Apollo, fing'ring golden strings, Hath wandered far in his dear ponderings, And fashioned such a music, wild and free, As wakes to love the cold anemone, And saddened Hyacinth forgets to moan, Beside a sweetness sadder than his own--A sweeter strain than Orpheus honeyed breath, Had sung to charm the stygian tides of death. And Iris on a heavenly message sent, Hath paused to hear this new forlorn lament. This tender goddess of all daintiness, Stands tiptoe holding up her showery dress, 'Tween dainty fingers, till the spangled folds Of mingled hues, in wondrous bow she holds, And leans to learn what wondrous thing of beauty, Must prompt so sweet a lay. Forgotten duty, That bade her speed to regions somnolent, For balmy dreams, to nurse a languishment, That pales the boyish cheek of dimpled Cupid, She speeds where all of beauty's minions grouped, Do feast their eyes upon the source of song. And after her still comes a charmed throng, From music's toils the slaves of loveliness. Ah! when this radiant scene her eye doth bless What sighs are born of deep enraptured joy! And Iris now recalls the languid boy; For this is Psyche! This the dainty nymph, Whose love hath paled his cheek to dewy lymph! And all aflame to do a happy thing, She bounds away upon her swiftest wing, To Somnus' gloomy cavern. Scarce a thought, Might mark the time in which her pinions brought, Her to the drowsy rug of poppies spread, Where drowsy Somnus nods his hoary head. His myriad minions, like the forest leaves, When some wild gust their autumn rest upheaves, Rush to her overwhelming. Lethe fumes, Of sweet seduction, oozing from the glooms, That shield the murky river, drag to aching Her wearied eyes, and e'en her sense forsaking, She fain would rest upon the poppied rug, Like some pale Orient deep within a drug. But _beauty_ is the dream of godly sleep, And scare her eyes have fluttered, when a peep Of golden fragments tantalize their sense To waking; thus to try, with soul intense, To reconstruct some evanescent gleam Of something they remember. Ah! what dream So fair as Psyche sleeping in a fairy ring? So fair as languid love's sad wandering To grief or joy along a feverish beam? She wakes the drowsy god, demands a dream: And quits the sunless cave with winged Morpheus. And now again the amorous sire of Orpheus, They meet, and now the sad immortal strain, Shall lure them on to Psyche's dell again. What though the Thracian queen may bide but ill, Miscarrying chance with her imperial will?-- Sweet Iris hath a gentler thought. She brings, The dream to see those luminous sleeping wings, All pied and crested like a tiger moth, When from a soothing beam his heart is loth, To part, and basks for very idleness; Those tiny feet where they so lightly press As not to weight a daisy to the earth; Turned dimple breasts, such beauty of one birth As Nature yields no more; one small hand prest Against them coldly white, and one carest By raptured blooms, outstretched upon the grasses; And oh! her head! what glory there surpasses, Of golden ringlets curling and uncurling As gentle Zephyr with a silent purling, Plays free among them,--scarcely parted lips, So flower like, a wild bee drops and sips, So sweet he flies away full honey laden, Unconscious of his lightness. Such a maiden That Morpheus eld historian of th' ideal Must write another canto. Softly steal, The fine emotions o'er his countenance, As though a prism's unveiled hues should dance, Upon a shy chamelion. Seeing this, The happy Iris mounts upon his bliss, With soothing words; "Thou seest the butterfly, "Whose flooding beam hath drown'd dear Cupid's eye. "The queen demands thou bring him fairest pleasure, "Of all the joys thou holdest in thy measure. "Sweet Psyche's story, whispered by the wind, "In every dewy flower cup thou'lt find, "As deeply mirrored as the starry skies. "Fly to the fretting boy with dear surprise "Of all thy cunning. Kiss his fevered lips, "As Psyche then, when doubting falls and slips, "Still left unmarred their blissful stream of life. "Sweet whisper tales of life and love arife, "To guide his swooning fancy from its pain, "To revel in the life of love again." The Dream hath kindled to a gorgeous hue, Out speaking words, and in a drop of dew Hath read sweet Psyche's tearful story. And Lo! the boy beholds a growing glory Of something rich and old; and feels the sense Of olden kisses planted quick, intense, And warm caresses softly lingering To lose no dear sensation. Blushes bring, In quick succession, while his chin atilt, 'Tween tender fingers, meets a raptured lilt, Of love for love, as lovers only know. And he hath seen the bitter path of woe, Each ragged rock her feet have limp'd upon; Each hopeless deep, and heard each bitter moan. And he hath seen her loving spirit burn, To ope for him the glory of the urn; Such glory as her joyful eyes have drunken, Till drugg'd with their own beauty, they have sunken Unto a dreamless swoon, where ringed thime Hath framed an art, to rare to draw in rhime. Then hath he risen from his joyless bed, Thrown off his garb of woe, and swiftly sped, Adown the olden path. And like a thought His heart hath brought him to this valley fraught With his rich treasure, all his soul asinging To name the bubbling hope that he is bringing. And softly as a warming shadow falls On flowery paths along the sunny halls, His gentle words caress her sleeping ear, With all the magic love that she hath long'd to hear. A blossom opening to the morning sun, With white cold cheeks the dew hath dreamed upon, Hath never opened sweeter eyes than hers. Such sudden pulsing breast! such light that stirs Such eyes unmeasured deep! as closely folded In strong white arms her being is remolded, And Lo! he leads her scarce a thought beyond, And there where she hath written in the sand, As though a wizzard waves a magic wand, The palace rises, new and passing grand. My Soul! 'Tis a beaker of wine, And the bubbles that flash to the brim, Are the nameless, wild songs of mine, And the ruby is sparkling with them. Ah! The beaker is sparkling and brimming!-- We die, but there's life in the bowl, While the bubbles are rising and swimming-- Camerado, I pledge thee my soul! Ah Music! Whisper to my love, Some golden fancy of thy clime-- Some glorious sound, To breath around, A sweetness, sweeter than my rhime, Of sweet breath thime In orange grove, When she may rove, As wild and free, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her. Ah Beauty! Whisper to my love, Some glorious fervor of thy being, On golden sands Of Orient strands; By limpid lakes where she is fleeing, And there is seeing The classic grace Of her proud race, As wild and free, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her. Ah Pleasure! Whisper to my love, Some happiness as sweet as thine, When wild bee sips The honey drips, In early May. And lowing kine, In dreamy line, Have led her feet To the pastures sweet, As wild and free, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her. Sweet trine! Oh! whisper to my love, Such wildest pleasures thou hast known, Of lake or strand, Or flow'ry land, In happy regions all thine own; Of dreamy zone, Where all day long, Hast sung her song, As wild and free, That circle there around, above her, To tell her that I love her. Oh! Soul of balsam calm, sweet rural scene! Thy spirit hand hath led me back again, By pebbly paths, to mossy couches green, And where the glowworm and the moth have lain, To lie and dream! Or on some warm and soothing rock, Supine, to watch the white clouds flee and flock, On everchanging wings, Of childhood's sweet imaginings. Or seeking out some shadowy stream, Where playful fishes flash and gleam, and vanish, A wild thing too, dull leaden footed care to banish, How I would seem! Along the smoky autumn afternoon, Where fall the brown leaves, wandring aimlessly, What song of forest pine, what wild bird's tune, Hath waked me not to life, but still to be A spirit wild! To cut me from the hickory bough, A whistle piping music sweet enow, And on the swinging vine, As free as Bacchus, munch the wine, From purple festoons undefiled; Or with the wild winds sport from hill to hill, As happy as the dewy balm they drink and spill,-- Their nameless child. Or where the rain falls, patt'ring in the dust, Of winding lanes, to seek no shelt'ring place, But bare the soul to greet the coolly gust, And laugh to feel the cold rain in the face. What joys are mine, Of haunted nook, and hidden dingle, Where life and dimpling mirth, may meet and mingle, And clear melodious plot, To pipe sweet ditties of their lot, Till the sad soul that did repine, Shall wake to consciousness as sweet and wild, As some lone promise-mother's dreaming of her child, And as divine! Along these paths what amorous gods have pass'd! What wood nymphs vanished down these shadowy lanes! What happy olden memories here may last Of shepherd lassies and great amorous swains, In jocund dance; Or fairy Mab, the merry queen, Hath led her pageantry upon the green, In delicate rigadoon, Along the midnight's charmed noon! But not of these my soul's entrance, If now the mock bird, warbling wildwood notes, In rich liquidity of myriad tuneful throats, Tells his romance. Or if the red bird preen his richest plume Upon the dogwood bough; or crested jay, Hid in some leafy oak's sequestered gloom, Shall fret and chatter all the live long day. Perchance to hear Some music, fainter than a dream, Range on its pinions till the soul must deem That it is there and know It hath been ever singing so. And thus to grow as fine and clear-- Like wild-wood sound to come, to dream, to die,-- And only pray nought else to charm the spirit's eye, The spirit's ear. Thou busy bee! Thou happy murm'ring bee! How would I follow on thy viewless course, To clover dell, or lusher linden tree, And lose within thy honey's charmed source All that I am, of hope or fondest dream-- To be as thou a honeyed spirit wild, No more, no more from golden worth astray For what may fairer seem, But drinking still, with spirit undefiled, The heavy secrets of the summer day. No fruitless season mocks thee with its frown, No dross within thy waxen treasure dome, No dark remorse may ever weigh thee down, But laughing Nature bids thee lightly roam From scene to scene wherever joy may be. Not aimless wand'ring on from gloom to gloom, But with a purpose greater than thy days-- Yet art thou wholly free To go, to come, to sleep in folded bloom: No custom bids thee name thy wondrous ways. Within thy far and olden Orient vales, Sweet houris nursed and watched thee long ago. And thou hast heard the soft and lowly couched tales, Of lovers luting all the heart's sweet woe Without the harem's amorous oriels; And guarded sighs of maidens veiled and pining; And demon lovers wailing sad nights long Within the wildest dells; Or, Sprite of Roses! couched in velvet lining, Sad thorn struck nightingales' low dying song. Old caravans have plundered all thy treasure, To feed the dark-eyed beauty of the Nile-- Thou hast not pined, nor lost thy queenly pleasure, But out of ruins wrought new domes the while. But lo! they robbed thy rosy land of thee; Ah then! how blushed the spirit of the west! That welcomed thee his wild-wood spirit bride, To flee, to flee, to flee! What spread of burning wings! What golden quest For panting bliss in flow'ry fields untried! Sweet critic of the fairest and the sweetest, Thou hast not paused to mar the honey less-- And who knows where thy winged soul is fleetest? What holidays thou hast of happiness To drink the viewless honey of the air? I saw thee on the golden rod at noon, At evening by the frail anemone-- Which beauty charmed thee there? Didst ease thy heart, or golden weighted shoon, Within thy far and murm'rous hearted tree? Away! away! farewell thou winged sprite! From dale to dale, from hill to farthest hill. The radiant blue hath melted round thy flight, But, like an Ariel dream, I see thee still, Where thou hast vanished, yet not wholly gone. And I must sing thee of a treasure dome Of drossless gold, which thou hast filled unwitting. Then too to wander on, Like thee as fain to pause, as fain to roam, Forever pausing and forever flitting. Ah Death! Thou art a strange and delicate thing, Pale hooded sister of sweet sleep! That like a patient holy nun, Upon a battle steep, Hath watched from sun to sun Each laboring breath, That welcomes thee, sweet Death. Whilst thou with cooling balm Do quiet lips, where lonely anguish cries, And draw cool shades for wearied eyes, And layeth speechless calm Upon each fevered brow, With strokings of thy coolly palm. And thou, and only thou More sweet than psalms, To famished souls On barren goals. What draughts of long forgetfulness Hath held to moaning thirst! To drink, to drink, and drinking, wildly bless, That thou, the last, shall be the first. What depths of great eternal night, Hast held to failing eyes! Till, pregnant with the awful sight, A spirit in them lies That is not life. I see thee calming strife, And age old bitterness. The young man's mockery of the old Hath seen thy face and trembles all acold. I see thee in the bride's deep fathomless eyes, That flash with sudden consciousness, While all her pulses rise To greet sweet motherhood. I see thee in the lonely wood, With hardy woodsmen clearing future cities, And hardy daughters chanting ditties That are the songs of queens to be. I see thee in the golden halls of gaity Where trips the lure of beauty ankle deep, And where the faded kings and queens in kindly shadows creep. I see thee in the busy marts of blood and brain, And in the crowded thoroughfares, Of ceaseless noise, and sightless glares, That lead to woods again. I see thee by the nervous ocean, That trembles still, with wild emotion, And brings sad pennance for its night of wrath. I see thee on the lonely mountain path, That leadeth ever up and down. I see thee in the golden brown That burns gay summer's bonny cheeks. I see thee in the light that seeks A soberer gown along the afternoon. I see thee by the harvest's moon, And hear thee in the reaper's distant song. And whither this may rise and that be planting soon, I see thine hooded shadow glide along. I see thee with the poet on the hills Of soul's expression. I see thee with the raptured alchemist's in session, While each his magic mirror fills With drossless gold of music, art, and poesy, Whence o'er the world such beauty spills, That sorrow cannot be. I hear thee in the lovers' lilt, Of careless brightness. I see thee in the lightness, Of amorous lips atilt. I hear thee in the dreamy serenade, That wakes the charmed ear of night, And loosens in some farthest glade, A mocking bird to lyric flight. I see thee where the silence falls On haunted sleep men lie within,-- And ah! thy dreamless solace calls, Far, faint and thin. And ever calls, Till perfect silence falls. I see, thee, hear thee, feel thee every where, O! passing breath! And life is glorified for thou art there, I saw a lassie on the green, Ah me! Ah me! No sweeter sight since have I seen, Nor ever more may see. At morning fair, at evening pale, And overcast. Oh, stay thou lassie, sad and frail, Why seek the night so fast? I took her hand, 'twas limp and cold, She had no smile, And in her eyes gleamed something old That flickered out the while. And then she told such piteous tale, And heaved a sigh:-- "I dreamed that beauty could not fail, "Nor simple pleasure die. "I held him long, I held him fast-- "But he has gone. "Oh stay me not--this way he past, "And I must hasten on." I saw a wannish haggard in the night,-- Alone was she. I heard her laugh, her eyes were bright, Ah me! ah woe is me! Ah Ha! A lack-wit is the Time-- A foolish piece and niddy-noddy, To teach her gentle daughter, Rhime, To flirt and dance with everybody. Her cheek was fresh, and passing fair When very few did come to court her, And king or swain must worship there, That dared, or fancied to transport her. And often there a sceptered king, And often there a wit or jester, Have fondly kneel'd her praise to sing, And learned how sore it is to pester. But now alas! 'Tis come to pass, She loves the addlest headed dandy. A bon-bon lyric suits the lass, Her Epic is a piece of candy. A poet came in a golden noon, His eyes were bright and his soul in tune, And he sang a song of a nameless bird. And never a song of songs was sung, As sweet and as rich as the lay that sprung, From the forest-wild muse in the lyrical verd. An old man dozing and dying alone, Hath startled enrapt at the wondrous tone, And thinks on his own youth's minstrelsy. And his fingers tremble and itch again And his tongue is lashed in its bed of pain, To know at last such music may be. A youth starts up, with his soul on fire, And shatters his harp for something higher, And sings of a glory he has not known, Till his mad soul sinks on the raging sea, As sad and as weary as spent wings be, In the guideless paths where his hopes have flown. And a maiden adream in her virgin bower, Of her love's bright star and its rising hour, Hath heard the song, and her being is folden To the starry breast of a winged god, In the golden paths of a garden untrod, Which her soul in the lyric depths beholden. But the world hath roused on its listless bed And calls to the ass for his bray instead, And lo! he hath named the song and the bird! And the young man lives, and the old man dies, And the god hath flown from the maiden's eyes, And the singer is gone, and the song is a word. Sculptors have carved for us stories in stone,-- Spirits of gods from the chrysalis freeing; Toiled for us, starved for us, dying unknown, Still have they sought for the infinite being, Calling it Beauty,--upbuilding its throne. And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle, the saddest and gladdest "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest-- "Naught hast thou wraught so enduring as doom." Painters have drawn for us marvellous lines, Hues of the rainbow, and sunset, and morning-- Pigments an innermost glory divines, Laurelled, or stultified canvas adorning; Toiled for us, drunk for us bitterest wines, And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle--the saddest and gladdest "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest "Naught hast thou drawn so enduring as doom." Poets have sung for us sweetest of song, Aye, they have sung for us, limn'd for us, carved for us. Laurell'd our fortune, and lightened our wrong-- Still have they dreamed for us, toiled for us, starved for us-- We are their passion's most fanciful throng-- And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle--the saddest, and gladdest, "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest, "Naught hast thou sung so enduring as doom." What is so rare as a pearly cloud, With a burning sun behind it? With a dream to bind it-- This is the treasure you sought from the start, Forgetting to find it. What is so sweet as the song of a bird, That wakens the fancy that hears it? And this is the music I hear in my heart Whose heaven enspheres it-- This is the heaven you sought from the start Forgetting to pierce it. What is so glad as the heart of a child, That gambols as careless as Maytime? And this is the pleasure I hold to my heart, Acalling it daytime-- This is the pleasure you sought from the start, Forgetting the playtime. Boast not, poor man, that thou hast measured time, And named it feeble seven thousand years, Lest all the lore and wit of all thy seers Must brand thee fool, and name thy folly _crime_. I say that I have seen an eon's rime Upon thy father's head, and bitter tears, Quintillions old. And countless fears, Remembered from an old world's mapless clime. Nor call thy folly old,--'twas surely born When thou didst cease to think. Thou hast a child, Whose beauty brands thee for a thing forsworn. Leave thou its tender reason undefiled! For shame to chain the base of all thy glory, Upon an olden tale, a useless allegory! Above the city hangs a limpid glare, From hollow laughter's laden festal board: Thou seest the lover fondling his adored-- Thou hearest music singing of her hair. Thou seest the tryst that's neither here nor there. Thou seest the gallant with his mocking sword, And honor at his feet;--the miser's hoard, And Lo! the music, sword, and tryst are there. Say when has music breathed a song, Encored so long as yonder jingling gold? Say when do lover's wand'ring from the throng, Turn wholly from the mart where love is sold? Ah man! were gold where erst it did belong Then love were winged music as of old. And thou hast seen yon priest in holy stole, But thinkest, never yet a jackal's skin, Embodied more hereditary sin-- And he with healing ointment for the soul, May not remember when his own was whole. Behold a myriad monks he ushereth in Whom dol'rous chant pronounceth holy kin, And yet each readeth from a foreign scroll. When all these jarring sects pronounce decree, Then must thou wait another _Fiat lux_. Old Chaos slumbering in eternity, Hath writ his secret hope in monkish books, That some shall beckon when his reign shall be-- And even now the priestly finger crooks. Willie, Willie, merry piper, Wand'rer too from clime to clime, Tell me if thy fruit is riper, Sweeter than my rhime. Hast thou pluckt a golden apple, I have never tasted yet? Hast thou seen a pearly dapple, Finer skies than mine have set? Hast thou heard a music sweeter, Than my wildest dreams intone? Hast thou found a joy completer, Than a pleasure I have known? Willie, Willie, wand'ring ever, Whither wend thy wayward feet? Farther still must we dissever, Only thus again to meet? Wander on I would not stay thee-- Fain were I a wand'rer too. Drinking where the founts delay thee, Thirsting all thy deserts through. What! though little thou hast gathered, Golden wealth is that I ween. What! though nothing thou hast fathered, Careless fancies are thy yean. All thy trees mayhap are fruitless; All thy hopes be ships afar, All thy plans mayhap are bootless,-- Still thou hast the eastern star. I, in peace and plenty, yearning, Yearning for thy wand'rer's crust Weary, aching, burning, burning, Fevered failure of the wander-lust. Wander on, mayhap I'll meet thee, Wand'ring in the waning glow Rhiming still for joy to greet thee, Piping on thy piccolo. 'Tis the maiden April calling,-- Calling to the languid South,-- Where she lounges in the sunshine With a secret at her mouth. Where she lounges with the sunshine Closely fondled to her breast. Calling for that fickle lover, Wanders with his old unrest. And her lips are full and luscious, Where a thousand joys have kissed-- Ah! I must unto her garden, Lo! I tremble for the tryst. For her couch it is a languor Cushioned for a passion rest, Woven out of dreams and sunshine, Pillowed with her pulsing breast. And I clasp her warm embraces, Kissing deep her dewy lips, Like a bee upon a blossom, Where the honey breathes and drips; Lie within her warm embraces Till the wildest passions wane-- Fall to dreaming of Nirvana Pictured through a golden rain. There adream with dreaming April In the gentle southern land, Hearing footsteps onward pressing, Only she might understand. Feel the cool wind fan the forehead, Drink the mellow wine he brings, Till the spirit drunk to fervor Sweeps its own AEolean strings. Hear the music of the vanished, Join the far and lyric throng Of the rare and radiant singers In the starry skies of song. Hear with soul all hushed and quickened, Wrapt in fine unconscious ears, Music singing unto music, In the bright AEolean spheres. In the golden hall of Time, And the Future brings a garland From his pure and crystal clime. Seeing then that life is rainfall, Falling on a dreaming sea, With a touch of speeding rainbows, Hinting all eternity. Seeing then, that dreaming ocean, Drinking all the golden rain-- Call it death or dark oblivion, Drinks and yields it back again. Seeing past is not the total, Seeing present not the last-- Is the future uncreated? Nay 'tis older than the past. Is today a mighty time-wall Beaten outward by the waves? Nay, it is the crystal mirror Where an image still enslaves. Seeing space is only measured With an atom of the soul; Seeing Space and Time are brothers Racing from what goal to goal? Seeing systems all unnumbered, Numbered by their vanished race; Seeing Time among his diamonds, Launching systems unto Space. Till the Soul turns back to April Faint with seeing, and the seen There in dreams to wait and linger For the rainfalls iris sheen. Ah! 'tis only dreams that linger, For a vision or a sound-- Ling'ring only, asking never How and whence, or whither bound. Only dreams that linger, hearing Songs across the blue clad hills From the lakes of cool savannahs, Where the mirror fills and fills. Hearing from the cool savannahs Magic strains and elfin horns, Heralding across the plainlands Greater than the olden morns. Dawnings to the world from dreamland Where the souls of song are tryst Covering over facts and angles With the artful truth of mist. Then the world is recreated With the Supermen of dreams, With the men from out the future Coming down the crystal streams; Comes the painter mixing soul-tints In his fine unconscious eye-- Comes the sculptor opening marbles Where his dreaming godheads lie; Comes embodied music seeing All of Heaven in a sound-- Call him man or rapt musician, Neither yet is wholly bound. Comes the poet sweeping soul-strings Lo! the painter dreams again, Finds another golden pigment In the minelands of his brain. Comes the poet sweeping soul-strings, Lo! the sculptor dreams again, Frees a rarer winged spirit In his blue marmorean brain. Comes the poet sweeping soul-strings, Lo! the music dreams again, Finds another golden concord In the silence of his brain. There again the Bard of Avon, Music names him not in words, Singing to a raptured eon All that life and death engirds. There is Shelly, diamond hearted, Singing lightning scintilant, Wanting still a rarer lustre, Sweeter ever than his want. There is framed and fashioned music, Keats the golden tongue of song. Browning crowned with highest heaven Ruling all of right and wrong. His own magic art hath wrought, Tracing dreams and fancies In the crystal depths of thought. Singing all the music of the north. Beauty urging on his music, Wagering all her soul is worth. Goethe arm in arm with Hauptman In the vine-clad hills of Rhine, Hushed to catch the simplest whisper From the great Norwegian Pine. All the Kings of dainty fancy, All the Kings of mighty song, All the Kings of love and laughter, All the Kings of right and wrong, All the Kings of all the kingdoms, To the farthest bounds of art, Meeting on the swards of dreamland, Ages can not bind apart. Thus the world is recreated With the Supermen of time, Bearing on in royal pageant, All of fullness and of prime. Thus the world is recreated With the Supermen of dreams, Footsteps onward pressing, Plashing oars on crystal streams. Silver lakes, and cool savannahs, Mirrored in the blue clad hills, Dream miraged, dim oases Where the spirit drinks and fills. Wanting not a dear companion, Wanting not the yester years, Thus the world is recreated, And the ring'd horizon clears. And I turn again to April, Maiden princess of the south; Lo! the secret now has blossomed To a white rose at her mouth. Hail! Sweetest rhapsodist Of virgin song unfettered yet! Sweet honey-bee of sound, What flow'ry meads hast found, Of wilding pain and rapture, In spirit births, a moment's capture? A part of all that thou hast met, Sweet mocking bird! How far above, how far beyond, All dream or spirit fancy, Each fountain burst of purest song! To what fair region dost belong? What roseate glory followeth after Thy natures gladdest laughter,-- Thine infinite necromancy, Sweet mocking bird? Within thy song, as in thy night, What matchless dearth of fact! Old Art bent low in arabesque, Transmuting life to things grotesque. And his golden mist, a still low call, From model-nature's all-in-all, Bids thee all rapture reinact, Sweet mocking bird. And when is nature more complete, Than in thy midnight hour? When every angle meet and mingle, Within thy misty laden dingle, And spirit pauseth in the heart, To rectify its ancient art, By the shadow on the flower, Sweet mocking bird. And when has music kissed a string Till such a lyric breath intone? Of all the joy, of all the pain, Sweet summer holds to earth again. The far sweet pain of bursting Hours, Whose sparkling eyes, in tears of flowers, Yield thee a drink that's all thine own, Sweet mocking bird. Ah! Light of dreams! when spirit hears Such music calls, can life forget? Each night thou lightest up the gloom Within my spirits stifled room, And beckoneth on to hopes afar, My singer and my star, my star! The all of all that thou hast met, Sweet mocking bird! The gos'mer web that mistifies, Lies not on any whole or part, Or stop or start, but in the art, Men hang upon their eyes. And haply in an age afar, Two men may see the self-same mote-- The selfsame beam, with motes afloat, And learn what souls and systems are. Triumphant Day's grand pageantry At song, and all the garlands won, Far in the west the queenly Eve, Blue misty mantled, takes her leave, Tiaraed with a Sun. And Lo! Sweet night, a nut-brown maid, With silent wonder pursing lips, Or humming soft a bird's low song, Trips down the hall. Behold the throng Bow to her finger tips. Thy dewy dreams, thine Ariel dreams, Then turn thee to thy dainty dreams, Thine airy shell is now alight, To bear thee down AEolean streams, Good night, my love, good night, good night. By misty strands of phantom lands, By golden shores and phantom lands, Across the sea of starry light To drop thee on enchanted strands-- Good night, my love, good night, good night. Afar from me and there with thee, Ah! could I journey there with thee, Across the sea of starry light; But nay, 'tis thine own journey's sea-- Good night, my love, good night, good night. But golden Morn must sound her horn, And when the morning's triton horn Is heralding thy homing flight, I'll meet thee on the shores of morn,-- Good night, my love, good night, good night. Of the languorous South with her wine-stained mouth, And her easy ways, I sing. Ah! see where she stands, my lady of lands, With a rose in her hair and a gracious air, Where her lovers cling. Will she play me false for the promised waltz, In that easiest way of hers? Ah see! she is fair as the rose in her hair, And the sweet love drips from her honied lips, When her fancy stirs. Will she lightly resist for the promised tryst With a smile of her easy ways? Ah see! she is smiling with a sweetness beguiling All sorrow to laughter till it dances thereafter In a golden maze. Alas! alack-a-day! she dances away! Haphazard her favor confers. Ah! see where she dances, and her sunlit glances All scattered apart! But I store in my heart A smile of hers. And thou hast oped the matrix of sweet thought, And graven on the gem rare imagery. Or piercing free thine arts reality, Hast found uncarven gods, as richly wraught; Such tints of soul, such matchless colors fraught With all thy beings dearest phantasy; Such fair illusive forms that luring flee, Within the crystal web of fancy caught. Till to thine eyes, a radiant cosmos spreads In crystaline delight from pole to pole, Of godly folk at play on flowry meads, And one fair form of beauties finished whole! Then through the golden mist one fancy threads: It is the god of gods, thy pristine soul. Thou golden fragment of the sweetest dream, That ever smiled beside the gates of morn, And left enraptured Beauty half forlorn And half entranced. Still for thy vanished gleam That spirit-maiden weeps. On her refulgent stream No more the tinted bark is lightly borne, But frail as thought by streaming phantoms torn, She waits forever thy returning beam. A golden dream of art's divinity Of music breathing immortality Till stoned silence falls a carven gem. And but a fragment! Ah! couldst thou have sated A bursting heart, what worlds had been created! As one, who gath'ring flowers in a dream, Hath found a vanished passion all in bloom, And wild sweet odors lifting in the gloom Of olden time, but casts it on a stream, To mar the silver moon's reflectant beam, And laugh at circles sweeping on to doom, In dusky marges, shining in her brume, Hath England found thee. Thus her silly deem! Ah! Shame that she, whose head is vaunted so, Hath vision narrowed to a needle's eye. And only far from home, doth England know That she has doomed another son to die. But fair Columbia brings her wreath of woe, Sweet Rhine, a tear, and lyric France a sigh. And when thy soul had made a simple song And laughed for very glee to sing and sound it, Outside the walls, the dim mysterious throng Wrought keen and barbed darts wherewith to wound it: There was a fault, a fearful deadly fault, And loud they screamed a very bull's-eye named it; As one they saw, as one they would assault-- Each kneeling archer drew his dart and aimed it. And lo! How fared a myriad archetypes! A myriad fancies, sounds, and colors riddled! And harps! and horns! and flutes! and lutes! and pipes! And O! the laugh as each some vict'ry twiddled! But still the dainty spirit sang its song And laughed its laugh unconscious of a wrong. And shall I join this scramble after fame, Astonish so the free delightful spirit, To bind his song, that fettered ears may hear it, And win an encore, or a sounding name? Or shall his broad imperial wings go lame, To make a semblance of existing merit? Or fly no more less favor disinherit, And yield his lightness to an ordered game? Not so! and never for the fickle throng, One soaring rapture less in fancy free! But sing thou bonden music's saddest wrong My spirit-bird, 'til shackles melt for thee-- Still sing, for never yet thy spirit's song, May bend to crass availability. She was a breath of forest-wild perfume So sweet, one could but stand and drink it in, Until the soul should burst; a dream so thin And airy fine, it seemed a spirit's bloom, And left a haunting fragrance in the room When it had vanished. Garb'd in snowy lynn So rare one knew not where it did begin-- A scented sunbeam in a human gloom. And thou hast called her woman, woman only, When thou hadst music yearning at thy tongue To call her Heaven. Aching fancy lonely Still breathes that fragrance in a song unsung, Or wandering, lost deep in a golden dream, Hears sweet white Lurley from a vanished stream. Ah! Thou wert fairer than the early morn, Thy dress all spangled with the dewy flowers-- A lynn soft woven in the wondrous hours That hedged about thy dreams. But Lo! the horn Of some far Triton from the sea up-borne Across the bluey hills, and tinted showers Faint limning scenes of Elfin grots and bowers, Bound thee in thrall by misty strands forlorn. Thou couldst not longer bide the sweet low calling Of some sad sea-soul for his wand'ring nymph. Thou couldst not yield to mortal love's enthralling And Nerius calling in thy spirits coralled lymph. O! if our hearts have sweeter balm than tears, It is the call that kissed thy dreaming ears. I can not say how much I love thee, words, Like wearied petrels, fall on shoreless seas. But O! I love thee! Simple words of these Float on the stormy soul, like halcyon birds, With speechless calm. A golden zone engirds The thee and me in worlds of nameless ease, And promise fairer far than AEetes'. No clouds there tempest tost, but phantom herds Of golden fleece feed in the fields of blue, And sunny harbors lull the freighted ships Of tender song, the while thine hero woo, For aye sweet message from thine honeyed lips; Or catch some music from thy spheres above thee,-- A song of songs to tell how dear I love thee. The storm-king playeth his organ tonight-- O! weep for the mortals that heareth at sea! The King of the storm! What god in his might, May still the dread music, or silence the key? The lightning, the thunder, the rain, and the blast-- How he driveth each note to its ultimate goal! And the roll of dead worlds in the infinite vast, How they roll in his soul, in his madness of soul! The lightning, the thunder, the blast, and the rain-- How he playeth each note for its ultimate soul! 'Til his caverns great center grows blacker again, With the deep where his musics great nebulas roll! And grandeur, mad grandeur, the sweep of his song, The raging and lurid storm grandeur of night, Till the Souls of the Ages, to him but a throng, Of beetling black nebula, crash in their flight. How he laugheth, and laugheth, this maddest of Kings! How he rageth, and rendeth his organ assunder! Now soaring, now crashing to nethermost springs-- The maddest of music but never a blunder. For he smiteth the sea, and he teareth the land, And never a prayer but he laugheth to scorn! A King and a God--should he render less grand For sake of the ghoul haunted beeches of morn? I dreamed, and ah! the dream was sweeter far, Than any dream of cloud-born poet ever; Or love-lorn maiden praying to a star On Agne's Eve. I thought a glorious quiver, Of ecstasy was trembling, full with tears, Deep in the eyes of a maternal thought, And Time, beyond the outposts of the years, Was hushed expectant, all of wonder fraught. For Fancy cradled in a golden cloud Had risen in a dream of boundless glory,-- While on his brow his soul had overflowed, And swiftly scaled a purple promontory. Then back again, in speed as dreamy fleet, And laid a snow-white feather at my feet. Dull inquisition racks the aching brain. I work no more, but fight the growing pain Of losing hours. Night of heart! No moonbeams come To bring thee twilight. Still, ah! still the hum Of artless industry--the spirit's chain That binds for life sake. Still the fight for gain That binds it to th' arena, pale and numb. And I that hoped to do so much indeed, To clear a path in spite of time and room, To sing a song, ah! now I faint, I bleed, A conquered victim. See the conqueror loom, A careless frown and sword his only creed,-- And watching close the turning thumb of doom. If Orpheus came to Maga with a song As sad as tongueless sorrow dying, So sweet the weeping world should throng To hear the strain, but come not flying The Maga pennant, unassailable, Then faith! the song were not available. If Orpheus, singing in the lonely hills, Should charm the world to raptured wonder, And Maga came in wraps and frills, And dainty tears, to cry his blunder. Then faith! the world might wait laconical, If Maga readjust his monicle. But if perchance the godly singer, Should pass, like bitter grief with time. What Ho! The dandy crooks his finger, And menials bring each Orphean rhime. And Maga's bards, and Maga's sages, Write epitaphs on tombs of pages. Beside the falls of ancient walls, And golden Halls, Entomb'd forever, On lonely sands, with phantom bands, A figure stands, Called never, never. Her eyes are green, as em'rald sheen, With glories seen, In distant ages; As dongon keep, her eyes are deep, And there asleep, A thousand years of hopes and fears, With dying cheers, Her cohort only. A thousand miles of vanished piles, Of olden whiles Her Empire lonely. From night to morn of glory shorn, She stands forlorn, Her only glory. From sun to frost, a night uncrossed, Forever lost, An endless story. Full wondrous wrought, and passing strange, Of many a sea-born tint-- Some old and deathless work of change, For fairy wonderment. But what of that strange elfin sprite, That in this rainbow hall Once moved? What woe, or what delight, Did make its all in all? How roamed it through the scenery? Of ocean's old expanse? Or dreamed, in fragrant greenery, O'er some sweet sea romance? Was't haughty King, or was it slave, In its unknown kingdom there? Or loved, in elfin grot or cave, Some sweet shell-maiden fair? Alas! like some old haunted palace, The silence, how profound! Where mem'ry's drunk from death's deep chalice, And turned the chalice down. Because thy winged spirit ever craves Then must thou range wide seas and distant lands-- To see, to know, thy burning thirst demands No sweeter drink. To kneel in sainted naves Seek paynim shrines with strange fantastic bands Or pause to weep where sad Pompeii stands, Ah! 'Tis to know, till every cup is drained, And passion wane in pale satiety. Then but to dare the boundless unattained,-- Thy self a world, thy thirst its history. Ah! such a world! such wash of human waves On human shores, where still the thirst enslaves. Ah Death! what a weakling art makes thee-- The art of the frighten'd to death; Gay curtains where glory forsakes thee-- A straw for the clutching last breath. Where finds in religion a balm So soothing, so cool and so far? What solemn great hush and what calm? Degraded to Portals ajar! O where is the lyric of rest--? O where is the song of the soul--? Unfettered, unmastered, undrest A nude and a beautiful whole. O where is thy lyric of room,-- Unclouded immeasurable night? O where is the song of the doom Still flawless of hope or afright--? Ah! cool as the night is the song The dewy fresh song of my soul, Sung always far over the throng To a dewy unblemishing goal; Some music still wand'ring, unstrung Ungarnished, unmastered with art, That haply some feverish young May garner for treasure of heart. But never the song that is sung-- The sweet measured tongue laps of art, That silvers old age for the young, Or maketh a ball room of heart. Too great is the prestige O! Death, Where Day ever bendeth at noon For false chanting, or clutching for breath At sight of the guerdon so soon. Too great is thy prestige O! Death! To flatter with scorn or with fright. No promise so vain as that breath, So great so great is thy night! 'Tis an ash circled bower, Of berries and musk, And the fairies' first hour, Neither daylight nor dusk; And fancy is thridding In vistas of green, Where the moth is out bidding The cock for his sheen; And the bee with his treasure, Is at rest on a stone-- The measure of pleasure, The depth of his own; The blue-bells are tinkling, The mocking birds woo,-- In a beautiful sprinkling Of scintilant dew, Far down in the grasses, In a magical ring, A clinking their glasses, "Methinks, saith the King, If the dome of our palace, Were as happy a thing, As the dome in this chalice, "Of glittering dew, And half so resplendent, As fancy is too, In this liquor impendent; "Methinks, saith the King, Then life were as jolly, In this magical ring, As its spirit of folly; "Methinks, saith the King, Titania were sweeter, And this magical ring Were magic completer. "For the vixen is wild, With this Squire from the highlands-- Like a sailor beguiled, To magical islands, "At sound of a voice, To plunge in the sea foam, And, dying, rejoice, That the island should be foam. "Methinks, saith the King This rascal were better, Far out of the ring, In handcuff and fetter. "For he talketh of love, And faith, hope, and charity, And a spirit above, As the spirit of parity. "And thou, saith the King, Hath certain the gumption, To see thus the spring Of pleasure's consumption. "Of late thou hast wandered, To see and be seen, And much thou hast squandered My riches, I ween. "Relate thine indentures, Important of state, And all thine adventures, Of worth to relate." "A trace of wine's on the breath of summer, And the spirit of June is a pure delight, And the brimmer of light is sparkling and bright With a cheer for the gladdest comer. "Aloft in the oak a dove was cooing, And a little gray bird on sycamore twig, Was a pause abreath with a feathery sprig, And flittered away to his wooing. "I peep'd in a bloom and a bee was in it, I peered on a leaf and a moth slept there. Ah! was ever a dream so deliciously rare, And all for a tip-toed minute!" Then Oberon winketh, And solemnly drinketh, The nation much luck. "Good! Then let us be merry, And call up the court-- Each knight and his deary, For song and for sport. "But none that are gloomy, What ever the cost-- Though the palace be roomy, Their space is all lost." Puck boweth full low, And a blue-bell he tinkleth, And the courtiers inflow, As thick as stars twinkleth. And the King, from his wand, Hath showered his graces, On the rich and the grand, And the favored of places. Saluteth this grandee, And passeth that by; This sport, or that dandy, To the tail of each eye. "God een! my brave hearties, Thou Fat and thou Thin, How barren our parties If thou art not in! "Thou Nut and thou Cherry, Thou Bud and thou Berry, All welcome to room. "Thou Red, and thou Yellow, Thou Purple, thou Green, And--who is that fellow, With blood in his een? "Thou Lobster, come kneel here, Behold thou the King! What folly to steal here To this magical ring!" Saith Puck, "'tis a ranger In the light of the queen." Saith the ranger "And stranger To thy pleasure, I ween. "I come from the people, With the people I dwell. I favor the steeple, I favor the bell. "Ten thousand are weary, That furnish thee sport, Their homes are adreary, To furnish thy court." (_A faint low rumble of thunder cometh from over the hills_,) _and Oberon saith_, "'Tis an orator, Hollo! We've something here new! Whatever may follow, We'll hear the thing through. "Continue, thou swine herd, Right gladly we'll hear, Of the grunts of thy fine herd, And the stys that are drear." The orator boweth, And unrolleth a scroll. And such sentences floweth, To the cheek by jowl: _To the greatest of Kings, Whom Time in his fleetings Hath gifted with wings, From his people, with greetings:_ "We are weary of wine and of laughter, We are weary of women and song! Come back dear Brother October, And bear us sober along!" Then the palace, to dome, With merriment ringeth, And, dashing the foam, The revellers singeth: Ah! the clink of our glasses How they clink as we drink! And memory passes, Too pleasant to think. "Too much there is singing and dancing, Sweet sorrow is scorned for her weeds. Come back dear Brother October And chant us thine anthem of deeds!" Here's one to each other, Another as deep, And life is a brother, Too pleasant to weep. (_While a dark cloud appeareth on the horizon_.) "Sweet thought is outclassed and outbidden, Gay summer too high on her wings! Come back dear Brother October And chant us thy requiem of Kings!" (_Consternation among revellers. The King starteth up, but Puck singeth_:) (_While the lightning flasheth_.) Here's one to our lasses, How nimbly they dance! And the bright of our glasses Is the light of their glance. (_And the revellers_.) Here's one to the vintry, How brightly he shines! May never the wintry, Drink deep of his wines. (_He rolleth his parchment and speaketh._) "'Tis young blood counts and moneyless brains! And the heart and soul of devil-may-care Is abroad in the land, with a fig for the pains, To do and to dare! to do and to dare!" (_While the storm rageth._) Ah! the clink of our glasses, How they clink as we drink! And memory passes. Too pleasant to think. (_And the court adjourneth._)

Jean-François Marmontel

Ο Βελισάριος

1723

with an Introduction Reproduced from a Copy in and with the permission of verses deserve attention on their own merits--Dryden may well be candour. November, 1685. The date of 1686 on the title page must have been A bibliographical analysis of the volume is given by Hugh The poetry in the volume can be described in Dryden's terms: Art she had none, yet wanted none: For Nature did that Want supply. Here take no Care, take here no Care, my _Muse_, Nor ought of Art or Labour use.... The ruggeder my Measures run when read, Such Noble Vigour did her Verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd. The bloody Wolf, the Wolf does not pursue; The Boar, though fierce, his Tusk will not embrue In his own Kind, Bares, not on Bares do prey: Then art thou, Man, more savage far than they, (p. 37) with Rochester's _Satyr against Mankind_: _Birds_, feed on _Birds_, _Beasts_, on each other prey, But Savage _Man_ alone, does _Man_ betray, So cold herself, whilst she such Warmth exprest, 'Twas _Cupid_ bathing in _Diana's_ Stream, "Alexandreis" prays for the "frozen style" to be warmed with a suggests that E. E. was Edmund Elys, the learned and contentious On Elys's life see Anthony Wood, _Athenae Oxonienses_ (1721), c. _McMaster University sig. b 2 "her Warlike Brother" is Henry Killigrew (d. 1712), commodore in the 1680's and eventually Admiral, who was on duty in the Mediterranean when Dryden wrote. p. 24 Lady Berkeley and her son are the wife and son, John, of John, first Baron Berkeley of Stratton (d. 1687). John the younger was lieutenant in 1685 and attained the rank of Admiral in 1688. p. 49 Lord Colrane is Henry Hare, second Baron Coleraine the _Poems_ bearing his bookplate, dated 1702, is in p. 76 Mrs. A. K., the victim of this extraordinary accident shortly before the civil broils, was probably Anne, daughter of Sir Robert Killigrew, the poetess's grandfather. p. 79 The Duchess of Grafton is the daughter of Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington and wife of Henry Fitzroy, Duke of I cannot Mourn thy Fate, Sweet Mayd, but Joy That Thou art gone from all this Worlds Annoy, From th' hurry of this cursed Age, that draws Heav'ns Vengeance down by th' breach of all the Laws. Of GOD, & Man: ther's nothing here but Noise That which they Pleasure call is _Sport_ for _Apes_ Which turns the _Phansie_ to a thousand _Shapes_ And Wrests the _Mind_ from that _Celestial Sphear_ To which Its _Nature_ ever would adhere Its Rest & Motion ever might be ONE That which my Mind hath ever Sought, thy Mind Tho Compast with these walls of Clay did Find: Which Always shines, & Alwayes is the Same: Here's no faint trembling Flame: all Bright appears 'Tis ne're blown out with Sighs, nor quencht with tears. I had with Her, who was Allie'd to Thee Is Now made Perfect: Our Souls Mutual Flame Tho Higher in _Degree_ in _Nature's_ still the same. I Now Enioy, whilst in You All I Love The Boundless Spring of Joy to Ev'ry Mind That knowes what's _Truly Fair_ & Knowes what's _Truly Kind_. How have I Labour'd to Depress the Pride Of one [Dr. Parker] that strives Illustrious Truth to Hide In the Thick Bushes of Learn'd Sophistrie, Which he that Enters hardly sees the Skie? Truth that thy Splendid Soul did clearly see And of it made a plain Discoverie. And having Conquer'd Fate, Thou leavst those Arms [Her Poems] By which Mankind may Conquer All their Harms And make them Serve their Noble Purposes. How Bravely did thy _Melibaeus_ shew The Madness of that Love most men pursue And how Youth may their strongest Lusts subdue! O Happy Mayd, who didst so soon Espie In This _Dark Life, that All is Vanitie_! And like the SUN, put out all _other Fire_; That all their Ardors & their Flights may be The Flames that Fly up to the _Deitie_; That DAVID's Muse they all may Imitate, That all their Works Resembling Hea'vn may prove Immodicis brevis est aetas, & rara Senectus. These POEMS are Licensed to be Published, Printed for _Samuel Lowndes_, over against Reader, dost ask, What Work we here display? What fair and Novel Piece salutes the Day? Know, that a Virgin bright this POEM writ, Who, when none higher in _Loves_ Courts might sway, Despis'd the Mertile, for the nobler Bay! Nor could _Apollo_ or _Minerva_ tell, Whither her Pen or Pencil did excel! But while these Pow'rs laid both to her their Claime, Upon whose gorgeous Robe inscrib'd was seen _Divine Vertue_, took her from both away, } And thus with Anger and Disdain did say, } _Of Me she Learn'd, with You she did but Play_. } Of the Accomplisht Young LADY Made in the last Promotion of the Blest; Whose Palmes, new pluckt from Paradise, In spreading Branches more sublimely rise, Rich with Immortal Green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some Neighbouring Star, Thou rol'st above us, in thy wand'ring Race, Or, in Procession fixt and regular, Mov'd with the Heavens Majestick Pace; Or, call'd to more Superiour Bliss, Thou tread'st, with Seraphims, the vast Abyss. What ever happy Region be thy place, Cease thy Celestial Song a little space; (Thou wilt have Time enough for Hymns Divine, Since Heav'ns Eternal Year is thine.) Hear then a Mortal Muse thy Praise rehearse, In no ignoble Verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first Fruits of Poesie were giv'n; To make thy self a welcome Inmate there: While yet a young Probationer, And Candidate of Heav'n. If by Traduction came thy Mind, Our Wonder is the less to find A Soul so charming from a Stock so good; Thy Father was transfus'd into thy Blood: So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, (An early, rich, and inexhausted Vain.) Was form'd, at first, with Myriads more, It did through all the Mighty Poets roul, Who _Greek_ or _Latine_ Laurels wore. And was that _Sappho_ last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, _O Heav'n-born Mind_! Thou hast no Dross to purge from thy Rich Ore. Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find, } Than was the Beauteous Frame she left behind: } Return, to fill or mend the Quire, of thy Celestial kind. } May we presume to say, that at thy Birth, New joy was sprung in Heav'n, as well as here on Earth. For sure the Milder Planets did combine } On thy Auspicious Horoscope to shine, } And ev'n the most Malicious were in Trine. } Strung each his Lyre, and tun'd it high, Might know a Poetess was born on Earth. And then if ever, Mortal Ears Had heard the Musick of the Spheres! And if no clust'ring Swarm of Bees On thy sweet Mouth distill'd their golden Dew, 'Twas that, such vulgar Miracles, Heav'n had not Leasure to renew: Solemniz'd there thy Birth, and kept thy Holyday above. O Gracious God! How far have we Prophan'd thy Heav'nly Gift of Poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose Harmony was first ordain'd Above O wretched We! why were we hurry'd down This lubrique and adult'rate age, (Nay added fat Pollutions of our own) T'increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage? What can we say t'excuse our _Second Fall_? Let this thy _Vestal_, Heav'n, attone for all! Her _Arethusian_ Stream remains unsoil'd, Unmixt with Forreign Filth, and undefil'd, Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child! Art she had none, yet wanted: anon For Nature did that Want supply, So rich in Treasures of her Own, She might our boasted Stores defy: Such Noble Vigour did her Verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. Her Morals too were in her Bosome bred By great Examples daily fed, What in the best of Books, her Fathers Life, she read. And to be read her self she need not fear, Each Test, and ev'ry Light, her Muse will bear, Though _Epictetus_ with his Lamp were there. Ev'n Love (for Love sometimes her Muse exprest) Was but a _Lambent-flame_ which play'd about her Brest: So cold herself, whilst she such Warmth exprest, 'Twas _Cupid_ bathing in _Diana's_ Stream. One would have thought, she should have been content To manage well that Mighty Government: But what can young ambitious Souls confine? To the next Realm she stretcht her Sway, } For _Painture_ neer adjoyning lay, } A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey. } A _Chamber of Dependences_ was fram'd, (As Conquerors will never want Pretence, When arm'd, to justifie the Offence) And the whole Fief, in right of Poetry she claim'd. The Country open lay without Defence: For Poets frequent In-rodes there had made, And perfectly could represent The Shape, the Face, with ev'ry Lineament; All bow'd beneath her Government, Receiv'd in Triumph wheresoe're she went. Her Pencil drew, what e're her Soul design'd, And oft the happy Draught surpass'd the Image in her Mind. And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks, Of shallow Brooks that flow'd so clear, The Bottom did the Top appear; Of deeper too and ampler Flouds, Which as in Mirrors, shew'd the Woods; Of lofty Trees with Sacred Shades, And Perspectives of pleasant Glades, Where Nymphs of brightest Form appear, } And shaggy Satyrs standing neer, } Which them at once admire and fear. } The Ruines too of some Majestick Piece, Boasting the Pow'r of ancient _Rome_ or _Greece_, Whose Statues, Freezes, Columns broken lie, And though deface't, the Wonder of the Eie, What Nature, Art, bold Fiction e're durst frame, Her forming Hand gave Shape unto the Name. So strange a Concourse ne're was seen before, But when the peopl'd Ark the whole Creation bore. The Scene then chang'd, with bold Erected Look Our Martial King the Eye with Reverence strook: For not content t'express his Outward Part, Her hand call'd out the Image of his Heart, His Warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear, } His High-designing Thoughts, were figur'd there, } As when, by Magick, Ghosts are made appear. } Our Phenix Queen was portrai'd too so bright, Beauty alone could Beauty take so right: Her Dress, her Shape, her matchless Grace, Were all observ'd, as well as heav'nly Face. With such a Peerless Majesty she stands, As in that Day she took from Sacred hands The Crown; 'mong num'rous Heroins was seen, More yet in Beauty, than in Rank, the Queen! Thus nothing to her _Genius_ was deny'd, But like a Ball of Fire the further thrown, Still with a greater Blaze she shone, And her bright Soul broke out on ev'ry side. What next she had design'd, Heaven only knows, To such Immod'rate Growth her Conquest rose, That Fate alone their Progress could oppose. Now all those Charmes, that blooming Grace, The well-proportion'd Shape, and beauteous Face, Shall never more be seen by Mortal Eyes; In Earth the much lamented Virgin lies! Not Wit, nor Piety could Fate prevent; Nor was the cruel _Destiny_ content To finish all the Murder at a Blow, To sweep at once her Life, and Beauty too; But, like a hardn'd Fellon, took a pride To work more Mischievously slow. And plunder'd first, and then destroy' O double Sacriledge on things Divine, To rob the Relique, and deface the Shrine! But thus _Orinda_ dy'd: Heav'n, by the same Disease, did both translate, As equal were their Souls, so equal was their Fate. Mean time her Warlike Brother on the Seas His waving Streamers to the Winds displays, And vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays. Ah, Generous Youth, that Wish forbear, The Winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy Sailes, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, Thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy Sisters Face, Thou hast already had her last Embrace. But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far, Among the _Pleiad_'s a New-kindl'd Star, If any sparkles, than the rest, more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious Light. When in mid-Aire, the Golden Trump shall sound, To raise the Nations under ground; The Judging God shall close the Book of Fate; And there the last Assizes keep, For those who Wake, and those who sleep; When ratling Bones together fly From the four Corners of the Skie, When Sinews o're the Skeletons are spread, Those cloath'd with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead; The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound, } And formost from the Tomb shall bound: } For they are cover'd with the lightest Ground } And streight, with in-born Vigour, on the Wing, Like mounting Larkes, to the New Morning sing. There _Thou_, Sweet Saint, before the Quire shalt go, As Harbinger of Heav'n, the Way to show, The Way which thou so well hast learn'd below. Engraved on her TOMB. Doctoris KILLIGREW Filiae, _Quae in ipso AEtatis flore Obiit._ _Heu jacet, fato victa, Quae stabat ubique victrix Forma, ingenio, religione; Plura collegerat in se Una, Quam vel sparsa mireris in omnibus! Talem quis pingat, nisi penicillo quod tractavit?_ _Aut quis canat, nisi Poeta sui similis? Cum tanta sciret, hoc Unum ignoravit, Quanta, nempe, esset; Aut si norit. Tantis incorruptam dotibus. Laudes meruisse satis illi fuit, Has ne vel audiret, laudatores omnes fugerat, Contenta paterno Lare, Dum & sibi Aula patebat adulatrix. Mundum sapere an potuit, Quae ab infantia Christum sapuerat? Non modo semper Virgo, Sed & virginum Exemplar. Gentis suae Decus, AEvi Splendor, Nulla Vertute inferior cuiquam, Cuilibet superior multa. Optimi Deliciae patris, Etiam numerosa optimaque prole fortunatissimi: Priorem tamen invidit nemo_, (_Seu frater, seu soror_) _Quin potius coluere omnes, omnibus suavem & officiosam, Amorisque commune Vinculum & Centrum. Vix ista credes. Hanc si nescieris; Credet majora qui scierit._ Si eam plangi oporteat, Cui, tam pie morienti, Vel Coelites plauserint._ Turned into English. By Death, alas, here Conquer'd lies, She who from All late bore the Prize In whom those Graces did combine, Which we admir'd in others see, When they but singly scatter'd be! Who her, _so Great_, can paint beside, The Pencil her own Hand did guide? What Verse can celebrate her Fame, But such as She herself did frame? Though much Excellence she did show, And many Qualities did know, Yet this, alone, she could not tell, To wit, _How much she did excel_. Or if her Worth she rightly knew, More to her Modesty was due, That Parts in her no Pride could raise } Desirous still to merit Praise, } But fled, as she deserv'd, the Bays. } Contented always to retire, Court Glory she did not admire; Although it lay so neer and faire, It's Grace to none more open were: But with the World how should she close, Who _Christ_ in her first Childhood chose? So with her Parents she did live, That they to Her did Honour give, As she to them. In a Num'rous Race And Vertuous, the highest Place None envy'd her: Sisters, Brothers Her Admirers were and Lovers: She was to all s'obliging sweet, All in One Love to her did meet. A Virgin-Life not only led, But it's Example might be said. That gave her Sex and Country Fame. Those who her Person never knew, Will hardly think these things are true: But those that did, will More believe, And higher things of her conceive. Thy Eyes in tears now, Reader, steep: For Her if't lawful be to weep, Whose blessed and Seraphique End Angels in Triumph did attend. I Sing the Man that never Equal knew, Whose Mighty Arms all _Asia_ did subdue, Whose Conquests through the spacious World do ring, That City-Raser, King-destroying King, Who o're the Warlike _Macedons_ did Reign, And worthily the Name of _Great_ did gain. This is the Prince (if Fame you will believe, To ancient Story any credit give.) Who when the Globe of Earth he had subdu'd, With Tears the easie Victory pursu'd; Because that no more Worlds there were to win, No further Scene to act his Glorys in. Ah that some pitying _Muse_ would now inspire My frozen style with a Poetique fire, And Raptures worthy of his Matchless Fame, Whose Deeds I sing, whose never fading Name Long as the world shall fresh and deathless last, No less to future Ages, then the past. Great my presumption is, I must confess, But if I thrive, my Glory's ne're the less; Nor will it from his Conquests derogate A Female Pen his Acts did celebrate. If thou O _Muse_ wilt thy assistance give, Such as made _Naso_ and great _Maro_ live, With him whom _Melas_ fertile Banks did bear, Live, though their Bodies dust and ashes are; Whose Laurels were not fresher, than their Fame Is now, and will for ever be the same. If the like favour thou wilt grant to me, O Queen of Verse, I'll not ungrateful be, My choicest hours to thee I'll Dedicate, 'Tis thou shalt rule, 'tis thou shalt be my Fate. But if Coy Goddess thou shalt this deny, And from my humble suit disdaining fly, I'll stoop and beg no more, since I know this, Writing of him, I cannot write amiss: His lofty Deeds will raise each feeble line, And God-like Acts will make my Verse Divine. 'Twas at the time the golden Sun doth rise, And with his Beams enlights the azure skies, When lo a Troop in Silver Arms drew near, The glorious Sun did nere so bright appear; Dire Scarlet Plumes adorn'd their haughty Crests, And crescent Shields did shade their shining Brests; Down from their shoulders hung a Panthers Hide, A Bow and Quiver ratled by their side; Their hands a knotty well try'd Speare did bear, Jocund they seem'd, and quite devoyd of fear. These warlike Virgins were, that do reside Near _Thermodons_ smooth Banks and verdant side, The Plains of _Themiscyre_ their Birth do boast, _Thalestris_ now did head the beauteous Host; She emulating that Illustrious Dame, Who to the aid of _Troy_ and _Priam_ came, And her who the _Retulian_ Prince did aid, Though dearly both for their Assistance paid. But fear she scorn'd, nor the like fate did dread, Her Host she often to the field had lead, As oft in Triumph had return'd again, Glory she only sought for all her pain. This Martial Queen had heard how lowdly fame, Eccho'd our Conquerors redoubted Name, Her Soul his Conduct and his Courage fir'd, To see the Heroe she so much admir'd; And to _Hyrcania_ for this cause she went, Where _Alexander_ (wholly then intent On Triumphs and such Military sport) At Truce with War held both his Camp and Court. And while before the Town she did attend Her Messengers return, she saw ascend A cloud of Dust, that cover'd all the skie, And still at every pause there stroke her eye. The interrupted Beams of Burnisht Gold, As dust the Splendour hid, or did unfold; Loud Neighings of the Steeds, and Trumpets sound Fill'd all the Air, and eccho'd from the ground: The gallant _Greeks_ with a brisk March drew near, And their great Chief did at their Head appear. And now come up to th'_Amazonian_ Band, They made a Hault and a respectful Stand: And both the Troops (with like amazement strook) Did each on other with deep silence look. Th'Heroick Queen (whose high pretence to War Cancell'd the bashful Laws and nicer Bar Of Modesty, which did her Sex restrain) First boldly did advance before her Train, And thus she spake. All but a God in Name, And that a debt Time owes unto thy Fame. _This was the first Essay of this young Lady in Poetry, but finding the Task she had undertaken hard, she laid it by till Practice and more time should make her equal to so great a Work._ As those who pass the _Alps_ do say, The Rocks which first oppose their way, And so amazing-High do show, By fresh Ascents appear but low, And when they come unto the last, They scorn the dwarfish Hills th'ave past. So though my _Muse_ at her first flight, Thought she had chose the greatest height, And (imp'd with _Alexander_'s Name) Believ'd there was no further Fame: Behold an Eye wholly Divine Vouchsaf'd upon my Verse to Shine! And from that time I'gan to treat With Pitty him the World call'd _Great_; To smile at his exalted Fate, Unequal (though Gigantick) State. I saw that Pitch was not sublime, Compar'd with this which now I climb; His Glories sunk, and were unseen, When once appear'd the Heav'n-born Queen: Victories, Laurels, Conquer'd Kings, Took place among inferiour things. Now surely I shall reach the Clouds, For none besides such Vertue shrouds: Having scal'd this with holy Strains, Nought higher but the Heaven remains! No more I'll Praise on them bestow, Who to ill Deeds their Glories owe; Who build their _Babels_ of Renown, Upon the poor oppressed Crown, Whole Kingdoms do depopulate, To raise a Proud and short-Liv'd State: I prize no more such Frantick Might, Than his that did with Wind-Mills Fight: No, give me Prowess, that with Charms Of Grace and Goodness, not with Harms, Erects a Throne i'th' inward Parts, And Rules mens Wills, but with their Hearts; Who with Piety and Vertue thus O that now like _Araunah_ here, Altars of Praises I could rear, Suiting her worth, which might be seen 'Alone she stands for Vertues Cause, When all decry, upholds her Laws: Keeps her unexil'd in her Life; Guarding her matchless Innocence From Storms of boldest Impudence; In spight of all the Scoffs and Rage, Owns Vertues Altar, feeds the Flame, Adores her much-derided Name; While impiously her hands they tie, Like _Perseus_ saves her, when she stands Expos'd to the _Leviathans_. So did bright Lamps once live in Urns, So Camphire in the water burns, So _AEtna's_ Flames do ne'er go out, Though Snows do freeze her head without.' How dares bold Vice unmasked walk, And like a Giant proudly stalk? When Vertue's so exalted seen, Arm'd and Triumphant in the Queen? How dares its Ulcerous Face appear, When Heavenly Beauty is so near? But so when God was close at hand, And the bright Cloud did threatning stand (In sight of _Israel_) on the Tent, They on in their Rebellion went. O that I once so happy were, To find a nearer Shelter there! Till then poor Dove, I wandering fly Till then I Mourn, but do not sing, And oft shall plunge my wearied wing: If her bless'd hand vouchsafe the Grace, I'th'Ark with her to give a place, I safe from danger shall be found, When Vice and Folly others drown'd. _Dorinda._ _Sabaean_ Perfumes fragrant Roses bring, With all the Flowers that Paint the gaudy Spring: Scatter them all in young _Alexis_'s way, With all that's sweet and (like himself) that's Gay. Crown the Divine _Dorinda_'s matchless Laies: May all Hearts stoop, where mine would gladly yield, Had not _Lycoris_ prepossest the Field. _Dor._ Would my _Alexis_ meet my noble Flame, In all _Ausonia_ neither Youth nor Dame, Should so renown'd in Deathless Numbers shine, As thy exalted Name should do in mine. _Alex._ He'll need no Trophie nor ambitious Hearse, Who shall be honour'd by _Dorinda_'s Verse; But where it is inscrib'd, _That here doth lie Lycoris_'s _Love_. That Fame can never die. _Dor._ On _Tyber_'s Bank I _Thyrsis_ did espie, And by his side did bright _Lycoris_ lie; She Crown'd his Head, and Kist his amorous Brow, Ah Poor _Alexis_! Ah then where wer't thou? _Alex._ When thou saw'st that, I ne'r had seen my Fair, And what pass'd then ought not to be my Care; I liv'd not then, but first began to be, When I _Lycoris_ Lov'd, and she Lov'd me. _Dor._ Ah choose a Faith, a Faith that's like thine own, A Virgin Love, a Love that's newly blown: 'Tis not enough a Maidens Heart is chast, It must be Single, and not once mis-plac't. _Alex._ Thus do our Priests of Heavenly Pastures tell, Eternal Groves, all Earthly, that excel: And think to wean us from our Loves below, By dazling Objects which we cannot know. Tell me thou safest End of all our Woe, Why wreched Mortals do avoid thee so: Thou gentle drier o'th' afflicteds Tears, Thou noble ender of the Cowards Fears; Thou sweet Repose to Lovers sad dispaire, Thou Calm t'Ambitions rough Tempestuous Care. If in regard of Bliss thou wert a Curse, And then the Joys of Paradise art worse; Yet after Man from his first Station fell, And God from _Eden_ _Adam_ did expel, Thou wert no more an Evil, but Relief; The Balm and Cure to ev'ry Humane Grief: Through thee (what Man had forfeited before) He now enjoys, and ne'r can loose it more. No subtile Serpents in the Grave betray, Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey; No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there afright, No Coz'ning Sin affords a false delight: No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy, No feirce Alarms break the lasting Joy. Ah since from thee so many Blessings flow, Such real Good as Life can never know; Come when thou wilt, in thy afrighting'st Dress, Thy Shape shall never make thy Welcome less. Thou mayst to Joy, but ne'er to fear give Birth, Thou Best, as well as Certain'st thing on Earth. Fly thee? May Travellers then fly their Rest, And hungry Infants fly the profer'd Brest. No, those that faint and tremble at thy Name, Fly from their Good on a mistaken Fame. Thus Childish fear did _Israel_ of old From Plenty and the Promis'd Land with-hold; They fancy'd Giants, and refus'd to go, When _Canaan_ did with Milk and Honey flow. _Upon being Contented with a Little._ We deem them moderate, but _Enough_ implore, What barely will suffice, and ask no more: Who say, (O Jove) _a competency give, Neither in Luxury, or Want we'd live_. But what is that, which these _Enough_ do call? If both the _Indies_ unto some should fall, Such Wealth would yet _Enough_ but onely be, And what they'd term not Want, or Luxury. Among the Suits, _O Jove_, my humbler take; _A little give, I that Enough will make_. _The Second_ EPIGRAM. Wanton _Billinda_ loudly does complain, I've chang'd my Love of late into disdain: Calls me unconstant, cause I now adore The chast _Marcella_, that lov'd her before. Sin or Dishonour, me as well may blame, That I repent, or do avoid a shame. The Third EPIGRAM. _On an_ ATHEIST. _Posthumus_ boasts he does not Thunder fear, And for this cause would Innocent appear; That in his Soul no Terrour he does feel, At threatn'd Vultures, or _Ixion_'s Wheel, Which fright the Guilty: But when _Fabius_ told What Acts 'gainst Murder lately were enrol'd, 'Gainst Incest, Rapine,----straight upon the Tale His Colour chang'd, and _Posthumus_ grew pale. His Impious Courage had no other Root, But that the Villaine, Atheist was to boot. _The Fourth_ EPIGRAM. Now liquid Streams by the fierce Cold do grow As solid as the Rocks from whence they flow; Now _Tibers_ Banks with Ice united meet, And it's firm Stream may well be term'd its Street; Now Vot'ries 'fore the Shrines like Statues show, And scarce the Men from Images we know; Now Winters Palsey seizes ev'ry Age, And none's so warm, but feels the Seasons Rage; Even the bright Lillies and triumphant Red Which o're _Corinna_'s youthful cheeks are spred, Look pale and bleak, and shew a purple hew, And Violets staine, where Roses lately grew. _Galla_ alone, with wonder we behold, Maintain her Spring, and still out-brave the Cold; Her constant white does not to Frost give place, Nor fresh Vermillion fade upon her face: Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does shine? Not Humane, one reply'd, yet not Divine. Too long ye have my Soul misled, Too long with Aiery Diet fed: But now my Heart ye shall no more Deceive, as you have heretofore: For when I hear such _Sirens_ sing, Like _Ithacas_'s fore-warned King, With prudent Resolution I Will so my Will and Fancy tye, That stronger to the Mast not he, Than I to Reason bound will be: And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear, Unhurt, like him, your Charms I'll hear. Seest thou younder craggy Rock, Whose Head o'er-looks the swelling Main, Where never Shepherd fed his Flock, Or careful Peasant sow'd his Grain. No wholesome Herb grows on the same, Or Bird of Day will on it rest; That scortches my tormented Breast. Deep underneath a Cave does lie, Th'entrance hid with dismal Yew, Where _Phebus_ never shew'd his Eye, Or cheerful Day yet pierced through. In that dark Melancholy Cell, Love, sad Dispair, and I, do dwell, The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow. Treacherous Love that did appear, (When he at first approach't my Heart) Drest in a Garb far from severe, Or threatning ought of future smart. So Innocent those Charms then seem'd, When _Rosalinda_ first I spy'd, Ah! Who would them have deadly deem'd? But Flowrs do often Serpents hide. Beneath those sweets conceal'd lay, To Love the cruel Foe, Disdain, With which (alas) she does repay When I in Tears have spent the Night, With Sighs I usher in the Sun, Who never saw a sadder sight, In all the Courses he has run. Sleep, which to others Ease does prove, Comes unto me, alas, in vain: And in them too she does Disdain. Some times t'Amuse my Sorrow, I Unto the hollow Rocks repair, And loudly to the _Eccho_ cry, Ah! gentle Nimph come ease my Care. Thou who, times past, a Lover wer't, Ah! pity me, who now am so, And by a sense of thine own smart, Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief; Catch my last Words, and call me Fool; Or say, she Loves, for my Relief; My Passion either sooth, or School. When first _Alexis_ did in Verse delight, His Muse in Low, but Graceful Numbers walk't, And now and then a little Proudly stalk't; But never aim'd at any noble Flight: The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams, Adorn'd his Song, and were his highest Theams. But Love these Thoughts, like Mists, did soon disperse, Enlarg'd his Fancy, and set free his Muse, Biding him more Illustrious Subjects choose; The Acts of Gods, and God-like Men reherse. From thence new Raptures did his Breast inspire, His scarce Warm-Heart converted was to Fire. Th' exalted Poet rais'd by this new Flame, With Vigor flys, where late he crept along, Commits to the eternal Trompe of Fame. And thus _Alexis_ does prove Love to be, Afflicted upon her Son, My Lord BERKELEY's Early Engaging in the So the renown'd _Ithacensian_ Queen In Tears for her _Telemachus_ was seen, When leaving Home, he did attempt the Ire Of rageing Seas, to seek his absent Sire: Such bitter Sighs her tender Breast did rend; But had she known a God did him attend, And would with Glory bring him safe again, Bright Thoughts would then have dispossess't her Pain. Ah Noblest Lady! You that her excel In every Vertue, may in Prudence well Suspend your Care; knowing what power befriends Your Hopes, and what on Vertue still attends. In bloody Conflicts he will Armour find, In strongest Tempests he will rule the Wind, He will through Thousand Dangers force a way, And still Triumphant will his Charge convey. And the All-ruling power that can act thus, Will safe return your Dear _Telemachus_. Alas, he was not born to live in Peace, Souls of his Temper were not made for Ease, Th'Ignoble only live secure from Harms, The Generous tempt, and seek out fierce Alarms. Huge Labours were for _Hercules_ design'd, _Jason_, to fetch the Golden Fleece, enjoyn'd, The _Minotaure_ by Noble _Theseus_ dy'd, In vain were Valour, if it were not try'd, Should the admir'd and far-sought Diamond lye, As in its Bed, unpolisht to the Eye, It would be slighted like a common stone, It's Value would be small, its Glory none. But when't has pass'd the Wheel and Cutters hand, Then it is meet in Monarchs Crowns to stand. Upon the Noble Object of your Care Heaven has bestow'd, of Worth, so large a share, That unastonisht none can him behold, Or credit all the Wonders of him told! When others, at his Years were turning o're, The Acts of Heroes that had liv'd before, Their Valour to excite, when time should fit, He then did Things, were Worthy to be writ! Stayd not for Time, his Courage that out-ran In Actions, far before in Years, a Man. Two _French_ Campagnes he boldly courted Fame, While his Face more the Maid, than Youth became Adde then to these a Soul so truly Mild, Though more than Man, Obedient as a Child. And (ah) should one Small Isle all these confine, Vertues created through the World to shine? Heaven that forbids, and Madam so should you; Remember he but bravely does pursue His Noble Fathers steps; with your own Hand Then Gird his Armour on, like him he'll stand, Of your High Vertue, and his Memory. The Sun's my Fire, when it does shine, The hollow Spring's my Cave of Wine, The Rocks and Woods afford me Meat; This Lamb and I on one Dish eat: The neighbouring Herds my Garments send, My Pallet the kind Earth doth lend: Excess and Grandure I decline, M'Associates onely are Divine. Behold, dear Mother, who was late our Fear, Disarm'd and Harmless, I present you here; The Tongue ty'd up, that made all _Jury_ quake, And which so often did our Greatness shake; No Terror sits upon his Awful Brow, Where Fierceness reign'd, there Calmness triumphs now; As Lovers use, he gazes on my Face, With Eyes that languish, as they sued for Grace; Wholly subdu'd by my Victorious Charms, See how his Head reposes in my Arms. Come, joyn then with me in my just Transport, Who thus have brought the Hermite to the Court. _On a Picture Painted by her self, representing two Nimphs of_ DIANA_'s, one in a posture to Hunt, the other Batheing_. We are _Diana_'s Virgin-Train, Our Pallaces, the lofty Woods, The Hills and Dales, at early Morn, Resound and Eccho with our Horn; We chase the Hinde and Fallow-Deer, The Wolf and Boar both dread our Spear; In Swiftness we out-strip the Wind, An Eye and Thought we leave behind; We _Fawns_ and Shaggy _Satyrs_ awe; To _Sylvan Pow'rs_ we give the Law: Whatever does provoke our Hate, Our Javelins strike, as sure as _Fate_; We Bathe in Springs, to cleanse the Soil, Contracted by our eager Toil; In which we shine like glittering Beams, Though _Venus_ we transcend in Form, No wanton Flames our Bosomes warm! If you ask where such Wights do dwell, } In what Bless't Clime, that so excel? } The Poets onely that can tell. } An Invective against Gold. Of all the Poisons that the fruitful Earth E'er yet brought forth, or Monsters she gave Birth, Nought to Mankind has e'er so fatal been, As thou, accursed Gold, their Care and Sin. Methinks I the Advent'rous Merchant see, Ploughing the faithless Seas, in search of thee, His dearest Wife and Children left behind, (His real Wealth) while he, a Slave to th' Wind, Sometimes becalm'd, the Shore with longing Eyes Wishes to see, and what he wishes, Spies: For a rude Tempest wakes him from his Dream, And Strands his Bark by a more sad Extream. Thus, hopless Wretch, is his whole Life-time spent, And though thrice Wreck't, 's no Wiser than he went. Again, I see, the Heavenly Fair despis'd, A Hagg like Hell, with Gold, more highly priz'd; Mens Faith betray'd, their Prince and Country Sold, Their God deny'd, all for the Idol Gold. Unhappy Wretch, who first found out the Oar, What kind of Vengeance rests for thee in store? If _Nebats_ Son, that _Israel_ led astray, Meet a severe Reward at the last Day? Some strange unheard-of Judgement thou wilt find, Who thus hast caus'd to Sin all Humane Kind. In that so temperate Soil _Arcadia_ nam'd, For fertile Pasturage by Poets fam'd; Stands a steep Hill, whose lofty jetting Crown, Casts o'er the neighbouring Plains, a seeming Frown; Close at its mossie Foot an aged Wood, Compos'd of various Trees, there long has stood, Whose thick united Tops scorn the Sun's Ray, And hardly will admit the Eye of Day. By oblique windings through this gloomy Shade, Has a clear purling Stream its Passage made, The _Nimph_, as discontented seem'd t'ave chose This sad Recess to murmur forth her Woes. To this Retreat, urg'd by tormenting Care, The melancholly _Cloris_ did repair, As a fit Place to take the sad Relief Of Sighs and Tears, to ease oppressing Grief. Near to the Mourning _Nimph_ she chose a Seat, And these Complaints did to the Shades repeat. Ah wretched, truly wretched Humane Race! Your Woes from what Beginning shall I trace, Where End, from your first feeble New-born Cryes, To the last Tears that wet your dying Eyes? Man, Common Foe, assail'd on ev'ry hand, Finds that no Ill does Neuter by him stand, Pale Sickness, ever sad Captivity. Can I, alas, the sev'ral Parties name, Which, muster'd up, the Dreadful Army frame? And sometimes in One Body all Unite, Sometimes again do separately fight: While sure Success on either Way does waite, Either a Swift, or else a Ling'ring Fate. But why 'gainst thee, O _Death!_ should I inveigh, That to our Quiet art the only way? And yet I would (could I thy Dart command) Crie, Here O strike! and there O hold thy Hand! The Lov'd, the Happy, and the Youthful spare, But whether thou or Blind, or Cruel art, Whether 'tis Chance, or Malice, guides thy Dart, Thou from the Parents Arms dost pull away The hopeful Child, their Ages only stay: The Two, whom Friendship in dear Bands has ty'd, Thou dost with a remorseless hand devide; Friendship, the Cement, that does faster twine Two Souls, than that which Soul and Body joyn: Thousands have been, who their own Blood did spill, But never any yet his Friend did kill. Then 'gainst thy Dart what Armour can be found, Who, where thou do'st not strike, do'st deepest wound? Thy Pitty, than thy Wrath's more bitter far, Most cruel, where 'twould seem the most to spare: Yet thou of many Evils art but One, Though thou by much too many art alone. What shall I say of _Poverty_, whence flows? To miserable Man so many Woes? Rediculous Evil which too oft we prove, Does Laughter cause, where it should Pitty move; Solitary Ill, into which no Eye, Though ne're so Curious, ever cares to pry, And were there, 'mong such plenty, onely One _Poor Man_, he certainly would live alone. Yet _Poverty_ does leave the Man entire, But _Sickness_ nearer Mischiefs does conspire; Invades the Body with a loath'd Embrace, Prides both its Strength, and Beauty to deface; Nor does its Malice in these bounds restrain, But shakes the Throne of Sacred Wit, the Brain, And with a ne're enough detested Force Reason disturbs, and turns out of its Course. Again, when Nature some Rare Piece has made, On which her Utmost Skill she seems t'ave laid, Polish't, adorn'd the Work with moving Grace, And in the Beauteous Frame a Soul doth place, So perfectly compos'd, it makes Divine Each Motion, Word, and Look from thence does shine; Of ev'ry Heart, and Joy of ev'ry sight, Its peevish Malice has the Power to spoyle, And with a Sully'd Hand its Lusture soyle. The Grief were Endless, that should all bewaile, Against whose sweet Repose thou dost prevail: Some freeze with Agues, some with Feavers burn, Whose Lives thou half out of their Holds dost turn; And of whose Sufferings it may be said, They living feel the very State o'th' Dead. Thou in a thousand sev'ral Forms are drest, And in them all dost Wretched Man infest. And yet as if these Evils were too few, _Men_ their own Kind with hostile Aims pursue; Not Heavens fierce Wrath, nor yet the Hate of Hell, Not any Plague that e're the World befel, Not Inundations, Famines, Fires blind rage, Did ever Mortals equally engage, As Man does Man, more skilful to annoy, Both Mischievous and Witty to destroy. The bloody Wolf, the Wolf does not pursue; The Boar, though fierce, his Tusk will not embrue In his own Kind, Bares, not on Bares do prey: Then art thou, Man, more savage far than they. And now, methinks, I present do behold The Bloudy Fields that are in Fame enroll'd, I see, I see thousands in Battle slain, The Dead and Dying cover all the Plain, Confused Noises hear, each way sent out, The Vanquishts Cries joyn'd with the Victors shout; Their Sighs and Groans who draw a painful Breath, And feel the Pangs of slow approaching Death: Yet happier these, far happier are the Dead, Than who into Captivity are led: What by their Chains, and by the Victors Pride, We pity these, and envy those that dy'd. And who can say, when Thousands are betray'd, To Widdowhood, Orphants or Childless made. Whither the Day does draw more Tears or Blood, A greater Chrystal, or a Crimson Floud. The faithful Wife, who late her Lord did Arm, And hop'd to shield, by holy Vows, from Harm, Follow'd his parting-steps with Love and Care, Sent after weeping Eyes, while he afar Rod heated on, born by a brave Disdain, May now go seek him, lying 'mong the Slain: Low on the Earth she'l find his lofty Crest, And those refulgent Arms which late his Breast Did guard, by rough Encounters broke and tore, } His Face and Hair, with Brains all clotted ore. } And Warlike Weeds besmeer'd with Dust and Gore. } And will the Suffering World never bestow Upon th'Accursed Causers of such Woe, A vengeance that may parallel their Loss, Such as call Ruine, Conquest, in their Pride, And having plagu'd Mankind, in Triumph ride. Like that renounced Murderer who staines In these our days _Alsatias_ fertile Plains, Only to fill the future Tromp of Fame, Though greater Crimes, than Glory it proclame. _Alcides_, Scourge of Thieves, return to Earth, Which uncontrolled gives such Monsters birth; On _Scepter'd-Cacus_ let thy Power be shown, Pull him not from his Den, but from his Throne. Clouds of black Thoughts her further Speech here broke, Her swelling Grief too great was to be spoke, Which strugl'd long in her tormented Mind, Till it some Vent by Sighs and Tears did find. And when her Sorrow something was subdu'd, She thus again her sad Complaint renewed. Most Wretched Man, were th'Ills I nam'd before All which I could in thy sad State deplore, Did Things without alone 'gainst thee prevail, My Tongue I'de chide, that them I did bewaile: But, Shame to Reason, thou art seen to be Unto thy self the fatall'st Enemy, Within thy Breast the Greatest Plagues to bear, First them to breed, and then to cherish there; Unmanag'd Passions which the Reins have broke Of Reason, and refuse to bear its Yoke. But hurry thee, uncurb'd, from place to place, A wild, unruly, and an Uncouth Chace. Now cursed Gold does lead the Man astray, False flatt'ring Honours do anon betray, Then Beauty does as dang'rously delude, Beauty, that vanishes, while 'tis pursu'd, That, while we do behold it, fades away, And even a Long Encomium will not stay. Each one of these can the Whole Man employ, Nor knows he anger, sorrow, fear, or joy, But what to these relate; no Thought does start Aside, but tends to its appointed Part, No Respite to himself from Cares he gives, But on the Rack of Expectation lives. If crost, the Torment cannot be exprest, Which boyles within his agitated Breast. Musick is harsh, all Mirth is an offence, The Choicest Meats cannot delight his Sense, Hard as the Earth he feels his Downy Bed, His Pillow stufft with Thornes, that bears his Head, He rolls from side to side, in vain seeks Rest; For if sleep comes at last to the Distrest; His Troubles then cease not to vex him too, But Dreams present, what he does waking do. On th'other side, if he obtains the Prey, And Fate to his impetuous Sute gives way, He'll find this Riddle still of a Defeat, That only Care, for Bliss, he home has brought, Or else Contempt of what he so much sought. So that on each Event if we reflect, The Joys and Sufferings of both sides collect, We cannot say where lies the greatest Pain, In the fond Pursuit, Loss, or Empty Gain. Off-spring of Heaven, that to thy State and Birth Things so incompatible should be joyn'd, Passions should thee confound, to Heaven assign'd? Passions that do the Soul unguarded lay, And to the strokes of Fortune ope' a way. Were't not that these thy Force did from thee take, How bold, how brave Resistance would'st thou make? Unmoved stand the Worlds United Blows? For what is't, Man, unto thy Better Part, That thou or Sick, or Poor, or Captive art? Since no Material Stroke the Soul can feel, The smart of Fire, or yet the Edge of Steel. As little can it Worldly Joys partake, Though it the Body does its Agent make, And joyntly with it Servile Labour bear, For Things, alas, in which it cannot share. Surveigh the Land and Sea by Heavens embrac't, Thou'lt find no sweet th'Immortal Soul can tast: Why dost thou then, O Man! thy self torment Good here to gain, or Evils to prevent? Who only Miserable or Happy art, As thou neglects, or wisely act'st thy Part. For shame then rouse thy self as from a Sleep, The long neglected Reins let Reason keep, The Charret mount, and use both Lash and Bit, Nobly resolve, and thou wilt firmly sit: Fierce Anger, boggling Fear, Pride prauncing still, Bounds-hating Hope, Desire which nought can fill, Are stubborn all, but thou may'st give them Law; Th'are hard-Mouth'd Horses, but they well can draw. Lash on, and the well govern'd Charret drive, Till thou a Victor at the Goal arrive, Where the free Soul does all her burden leave, And Joys commensurate to her self receive. _Upon the saying that my_ VERSES _were made by another_. Next Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred _Muse_!) I offer'd up, nor didst thou them refuse. O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou'lt inspire, And warm my Soul with thy Poetique Fire, No Love of Gold shall share with thee my Heart, Or yet Ambition in my Brest have Part, More Rich, more Noble I will ever hold The _Muses_ Laurel, than a Crown of Gold. An Undivided Sacrifice I'le lay Upon thine Altar, Soul and Body pay; Thou shalt my Pleasure, my Employment be, My All I'le make a Holocaust to thee. The Deity that ever does attend Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend. I writ, and the Judicious prais'd my Pen: Could any doubt Insuing Glory then? What pleasing Raptures fill'd my Ravisht Sense? How strong, how Sweet, Fame, was thy Influence? And thine, False Hope, that to my flatter'd sight Didst Glories represent so Near, and Bright? By thee deceiv'd, methought, each Verdant Tree, _Apollos_ transform'd _Daphne_ seem'd to be; And ev'ry fresher Branch, and ev'ry Bow Appear'd as Garlands to empale my Brow. The Learn'd in Love say, Thus the Winged Boy Does first approach, drest up in welcome Joy; At first he to the Cheated Lovers sight Nought represents, but Rapture and Delight, Alluring Hopes, Soft Fears, which stronger bind Their Hearts, than when they more assurance find. Embolden'd thus, to Fame I did commit, (By some few hands) my most Unlucky Wit. But, ah, the sad effects that from it came! What ought t'have brought me Honour, brought me shame! Like _Esops_ Painted Jay I seem'd to all, Adorn'd in Plumes, I not my own could call: Rifl'd like her, each one my Feathers tore, And, as they thought, unto the Owner bore. My Laurels thus an Others Brow adorn'd, My Numbers they Admir'd, but Me they scorn'd: An others Brow, that had so rich a store Of Sacred Wreaths, that circled it before; Where mine quite lost, (like a small stream that ran Was swallow'd up, with what it joyn'd and drown'd, And that Abiss yet no Accession found. Ow'd not her Glory to a Beauteous Face, It was her Radiant Soul that shon With-in, Which struk a Lustre through her Outward Skin; That did her Lips and Cheeks with Roses dy, Advanc't her Height, and Sparkled in her Eye. Nor did her Sex at all obstruct her Fame, But higher 'mong the Stars it fixt her Name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But ev'ry Laurel, to her Laurel, bow'd! Th'Envious Age, only to Me alone, Will not allow, what I do write, my Own, But let 'em Rage, and 'gainst a Maide Conspire, So Deathless Numbers from my Tuneful Lyre Do ever flow; So _Phebus_ I by thee Divinely Inspired and possest may be; I willingly accept _Cassandras_ Fate, To speak the Truth, although believ'd too late. On the Birth-day of Queen Katherine. And Stars still check'r'd Darkness with their Light, From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring, But with the Peales a churlish Storm did sing. I slumbr'd; and the Heavens like things did show, Like things which I had seen and heard below. Playing on Harps Angels did singing fly, But through a cloudy and a troubl'd Sky, Some fixt a Throne, and Royal Robes display'd, And then a Massie Cross upon it laid. I wept: and earnestly implor'd to know, Why Royal Ensigns were disposed so. An Angel said, The Emblem thou hast seen, Ah, Glorious Minister, I then reply'd, Goodness and Bliss together do reside In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below These two combin'd so rarely do we know? He said, Heaven so decrees: and such a Sable Morne Was that, in which the _Son of God_ was borne. Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and cease to rave, God darkn'd Heaven, when He the World did save. _In Answer to his Complemental Verses sent me under the Name of_ Long my dull _Muse_ in heavy slumbers lay, Indulging Sloth, and to soft Ease gave way, Her Fill of Rest resolving to enjoy, Or fancying little worthy her employ. When Noble _Cleanors_ obliging Strains Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, constrains. Confus'd at first, she rais'd her drowsie Head, Ponder'd a while, then pleas'd, forsook her Bed. Survey'd each Line with Fancy richly fraught, Re-read, and then revolv'd them in her Thought. And can it be? She said, and can it be? That 'mong the Great Ones I a Poet see? The Great Ones? who their Ill-spent time devide, 'Twixt dang'rous Politicks, and formal Pride, Destructive Vice, expensive Vanity, In worse Ways yet, if Worse there any be: Leave to Inferiours the despised Arts, Let their Retainers be the _Men of Parts_. But here with Wonder and with Joy I find, I'th' Noble Born, a no less Noble Mind; One, who on Ancestors, does not rely For Fame, in Merit, as in Title, high! The Severe Godess thus approv'd the Laies: Yet too much pleas'd, alas, with her own Praise. But to vain Pride, _My Muse_, cease to give place, _Virgils_ immortal Numbers once did grace A _Smother'd Gnat_: by high Applause is shown, If undeserv'd, the Praisers worth alone: Nor that you should believ't, is't always meant, 'Tis often for Instruction only sent, To praise men to Amendment, and display, By its Perfection, where their Weakness lay. This Use of these Applauding Numbers make Them for Example, not Encomium, take. Here take no Care, take here no Care, my _Muse_, Nor ought of Art or Labour use: But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go, Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow. The ruggeder my Measures run when read, They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread. Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents, Which flatt'ring Hope presents, Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake; But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make: For 'tis not long before their Feet, Inextricable Mazes meet, Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way, Mountains with-stand them of Dismay; Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead, Where's nought their Ruine to impede, In vain for Aide they then to Reason call, Their Series dazle, and their Heads turn round, The sight does all their Pow'rs confound, And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall: Where storms of Sighs for ever blow, Where raped streams of Tears do flow, Which drown them in a Briny Floud. My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good, Nought that the World can show, Nought that it can bestow. Not boundless Heaps of its admired Clay, } Ah, too successful to betray, } When spread in our fraile Vertues way: } For few do run with so Resolv'd a Pace, That for the Golden Apple will not loose the Race. And yet not all the Gold the Vain would spend, Or greedy Avarice would wish to save; Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth send, Or in the Sea has found a Grave, Joyn'd in one Mass, can Bribe sufficient be, The Body from a stern Disease to free, Or purchase for the Minds relief One Moments sweet Repose, when restless made by grief, But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move: When some the Price of what they Dear'st Love Are Masters of, and hold it in their Hand, To part with it their Hearts they can't command: But chose to miss, what miss't does them torment, And that to hug, affords them no Content. Wise Fools, to do them Right, we these must hold, Who Love depose, and Homage pay to Gold. Nor yet, if rightly understood, Does Grandeur carry more of Good; To be o'th' Number of the Great enroll'd, A Scepter o're a Mighty Realm to hold. For what is this? If I not judge amiss. But all th'Afflicted of a Land to take, And of one single Family to make? The Wrong'd, the Poor, th'Opprest, the Sad, The Ruin'd, Malecontent, and Mad? Which a great Part of ev'ry Empire frame, And Interest in the common Father claime. Again what is't, but always to abide A Gazing Crowd? upon a Stage to spend A Life that's vain, or Evil without End? And which is yet nor safely held, nor laid aside? And then, if lesser Titles carry less of Care, Yet none but Fools ambitious are to share Such a Mock-Good, of which 'tis said, 'tis Best, When of the least of it Men are possest. But, O, the Laurel'd Fool! that doats on Fame, Whose Hope's Applause, whose Fear's to want a Name; Who can accept for Pay Of what he does, what others say; Exposes now to hostile Arms his Breast, To toylsome Study then betrays his Rest; Now to his Soul denies a just Content, Then forces on it what it does resent; And all for Praise of Fools: for such are those, Which most of the Admiring Crowd compose. O famisht Soul, which such Thin Food can feed! O Wretched Labour crown'd with such a Meed! Too loud, O Fame! thy Trumpet is, too shrill, To lull a Mind to Rest, Or calme a stormy Breast, Which asks a Musick soft and still. 'Twas not _Amaleck_'s vanquisht Cry, Nor _Israels_ shout of Victory, That could in _Saul_ the rising Passion lay, But Friendship fain would yet itself defend, And Mighty Things it does pretend, To be of this Sad Journey, Life, the Baite, The sweet Refection of our toylsome State. But though True Friendship a Rich Cordial be, Alas, by most 'tis so alay'd, Its Good so mixt with Ill we see, That Dross for Gold is often paid. And for one Grain of Friendship that is found, } Falshood and Interest do the Mass compound, } Or coldness, worse than Steel, the Loyal heart doth wound. } Love in no Two was ever yet the same, No Happy Two ere felt an Equal Flame. Is there that Earth by Humane Foot ne're prest? That Aire which never yet by Humane Breast Respir'd, did Life supply? Oh, thither let me fly! Where from the World at such a distance set, All that's past, present, and to come I may forget: What e're may wound my Eyes or Ears. The grating Noise of Private Jars, The horrid sound of Publick Wars, Of babling Fame the Idle Stories, The short-liv'd Triumphs Noysy-Glories, The Curious Nets the subtile weave, The Word, the Look that may deceive. No Mundan Care shall more affect my Breast, My profound Peace shake or molest: But _Stupor_, like to Death, my Senses bind, That so I may anticipate that Rest, Which only in my Grave I hope to find. _Amintor._ Stay gentle Nymph, nor so solic'tous be? To fly his sight that still would gaze on thee. With other Swaines I see thee oft converse, Content to speak, and hear what they rehearse: But I unhappy, when I e're draw nigh, Thou streight do'st leave both Place, and Company. If this thy Flight, from fear of Harm doth flow, Ah, sure thou little of my Heart dost know. _Alinda._ What wonder, Swain, if the Pursu'd by Flight, Seeks to avoid the close Pursuers Sight? And if no Cause I have to fly from thee, Then thou hast none, why thou dost follow me. _Amin._ If to the Cause thou wilt propitious prove, Take it at once, fair Nymph, and know 'tis Love. _Alin._ To my just Pray'r, ye favouring Gods attend, } These Vows to Heaven with equal Zeal I send, } My flocks from Wolves, my Heart from Love, defend. } _Amin._ The Gods which did on thee such Charms bestow, Ne're meant thou shouldst to Love have prov'd a Foe, That so Divine a Power thou shouldst defy. Could there a Reason be, I'd ask thee, why? _Alin._ Why does _Licoris_, once so bright and gay, Pale as a Lilly pine her self away? Why does _Elvira_, ever sad, frequent The lonely shades? Why does yon Monument Which we upon our Left Hand do behold, Hapless _Amintas_ youthful Limbs enfold? Say Shepherd, say: But if thou wilt not tell, _Damon_, _Philisides_, and _Strephon_ well Can speak the Cause, whose Falshood each upbraids, And justly me from Cruel Love disswades. _Amin._ Hear me ye Gods. Me and my Flocks forsake, If e're like them my promis'd Faith I brake. _Alin._ By others sad Experience wise I'le be. } _Amin._ But such thy Wisdom highly injures me: } And nought but Death can give a Remedy. } Ye Learn'd in Physick, what does it avail, That you by Art (wherein ye never fail) Present Relief have for the Mad-dogs Bite? The Serpents sting? the poisonous _Achonite_? While helpless Love upbraids your baffl'd skill, And far more certain, than the rest, doth kill. _Alin._ Fond Swain, go dote upon the new blown Rose, Whose Beauty with the Morning did disclose, And e're Days King forsakes th'enlighted Earth, Wither'd, returns from whence it took its Birth. As much Excuse will there thy Love attend, As what thou dost on Womens Beauty spend. _Amin._ Ah Nymph, those Charms which I in thee admire, Can, nor before, nor with thy Life expire. From Heaven they are, and such as ne're can dye, But with thy Soul they will ascend the Sky! For though my ravisht Eye beholds in Thee, Such beauty as I can in none else see; That Nature there alone is without blame, Yet did not this my faithful Heart enflame: Nor when in Dance thou mov'st upon the Plaine, Or other Sports pursu'st among the Train Of choicest Nymphs, where thy attractive Grace Shews thee alone, though thousands be in place! Yet not for these do I _Alinda_ love, Hear then what 'tis, that does my Passion move. That Thou still Earliest at the Temple art, And still the last that does from thence depart; _Pans_ Altar is by thee the oftnest prest, Thine's still the fairest Offering and the Best; And all thy other Actions seem to be, The true Result of Unfeign'd Piety; Strict in thy self, to others Just and Mild; Careful, nor to Deceive, nor be Beguil'd; Wary, without the least Offence, to live, Yet none than thee more ready to forgive! Even on thy Beauty thou dost Fetters lay, Least, unawares, it any should betray. Far unlike, sure, to many of thy Sex, Whose Pride it is, the doting World to vex; Spreading their Universal Nets to take Who e're their artifice can captive make. But thou command'st thy Sweet, but Modest Eye, That no Inviting Glance from thence should fly. Beholding with a Gen'rous Disdain, The lighter Courtships of each amorous Swain; Knowing, true Fame, Vertue alone can give: Nor dost thou greedily even that receive. And what 'bove this thy Character can raise? Thirsty of Merit, yet neglecting Praise! While daily these Perfections I discry, Matchless _Alinda_ makes me daily dy. Thou absent, Flow'rs to me no Odours yield, Nor find I freshness in the dewy Field; Can my Sad Heart with one Gay Thought inspire; My thriving Flock ('mong Shepherds Vows the Chief) I unconcern'd behold, as they my Grief. This I profess, if this thou not believe, A further proof I ready am to give, Command: there's nothing I'le not undertake, And, thy Injunctions, Love will easie make. Ah, if thou couldst incline a gentle Ear, Of plighted Faith, and hated _Hymen_ hear; Thou hourly then my spotless Love should'st see, That all my Study, how to please, should be; How to protect thee from disturbing Care, And in thy Griefs to bear the greatest share; Nor should a Joy, my Warie Heart surprize, That first I read not in thy charming Eyes. _Alin._ If ever I to any do impart, My, till this present hour, well-guarded Heart, That Passion I have fear'd, I'le surely prove, For one that does, like to _Amintor_ love. _Alin._ Shepherd, no more: enough it is that I, Thus long to Love, have listn'd patiently. Farewel: _Pan_ keep thee, Swain. Rare as thy Vertues, still accompany. Melibaeus, Alcippe, Asteria, Licida, Alcimedon, _and_ Amira. _Melibaeus._ Welcome fair Nymphs, most welcome to this shade, Distemp'ring Heats do now the Plains invade: But you may sit, from Sun securely here, If you an old mans company not fear. _Alcippe._ Most Reverend Swaine, far from us ever be The imputation of such Vanity. From Hill to Holt w'ave thee unweary'd sought, And bless the Chance that us hath hither brought. _Asteria._ Fam'd _Melibaeus_ for thy Virtuous Lays, If thou dost not disdain our Female Praise, We come to sue thou would'st to us recite One of thy Songs, which gives such high delight To ev'ry Eare, wherein thou dost dispense Sage Precepts cloath'd in flowing Eloquence. _Licida._ Fresh Garlands we will make for thee each morne, Thy reverend Head to shade, and to adorne; To cooling Springs thy fainting Flock we'll guide, All thou command'st, to do shall be our Pride. _Meli._ Cease, gentle Nymphs, the Willing to entreat, To have your Wish, each needs but take a Seat. With joy I shall my ancient Art revive, With which, when Young, I did for Glory strive. Nor for my Verse will I accept a Hire, Your bare Attentions all I shall require. _Alci._ Lo, from the Plain I see draw near a Pair That I could wish in our Converse might share. _Amira_ 'tis and young _Alcimedon_. _Lici._ Serious Discourse industriously they shun. _Alci._ It being yet their luck to come this way, The Fond Ones to our Lecture we'll betray: And though they only sought a private shade, Perhaps they may depart more Vertuous made. I will accost them. Gentle Nymph and Swaine, Good _Melibaeus_ us doth entertain With Lays Divine: if you'll his Hearers be, Take streight your Seats without Apology. _Alci._ Paying short thanks, at fair _Amiras_ feet, I'le lay me down: let her choose where 'tis meet _Al._ Shepherd, behold, we all attentive sit. _Meli._ What shall I sing? what shall my _Muse_ reherse? Love is a Theme well sutes a Past'ral Verse, That gen'ral Error, Universal Ill, By which though many fall, few hold it shame; Smile at the Fault, which they would seem to blame. What wonder then, if those with Mischief play, It to destruction them doth oft betray? But by experience it is daily found, That Love the softer Sex does sorest wound; In Mind, as well as Body, far more weak Than Men: therefore to them my Song shall speak, Advising well, however it succeed: But unto All I say, _Of Love take heed_. So hazardous, because so hard to know On whom they are we do our Hearts bestow; How they will use them, or with what regard Our Faith and high Esteem they will reward: For few are found, that truly acted be That when they know a Virgins Heart they've gain'd, (And though by many Vows and Arts obtain'd) Will think themselves oblig'd their Faith to hold Expect it not: most, Love their Pastime make, Lightly they Like, and lightly they forsake; Their Roving Humour wants but a pretence With Oaths and what's most Sacred to dispence. When unto such a Maid has given her Heart, And said, _Alone my Happiness thou art, In thee and in thy Truth I place my Rest_. Her sad Surprize how can it be exprest, When all on which she built her Joy she finds, Vanish, like Clouds, disperst before the Winds; Her self, who th'adored Idol wont to be, A poor despis'd Idolater to see? Regardless Tears she may profusely spend, Unpitty'd sighs her tender Breast may rend: But the false Image she will ne're erace, Though far unworthy still to hold its place: So hard it is, even Wiser grown, to take Th'Impression out, which Fancy once did make. Believe me Nymphs, believe my hoary hairs, Truth and Experience waits on many years. Before the Eldest of you Light beheld, A Nymph we had, in Beauty all excell'd, _Rodanthe_ call'd, in whom each Grace did shine, Could make a Mortal Maid appear Divine. And none could say, where most her Charms did lye, In her inchanting Tongue, or conquering Eye. Her Vertue yet her Beauties so out-shon, Among the Swains, which here their Flocks then fed, _Alcander_ with the highest held his head; The most Accomplish't was esteem'd to be, Of comely Forme, well-grac't Activity; The _Muses_ too, like him, did none inspire, None so did stop the Pipe, or touch the Lyre; Alike admired when he Spoke, or Sung! But these so much Excelling parts the Swain, With Imperfections no less Great, did stain: For proud he was, of an Ungovern'd Will, With Love Familiar, but a Stranger still Retaining none, expose to ev'ry Dart. Hapless _Rodanthe_, the Fond Rover, caught, To whom, for Love, with usual Arts he sought; Which she, ah too unwary, did bestow: 'Cause True her self, believ'd that he was so. But he, alas, more wav'ring than the Wind, Streight broke the Chain, she thought so fast did bind; For he no sooner saw her Heart was gain'd, But he as soon the Victory disdain'd; Mad Love else-where, as if 'twere like Renown, Hearts to subdue, as to take in a Town: But in the One as Manhood does prevail, Both Truth and Manhood in the other fail. And now the Nymph (of late so gay and bright, Who still in Wit and Mirth all Pastimes led) Hung like a wither'd Flow'r her drooping Head. I need not tell the Grief _Rodanthe_ found, How all that should asswage, enrag'd her Wound; Like Deaths sad Weights upon her Soul did sit: Or else like Furies stood before her Face, Still urging and Upbraiding her Disgrace, In that the World could yield her no Content, But what alone the False _Alcander_ sent. 'Twas said, through just Disdain, at last she broke But this I know, her Passion held long time, Constancy, though Unhappy, is no Crime. Remember when you Love, from that same hour Your Peace you put into your Lovers Power: From that same hour from him you Laws receive, And as he shall ordain, you Joy, or Grieve, Hope, Fear, Laugh, Weep; Reason aloof does stand, Disabl'd both to Act, and to Command. Oh Cruel Fetters! rather wish to feel, On your soft Limbs, the Gauling Weight of Steel; Rather to bloudy Wounds oppose your Breast No Ill, by which the Body can be prest; You will so sensible a Torment find, As Shackles on your captivated Mind. The Mind from Heaven its high Descent did draw, And brooks uneasily any other Law, Than what from Reason dictated shall be, Reason, a kind of In-mate Deity. Which only can adapt to ev'ry Soul A Yoke so fit and light, that the Controle All Liberty excels; so sweet a Sway, The same 'tis to be Happy, and Obey; Commands so Wise and with Rewards so drest That the according Soul replys, _I'm Blest_. This teaches rightly how to Love and Hate, To fear and hope by Measure and just Weight; What Tears in Grief ought from our Eyes to flow, What Transport in Felicity to show; In ev'ry Passion how to steer the Will, Tho rude the Shock, to keep it steady still. Oh happy Mind! what words can speak thy Bliss, When in a Harmony thou mov'st like this? Your Hearts fair Virgins keep smooth as your Brow, Not the least Am'rous Passion there allow; Hold not a Parly with what may betray Your inward Freedom to a Forraign Sway; And while thus ore your selves you Queens remain, Unenvy'd, ore the World, let others reign: The highest Joy which from Dominion flows, Is short of what a Mind well-govern'd knows. Whither my _Muse_, would'st uncontrouled run? Contend in Motion with the restless Sun? Immortal thou, but I a mortal Sire Exhaust my strength, and Hearers also tire. _Al._ O Heaven-taught Bard! to Ages couldst prolong Thy Soul-instructing, Health-infusing Song, I with unweary'd Appetite could hear, And wish my Senses were turn'd all to Ear. _Alcim._ Old Man, thy frosty Precepts well betray Thy Blood is cold, and that thy Head is grey: Who past the Pleasure Love and Youth can give, To spoyl't in others, now dost only live. Wouldst thou, indeed, if so thou couldst perswade, The Fair, whose Charms have many Lovers made, Should feel Compassion for no one they wound, But be to all Inexorable found? _Me._ Young man, if my advice thou well hadst weigh'd, Thou would'st have found, for either Sex 'twas made; And would from Womens Beauty thee no less Preserve, than them secure from thy Address. But let thy Youth thy rash Reproach excuse. _Alci._ Fairest _Amira_ let him not abuse Thy gentle Heart, by his imprinting there His doting Maxims----But I will not fear: For when 'gainst Love he fiercest did inveigh, Methoughts I saw thee turn with Scorn away. _Ami._ _Alcimedon_ according to his Will Does all my Words and Looks interpret still: But I shall learn at length how to Disdain, Or at the least more cunningly to feign. _Alci._ No wonder thou _Alcimedon_ art rude, When with no Gen'rous Quality endu'd: But hop'st by railing Words Vice to defend, Which Foulers made, by having such a Friend. _Amira_, thou art warn'd, wisely beware, Leap not with Open-Eyes into the Snare: The Faith that's given to thee, was given before To _Nais_, _Amoret_, and many more: The Perjur'd did the Gods to Witness call, That unto each he was the only Thrall. _Aste._ Y'ave made his Cheeks with Conscious blushes glow. _Alci._ 'Tis the best Colour a False Heart can show; And well it is with Guilt some shame remains. _Meli._ Hast, Shepherd, hast to cleanse away thy stains, Let not thy Youth, of Time the goodly spring, Neglected pass, that nothing forth it bring But noxious Weeds: which cultivated might Produce such Crop, as now would thee delight, And give thee after Fame: For Vertues Fruit Believe it, not alone with Age does sute, Nought adorns Youth like to a Noble Mind, In thee this Union let _Amira_ find. _Lici._ O fear her not! she'l serve him in his kind. _Meli._ See how Discourse upon the Time does prey, Those hours pass swiftest, that we talk away. Declining _Sol_ forsaken hath the Fields, And Mountains highest Summits only gildes: Which warns us home-wards with our Flocks to make. _Alci._ Along with thee our Thanks and Praises take. _Aste._ In which our Hearts do all in One unite. _Lici._ Our Wishes too, That on thy Head may light, What e're the Gods as their Best Gifts bestow. _Meli._ Kind Nymphs on you may Equal Blessings flow. The Vertue, which a Vertuous Age did prize; The Beauty Excellent, even to those were Faire, Subscrib'd unto, by such as might compare; The Star that 'bove her Orb did always move, And those who most upon their Title stood, Vail'd also to, because she did more Good. To whom the Wrong'd, and Worthy did resort, } And held their Sutes obtain'd, if only brought; } The highest Saint in all the Heav'n of Court. } She seem'd a Friend, not Servant to the Queen. To Sin, if known, she never did give way, Vice could not Storm her, could it not betray. When angry Heav'n extinguisht her fair Light, It seem'd to say, _Nought's Precious in my sight; As I in Waves this Paragon have drown'd, The Nation next, and King I will confound_. On a young Lady _Whose_ LORD _was Travelling_. No sooner I pronounced _Celindas_ name, But Troops of wing'd Pow'rs did chant the same: Not those the Poets Bows and Arrows lend, But such as on the Altar do attend. _Celinda_ nam'd, Flow'rs spring up from the Ground, Excited meerly with the Charming Sound. _Celinda_, the Courts Glory, and its fear, The gaz'd at Wonder, where she does appear. _Celinda_ great in Birth, greater in Meen, Yet none so humble as this Fair-One's seen. Her Youth and Beauty justly might disdain, But the least Pride her Glories ne're did stain. _Celinda_ of each State th'ambitious Strife, At once a Noble Virgin, and a Wife Who, while her Gallant Lord in Forraign parts Adorns his Youth with all accomplisht Arts, Grows ripe at home in Vertue, more than Years, And in each Grace a Miracle appears! When other of her Age a madding go, To th' Park and Plays, and ev'ry publick Show, Proud from their Parents Bondage they have broke, Though justly freed, she still does wear the Yoke; Preferring more her Mothers Friend to be, On her she to the Temple does attend, Where they their Blessed Hours both save and spend. They Smile, they Joy, together they do Pray, You'd think two Bodies did One Soul obey: Like Angels thus they do reflect their Bliss, And their bright Vertues each the other kiss. Return young Lord, while thou abroad dost rome The World to see, thou loosest Heaven at Home. _Under the Name of_ ALINDA. Th'ambitious Eye that seeks alone, Where Beauties Wonders most are shown; Of all that bounteous Heaven displays, Let him on bright _Alinda_ gaze; And in her high Example see, All can admir'd, or wisht-for, be! An unmatch't Form, Mind like endow'd, Estate, and Title great and proud; A Charge Heaven dares to few commit, So few, like her, can manage it; Without all Blame or Envy bear, The being Witty, Great and Fair! So well these Murd'ring Weapons weild, As first Herself with them to shield, Then slaughter none in proud Disport, Destroy those she invites to Court: Great are her Charmes, but Vertue more, She wounds no Hearts, though All adore. 'Tis Am'rous Beauty Love invites, A Passion, like it self, excites: The Paragon, though all admire, Kindles in none a fond desire: No more than those the Kings Renown And State applaud, affect his Crown. _These following Fragments among many more were found among her Return my dearest Lord, at length return, Let me no longer your sad absence mourn, _Ilium_ in Dust, does no more Work afford, No more Employment for your Wit or Sword. Why did not the fore-seeing Gods destroy, _Helin_ the Fire-brand both of _Greece_ and _Troy_, E're yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen, E're lov'd and born away the wanton Queen? Then had been stopt the mighty Floud of Woe, Which now both _Greece_ and _Phrygia_ over-flow: Then I, these many Teares, should not have shed, Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led: I should not then have trembled at the Fame Of _Hectors_ warlike and victorious Name. Why did I wish the Noble _Hector_ Slain? Why _Ilium_ ruin'd? Rise, O rise again! Again great City flourish from thine Urne: For though thou'rt burn'd, my Lord does not return. Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,) That, for thy Absence, th'art thy self in fault: That thou art captiv'd by some captive Dame, Who, when thou fired'st _Troy_, did thee inflame And now with her thou lead'st thy am'rous Life, Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife. When I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse, And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE. Arise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise, Thy sully'd Habitation leave, To Dust no longer cleave, Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies. Thy native Beauty re-assume, Prune each neglected Plume, Till more than Silver white, Then burnisht Gold more bright, Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight. The Bird to whom the spacious Aire was given, As in a smooth and trackless Path to go, A Walk which does no Limits know Pervious alone to Her and Heaven: Should she her Airy Race forget, On Earth affect to walk and sit; Should she so high a Priviledge neglect, As still on Earth, to walk and sit, affect, What could she of Wrong complain, Who thus her Birdly Kind doth stain, If all her Feathers moulted were, And naked she were left and bare, _Extemporary Counsel given to a_ Young Gallant _in a_ Frolick. As you are Young, if you'l be also Wise, Danger with Honour court, Quarrels despise; Believe you then are truly Brave and Bold, To Beauty when no Slave, and less to Gold; When Vertue you dare own, not think it odd, Or ungenteel to say, I _fear a God_. _These Three following_ ODES _being found among_ Mrs Killigrews _Papers, I was willing to Print though none of hers_. _Dissolved by_ EUDORA. Not that thy Fair Hand Should lead me from my deep Dispaire, And back my Steps command: But if hereafter thou Retire, To quench with Tears, thy Wandring Fire, This Clue I'll leave behinde, By which thou maist untwine To shun the Day, That ever Grief did find. First take thy Hapless Way Of Wracks within that Bay. None o're the Cursed Beach e're crost, Unless the Robb'd, the Wrack'd, or Lost Where on the Strand lye spread, The Sculls of many Dead. Their mingl'd Bones, Thy Wretched Feet must tread. The Trees along the Coast, Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms, As if they plaind the North-winds harms, And Youthful Verdure lost. There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe, Where Sun nere pierc't, nor Wind ere blew. In it a Brooke doth fleet, The Noise must guide thy Feet, For there's no Light, And Darkness that you meet. Follow th'Infernal Wave, Until it spread into a Floud, There twice a day a Slave, I know not for what Impious Thing, Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring. It adds to the sad Place, To hear how at each Pace, He curses God, For such his Forlorn Case. Next make no Noyse, nor talk, Until th'art past a Narrow Glade, Where Light does only break the Shade; Observing this thou need'st not fear, He sleeps the Day or Wakes elsewhere. Though there's no Clock or Chime, His Soul awakes, His Conscience quakes And warns him that's the Time. Thy Steps must next advance, Where Horrour, Sin, and Spectars dwell, Where the Woods Shade seems turn'd Hell, Witches here Nightly Dance, And Sprights joyn with them when they call, The Murderer dares not view the Ball. For Snakes and Toads conspire, To make them up a Quire. And for their Light, And Torches bright, The Fiends dance all on fire. Press on till thou descrie Among the Trees sad, gastly, wan, One that does ever crie, She is not; and she ne're will be, Despair and Death come swallow me, Leave him; and keep thy way, No more thou now canst stray Thy Feet do stand, It's Kingdomes every way. Here Gloomy Light will shew Reard like a Castle to the Skie, A Horrid Cliffe there standing nigh Shading a Creek below. In which Recess there lies a Cave, Dreadful as Hell, still as the Grave. Sea-Monsters there abide, The coming of the Tide, No Noise is near, To make them fear, God-sleep might there reside. But when the Boysterous Seas, With Roaring Waves resumes this Cell, You'd swear the Thunders there did dwell. So lowd he makes his Plea; So Tempests bellow under ground, And Ecchos multiply the Sound! This is the place I chose, Changeable like my Woes, Now calmly Sad, As move my Bitter Throwes. Such Dread besets this Part, That all the Horrour thou hast past, Are but Degrees to This at last. The sight must break thy Heart. Here Bats and Owles that hate the Light Fly and enjoy Eternal Night. Scales of Serpents, Fish-bones, Th'Adders Eye, and Toad-stones, Hath blest my Sight, Since first began my Groans. When thus I lost the Sense, Of all the heathful World calls Bliss, And held it Joy, those Joys to miss, Celestial Strains did read the Aire, Shaking these Mansions of Despaire; A Form Divine and bright, Stroke Day through all that Night As when Heav'ns Queen In Hell was seen, With wonder and affright! The Monsters fled for fear, Dismantl'd were, and where they stood, No longer did appear. The Gentle Pow'r, which wrought this thing, _Eudora_ was, who thus did sing. _Dissolv'd is_ Cloris _spell, From whence thy Evils fell, Send her this Clue, 'Tis there most due How comes the Day orecast? the Flaming Sun Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run? He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay, Ne're courted _Daphne_ with a brighter Ray! And now in Clouds he wraps his Head, As if not _Daphne_, but himself were dead! And all the little Winged Troop Forbear to sing, and sit and droop; The Flowers do languish on their Beds, And fading hang their Mourning Heads; The little _Cupids_ discontented, shew, In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow, An other tares his Cheeks and Haire, A third sits blubring in Despaire, Confessing though, in Love, he be, A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he: Whence is this Evil hurl'd, On all the sweetness of the World? Among those Things with Beauty shine, (Both Humane natures, and Divine) There was not so much sorrow spi'd, No, not that Day the sweet _Adonis_ died! Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake, The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake. Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above, Govern us Men, but govern still with Love, Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be, Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie. My Prayer not spoken out, With Indignation great, Sprung from his Airie-Seat, And mounting to a Higher Cloud, With Thunder, or a Voice as loud Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th'Gods, Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods! And in the Instant that the Thing was meant, He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent! I follow'd with my watchful Eye, To the Place where the Shaft did flie, But O unheard-of Prodigy. It was retorted back again, And he that sent it, felt the pain, Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain! But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found, And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound. The Place from which the Arrow did return, Swifter then sent, and with the speed did burn, Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare, Tarrast beneath, and open to the Aire, On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tie A purfl'd Curtain, hanging from on high, To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower, And boast the Owners Dignity and Power! This shew'd the Scene from whence Loves grief arose, And Heaven and Nature both did discompose, A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright, Lay like a Body of Collected Light, But not to Love and Courtship so disclos'd, But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos'd, Who instant on the Faire with Words and Blows, Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shews. But O thou no less Blind, Who Discipline dar'st name, Thy Outrage and thy shame, And hop'st a Radiant Crown to get All Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit, Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like incircle it! May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand, Thy Hand, that Furie like----But see! By his ever Tuneful Lyre, And his bright Image the Eternal Fire, _Eudoras_ she has done this Deed And made the World thus in its Darling bleed! I know the Cruel Dame, Too well instructed by my Flame! But see her shape! But see her Face! In her Temple such is _Diana_'s Grace! Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies, When Beautie's wrong'd, no wonder Musick dies! What blood of _Centaurs_ did thy Bosom warme, And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme? Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud, How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand, That Rage of Seas, and People could command, And calme Diseases with the Charming strings, Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things? Because thou didst Excel the World beside, And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine, Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine! And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see, Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee, And punisht in the Lady as unfit, What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit. Divine she is, or else Divine must be, A Borne or else a Growing Deitie! While thus I did exclaime, And wildly rage and blame, Did all at one conspire, With shrill and cheerful Throats, T'assume their chirping Notes; The Heav'ns refulgent Eye Dance't in the clear'd-up Skie, And so triumphant shon, As seven-days Beams he had on! The little Loves burn'd with Nobler Fire, Each chang'd his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre, Singing chast Aires unto the tuneful strings, And time'd soft Musick with their downy Wings. I turn'd the little Nymph to view, She singing and did smiling shew; _Eudora_ led a heavenly strain, Her Angels Voice did eccho it again! I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought, But neerer Heav'n this Piece of Heaven was brought. She also brighter seem'd, than she had been, Vertue darts forth a Lightning 'bove the Skin. _Eudora_ also shew'd as heretofore, When her soft Graces I did first adore. I saw, what one did _Nobly Will_, The other _sweetly did fulfil_; Their Actions all harmoniously did sute, And she had only tun'd the Lady like her Lute. Divine _Thalia_ strike th'Harmonious Lute, But with a Stroke so Gentle as may sute The silent gliding of the Howers, Or yet the calmer growth of Flowers; Th'ascending or the falling Dew, Which none can see, though all find true. For thus alone, Can be shewn, How downie, how smooth, _Eudora_ doth Move, How Silken her Actions appear, Of a gentler Grace Then those that do stroke the Eare. Her Address so sweet, That 'tis not the Lowd though Tuneable String, Can shewforth so soft, so Noyseless a Thing! O This to express from thy Hand must fall, Then Musicks self, something more Musical. In Mr. _Drydens_ Ode, Stanzo 5. at the end of the first line read _First Epigram, Upon being contended with a Little._ _To my Lady_ Berkley, _Afflicted upon her Son my Lord_ Berkley_'s early Engaging in the Sea-Service_. with Angels appearing to him, and with a Lamb by him_. Herodias_'s Daughter presenting to her Mother St._ Johns _Head in a Silver Charger, also Painted by her self._ ibid. _On a Picture Painted by her self, representing two_ Nymphs _of_ Diana_'s, one in a posture to Hunt, the other Batheing_. _An Invective against Gold._ _Upon the saying that my Verses were made by another._ Verses sent me under the Name of_ Cleanor. _On my Aunt Mrs._ A. K. _drowned under_ London-_Bridge _On a young Lady, whose Lord was Travelling._ _On the Dutchess of_ Grafton, _under the Name of_ Allinda, Penelope _to_ Ulysses. Cloris _Charms Dissolv'd by_ Eudora.

William Eleroy Curtis

Abraham Lincoln

1850

New-street Square. _The right of translation is reserved._ The wisdom of the Church, which consecrates the fleeting seasons of Time to the interests of Eternity, has dedicated the month of May (the birthday festival, as it were, of Creation) to her who was ever destined in the Divine Counsels to become the Mother of her Creator. It belongs to her, of course, as she is the representative of the Incarnation, and its practical exponent to a world but too apt to forget what it professes to hold. The following Poems, written in her honour, are an attempt to set forth, though but in mere outline, each of them some one of the great Ideas or essential Principles embodied in that all-embracing Mystery. On a topic so comprehensive, converse statements, at one time illustrating the highest excellence compatible with mere creaturely existence, at another, the infinite distance between the chief of creatures and the Creator, may seem, at first sight, and to some eyes, contradictory, although in reality, mutually correlative. On an attentive perusal, however, that harmony which exists among the many portions of a single mastering Truth, can hardly fail to appear--and with it the scope and aim of this Poem. With the meditative, descriptive pieces have been interspersed. They are an attempt towards a Christian rendering of external nature. Nature, like Art, needs to be spiritualised, unless it is to remain a fortress in the hands of an adverse Power. The visible world is a passive thing, which ever takes its meaning from something above itself. In Pagan times, it drew its interpretation from Pantheism; and to Pantheism--nay, to that Idolatry which is the popular application of Pantheism--it has still a secret, though restrained tendency, not betrayed by literature alone. A World without Divinity, Matter without Soul, is intolerable to the human mind. Yet, on the other hand, there is much in fallen human nature which shrinks from the sublime thought of a Creator, and rests on that of a sheathed Divinity diffused throughout the universe, its life, not its maker. Mere personified elements, the Wood-God and River-Nymph, captivate the fancy and do not over-awe the soul. For a bias so seductive, no cure is to be found save in authentic Christianity, the only practical Theism. The whole truth, on the long run, holds its own better than the half truth; and minds repelled by the thought of a God who stands afar off, and created the universe but to abandon it to general laws, fling themselves at the feet of a God made Man. In other words, In it is revealed the true nature of that link which binds together the visible and invisible worlds. When the "Word was made Flesh," a bridge was thrown across that gulf which had else for ever separated the Finite from the Infinite. The same high Truth which brings home to us the doctrine of a Creation, consecrates that Creation, reconstituting it into an Eden meet for an unfallen Adam and an unfallen Eve; nay, exalting it into a heavenly Jerusalem, the dwelling-place of the Lamb and of the Bride. It does this, in part, through symbols and associations founded on the all-cleansing Blood and the all-sanctifying Spirit --symbols and associations the reverse of those in which an Epicurean mythology took delight, and which the very superficial alone can confound with such. This is perhaps the aspect of Religion least above the level of Poetry. As to its form, the present work belongs to the class of serial poems, a species of composition happily revived in recent times, as by Wordsworth, dedicated to Liberty," by Landor, and, with preeminent success, by the author of "In Memoriam." It was in common use among our earlier poets, who derived it from Petrarch and the Italians. Most often the interest of such poems was of a personal sort, as in the serial sonnets of Shakespeare, Drayton; as well as the "Aurora" of Lord Occasionally, it was of a more abstract character. In both cases, alike, advantage was derived from a method of writing which unites an indefinite degree of continuity with a somewhat lawless variety, and which gains in brevity by the omission of connecting bonds. In Herbert's "Temple," Vaughan's "Silex Scintillans," and the chief poems of Donne and Crashaw, the unity is but that of kindred thoughts, and a common subject, not of a complete design. Habington's "Castara," a noble work too little known, combines a personal with an abstract interest. In it many poems on religious and philosophical subjects are grouped for support round a single centre; that centre being the sustained homage paid by the poet to one not unworthy, apparently, of his reverence and love. Who feels not, when the Spring once more Upon Thy face, O God, thy world Ascending from the convent-grates When April's sudden sunset cold As children when, with heavy tread Not yet, not yet! the Season sings The moon, ascending o'er a mass Stronger and steadier every hour Three worlds there are:--the first of Sense-- Alas! not only loveliest eyes If sense of Man's unworthiness Blossom for ever, blossoming Rod! Still on the gracious work proceeds Who doubts that thou art finite? Who They seek not; or amiss they seek A sudden sun-burst in the woods "Tu sola interemisti omnes Haereses" In vain thine altars do they heap The golden rains are dashed against Here, in this paradise of light Come from the midnight mountain tops Where is the crocus now, that first Cloud-piercing Mountains! Chance and Change "Sine Labe originali Concepta" "Sine Labe originali Concepta" Brow-bound with myrtle and with gold Pleasant the swarm about the bough Sing on, wide winds, your anthems vast Coeli enarrant A woman "clothed with the sun" No ray or all their silken sheen That sun-eyed Power which stands sublime Upon the rock that crowns our globe, Her feet on all the spoils of time, With light eternal on her robe, She, sovereign of the orb she guides, On Truth's broad sun may root a gaze That deepens, onward as she rides, And shrinks not from the fontal blaze: But they--her daughter Arts--must hide Within the cleft, content to see Dim skirts of glory waving wide, And steps of parting Deity. 'Tis theirs to watch Religion break In types from Nature's frown or smile, The legend rise from out the lake, The relic consecrate the isle. To point toward founts of buried lore; Leaving, in reverence, unexpressed What Man must know not, yet adore. For where her court true Wisdom keeps, 'Mid loftier handmaids, one there stands Dark as the midnight's starry deeps, A Slave, gem-crowned, from Nubia's sands. O thou whose light is in thy heart Love-taught Submission! without thee Science may soar awhile; but Art Drifts barren o'er a shoreless sea. Who feels not, when the Spring once more, Stepping o'er Winter's grave forlorn With winged feet, retreads the shore Of widowed Earth, his bosom burn? As ordered flower succeeds to flower, And May the ladder of her sweets Ascends, advancing hour by hour From scale to scale, what heart but beats? Some Presence veiled, in fields and groves, That mingles rapture with remorse;-- Some buried joy beside us moves, And thrills the soul with such discourse As they, perchance, that wondering pair Who to Emmaus bent their way, Hearing, heard not. Like them our prayer We make:--"The night is near us . . Stay!" With Paschal chants the churches ring; Their echoes strike along the tombs; The birds their Hallelujahs sing; Each flower with floral incense fumes. Our long-lost Eden seems restored; As on we move with tearful eyes We feel through all the illumined sward Some upward-working Paradise. Upon Thy face, O God, Thy world Looks ever up in love and awe; Thy stars, in circles onward hurled, Still weave the sacred chain of law. In alternating antiphons Stream sings to stream and sea to sea; And moons that set and sinking suns Obeisance make, O God, to Thee. The swallow, winter's rage o'erblown, Again, on warm May breezes borne, Revisiteth her haunts well-known; The lark is faithful to the morn. The whirlwind, missioned with its wings To drown the fleet and fell the tower, Obeys thee as the bird that sings Her love-chant in a fleeting shower. Amid an ordered universe Man's spirit only dares rebel:-- With light, O God, its darkness pierce! With love its raging chaos quell! All but unutterable Name! Adorable, yet awful, sound! Thee can the sinful nations frame Save with their foreheads to the ground? Soul-searching and all-cleansing Fire! To see Thy countenance were to die: Yet how beyond the bound retire Of Thy serene immensity? Thou mov'st beside us, if the spot We change--a noteless, wandering tribe; The orbits of our life and thought In Thee their little arcs describe. In the dead calm, at cool of day, We hear Thy voice, and turn, and flee:-- Thy love outstrips us on our way: From Thee, O God, we fly--to Thee. Mary! To thee the humble cry. What seek they? Gifts to Pride unknown. They seek thy help--to pass thee by:-- They murmur, "Show us but thy Son." The childlike heart shall enter in; The virgin soul its God shall see:-- Mother, and maiden pure from sin, Be thou the guide: the Way is He. The mystery high of God made Man Through thee to man is easier made: Pronounce the consonant who can Without the softer vowel's aid! I see Him: on thy lap He lies 'Mid that Judaean stable's gloom: O sweet, O awful Sacrifice! He smiles in sleep, yet knows His doom. Thou gav'st Him life! But was not this That life which knows no parting breath? Unmeasured life? unwaning bliss Dread Priestess, lo! thou gav'st Him death! Beneath the tree thy mother stood: Beneath the cross thou too shalt stand:-- O Tree of Life! O bleeding Rood! Thy shadow stretches far its hand. That God who made the sun and moon Love's Captive! darker prison soon Awaits Thee in the garden ground. He wakens. Paradise looks forth Beyond the portals of the grave. Life, life thou gavest! life to Earth, Not Him. Thine Infant dies to save. When from their lurking place the Voice Of God dragged forth that fallen pair, Still seemed the garden to rejoice; The sinless Eden still was fair. They, they alone, whose light of grace But late made Paradise look dim, Stood now, a blot upon its face, Before their God; nor gazed on Him. They glanced not up; or they had seen In that severe, death-dooming eye Unutterable depths serene Of sadly-piercing sympathy. Not them alone that Eye beheld, But, by their side, that other Twain, In whom the race whose doom was knelled Once more should rise; once more should reign. It saw that Infant crowned with blood;-- And her from whose predestined breast That Infant ruled the worlds. She stood, Her foot upon the serpent's crest! Voice of primeval prophecy! She who makes glad whatever heart In thee, that hour, possessed a part! Ascending from the convent-grates, The children mount the woodland vale. 'Tis May-Day Eve; and Hesper waits To light them, while the western gale Blows softly on their bannered line: And, lo! down all the mountain stairs The shepherd children come to join The convent children at their prayers. They meet before Our Lady's fane: On yonder central rock it stands, Uplifting, ne'er invoked in vain, That cross which blesses all the lands. Before the porch the flowers are flung; The lamp hangs glittering 'neath the Rood; The "Maris Stella" hymn is sung; Their chant each morn to be renewed. Ah! if a secular muse might dare, Far off, the children's song to catch; To echo back, or burthen bear!-- As fitly might she hope to match The linnet's note as theirs, 'tis true: Yet, now and then, that borrowed tone, Like sunbeams flashed on pine or yew, Might shoot a sweetness through her own! _Adolescentulae amaverunt te nimis._ "Behold! the wintry rains are past; The airs of midnight hurt no more: The young maids love thee. Come at last: Thou lingerest at the garden-door. "Blow over all the garden; blow, Thou wind that breathest of the south, Through all the alleys winding low, With dewy wing and honeyed mouth. "But wheresoever thou wanderest, shape Thy music ever to one Name:-- Thou too, clear stream, to cave and cape Be sure thou whisper of the same. "By every isle and bower of musk Thy crystal clasps, as on it curls, We charge thee, breathe it to the dusk; We charge thee, grave it in thy pearls." The stream obeyed. That Name he bore Far out above the moon-lit tide. The breeze obeyed. He breathed it o'er The unforgetting pines; and died. Daily beneath His mother's eyes Her Lamb matured His lowliness: Twas hers the lovely Sacrifice With fillet and with flower to dress. Beside His little cross He knelt; With human-heavenly lips He prayed: His Will within her will she felt; And yet His Will her will obeyed. Gethsemane! when day is done Thy flowers with falling dews are wet: Her tears fell never; for the sun Those tears that brightened never set. The house was silent as that shrine The priest but entered once a year. There shone His emblem. Light Divine! Thy presence and Thy power was here! He willed to lack; He willed to bear; He willed by suffering to be schooled; He willed the chains of flesh to wear: Yet from her arms the worlds He ruled. As tapers 'mid the noontide glow With merged yet separate radiance burn, With human taste and touch, even so, The things He knew He willed to learn. He sat beside the lowly door: His homeless eyes appeared to trace In evening skies remembered lore, And shadows of His Father's face. One only knew Him. She alone Who nightly to His cradle crept, And lying like the moonbeam prone, Worshipped her Maker as He slept. Bud forth a Saviour, Earth! fulfil Thy first of functions, ever new! Balm-dropping heaven, for aye distil Thy grace like manna or like dew! "To us, this day, a Child is born.'" Heaven knows not mere historic facts:-- Celestial mysteries, night and morn, Live on in ever-present Acts. Calvary's dread Victim in the skies On God's great altar rests even now: The Pentecostal glory lies For ever round the Church's brow. Of Love and Life, proceeds alway: Upon the first creative word Creation, trembling, hangs for aye. Nor less ineffably renewed Than when on earth the tie began, Is that mysterious Motherhood Which re-creates the worlds and man. O Heart with His in just accord! O Soul His echo, tone for tone! O Spirit that heard, and kept His word! O Countenance moulded like His own! Behold, she seemed on Earth to dwell; But, hid in light, alone she sat Beneath the Throne ineffable, Chanting her clear Magnificat. Fed from the boundless heart of God, The joy within her rose more high And all her being overflowed, Until the awful hour was nigh. Then, then, there crept her spirit o'er The shadow of that pain world-wide Whereof her Son the substance bore:-- Him offering, half in Him she died; Standing like that strange Moon, whereon The mask of Earth lies dim and dead, An orb of glory, shadow-strewn, Yet girdled with a luminous thread. She stood: she sank not. Slowly fell Adown the Cross the atoning blood. In agony ineffable She offered still His own to God. No pang of His her bosom spared; She felt in Him its several power. But she in heart His Priesthood shared: She offered Sacrifice that hour. "Behold thy Son!" Ah, last bequest! It breathed His last farewell! The sword Predicted pierced that hour her breast. She stood: she answered not a word. His own in John He gave. She wore Thenceforth the Mother-crown of Earth. O Eve! thy sentence too she bore; Like thee in sorrow she brought forth. From her He passed: yet still with her The endless thought of Him found rest; A sad but sacred branch of myrrh For ever folded in her breast. A Boreal winter void of light-- So seemed her widowed days forlorn: She slept; but in her breast all night Her heart lay waking till the morn. Sad flowers on Calvary that grew;-- Sad fruits that ripened from the Cross;-- These were the only joys she knew: Yet all but these she counted loss. Love strong as Death! She lived through thee That mystic life whose every breath From Life's low harpstring amorously Draws out the sweetened name of Death. Love stronger far than Death or Life! Thy martyrdom was o'er at last Her eyelids drooped; and without strife To Him she loved her spirit passed. O Mother-Maid! to none save thee Belongs in full a Parent's name; So fruitful thy Virginity, Thy Motherhood so pure from blame! All other parents, what are they? Thy types. In them thou stood'st rehearsed, (As they in bird, and bud, and spray). Prime Parent He: and next Him thou! Overshadowed by the Father's Might, Thy "Fiat" was thy bridal vow; Thine offspring He, the "Light of Light." Her Son Thou wert: her Son Thou art, O Christ! Her substance fed Thy growth:-- She shaped Thee in her virgin heart, Thy Mother and Thy Father both! Mother of Love! Thy love to Him Cherub and seraph can but guess:-- A mother sees its image dim In her own breathless tenderness. That infant touch none else could feel Vibrates like light through all her sense: Far off she hears his cry: her zeal With lions fights in his defence. Unmarked his youth goes by: his hair Still smooths she down, still strokes apart: The first white thread that meets her there Glides, like a dagger, through her heart. Men praise him: on her matron cheek There dawns once more a maiden red. Of war, of battle-fields they speak: She sees once more his father dead. In sickness--half in sleep--she hears His foot, ere yet that foot is nigh: Wakes with a smile; and scarcely fears, If he but clasp her hand, to die. Others, the hours of youth gone by, A mother's hearth and home forsake; And, with the need, the filial tie Relaxes, though it does not break. But Thou wert born to be a Son. God's Son in heaven, Thy will was this, To pass the chain of Sonship on, And bind in one whatever is. Thou cam'st the _Son_ of Man to be, That so Thy brethren too might bear Adoptive Sonship, and with Thee Thy Sire's eternal kingdom share. Transcendently the Son Thou art: In this mysterious bond entwine, As in a single, two-celled heart, Thy natures, human and divine. "They have no wine." The tender guest Was grieved their feast should lack for aught. He seemed to slight her mute request: Not less the grace she wished He wrought. O great in Love! O full of Grace! That winds in thee, a river broad, From Christ, with heaven-reflecting face, Be this thy gift: that man henceforth No more should creep through life content (Draining the springs impure of earth) With life's material element. Let sacraments to sense succeed: Let nought be winning, nought be good Which fails of Him to speak, and bleed Once more with His all-cleansing blood! The gifts a mother showers each day Upon her softly-clamorous brood: The gifts they value but for play,-- The graver gifts of clothes and food,-- Whence come they but from him who sows With harder hand, and reaps, the soil; The merit of his labouring brows, The guerdon of his manly toil? From Him the Grace: through her it stands Adjusted, meted, and applied; And ever, passing through her hands, Enriched it seems, and beautified. Love's mirror doubles Love's caress: Love's echo to Love's voice is true:-- Their Sire the children love not less Because they clasp a Mother too. When April's sudden sunset cold Through boughs half-clothed with watery sheen Bursts on the high, new-cowslipped wold, And bathes a world half gold half green, Then shakes the illuminated air With din of birds; the vales far down Grow phosphorescent here and there; Forth flash the turrets of the town; Along the sky thin vapours scud; Bright zephyrs curl the choral main; The wild ebullience of the blood Rings joy-bells in the heart and brain: Yet in that music discords mix; The unbalanced lights like meteors play; And, tired of splendours that perplex, The dazzled spirit sighs for May. As children when, with heavy tread, Men sad of face, unseen before, Have borne away their mother dead-- So stand the nations thine no more. From room to room those children roam, Heart-stricken by the unwonted black: Their house no longer seems their home: They search; yet know not what they lack. Years pass: Self-Will and Passion strike Their roots more deeply day by day; Old servants weep; and "how unlike" Is all the tender neighbours say. And yet at moments, like a dream, A mother's image o'er them flits: Like her's their eyes a moment beam; The voice grows soft; the brow unknits. Such, Mary, are the realms once thine, That know no more thy golden reign. Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine! O make thine orphans thine again! A little longer on the earth That aged creature's eyes repose (Though half their light and all their mirth Are gone); and then for ever close. She thinks that something done long since Ill pleases God:--or why should He So long delay to take her hence Who waits His will so lovingly? Whene'er she hears the church-bells toll She lifts her head, though not her eyes, With wrinkled hands, but youthful soul, Counting her lip-worn rosaries. And many times the weight of years Falls from her in her waking dreams: A child her mother's voice she hears: To tend her father's steps she seems. Once more she hears the whispering rains On flowers and paths her childhood trod; And of things present nought remains Save the abiding sense of God. Mary! make smooth her downward way! Not dearer to the young thou art Than her. Make glad her latest May; And hold her, dying, on thy heart. The hilly region crossed with haste, Its last dark ridge discerned no more, Bright as the bow that spans a waste She stood beside her Cousin's door; And spake:--that greeting came from God! Filled with the Spirit from on high Sublime the aged Mother stood, And cried aloud in prophecy,-- "Soon as thy voice had touched mine ears The child in childless age conceived Leaped up for joy! Throughout all years Blessed the woman who believed." Type of Electing Love! 'tis thine To speak God's greeting from the skies! Thy voice we hear: thy Babe divine At once, like John, we recognise. Within our hearts the second birth The child of Grace his hands puts forth, And prophesies of things to come. Not yet, not yet! the Season sings Not of fruition yet, but hope; Still holds aloft, like balanced wings, Her scales, and lets not either drop. The white ash, last year's skeleton, Still glares, uncheered by leaf or shoot, 'Gainst azure heavens, and joy hath none In that fresh violet at her foot. Yet Nature's virginal suspense Is not forgetfulness nor sloth: Where'er we wander, soul and sense Discern a blindly working growth. Her throne once more the daisy takes, That white star of our dusky earth; And the sky-cloistered lark down-shakes Her passion of seraphic mirth. Twixt barren hills and clear cold skies She weaves, ascending high and higher, Songs florid as those traceries Which took, of old, their name from fire. Sing! thou that need'st no ardent clime To sun the sweetness from thy breast; And teach us those delights sublime Wherein ascetic spirits rest! When thou wert born the murmuring world Boiled on, nor dreamed of things to be, From joy to sorrow madly whirled;-- Despair disguised in revelry. A princess thou of David's line; The mother of the Prince of Peace; That hour no royal pomps were thine: The earth alone her boon increase. Before thee poured. September rolled Down all the vine-clad Syrian slopes Her breadths of purple and of gold; And birds sang loud from olive tops. Perhaps old foes, they knew not why, Relented. From a fount long sealed Tears rose, perhaps, to Pity's eye: Love-harvests crowned the barren field. The respirations of the year. At least, grew soft. O'er valleys wide Pine-roughened crags again shone clear; And the great Temple, far descried, To watchers, watching long in vain, To patriots grey, in bondage nursed, Flashed back their hope--"The Second Fane In glory shall surpass the First!" The moon, ascending o'er a mass Of tangled yew and sable pine, What sees she in yon watery glass? A tearful countenance divine. Far down, the winding hills between, A sea of vapour bends for miles, Unmoving. Here and there, dim-seen, The knolls above it rise like isles. The tall rock glimmers, spectre-white; The cedar in its sleep is stirred; At times the bat divides the night; At times the far-off flood is heard. Above, that shining blue!--below, That shining mist! O, not more pure Midwinter's landscape, robed in snow, And fringed with frosty garniture. The fragrance of the advancing year-- That, that assures us it is May. Ah, tell me! in the heavenlier sphere Must all of earth have passed away? A dream came to me while the night Thinned off before the breath of morn, Which filled my soul with such delight As hers who clasps a babe new-born. I saw--in countenance like a child-- (Three years methought were hers, no more) That maid and mother undefiled The Saviour of the world who bore. A nun-like veil was o'er her thrown; Her locks by fillet-bands made fast, Swiftly she climbed the steps of stone;-- Into the Temple swiftly passed. Not once she paused her breath to take; Not once cast back a homeward look:-- As longs the hart his thirst to slake, When noontide rages, in the brook, So longed that child to live for God; So pined, from earth's enthralments free, To bathe her wholly in the flood Of God's abysmal purity! Anna and Joachim from far Their eyes on that white vision raised: And when, like caverned foam or star Cloud-hid, she vanished, still they gazed. Twelve years had passed, and, still a child, In brightness of the unblemished face, Once more she scaled those steps, and smiled On Him who slept in her embrace. As in she passed there fell a calm Around: each bosom slowly rose Like the long branches of the palm When under them the south wind blows. The scribe forgot his wordy lore; The chanted psalm was heard far off; Hushed was the clash of golden ore; And hushed the Sadducean scoff. Type of the Christian Church! 'twas thine To offer, first, to God that hour, Thy Son--the Sacrifice Divine, The Church's everlasting dower! Great Priestess! round that aureoled brow Which cloud or shadow ne'er had crossed, Began there not that hour to grow A milder dawn of Pentecost? A veil is on the face of Truth: She prophesies behind a cloud; She ministers, in robes of ruth, Nocturnal rites, and disallowed. Eleusis hints, but dares not speak; Lost are the Sibyl's books, and weak Earth's olden faith in Him to come. But ah, but ah, that Orient Star! On straw-roofed shed and large-eyed kine It flashes, guiding from afar Gold, frankincense, and myrrh they bring-- Love, Worship, Life severe and hard: Well pleased the symbol gifts the King Accepts; and Truth is their reward. Rejoice, O Sion, for thy night Is past: the Lord, thy Light, is born. The Gentiles shall behold thy light; The kings walk forward in thy morn. The sunless day is sweeter yet Than when the golden sun-showers danced On bower new-glazed or rivulet; And Spring her banners first advanced. By wind unshaken hang in dream The wind-flowers o'er their dark green lair; And those thin poppy cups that seem Not bodied forms, but woven of air. Nor bird is heard; nor insect flits. A tear-drop glittering on her cheek, Composed but shadowed, Nature sits-- Yon primrose not more staid and meek. The light of pensive hope unquenched On those pathetic brows and eyes, She sits, by silver dew-showers drenched, Through which the chill spring-odours rise. Was e'er on human countenance shed So sweet a sadness? Once: no more. Then when his charge the Patriarch led Down on her Infant Mary gazed; Her face the angels marked with awe; Yet 'neath its dimness, undisplaced, Looked forth that smile the Magians saw. As, flying Herod, southward went That Child and Mother, unamazed, The weeders left their work, and gazed. The bright One spake to them and said, "When Herod's messengers demand, "Passed not the Infant, Herod's dread,-- "Passed not the Infant through your land? "Then shall ye answer make, and say, "Behold, since first the corn was green "No little Infant passed this way; "No little Infant we have seen." Earth heard; nor missed the Maid's intent-- As on the Flower of Eden passed With Eden swiftness up she sent A sun-browned harvest ripening fast. By simplest words and sinless wheat The messengers rode back beguiled; And by that truthfullest deceit Which saved the little new-born Child! As every change of April sky Is imaged in a placid brook, Her meditative memory Mirrored His every deed and look. As suns through summer ether rolled Mature each growth the spring has wrought, So Love's strong day-star turned to gold Her harvests of quiescent thought. Her soul was as a vase, and shone Translucent to an inner ray; Her Maker's finger wrote thereon A mystic Bible new each day. Deep Heart! In all His sevenfold might The Paraclete with thee abode; And, sacramented there in light, Bore witness of the things of God. Rejoice, O Earth, thy crown is won! Rejoice, rejoice, ye heavenly host! And thou, the Mother of the Son, Rejoice the first; rejoice the most! Who captive led captivity-- From Hades' void circumference Who led the Patriarch Band on high, There rules, and sends us graces thence. Rejoice, glad Earth, o'er winter's grave With altars wreathed and clarions blown; And thou, the Race Redeemed, outbrave The rites of nature with thine own! Rejoice, O Mary! thou that long Didst lean thy breast upon the sword-- Sad nightingale, the Spirit's song That sang'st all night! He reigns, restored! Rejoice! He goes, the Paraclete To send! Rejoice! He reigns on high! The sword lies broken at thy feet-- His triumph is thy victory! I take this reed--I know the hand That wields it must ere long be dust-- And write, upon the fleeting sand Each wind can shake, the words, "I trust." And if that sand one day was stone And stood in courses near the sky, For towers by earthquake overthrown, Or mouldering piecemeal, what care I? Things earthly perish: life to death And death to life in turn succeeds. The spirit never perisheth: The chrysalis its Psyche breeds. True life alone is that which soars To Him who triumphed o'er the grave: With Him, on life's eternal shores, I trust one day a part to have. Ah, hark! above the springing corn That chime; in every breeze it swells! Ye bells that wake the Ascension morn, Ye give us back our Paschal bells! O thou that rodest up the skies, Thy task fulfilled, on steeds of fire,-- That somewhere, sealed from mortal eyes, Some air immortal dost respire! Thou that in heavenly beams enshrined, In quiet lulled of soul and flesh, With one great thought of God thy mind Dost everlastingly refresh! Where art thou? age succeeds to age; Thou dost not hear their fret and jar: With thy celestial hermitage Successive winters wage not war. Still as a corse with field-flowers strewn Thou liest; on God thine eyes are bent: And the fire-breathing stars alone Look in upon thy cloudy tent. Behold, there is a debt to pay! Like Enoch, hid thou art on high: But both shall back return one day, To gaze once more on earth, and die. Stronger and steadier every hour The pulses of the season's glee, As toward her zenith climbs that Power Which rules the purple revelry. Trees, that from winter's grey eclipse Of late but pushed their topmost plume, Or felt with green-touched finger-tips For spring, their perfect robes assume. Like one that reads, not one that spells, The unvarying rivulet onward runs: And bird to bird, from leafier cells, Sends forth more leisurely response. Through the gorse covert bounds the deer:-- The gorse, whose latest splendours won Make all the fulgent wolds appear Bright as the pastures of the sun. A balmier zephyr curls the wave; More purple flames o'er ocean dance; And the white breaker by the cave Falls with more cadenced resonance; While, vague no more, the mountains stand With quivering line or hazy hue; But drawn with finer, firmer hand, And settling into deeper blue. Lay hid upon creation's day: His Loveliness abroad He poured On all the worlds; and pours for aye. In whom Man's race is born again, His glory hides. The victory won, He rose to send His "Gifts on Men." In sacraments--His dread behests; In Providence; in granted prayer; Before the time He manifests His glory, far as man may bear. He shines not from a vault of gloom; The horizon vast His splendour paints: Both heaven and earth His beams illume; His light is glorious in His saints. He shines upon His Church--that Moon Who, in the watches of the night, Transmits to man the entrusted boon; A sister orb of sacred light. And thou, pure mirror of His grace!-- As sun reflected in a sea-- So, Mary, feeblest eyes the face Of Him thou lovest discern in thee. Not for herself does Mary hold Among the saints that queenly throne, Her seat predestined from of old; But for the brethren of her Son. Pure thoughts that make to God their quest, With her find footing o'er the clouds; Like those sea-crossing birds that rest A moment on the sighing shrouds. In her our hearts, no longer nursed On dust, for spiritual beauty yearn; From her our instincts, as at first, An upward gravitation learn. Her distance makes her not remote: For in true love's supernal sphere No more round self the affections float-- More near to God, to man more near. In her, the weary warfare past, The port attained, the exile o'er, We see the Church's barque at last Close-anchored on the eternal shore! Eternal Beauty, ere the spheres Had rolled from out the gulfs of night, Sparkled, through all the unnumbered years, Before the Eternal Father's sight. Like objects seen by Man in dream, Or landscape glassed on morning mist, Before His eyes it hung--a gleam Flashed from the eternal Thought of Christ. It stood the Archetype sublime Of that fair world of finite things Which, in the bands of Space and Time, Creation's glittering verge enrings. Star-like within the depths serene Of that still vision, Mary, thou With Him, thy Son, of God wert seen Millenniums ere the lucid brow Of Eye o'er Eden founts had bent,-- Millenniums ere that second Fair With dust the hopes of man had blent, And stained the brightness once so fair. Elect of Creatures! Man in thee Beholds that primal Beauty yet,-- Sees all that Man was formed to be,-- Sees all that Man can ne'er forget! Three worlds there are:--the first of Sense-- That sensuous earth which round us lies; The next of Faith's Intelligence; The third of Glory, in the skies. The first is palpable, but base; The second heavenly, but obscure; The third is star-like in the face-- But ah! remote that world as pure! Yet, glancing through our misty clime, Some sparkles from that loftier sphere Make way to earth;--then most what time The annual spring-flowers re-appear. Amid the coarser needs of earth All shapes of brightness, what are they But wanderers, exiled from their birth, Or pledges of a happier day? Yea, what is Beauty, judged aright, But some surpassing, transient gleam; Some smile from heaven, in waves of light, Rippling o'er life's distempered dream? Or broken memories of that bliss Which rushed through first-born Nature's blood When He who ever was, and is, Looked down, and saw that all was good? Alas! not only loveliest eyes, And brows with lordliest lustre bright, But Nature's self--her woods and skies-- The credulous heart can cheat or blight. And why? Because the sin of man Twixt Fair and Good has made divorce; And stained, since Evil first began, That stream so heavenly at its source. O perishable vales and groves! Your master was not made for you; Ye are but creatures: human loves Are to the great Creator due. And yet, through Nature's symbols dim, There are with keener sight that pierce The outward husk, and reach to Him Whose garment is the universe. For this to earth the Saviour came In flesh; in part for this He died; That man might have, in soul and frame, No faculty unsanctified. That Fancy's self--so prompt to lead Through paths disastrous or defiled-- Upon the Tree of Life might feed; And Sense with Soul be reconciled. The fancy of an age gone by, When Fancy's self to earth declined, Still thirsting for Divinity, Yet still, through sense, to Godhead blind, Poor mimic of that Truth of old, The patriarchs' hope--a faith revealed-- Compressed its God in mortal mould, The prisoner of Creation's field. Nature and Nature's Lord were one! Then countless gods from cloud and stream Glanced forth; from sea, and moon, and sun: So ran the pantheistic dream. And thus the All-Holy, thus the All-True, Like mist was scattered, lost like dew, And vanished in the wayside dust. Mary! through thee the idols fell: When He the nations longed for [Footnote 1] came-- True God yet Man--with man to dwell, The phantoms hid their heads for shame. His place or thine removed, ere long The bards would push the sects aside; And lifted by the might of song Olympus stand re-edified. A broken gleam on wave and flower-- A music that in utterance dies-- O Poets, and O Men! what more Is all that Beauty which ye prize? And ah! how oft Corruption works Through that brief Beauty's force or wile! How oft a gloom eternal lurks Beneath an evanescent smile! But thou, serene and smiling light Of every grace redeemed from Sense, In thee all harmonies unite That charm a pure Intelligence. Whatever teaches mind or heart To God by loveliest types to mount, Mary, is thine. Of each true Art The parent art thou, and the fount. Those pictures, fair as moon or star, The ages dear to Faith brought forth, Formed but the illumined calendar Of her, that Church which knows thy worth. Not less doth Nature teach through thee That mystery hid in hues and lines: Who loves thee not hath lost the key To all her sanctuaries and shrines. Shine out, O Star, and sing the praise Of that unrisen Sun whose glow Thus feeds thee with thine earlier rays-- The secret of thy song we know. Thou sing'st that Sun of Righteousness, Sole light of this benighted globe, Whose beams, reflected, dressed and dress His Mother in her shining robe. Pale Lily, pearled around with dew, Lift high that heaven-illumined vase, And sing the glories ever new Of her, God's chalice, "full of grace." Cerulean Ocean, fringed with white, That wear'st her colours evermore, In all thy pureness, all thy might, Resound her name from shore to shore. That fringe of foam, when drops the sun To-night, a sanguine stain shall wear:-- Thus Mary's heart had strength, alone, The passion of her Lord to share. The night through yonder cloudy cleft, With many a lingering last regard, Withdraws--but slowly--and hath left Her mantle on the dewy sward. The lawns with silver dews are strewn; The winds lie hushed in cave and tree; Nor stirs a flower, save one alone That bends beneath the earliest bee. Peace over all the garden broods; Pathetic sweets the thickets throng; Like breath the vapour o'er the woods Ascends--dim woods without a song: Or hangs, a shining, fleece-like mass O'er half yon lake that winds afar Among the forests, still as glass, The mirror of that Morning Star Which, halfway wandering from the sky, Amid the rose of morn delays And (large and less alternately) Bends down a lustrous, tearful gaze. Mother and home of spirits blest! Bright gate of Heaven and golden bower! Thy best of blessings, love and rest, Depart not till on earth thou shower! If sense of Man's unworthiness With Nature's blameless looks at strife, Should wake with wakening May, and press New-born contentment out of life: If thoughts of sable breed and blind Should stamp upon the springing flower, Or blacker memories haunt the mind As ravens haunt the ruined tower:-- O then how sweet in heart to breathe Those pure Judean gales once more; From Bethlehem's crib to Nazareth In heart to tread that Syrian shore! To watch that star-like Infant bring To one of soul as clear and white May-lilies, fresh from Siloa's spring, Or Passion-flower with May-dews bright! To follow, earlier yet, the feet Of her the "hilly land" who trod With true love's haste, intent to greet That aged saint beloved of God. Before her, like a stream let loose, The long vale's flowerage, winding, ran: Nature resumed her Eden use; And Earth was reconciled with Man. Whate'er is floral on the earth To thee, O Flower, of right belongs; Whate'er is musical in mirth, Whate'er is jubilant in songs. Childhood and springtide never cease For him thy freshness keeps from stain: Dew-drenched for him, like Gideon's fleece, The dusty paths of life remain. Thou threaten'st none! A sinless lure, Thy fragrance and thy gladsomeness Draw on to Christ; to Christ secure. Hope, Hope is Strength! That joy of thine To us is Glory's earliest ray! Through Faith's dim air, O star benign, Look down, and light our onward way! I left at morn that blissful shore O'er which the fruit-bloom fluttered free; And sailed the wildering waters o'er, Till sunset streaked with blood the sea. My sleep the hoarse sea-thunders broke, And sudden chill. Their feet foam-hid, Huge cliffs leaned out, through vapour-smoke, Like tower, and tomb, and pyramid. In the black shadow, ghostly white The breaker raced o'er foaming shoals: From caverns of eternal night Came wailings, as of suffering souls. Sudden, through clearing mists, the star Of ocean o'er the billow rose: Down dropped the elemental war; Tormented chaos found repose. Star of the ocean! dear art thou, Ah! not to earth and heaven alone: The suffering Church, when shines thy brow Upon her penance, stays her moan. The Holy Souls draw in their breath; The sea of anguish rests in peace; And, from beyond the gates of death, Up swell the anthems of release. Blossom for ever, blossoming Rod! Thou did'st not blossom once to die: That Life which, issuing forth from God, Thy life enkindled, runs not dry. Without a root in sin-stained earth, 'Twas thine to bud Salvation's flower. No single soul the Church brings forth But blooms from thee and is thy dower. Rejoice, O Eve! thy promise waned; Transgression nipt thy flower with frost But, lo! a mother man hath gained Holier than she in Eden lost. While all the breathless woods aloof Lie hush'd in noontide's deep repose, That dove, sun-warmed on yonder roof, With what a grave content she coos! One note for her! Deep streams run smooth The ecstatic song of transience tells. O what a depth of loving truth In thy divine contentment dwells! All day, with down-dropt lids, I sat, In trance; the present scene forgone. When Hesper rose, on Ararat, Methought, not English hills, he shone. Back to the ark, the waters o'er, The primal dove pursued her flight: A branch of that blest tree she bore Which feeds the Church with holy light. I heard her rustling through the air With sliding plume--no sound beside, Save the sea-sobbings everywhere, And sighs of that subsiding tide. She took the timbrel, as the tide Rushed, refluent, up the Red Sea shore: "The Lord hath triumphed," she cried: Her song rang out above the roar Of lustral waves that, wall to wall, Fell back upon the host abhorred: Above the gloomy watery pall, As eagles soar, her anthem soared. Miriam, rejoice! a mightier far Than thou, one day shall sing with thee! Who rises, brightening like a star Above yon bright baptismal sea? That harp which David touched who rears Heaven-high above those waters wide? The Prophet-Queen! Throughout all years She sings the Triumph of the Bride! As pebbles flung for sport, that leap Along the superficial tide, But enter not those chambers deep Wherein the beds of pearl abide; Such those light minds that, grazing, spurn The surface text of Sacred Lore, Yet ne'er its deeper sense discern, Its hails of mystery ne'er explore. Ah! not for such the unvalued gems; The priceless pearls of Truth they miss: Not theirs the starry diadems That light God's temple in the abyss! Ah! not for such to gaze on her That moves through all that empire pale; At every shrine doth minister, Yet never drops her vestal veil. "The letter kills." Make pure thy Will; So shalt thou pierce the Text's disguise: Till then, revere the veil that still Hides truth from truth-affronting eyes. A sweet exhaustion seems to hold In spells of calm the shrouded eve: The gorse itself a beamless gold Puts forth:--yet nothing seems to grieve. The dewy chaplets hang on air; The willowy fields are silver-grey; Sad odours wander here and there;-- And yet we feel that it is May. Relaxed, and with a broken flow, From dripping bowers low carols swell In mellower, glassier tones, as though They mounted through a bubbling well. The crimson orchis scarce sustains Upon its drenched and drooping spire The burden of the warm soft rains; The purple hills grow nigh and nigher. Nature, suspending lovely toils, On expectations lovelier broods, Listening, with lifted hand, while coils The flooded rivulet through the woods. She sees, drawn out in vision clear, A world with summer radiance drest, And all the glories of that year Which sleeps within her virgin breast. Still on the gracious work proceeds;-- The good, great tidings preached anew Yearly to green enfranchised meads, And fire-topped woodlands flushed with dew. Yon cavern's mouth we scarce can see; Yon rock in gathering bloom lies meshed; And all the wood-anatomy In thickening leaves is over-fleshed. That hermit oak which frowned so long Upon the spring with barren spleen, Yields to the holy Siren's song, And bends above her goblet green. Young maples, late with gold embossed,-- Lucidities of sun-pierced limes, No more surprise us--merged and lost Like prelude notes in deepening chimes. Disordered beauties and detached Demand no more a separate place: The abrupt, the startling, the unmatched, Submit to graduated grace; While upward from the ocean's marge The year ascends with statelier tread To where the sun his golden targe Finds, setting, on yon mountain's head. This scheme of worlds, which vast we call, Is only vast compared with man: Compared with God, the One yet All, Its greatness dwindles to a span. A Lily with its isles of buds Asleep on some unmeasured sea:-- O God, the starry multitudes, What are they more than this to Thee? Yet girt by Nature's petty pale Each tenant holds the place assigned To each in Being's awful scale:-- The last of creatures leaves behind The abyss of nothingness: the first Into the abyss of Godhead peers; Waiting that vision which shall burst In glory on the eternal years. Tower of our Hope! through thee we climb Finite creation's topmost stair; Through thee from Sion's height sublime Towards God we gaze through purer air. Infinite distance still divides Created from Creative Power; But all which intercepts and hides Lies dwarfed by that surpassing Tower! Who doubts that thou art finite? Who Is ignorant that from Godhead's height To what is loftiest here below The interval is infinite? O Mary! with that smile thrice-blest Upon their petulance look down;-- Their dull negation, cold protest-- Thy smile will melt away their frown! Show them thy Son! That hour their heart Will beat and burn with love like thine; Grow large; and learn from thee that art Which communes best with things divine. The man who grasps not what is best In creaturely existence, he Is narrowest in the brain; and least Can grasp the thought of Deity. They seek not; or amiss they seek;-- The cold slight heart and captious brain:-- To Love alone those instincts speak Whose challenge never yet was vain. True Gate of Heaven! As light through glass, So He who never left the sky To this low earth was pleased to pass Through thine unstained Virginity. Summed up in thee our hearts behold The glory of created things:-- From His, thy Son's, corporeal mould Looks forth the eternal King of Kings! A sudden sun-burst in the woods, But late sad Winter's palace dim! O'er quickening boughs and bursting buds Pacific glories shoot and swim. As when some heart, grief-darkened long, Conclusive joy by force invades-- So swift the new-born splendours throng; Such lustre swallows up the shades. The sun we see not; but his fires From stem to stem obliquely smite, Till all the forest aisle respires The golden-tongued and myriad light. The caverns blacken as their brows With floral fire are fringed; but all Yon sombre vault of meeting boughs Turns to a golden fleece its pall, As o'er it breeze-like music rolls. O Spring, thy limit-line is crossed! O Earth, some orb of singing Souls Brings down to thee _thy_ Pentecost! Clear as those silver trumps of old That woke Judea's jubilee; Strong as the breeze of morning, rolled O'er answering woodlands from the sea, That matutinal anthem vast Which winds, like sunrise, round the globe, Following the sunrise, far and fast, And trampling on his fiery robe. Once more the Pentecostal torch Lights on the courses of the year: The "upper chamber" of the Church Is thrilled once more with joy and fear. Who lifts her brow from out the dust? Who fixes on a world restored A gaze like Eve's, but more august? Who bends it heaven-ward on her Lord? The new begins; the ancient ends: From all the gates of Heaven flung wide The promised Paraclete descends. He who o'er-shadowed Mary once O'ershades Humanity to-day; And bids her fruitful prove in sons Co-heritors with Christ for aye. The Form decreed of tree and flower, The shape susceptible of life, Without the infused vivific Power, Were but a slumber or a strife. He whom the plastic hand of God Himself created out of earth Remained a statue and a clod Till spirit infused to life gave birth. So, till that hour, the Church. In Christ Her awful structure, nerve and bone, Though built, and shaped, and organised, Existed but in skeleton; Till down on that predestined frame, Complete through all its sacred mould, The Pentecostal Spirit came,-- The self-same Spirit who of old Creative o'er the waters moved. Thenceforth the Church, made One and Whole, Arose in Him, and lived, and loved-- His Temple she; and He her Soul. The towered City loves thee well, Strong Tower of David's House! In thee She hails the unvanquished citadel That frowns o'er Error's subject sea. With magic might that Tower repels A host that breaks where foe is none,-- No foe but statued Saints in cells High-ranged, and smiling in the sun. There stands Augustin; Leo there; And Bernard, with a maiden face Like John's; and, strong at once and fair, Upon thy star-surrounded height God's angel keepeth watch and ward; And sunrise flashes thence ere night Hath left dark street and dewy sward. _"Tu sola interemisti omnes Haereses."_ What tenderest hand uprears on high The standard of Incarnate God? Successive portents that deny Her Son, who tramples? She who trod On Satan erst with starlike scorn! Ah! never Alp looked down through mist As she, that whiter star of morn, Through every cloud that darkens Christ! Roll back the centuries:--who were those That, age by age, their Lord denied? Their seats they set with Mary's foes:-- They mocked the Mother as the Bride. Of such was Arius; and of such He whom the Ephesian Sentence felled, [Footnote 2] Her Title triumphed. At the touch [Footnote 3] Of Truth the insurgent rout was quelled. Back, back the hosts of Hell were driven As forth that sevenfold thunder rolled:-- And in the Church's mystic Heaven There was great silence as of old. In vain thine altars do they heap With blooms of violated May Who fail the words of Christ to keep; Thy Son who love not, nor obey. Their songs are as a serpent's hiss; Their praise a poniard's poisoned edge; Their offering taints, like Judas' kiss, Thy shrine; their vows are sacrilege. Sadly from such thy countenance turns: Thou canst not stretch thy Babe to such (Albeit for all thy pity yearns) As greet Him with a leper's touch. Who loveth thee must love thy Son. Weak Love grows strong thy smile beneath: But nothing comes from nothing; none Can reap Love's harvest out of Death. The watchman watched along the walls: And lo! an hour or more ere light Loud rang his trumpet. From their halls The revellers rushed into the night. There hung a terror on the air; There moved a terror under ground;-- The hostile hosts, heard everywhere, Within, without--were nowhere found. "The Christians to the lions! Ho!"-- Alas! self-tortured crowds, let be! Let go your wrath; your fears let go: Ye gnaw the net, but cannot flee. Ye drank from out Orestes' cup; Orestes' Furies drave ye wild. Who conquers from on high? Look up! A Woman, holding forth a Child! The golden rains are dashed against Those verdant walls of lime and beech With which our happy vale is fenced Against the north; yet cannot reach The stems that lift yon leafy crest High up above their dripping screen: The chestnut fans are downward pressed On banks of bluebell hid in green. White vapours float along the glen, Or rise from every sunny brake;-- A pause amid the gusts--again The warm shower sings across the lake. Sing on, all-cordial showers, and bathe The deepest root of loftiest pine! The cowslip dimmed, the "primrose rathe" Refresh; and drench in nectarous wine Yon fruit-tree copse, all blossomed o'er With forest-foam and crimson snow-- Behold! above it bursts once more The world-embracing, heavenly bow! O that the wordy war might cease! Self-sentenced Babel's strife of tongues! Loud rings the arena. Athletes, peace! Nor drown the wild-dove's Song of Songs. Alas, the wanderers feel their loss: With tears they seek--ah, seldom found-- That peace whose volume is the Cross; That peace which leaves not holy ground. Mary, who loves true peace loves thee! A happy child, not taught of Scribes, He stands beside the Church's knee; From her the lore of Christ imbibes. Hourly he drinks it from her face: For there his eyes, he knows not how, The face of Him she loves can trace, And, crowned with thorns, the sovereign brow. "Behold! all colours blend in white! Behold! all Truths have root in Love!" So sings, half lost in light of light, Her Song of Songs the mystic Dove. "Wisdom hath built herself a House, And hewn her out her pillars seven." [Footnote 4] Her wine is mixed. Her guests are those Who share the harvest-home of heaven. Who guards the gates? The flaming sword Of Penance. Every way it turns: But healing from on high is poured On each that fire seraphic burns. The fruits upon her table piled Are gathered from the Tree of Life. Around are ranged the undefiled, And those that conquered in the strife. Who tends the guests? Who smiles away Sad memories? bids misgiving cease? A crowned one countenanced like the day-- Here, in this paradise of light, Superfluous were both tree and grass: Enough to watch the sunbeams smite Yon white flower sole in the morass. From his cold nest the skylark springs; Sings, pauses, sings; shoots up anew; Attains his topmost height, and sings Quiescent in his vault of blue. With eyes half-closed I watch that lake Flashed from whose plane the sun-sparks fly, Like souls new-born that shoot and break From thy deep sea, Eternity! Ripplings of sunlight from the wave Ascend the white rock, high and higher; Soft gurglings fill the satiate cave; Soft airs amid the reeds expire. All round the lone and luminous meer The dark world stretches, far and free: That skylark's song alone I hear; That flashing wave alone I see. O myriad Earth! Where'er thy Word Makes way indeed into the soul, An answering echo there is stirred:-- Of thee the part is as the whole. Carmel, with Alp and Apennine, Low whispers in the wind that blows Beneath the Eastern stars, ere shine The lights of morning on their snows. Of thee, Elias, Carmel speaks, And that white cloud, so small at first, Thou saw'st approach the mountain peaks To quench a dying nation's thirst. On Carmel, like a sheathed sword, Thy monks abode till Jesus came; On Carmel then they served their Lord;-- Then Carmel rang with Mary's name. Blow over all the garden; blow O'er all the garden of the West, Balm-breathing Orient! Whisper low The secret of thy spicy nest. "Who from the Desert upward moves Like cloud of incense onward borne? Who, moving, rests on Him she loves? Who mounts from regions of the Morn? "Behold! The apple-tree beneath-- There where of old thy Mother fell-- I raised thee up. More strong than Death Is Love;--more strong than Death or Hell." [Footnote 5] Come from the midnight mountain tops, The mountains where the panthers play: Descend; the veil of darkness drops; Come fair and fairer than the day! Our hearts are wounded with thine eyes: They character in words of light Thereon the mystery of the skies: The "Name o'er every name" they write. Come from thy Lebanonian peaks Whose sacerdotal cedars nod Above the world, when morning breaks-- The land thou lov'st--well is she! The ploughers on her back may plough; But in her vales upgrows the Tree Of Life, and binds the bleeding brow. I saw, in visions of the night, Creation like a sea outspread, With surf of stars and storm of light And movements manifold and dread. Then lo, within a Human Hand A Sceptre moved that storm above: Thereon, as on the golden wand Of kings new-crowned, there sat a Dove. Beneath her gracious weight inclined That Sceptre drooped. The waves had rest And Sceptre, Hand, and Dove were shrined Within a glassy ocean's breast. His Will it was that placed her there! He at whose word the tempests cease Upon that Sceptre planted fair That peace-bestowing type of Peace! Each several Saint the Church reveres, What is he but an altar whence Some separate Virtue ministers To God a separate frankincense? Each beyond each, not made of hands, They rise, a ladder angel-trod: Star-bright the last and loftiest stands-- That altar is the Throne of God. Lost in the uncreated light A Form all Human rests thereon: His shade from that surpassing height Beyond creation's verge is thrown. Him "Lord of lords, and King of kings," The chorus of all worlds proclaim:-- "He took from her," one angel sings At intervals, "His Human frame." He seemed to linger with them yet: But late ascended to the skies, They saw--ah, how could they forget?-- The form they loved, the hands, the eyes. From anchored boat--in lane or field-- He taught; He blessed, and brake the bread; The hungry filled; the afflicted healed; And wept, ere yet he raised, the dead. But when, like some supreme of hills, Whose feet shut out its summit's snow, That, hid no longer, heavenward swells As further from its base we go, Abroad His perfect Godhead shone, Each hour more plainly kenned on high, And clothed His Manhood with the sun, And, cleansing, hurt the adoring eye; Then fixed His Church a deepening gaze Upon His Saints. With Him they sate, And, burning in that Godhead's blaze, They seemed that Manhood to dilate. His were they: of His likeness each Had grace some fragment to present, And nearer brought to mortal reach Of Him some line or lineament. Fall back, all worlds, into the abyss, That man may contemplate once more That which He ever was Who is:-- The Eternal Essence we adore. Angelic hierarchies! recede Beyond extinct creation's shade! What were ye at the first? Decreed:-- Decreed, not fashioned; thought, not made! Like wind the untold Millenniums passed. Sole-throned He sat; yet not alone: Godhead in Godhead still was glassed;-- The Spirit was breathed from Sire and Son. Prime Virgin, separate and sealed; Nor less of social love the root; Dimly in lowliest shapes revealed; Entire in every Attribute;-- Thou liv'st in all things, and around; To Thee external is there nought; Thou of the boundless art the bound; And still Creation is Thy Thought. In vain, O God, our wings we spread; So distant art Thou--yet so nigh. Remains but this, when all is said, For Thee to live; in Thee to die. Where is the crocus now, that first, When earth was dark and heaven was grey, A prothalamion flash, up-burst? Ah, then we deemed not of the May! The clear stream stagnates in its course; Narcissus droops in pallid gloom; Far off the hills of golden gorse A dusk Saturnian face assume. The seeded dandelion dim Casts loose its air-globe on the breeze; Along the grass the swallows skim; The cattle couch among the trees. Yet ever lordlier loveliness Succeeds to that which slips our hold: The thorn assumes her snowy dress; Laburnum bowers their robes of gold. Down waves successive of the year We drop; but drop once more to rise, With ampler view, as on we steer, Of lovelier lights and loftier skies. Before the morn began to break The bright One bent above that pair Whose childless vows aspired to take The mother of their Lord for heir. 'Twas August: even in midnight shade The roofs were hot, and hot the street:-- "Build me a fane," the vision said, "Where first your eyes the snow shall meet." [Footnote 6] With snow the Esquiline was strewn At morn!--Fair Legend! who but thinks Of thee, when first the breezes blown From summer Alp to Alp he drinks? He stands: he hears the torrents dash: Slowly the vapours break; and lo! Through chasms of endless azure flash The peaks of everlasting snow. He stands; he listens; on his ear Swells softly forth some virgin hymn: The white procession windeth near, With glimmering lights in sunshine dim. They sing the Saviour's name and thine Clothe them for ever with the fleece Far down the bird may sing of love; The honey-bearing blossom blow: But hail, ye hills that rise above The limit of perpetual snow! O Alpine City, with thy walls Of rock eterne and spires of ice, Where torrent still to torrent calls, And precipice to precipice;-- How like that holier City thou, The heavenly Salem's earthly porch, Which rears among the stars her brow, And plants firm feet on earth--the Church! "Decaying, ne'er to be decayed," Her woods, like thine, renew their youth: Her streams, in rocky arms embayed, Are clear as virtue, strong as truth. At times the lake may burst its dam; Black pine and rock the valley strew; But o'er the ruin soon the lamb Its flowery pasture crops anew. She, too, in regions near the sky Up-piles her cloistered snows, and thence Diffuses gales of purity O'er fields of consecrated sense. On those still heights a love-light glows The plains from them alone receive;-- O Mary, triumphs, morn and eve! Cloud-piercing Mountains! Chance and Change More high than you their thrones advance. Self-vanquished Nature's rockiest range Gives way before them like the trance Of one that wakes. From morn to eve Through fissured clefts her mists make way; At Night's cold touch they freeze, and cleave Her crags; and, with a Titan's sway, Flake off and peel the rotting rocks, And heap the glacier tide below With isles of sand and floating blocks, As leaves on streams when tempests blow. Lo, thus the great decree all-just, O Earth, thy mountains hear; and learn From fire and frost its import--"dust Thou art; and shalt to dust return." He only is Who ever was; The All-measuring Mind; the Will Supreme. Rocks, mountains, worlds, like bubbles pass: God is; the things not God but seem. From end to end, O God, Thy Will With swift yet ordered might doth reach: Thy purposes their scope fulfil In sequence, resting each on each. In Thee is nothing sudden; nought From harmony and law that swerves: The orbits of Thine act and thought In soft succession wind their curves. O then with what a gradual care Must thou have shaped that sacred shrine, That Ark of grace, ordained to bear The burthen of the Babe divine! How many a gift within her breast Lay stored, for Him a couch to strew! How many a virtue lined His nest! How many a grace beside Him grew! Of love on love what sweet excess! How deep a faith! a hope how high!-- Mary! on earth of thee we guess; But we shall see thee when we die! She mused upon the Saints of old; Their toils, their pains, she longed to share Of Him she mused, the Child foretold; To Him her hands she stretched in prayer. No moment passed without its crown; And each new grace was used so well It drew some tenfold talent down, Some miracle on miracle. O golden House! O boundless store Of wealth by heavenly commerce won! When God Himself could give no more, He gave thee all; He gave His Son! And yet for this more blessed still, Because she heard and kept His Word-- High servant of His sovereign Will! Not all thy purity, although The whitest moon that ever lit The peaks of Lebanonian snow Shone dusk and dim compared with it;-- Not that great love of thine, whose beams Transcended in their virtuous heat Those suns which melt the ice-bound streams, And make earth's pulses newly beat:-- It was not these that from the sky Drew down to thee the Eternal Word: He looked on thy humility; He knew thee, "Handmaid of thy Lord." Let no one claim with thee a part; Let no one, Mary, name thy name, While, aping God, upon his heart Pride sits, a demon robed in flame. Proud Vices, die! Where Sin has place Be Sin's familiar self-disgust. Proud Virtues, doubly die; that Grace At last may burgeon from your dust. Supreme among the things create Omnipotence revealed below, More swift than thought, more strong than fate, Such, such, Humility, art thou! All strength beside is weakness. Might Belongs to God: and they alone, Self-emptied souls and seeming-slight, Are filled with God and share his throne. O Mary! strong wert thou and meek; Thy meekness gave thee strength divine: Thyself in nothing didst thou seek; Therefore thy Maker made Him thine. Through Pride our parents disobeyed; Rebellious Sense avenged the crime: The soul, the body's captive made, Became the branded thrall of time. With barrenness the earth was cursed; Inviolate she brought forth no more Her fruits, nor freely as at first:-- Thou cam'st, her Eden to restore! Low breathes the wind upon the string; The harp, responsive, sounds in turn: Thus o'er thy Soul the Spirit's wing Creative passed; and Christ was born. _"Sine Labe originali Concepta."_ Met in a point [Footnote 7] the circles twain Of temporal and eternal things Embrace, close linked. Redemption's chain Drops thence to earth its myriad rings. In either circle, from of old, That point of meeting stood decreed;-- Twin mysteries cast in one deep mould, "The Woman," and "the Woman's Seed." Mary, long ages ere thy birth Resplendent with Salvation's Sign, In thee a stainless hand the earth Put forth, to meet the Hand Divine! First trophy of all-conquering Grace, First victory of that Blood all pure, Of man's once fair but fallen race Thou stood'st, the monument secure. The Word made Flesh! the Way! the Door! The link that dust with Godhead blends! Through Him the worlds their God adore:-- Through thee that God to man descends. _"Sine Labe originali Concepta."_ A soul-like sound, subdued yet strong, A whispered music, mystery-rife, A sound like Eden airs among The branches of the Tree of Life-- At first no more than this; at last The voice of every land and clime, It swept o'er Earth, a clarion blast: Earth heard, and shook with joy sublime. Mary! thy triumph was her own. In thee she saw her prime restored: She saw ascend a spotless Throne The Church had spoken. She that dwells Sun-clad with beatific light, From Truth's unvanquished citadels, From Sion's Apostolic height, Had stretched her sceptred hands, and pressed The seal of Faith, defined and known, Upon that Truth till then confessed By Love's instinctive sense alone. Brow-bound with myrtle and with gold, Spring, sacred now from blasts and blights, Lifts in a firm, untrembling hold Her chalice of fulfilled delights. Confirmed around her queenly lip The smile late wavering, on she moves; And seems through deepening tides to step Of steadier joys and larger loves. The stony Ash itself relents, Into the blue embrace of May Sinking, like old impenitents Heart-touched at last; and, far away, The long wave yearns along the coast With sob suppressed, like that which thrills (While o'er the altar mounts the Host) Some chapel on the Irish hills. Rejoice, O Mary! and be glad, Thou Church triumphant here below! He cometh, in meekest emblems clad; Himself he cometh to bestow! That body which thou gav'st, O Earth, He giveth back--that Flesh, that Blood; Born of the Altar's mystic birth; At once thy Worship and thy Food. He who of old on Calvary bled On all thine altars lies to-day, A bloodless Sacrifice, but dread; The Lamb in heaven adored for aye. His Godhead on the Cross He veiled; His Manhood here He veileth too: But Faith has eagle eyes unsealed; And Love to Him she loves is true. "I will not leave you orphans. Lo! While lasts the world with you am I." Saviour! we see Thee not; but know, With burning hearts, that Thou art nigh! He comes! Blue Heaven, thine incense breathe O'er all the consecrated sod; And thou, O Earth, with flowers enwreathe The steps of thine advancing God! What music swells on every gale? What heavenly Herald rideth past? Vale sings to vale, "He comes; all hail!" Sea sighs to sea, "He comes at last." The Earth bursts forth in choral song; Aloft her "Lauda Sion" soars; Her myrtle boughs at once are flung Before a thousand Minster doors. Far on the white processions wind Through wood and plain and street and court The kings and prelates pace behind The King of kings in seemly sort. The incense floats on Grecian air; Old Carmel echoes back the chant; In every breeze the torches flare That curls the waves of the Levant. On Ramah's plain--in Bethlehem's bound-- Is heard to-day a gladsome voice: "Rejoice," it cries, "the lost is found! With Mary's joy, O Earth, rejoice!" Pleasant the swarm about the bough; The meadow-whisper round the woods; And for their coolness pleasant now The murmur of the falling floods. Pleasant beneath the thorn to lie, And let a summer fancy loose; To hear the cuckoo's double cry; To make the noon-tide sloth's excuse. Panting, but pleased, the cattle stand Knee-deep in water-weed and sedge, And scarcely crop the greener band Of osiers round the river's edge. But hark! Far off the south wind sweeps The golden-foliaged groves among, Renewed or lulled, with rests and leaps-- Ah! how it makes the spirit long To drop its earthly weight, and drift Like yon white cloud, on pinions free, Beyond that mountain's purple rift, And o'er that scintillating sea! Sing on, wide winds, your anthems vast! The ear is richer than the eye: Upon the eye no shape can cast Such impress of Infinity. And thou, my soul, thy wings of might Put forth:--thou too, one day shalt soar, And, onward borne in heavenward flight, The starry universe explore; Breasting that breeze which waves the bowers Of Heaven's bright forest never mute, Whereof perchance this earth of ours Is but the feeblest forest-fruit. "The Spirit bloweth where He wills"-- Effluence of that Life Divine Which wakes the Universe, and stills, In Thy strong refluence make us Thine! _Coeli enarrant._ A barren blank, a void, a nought, Beyond the ken of solar ray Or reach of archangelic thought. Thou spak'st; and they were made! Forth sprang From every region of the abyss, Whose deeps, fire-clov'n, with anthems rang, The spheres new-born and numberless. Thou spak'st:--upon the winds were found The astonished Eagles. Awed and hushed Subsiding seas revered their bound; And the strong forests upward rushed. Before the Vision angels fell, As though the face of God they saw; And all the panting miracle Found rest within the arms of Law. Perfect, O God, Thy primal plan-- That scheme frost-bound by Adam's sin: Create, within the heart of Man, Worlds meet for Thee; and dwell therein. From Thy bright realm of Sense and Nature, Which flowers enwreathe and stars begem, Shape Thou Thy Church; the crowned Creature; _Caro factus est._ When from beneath the Almighty Hand The suns and systems rushed abroad, Like coursers which have burst their band, Or torrents when the ice is thawed; When round in luminous orbits flung The great stars gloried in their might; Still, still, a bridgeless gulf there hung 'Twixt Finite things and Infinite. That crown of light creation wore Was edged with vast unmeasured black; And all of natural good she bore Confessed her supernatural lack. For what is Nature at the best? An arch suspended in its spring; An altar-step without a priest; A throne whereon there sits no king. As one stone-blind that fronts the morn, The world before her Maker stood, Uplifting suppliant hands forlorn-- God's creature, yet how far from God! He came. That world His priestly robe; The Kingly Pontiff raised on high The worship of the starry globe:-- The gulf was bridged, and God was nigh. A woman "clothed with the sun," [Footnote 8] Yet fleeing from the Dragon's rage!-- The strife in Eden-bowers begun Swells upward to the latest age. That woman's Son is throned on high; The angelic hosts before Him bend: The sceptre of His empery Subdues the worlds from end to end. Yet still the sword goes through her heart, For still on earth His Church survives. In her that woman holds a part: In her she suffers, wakes, and strives. Around her head the stars are set; A dying moon beneath her wanes: But he that letteth still must let: The Power accurst awhile remains. Break up, strong Earth, thy stony floors, And snatch to penal caverns dun That Dragon from the pit that wars Against the woman and her Son! No ray of all their silken sheen The leaves first fledged have lost as yet Unfaded, near the advancing queen Of flowers, abides the violet. The rose succeeds--her month is come:-- The flower with sacred passion red: She sings the praise of martyrdom, And Him for whom His martyrs bled. The perfect work of May is done: Hard by a new perfection waits:-- The twain, a sister and a nun, A moment parley at the grates. The whiter Spirit turns in peace To hide her in the cloistral shade:-- 'Tis time that you should also cease, Slight carols in her honour made. Regent of Change, thou waning Moon, Whom they, the sons of night, adore, Her feet are on thee! Late or soon Heap up upon the expectant shore The tides of Man's Intelligence; Or backward to the blackening deep Remit them: Knowledge won from Sense But sleeps to wake, and wakes to sleep. Where are the hands that reared on high Heaven-threat'ning Babel? where the might Of them, that giant progeny, The Deluge dealt with? Lost in night. The child who knows his creed doth stretch A sceptred hand o'er Space, and hold The end of all those threads that catch In wisdom's net the starry fold. The Sabbath comes: the work-days six Of Time go by; meantime the key, O salutary crucifix, Of all the worlds, we clasp in thee. Truth deeplier felt by none than him [Footnote 9] Who at the Alban mountain's foot, Wandering no more in shadows dim, Lay down, a lamb-like offering mute. His mighty lore found rest at last In Faith, and woke in God. Ah, Friend! When life which is not Life is past, Pray that like thine may be my end. Thy fair large front; thine eyes' grave blue; Thine English ways so staid and plain;-- Through native rosemaries and rue Memory creeps back to thee again. Beside thy dying bed were writ Some snatches of these random rhymes; Weak Song, how happy if with it Thy name should blend in after times. New-street Square.

Helen Fitzgerald Sanders

Trails Through Western Woods

1883

"_Make-strong old dreams lest this our world lose heart._" Grace before Song Lord God of heaven that with mercy dight Th' alternate prayer-wheel of the night and light Eternal hath to thee, and in whose sight Our days as rain drops in the sea surge fall, As bright white drops upon a leaden sea Grant so my songs to this grey folk may be: As drops that dream and gleam and falling catch the sun, Evan'scent mirrors every opal one Of such his splendour as their compass is, So, bold My Songs, seek ye such death as this. SCENE: _The Ash Wood of Malvern._ For I was a gaunt, grave councillor Being in all things wise, and very old, But I have put aside this folly and the cold That old age weareth for a cloak. I was quite strong--at least they said so-- The young men at the sword-play; But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me. I have curled mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke Of the old ways of men have I cast aside. By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha Have I found me a bride That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways She hath hushed my rancour of council, Bidding me praise Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves. She hath drawn me from mine old ways, Till men say that I am mad; But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad, For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I? I have put aside all folly and all grief. I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf And left them under a stone And now men call me mad because I have thrown All folly from me, putting it aside To leave the old barren ways of men, Because my bride Is a pool of the wood, and Though all men say that I am mad It is only that I am glad, Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love That is sweeter than the love of women That plague and burn and drive one away. Aie-e! 'Tis true that I am gay Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us. Once when I was among the young men.... And they said I was quite strong, among the young men. Once there was a woman.... .... I hope she will not come again. I think she hurt me once, but.... That was very long ago. I do not like to remember things any more. I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here: For we are quite alone Here mid the ash trees. _Italian Campagna_ 1309, _the open road._ Bah! I have sung women in three cities, But it is all the same; And I will sing of the sun. Lips, words, and you snare them, Strange spells of old deity, Ravens, nights, allurement: And they are not; Having become the souls of song. Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more, They are not. Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and Sighing, say, "Would Cino, Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes, Gay Cino, of quick laughter, Cino, of the dare, the jibe, Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here!" Once, twice, a year-- Vaguely thus word they: The singer is't you mean?" "Ah yes, passed once our way, A saucy fellow, but.... (Oh they are all one these vagabonds), Peste! 'tis his own songs? Or some other's that he sings? But _you_, My Lord, how with your city? But you "My Lord," God's pity! And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am, I have sung women in three cities. But it is all one. I will sing of the sun. But it is all one, I will sing of the sun. "'Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus' aegis-day, Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay! 'Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet! Seeking e'er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun.... I have sung women in three cities But it is all one. I will sing of the white birds In the blue waters of heaven, The clouds that are spray to its sea. _Que be-m vols mal._ NOTE: Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preeminent lady of Langue d'Oc some trait or some fair semblance: thus of Cembelins her "esgart amoros" to wit, her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart "although she would that ill come unto him" he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make "Una dompna soiseubuda" a borrowed lady or as the Italians translated it "Una donna Though thou well dost wish me ill Where thy bodice laces start As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices, Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render Praises meet unto thy fashion? Here a word kiss! Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben," Having praised thy girdle's scope How the stays ply back from it; I breathe no hope That thou shouldst.... Nay no whit Bespeak thyself for anything. Just a word in thy praise, girl, Just for the swirl Thy satins make upon the stair, 'Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met: Though thou hate me, read it set In rose and gold. Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea though thou wish me ill Thy loveliness is here writ till, Oh, till thou come again. And being bent and wrinkled, in a form That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold Upon thy hands, and thy old soul Scorning a new, wry'd casement Churlish at seemed misplacement Finds the earth as bitter As now seems it sweet, Being so young and fair As then only in dreams, Being then young and wry'd, Broken of ancient pride, Thou shalt then soften, Knowing I know not how Thou wert once she For whose fairness one forgave Que be-m vols mal. Villonaud for this Yule Towards the Noel that morte saison (_Christ make the shepherds' homage dear!_) Then when the grey wolves everychone Drink of the winds their chill small-beer And lap o' the snows food's gueredon Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal! with the dregs if the clear be gone!) Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon? (_What of the magians' scented gear?_) The ghosts of dead loves everyone That make the stark winds reek with fear Lest love return with the foison sun And slay the memories that me cheer (Such as I drink to mine fashion) Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Where are the joys my heart had won? (_Saturn and Mars to Zeus drawn near!_) Where are the lips mine lay upon, Aye! where are the glances feat and clear That bade my heart his valour don? I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon?) Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Prince: ask me not what I have done Nor what God hath that can me cheer But ye ask first where the winds are gone Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Or the song of the sixth companion SCENE: "_En cest bourdel ou tenoms nostr estat._" It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know: "_Freres humains qui apres nous vivez_." Drink ye a skoal for the gallows tree! Francois and Margot and thee and me, Drink we the comrades merrily That said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree! Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main, Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse" And bade her be out with ill address As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign. Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree! Francois and Margot and thee and me, That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly. Drink we the lusty robbers twain, Black is the pitch o' their wedding-dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress As lips shrink back when we feel the strain Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress That striveth to ours across the pain. Drink we skoal to the gallows tree! Francois and Margot and thee and me, Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee. Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou lacking a coat to bless One lean moiety of his nakedness That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress, "Which of his brothers had he slain?" But drink we skoal to the gallows tree! Francois and Margot and thee and me: These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their faibleness? Skoal!! to the Gallows! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily And bring their souls to his "Haulte Citee." "_ And a cat's in the water-butt_."--ROBERT BROWNING. Aye you're a man that! ye old mesmerizer Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins! "Cat's i' the water butt!" Thought's in your verse-barrel, Tell us this thing rather, then we'll believe you, You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we'd lief do. You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But God! what a sight you ha' got o' our in'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin' man-kin'ards. Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption. Here's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector, You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents Into your versicles. Clear sight's elector! "_Why is it that, disgraced they seem to relish life the more?_" Sharing his exile that hath borne the flame, Joining his freedom that hath drunk the shame And known the torture of the Skull-place hours Free and so bound, that mingled with the powers Of air and sea and light his soul's far reach Yet strictured did the body-lips beseech "To drink" "I thirst." And then the sponge of gall. Wherefore we wastrels that the grey road's call Doth master and make slaves and yet make free, Drink all of life and quaffing lustily Take bitter with the sweet without complain And sharers in his drink defy the pain That makes you fearful to unfurl your souls. We claim no glory. If the tempest rolls About us we have fear, and then Having so small a stake grow bold again. We know not definitely even this But 'cause some vague half knowing half doth miss Our consciousness and leaves us feeling That somehow all is well, that sober, reeling From the last carouse, or in what measure Of so called right or so damned wrong our leisure Runs out uncounted sand beneath the sun, That, spite your carping, still the thing is done With some deep sanction, that, we know not how, Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allow That this not need we _know_ our every thought Or see the work shop where each mask is wrought Wherefrom we view the world of box and pit, Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fit Call! eh bye! the little door at twelve! I meet you there myself. And the earth passion dieth; We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth, For we are old And passion hath died for us a thousand times But we grew never weary. Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old. The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though passion flieth Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands; My lips are cold And yet we twain are never weary, And the strange night-wonder is upon us, The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words For our wonder that grows not old. The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn; There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn As a maiden, holding her fingers, The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn." He saith: "Red spears bore the warrior dawn Of old Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning?" She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now Together with him; softly For we are old." Your songs? Oh! The little mothers Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills, What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children, Such as are up and wide Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale; Such is the tale --Part of it--of thy song-life A book is known by them that read That same. Thy public in my screed Is listed. Well! Some score years hence Behold mine audience, As we had seen him yesterday. Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet; full speed Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at 'Cause he hath No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard: Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall, Too cheap for cataloguing, "Ah-eh! the strange rare name.... Ah-eh! He must be rare if even _I_ have not.... And lost mid-page As his pardons the habit, He analyzes form and thought to see How I 'scaped immortality. "When I see thee as some poor song-bird Battering its wings, against this cage we Then would I speak comfort unto thee, From out the heights I dwell in, when That great sense of power is upon me And I see my greater soul-self bending Sibylwise with that great forty year epic That you know of, yet unwrit But as some child's toy 'tween my fingers, And see the sculptors of new ages carve me thus, And model with the music of my couplets in their hearts: Surely if in the end the epic And the small kind deed are one; If to God the child's toy and the epic are the same, E'en so, did one make a child's toy, He might wright it well And cunningly, that the child might Keep it for his children's children And all have joy thereof. Dear, an this dream come true, Then shall all men say of thee "She 'twas that played him power at life's morn, And at the twilight Evensong, And God's peace dwelt in the mingled chords She drew from out the shadows of the past, And old world melodies that else He had known only in his dreams Dear, an this dream come true, I, who being poet only, Can give thee poor words only, Add this one poor other tribute, This thing men call immortality. A gift I give thee even as Ronsard gave it. Seeing before time, one sweet face grown old, And seeing the old eyes grow bright From out the border of Her fire-lit wrinkles, As she should make boast unto her maids "Ronsard hath sung the beauty, _my_ beauty, Of the days that I was fair." So hath the boon been given, by the poets of old time (Dante to Beatrice,--an I profane not--) Yet with my lesser power shall I not strive To give it thee? All ends of things are with Him From whom are all things in their essence. If my power be lesser Shall my striving be less keen? But rather more! if I would reach the goal, Take then the striving! "And if," for so the Florentine hath writ When having put all his heart Into his "Youth's Dear Book" He yet strove to do more honour To that lady dwelling in his inmost soul He would wax yet greater To make her earthly glory more. Though sight of hell and heaven were price thereof, If so it be His will, with whom Are all things and through whom Are all things good, Will I make for thee and for the beauty of thy music A new thing As hath not heretofore been writ. Take then my promise! In vain have I striven to teach my heart to bow; In vain have I said to him "There be many singers greater than thou." But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany. As a vague crying upon the night That leaveth me no rest, saying ever, Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight Seeking ever a song. Lo, I am worn with travail And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust. Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight, And little red elf words crying "A song," Little grey elf words crying for a song, Little brown leaf words crying "A song," Little green leaf words crying for a song. The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the spring time Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song. White words as snow flakes but they are cold Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams. In vain have I striven to teach my soul to bow, In vain have I pled with him, "There be greater souls than thou." For in the morn of my years there came a woman As moon light calling As the moon calleth the tides, Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me As the moon doth from the sea, But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words Saying "The soul sendeth us." "A song, a song!" And in vain I cried unto them "I have no song For she I sang of hath gone from me." But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonder folk, A woman as fire upon the pine woods crying "Song, a song." As the flame crieth unto the sap. My song was ablaze with her and she went from me As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new forests And the words were with me crying ever "Song, a song." And I "I have no song," Till my soul sent a woman as the sun: Yea as the sun calleth to the seed, As the spring upon the bough So is she that cometh the song-drawer She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes The words little elf words that call ever unto me In vain have I striven with my soul to teach my soul to bow. What soul boweth while in his heart art thou? "_E tuttoque to fosse a la compagnia di molti, quanto alla vista_." Sometimes I feel thy cheek against my face Close-pressing, soft as is the South's first breath That all the subtle earth-things summoneth To spring in wood-land and in meadow space. Yea sometimes in a bustling man-filled place Me seemeth some-wise thy hair wandereth Across mine eyes, as mist that halloweth The air awhile and giveth all things grace. Or on still evenings when the rain falls close There comes a tremor in the drops, and fast My pulses run, knowing thy thought hath passed That beareth thee as doth the wind a rose. These tales of old disguisings, are they not Strange myths of souls that found themselves among Unwonted folk that spake a hostile tongue, Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot The star-span acres of a former lot Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung, Or carnate with his elder brothers sung E'er ballad makers lisped of Camelot? Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes, Old painters colour-blind come back once more, Old poets skilless in the wind-heart runes, Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore: All they that with strange sadness in their eyes Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse? What ho! the wind is up and eloquent. Through all the Winter's halls he crieth Spring. Now will I get me up unto mine own forests And behold their bourgeoning. For God, our God, is a gallant foe That playeth behind the veil. I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest, I have loved my God as maid to man But lo, this thing is best: To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind the veil, To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale. I have played with God for a woman, I have staked with my God for truth, I have lost to my God as a man, clear eyed, His dice be not of ruth. For I am made as a naked blade But hear ye this thing in sooth: Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game. I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same: Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose Shall win at the end of the game. For God, our God, is a gallant foe that playeth behind the veil, Whom God deigns not to overthrow Hath need of triple mail. _That was my counter-blade under Leonardo Terrone,_ Gone while your tastes were keen to you, Gone where the grey winds call to you, By that high fencer, even Death, Struck of the blade that no man parrieth; Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you. Drew you your sword most gallantly Made you your pass most valiantly 'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death. Gone as a gust of breath Faith! no man tarrieth, "_Se il cor ti manca_" but it failed thee not! "_Non ti fidar_" it is the sword that speaks Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade 'Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid As memorable broken blades that be Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry. As old Toledos past their days of war Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore, So art thou with us, being good to keep In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep. Struck of the blade that no man parrieth Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all, 'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death, Behold the shield! He shall not take thee all. With ever one fear at the heart o' me Long by still sea-coasts coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with fine pearls between. Through the pale courses of the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh, and wine for my tales of wandering. And the cities gave me welcome and the fields free passage, With ever one fear at the heart o' me. An thou should'st grow weary ere my returning, An "_they_" should call to thee from out the borderland, What should avail me booty of whale-ways? What should avail me gold rings or the chain-mail? What should avail me the many-twined bracelets? What should avail me, O my beloved, Here in this "Middan-gard" what should avail me Out of the booty and gain of my goings? Unto thine eyes my heart Sendeth old dreams of the spring-time, Yea of wood-ways my rime Found thee and flowers in and of all streams That sang low burthen, and of roses, That lost their dew-bowed petals for the dreams We scattered o'er them passing by. Autumnal breaks the flame upon the sun-set herds. The sheep on Gilead as tawn hair gleam Neath Mithra's dower and his slow departing, While in the sky a thousand fleece of gold Bear, each his tribute, to the waning god. Hung on the rafters of the effulgent west, Their tufted splendour shields his decadence, As in our southern lands brave tapestries Are hung king-greeting from the ponticells And drag the pageant from the earth to air, Wherein the storied figures live again, Wind-molden back unto their life's erst guise, All tremulous beneath the many-fingered breath That Aufidus doth take to house his soul. I have heard a wee wind searching Through still forests for me; I have seen a wee wind searching O'er still sea. Through woodlands dim have I taken my way; And o'er silent waters night and day Have I sought the wee wind. _Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mifei_ _Qual si fe' Glauco nel gustar dell' erba_ _Che il fe' consorto in mar degli altri dei._ "_As Glaucus tasting the grass that made_ _him sea-fellow with the other gods._" Whither he went I may not follow him. His eyes Were strange to-day. They always were, After their fashion, kindred of the sea. To-day I found him. It is very long That I had sought among the nets, and when I asked The fishermen, they laughed at me. I sought long days amid the cliffs thinking to find The body-house of him, and then There at the blue cave-mouth my joy Grew pain for suddenness, to see him 'live. Whither he went I may not come, it seems He is become estranged from all the rest, And all the sea is now his wonder-house. And he may sink unto strange depths, he tells me of, That have no light as we it deem. E'en now he speaks strange words. I did not know One half the substance of his speech with me. And then when I saw naught he sudden leaped And shot, a gleam of silver, down, away. And I have spent three days upon this rock And yet he comes no more. He did not even seem to know I watched him gliding through the vitreous deep. They chide me that the skein I used to spin Holds not my interest now, They mock me at the route, well, I have come again. Last night I saw three white forms move Out past the utmost wave that bears the white foam crest. I somehow knew that he was one of them. Oime, Oime. I think each time they come Up from the sea heart to the realm of air They are more far-removed from the shore. When first I found him here, he slept E'en as he might after a long night's taking on the deep. And when he woke some whit the old kind smile Dwelt round his lips and held him near to me. But then strange gleams shot through the grey-deep eyes As though he saw beyond and saw not me. And when he moved to speak it troubled him. And then he plucked at grass and bade me eat. And then forgot me for the sea its charm And leapt him in the wave and so was gone. I wonder why he mocked me with the grass. I know not any more how long it is Since I have dwelt not in my mother's house. I know they think me mad, for all night long I haunt the sea-marge, thinking I may find Some day the herb he offered unto me. Perhaps he did not jest; they say some simples have More wide-spanned power than old wives draw from them. Perhaps, found I this grass, he'd come again. Perhaps 'tis some strange charm to draw him here, 'Thout which he may not leave his new-found crew That ride the two-foot coursers of the deep, And laugh in storms and break the fishers' nets. We have worn the blue and vair, And all the sea-caves Know us of old, and know our new-found mate. There's many a secret stair The sea-folk climb.... I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seem To mock me now, all night, all night, and Have I strayed among the cliffs here They say, some day I'll fall Down through the sea-bit fissures, and no more Know the warm cloak of sun, or bathe The dew across my tired eyes to comfort them. They try to keep me hid within four walls. I will not stay! And the wind saith; Oime! I am quite tired now. I know the grass Must grow somewhere along this Thracian coast, If only he would come some little while and find it me. I am homesick after mine own kind, Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces, But I am homesick after mine own kind. "These sell our pictures"! Oh well, They reach me not, touch me some edge or that, But reach me not and all my life's become One flame, that reacheth not beyond Mine heart's own hearth, Or hides among the ashes there for thee. "Thee"? Oh "thee" is who cometh first Out of mine own-soul-kin, For I am homesick after mine own kind And ordinary people touch me not. Yea, I am homesick After mine own kind that know, and feel And have some breath for beauty and the arts. Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit And have none about me save in the shadows When come _they_, surging of power, "DAEMON," "Quasi KALOUN" S.T. says, Beauty is most that a "calling to the soul." Well then, so call they; the swirlers out of the mist of my soul, They that come mewards bearing old magic. But for all that, I am home sick after mine own kind And would meet kindred e'en as I am, Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret. "All they that with strange sadness" Have the earth in mock'ry, and are kind to all, My fellows, aye I know the glory Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide As I hide most the while And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles For love, or hope, or beauty or for power, Then smoulder, with the lids half closed And are untouched by echoes of the world. Oh ye, my fellows: with the seas between us some be, Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows Of such a "Veltro" of the vasty deep As bore my tortoise house scant years agone: And some the hills hold off, The little hills to east us, though here we Have damp and plain to be our shutting in. And yet my soul sings "Up!" and we are one. Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin To whom my breast and arms are ever warm, For that I love ye as the wind the trees That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure And calls the utmost singing from the boughs Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of how "Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies...." Wisdom set apart from all desire, A hoary Nestor with youth's own glad eyes, Him met I at the style, and all benign He greeted me an equal and I knew, By this his lack of pomp, he was himself. Slow-Smiling is companion unto him, And Mellow-Laughter serves, his trencherman. And I a thousand beauties there beheld. And he and they made merry endlessly. And love was rayed between them as a mist, And yet so fine and delicate a haze It did impede the eyes no whit, Unless it were to make the halo round each one Than any pearled and ruby diadem the courts o' earth ha' known. Slender as mist-wrought maids and hamadryads Did meseem these shapes that ministered, These formed harmonies with lake-deep eyes, And first the cities of north Italy I did behold, Each as a woman wonder-fair, And svelte Verona first I met at eve; And in the dark we kissed and then the way Bore us somewhile apart. And yet my heart keeps tryst with her, So every year our thoughts are interwove As fingers were, such times as eyes see much, and tell. And she that loved the master years agone, That bears his signet in her "Signor Square," "Che lo glorifico." She spread her arms, And in that deep embrace All thoughts of woe were perished And of pain and weariness and all the wrack Of light-contending thoughts and battled-gleams, (That our intelligence doth gain by strife against itself) Of things we have not yet the earned right to clearly see. And all, yea all that dust doth symbolize Was there forgot, and my enfranchised soul Grew as the liquid elements, and was infused With joy that is not light, nor might nor harmony, And yet hath part and quality of all these three, Whereto is added calm past earthly peace. Thus with Verona's spirit, and all time Swept on beyond my ken, and as the sea Hath in no wise a form within itself, _Cioe_, as liquid hath no form save where it bounden is By some enshrouding chalice of hard things-- As wine its graven goblet, and the sea Its wave-hewn basalt for a bordering, So had my thought and now my thought's remembrance No "_in_formation" of whatso there passed For this long space the dream-king's horny gate. And when that age was done and the transfusion Of all my self through her and she through me, I did perceive that she enthroned two things: Verona, and a maid I knew on earth; And dulled some while from dream, and then become That lower thing, deductive intellect, I saw How all things are but symbols of all things, And each of many, do we know But the equation governing. And in my rapture at this vision's scope I saw no end or bourn to what things mean, So praised Pythagoras and once more raised By this said rapture to the house of Dream, Beheld Fenice as a lotus-flower Drift through the purple of the wedded sea And grow a wraith and then a dark-eyed she, And knew her name was "All-forgetfulness," And hailed her: "Princess of the Opiates," And guessed her evil and her good thereby. And then a maid of nine "Pavia" hight, Passed with a laugh that was all mystery, And when I turned to her She reached me one clear chalice of white wine, Pressed from the recent grapes that yet were hung Adown her shoulders, and were bound Right cunningly about her elfish brows; So hale a draught, the life of every grape Lurked without ferment in the amber cloud. And memory, this wine was, of all good. And more I might have seen: Firenza, Goito, Or that proudest gate, Ligurian Genoa, Cornelia of Colombo of far sight, That, man and seer in one, had well been twain, And each a glory to his hills and sea; And past her a great band Bright garlanded or rich with purple skeins, And crimson mantles and queynt fineries That tarnished held but so the more Of dim allurement in their half-shown folds: So swept my vision o'er their filmy ranks, Then rose some opaque cloud, Whose name I have not yet discerned, And music as I heard it one clear night Within our earthly night's own mirroring, Where altar candles blazed out as dim stars, And all the gloom was soft, and shadowy forms Made and sang God, within the far-off choir. And in a clear space high behind Them and the tabernacle of that place, Two tapers shew the master of the keys As some white power pouring forth itself. And all the church rang low and murmured Thus in my dream of forms the music swayed. And I was lost in it and only woke When something like a mass bell rang, and then That white-foot wind, pale Dawn's annunciatrice. Me bore to earth again, but some strange peace I had not known so well before this swevyn Clung round my head and made me hate earth less. I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me Some strange old lust for deeds. As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old-- Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going-- Till now they send him dreams and no more deed; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders, Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him So doth he flame again toward valiant doing. Phoebus shineth ere his splendour flieth Aurora drives faint light athwart the land And the drowsy watcher crieth, O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth. They be careless of the gates, delaying, Whom the ambush glides to hinder, Whom I warn and cry to, praying, O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth. Forth from out Arcturus, North Wind bloweth The stars of heaven sheathe their glory And sun-driven forth-goeth O'er sea mist, and mountain is the dawn display'd It passeth watch and maketh night afraid. From a tenth-century MS. The song of Peire Bremon "Lo Tort" that he made for his Lady in Provenca: he being in Syria a crusader. In April when I see all through Mead and garden new flowers blow, And streams with ice-bands broken flow, Eke hear the birds their singing do; When spring's grass-perfume floateth by Then 'tis sweet song and birdlet's cry Do make mine old joy come anew. Such time was wont my thought of old To wander in the ways of love. Burnishing arms and clang thereof, And honour-services manifold Be now my need. Whoso combine Such works, love is his bread and wine, Wherefore should his fight the more be bold. Song bear I, who tears should bring Sith ire of love mak'th me annoy, With song think I to make me joy. Yet ne'er have I heard said this thing: "He sings who sorrow's guise should wear." Natheless I will not despair That sometime I'll have cause to sing. I should not to despair give way That some while I'll my lady see. I trust well He that lowered me Hath power again to make me gay. But if e'er I come to my Love's land And turn again to Syrian strand, God keep me there for a fool, alway! God for a miracle well should Hold my coming from her away, And hold me in His grace alway That I left her, for holy-rood. An I lose her, no joy for me, Pardi, hath the wide world in fee. Nor could He mend it, if He would. Well did she know sweet wiles to take My heart, when thence I took my way. 'Thout sighing, pass I ne'er a day For that sweet semblance she did make To me, saying all in sorrow: "Sweet friend, and what of me to-morrow?" "Love mine, why wilt me so forsake?" Beyond sea be thou sped, my song, That in desirous, grief-filled way My nights and my days are full long. And command thou William the Long-Seer To tell thee to my Lady dear, That comfort be her thoughts among. The only bit of Peire Bremon's work that has come down to us, and through its being printed with the songs of Giraut of Bornelh he is like to lose credit for even this.--E.P. Wearied by wind and wave death goes With gin and snare right near alway Unto my sight. Behind me bay As hounds the tempests of my foes. Ever on ward against such woes, Pistols my pillow's service pay, Yet Love makes me the poet play. Thou know'st the rime demands repose, So if my line disclose distress, The soldier and my restlessness And teen, Pardon, dear Lady mine, For since mid war I bear love's pain 'Tis meet my verse, as I, show sign Of powder, gun-match and sulphur stain. A poor clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me, And because I have small mind to sit Day long, long day cooped on a stool A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha' taken to rambling the South here. The Vicomte of Beziers's not such a bad lot. I made rimes to his lady this three year: Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging _His_ helmet at Beziers. Then came what might come, to wit: three men and one woman, Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends: Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers-- Bored to an inch of extinction, Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon, Stringing long verse for the Burlatz; All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the Aragonese, Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose. And if when I am dead They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They'll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him. As for will and testament I leave none, Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of Beziers In return for the first kiss she gave me." May her eyes and her cheek be fair To all men except the King of Aragon, And may I come speedily to Beziers Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me. O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows, Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers, For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with this parchment, So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly my thought. Wherefore, O hole in the wall here, When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here. Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment. O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind, Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here. _Mihi pergamena deest._ Against the crepuscular spirit in modern poetry I would shake off the lethargy of this our time, and give For shadows--shapes of power For dreams--men. "It is better to dream than do"? Aye! and, No! Aye! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Hearts hot, thoughts mighty. No! if we dream pale flowers, Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees. If so we live and die not life but dreams, Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life! Let us be men that dream, Not cowards, dabblers, waiters For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed. Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only dreams, Then let us be such dreams the world shall tremble at And know we be its rulers though but dreams! Then let us be such shadows as the world shall tremble at And know we be its masters though but shadow! Great God, if men are grown but pale sick phantoms That must live only in these mists and tempered lights And tremble for dim hours that knock o'er loud Or tread too violent in passing them; Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera, I bid thee grapple chaos and beget Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir This earth again. "Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword. "Lo! this thing is not mine Nor thine to hinder, For the custom is full old, And here in Nineveh have I beheld Many a singer pass and take his place In those dim halls where no man troubleth His sleep or song. And many a one hath sung his songs More craftily, more subtle-souled than I; And many a one now doth surpass My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb Shall all men scatter rose leaves Ere the night slay light With her blue sword. "It is not, Raama, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life As lesser men drink wine." I ha' seen them mid the clouds on the heather. Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow, Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover And the white wind breaks the morn. "_'Tis the white stagy Fame, we're a-hunting, Bid the world's hounds come to horn!_" _Beautiful, tragical faces,_ _Ye that were whole, and are so sunken;_ _And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved,_ _That are so sodden and drunken,_ _Who hath forgotten you?_ _O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!_ _The gross, the coarse, the brazen,_ _God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do,_ _But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,_ _Who hath forgotten you?_ "_magna pax et silvestris_." "_consociis faunis dryadisque inter saxa sylvarum_." "_ Aeternus quia simplex naturae_." "C.G. vi accolse D.A. che lo glorifico dedicandogli la terza, delle eterne sue cantiche." In cogitation the thought or attention flits aimlessly about the subject. Following St. Victor's figure of radiation: Poetry in its acme is MS. in Latin, with refrain, "L alba par umet mar atras el poy Pas abigil miraclar Tenebris." It was and may still be the oldest fragment of Provencal known. The Personae are: The Countess (in her own right) of Burlatz, and of Beziers, being Tibors of Mont-Ausier. For fuller mention of her see the "razos" on Bertran of Born. She is contemporary with the other persons, but I have no strict warrant for dragging her name Marco Londonio's Italian version of "Nel Biancheggiar": Nel biancheggiar di delicata rosa Risplendono i colori D' occidentali fiori Prima che l'alba, in esultanza ascosa Voglia baciarli. Ed aleggiar io sento Qual su dolce liuto Nel lor linguaggio muto Fiorir di gioia e tocco di tormento Cosi un' arcano senso di languore, Le sue sognanti dita Fanno scordar la vita Spirando in verso tutto pien d'amore.... Senza morir: che sanno i suoni alati, Vedendo il nostro stato, Ch' e dal dolor turbato, Di lasciarci, morendo, desolati.

Thomas Hastings

The Mother's Nursery Songs

_of_ Francis Thompson The Twenty-fifth Frontispiece: Portrait of FRANCIS THOMPSON A Note on FRANCIS THOMPSON _Page_ ix The Dedications xix, xx A Child's Kiss To a Child heard repeating her Mother's Verses A Foretelling of the Child's Husband Epilogue to the Poet's Sitter description of the poet, piteous yet proud: He lives detached days; He serveth not for praise; For gold He is not sold. He asketh not world's eyes; Nor to world's ears he cries-- Shut, if ye please!" It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, Though my own red roses there may blow; It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, Though the red roses crest the caps, I know. For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast, And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, To and fro. O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago! Thompson too swung himself safely back again. In Manchester, The hardest pang whereon He lays his mutinous head may be a Jacob's stone. A definite reminiscence of the dissecting-room at Manchester may _Arras'd in purple_ like the house of kings, the regal heart that comes at last To stall the grey rat, and the carrion-worm Statelily lodge. pencilled lines were found, addressed "To Olivia," a yet younger sister, recalling the strains of fifteen years before: I fear to love you, Sweet, because Love's the ambassador of loss. To their mother likewise were addressed the poems of Fair Love, Thompson's qualities ought to place him in the permanent ranks of _great_ odes of which the language can boast." Forlorn, and faint, and stark, I had endured through watches of the dark The abashless inquisition of each star; Yea, was the outcast mark Of all those heavenly passers' scrutiny; Stood bound and helplessly For Time to shoot his barbed minutes at me; Suffered the trampling hoof of every hour In night's slow-wheeled car; From under those dread wheels; and, bled of strength, I waited the inevitable last. Then there came past A child; like thee, a spring-flower; but a flower Fallen from the budded coronal of Spring, And through the city-streets blown withering. She passed,--O brave, sad, lovingest, tender thing!-- And of her own scant pittance did she give, That I might eat and live: Then fled, a swift and trackless fugitive. imperishable name. _Reprinted, with revisions, If the rose in meek duty May dedicate humbly To her grower the beauty Wherewith she is comely; If the mine to the miner Earth to diviner The springs he divined in it; To the grapes the wine-pitcher Their juice that was crushed in it; Viol to its witcher The music lay hushed in it; If the lips may pay Gladness In laughters she wakened, And the heart to its sadness Weeping unslakened; If the hid and sealed coffer Whose having not his is, To the loosers may proffer Their finding--here this is; Their lives if all livers To the Life of all living,-- To you, O dear givers, I give your own giving! Lo, my book thinks to look Time's leaguer down Under the banner of your spread renown! Or, if these levies of impuissant rhyme Fall to the overthrow of assaulting Time, Yet this one page shall send oblivious shame, Armed with your crested and prevailing Name. Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- O the breath of the distant surf!-- The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand, Came innocence and she. Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things. She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine. She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day! Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day! Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! She gave me tokens three:-- A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry. A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,--strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand. For, standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes. The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose! She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:-- The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, She went, and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be. She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad. Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes. Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others' pain, And perish in our own. Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine; Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, And hot as a swinked gipsy is, And drowsed in sleepy savageries, With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss. A child and man paced side by side, Treading the skirts of eventide; But between the clasp of his hand and hers Lay, felt not, twenty withered years. She turned, with the rout of her dusk South hair, And saw the sleeping gipsy there; And snatched and snapped it in swift child's whim, With--"Keep it, long as you live!"--to him. And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, Trembled up from a bath of tears; And joy, like a mew sea-rocked apart, Tossed on the wave of his troubled heart. For _he_ saw what she did not see, That--as kindled by its own fervency-- The verge shrivelled inward smoulderingly: And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers He knew the twenty withered years-- No flower, but twenty shrivelled years. "Was never such thing until this hour," Low to his heart he said; "the flower Of sleep brings wakening to me, And of oblivion memory. "Was never this thing to me," he said, "Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!" And again to his own heart very low: "O child! I love, for I love and know; "But you, who love nor know at all The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall, Where some rise early, few sit long: In how differing accents hear the throng His great Pentecostal tongue; "Who know not love from amity, Nor my reported self from me; A fair fit gift is this, meseems, You give--this withering flower of dreams. "O frankly fickle, and fickly true, Do you know what the days will do to you? To your Love and you what the days will do, O frankly fickle, and fickly true? "You have loved me, Fair, three lives--or days: 'Twill pass with the passing of my face. But where _I_ go, your face goes too, To watch lest I play false to you. "I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, Knowing well when certain years are over You vanish from me to another; Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother. "So, frankly fickle, and fickly true, For my brief life-while I take from you This token, fair and fit, meseems, For me--this withering flower of dreams." The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: The goodly grain and the sun-flushed sleeper The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper. I hang 'mid men my needless head, And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper Time shall reap; but after the reaper The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper! Love, love! your flower of withered dream In leaved rhyme lies safe, I deem, Sheltered and shut in a nook of rhyme, From the reaper man, and his reaper Time. Love! _I_ fall into the claws of Time: But lasts within a leaved rhyme All that the world of me esteems-- My withered dreams, my withered dreams. You, O the piteous you! Who all the long night through Disclose yourself to me Already in the ways Beyond our human comfortable days; How can you deem what Death Impitiably saith To me, who listening wake For your poor sake? When a grown woman dies, You know we think unceasingly What things she said, how sweet, how wise; And these do make our misery. But you were (you to me The dead anticipatedly!) You--eleven years, was 't not, or so?-- Were just a child, you know; And so you never said Things sweet immeditatably and wise To interdict from closure my wet eyes: But foolish things, my dead, my dead! Little and laughable, Your age that fitted well. And was it such things all unmemorable, Was it such things could make Me sob all night for your implacable sake? Yet, as you said to me, In pretty make-believe of revelry, So, the night long, said Death With his magniloquent breath; (And that remembered laughter, Which in our daily uses followed after, Was all untuned to pity and to awe). "_A cup of chocolate, One farthing is the rate, You drink it through a straw._" How could I know, how know Those laughing words when drenched with sobbing so? Another voice than yours, than yours, he hath! My dear, was 't worth his breath, His mighty utterance?--yet he saith, and saith! This dreadful Death to his own dreadfulness Doth dreadful wrong, This dreadful childish babble on his tongue! That iron tongue, made to speak sentences And wisdom insupportably complete, Why should it only say the long night through, In mimicry of you,-- "_A cup of chocolate, One farthing is the rate, You drink it through a straw, a straw, a straw!_" Oh, of all sentences, Piercingly incomplete! Why did you teach that fatal mouth to draw, Child, impermissible awe From your old trivialness? Why have you done me this Most unsustainable wrong, And into Death's control Betrayed the secret places of my soul? Teaching him that his lips, Uttering their native earthquake and eclipse, Could never so avail To rend from hem to hem the ultimate veil Of this most desolate Spirit, and leave it stripped and desecrate,-- Nay, never so have wrung From eyes and speech weakness unmanned, unmeet; As when his terrible dotage to repeat Its little lesson learneth at your feet; As when he sits among His sepulchres, to play With broken toys your hand has cast away, With derelict trinkets of the darling young. Why have you taught--that he might so complete His awful panoply From your cast playthings--why, This dreadful childish babble to his tongue, Dreadful and sweet? Spin, daughter Mary, spin, Twirl your wheel with silver din; Spin, daughter Mary, spin, Spin a tress for Viola. Brown tress for Viola! Weave, hands angelical, Weave a woof of flesh to pall-- Weave, hands angelical-- Flesh to pall our Viola. Weave, singing brothers, a Velvet flesh for Viola! Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes, Wood-browned pools of Paradise-- Young Jesus, for the eyes, For the eyes of Viola. Cast a star therein to drown, Like a torch in cavern brown, Sink a burning star to drown Whelmed in eyes of Viola. Star in eyes of Viola! To a bubbled crystal meet-- Crystal soul for Viola. Flashing soul for Viola! Child-angels, from your wings Fall the roseal hoverings, Child-angels, from your wings On the cheeks of Viola. Linger, rosy reflex, a Quenchless stain, on Viola! _All things being accomplished, saith the Father of Heaven_: Bear her down, and bearing, sing, Bear her down on spyless wing, Bear her down, and bearing, sing, With a sound of viola. Music as her name is, a Sweet sound of Viola! Wheeling angels, past espial, Danced her down with sound of viol; Wheeling angels, past espial, Sing, in our footing, a Lovely lilt of "Viola!" Baby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed; Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola. _And her elders shall say_: So soon have we taught you a Way to weep, poor Viola! Smile, sweet baby, smile, For you will have weeping-while; Native in your Heaven is smile,-- But your weeping, Viola? Whence your smiles, we know, but ah! Whence your weeping, Viola?-- Our first gift to you is a Gift of tears, my Viola! This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to space Down some frore Arctic of the aerial ways: And now, back warping from the inclement main, Its vapourous shroudage drenched with icy rain, It swung into its azure roads again; When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew. To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, Giver of golden days and golden song; Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. Yet ah! from any other that it came, Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. When at the first those tidings did they bring, My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: Though well may such a title him endower, For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, (In two alone of whom most singers prove A fatal faithfulness of during love!); He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken How God he could love more, he so loved men; The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; And Fletcher's fellow--from these, and not from me, Take you your name, and take your legacy! Or, if a right successive you declare When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, Take but this Poesy that now followeth My clayey best with sullen servile breath, Made then your happy freedman by testating death. My song I do but hold for you in trust, I ask you but to blossom from my dust. When you have compassed all weak I began, Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man-- The man at feud with the perduring child In you before song's altar nobly reconciled-- From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see How little a world, which owned you, needed me. If, while you keep the vigils of the night, For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, As it played lover over your sweet sleeps, Think it a golden crevice in the sky, Which I have pierced but to behold you by! And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod Among the bearded counsellors of God; For, if in Eden as on earth are we, I sure shall keep a younger company: Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, The dreadful mass of their enridged spears; Pass where majestical the eternal peers, The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet-- A silvern segregation, globed complete In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet; Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, Your cousined clusters, emulous to share With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair; Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:-- Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven. Little Jesus, wast Thou shy Once, and just so small as I? And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me? Didst Thou sometimes think of _there_, And ask where all the angels were? I should think that I would cry For my house all made of sky; I would look about the air, And wonder where my angels were; And at waking 'twould distress me-- Not an angel there to dress me! Hadst Thou ever any toys, Like us little girls and boys? And didst Thou play in Heaven with all The angels, that were not too tall, With stars for marbles? Did the things Play _Can you see me?_ through their wings? Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way? And did they tire sometimes, being young, And make the prayer seem very long? And dost Thou like it best, that we Should join our hands to pray to Thee? I used to think, before I knew, The prayer not said unless we do. And did Thy Mother at the night Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right? And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said? Thou canst not have forgotten all That it feels like to be small: And Thou know'st I cannot pray To Thee in my father's way-- When Thou wast so little, say, Couldst Thou talk Thy Father's way?-- So, a little Child, come down And hear a child's tongue like Thy own; Take me by the hand and walk, And listen to my baby-talk. To Thy Father show my prayer (He will look, Thou art so fair), And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one." And He will smile, that children's tongue Has not changed since Thou wast young! Where its umbrage[A] was enrooted, Sat, white-suited, Sat, green-amiced and bare-footed, Spring, amid her minstrelsy; There she sat amid her ladies, Where the shade is Sheen as Enna mead ere Hades' Gloom fell thwart Persephone. Dewy buds were interstrown Through her tresses hanging down, And her feet Were most sweet, Tinged like sea-stars, rosied brown. A throng of children like to flowers were sown About the grass beside, or clomb her knee: I looked who were that favoured company. And one there stood Against the beamy flood Of sinking day, which, pouring its abundance, Sublimed the illuminous and volute redundance Of locks that, half dissolving, floated round her face; As see I might Far off a lily-cluster poised in sun Dispread its gracile curls of light. I knew what chosen child was there in place! I knew there might no brows be, save of one, With such Hesperian fulgence compassed, Which in her moving seemed to wheel about her head. _O Spring's little children, more loud your lauds upraise, For this is even Sylvia with her sweet, feat ways! Your lovesome labours lay away, And prank you out in holiday, For syllabling to Sylvia; And all you birds on branches, lave your mouths with May, To bear with me this burthen For singing to Sylvia!_ Spring, goddess, is it thou, desired long? And art thou girded round with this young train?-- If ever I did do thee ease in song, Now of thy grace let me one meed obtain, And list thou to one plain. Oh, keep still in thy train, After the years when others therefrom fade, This tiny, well-beloved maid! To whom the gate of my heart's fortalice, With all which in it is, And the shy self who doth therein immew him 'Gainst what loud leaguerers battailously woo him, I, bribed traitor to him, Set open for one kiss. A kiss? for a child's kiss? Aye, goddess, even for this. Once, bright Sylviola! in days not far, Once--in that nightmare-time which still doth haunt My dreams, a grim, unbidden visitant-- Forlorn, and faint, and stark, I had endured through watches of the dark The abashless inquisition of each star, Yea, was the outcast mark Of all those heavenly passers' scrutiny; Stood bound and helplessly For Time to shoot his barbed minutes at me; Suffered the trampling hoof of every hour In night's slow-wheeled car; From under those dread wheels; and, bled of strength, I waited the inevitable last. Then there came past A child; like thee, a spring-flower; but a flower Fallen from the budded coronal of Spring, And through the city-streets blown withering. She passed,--O brave, sad, lovingest, tender thing!-- And of her own scant pittance did she give, That I might eat and live: Then fled, a swift and trackless fugitive. Therefore I kissed in thee The heart of Childhood, so divine for me; And her, through what sore ways, And what unchildish days, Borne from me now, as then, a trackless fugitive. Therefore I kissed in thee Her, child! and innocency, And spring, and all things that have gone from me, And that shall never be; All vanished hopes, and all most hopeless bliss, Came with thee to my kiss. And ah! so long myself had strayed afar From child, and woman, and the boon earth's green, And all wherewith life's face is fair beseen; Journeying its journey bare Five suns, except of the all-kissing sun Unkissed of one; Almost I had forgot The healing harms, And whitest witchery, a-lurk in that Authentic cestus of two girdling arms: And I remembered not The subtle sanctities which dart From childish lips' unvalued precious brush, Nor how it makes the sudden lilies push Between the loosening fibres of the heart. Then, that thy little kiss Should be to me all this, Let workaday wisdom blink sage lids thereat; Which towers a flight three hedgerows high, poor bat! And straightway charts me out the empyreal air. Its chart I wing not by, its canon of worth Scorn not, nor reck though mine should breed it mirth: And howso thou and I may be disjoint, Yet still my falcon spirit makes her point Over the covert where Thou, sweetest quarry, hast put in from her! _Soul, hush these sad numbers, too sad to upraise In hymning bright Sylvia, unlearn'd in such ways! Our mournful moods lay me away, And prank our thoughts in holiday, For syllabling to Sylvia; When all the birds on branches lave their mouths with May, To bear with us this burthen For singing to Sylvia!_ Love and love's beauty only hold their revels In life's familiar, penetrable levels: What of its ocean-floor? I dwell there evermore. From almost earliest youth I raised the lids o' the truth, And forced her bend on me her shrinking sight; Ever I knew me Beauty's eremite, In antre of this lowly body set, Girt with a thirsty solitude of soul. Natheless I not forget How I have, even as the anchorite, I too, imperishing essences that console. Under my ruined passions, fallen and sere, The wild dreams stir, like little radiant girls, Whom in the moulted plumage of the year Their comrades sweet have buried to the curls. Yet, though their dedicated amorist, How often do I bid my visions hist, Deaf to them, pleading all their piteous fills; Who weep, as weep the maidens of the mist Clinging the necks of the unheeding hills: And their tears wash them lovelier than before, That from grief's self our sad delight grows more. Fair are the soul's uncrisped calms, indeed, Endiapered with many a spiritual form Of blosmy-tinctured weed; But scarce itself is conscious of the store Suckled by it, and only after storm Casts up its loosened thoughts upon the shore. To this end my deeps are stirred; And I deem well why life unshared Was ordained me of yore. In pairing-time, we know, the bird Kindles to its deepmost splendour, And the tender Voice is tenderest in its throat: Were its love for ever nigh it, It might keep a vernal note, The crocean and amethystine In their pristine Lustre linger on its coat. Therefore must my song-bower lone be, That my tone be Fresh with dewy pain alway; She, who scorns my dearest care ta'en, An uncertain Shadow of the sprite of May. Yet is there more, whereat none guesseth, love! Upon the ending of my deadly night (Whereof thou hast not the surmise, and slight Is all that any mortal knows thereof), Thou wert to me that earnest of day's light, When, like the back of a gold-mailed saurian Heaving its slow length from Nilotic slime, The first long gleaming fissure runs Aurorian Athwart the yet dun firmament of prime. Stretched on the margin of the cruel sea Whence they had rescued me, With faint and painful pulses was I lying; Not yet discerning well If I had 'scaped, or were an icicle, Whose thawing is its dying. Like one who sweats before a despot's gate, Summoned by some presaging scroll of fate, And knows not whether kiss or dagger wait; And all so sickened is his countenance, The courtiers buzz, "Lo, doomed!" and look at him askance:-- At Fate's dread portal then Even so stood I, I ken, Even so stood I, between a joy and fear, And said to mine own heart, "Now if the end be here!" They say, Earth's beauty seems completest To them that on their death-beds rest; Gentle lady! she smiles sweetest Just ere she clasps us to her breast. And I,--now _my_ Earth's countenance grew bright, Did she but smile me towards that nuptial-night? But, whileas on such dubious bed I lay, One unforgotten day, As a sick child waking sees Wide-eyed daisies Gazing on it from its hand, Slipped there for its dear amazes; So between thy father's knees I saw _thee_ stand, And through my hazes Of pain and fear thine eyes' young wonder shone. Then, as flies scatter from a carrion, Or rooks in spreading gyres like broken smoke Wheel, when some sound their quietude has broke, Fled, at thy countenance, all that doubting spawn: The heart which I had questioned spoke, A cry impetuous from its depths was drawn,-- "I take the omen of this face of dawn!" And with the omen to my heart cam'st thou. Even with a spray of tears That one light draft was fixed there for the years. The hours I tread ooze memories of thee, Sweet, Beneath my casual feet. With rainfall as the lea, The day is drenched with thee; In little exquisite surprises Bubbling deliciousness of thee arises From sudden places, Under the common traces Of my most lethargied and customed paces. As an Arab journeyeth Through a sand of Ayaman, Lean Thirst, lolling its cracked tongue, Lagging by his side along; And a rusty-winged Death Grating its low flight before, Casting ribbed shadows o'er The blank desert, blank and tan: He lifts by hap toward where the morning's roots are His weary stare,-- Sees, although they plashless mutes are, Set in a silver air Fountains of gelid shoots are, Making the daylight fairest fair; Sees the palm and tamarind Tangle the tresses of a phantom wind;-- A sight like innocence when one has sinned! A green and maiden freshness smiling there, While with unblinking glare The tawny-hided desert crouches watching her. 'Tis a vision: Yet the greeneries Elysian He has known in tracts afar; Thus the enamouring fountains flow, Those the very palms that grow, By rare-gummed Sava, or Herbalimar.-- Such a watered dream has tarried Trembling on my desert arid; Its lovely gleamings Seemings show Of things not seemings; And I gaze, Knowing that, beyond my ways, All these _are_, for these are She. Eve no gentlier lays her cooling cheek On the burning brow of the sick earth, Sick with death, and sick with birth, Aeon to aeon, in secular fever twirled, Than thy shadow soothes this weak And distempered being of mine. In all I work, my hand includeth thine; Thou rushest down in every stream Whose passion frets my spirit's deepening gorge; Unhood'st mine eyas-heart, and fliest my dream; Thou swing'st the hammers of my forge; As the innocent moon, that nothing does but shine, Moves all the labouring surges of the world. Pierce where thou wilt the springing thought in me, And there thy pictured countenance lies enfurled, As in the cut fern lies the imaged tree. This poor song that sings of thee, This fragile song, is but a curled Shell outgathered from thy sea, And murmurous still of its nativity. O thou most dear! Who art thy sex's complex harmony God-set more facilely; To thee may love draw near Without one blame or fear, Unchidden save by his humility: Thou Perseus' Shield! wherein I view secure The mirrored Woman's fateful-fair allure! Whom Heaven still leaves a twofold dignity, As girlhood gentle, and as boyhood free; With whom no most diaphanous webs enwind The bared limbs of the rebukeless mind. Wild Dryad! all unconscious of thy tree, With which indissolubly The tyrannous time shall one day make thee whole; Whose frank arms pass unfretted through its bole: Who wear'st thy femineity Light as entrailed blossoms, that shalt find It erelong silver shackles unto thee. Thou whose young sex is yet but in thy soul;-- As, hoarded in the vine, Hang the gold skins of undelirious wine, As air sleeps, till it toss its limbs in breeze:-- In whom the mystery which lures and sunders, Grapples and thrusts apart, endears, estranges, --The dragon to its own Hesperides-- Is gated under slow-revolving changes, Manifold doors of heavy-hinged years. So once, ere Heaven's eyes were filled with wonders To see Laughter rise from Tears, Lay in beauty not yet mighty, Conched in translucencies, The antenatal Aphrodite, Caved magically under magic seas; Caved dreamlessly beneath the dreamful seas. "Whose sex is in thy soul!" What think we of thy soul? Which has no parts, and cannot grow, Unfurled not from an embryo; Born of full stature, lineal to control; And yet a pigmy's yoke must undergo. Yet must keep pace and tarry, patient, kind, Must be obsequious to the body's powers, Whose low hands mete its paths, set ope and close its ways; Must do obeisance to the days, And wait the little pleasure of the hours; Yea, ripe for kingship, yet must be Captive in statuted minority! So is all power fulfilled, as soul in thee. So still the ruler by the ruled takes rule, And wisdom weaves itself i' the loom o' the fool. The splendent sun no splendour can display, Till on gross things he dash his broken ray, From cloud and tree and flower re-tossed in prismy spray. Did not obstruction's vessel hem it in, Force were not force, would spill itself in vain; We know the Titan by his champed chain. Stay is heat's cradle, it is rocked therein, And by check's hand is burnished into light; If hate were none, would love burn lowlier bright? God's Fair were guessed scarce but for opposite sin; Yea, and His Mercy, I do think it well, Is flashed back from the brazen gates of Hell. The heavens decree All power fulfil itself as soul in thee. For supreme Spirit subject was to clay, And Law from its own servants learned a law, And Light besought a lamp unto its way, And Awe was reined in awe, At one small house of Nazareth; Saw Breath to breathlessness resign its breath, And Life do homage for its crown to death. As a nymph's carven head sweet water drips, For others oozing so the cool delight Which cannot steep her stiffened mouth of stone-- Thy nescient lips repeat maternal strains. Memnonian lips! Smitten with singing from thy mother's east, And murmurous with music not their own: Nay, the lips flexile, while the mind alone A passionless statue stands. Oh, pardon, innocent one! Pardon at thine unconscious hands! "Murmurous with music not their own," I say? And in that saying how do I missay, When from the common sands Of poorest common speech of common day Thine accents sift the golden musics out! And ah, we poets, I misdoubt, Are little more than thou! We speak a lesson taught we know not how, And what it is that from us flows The hearer better than the utterer knows. And thou, bright girl, not long shalt thou repeat Idly the music from thy mother caught; Not vainly has she wrought, Not vainly from the cloudward-jetting turret Of her aerial mind, for thy weak feet, Let down the silken ladder of her thought. She bare thee with a double pain, Of the body and the spirit; Thou thy fleshly weeds hast ta'en, Thy diviner weeds inherit! The precious streams which through thy young lips roll Shall leave their lovely delta in thy soul: Where sprites of so essential kind Set their paces, Surely they shall leave behind The green traces Of their sportance in the mind; And thou shalt, ere we well may know it, Turn that daintiness, a poet,-- Elfin-ring Where sweet fancies foot and sing. So it may be, so it _shall_ be,-- O, take the prophecy from me! What if the old fastidious sculptor, Time, This crescent marvel of his hands Carveth all too painfully, And I who prophesy shall never see? What if the niche of its predestined rhyme, Its aching niche, too long expectant stands? Yet shall he after sore delays On some exultant day of days The white enshrouding childhood raise From thy fair spirit, finished for our gaze; While we (but 'mongst that happy "we" The prophet cannot be!) While we behold with no astonishments, With that serene fulfilment of delight Wherewith we view the sight When the stars pitch the golden tents Of their high encampment on the plains of night. Why should amazement be our satellite? What wonder in such things? If angels have hereditary wings, If not by Salic law is handed down The poet's crown, To thee, born in the purple of the throne, The laurel must belong: Thou, in thy mother's right Descendant of Castilian-chrismed kings-- But on a day whereof I think, One shall dip his hand to drink In that still water of thy soul, And its imaged tremors race Over thy joy-troubled face, As the intervolved reflections roll From a shaken fountain's brink, With swift light wrinkling its alcove. From the hovering wing of Love The warm stain shall flit roseal on thy cheek. Then, sweet blushet! whenas he, The destined paramount of thy universe, Who has no worlds to sigh for, ruling thee, Ascends his vermeil throne of empery, One grace alone I seek. Oh! may this treasure-galleon of my verse, Fraught with its golden passion, oared with cadent rhyme, Set with a towering press of fantasies, Drop safely down the time, Leaving mine isled self behind it far, Soon to be sunken in the abysm of seas, (As down the years the splendour voyages From some long ruined and night-submerged star), And in thy subject sovereign's havening heart Anchor the freightage of its virgin ore; Adding its wasteful more To his own overflowing treasury. So through his river mine shall reach thy sea, Bearing its confluent part; In his pulse mine shall thrill; And the quick heart shall quicken from the heart that's still. _Now pass your ways, fair bird, and pass your ways, If you will; I have you through the days. And flit or hold you still, And perch you where you list On what wrist,-- You are mine through the times. I have caught you fast for ever in a tangle of sweet rhymes. And in your young maiden morn, You may scorn, But you must be Bound and sociate to me; Love in Dian's Lap As lovers, banished from their lady's face, And hopeless of her grace, Fashion a ghostly sweetness in its place, Fondly adore Some stealth-won cast attire she wore, A kerchief, or a glove: And at the lover's beck Into the glove there fleets the hand, Or at impetuous command Up from the kerchief floats the virgin neck: So I, in very lowlihead of love,-- Too shyly reverencing To let one thought's light footfall smooth Tread near the living, consecrated thing,-- Treasure me thy cast youth. This outworn vesture, tenantless of thee, Hath yet my knee, For that, with show and semblance fair Of the past Her Who once the beautiful, discarded raiment bare, It cheateth me. As gale to gale drifts breath Of blossoms' death, So dropping down the years from hour to hour This dead youth's scent is wafted me to-day: I sit, and from the fragrance dream the flower. So, then, she looked (I say); And so her front sunk down Heavy beneath the poet's iron crown: On her mouth museful sweet-- (Even as the twin lips meet) Did thought and sadness greet: In those mournful eyes So put on visibilities; As viewless ether turns, in deep on deep, to dyes. Thus, long ago, She kept her meditative paces slow Through maiden meads, with waved shadow and gleam Of locks half-lifted on the winds of dream, Till love up-caught her to his chariot's glow. Yet, voluntary, happier Proserpine, This drooping flower of youth thou lettest fall I, faring in the cockshut-light, astray, Find on my 'lated way, And stoop, and gather for memorial, And lay it on my bosom, and make it mine. To this, the all of love the stars allow me, I dedicate and vow me. I reach back through the days A trothed hand to the dead the last trump shall not raise. The water-wraith that cries From those eternal sorrows of thy pictured eyes Entwines and draws me down their soundless intricacies! Too wearily had we and song Been left to look and left to long, Yea, song and we to long and look, Since thine acquainted feet forsook The mountain where the Muses hymn Now in both the mountains' shine Dress thy countenance, twice divine! From Moses and the Muses draw The Tables of thy double Law! His rod-born fount and Castaly Let the one rock bring forth for thee, Renewing so from either spring The songs which both thy countries sing: Or we shall fear lest, heavened thus long, Thou should'st forget thy native song, And mar thy mortal melodies With broken stammer of the skies. Ah! let the sweet birds of the Lord With earth's waters make accord; Teach how the crucifix may be Carven from the laurel-tree, Burnish take on Eden-trees, The Muses' sacred grove be wet And Sappho lay her burning brows In white Cecilia's lap of snows! I think thy girlhood's watchers must Have took thy folded songs on trust, And felt them, as one feels the stir Of still lightnings in the hair, When conscious hush expects the cloud To speak the golden secret loud Which tacit air is privy to; Flasked in the grape the wine they knew, Ere thy poet-mouth was able For its first young starry babble. Keep'st thou not yet that subtle grace? Yea, in this silent interspace, God sets His poems in thy face! The loom which mortal verse affords, Out of weak and mortal words, Wovest thou thy singing-weed in, To a rune of thy far Eden. Vain are all disguises! Ah, Heavenly _incognita_! Thy mien bewrayeth through that wrong The great Uranian House of Song! As the vintages of earth Taste of the sun that riped their birth, We know what never-cadent Sun Thy lamped clusters throbbed upon, What plumed feet the winepress trod; Thy wine is flavorous of God. Whatever singing-robe thou wear Has the paradisal air; And some gold feather it has kept Shows what Floor it lately swept. Since you have waned from us, Fairest of women, I am a darkened cage Song cannot hymn in. My songs have followed you, Like birds the summer; Ah! bring them back to me, Swiftly, dear comer! Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!_ Whereso your angel is, My angel goeth; I am left guardianless, Paradise knoweth! I have no Heaven left To weep my wrongs to; Heaven, when you went from us, Went with my songs too. Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!_ I have no angels left Now, Sweet, to pray to: Where you have made your shrine They are away to. They have struck Heaven's tent, And gone to cover you: Whereso you keep your state Heaven is pitched over you! Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!_ She that is Heaven's Queen Her title borrows, For that she, pitiful, Beareth our sorrows. So thou, _Regina mi, Spes infirmorum_; With all our grieving crowned _Mater dolorum! Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!_ Yet, envious coveter Of other's grieving! This lonely longing yet 'Scapeth your reaving. Cruel to take from a Think you with contrite smiles To be forgiven? Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!_ Penitent! give me back Render your stolen self, And be forgiven! How frontier Heaven from you? For my soul prays, Sweet, Still to your face in Heaven, Heaven in your face, Sweet! Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!_ Oh, but the heavenly grammar did I hold Of that high speech which angels' tongues turn gold! So should her deathless beauty take no wrong, Praised in her own great kindred's fit and cognate tongue. Or if that language yet with us abode Which Adam in the garden talked with God! But our untempered speech descends--poor heirs! Grimy and rough-cast still from Babel's bricklayers: Curse on the brutish jargon we inherit, Strong but to damn, not memorise, a spirit! A cheek, a lip, a limb, a bosom, they Move with light ease in speech of working-day; And women we do use to praise even so. But here the gates we burst, and to the temple go. Their praise were her dispraise; who dare, who dare, Adulate the seraphim for their burning hair? How, if with them I dared, here should I dare it? How praise the woman, who but know the spirit? How praise the colour of her eyes, uncaught While they were coloured with her varying thought? How her mouth's shape, who only use to know What tender shape her speech will fit it to? Or her lips' redness, when their joined veil Song's fervid hand has parted till it wore them pale? If I would praise her soul (temerarious if!) All must be mystery and hieroglyph. Heaven, which not oft is prodigal of its more To singers, in their song too great before-- By which the hierarch of large poesy is Restrained to his one sacred benefice-- Only for her the salutary awe Relaxes and stern canon of its law; To her alone concedes pluralities, In her alone to reconcile agrees To her, who can the trust so well conduct, To her it gives the use, to us the usufruct. What of the dear administress then may I utter, though I spoke her own carved perfect way? What of her daily gracious converse known, Whose heavenly despotism must needs dethrone And subjugate all sweetness but its own? Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird. What of her silence, that outsweetens speech? What of her thoughts, high marks for mine own thoughts to reach? Yet (Chaucer's antique sentence so to turn), Most gladly will she teach, and gladly learn; And teaching her, by her enchanting art, The master threefold learns for all he can impart. Now all is said, and all being said,--aye me! There yet remains unsaid the very She. Nay, to conclude (so to conclude I dare), If of her virtues you evade the snare, Then for her faults you'll fall in love with her. Alas, and I have spoken of her Muse-- Her Muse, that died with her auroral dews! Learn, the wise cherubim from harps of gold Seduce a trepidating music manifold; But the superior seraphim do know None other music but to flame and glow. So she first lighted on our frosty earth, A sad musician, of cherubic birth, Playing to alien ears--which did not prize The uncomprehended music of the skies-- The exiled airs of her far Paradise. But soon, from her own harpings taking fire, In love and light her melodies expire. Now Heaven affords her, for her silenced hymn, A double portion of the seraphim. At the rich odours from her heart that rise, My soul remembers its lost Paradise, And antenatal gales blow from Heaven's shores of spice; I grow essential all, uncloaking me From this encumbering virility, And feel the primal sex of heaven and poetry: And parting from her, in me linger on Vague snatches of Uranian antiphon. How to the petty prison could she shrink Of femineity?--Nay, but I think In a dear courtesy her spirit would Woman assume, for grace to womanhood. Or, votaress to the virgin Sanctitude Of reticent withdrawal's sweet, courted pale, She took the cloistral flesh, the sexual veil, Of her sad, aboriginal sisterhood; The habit of cloistral flesh which founding Eve indued. Thus do I know her: but for what men call Beauty--the loveliness corporeal, Its most just praise a thing unproper were To singer or to listener, me or her. She wears that body but as one indues A robe, half careless, for it is the use; Although her soul and it so fair agree, We sure may, unattaint of heresy, Conceit it might the soul's begetter be. The immortal could we cease to contemplate, The mortal part suggests its every trait. God laid His fingers on the ivories Of her pure members as on smoothed keys, And there out-breathed her spirit's harmonies. I'll speak a little proudly:--I disdain To count the beauty worth my wish or gain, Which the dull daily fool can covet or obtain. I do confess the fairness of the spoil, But from such rivalry it takes a soil. For her I'll proudlier speak:--how could it be That I should praise the gilding on the psaltery? 'Tis not for her to hold that prize a prize, Or praise much praise, though proudest in its wise, To which even hopes of merely women rise. Such strife would to the vanquished laurels yield, Against _her_ suffered to have lost a field. Herself must with herself be sole compeer, Unless the people of her distant sphere Some gold migration send to melodise the year. Yet I have felt what terrors may consort In women's cheeks, the Graces' soft resort; My hand hath shook at gentle hands' access, And trembled at the waving of a tress; My blood known panic fear, and fled dismayed, Where ladies' eyes have set their ambuscade. The rustle of a robe hath been to me The very rattle of love's musketry; Although my heart hath beat the loud advance, I have recoiled before a challenging glance, Proved gay alarms where warlike ribbons dance. And from it all, this knowledge have I got,-- The whole that others have, is less than they have not; All which makes other women noted fair, Unnoted would remain and overshone in her. How should I gauge what beauty is her dole, Who cannot see her countenance for her soul, As birds see not the casement for the sky? And, as 'tis check they prove its presence by, I know not of her body till I find My flight debarred the heaven of her mind. Hers is the face whence all should copied be, Did God make replicas of such as she; Its presence felt by what it does abate, Because the soul shines through tempered and mitigate: Where--as a figure labouring at night Beside the body of a splendid light-- Dark Time works hidden by its luminousness; And every line he labours to impress Turns added beauty, like the veins that run Athwart a leaf which hangs against the sun. There regent Melancholy wide controls; There Earth-and Heaven-Love play for aureoles; There Sweetness out of Sadness breaks at fits, Like bubbles on dark water, or as flits A sudden silver fin through its deep infinites; There amorous Thought has sucked pale Fancy's breath, And Tenderness sits looking towards the lands of death; There Feeling stills her breathing with her hand, And Dream from Melancholy part wrests the wand And on this lady's heart, looked you so deep, Poor Poetry has rocked himself to sleep: Upon the heavy blossom of her lips Hangs the bee Musing; nigh, her lids eclipse Each half-occulted star beneath that lies; And in the contemplation of those eyes, Passionless passion, wild tranquillities. _Wherein he excuseth himself for the Manner of the Portrait_ Alas! now wilt thou chide, and say (I deem) My figured descant hides the simple theme: Or, in another wise reproving, say I ill observe thine own high reticent way. Oh, pardon, that I testify of thee What thou couldst never speak, nor others be! Yet (for the book is not more innocent Of what the gazer's eyes makes so intent), She will but smile, perhaps, that I find my fair Sufficing scope in such strait theme as her. "Bird of the sun! the stars' wild honey bee! Is your gold browsing done so thoroughly? Or sinks a singed wing to narrow nest in me?" (Thus she might say: for not this lowly vein Out-deprecates her deprecating strain.) Oh, you mistake, dear lady, quite; nor know Ether was strict as you, its loftiness as low! The heavens do not advance their majesty Over their marge; beyond his empery The ensigns of the wind are not unfurled, His reign is hooped in by the pale o' the world. 'Tis not the continent, but the contained, That pleasaunce makes or prison, loose or chained. Too much alike or little captives me, For all oppression is captivity. What groweth to its height demands no higher; The limit limits not, but the desire. We, therefore, with a sure instinctive mind, An equal spaciousness of bondage find In confines far or near, of air or our own kind. Our looks and longings, which affront the stars, Most richly bruised against their golden bars, Delighted captives of their flaming spears, Find a restraint restrainless which appears As that is, and so simply natural, In you;--the fair detention freedom call, And overscroll with fancies the loved prison-wall. Such sweet captivity, and only such, In you, as in those golden bars, we touch! Our gazes for sufficing limits know The firmament above, your face below; Our longings are contented with the skies, Contented with the heaven, and your eyes. My restless wings, that beat the whole world through, Flag on the confines of the sun and you; And find the human pale remoter of the two. The after-even! Ah, did I walk, Indeed, in her or even? For nothing of me or around But absent She did leaven, Felt in my body as its soul, And in my soul its heaven. "Ah me! my very flesh turns soul, Essenced," I sighed, "with bliss!" And the blackbird held his lutany, All fragrant-through with bliss; And all things stilled were as a maid Sweet with a single kiss. For grief of perfect fairness, eve Could nothing do but smile; The time was far too perfect fair, Being but for a while; And ah, in me, too happy grief Blinded herself with smile! The sunset at its radiant heart Had somewhat unconfest: The bird was loath of speech, its song Half-refluent on its breast, And made melodious toyings with A note or two at best. And she was gone, my sole, my Fair, Ah, sole my Fair, was gone! Methinks, throughout the world 'twere right I had been sad alone; And yet, such sweet in all things' heart, And such sweet in my own! It seemed corrival of the world's great prime, Made to un-edge the scythe of Time, And last with stateliest rhyme. No tender Dryad ever did indue That rigid chiton of rough yew, To fret her white flesh through: But some god, like to those grim Asgard lords Who walk the fables of the hordes From Scandinavian fjords, Upheaved its stubborn girth, and raised unriven, Against the whirl-blast and the levin, Defiant arms to Heaven. When doom puffed out the stars, we might have said, It would decline its heavy head, And see the world to bed. For this firm yew did from the vassal leas, And rain and air, its tributaries, Its revenues increase, And levy impost on the golden sun, Take the blind years as they might run, And no fate seek or shun. But now our yew is strook, is fallen--yea Hacked like dull wood of every day To this and that, men say. Never!--To Hades' shadowy shipyards gone, Dim barge of Dis, down Acheron It drops, or Lethe wan. Stirred by its fall--poor destined bark of Dis!-- Along my soul a bruit there is Of echoing images, Reverberations of mortality: Spelt backward from its death, to me Its life reads saddenedly. Its breast was hollowed as the tooth of eld; And boys, there creeping unbeheld, A laughing moment dwelled. Yet they, within its very heart so crept, Reached not the heart that courage kept With winds and years beswept. And in its boughs did close and kindly nest The birds, as they within its breast, By all its leaves caressed. But bird nor child might touch by any art Each other's or the tree's hid heart, A whole God's breadth apart; The breadth of God, the breadth of death and life! Even so, even so, in undreamed strife With pulseless Law, the wife,-- The sweetest wife on sweetest marriage-day,-- Their soul at grapple in mid-way, Sweet to her sweet may say: "I take you to my inmost heart, my true!" Ah, fool! but there is one heart you Shall never take him to! The hold that falls not when the town is got, The heart's heart, whose immured plot Hath keys yourself keep not! Its ports you cannot burst--you are withstood-- For him that to your listening blood Sends precepts as he would. Its gates are deaf to Love, high summoner; Yea, Love's great warrant runs not there: You are your prisoner. Yourself are with yourself the sole consortress In that unleaguerable fortress; It knows you not for portress. Its keys are at the cincture hung of God; Its gates are trepidant to His nod; By Him its floors are trod. And if His feet shall rock those floors in wrath, Or blest aspersion sleek His path, Is only choice it hath. Yea, in that ultimate heart's occult abode To lie as in an oubliette of God; Or in a bower untrod, Built by a secret Lover for His Spouse;-- Sole choice is this your life allows, Sad tree, whose perishing boughs So few birds house! I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped; And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, And unperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat--and a Voice beat More instant than the Feet-- "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me." I pleaded, outlaw-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red, Trellised with intertwining charities; (For, though I knew His love Who followed, Yet was I sore adread Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside); But, if one little casement parted wide, The gust of His approach would clash it to. Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled, And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars; Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon. I said to dawn, Be sudden; to eve, Be soon; With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over From this tremendous Lover! Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see! I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy, In faith to Him their fickleness to me, Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, The long savannahs of the blue; Or whether, Thunder-driven, They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:-- Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. Still with unhurrying chase, And unperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, Came on the following Feet, And a Voice above their beat-- "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me." I sought no more that after which I strayed In face of man or maid; But still within the little children's eyes Seems something, something that replies; _They_ at least are for me, surely for me! I turned me to them very wistfully; But, just as their young eyes grew sudden fair With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. "Come then, ye other children, Nature's--share With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship; Let me greet you lip to lip, Let me twine with you caresses, With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, With her in her wind-walled palace, Underneath her azured dais, Quaffing, as your taintless way is, From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring." So it was done: _I_ in their delicate fellowship was one-- Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies. _I_ knew all the swift importings On the wilful face of skies; I knew how the clouds arise Spumed of the wild sea-snortings; All that's born or dies Rose and drooped with--made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine-- With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; Against the red throb of its sunset-heart I laid my own to beat, And share commingling heat; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. For ah! we know not what each other says, These things and I; in sound _I_ speak-- _Their_ sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth; Let her, if she would owe me, Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me The breasts o' her tenderness: Never did any milk of hers once bless My thirsting mouth. Nigh and nigh draws the chase, With unperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy; And past those noised Feet A voice comes yet more fleet-- "Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me." Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knee; I am defenceless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, _I_ stand amid the dust o' the mounded years-- My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Designer infinite!-- Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity; Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man's heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest fields Be dunged with rotten death? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: "And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me! Strange, piteous, futile thing, Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said), "And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited-- Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come!" Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me." I will not perturbate Thy Paradisal state With praise Of thy dead days; To the new-heavened say,-- "Spirit, thou wert fine clay": Thy praise who knew. Therefore my spirit clings Heaven's porter by the wings, And holds Its gated golds Apart, with thee to press A private business;-- Deign me audience. Anchorite, who didst dwell With all the world for cell, My soul Round me doth roll A sequestration bare. Too far alike we were, Too far For its burning fruitage I Do climb the tree o' the sky; Do prize Some human eyes. _You_ smelt the Heaven-blossoms, And all the sweet embosoms The dear Uranian year. Those Eyes my weak gaze shuns, Which to the suns are Suns, Not affray your lid. The carpet was let down (With golden moultings strown) For you Of the angels' blue. But I, ex-Paradised, The shoulder of your Christ Find high To lean thereby. So flaps my helpless sail, Bellying with neither gale, Nor Orcus even. Life is a coquetry Of Death, which wearies me, Too sure Of the amour; A tiring-room where I Death's divers garments try, Some fashion sit. It seemeth me too much I do rehearse for such A mean And single scene. The sandy glass hence bear-- Antique remembrancer; My veins Do spare its pains. With secret sympathy My thoughts repeat in me The turn o' the worm Beneath my appointed sod; The grave is in my blood; I shake To winds that take Its grasses by the top; The rains thereon that drop With drip acerb My subtly answering soul; The feet across its knoll Do jar Me from afar. As sap foretastes the spring; As Earth ere blossoming With far daffodils, And feels her breast turn sweet With the unconceived wheat; So doth My flesh foreloathe The abhorred spring of Dis, With seething presciences The preparate worm. I have no thought that I, When at the last I die, Shall reach To gain your speech. But you, should that be so, May very well, I know, May well To me in hell With recognising eyes Look from your Paradise-- "God bless Thy hopelessness!" Call, holy soul, O call The hosts angelical, "See, far away "Lies one I saw on earth; One stricken from his birth With curse Of destinate verse. "What place doth He ye serve For such sad spirit reserve,-- In dark lieu of Heaven, "The impitiable Daemon, Beauty, to adore and dream on, To be "Hers, but she never his? He reapeth miseries; His wages woes; "He lives detached days; He serveth not for praise; For gold He is not sold; "Deaf is he to world's tongue; He scorneth for his song The loud Shouts of the crowd; "He asketh not world's eyes; Not to world's ears he cries; Shut, if you please'; "He measureth world's pleasure, World's ease, as Saints might measure; For hire Just love entire "He asks, not grudging pain; And knows his asking vain, And cries-- 'Love! Love!' and dies, "In guerdon of long duty, And goes-- Tell, tell, who knows! "Aliens from Heaven's worth, Fine beasts who nose i' the earth, Do there Reward prepare. "But are _his_ great desires Food but for nether fires? Ah me, A mystery! "Can it be his alone, To find, when all is known, That what He solely sought "Is lost, and thereto lost All that its seeking cost? Must finally, "Through sacrificial tears, And anchoretic years, With the sensualist?" So ask; and if they tell The secret terrible, Good friend, I pray thee send Some high gold embassage To teach my unripe age. Lest my feet walk hell. Starry amorist, starward gone, Thou art--what thou didst gaze upon! Passed through thy golden garden's bars, Thou seest the Gardener of the Stars. She, about whose mooned brows Seven stars make seven glows, Seven lights for seven woes; She, like thine own Galaxy, All lustres in one purity:-- What said'st thou, Astronomer, When thou did'st discover _her_? When thy hand its tube let fall, Thou found'st the fairest star of all! Hearken my chant,--'tis As a Bacchante's, A grape-spurt, a vine-splash, a tossed tress, flown vaunt 'tis! Suffer my singing, Gipsy of Seasons, ere thou go winging; Ere Winter throws His slaking snows In thy feasting-flagon's impurpurate glows! Tanned maiden! with cheeks like apples russet, And breast a brown agaric faint-flushing at tip, And a mouth too red for the moon to buss it But her cheek unvow its vestalship; Thy mists enclip Her steel-clear circuit illuminous, Until it crust With the glorious gules of a glowing rust. Far other saw we, other indeed, The crescent moon, in the May-days dead, Fly up with its slender white wings spread Out of its nest in the sea's waved mead! How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden? Umbered juices, And pulped oozes Pappy out of the cherry-bruises Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden! With hair that musters In globed clusters, In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies, Like velvet pansies Wherethrough escapes The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies; With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes Of the feet whereunto it falleth down, Thy naked feet unsandalled; With robe gold-tawny that does not veil Feet where the red Is meshed in the brown, Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. The wassailous heart of the Year is thine! His Bacchic fingers disentwine His coronal At thy festival; His revelling fingers disentwine Leaf, flower, and all, And let them fall Blossom and all in thy wavering wine. The Summer looks out from her brazen tower, Through the flashing bars of July, Waiting thy ripened golden shower; Whereof there cometh, with sandals fleet, The North-west flying viewlessly, With a sword to sheer, and untameable feet, And the gorgon-head of the Winter shown To stiffen the gazing earth as stone. In crystal Heaven's magic sphere Poised in the palm of thy fervid hand, Thou seest the enchanted shows appear That stain Favonian firmament; Richer than ever the Occident Gave up to bygone Summer's wand. Day's dying dragon lies drooping his crest, Panting red pants into the West. Or a butterfly sunset claps its wings With flitter alit on the swinging blossom, The gusty blossom, that tosses and swings, Of the sea with its blown and ruffled bosom; Its ruffled bosom wherethrough the wind sings Till the crisped petals are loosened and strown Overblown on the sand; Shed, curling as dead Rose-leaves curl, on the flecked strand. Or higher, holier, saintlier when, as now, All Nature sacerdotal seems, and thou. The calm hour strikes on yon golden gong, In tones of floating and mellow light, A spreading summons to even-song: See how there The cowled Night Kneels on the Eastern sanctuary-stair. What is this feel of incense everywhere? Clings it round folds of the blanch-amiced clouds, Upwafted by the solemn thurifer, The mighty Spirit unknown, That swingeth the slow earth before the embannered Or is't the Season, under all these shrouds Of light, and sense, and silence, makes her known A presence everywhere, An inarticulate prayer, A hand on the soothed tresses of the air? But there is one hour scant Of this Titanian, primal liturgy,-- As there is but one hour for me and thee, Autumn, for thee and thine hierophant, Of this grave ending chant. Round the earth still and stark Heaven's death-lights kindle, yellow spark by spark, Beneath the dreadful catafalque of the dark. And I had ended there: But a great wind blew all the stars to flare, And cried, "I sweep a path before the moon! Tarry ye now the coming of the moon, For she is coming soon"; Then died before the coming of the moon. And she came forth upon the trepidant air, In vesture unimagined-fair, Woven as woof of flag-lilies; And, curdled as of flag-lilies, The vapour at the feet of her; And a haze about her tinged in fainter wise; As if she had trodden the stars in press, Till the gold wine spurted over her dress, Till the gold wine gushed out round her feet; Spouted over her stained wear, And bubbled in golden froth at her feet, And hung like a whirlpool's mist round her. Still, mighty Season, do I see't, Thy sway is still majestical! Thou hold'st of God, by title sure, Thine indefeasible investiture, And that right round thy locks are native to; The heavens upon thy brow imperial, This huge terrene thy ball, And o'er thy shoulders thrown wide air's depending pall. What if thine earth be blear and bleak of hue? Still, still the skies are sweet! Still, Season, still thou hast thy triumphs there! How have I, unaware, Forgetful of my strain inaugural, Cleft the great rondure of thy reign complete, Yielding thee half, who hast indeed the all? I will not think thy sovereignty begun But with the shepherd Sun That washes in the sea the stars' gold fleeces; Or that with Day it ceases, Who sets his burning lips to the salt brine, And purples it to wine; While I behold how ermined Artemis Ordained weed must wear, And toil thy business; Who witness am of her, Her too in Autumn turned a vintager; And, laden with its lamped clusters bright, The fiery-fruited vineyard of this night. On Ararat there grew a vine, When Asia from her bathing rose; Our first sailor made a twine Thereof for his prefiguring brows. Canst divine Where, upon our dusty earth, of that vine a cluster grows? On Golgotha there grew a thorn Round the long-prefigured Brows. Mourn, O mourn! For the vine have we the spine? Is this all the Heaven allows? On Calvary was shook a spear; Press the point into thy heart-- Joy and fear! All the spines upon the thorn into curling tendrils start. O dismay! I, a wingless mortal, sporting With the tresses of the sun? I, that dare my hand to lay On the thunder in its snorting? Ere begun, Falls my singed song down the sky, even the old Icarian way. From the fall precipitant These dim snatches of her chant[B] Only have remained mine;-- That from spear and thorn alone May be grown For the front of saint or singer any divinizing twine. Her song said that no springing Paradise but evermore Hangeth on a singing That has chords of weeping, And that sings the after-sleeping To souls which wake too sore. He learns, in Elenore!" Where is the land of Luthany, Where is the tract of Elenore? I am bound therefor. "Pierce thy heart to find the key; With thee take Only what none else would keep; Learn to dream when thou dost wake, Learn to wake when thou dost sleep. Learn to water joy with tears, Learn from fears to vanquish fears; To hope, for thou dar'st not despair, Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve; Plough thou the rock until it bear; Know, for thou else couldst not believe; Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive; Die, for none other way canst live. When earth and heaven lay down their veil, And that apocalypse turns thee pale; When thy seeing blindeth thee To what thy fellow-mortals see; When their sight to thee is sightless; Their living, death; their light, most lightless; Search no more-- Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore." Where is the land of Luthany, And where the region Elenore? I do faint therefor. "When, to the new eyes of thee, All things, by immortal power, Near or far, To each other linked are, That thou canst not stir a flower Without troubling of a star; When thy song is shield and mirror To the fair snake-curled Pain, Where thou dar'st affront her terror That on her thou may'st attain Persean conquest;--seek no more, O seek no more! Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore." So sang she, so wept she, Through a dream-night's day; And with her magic singing kept she-- Mystical in music-- That garden of enchanting In visionary May; Swayless for my spirit's haunting, Daughter of the ancient Eve We know the gifts ye gave--and give. Who knows the gifts which _you_ shall give, Daughter of the newer Eve? You, if my soul be augur, you Shall--O what shall you not, Sweet, do? The celestial traitress play, And all mankind to bliss betray; With sacrosanct cajoleries And starry treachery of your eyes, Tempt us back to Paradise! Make heavenly trespass;--ay, press in Where faint the fledge-foot seraphin, Blest fool! Be ensign of our wars, And shame us all to warriors! Unbanner your bright locks,--advance, Girl, their gilded puissance, I' the mystic vaward, and draw on After the lovely gonfalon Us to out-folly the excess Of your sweet foolhardiness; To adventure like intense Assault against Omnipotence! Give me song, as She is, new, Earth should turn in time thereto! New, and new, and thrice so new, All old sweets, New Sweet, meant you! Fair, I had a dream of thee, When my young heart beat prophecy, And in apparition elate Thy little breasts knew waxed great, And thee for God grown marriageable. How my desire desired your day, That, wheeled in rumour on its way, Shook me thus with presentience! Then Eden's lopped tree shall shoot again: For who Christ's eyes shall miss, with those Eyes for evident nuncios? In your accents augural? Who shall not feel the Heavens hid Impend, at tremble of your lid, And divine advent shine avowed Under that dim and lucid cloud; Yea, 'fore the silver apocalypse Fail, at the unsealing of your lips? When to love _you_ is (O Christ's spouse!) To love the beauty of His house. Then come the Isaian days; the old Shall dream; and our young men behold Vision--yea, the vision of Thabor-mount, Which none to other shall recount, Because in all men's hearts shall be The seeing and the prophecy. For ended is the Mystery Play, When Christ is life, and you the way; And Day fulfils the married arms of Night. But here my lips are still. You and the hour shall be revealed, This song is sung and sung not, and its words are sealed. O tree of many branches! One thou hast Thou barest not, but grafted'st on thee. Now, Should all men's thunders break on thee, and leave Thee reft of bough and blossom, that one branch Shall cling to thee, my Father, Brother, Friend, Shall cling to thee, until the end of end! The lover, whose soul shaken is In some decuman billow of bliss, Who feels his gradual-wading feet Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet, And 'mid love's used converse comes Sharp on a mood which all joy sums-- An instant fine compendium of The liberal-leaved writ of love-- His abashed pulses beating thick At the exigent joy and quick, Up to the miracle of his fate. The wise girl, such Icarian fall Saved by her confidence that she's small,-- As what no kindred word will fit Is uttered best by opposite, Love in the tongue of hate exprest, And deepest anguish in a jest,-- Feeling the infinite must be Best said by triviality, Speaks, where expression bates its wings, Just happy, alien, little things; What of all words is in excess Implies in a sweet nothingness, With dailiest babble shows her sense That full speech were full impotence; And, while she feels the heavens lie bare,-- She only talks about her hair. The wailful sweetness of the violin Floats down the hushed waters of the wind; The heart-strings of the throbbing harp begin To long in aching music. Spirit-pined, In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, until The wounded soul ooze sadness. The red sun, A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill, While one bird prattles that the day is done. O setting Sun, that as in reverent days Sinkest in music to thy smoothed sleep, Discrowned of homage, though yet crowned with rays, Hymned not at harvest more, though reapers reap: For thee this music wakes not. O deceived, If thou hear in these thoughtless harmonies A pious phantom of adorings reaved, And echo of fair ancient flatteries! Yet, in this field where the Cross planted reigns, I know not what strange passion bows my head To thee, whose great command upon my veins Proves thee a god for me not dead, not dead! For worship it is too incredulous, For doubt--oh, too believing-passionate! What wild divinity makes my heart thus A fount of most baptismal tears?--Thy straight Long beam lies steady on the Cross. Ah me! What secret would thy radiant finger show? Of thy bright mastership is this the key? Is _this_ thy secret, then? And is it woe? Fling from thine ear the burning curls, and hark A song thou hast not heard in Northern day; For Rome too daring, and for Greece too dark, Sweet with wild wings that pass, that pass away! Alpha and Omega, sadness and mirth, The springing music, and its wasting breath-- The fairest things in life are Death and Birth, And of these two the fairer thing is Death. Mystical twins of Time inseparable, The younger hath the holier array, And hath the awfuller sway: It is the falling star that trails the light, It is the breaking wave that hath the might, The passing shower that rainbows maniple. Is it not so, O thou down-stricken Day, That draw'st thy splendours round thee in thy fall? High was thine Eastern pomp inaugural; But thou dost set in statelier pageantry Lauded with tumults of a firmament: Thy visible music-blasts make deaf the sky, Thy cymbals clang to fire the Occident, Thou dost thy dying so triumphally: I _see_ the crimson blaring of thy shawms! Why do those lucent palms Strew thy feet's failing thicklier than their might, Who dost but hood thy glorious eyes with night, And vex the heels of all the yesterdays? Lo! this loud, lackeying praise Will stay behind to greet the usurping moon, When they have cloud-barred over thee the West. Oh, shake the bright dust from thy parting shoon! The earth not paeans thee, nor serves thy hest; Be godded not by Heaven! avert thy face, And leave to blank disgrace The oblivious world! unsceptre thee of state and place! Yet ere Olympus thou wast, and a god! Though we deny thy nod, We cannot spoil thee of thy divinity. What know we elder than thee? When thou didst, bursting from the great void's husk, Leap like a lion on the throat o' the dusk; When the angels rose-chapleted Sang to each other, The vaulted blaze overhead Of their vast pinions spread, Hailing thee brother; How chaos rolled back from the wonder, And the First Morn knelt down to thy visage of thunder! Thou didst draw to thy side Thy young Auroral bride, And lift her veil of night and mystery; Tellus with baby hands Shook off her swaddling-bands, And from the unswathed vapours laughed to thee. Thou twi-form deity, nurse at once and sire! Thou genitor that all things nourishest! The earth was suckled at thy shining breast, And in her veins is quick thy milky fire. Who scarfed her with the morning? and who set Upon her brow the day-fall's carcanet? Who queened her front with the enrondured moon? To dower her, past an eastern wizard's dreams, When, hovering on him through his haschish-swoon, All the rained gems of the old Tartarian line Shiver in lustrous throbbings of tinged flame?-- Whereof a moiety in the Paolis' seams Statelily builded their Venetian name. Thou hast enwoofed her An empress of the air, And all her births are propertied by thee: Her teeming centuries Drew being from thine eyes: Thou fatt'st the marrow of all quality. Who lit the furnace of the mammoth's heart? Who shagged him like Pilatus' ribbed flanks? Who raised the columned ranks Of that old pre-diluvian forestry, Which like a continent torn oppressed the sea, When the ancient heavens did in rains depart, While the high-danced whirls Of the tossed scud made hiss thy drenched curls? Thou rear'dst the enormous brood; Who hast with life imbued The lion maned in tawny majesty, The tiger velvet-barred, The stealthy-stepping pard, And the lithe panther's flexuous symmetry. How came the entombed tree a light-bearer, Though sunk in lightless lair? Friend of the forgers of earth, Mate of the earthquake and thunders volcanic, Clasped in the arms of the forces Titanic Which rock like a cradle the girth Of the ether-hung world; Swart son of the swarthy mine, When flame on the breath of his nostrils feeds How is his countenance half-divine, Like thee in thy sanguine weeds? Thou gavest him his light, Though sepulchred in night Beneath the dead bones of a perished world; Over his prostrate form Though cold, and heat, and storm, The mountainous wrack of a creation hurled. Who made the splendid rose Saturate with purple glows; Cupped to the marge with beauty; a perfume-press Whence the wind vintages Gushes of warmed fragrance richer far Than all the flavorous ooze of Cyprus' vats? Lo, in yon gale which waves her green cymar, With dusky cheeks burnt red She sways her heavy head, Drunk with the must of her own odorousness; While in a moted trouble the vexed gnats Maze, and vibrate, and tease the noontide hush. Who girt dissolved lightnings in the grape? Summered the opal with an Irised flush? Is it not thou that dost the tulip drape, And huest the daffodilly, Yet who hast snowed the lily; And her frail sister, whom the waters name, Dost vestal-vesture 'mid the blaze of June, Cold as the new-sprung girlhood of the moon Ere Autumn's kiss sultry her cheek with flame? Thou sway'st thy sceptred beam O'er all delight and dream; Beauty is beautiful but in thy glance: And, like a jocund maid In garland-flowers arrayed, Before thy ark Earth keeps her sacred dance. And now, O shaken from thine antique throne, And sunken from thy coerule empery, Now that the red glare of thy fall is blown In smoke and flame about the windy sky, Where are the wailing voices that should meet From hill, stream, grove, and all of mortal shape Who tread thy gifts, in vineyards as stray feet Pulp the globed weight of juiced Iberia's grape? Where is the threne o' the sea? And why not dirges thee The wind, that sings to himself as he makes stride Lonely and terrible on the Andean height? Where is the Naiad 'mid her sworded sedge? The Nymph wan-glimmering by her wan fount's verge? The Dryad at timid gaze by the wood-side? The Oread jutting light On one up-strained sole from the rock-ledge? The Nereid tip-toe on the scud o' the surge, With whistling tresses dank athwart her face, And all her figure poised in lithe Circean grace? Why withers their lament? Their tresses tear-besprent, Have they sighed hence with trailing garment-hem? O sweet, O sad, O fair, I catch your flying hair, Draw your eyes down to me, and dream on them! A space, and they fleet from me. Must ye fade-- O old, essential candours, ye who made The earth a living and a radiant thing-- And leave her corpse in our strained, cheated arms? Lo ever thus, when Song with chorded charms Draws from dull death his lost Eurydice, Lo ever thus, even at consummating, Even in the swooning minute that claims her his, Even as he trembles to the impassioned kiss Of reincarnate Beauty, his control Clasps the cold body, and foregoes the soul! Whatso looks lovelily Is but the rainbow on life's weeping rain. Why have we longings of immortal pain, And all we long for mortal? Woe is me, And all our chants but chaplet some decay, As mine this vanishing--nay, vanished Day. The low sky-line dusks to a leaden hue, No rift disturbs the heavy shade and chill, Save one, where the charred firmament lets through The scorching dazzle of Heaven; 'gainst which the hill, Out-flattened sombrely, Stands black as life against eternity. Against eternity? A rifting light in me Burns through the leaden broodings of the mind: O blessed Sun, thy state Uprisen or derogate Dafts me no more with doubt; I seek and find. If with exultant tread Thou foot the Eastern sea, Or like a golden be Sting the West to angry red, Thou dost image, thou dost follow Who, ere Hellas hailed Apollo, Gave thee, angel-god, thy station; Thou art of Him a type memorial. Like Him thou hang'st in dreadful pomp of blood Upon thy Western rood; And His stained brow did veil like thine to-night, Yet lift once more Its light, And, risen, again departed from our ball, But when It set on earth arose in Heaven. Thus hath He unto death His beauty given: And so of all which form inheriteth The fall doth pass the rise in worth; For birth hath in itself the germ of death, But death hath in itself the germ of birth. It is the falling acorn buds the tree, The falling rain that bears the greenery, The fern-plants moulder when the ferns arise. For there is nothing lives but something dies, And there is nothing dies but something lives. Till skies be fugitives, Till Time, the hidden root of change, updries, Are Birth and Death inseparable on earth; For they are twain yet one, and Death is Birth. Now with wan ray that other sun of Song Sets in the bleakening waters of my soul: One step, and lo! the Cross stands gaunt and long 'Twixt me and yet bright skies, a presaged dole. Even so, O Cross! thine is the victory. Thy roots are fast within our fairest fields; Brightness may emanate in Heaven from thee, Here thy dread symbol only shadow yields. Of reaped joys thou art the heavy sheaf Which must be lifted, though the reaper groan; Yea, we may cry till Heaven's great ear be deaf, But we must bear thee, and must bear alone. Vain were a Simon; of the Antipodes Our night not borrows the superfluous day. Yet woe to him that from his burden flees, Crushed in the fall of what he cast away. Therefore, O tender Lady, Queen Mary, Thou gentleness that dost enmoss and drape The Cross's rigorous austerity, Wipe thou the blood from wounds that needs must gape. "Lo, though suns rise and set, but crosses stay, I leave thee ever," saith she, "light of cheer." 'Tis so: yon sky still thinks upon the Day, And showers aerial blossoms on his bier. Yon cloud with wrinkled fire is edged sharp; And once more welling through the air, ah me! How the sweet viol plains him to the harp, Whose panged sobbings throng tumultuously. Oh, this Medusa-pleasure with her stings! This essence of all suffering, which is joy! I am not thankless for the spell it brings, Though tears must be told down for the charmed toy. No; while soul, sky, and music bleed together, Let me give thanks even for those griefs in me, The restless windward stirrings of whose feather Prove them the brood of immortality. My soul is quitted of death-neighbouring swoon, Who shall not slake her immitigable scars Until she hear "My sister!" from the moon, And take the kindred kisses of the stars. Virtue may unlock hell, or even A sin turn in the wards of Heaven, (As ethics of the text-book go), So little men their own deeds know, Or through the intricate _melee_ Guess whitherward draws the battle-sway; So little, if they know the deed, Discern what therefrom shall succeed. To wisest moralists 'tis but given To work rough border-law of Heaven, Within this narrow life of ours, These marches 'twixt delimitless Powers. Is it, if Heaven the future showed, Is it the all-severest mode To see ourselves with the eyes of God? God rather grant, at His assize, He see us not with our own eyes! Heaven, which man's generations draws, Nor deviates into replicas, Must of as deep diversity In judgement as creation be. There is no expeditious road To pack and label men for God, And save them by the barrel-load. Some may perchance, with strange surprise, Have blundered into Paradise. In vasty dusk of life abroad, They fondly thought to err from God, Nor knew the circle that they trod; And, wandering all the night about, Found them at morn where they set out. Death dawned; Heaven lay in prospect wide:-- Lo! they were standing by His side! The windy trammel of her dress, Her blown locks, took my soul in mesh. God's breath they spake, with visibleness That stirred the raiment of her flesh: And sensible, as her blown locks were, Beyond the precincts of her form I felt the woman flow from her-- A calm of intempestuous storm. I failed against the affluent tide; Out of this abject earth of me I was translated and enskied Into the heavenly-regioned She. Now of that vision I bereaven This knowledge keep, that may not dim:-- Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven, So ready is Heaven to stoop to him; Which sets, to measure of man's feet, No alien Tree for trysting-place; And who can read, may read the sweet Direction in his Lady's face. What heart could have thought you?-- Past our devisal (O filigree petal!) Fashioned so purely, Fragilely, surely, From what Paradisal Imagineless metal, Too costly for cost? Who hammered you, wrought you, From argentine vapour?-- "God was my shaper. Passing surmisal, He hammered, He wrought me, From curled silver vapour, To lust of His mind:-- Thou could'st not have thought me! So purely, so palely, Tinily, surely, Mightily, frailly, Insculped and embossed, With His hammer of wind, And His graver of frost." Lo, in the sanctuaried East, Day, a dedicated priest In all his robes pontifical exprest, Lifteth slowly, lifteth sweetly, From out its Orient tabernacle drawn, Yon orbed sacrament confest Which sprinkles benediction through the dawn; And when the grave procession 's ceased, The earth with due illustrious rite Blessed,--ere the frail fingers featly Of twilight, violet-cassocked acolyte, His sacerdotal stoles unvest-- Sets, for high close of the mysterious feast, The sun in august exposition meetly Within the flaming monstrance of the West. God, whom none may live and mark, Borne within thy radiant ark!-- While the Earth, a joyous David, Dances before thee from the dawn to dark. The moon, O leave, pale ruined Eve; Behold her fair and greater daughter[C] Offers to thee her fruitful water, Which at thy first white _Ave_ shall conceive! Thy gazes do on simple her Desirable allures confer; What happy comelinesses rise Beneath thy beautifying eyes! Who was, indeed, at first a maid Such as, with sighs, misgives she is not fair, And secret views herself afraid, Till flatteries sweet provoke the charms they swear: Yea, thy gazes, blissful lover, Make the beauties they discover! What dainty guiles and treacheries caught From artful prompting of love's artless thought Her lowly loveliness teach her to adorn, When thy plumes shiver against the conscious gates of morn! And so the love which is thy dower, Earth, though her first-frightened breast Against the exigent boon protest, (For she, poor maid, of her own power Has nothing in herself, not even love, But an unwitting void thereof), Gives back to thee in sanctities of flower; And holy odours do her bosom invest, That sweeter grows for being prest: Though dear recoil, the tremorous nurse of joy, From thine embrace still startles coy, Till Phosphor lead, at thy returning hour, The laughing captive from the wishing West. Nor the majestic heavens less Thy formidable sweets approve, Thy dreads and thy delights confess That do draw, and that remove. Thou as a lion roar'st, O Sun, Upon thy satellites' vexed heels; Before thy terrible hunt thy planets run; Each in his frighted orbit wheels, Each flies through inassuageable chase, Since the hunt o' the world begun, The puissant approaches of thy face, And yet thy radiant leash he feels. Since the hunt o' the world begun, Lashed with terror, leashed with longing, The mighty course is ever run; Pricked with terror, leashed with longing, Thy rein they love, and thy rebuke they shun. Since the hunt o' the world began, With love that trembleth, fear that loveth, Thou join'st the woman to the man; And Life with Death In obscure nuptials moveth, Commingling alien, yet affined, breath. Thou art the incarnated Light Whose Sire is aboriginal, and beyond Death and resurgence of our day and night; From him is thy vicegerent wand With double potence of the black and white. The terror, and the loveliness, and purging, The deathfulness and lifefulness of fire! Samson's riddling meanings merging In thy twofold sceptre meet: Out of thy minatory might, Burning Lion, burning Lion, Comes the honey of all sweet, And out of thee, the eater, comes forth meat. And though, by thine alternate breath, Every kiss thou dost inspire Back from the windy vaultages of death; Yet thy clear warranty above Augurs the wings of death too must Occult reverberations stir of love Crescent and life incredible; That even the kisses of the just Go down not unresurgent to the dust. Yea, not a kiss which I have given, But shall triumph upon my lips in heaven, Or cling a shameful fungus there in hell. Know'st thou me not, O Sun? Yea, well Thou know'st the ancient miracle, The children know'st of Zeus and May; And still thou teachest them, O splendent Brother, To incarnate, the antique way, The truth which is their heritage from their Sire In sweet disguise of flesh from their sweet Mother. My fingers thou hast taught to con Thy flame-chorded psalterion, Till I can translate into mortal wire-- Till I can translate passing well-- The heavenly harping harmony, Melodious, sealed, inaudible, Which makes the dulcet psalter of the world's desire. Thou whisperest in the Moon's white ear, And she does whisper into mine,-- By night together, I and she-- With her virgin voice divine, The things I cannot half so sweetly tell As she can sweetly speak, I sweetly hear. By her, the Woman, does Earth live, O Lord, Yet she for Earth, and both in thee. Light out of light! Resplendent and prevailing Word Not unto thee, great Image, not to thee Did the wise heathen bend an idle knee; And in an age of faith grown frore If I too shall adore, Be it accounted unto me, A bright sciential idolatry! God has given thee visible thunders To utter thine apocalypse of wonders, And what want I of prophecy, That at the sounding from thy station Of thy flagrant trumpet, see The seals that melt, the open revelation? Or who a God-persuading angel needs, That only heeds The rhetoric of thy burning deeds? Which but to sing, if it may be, In worship-warranting moiety, So I would win In such a song as hath within A smouldering core of mystery, Brimmed with nimbler meanings up Than hasty Gideons in their hands may sup;-- Lo, my suit pleads That thou, Isaian coal of fire, Touch from yon altar my poor mouth's desire, And the relucent song take for thy sacred meeds. To thine own shape Thou round'st the chrysolite of the grape, Bind'st thy gold lightnings in his veins; Thou storest the white garners of the rains. Destroyer and preserver, thou Who medicinest sickness, and to health Art the unthanked marrow of its wealth; To those apparent sovereignties we bow And bright appurtenances of thy brow! Thy proper blood dost thou not give, That Earth, the gusty Maenad, drink and dance? Art thou not life of them that live? Yea, in glad twinkling advent, thou dost dwell Within our body as a tabernacle! Thou bittest with thine ordinance The jaws of Time, and thou dost mete The unsustainable treading of his feet. Thou to thy spousal universe Who in most dusk and vidual curch, Her Lord being hence, Keeps her cold sorrows by thy hearse. The heavens renew their innocence And morning state But by thy sacrament communicate; Their weeping night the symbol of our prayers, Our darkened search, And sinful vigil desolate. Essential Heavens and corporal Earth await; The Spirit and the Bride say: Come! Lo, of thy Magians I the least Haste with my gold, my incenses and myrrhs, To thy desired epiphany, from the spiced Regions and odorous of Song's traded East. Thou, for the life of all that live The victim daily born and sacrificed; To whom the pinion of this longing verse Beats but with fire which first thyself did give, To thee, O Sun--or is 't perchance, to Christ? Ay, if men say that on all high heaven's face The saintly signs I trace Which round my stoled altars hold their solemn place, Amen, amen! For oh, how could it be,-- When I with winged feet had run Through all the windy earth about, Quested its secret of the sun, And heard what thing the stars together shout,-- I should not heed thereout Consenting counsel won:-- "By this, O Singer, know we if thou see. When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is here, When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is there, Believe them: yea, and this--then art thou seer, When all thy crying clear Is but: Lo here! lo there!--ah me, lo everywhere!" Cast wide the folding doorways of the East, For now is light increased! And the wind-besomed chambers of the air, See they be garnished fair; And look the ways exhale some precious odours, And set ye all about wild-breathing spice, Now is no time for sober gravity, Season enough has Nature to be wise; But now distinct, with raiment glittering free, Shake she the ringing rafters of the skies With festal footing and bold joyance sweet, And let the earth be drunken and carouse! For lo, into her house Spring is come home with her world-wandering feet, And all things are made young with young desires; And all for her is light increased In yellow stars and yellow daffodils, Fling answering welcome-fires, By dawn and day-fall, on the jocund hills. And ye, winged minstrels of her fair meinie, Being newly coated in glad livery, Upon her steps attend, And round her treading dance and without end Reel your shrill lutany. What popular breath her coming does out-tell The garrulous leaves among! What little noises stir and pass From blade to blade along the voluble grass! O Nature, never-done Ungaped-at Pentecostal miracle, We hear thee, each man in his proper tongue! Break, elemental children, break ye loose From the strict frosty rule Of grey-beard Winter's school. Vault, O young winds, vault in your tricksome courses Upon the snowy steeds that reinless use In coerule pampas of the heaven to run, Foaled of the white sea-horses, Washed in the lambent waters of the sun. Let even the slug-abed snail upon the thorn Put forth a conscious horn! Mine elemental co-mates, joy each one; And ah, my foster-brethren, seem not sad-- No, seem not sad, That my strange heart and I should be so little glad. Suffer me at your leafy feast To sit apart, a somewhat alien guest, And watch your mirth, Unsharing in the liberal laugh of earth; Yet with a sympathy, Begot of wholly sad and half-sweet memory-- The little sweetness making grief complete; Faint wind of wings from hours that distant beat, When I, I too, Was once, O wild companions, as are you, Ran with such wilful feet. Hark to the _Jubilate_ of the bird For them that found the dying way to life! And they have heard, And quicken to the great precursive word; Green spray showers lightly down the cascade of the larch; The graves are riven, And the Sun comes with power amid the clouds of heaven! Went forth the trumpet of the March; Before his way, before his way Dances the pennon of the May! O earth, unchilded, widowed Earth, so long Lifting in patient pine and ivy-tree Mournful belief and steadfast prophecy, Behold how all things are made true! Behold your bridegroom cometh in to you, Exceeding glad and strong. Raise up your eyes, O raise your eyes abroad! No more shall you sit sole and vidual, Searching, in servile pall, Upon the hieratic night the star-sealed sense of all: Rejoice, O barren, and look forth abroad! Your children gathered back to your embrace See with a mother's face. Look up, O mortals, and the portent heed; In every deed, Washed with new fire to their irradiant birth, Reintegrated are the heavens and earth! From sky to sod, The world's unfolded blossom smells of God. My little-worlded self! the shadows pass In this thy sister-world, as in a glass, Of all processions that revolve in thee: Not only of cyclic Man Thou here discern'st the plan, Not only of cyclic Man, but of the cyclic Me. Not solely of Mortality's great years The reflex just appears, But thine own bosom's year,--still circling round In ample and in ampler gyre Toward the far completion, wherewith crowned, Love unconsumed shall chant in his own furnace-fire. How many trampled and deciduous joys Enrich thy soul for joys deciduous still, Before the distance shall fulfil Cyclic unrest with solemn equipoise! Happiness is the shadow of things past, Which fools still take for that which is to be! And not all foolishly: For all the past, read true, is prophecy, And all the firsts are hauntings of some Last, And all the springs are flash-lights of one Spring. Then leaf, and flower, and fall-less fruit Shall hang together on the unyellowing bough; And silence shall be Music mute For her surcharged heart. Hush thou! These things are far too sure that thou should'st dream Thereof, lest they appear as things that seem. Nature, enough! within thy glass Too many and too stern the shadows pass. In this delighted season, flaming For thy resurrection-feast, Ah, more I think the long ensepulture cold, Than stony winter rolled From the unsealed mouth of the holy East; The snowdrop's saintly stoles less heed Than the snow-cloistered penance of the seed. 'Tis the weak flesh reclaiming Against the ordinance Which yet for just the accepting spirit scans. Earth waits, and patient heaven, Self-bonded God doth wait Thrice-promulgated bans Of his fair nuptial-date. And power is man's, With that great word of "wait," To still the sea of tears, And shake the iron heart of Fate. In that one word is strong An else, alas, much-mortal song; With sight to pass the frontier of all spheres, And voice which does my sight such wrong. Not without fortitude I wait The dark majestical ensuit Of destiny, nor peevish rate Calm-knowledged Fate. I do hear From the revolving year A voice which cries: "All dies; Lo, how all dies! O seer, And all things too arise: All dies, and all is born; But each resurgent morn, behold, more near the Perfect Morn." Firm is the man, and set beyond the cast Of Fortune's game, and the iniquitous hour, Whose falcon soul sits fast, And not intends her high sagacious tour Or ere the quarry sighted; who looks past To slow much sweet from little instant sour, And in the first does always see the last. On him the unpetitioned heavens descend, Who heaven on earth proposes not for end; The perilous and celestial excess Taking with peace, lacking with thankfulness. Bliss in extreme befits thee not, until Thou'rt not extreme in bliss; be equal still: Sweets to be granted think thyself unmeet Till thou have learned to hold sweet not too sweet. This thing not far is he from wise in art Who teacheth; nor who doth, from wise in heart. _"Thou needst not make new songs, but say the old."_--COWLEY. "_Mortals, that behold a Woman, Rising 'twixt the Moon and Sun; Who am I the heavens assume? an All am I, and I am one._ "Multitudinous ascend I, Dreadful as a battle arrayed, For I bear you whither tend I; Ye are I: be undismayed! I, the Ark that for the graven Tables of the Law was made; Man's own heart was one, one Heaven, Both within my womb were laid. For there Anteros with Eros Heaven with man conjoined was,-- Twin-stone of the Law, _Ischyros, "I, the flesh-girt Paradises Gardenered by the Adam new, Daintied o'er with sweet devices Which He loveth, for He grew. I, the boundless strict savannah Which God's leaping feet go through; I, the heaven whence the Manna, Weary Israel, slid on you! I the body, He the Cross; He upbeareth me, _Ischyros, "I am Daniel's mystic Mountain, Whence the mighty stone was rolled; I am the four Rivers' fountain, Watering Paradise of old; Cloud down-raining the Just One am, I the body, He the Cross; He is fast to me, _Ischyros, "I, the presence-hall where Angels Do enwheel their placed King-- Even my thoughts which, without change else, Cyclic burn and cyclic sing. To the hollow of Heaven transplanted, I a breathing Eden spring, Where with venom all outpanted Lies the slimed Curse shrivelling. For the brazen Serpent clear on That old fanged knowledge shone; I to Wisdom rise, _Ischyron, "Then commanded and spake to me He who framed all things that be; And my Maker entered through me, In my tent His rest took He. Lo! He standeth, Spouse and Brother, Who upraised me where my mother Fell, beneath the apple-tree. Risen 'twixt Anteros and Eros, He upbears me, He _Ischyros_, I bear Him, the _Athanaton_!" Where is laid the Lord arisen? In the light we walk in gloom. Though the sun has burst his prison, We know not his biding-room. Tell us where the Lord sojourneth, For we find an empty tomb. "Whence He sprung, there He returneth, Mystic Sun,--the Virgin's Womb." Hidden Sun, His beams so near us, Cloud enpillared as He was From of old, there He, _Ischyros_, Waits our search, _Athanatos_! Camp of Angels! Well we even Of this thing may doubtful be,-- If thou art assumed to Heaven, Or is Heaven assumed to thee! _Consummatum._ Christ the promised, Thy maiden realm is won, O Strong! Since to such sweet Kingdom comest, Remember me, poor Thief of Song! Cadent fails the stars along:-- "_Mortals, that behold a woman Rising 'twixt the Moon and Sun; Who am I the heavens assume? an All am I, and I am one._" In nescientness, in nescientness, Mother, we put these fleshly lendings on Thou yield'st to thy poor children; took thy gift Of life, which must, in all the after days Be craved again with tears,-- With fresh and still petitionary tears. Being once bound thine almsmen for that gift, We are bound to beggary; nor our own can call The journal dole of customary life, But after suit obsequious for 't to thee. Indeed this flesh, O Mother, A beggar's gown, a client's badging, We find, which from thy hands we simply took, Naught dreaming of the after penury, In nescientness. In a little thought, in a little thought, We stand and eye thee in a grave dismay, With sad and doubtful questioning, when first Thou speak'st to us as men: like sons who hear Newly their mother's history, unthought Before, and say--"She is not as we dreamed: Ah me! we are beguiled!" What art thou, then, That art not our conceiving? Art thou not Too old for thy young children? Or perchance, Keep'st thou a youth perpetual-burnishable Beyond thy sons decrepit? It is long Since Time was first a fledgling; Yet thou may'st be but as a pendant bulla Against his stripling bosom swung. Alack! For that we seem indeed To have slipped the world's great leaping-time, and come Upon thy pinched and dozing days: these weeds, These corporal leavings, thou not cast'st us new, Fresh from thy craftship, like the lilies' coats, But foist'st us off With hasty tarnished piecings negligent, Snippets and waste From old ancestral wearings, That have seen sorrier usage; remainder-flesh Some of us, that if speech may have free leave Our souls go out at elbows. We are sad With more than our sires' heaviness, and with More than their weakness weak; we shall not be Mighty with all their mightiness, nor shall not Rejoice with all their joy. Ay, Mother! Mother! What is this Man, thy darling kissed and cuffed, Thou lustingly engender'st, To sweat, and make his brag, and rot, Crowned with all honour and all shamefulness? From nightly towers He dogs the secret footsteps of the heavens, Sifts in his hands the stars, weighs them as gold-dust, And yet is he successive unto nothing But patrimony of a little mould, And entail of four planks. Thou hast made his mouth Avid of all dominion and all mightiness, All sorrow, all delight, all topless grandeurs, All beauty, and all starry majesties, And dim transtellar things;--even that it may, Filled in the ending with a puff of dust, Confess--"It is enough." The world left empty What that poor mouthful crams. His heart is builded For pride, for potency, infinity, All heights, all deeps, and all immensities, Arrased with purple like the house of kings, To stall the grey-rat, and the carrion-worm Statelily lodge. Mother of mysteries! Sayer of dark sayings in a thousand tongues, Who bringest forth no saying yet so dark As we ourselves, thy darkest! We the young, In a little thought, in a little thought, At last confront thee, and ourselves in thee, And wake disgarmented of glory: as one On a mount standing, and against him stands, On the mount adverse, crowned with westering rays, The golden sun, and they two brotherly Gaze each on each; He faring down To the dull vale, his Godhead peels from him Till he can scarcely spurn the pebble-- For nothingness of new-found mortality-- That mutinies against his galled foot. Littly he sets him to the daily way, With all around the valleys growing grave, And known things changed and strange; but he holds on, Though all the land of light be widowed, In a little thought. In a little dust, in a little dust, Earth, thou reclaim'st us, who do all our lives Thou dost this body, this enhavocked realm, Subject to ancient and ancestral shadows; Descended passions sway it; it is distraught With ghostly usurpation, dinned and fretted With the still-tyrannous dead; a haunted tenement, Peopled from barrows and outworn ossuaries. Thou giv'st us life not half so willingly As thou undost thy giving; thou that teem'st The stealthy terror of the sinuous pard, The lion maned with curled puissance, The serpent, and all fair strong beasts of ravin, Thyself most fair and potent beast of ravin; And thy great eaters thou, the greatest, eat'st. Thou hast devoured mammoth and mastodon, And many a floating bank of fangs, The scaly scourges of thy primal brine, And the tower-crested plesiosaure. Thou fill'st thy mouth with nations, gorgest slow On purple aeons of kings; man's hulking towers Are carcase for thee, and to modern sun Disglutt'st their splintered bones. Keep their cold house within thee; thou hast sucked down How many Ninevehs and Hecatompyloi And perished cities whose great phantasmata O'erbrow the silent citizens of Dis:-- Hast not thy fill? Tarry awhile, lean Earth, for thou shalt drink Even till thy dull throat sicken, The draught thou grow'st most fat on; hear'st thou not The world's knives bickering in their sheaths? O patience! Much offal of a foul world comes thy way, And man's superfluous cloud shall soon be laid In a little blood. In a little peace, in a little peace, Thou dost rebate thy rigid purposes Of imposed being, and relenting, mend'st Too much, with nought. The westering Phoebus' horse Paws i' the lucent dust as when he shocked The East with rising; O how may I trace In this decline that morning when we did Sport 'twixt the claws of newly-whelped existence, Which had not yet learned rending? we did then Divinely stand, not knowing yet against us Sentence had passed of life, nor commutation Petitioning into death. What's he that of The Free State argues? Tellus! bid him stoop, Even where the low _hic jacet_ answers him; Thus low, O Man! there's freedom's seignory, Tellus' most reverend sole free commonweal, And model deeply-policied: there none Stands on precedence, nor ambitiously Woos the impartial worm, whose favours kiss With liberal largesse all; there each is free To be e'en what he must, which here did strive So much to be he could not; there all do Their uses just, with no flown questioning. To be took by the hand of equal earth They doff her livery, slip to the worm, Which lacqueys them, their suits of maintenance, And that soiled workaday apparel cast, Put on condition: Death's ungentle buffet Alone makes ceremonial manumission; So are the heavenly statutes set, and those Uranian tables of the primal Law. In a little peace, in a little peace, Like fierce beasts that a common thirst makes brothers, We draw together to one hid dark lake; In a little peace, in a little peace, We drain with all our burthens of dishonour Into the cleansing sands o' the thirsty grave. The fiery pomps, brave exhalations, And all the glistering shows o' the seeming world, Which the sight aches at, we unwinking see Through the smoked glass of Death; Death, wherewith's fined The muddy wine of life; that earth doth purge Of her plethora of man; Death, that doth flush The cumbered gutters of humanity; Nothing, of nothing king, with front uncrowned, Whose hand holds crownets; playmate swart o' the strong; Tenebrous moon that flux and refluence draws Of the high-tided man; skull-housed asp That stings the heel of kings; true Fount of Youth, Where he that dips is deathless; being's drone-pipe; Whose nostril turns to blight the shrivelled stars, And thicks the lusty breathing of the sun; Pontifical Death, that doth the crevasse bridge To the steep and trifid God; one mortal birth That broker is of immortality. Under this dreadful brother uterine, This kinsman feared, Tellus, behold me come, Thy son stern-nursed; who mortal-motherlike, To turn thy weanlings' mouth averse, embitter'st Thine over-childed breast. Now, mortal-sonlike, I thou hast suckled, Mother, I at last Shall sustenant be to thee. Here I untrammel, Here I pluck loose the body's cerementing, And break the tomb of life; here I shake off The bur o' the world, man's congregation shun, And to the antique order of the dead I take the tongueless vows: my cell is set Here in thy bosom; my little trouble is ended In a little peace. This morning saw I, fled the shower, The earth reclining in a lull of power: The heavens, pursuing not their path, Lay stretched out naked after bath, Or so it seemed; field, water, tree, were still, Nor was there any purpose on the calm-browed hill. The hill, which sometimes visibly is Wrought with unresting energies, Looked idly; from the musing wood, And every rock, a life renewed Exhaled like an unconscious thought When poets, dreaming unperplexed, Dream that they dream of nought. Nature one hour appears a thing unsexed, Or to such serene balance brought That her twin natures cease their sweet alarms, And sleep in one another's arms. The sun with resting pulses seems to brood, And slacken its command upon my unurged blood. The river has not any care Its passionless water to the sea to bear; The leaves have brown content; The wall to me has freshness like a scent, And takes half animate the air, Making one life with its green moss and stain; And life with all things seems too perfect blent For anything of life to be aware. The very shades on hill, and tree, and plain, Where they have fallen doze, and where they doze remain. No hill can idler be than I; No stone its inter-particled vibration Investeth with a stiller lie; No heaven with a more urgent rest betrays The eyes that on it gaze. We are too near akin that thou shouldst cheat Me, Nature, with thy fair deceit. In poets floating like a water-flower Upon the bosom of the glassy hour, In skies that no man sees to move, Lurk untumultuous vortices of power, For joy too native, and for agitation Too instant, too entire for sense thereof, Motion like gnats when autumn suns are low,-- Perpetual as the prisoned feet of love On the heart's floors with pained pace that go. From stones and poets you may know, Nothing so active is, as that which least seems so. For he, that conduit running wine of song, Then to himself does most belong, When he his mortal house unbars To the importunate and thronging feet That round our corporal walls unheeded beat; Till, all containing, he exalt His stature to the stars, or stars Narrow their heaven to his fleshly vault: When, like a city under ocean, To human things he grows a desolation, And is made a habitation For the fluctuous universe To lave with unimpeded motion. He scarcely frets the atmosphere With breathing, and his body shares The immobility of rocks; His heart's a drop-well of tranquillity; His mind more still is than the limbs of fear, And yet its unperturbed velocity The spirit of the simoon mocks. He round the solemn centre of his soul Wheels like a dervish, while his being is Streamed with the set of the world's harmonies, In the long draft of whatsoever sphere He lists the sweet and clear Clangour of his high orbit on to roll, So gracious is his heavenly grace; And the bold stars does hear, Every one in his airy soar, For evermore Shout to each other from the peaks of space, As thwart ravines of azure shouts the mountaineer. O nothing, in this corporal earth of man, That to the imminent heaven of his high soul Responds with colour and with shadow, can Lack correlated greatness. If the scroll Where thoughts lie fast in spell of hieroglyph Be mighty through its mighty habitants; If God be in His Name; grave potence if The sounds unbind of hieratic chants; All's vast that vastness means. Nay, I affirm Nature is whole in her least things exprest, Nor know we with what scope God builds the worm. Our towns are copied fragments from our breast; And all man's Babylons strive but to impart The grandeurs of his Babylonian heart. Can you tell me where has hid her, I would swear one day ago She passed by, I would swear that I do know The blue bliss of her eye: "Tarry, maid, maid," I bid her; But she hastened by. Do you know where she has hid her, Yet in truth it needs must be The flight of her is old; Yet in truth it needs must be, For her nest, the earth, is cold. No more in the pooled Even Wade her rosy feet, Dawn-flakes no more plash from them To poppies 'mid the wheat. She has muddied the day's oozes With her petulant feet; Scared the clouds that floated As sea-birds they were, Slow on the coerule Lulls of the air, Lulled on the luminous Levels of air: She has chidden in a pet All her stars from her; Now they wander loose and sigh Through the turbid blue, Now they wander, weep, and cry-- Yea, and I too-- "Where are you, sweet July, Where are you?" Who hath beheld her footprints, Or the pathway she goes? Tell me, wind, tell me, wheat, Which of you knows? Sleeps she swathed in the flushed Arctic Night of the rose? Or lie her limbs like Alp-glow On the lily's snows? Gales, that are all-visitant, Find the runaway; And for him who findeth her (I do charge you say) I will throw largesse of broom Of this summer's mintage, I will broach a honey-bag Of the bee's best vintage. Breezes, wheat, flowers sweet, None of them knows! How then shall we lure her back From the way she goes? For it were a shameful thing, Saw we not this comer Ere Autumn camp upon the fields Red with rout of Summer. When the bird quits the cage, We set the cage outside, With seed and with water, And the door wide, Back to abide. Hang her cage of earth out O'er Heaven's sunward wall, Its four gates open, winds in watch By reined cars at all; Relume in hanging hedgerows The rain-quenched blossom, And roses sob their tears out On the gale's warm heaving bosom; Shake the lilies till their scent Over-drip their rims, That our runaway may see We do know her whims: Sleek the tumbled waters out For her travelled limbs; Strew and smooth blue night thereon, There will--O not doubt her!-- The lovely sleepy lady lie, With all her stars about her! His shoulder did I hold Too high that I, o'erbold Weak one, Should lean thereon. But He a little hath Declined His stately path And my Feet set more high; That the slack arm may reach His shoulder, and faint speech His unwithering hair. And bolder now and bolder I lean upon that shoulder, So dear He is and near. And with His aureole The tresses of my soul Are blent In wished content. Yea, this too gentle Lover Hath flattering words to move her To pride By His sweet side. Ah, Love! somewhat let be! Lest my humility Grow weak When Thou dost speak! Rebate Thy tender suit, Lest to herself impute Some worth Thy bride of earth! A maid too easily Conceits herself to be Those things Her lover sings; And being straitly wooed, Believes herself the Good He seeks in her. Turn something of Thy look, And fear me with rebuke, May timorously Take tremors in Thy arms, And with contrived charms A love unsure. Not to me, not to me, Builded so flawfully, Thy humbling laud! Not to this man, but Man,-- Universe in a span; Of the spheres conjoint; In whom eternally Thou, Light, dost focus Thee!-- Didst pave The way o' the wave, Rivet with stars the Heaven, For causeways to Thy driven In its coming far Unto him, only him; In Thy deific whim Didst bound Thy works' great round In this small ring of flesh; The sky's gold-knotted mesh Thy wrist Did only twist To take him in that net.-- Man! swinging-wicket set Lo, God's two worlds immense, Of spirit and of sense, In this narrow bed; Yea, and the midge's hymn Answers the seraphim Thy body's court! Great arm-fellow of God! To the ancestral clod And to cherubin; Bread predilectedly O' the worm and Deity! O God's clay-sealed Ark, To praise that fits thee, clear To the ear within the ear, But dense To clay-sealed sense. Thee God's great utterance bore, O secret metaphor Of what Thou dream'st no jot! Cosmic metonymy; Weak world-unshuttering key; Trope that itself not scans Its huge significance, Which tries Cherubic eyes. Primer where the angels all God's grammar spell in small, Nor spell The highest too well. Point for the great descants Of starry disputants; Of creation. Thou meaning, couldst thou see, Of all which dafteth thee; So plain, It mocks thy pain; Stone of the Law indeed, Thine own self couldst thou read, Thy bliss Within thee is. Compost of Heaven and mire, Slow foot and swift desire! To have Yes, choose No; Gird, and thou shalt unbind; Seek not, and thou shalt find; To eat, Deny thy meat; And thou shalt be fulfilled With all sweet things unwilled: So best God loves to jest With children small--a freak Of heavenly hide-and-seek For thy wayward wit, Who art thyself a thing Of whim and wavering; When His wings pen thee; Sole fully blest, to feel God whistle thee at heel; As a dew-drop, When He bends down, sun-wise, Intemperable eyes; Most proud, When utterly bowed, To feel thyself and be His dear nonentity-- Beyond human thought In the thunder-spout of Him, Until thy being dim And be Dead deathlessly. Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fear The nettle's wrathful spear, So slight Art thou of might! Rise; for Heaven hath no frown When thou to thee pluck'st down, Strong clod! The neck of God. Lo, in this day we keep the yesterdays, And those great dead of the Victorian line.[D] They passed, they passed, but cannot pass away, For England feels them in her blood like wine. She was their mother, and she is their daughter, This lady of the water, And from their loins she draws the greatness which they were. And still their wisdom sways, Their power lives in her. Their thews it is, England, that lift thy sword, They are the splendour, England, in thy song, They sit unbidden at thy council-board, Their fame doth compass all thy coasts from wrong, And in thy sinews they are strong. Their absence is a presence and a guest In this day's feast; This living feast is also of the dead, And this, O England, is thine All Souls' Day. And when thy cities flake the night with flames, Thy proudest torches yet shall be their names. Come hither, proud and ancient East, Gather ye to this Lady of the North, And sit down with her at her solemn feast, Upon this culminant day of all her days; For ye have heard the thunder of her goings-forth, And wonder of her large imperial ways. Her pictured vests from that remotest isle Seated in the antechambers of the Sun: And let her Western sisters for a while Remit long envy and disunion, And take in peace Her hand behind the buckler of her seas, 'Gainst which their wrath has splintered; come, for she Her hand ungauntlets in mild amity. Victoria! Queen, whose name is victory, Whose woman's nature sorteth best with peace, Bid thou the cloud of war to cease Which ever round thy wide-girt empery Fumes, like to smoke about a burning brand, Telling the energies which keep within The light unquenched, as England's light shall be; And let this day hear only peaceful din. For, queenly woman, thou art more than woman; Thy name the often-struck barbarian shuns: Thou art the fear of England to her foemen, The love of England to her sons. And this thy glorious day is England's; who Can separate the two? Now unto thee The plenitude of the glories thou didst sow Is garnered up in prosperous memory; And, for the perfect evening of thy day, An untumultuous bliss, serenely gay, Sweetened with silence of the after-glow. Nor does the joyous shout Which all our lips give out Jar on that quietude; more than may do A radiant childish crew, With well-accordant discord fretting the soft hour, Whose hair is yellowed by the sinking blaze Over a low-mouthed sea. Exult, yet be not twirled, England, by gusts of mere Blind and insensate lightness; neither fear The vastness of thy shadow on the world. Still strains against its leash the unglutted beast Of war; if yet the cannon's lip be warm; Thou, whom these portents warn but not alarm, Feastest, but with thine hand upon the sword, As fits a warrior race. Not like the Saxon fools of olden days, With the mead dripping from the hairy mouth, Filled with the shaven faces of the Norman horde. At the Cross thy station keeping With the mournful mother weeping, Thou, unto the sinless Son, Weepest for thy sinful one. Blood and water from His side Gush; in thee the streams divide: From thine eyes the one doth start, But the other from thy heart. Mary, for thy sinner, see, To her Sinless mourns with thee: Could that Son the son not heed, For whom two such mothers plead? So thy child had baptism twice, And the whitest from thine eyes. The floods lift up, lift up their voice, With a many-watered noise! Down the centuries fall those sweet Sobbing waters to our feet, And our laden air still keeps Murmur of a Saint that weeps. Teach us but, to grace our prayers, Such divinity of tears,-- Earth should be lustrate again With contrition of that rain: Till celestial floods o'er rise The high tops of Paradise. How graciously thou wear'st the yoke Of use that does not fail! The grasses, like an anchored smoke, Ride in the bending gale; This knoll is snowed with blosmy manna, And fire-dropt as a seraph's mail. Here every eve thou stretchest out Untarnishable wing, And marvellously bring'st about Newly an olden thing; Nor ever through like-ordered heaven Moves largely thy grave progressing. Here every eve thou goest down Behind the self-same hill, Nor ever twice alike go'st down Behind the self-same hill; Nor like-ways is one flame-sopped flower Possessed with glory past its will. Not twice alike! I am not blind, My sight is live to see; And yet I do complain of thy Weary variety. O Sun! I ask thee less or more, Change not at all, or utterly! O give me unprevisioned new, Or give to change reprieve! For new in me is olden too, That I for sameness grieve. O flowers! O grasses! be but once The grass and flower of yester-eve! Wonder and sadness are the lot Of change: thou yield'st mine eyes Grief of vicissitude, but not Its penetrant surprise. Immutability mutable Burthens my spirit and the skies. O altered joy, all joyed of yore, Plodding in unconned ways! O grief grieved out, and yet once more A dull, new, staled amaze! I dream, and all was dreamed before, Or dream I so? the dreamer says. The breaths of kissing night and day Were mingled in the eastern Heaven: Throbbing with unheard melody Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven: When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy, And dawn's grey eyes were troubled grey; And souls went palely up the sky, And mine to Lucide. There was no change in her sweet eyes Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine; There was no change in her deep heart Since last that deep heart knocked at mine. Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's, Wherein did ever come and go The sparkle of the fountain drops From her sweet soul below. The chambers in the house of dreams Are fed with so divine an air, That Time's hoar wings grow young therein, And they who walk there are most fair. I joyed for me, I joyed for her, Who with the Past meet girt about: Where our last kiss still warms the air, Nor can her eyes go out. Jane Williams, in her last letter to Shelley, wrote: "Why do you talk of never enjoying moments like the past? Are you going to join your friend Plato, or do you expect I shall do so soon? Buona Notte." That letter was dated July imagined reply to it from another world:-- Ariel to Miranda:--hear This good-night the sea-winds bear; And let thine unacquainted ear Take grief for their interpreter. Good-night; I have risen so high Into slumber's rarity, Not a dream can beat its feather Through the unsustaining ether. Let the sea-winds make avouch How thunder summoned me to couch, Tempest curtained me about And turned the sun with his own hand out: And though I toss upon my bed My dream is not disquieted; Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep, And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep; And I fell to sleep so suddenly That my lips are moist yet--could'st thou see-- With the good-night draught I have drunk to thee. Thou can'st not wipe them; for it was Death Damped my lips that has dried my breath. A little while--it is not long-- The salt shall dry on them like the song. Now know'st thou, that voice desolate, Mourning ruined joy's estate, Reached thee through a closing gate. "Go'st thou to Plato?" Ah, girl, no! It is to Pluto that I go. The hunched camels of the night[E] Trouble the bright And silver waters of the moon. The Maiden of the Morn will soon Through Heaven stray and sing, Star gathering. Now while the dark about our loves is strewn, Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! Leave thy father, leave thy mother And thy brother; Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart! Am I not thy father and thy brother, And thy mother? And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black tents Who hast the red pavilion of my heart? O World Invisible, we view thee, O World intangible, we touch thee, O World unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! Does the fish soar to find the ocean, The eagle plunge to find the air-- That we ask of the stars in motion If they have rumour of thee there? Not where the wheeling systems darken, And our benumbed conceiving soars!-- The drift of pinions, would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places;-- Turn but a stone, and start a wing! 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendoured thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry;--and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, Cry,--clinging Heaven by the hems; And lo, Christ walking on the water, poignantly local and personal allusions. For in these triumphing stanzas, he held in retrospect those days and nights of human Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play; And some are sung, and that was yesterday, And some unsung, and that may be to-morrow. Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way, Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow: And it was sweet, and that was yesterday, And sweet is sweet, though purchased with sorrow. Go, songs, and come not back from your far way; And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow, Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day, Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow. _"Such pronouncements proved at least that a poet, who had no friend save such as his published poems gained for him, could count on an immediate recognition for high merit. For these tributes, and many more of like welcoming, placed him instantly out of range of the common casualties of criticism."--From the_ "NOTE ON FRANCIS THOMPSON" (p. xii). _As the writer of the "Note" has not attempted a critical estimate of the poetry, some of these Appreciations, forming a part of the poet's life-history and even of the literary history of his time, are here reproduced._ Mr Francis Thompson is a writer whom it is impossible that any THOMPSON places himself, by these poems, in the front rank of the The first thing to be done, and by far the most important, is to faculty.... In a word, a new planet has swum into the ken of the discourages the flamboyant appreciations of the more facile Words and cadences must have had an intoxication for him, the listened to the music, entranced as by a new magic. The genius of elaborate patterns, and went draped in old silk robes, that had largeness of imagery.--KATHERINE TYNAN-HINKSON, in _The Bookman_. clarity.... The lines beginning: "Firm is the man, and set beyond the cast Of fortune's game and the iniquitous hour," By FRANCIS THOMPSON. Buckram gilt, 2s. 6d. net. By FRANCIS THOMPSON. With 100 Illustrations. Cloth, 10s. 6d. net. BURNS & OATES LTD, 28 Orchard Street, W.

Leonid Andreyev

Satan's Diary

1871

_Sometimes I get to wishin' I might be A little lamb like Mary's, fond and true, With Susan Sanderson as Mary, see? We'd play amidst the clover sweet with dew, And everywhere that she wast there'd be me, And if she wasn't, I'dst be elsewhere, too._ _Copyright, 1907, by_ THE CENTURY CO. _Copyright, 1907, by_ FORBES AND COMPANY House-keepin' Carnegie's Gold I've just about madest up my mind to be A poet such as Shakespeare and the rest Of them big literary gents, and dressed In velvet clothes, write up the things I see In some grand style to show that Browning he Hast been done up! And when plain folks request My autograph, then, throwin' out my chest, I'llst make them wish that they wast great like me! I'm tired dwellin' midst surroundin's where Cheap things art always waitin' to be done: I'dst rather loaf and dream and have long hair Like all great poets dost: and, oh! what fun, To dash off lays and sell them, then and there, Whenever I'llst be needin' any "mon." Full oft I've read how Mary's lamb didst go Where'er his kind and lovin' mistress went, As if the little creature wast content If it couldst only be where she wast. Oh, I realize what madest it hanker so To be in school that day: it surely meant It loved her! Yet, that mean old teacher bent On bossin' things--he didst not seem to know. Sometimes I get to wishin' I might be A little lamb like Mary's, fond and true, With Susan Sanderson as Mary, see? We'd play amidst the clover sweet with dew, And everywhere that she wast there'd be me, And if she wasn't, I'dst be elsewhere, too. Whilst pa and ma art dressin' up to go To church or somewhere, so I've heard ma tell The neighbor women, pa tears 'round pell-mell And turns things upside down, and wants to know Who hid his clothes! and makes ma stop and show Him where to find them. Ma she know'st full well They're where he's kept them since he earnest to dwell In our house: that's been twenty years or so. And when ma's donest her level best to try To help pa so he wilt not fuss and fret, And found his clothes, shoes, collar, cuffs and tie, And there ain't nothin' more for her to get, Pa looks at her and with an awful sigh Says: "Thunderation! Ain't you ready yet?" Wise William Goat, familiarly addressed As "Billy!" Thou art an amusin' brute, For thou hast some traits that are truly cute And others, still, so it must be confessed, That I hast learned in sorrow to detest. 'Tis fun to see thee, in thy manner mute, When boys dost tease thee, give some one a "beaut," Yet, he who's "it" deems thee a sorry jest. Yestreen I met some other boys, and we, At thy expense, wert havin' much delight Till thou got'st 'round to where I didst not see That thou wast headed my way. Sorry plight! That's why I write this standin'--woe is me!-- And slept'st upon my bosom all last night. O Adam and O Eve! How very nice It must have been to live where you wast at. No neighbors anywhere with whom to spat, Nor any one to give you free advice. Ma says she'd gladly pay 'most any price For such a lay-out. And she's certain that Because there wert no servants in your flat Is how you camest to call it "Paradise." And pa says that if Eve hadst dressed the way Our women do we shouldst have missed the fate Of goin' forth into the world to stray, For she'd be somewhere, still, inside the gate Delayin' things, as women dost to-day, A-tryin' for to pin her hat on straight. O Washington! (O Reader, hast thou not In readin' high-toned poems wrote for show, Observed how many of them start with "O?" Well, anyhow, there is an awful lot.) The noble deeds thou wrought'st are not forgot But serve to make thy name, where'er we go, A household word. If all they say is so Thou didst some mighty clever stunts. That's what! And yet, thy fame belongest to thy dad; Thou shinest by reflected light, forsooth, For thou 'rt the only boy that ever had A pa who, when his son dared tell the truth About some kiddish prank didst not get mad And lamm him! O thou heaven-protected youth! When sister Maymie saidst she'd like to learn To sweep the keys of a piano-forte, Ma she spoke up and cut her right off short And saidst she'd rather that a girl of her 'n Shouldst know just how to sweep a room, nor spurn A poor but honest man, for that's the sort Pa wast. And ma insists no woman ort To spend more money than a man canst earn. A kid-gloved dandy with a stove-pipe hat Wed ma's proud cousin. Say, but he wast sly! "Our home shalt be next thing to Heaven!" That Wast what he vowed. Ma says that that's no lie For they art packed into a stingy flat Four stairways up, and plumb against the sky! O Peary! With the scorchin' summer here And everybody payin' double price For little weeny, teeny bits of ice, It dost no longer seem so very queer That thou shouldst have the bravery to steer Thy ship up North where it is cool and nice. I'll bet you smile whilst thinkin' thou hast twice The fun we're havin' at this time of year. And, say! old boy, since thou dost understand The pole is an imaginary spot, Why not "imagine" thou hast found it and Of time and trouble save an awful lot? Couldst others track thee to that frozen land And prove thou didst not find it? I guess not! O Eagle! emblem of my country, thou, Who art the boss of every other bird, My muse, to find the highfalutin word With which to name thee, dost not know just how. Yet 'tis not thee who hast, I must allow, My patriotic breast the deepest stirred, And they who planned our country's banner erred In makin' thee the sign to which we bow. For whilst, O Eagle, thou dost dare to climb The highest mountain peak and greet the sun, It is the turkey that dost nearest rhyme With all the lofty thrills that through us run; He beats thee to a standstill every time, For, stuffed and roasted--say! he takes the bun! O Love! 'Tis saidst that thou art blind. Alas! I didst not think that it wast truly so Until I saw my sister Maymie's beau Who's awful stingy and as green as grass! How love canst make such guys as he is pass For something beautiful, I dost not know. Hadst I my way, you bet! he'd stand no show Of settin' in our parlor wastin' gas. He steals things, too! Last night whilst in a nook Of our dark hall I heardst him say: "Alack! I must steal one!" This morn I went'st to look And found'st all our umbrellas in the rack, And so I guess whatever 'twast he took, My sister Maymie madest him give it back. O Hornet! When I think'st what thou canst do To make strong men just hump themselves and run, Men who wouldst boldly face a ten-inch gun But lack the "sand" to halt whilst you pursue, And deem'st thy stinger something they wouldst rue, I've wondered if, when things that weigh a ton Flee from thy wrath, thou dost not deem it fun To chase folks that are so much bigger 'n you. Didst I accordin' to my size possess The means for gettin' even thou dost own, 'Twouldst be great sport to tackle--well, I guess!-- A boy 'most any size, and hear him moan As I didst when thou gavest me that caress From something hotter than the torrid zone! When I'm a man I shalt not care to be The President of these United States: I'dst rather be the drug-store clerk who waits On people at the soda-fountain. He Hast lots more first-class fun, it seems to me, For whilst the public dost not get rebates On soda, he canst get it at cut rates, And lots of times, I'll bet, he gets it free! Of course, I know it must be pretty fine To hear the brass bands and the big bass drums Come marchin' by the White House all in line And playin': "See, the Conquerin' Hero Comes!" And, yet, no presidential job in mine: The soda clerk's the one that gets the plums! I yearn'st to live to be ten times as old As wast Mathusalem, the patriarch: Then when some older person durst remark: "When I wast young the children weren't so bold And always loved to do as they wert told, And went to bed soon after it wast dark;" I'llst say to him: My errin' friend, now hark To one who wilt no longer hear thee scold: I knew thy great-great-great-grand-parents when They wert sly youngsters vexin' their poor nurse, And children now art good as they wert then! They always have been stubborn, mean, perverse, And always wilt be, since, alas! like men, They're just as heaven makes them--only worse! To-day I readst in an old history book How Cleopatra used to make men do Just any fool thing that she wanted to By givin' them a "lovey-dovey" look. Time wast, long, long ago, when I'dst have shook My head and saidst the story wast not true, But that, alas! that wast before I knew Miss Susan S. who hast my fancy took. To-day I hadst an apple I'dst have not Let any boy in school taste, but when she Asked couldst she have a bite and took a lot, I didst not mind at all, for, oh, to me, Where she hadst bit hadst somehow made the spot Taste awful sweet! Thus dost love rule us. See? O Great Carnegie! With thy wealth, oh, my! I dost not know exactly what I'd do, But seem'st to me I'd have more fun than you Art havin' with it. Anyhow, if I Hadst money, as they say, "to burn," I'd try To burn it here, for, oh! 'twouldst make me blue To think I'd have to smell it burnin' through The endless eons of the by and by! And you can bet if I hadst gold in bins As thou hast got, in quantities so vast Thou canst not spend it, I'd buy diamond pins And soda water to the very last! And I'd be sorry that I wast not twins So I couldst spend my fortune twice as fast. I don't like bathin' in a bath-tub. Say! It's no more like a good old swimmin'-hole Where you can dive right in and splash and roll Or anything you please, than work's like play! Some afternoon of a hot summer day When thou from school and poky things hast stole, Oh, ain't it good for heart and brain and soul To plunge right in and swim your own sweet way? I pity folks who bathe where they must wear A bathin'-suit! I wouldst have none in mine. Give me a good old shady corner where Nobody's lookin'. That's what I call "fine!" And when I bathe in this sawed-off affair, The swimmin'-hole's the thing for which I pine. "Oh, what is love?" the poet asks. I guess I'dst better tell him. When a girl's cheeks seem As fascinatin' to you as ice-cream, And though snub-nosed and freckled, more or less, She's still the phantom of pure loveliness That ever and anon athwart your dream Comes stealin', whilst you scheme and scheme and scheme To be where she is, thou 'rt in love! Oh, yes! When you keep thinkin' how you'dst squeeze her hand If sometime thou couldst be her little glove, And if thou feelst that thou wouldst like to stand, With only just the frosty stars above, In some big snowdrift 'neath her window and Stay there forever, then thou art in love! O Circus Day! So very brief art thou, From early morn when first doth rise the tent Till midnight comes and all the show hath went; Thou 'rt like a swiftly passin' dream. Oh, how I wish the laggin' tasks that wet the brow With per-spi-ra-tion (sweat is what I meant) Would haste as thou dost haste. How different This world wouldst be from what we find it now! Or 'twouldst be better still if time wouldst pass, Whilst laughin' at the antics of the clown, As slow as run'st the sands within the glass Whilst I, 'neath sun that almost melts me down, Must mow the lawn. O Fate, why must, alas! Thy smile be so much shorter than thy frown? O Education! Maybe thou art all Our teachers tell us, but just let me say That if my folks wouldst let me have my way, From early Spring till frost comes in the Fall I'dst be outdoors, you bet! a-playin' ball Or otherwise enjoyin' each fine day. It seem'st a shame for boys to have to stay Like culprits shut in by a prison wall! I guess if you get rich folks wilt not care If you don'tst know your grammar to a T, For baby boys, you'llst find 'most everywhere, Art named for uncles who hast money, see? Though they hain'tst got no learnin' they canst spare Nor never spell their 'taters with a p. I love cold winter weather with the snow A-driftin' on the walks I hast to clear, And frost a-bitin' nose and cheek and ear, With the thermometer "away below." I also love the summer when it's so Red-hot that clothes next to you all "adhere" And everybody's frantic, pretty near, And sayin' things that hot folks dost, you know? I love both seasons, but I wish I could Enjoy them whilst they're with us, for, you see, It's winter when the summer seem'st so good, And summer when the winter pleases me. But, somehow, I have never understood Why either of them whilst it's here's "n. g." O Shakespeare! Thou whom'st all the world dost think Hast written some good things, I, too, wouldst pay My best respects to thee; yet, wouldst I say That whilst I like thee yet I dost not shrink From tellin' thee that thou art on the "blink" And very sadly out of date to-day. Still, if thou'lt follow my advice thou may Your plays ain't any good the way they stand: Thou ought'st to tone them up with something nice: Some coon-songs, fire-engines, blood-hounds and A swingin' bridge and chunks of floatin' ice Wouldst make your old plays draw to beat the band, And folks wouldst crowd your show at any price! Oh, woe is me! and other things like that! Yestreen I soughtst to smoke my first cigar: It gav'st my system a tremendous jar! I didst not have the gumption of a gnat. All night I couldst not tell where I wast at. I wish I knew just what those cheap smokes are; It seem'st to me they're made of glue and tar. Ah, me! I'm weaker than a half-starved cat. Oh, let them smoke henceforth, say'st I, who will, For who am I that I shouldst dare condemn Their vile tobacco? I have hadst my fill: Let others have it; I sha'n'tst envy them, For I'llst not never smoke no more until I'm ten times older than Mathusalem! O Farmer, independentest of all Mankind art thou! I know, because, last year I spent my whole vacation, pretty near, On Uncle Eben's farm, and though I'm small, I hoed the corn and beans, and helped him haul And stack his hay. I'dst work until I'dst fear I'dst just drop down and end my sad career Before they'dst give the welcome dinner call. My uncle dost not weigh his words with care, For once he told me that I wast a shirk; But I wouldst rather breathe the country air Than be a shut-in office-boy or clerk; For I found out whilst visitin' out there That I like farmin', but I hate farm work. One reason why I'm 'most afraid to get So famous like we poets always do, Is that they'll print my spoony letters, too, As is the way with all of us who let Our fancies caper. Hadst I thought whilst yet Unknown, I'dst be a poet, quite a few Endearin' words with which I soughtst to woo More girls than one I'dst not have wrote, you bet! If Susan Sanderson shouldst find I sent The valentine I saidst I wrote for her To Jane Jones, too, the thirty cents I've spent For soda water's wasted, I'dst infer: Why must we poets do things we'll repent? And oh! why thus didst me and Byron err? O Boy, that stood'st upon the burnin' deck And gotst thyself in our school readers and The "Whoop-'er-up" school speakers of our land Because thou wouldst not leave that sinkin' wreck, Oh, don'tst thou think if thou hadst saved thy neck And wisely cut and run to beat the band, Thou couldst have later done things still more grand? Alas! too soon didst death thy valor check! Oh, didst thou stay because thou couldst not swim? Or wast it fame for which thy heart didst yearn? Of course thou gotst a name time canst not dim, But seemst to me that all I canst discern In thy foolhardy, stickin'-to-it whim Is that thou deemed the world hadst boys to burn.

Lady Florence Dixie

Across Patagonia

_Come and take a choice of all my library_ A viol, bowstrings torn, cross-wise upon A glorious folio of Anacreon; printing,--for their beauty and for their rarity,--or for their association with some famous man or woman of the storied past This book a world is; here, if errors be, The like, nay worse, in the great world we see. Books, books again, and books once more! These are our theme, which some miscall Mere madness, setting little store By copies either short or tall, But you, O slaves of shelf and stall! We rather write for you that hold Patched folios dear, and prize "the small Rare volume, black with burnished gold." Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear, The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe; But by the muses swear, all here is good, If but well read, or ill read, understood. _Deep in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, A Child with book, upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more! The number of his years is IV, And yet in Letters hath he skill, How deep he dives in Fairy-lore! The Books I loved, I love them still!_ _One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three They commonly bestowed of yore) That opens the Enchanted Door; Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks and o'er And o'er doth JACK his Giants kill, And there is all ALADDIN'S store,-- The Books I loved, I love them still!_ _Take all, but leave my Books to me! These heavy creels of old we love We fill not now, nor wander free, Nor wear the heart that once we wore; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muse's hill; Though something's gone from stream and shore, The Books I love, I love them still!_ _Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, We bow submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved--to love them still._ PROEM. _Ballade of the Bookworm_ (A. Lang) ix EDWARD D. ANDERSON. _The Baby in the Library_ LAMAN BLANCHARD. _The Art of Book-Keeping_ ANNE C. L. BOTTA. _In the Library_ H. C. BUNNER. _My Shakspere_ ROBERT BURNS. _The Bookworms_ CATULLUS. _To his Book_ (Translated by A. Lang) BEVERLY CHEW. _Old Books are best_ THOMAS S. COLLIER. _The Forgotten Books_ HELEN GRAY CONE. _An Invocation in a Library_ SAMUEL DANIEL. _Concerning the Honor of Books_ _The Book-Plate's Petition_ HENRY DRURY. _Over the Threshold of my Library_ MAURICE F. EGAN. _The Chrysalis of a Bookworm_ EVENUS. _Epigram_ (Translated by A. Lang) JOHN FERRIAR. _The Bibliomania_ F. FERTIAULT. _Triolet to her Husband_ WILLIAM FREELAND. _A Nook and a Book_ EDMUND GOSSE. _The Sultan of my Books_ THOMAS GORDON HAKE. _Our Book-Shelves_ HORACE. _To his Books_ LEIGH HUNT. _Sonnet_ BEN JONSON. _To my Bookseller_ CHARLES LAMB. _In the Album of Lucy Barton_ A. LANG. _Ballade of the Book-Hunter_ _Ballade of the Bookman's Paradise_ WALTER LEARNED. _On the Fly-Leaf of a Book of FREDERICK LOCKER. _From the Fly-Leaf of the LORD LYTTON. _The Souls of Books_ ARTHUR J. MUNBY. _Ex Libris_ THOMAS PARNELL. _The Bookworm_ BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall). _My Books_ WILLIAM ROSCOE. _To my Books on Parting with Them_ LORD ROSSLYN. _Among my Books_ CLINTON SCOLLARD. _In the Library_ ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. _Picture-Books in Winter_ RICHARD THOMSON. _The Book of Life_ HENRY VAUGHAN. _To his Books_ SAMUEL WADDINGTON. _Literature and Nature_ TOMAS YRIARTE. _The Country Squire_ ANONYMOUS. _Old Books_ GEORGE CRABBE. _The Library_ A FINAL WORD. _The Collector to his Library_ The poems thus marked were written or translated for the present EDWARD D. ANDERSON. _From 'Wide-Awake' for May, 1885._ Within these solemn, book-lined walls, Did mortal ever see A critic so unprejudiced, So full of mirthful glee? Just watch her at that lower shelf: See, there she's thumped her nose Against the place where Webster stands In dignified repose. Such heavy books she scorns; and she And Beeton, too, though full of life, Quite stupid, dull, and slow. She wants to take a higher flight, Aspiring little elf! And on her mother's arm at length She gains a higher shelf. But, oh! what liberties she takes With those grave, learned men; Historians, and scientists, And even "Rare old Ben!" At times she takes a spiteful turn, And pommels, with her fists, And other essayists. And, when her wrath is fully roused, And she's disposed for strife, It almost looks as if she'd like To take Macaulay's 'Life.' Again, in sympathetic mood, She gayly smiles at Gay, And punches Punch, and frowns at Sterne In quite a dreadful way. In vain the Sermons shake their heads: She does not care for these; But catches, with intense delight, At all the Tales she sees. Where authors chance to meet her views, Just praise they never lack; To comfort and encourage them, She pats them on the back. FRANCIS BENNOCH. _From the 'Storm and Other Poems.' 1878._ I love my books as drinkers love their wine; The more I drink, the more they seem divine; With joy elate my soul in love runs o'er, And each fresh draught is sweeter than before. Books bring me friends where'er on earth I be,-- Solace of solitude,--bonds of society! I love my books! they are companions dear, Sterling in worth, in friendship most sincere; Here talk I with the wise in ages gone, And with the nobly gifted of our own. If love, joy, laughter, sorrow please my mind, Love, joy, grief, laughter in my books I find. LAMAN BLANCHARD. _From his 'Poetical Works.' 1876._ How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, that's lose, their books, Are snared by anglers--folks that fish With literary hooks; Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through,-- They thus complete their set at home, By making one at you. Behold the bookshelf of a dunce Who borrows--never lends: Yon work, in twenty volumes, once Belonged to twenty friends. New tales and novels you may shut From view--'tis all in vain; They're gone--and though the leaves are "cut" They never "come again." For pamphlets lent I look around, For tracts my tears are spilt; But when they take a book that's bound, 'Tis surely extra-gilt. A circulating library Is mine--my birds are flown; There's one odd volume left to be Like all the rest, a-lone. I, of my Spenser quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of Lamb I've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my Bacon. My Hall and Hill were levelled flat, But Moore was still the cry; And then, although I threw them Sprat, They swallowed up my Pye. O'er everything, however slight, They seized some airy trammel; They snatched my Hogg and Fox one night, And pocketed my Campbell. And then I saw my Crabbe at last, Like Hamlet's, backward go; And, as my tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my Rowe. I wondered into what balloon My books their course had bent; And yet, with all my marvelling, soon I found my Marvell went. My Mallet served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker; And once, while I was out of town, My Johnson proved a Walker. While studying o'er the fire one day My Hobbes amidst the smoke, They bore my Colman clean away, And carried off my Coke. They picked my Locke, to me far more Than Bramah's patent's worth; And now my losses I deplore Without a Home on earth. If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal; For though I caught them stealing Swift, As swiftly went my Steele. Hope is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated; But, what is strange, my Pope himself Is excommunicated. My little Suckling in the grave Is sunk to swell the ravage; And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save 'Twas mine to lose--a Savage. Even Glover's works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my Foote My Bunyan has been gone. My Hoyle with Cotton went; oppressed, My Taylor too must sail; To save my Goldsmith from arrest, In vain I offered Bayle. I Prior sought, but could not see The Hood so late in front; And when I turned to hunt for Lee, Oh! where was my Leigh Hunt. I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, Yet could not Tickell touch; And then, alas! I missed my Mickle, And surely mickle's much. 'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my Reid, Nor even use my Hughes. To West, to South, I turn my head, Exposed alike to odd jeers; For since my Roger Ascham's fled, They took my Horne--and Horne Tooke, too, And thus my treasures flit; I feel, when I would Hazlitt view, The flames that it has lit. My word's worth little, Wordsworth gone, If I survive its doom; How many a bard I doated on Was swept off--with my Broome. My classics would not quiet lie, A thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, "My Livy has eloped!" My life is wasting fast away-- I suffer from these shocks; And though I've fixed a lock on Gray, There's gray upon my locks. I'm far from young--am growing pale-- I see my Butter fly; And when they ask about my _ail_, 'Tis Burton! I reply. They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For oh! they've cured me of my Burns, And eased my Akenside. But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn; For as they never found me Gay, They have not left me Sterne. ANNE C. L. BOTTA. _From her collected 'Poems.' 1882._ Speak low--tread softly through these halls; Here genius lives enshrined,-- Here reign, in silent majesty, The monarchs of the mind. A mighty spirit-host, they come From every age and clime; Above the buried wrecks of years They breast the tide of time. And in their presence-chamber here They hold their regal state, And round them throng a noble train, The gifted and the great. O child of earth, when round thy path The storms of life arise, And when thy brothers pass thee by With stern, unloving eyes,-- Here shall the Poets chant for thee Their sweetest, loftiest lays; And Prophets wait to guide thy steps In wisdom's pleasant ways. Come, with these God-anointed kings Be thou companion here, And in the mighty realm of mind Thou shalt go forth a peer. With bevelled binding, with uncut edge, With broad white margin and gilded top, Fit for my library's choicest ledge, Fresh from the bindery, smelling of shop, In tinted cloth, with a strange design-- Buskin and scroll-work and mask and crown, And an arabesque legend tumbling down-- "The Works of Shakspere" were never so fine. Fresh from the shop! I turn the page-- Its "ample margin" is wide and fair-- Its type is chosen with daintiest care; There's a "New French Elzevir" strutting there That would shame its prototypic age. Fresh from the shop! O Shakspere mine, I've half a notion you're much too fine! There's an ancient volume that I recall, In foxy leather much chafed and worn; Its back is broken by many a fall, The stitches are loose and the leaves are torn; To the title-page scribbled with owners' names, That in straggling old-style type proclaims That the work is from the corrected text Left by the late Geo. Steevens, Esquire. The broad sky burns like a great blue fire, And the Lake shines blue as shimmering steel, And it cuts the horizon like a blade-- But behind the poplar's a strip of shade-- The great tall Lombardy on the lawn. And lying there in the grass, I feel The wind that blows from the Canada shore, And in cool, sweet puffs comes stealing o'er, Fresh as any October dawn. I lie on my breast in the grass, my feet Lifted boy-fashion, and swinging free, The old brown Shakspere in front of me. And big are my eyes, and my heart's a-beat; And my whole soul's lost--in what?--who knows? Perdita's charms or Perdita's woes-- Perdita fairy-like, fair and sweet. Is any one jealous, I wonder, now, Of my love for Perdita? For I vow I loved her well. And who can say That life would be quite the same life to-day-- That Love would mean so much, if she Had not taught me its A B C? The Grandmother, thin and bent and old, But her hair still dark and her eyes still bright, Totters around among her flowers-- Old-fashioned flowers of pink and white; And turns with a trowel the dark rich mould That feeds the blooms of her heart's delight. Ah me! for her and for me the hours Go by, and for her the smell of earth-- And for me the breeze and a far love's birth, And the sun and the sky and all the things That a boy's heart hopes and a poet sings. Fresh from the shop! O Shakspere mine, It wasn't the binding made you divine! I knew you first in a foxy brown, In the old, old home, where I laid me down, In the idle summer afternoons, With you alone in the odorous grass, And set your thoughts to the wind's low tunes, And saw your children rise up and pass-- And dreamed and dreamed of the things to be, Known only, I think, to you and me. I've hardly a heart for you dressed so fine-- Fresh from the shop, O Shakspere mine! _Burns saw a splendidly bound but sadly neglected copy of Shakspere in the_ ROBERT BURNS. _library of a nobleman in Edinburgh, and he wrote these lines on the ample margin of one of its pages, where they were found long after the poet's death._ Through and through the inspired leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But oh, respect his lordship's taste, And spare the golden bindings. CAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS. _Translated by A. Lang expressly for this collection._ My little book, that's neat and new, Fresh polished with dry pumice stone, To whom, Cornelius, but to you, Shall _this_ be sent, for you alone-- (Who used to praise my lines, my own)-- Have dared, in weighty volumes three, (What labors, Jove, what learning thine!) To tell the Tale of Italy, And all the legend of our line. So take, whate'er its worth may be, My Book,--but Lady and Queen of Song, This one kind gift I crave of thee, That it may live for ages long! BEVERLY CHEW. _From the 'Critic' of March 13, 1886._ Old Books are best! With what delight Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight On frontispiece or title-page Of that old time, when on the stage "Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight! And you, O Friend, to whom I write, Must not deny, e'en though you might, Through fear of modern pirate's rage, Old Books are best. What though the prints be not so bright, The paper dark, the binding slight? Our author, be he dull or sage, Returning from that distant age So lives again, we say of right: Old Books are best. Hid by the garret's dust, and lost Amid the cobwebs wreathed above, They lie, these volumes that have cost Such weeks of hope and waste of love. The Theologian's garnered lore Of Scripture text, and words divine; And verse, that to some fair one bore Thoughts that like fadeless stars would shine; The grand wrought epics, that were born From mighty throes of heart and brain,-- Here rest, their covers all unworn, And all their pages free from stain. Here lie the chronicles that told Of man, and his heroic deeds-- Alas! the words once "writ in gold" Are tarnished so that no one reads. And tracts that smote each other hard, While loud the friendly plaudits rang, All animosities discard, Where old, moth-eaten garments hang. The heroes that were made to strut In tinsel on "life's mimic stage" Found, all too soon, the deepening rut Which kept them silent in the page; And heroines, whose loveless plight Should wake the sympathetic tear, In volumes sombre as the night Sleep on through each succeeding year. Here Phyllis languishes forlorn, And Strephon waits beside his flocks, And early huntsmen wind the horn, Within the boundaries of a box. Here, by the irony of fate, Beside the "peasant's humble board," The monarch "flaunts his robes of state," And spendthrifts find the miser's hoard. Days come and go, and still we write, And hope for some far happier lot Than that our work should meet this blight-- And yet--some books must be forgot. HELEN GRAY CONE. _From 'Oberon and Puck.' 1885._ O brotherhood, with bay-crowned brows undaunted, Who passed serene along our crowded ways, Speak with us still! For we, like Saul, are haunted: Harp sullen spirits from these later days! Whate'er high hope ye had for man your brother, Breathe it, nor leave him, like a prisoned slave, To stare through bars upon a sight no other Than clouded skies that lighten on a grave. In these still alcoves give us gentle meeting, From dusky shelves kind arms about us fold, Till the New Age shall feel her cold heart beating Restfully on the warm heart of the Old: Till we shall hear your voices, mild and winning Steal through our doubt and discord, as outswells At fiercest noon, above a city's dinning, The chiming music of cathedral bells: Music that lifts the thought from trodden places, And coarse confusions that around us lie, Up to the calm of high, cloud-silvered spaces, Where the tall spire points through the soundless sky. _This sonnet, prefixed to the second edition SAMUEL DANIEL. _generally attributed to the translator, to the belief that it is by his friend, Since honor from the honorer proceeds, How well do they deserve, that memorize And leave in books for all posterity The names of worthies and their virtuous deeds; When all their glory else, like water-weeds Without their element, presently dies, And all their greatness quite forgotten lies, And when and how they flourished no man heeds; How poor remembrances are statues, tombs, And other monuments that men erect To princes, which remain in closed rooms, Where but a few behold them, in respect Of books, that to the universal eye Show how they lived; the other where they lie! ISAAC D'ISRAELI. _Imitated from Rantzau, the founder of the library at Copenhagen._ Golden volumes! richest treasures! Objects of delicious pleasures! You my eyes rejoicing please, You my hands in rapture seize! Brilliant wits, and musing sages, Lights who beamed through many ages, Left to your conscious leaves their story, And dared to trust you with their glory; And now their hope of fame achieved! Dear volumes! you have not deceived! AUSTIN DOBSON. _From 'At the Sign of the Lyre.' 1885._ They dwell in the odor of camphor, They stand in a Sheraton shrine, They are "warranted early editions," These worshipful tomes of mine;-- In their creamy "Oxford vellum," In their redolent "crushed Levant," With their delicate watered linings, Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed, They have Bedford's daintiest dress, They are graceful, attenuate, polished, But they gather the dust, no less;-- For the row that I prize is yonder, Away on the unglazed shelves, The bulged and the bruised _octavos_, The dear and the dumpy twelves,-- Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered, And Howell the worse for wear, And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace, And the little old cropped Moliere,-- And the Burton I bought for a florin, And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,-- For the others I never have opened, But those are the ones I read. AUSTIN DOBSON. _From 'At the Sign of the Lyre.' 1885._ Missal of the Gothic age, Missal with the blazoned page, Whence, O Missal, hither come, From what dim scriptorium? Whose the name that wrought thee thus, Bending, through the waning light, O'er thy vellum scraped and white; Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines Sprays and leaves and quaint designs: Setting round thy border scrolled Buds of purple and of gold? Ah!--a wondering brotherhood, Doubtless, round that artist stood, Strewing o'er his careful ways Little choruses of praise; Glad when his deft hand would paint Or in secret coign entwist Jest of cloister humorist. Well the worker earned his wage, Bending o'er the blazoned page! Tired the hand and tired the wit Ere the final _Explicit_! Not as ours the books of old-- Things that steam can stamp and fold; Not as ours the books of yore-- Rows of type, and nothing more. Then a book was still a Book, Where a wistful man might look, Finding something through the whole, Beating--like a human soul. In that growth of day by day, When to labor was to pray, Surely something vital passed To the patient page at last; Something that one still perceives Vaguely present in the leaves; Something from the worker lent; Something mute--but eloquent! AUSTIN DOBSON. _Published originally in 'Notes and While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane In days that shocked JOHN EVELYN, My First Possessor fix'd me in. In days of _Dutchmen_ and of frost, The narrow sea with JAMES I crossed; Returning when once more began The Age of _Saturn_ and of ANNE. I am a part of all the past; I knew the GEORGES, first and last; I have been oft where else was none Save the great wig of ADDISON; And seen on shelves beneath me grope The little eager form of POPE. I lost the Third that own'd me when French NOAILLES fled at Dettingen; The year JAMES WOLFE surpris'd Quebec, The Fourth in hunting broke his neck; The day that WILLIAM HOGARTH dy'd, The Fifth one found me in Cheapside. This was a _Scholar_, one of those Whose _Greek_ is sounder than their _hose_; He lov'd old books, and nappy ale, So liv'd at Streatham, next to THRALE. 'Twas there this stain of grease I boast Was made by DR. JOHNSON'S toast. (He did it, as I think, for spite; My Master called him _Jacobite_!) And now that I so long to-day Have rested _post discrimina_, Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where I watched the Vicar's whit'ning hair Must I these travell'd bones inter In some _Collector's_ sepulchre! Must I be torn from hence and thrown With _frontispiece_ and _colophon_! The spoil of plunder'd _Folios_! With scraps and snippets that to Me Are naught but _kitchen company_! Nay, rather, Friend, this favor grant me; Tear me at once; _but don't transplant me_. _Quoted from the supplement of Dibdin's_ HENRY DRURY. _'Bibliomania,' where the original Latin lines may be found._ From mouldering Abbey's dark Scriptorium brought, See vellum tomes by Monkish labor wrought; Nor yet the comma born, Papyri see, And uncial letters' wizard grammary: View my _fifteeners_ in their ragged line; What ink! What linen! Only known long syne-- Entering where Aldus might have fixed his throne, Or Harry Stephens coveted his own. MAURICE F. EGAN. _From 'Songs and Sonnets.' 1885._ I read, O friend, no pages of old lore, Which I loved well, and yet the flying days, That softly passed as wind through green spring ways And left a perfume, swift fly as of yore, Though in clear Plato's stream I look no more, Neither with Moschus sing Sicilian lays, Nor with bold Dante wander in amaze, Nor see our Will the Golden Age restore. I read a book to which old books are new, And new books old. A living book is mine-- In age, three years: in it I read no lies-- In it to myriad truths I find the clew-- A tender, little child: but I divine Thoughts high as Dante's in its clear blue eyes. EVENUS (the grammarian). _Rendered into English by A. Lang Pest of the Muses, devourer of pages, in crannies hat lurkest, Fruits of the Muses to taint, labor of learning to spoil; Wherefore, O black-fleshed worm! wert thou born for the evil thou workest? Wherefore thine own foul form shap'st thou with envious toil? Hic, inquis, veto quisquam fuit oletum. Pinge duos angues. JOHN FERRIAR. "_An Epistle to Richard Heber, Esq." What wild desires, what restless torments seize The hapless man, who feels the book-disease, And Prudence quench the Spark by heaven assign'd! With wistful glance his aching eyes behold The Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold, Where the tall Book-case, with partition thin, Displays, yet guards the tempting charms within: So great Facardin view'd, as sages tell, Fair Crystalline immur'd in lucid cell. Not thus the few, by happier fortune grac'd, And blest, like you, with talents, wealth, and taste, Who gather nobly, with judicious hand, The Muse's treasures from each letter'd strand. For you the Monk illum'd his pictur'd page, For you the press defies the Spoils of age; FAUSTUS for you infernal tortures bore, For you ERASMUS starv'd on Adria's shore. The FOLIO-ALDUS loads your happy Shelves, And dapper ELZEVIRS, like fairy elves, Shew their light forms amidst the well-gilt Twelves: In slender type the GIOLITOS shine, And bold BODONI stamps his Roman line. For you the LOUVRE opes its regal doors, And either DIDOT lends his brilliant stores: With faultless types, and costly sculptures bright, IBARRA'S Quixote charms your ravish'd sight: LABORDE in splendid tablets shall explain Thy beauties, glorious, tho' unhappy SPAIN! O, hallowed name, the theme of future years, Embalm'd in Patriot-blood, and England's tears, Be thine fresh honors from the tuneful tongue, By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung! But devious oft' from ev'ry classic Muse, The keen Collector meaner paths will choose: And first the Margin's breadth his soul employs, Pure, snowy, broad, the type of nobler joys. In vain might HOMER roll the tide of song, Or HORACE smile, or TULLY charm the throng; If crost by Pallas' ire, the trenchant blade Or too oblique, or near, the edge invade, The Bibliomane exclaims, with haggard eye, "No Margin!" turns in haste, and scorns to buy. He turns where PYBUS rears his Atlas-head, Or MADOC'S mass conceals its veins of lead. The glossy lines in polish'd order stand, While the vast margin spreads on either hand, Like Russian wastes, that edge the frozen deep, Chill with pale glare, and lull to mortal sleep. Or English books, neglected and forgot, Excite his wish in many a dusty lot: Whatever trash _Midwinter_ gave to day, Or _Harper's_ rhiming sons, in paper gray, At ev'ry auction, bent on fresh supplies, He cons his Catalogue with anxious eyes: Where'er the slim Italics mark the page, _Curious and rare_ his ardent mind engage. Unlike the Swans, in Tuscan Song display'd, He hovers eager o'er Oblivion's Shade, To snatch obscurest names from endless night, And give COKAIN or FLETCHER back to light. In red morocco drest he loves to boast The bloody murder, or the yelling ghost; Or dismal ballads, sung to crouds of old, Now cheaply bought for thrice their weight in gold. Yet to th' unhonor'd dead be Satire just; Some flow'rs "smell sweet and blossom in their dust." 'Tis thus ev'n SHIRLEY boasts a golden line, And LOVELACE strikes, by fits, a note divine. Th' unequal gleams like midnight-lightnings play, And deepen'd gloom succeeds, in place of day. But human bliss still meets some envious storm; He droops to view his PAYNTERS' mangled form: Presumptuous grief, while pensive Taste repines O'er the frail relics of her Attic Shrines! O for that power, for which Magicians vye. To look through earth, and secret hoards descry! I'd spurn such gems as Marinel beheld, And all the wealth Aladdin's cavern held, Might I divine in what mysterious gloom The rolls of sacred bards have found their tomb: Beneath what mould'ring tower, or waste champain, Is hid MENANDER, sweetest of the train: Where rests ANTIMACHUS' forgotten lyre, Where gentle SAPPHO'S still seductive fire; Or he, whom chief the laughing Muses own, Yet skill'd with softest accents to bemoan Sweet Philomel in strains so like her own. The menial train has prov'd the Scourge of wit, Ev'n OMAR burnt less Science than the spit. Earthquakes and wars remit their deadly rage, But ev'ry feast demands some fated page. Ye Towers of Julius, ye alone remain Of all the piles that saw our nation's stain, When HARRY'S sway opprest the groaning realm, And Lust and Rapine seiz'd the wav'ring helm. Then ruffian-hands defaced the sacred fanes, Their saintly statues and their storied panes; Then from the chest, with ancient art embost, The Penman's pious scrolls were rudely tost; Then richest manuscripts, profusely spread, The brawny Churls' devouring Oven fed: And thence Collectors date the heav'nly ire That wrapt Augusta's domes in sheets of fire. Taste, tho' misled, may yet some purpose gain, But Fashion guides a book-compelling train. Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew, The travell'd beau display'd his red-heel'd shoe, Till ORFORD rose, and told of rhiming Peers, Repeating _noble_ words to polish'd ears; Taught the gay croud to prize a fluttering name, In trifling toil'd, nor "blush'd to find it fame." The letter'd fop, now takes a larger scope, With classic furniture, design'd by HOPE, (HOPE whom Upholst'rers eye with mute despair, The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair;) Now warm'd by ORFORD, and by GRANGER school'd, In Paper-books, superbly gilt and tool'd, He pastes, from injur'd volumes snipt away, His _English Heads_, in chronicled array. Torn from their destin'd page (unworthy meed Of knightly counsel, and heroic deed) Not FAITHORNE'S stroke, nor FIELD'S own types can save The gallant Veres, and one-eyed OGLE brave. Indignant readers seek the image fled, And curse the busy fool, who _wants a head_. Proudly he shews, with many a smile elate, The scrambling subjects of the _private plate_; While Time their actions and their names bereaves, They grin for ever in the guarded leaves. Like Poets, born, in vain Collectors strive To cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive. Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will, The Tyrant-passion drags them backward still: Ev'n I, debarr'd of ease, and studious hours, Confess, mid' anxious toil, its lurking pow'rs. How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold The small, rare volume, black with tarnish'd gold! The Eye skims restless, like the roving bee, O'er flowers of wit, or song, or repartee, While sweet as Springs, new-bubbling from the stone, Glides through the breast some pleasing theme unknown. Now dipt in ROSSI'S terse and classic style, His harmless tales awake a transient smile. Now BOUCHET'S motley stores my thoughts arrest, With wond'rous reading, and with learned jest. Bouchet whose tomes a grateful line demand, The valued gift of STANLEY'S lib'ral hand. Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray, And mix regrets with gentle DU BELLAY; Or turn, with keen delight, the curious page, Where hardy Pasquin braves the Pontiff's rage. But D----n's strains should tell the sad reverse, When Business calls, invet'rate foe to verse! Tell how "the Demon claps his iron hands," "Waves his lank locks, and scours along the lands." Through wintry blasts, or summer's fire I go, To scenes of danger, and to sights of woe. Ev'n when to Margate ev'ry Cockney roves, And brainsick-poets long for shelt'ring groves, Whose lofty shades exclude the noontide glow, While Zephyrs breathe, and waters trill below, Me rigid Fate averts, by tasks like these, From heav'nly musings, and from letter'd ease. Such wholesome checks the better Genius sends, From dire rehearsals to protect our friends: Else when the social rites our joys renew, The stuff'd Portfolio would alarm your view, Whence volleying rhimes your patience would o'er-come, And, spite of kindness, drive you early home. So when the traveller's hasty footsteps glide Near smoking lava on Vesuvio's side, Hoarse-mutt'ring thunders from the depths proceed, And spouting fires incite his eager speed. Appall'd he flies, while rattling show'rs invade, Invoking ev'ry Saint for instant aid: Breathless, amaz'd, he seeks the distant shore, And vows to tempt the dang'rous gulph no more. See the 'Opulentia Sordida,' in his 'Colloquies,' where he complains feelingly of the spare Venetian diet. He was therefore no _Margin-man_, in the modern sense. _Fletcher._ A translator of Martial. A very bad Poet, but _exceedingly scarce_. Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. Perhaps Shirley had in view this passage of Persius,-- Nunc non e tumulo, fortunataque favilla See his exquisite hymn to the Nightingale in his =Ornithes=. The fire of London. Cloud-compelling Jove.--Pope's 'Iliad.' . . . gaudent praenomine molles _The gallant Veres and one-eyed Ogle._ Three fine heads, for the portraits. Generally known by the name of James Nicius Erythraeus. The allusion is to his 'Pinacotheca.' 'Les Serees de Gillaume Bouchet,' a book of uncommon rarity. I possess a handsome copy by the kindness of Colonel Stanley. 'Les Regrets,' by Joachim du Bellay, contain a most amusing and instructive account of Rome in the sixteenth century. 'Pasquillorum Tomi duo.' Errare per lucos, aemaenae, Quos et aquae subeunt et aurae. F. FERTIAULT. _Rendered into English by A. Lang in Books rule thy mind, so let it be! Thy heart is mine, and mine alone. What more can I require of thee? Books rule thy mind, so let it be! Contented when thy bliss I see, I wish a world of books thine own. Books rule thy mind, so let it be! Thy heart is mine, and mine alone. Give me a nook and a book, And let the proud world spin round; Let it scramble by hook or by crook For wealth or a name with a sound. You are welcome to amble your ways, Aspirers to place or to glory; May big bells jangle your praise, And golden pens blazon your story! For me, let me dwell in my nook, Here by the curve of this brook, That croons to the tune of my book, Whose melody wafts me forever On the waves of an unseen river. Give me a book and a nook Far away from the glitter and strife; Give me a staff and a crook, The calm and the sweetness of life; Let me pause--let me brood as I list, On the marvels of heaven's own spinning-- Sunlight and moonlight and mist, Glorious without slaying or sinning. Vain world, let me reign in my nook, King of this kingdom, my book, A region by fashion forsook; Pass on, ye lean gamblers for glory, Nor mar the sweet tune of my story! There is many a true word spoken in doggerel.--_Czech Folk-Song._ EDMUND GOSSE. _Written for the present collection._ Come hither, my Wither, My Hudibras, hither! My Heinsius from Leyden! Dear Play-books in quarto, Fat tomes in brown leather, Stray never too far to Come back here together! Books writ on occult and Heretical letters, Of you and your betters. I need you all round me; When wits have grown muddy, My best hours have found me With you in my study. I've varied departments To give my books shelter; Shelves, open apartments For tomes helter-skelter; There are artisans' flats, fit For common editions,-- I find them, as that's fit, Good wholesome positions. But books that I cherish Live under glass cases; In the waste lest they perish I build them oases; Where gas cannot find them, Where worms cannot grapple, Those panes hold behind them, My eye and its apple. And here you see flirting Fine folks of distinction: Unique books just skirting The verge of extinction; Old texts with one error And long notes upon it; (With Nottingham's sonnet); Tooled Russias to gaze on, Moroccos to fondle, My Denham, in blazon, My vellum-backed Vondel, My Marvell,--a copy Was never seen taller,-- My Jones's 'Love's Poppy,' My dear little Waller; My exquisite, 'Adamo!' My Dean Donne's 'Death's Duel!' My Behn (naughty madam O!); Ephelia's! Orinda's! Ma'am Pix and Ma'am Barker!-- The rhymsters you find, as The morals grow darker! I never upbraid these Old periwigged sinners, Their songs and light ladies, Their dances and dinners; My book-shelf's a haven From storms puritanic,-- We sure may be gay when Of death we've no panic! My parlor is little, And poor are its treasures; All pleasures are brittle, And so are my pleasures; But though I shall never While Fate does not sever The door from the knocker, No book shall tap vainly At latch or at lattice (If costumed urbanely, And worth our care, that is): My poets from slumber Shall rise in morocco, To shield the new comer From storm or sirocco. I might prate thus for pages, The theme is so pleasant; But the gloom of the ages Lies on me at present; All business and fear to The cold world I banish. Hush! like the Ameer, to My harem I vanish! THOMAS GORDON HAKE. _From the 'State' of April 17, 1886._ What solace would those books afford, In gold and vellum cover, Could men but say them word for word Who never turn them over! Books that must know themselves by heart As by endowment vital, Could they their truths to us impart Not stopping with the title! Line after line their wisdom flows, Page after page repeating; Yet never on our ears bestows A single sound of greeting. As thus they lie upon the shelves, Such wisdom in their pages, Do they rehearse it to themselves, Or rest like silent sages? One book we know such fun invokes, As well were worth the telling: Must it not chuckle o'er the jokes That it is ever spelling? And for the Holy Bible there, It greets us with mild teaching; Though no one its contents may hear, Does it not go on preaching? ROBERT HERRICK. _Prefixed to 'Hesperides.' 1648._ While thou didst keep thy candor undefiled, Dearly I loved thee, as my first-born child; But when I sent thee wantonly to roam From house to house, and never stay at home; I brake my bonds of love, and bade thee go, Regardless whether well thou sped'st or no, On with thy fortunes then, whate'er they be; If good I'll smile, if bad I'll sigh for thee. Make haste away, and let one be A friendly patron unto thee; Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie Torn for the use of pastery; Or see thy injured leaves serve well To make loose gowns for mackerel; Or see the grocers, in a trice, Make hoods of thee to serve out spice. _Imitated by Austin Dobson from the_ Q. HORATIUS FLACCUS. _'Epistles,' i. 20, for the present For mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine! Still craving on some stall to stand, Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand. You chafe at locks, and burn to quit Your modest haunt and audience fit, For hearers less discriminate. I reared you up for no such fate. Still, if you _must_ be published, go; But mind, you can't come back, you know! "What have I done?"--I hear you cry, And writhe beneath some critic's eye; 'What did I want?'--when, scarce polite, They do but yawn, and roll you tight. And yet, methinks, if I may guess (Putting aside your heartlessness In leaving me, and this your home), You should find favor, too, at Rome. That is, they'll like you while you're young. When you are old, you'll pass among The Great Unwashed,--then thumbed and sped, Be fretted of slow moths, unread, Or to Ilerda you'll be sent, Or Utica, for banishment! And I, whose counsel you disdain, At that your lot shall laugh amain, Wryly, as he who, like a fool, Pushed o'er the cliff his restive mule. Stay, there is worse behind. In age They e'en may take your babbling page In some remotest "slum" to teach Mere boys the rudiments of speech! But go. When on warm days you see A chance of listeners, speak of me. Tell them I soared from low estate, A freedman's son, to higher fate (That is, make up to me in worth What you must take in point of birth); Then tell them that I won renown In peace and war, and pleased the Town; Paint me as early gray, and one Little of stature, fond of sun, Quick-tempered, too,--but nothing more. Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four, Or was, the year that over us Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus. collected works._ Were I to name, out of the times gone by, The poets dearest to me, I should say, Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way; Chaucer for manners, and close, silent eye; Milton for classic taste, and harp strung high; Spenser for luxury, and sweet, sylvan play; Horace for chatting with, from day to day; Shakspere for all, but most society. But which take with me, could I take but one? Shakspere, as long as I was unoppressed With the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser; But did I wish, out of the common sun, To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest, And dream of things far off and healing,--Spenser. WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON. _From the Boston 'Transcript.'_ On my study shelves they stand, Well known all to eye and hand, Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold, In morocco rich and old. Some in paper, plain and cheap, Some in muslin, calf, and sheep; Volumes great and volumes small, Ranged along my study wall; But their contents are past finding By their size or by their binding. There is one with gold agleam, Like the Sangreal in a dream, Back and boards in every part Triumph of the binder's art; Costing more, 'tis well believed, Than the author e'er received. But its contents? Idle tales, Flappings of a shallop's sails! In the treasury of learning Scarcely worth a penny's turning. Here's a tome in paper plain, Soiled and torn and marred with stain, Cowering from each statelier book In the darkest, dustiest nook. Take it down, and lo! each page Breathes the wisdom of a sage: Weighed a thousand times in gold, Half its worth would not be told, For all truth of ancient story Crowns each line with deathless glory. On my study shelves they stand; But my study walls expand, As thought's pinions are unfurled, Till they compass all the world. Endless files go marching by, Men of lowly rank and high, Some in broadcloth, gem-adorned, Some in homespun, fortune-scorned; But God's scales that all are weighed in Heed not what each man's arrayed in! _This is from the third of the poet's books_ BEN JONSON. _of epigrams. Bucklersbury was the street most affected by grocers and apothecaries._ Thou that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well, Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell, Use mine so too; I give thee leave; but crave, For the luck's sake, it thus much favor have, To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought; Not offered, as it made suit to be bought; Nor have my title-leaf on posts or walls, Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls For termers, or some clerk-like serving-man, Who scarce can spell thy hard names; whose knight less can. If without these vile arts it will not sell, Send it to Bucklersbury, there 't will well. _This is the eighty-sixth of the poet's first book of epigrams, and, like its immediate_ BEN JONSON. _predecessor, it was addressed to a gentleman bound in bonds of friendship to many of the men of genius of his time._ When I would know thee, Goodyere, my thought looks Upon thy well-made choice of friends and books; Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends In making thy friends books, and thy books friends: Now must I give thy life and deed the voice Attending such a study, such a choice; Where, though 't be love that to thy praise doth move, It was a knowledge that begat that love. CHARLES LAMB. _Written in 1824 for the daughter of his friend Bernard Barton._ Little Book, surnamed of _white_, Clean as yet and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right. Never disproportioned scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall! In each letter, here designed, Let the reader emblemed find Neatness of the owner's mind. Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within; Saying fetched from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold: Lighter fancies not excluding; Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding, Amid strains of graver measure: Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure. Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but _shades_--he banished hence. Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress. A. LANG. _From 'Ballades in Blue China.' 1880._ In torrid heats of late July, In March, beneath the bitter _bise_, He book-hunts while the loungers fly,-- He book-hunts, though December freeze; In breeches baggy at the knees, And heedless of the public jeers, For these, for these, he hoards his fees,-- No dismal stall escapes his eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled Romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies; Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees With restless eyes that peer and spy, Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is _Spes_! But ah! the fabled treasure flees; Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their ease, Prince, all the things that tease and please, Fame, love, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, What are they but such toys as these-- A. LANG. _From 'Ballades in Blue China.' 1880._ While others are asking for beauty or fame, Or praying to know that for which they should pray, Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame, Or chasing the Muses the weary and gray, The sage has found out a more excellent way,-- To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers, And his humble petition puts up day by day, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. Inventors may bow to the God that is lame, And crave from the light of his stithy a ray; Philosophers kneel to the God without name, Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they; The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay, The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours,-- But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. Oh grant me a life without pleasure or blame (As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame). Oh grant me a house by the beach of a bay, Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers! And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. Gods, give or withhold it! Your "yea" and your "nay" Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours: But life _is_ worth living, and here we would stay For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. A. LANG. _From 'Rhymes a la Mode.' 1885._ There _is_ a Heaven, or here, or there,-- A Heaven there is, for me and you, Where bargains meet for purses spare, Like ours, are not so far and few. Thuanus' bees go humming through The learned groves, 'neath rainless skies, O'er volumes old and volumes new, Within that Bookman's Paradise! There treasures bound for Longepierre Keep brilliant their morocco blue, There Hookes' 'Amanda' is not rare, Nor early tracts upon Peru! Racine is common as Rotrou, No Shakspere Quarto search defies, And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew, Within that Bookman's Paradise! There's Eve,--not our first mother fair,-- But Clovis Eve, a binder true; Thither does Bauzonnet repair, But never come the cropping crew, That dock a volume's honest size, Nor they that "letter" backs askew, Within that Bookman's Paradise! And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise, _La chasse au bouquin_ still pursue Within that Bookman's Paradise? _Ballade en guise de rondeau, written for_ A. LANG. _the catalogue of Mr. Frederick Locker's The Rowfant books, how fair they show, The Quarto quaint, the Aldine tall, Print, autograph, portfolio! Back from the outer air they call, The athletes from the Tennis ball, This Rhymer from his rod and hooks,-- Would I could sing them, one and all,-- The Rowfant books! The Rowfant books! In sun and snow They're dear, but most when tempests fall; The folio towers above the row As once, o'er minor prophets,--Saul! What jolly jest books, and what small "Dear dumpy Twelves" to fill the nooks. You do not find on every stall The Rowfant books! The Rowfant books! These long ago Were chained within some College hall; These manuscripts retain the glow Of many a colored capital; While yet the satires keep their gall, While the Pastissier puzzles cooks, Theirs is a joy that does not pall,-- The Rowfant books! The Rowfant books,--ah, magical As famed Armida's golden looks, They hold the Rhymer for their thrall,-- The Rowfant books! A. LANG. _Written for the catalogue of Mr. Frederick Locker's books._ I mind me of the Shepherd's saw, For, when men spoke of Heaven, quoth he, "It's everything that's bright and braw, But _Bourhope's_ good enough for me." Among the green deep bosomed hills That guard St. Mary's Loch it lies, The silence of the pastures fills That yeoman's homely paradise! Enough for him his mountain lake, His glen the burn goes singing through; And _Rowfant_, when the thrushes wake, Might well seem Paradise to you! For all is old, and tried, and dear, And all is fair, and all about The brook that murmurs from the mere Is dimpled with the rising trout. And when the skies of shorter days Are dark, and all the paths are mire, How kindly o'er your _Books_ the blaze Sports from the cheerful study fire; O'er Quartos, where our Fathers read Entranced, the Book of Shakspere's play, O'er all that Poe has dreamed of dread, And all that Herrick sang of gay! Rare First Editions, duly prized, Among them dearest far I rate The tome where _Walton's_ hand revised His magical receipts for bait. Happy, who rich in toys like these Forgets a weary nation's ills, Who, from his study window sees The circle of the Sussex hills! But back to town my Muse must fly, And taste the smoke, and list to them Who cry the News, and seem to cry (With each Gladstonian victory), _Woe, woe unto Jerusalem!_ A. LANG. _From 'Longman's Magazine,' July, 1886._ When lights are out, and ashes fall,-- Suppose their ancient owners come To claim our spoils of shop and stall, Ah me! within the narrow hall How strange a mob would meet and go, What famous folk would haunt them all, Octavo, quarto, folio! The great Napoleon lays his hand Upon this eagle-headed N, That marks for his a pamphlet banned By all but scandal-loving men,-- A libel from some nameless den Wherein one spilt, with venal pen, Lies o'er the loves of Moliere. Another shade--he does not see "Boney," the foeman of his race-- The great Sir Walter, this is he With that grave homely Border face. He claims his poem of the chase That rang Benvoirlich's valley through; And _this_, that doth the lineage trace And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch; For these were his, and these he gave To one who dwelt beside the Peel, That murmurs with its tiny wave To join the Tweed at Ashestiel. Now thick as motes the shadows wheel, And find their own, and claim a share Of books wherein Ribou did deal, Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert. What famous folk of old are here! A royal duke comes down to us, And greatly wants his Elzevir, His Pagan tutor, Lucius. And Beckford claims an amorous Old heathen in morocco blue; And who demands Eobanus But stately Jacques Auguste de Thou! They come, the wise, the great, the true, They jostle on the narrow stair, The frolic Countess de Verrue, The new and elder dead are there-- The lords of speech, and song, and pen, Gambetta, Schlegel, and the rare Drummond of haunted Hawthornden. Ah, and with those, a hundred more, Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot: Brave 'Smiths' and 'Thompsons' by the score, Scrawled upon many a shabby 'lot.' This play-book was the joy of Pott-- Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves. Our names, like his, remembered not, Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves! At least in pleasant company We bookish ghosts, perchance, may flit; A man may turn a page, and sigh, Seeing one's name, to think of it. May ope our book, and muse awhile, And fall into a dreaming fit, As now we dream, and wake, and smile! 'Histoire des Intrigues Amoureuses de Moliere et de celles de sa 'Stratonis Epigrammata.' Altenburgi, 1764. Straton bound up in one volume with Epictetus! From the Beckford library. 'Opera Helii Eobani Hessi.' Yellow morocco, with the first arms 'La Journee du Chretien.' Coutances, 1831. With inscription, Villoison's 'Homer.' Venice, 1788. With Tessier's ticket and Schlegel's book-plate. "The little old foxed Moliere," once the property of William Pott, unknown to fame. Wherever I go, there's a trusty battalion That follows me faithfully, steady, and true; Their force, when I falter, I safely may rally on, Knowing their stoutness will carry me through: Some fifteen hundred in order impartial, So ranged that they tell what they mean by their looks. Of all the armies the world can marshal There are no better soldiers than well-tried books. They never retreat. Give the word, and they'll fire! A few with scarlet and gold are bedizened, But many muster in rough attire; And some, with service and scars grown wizened, Seem hardly the mates for their fellows in youth; Yet they, and the troops armed only with quiz and Light laughter, all battle alike for the truth. Here are those who gave motive to sock and to buskin; With critics, historians, poets galore; A cheaply uniformed set of Ruskin, Which Ruskin would hate from his heart's very core; Moliere ('99), an old calf-bound edition, "_De Pierre Didot l'aine, et de Firmin Didot_." Which, meek and demure, with a sort of contrition, Is masking its gun-lights, with fun all aglow; And Smollett and Fielding, as veterans battered-- Cloth stripped from their backs, and their sides out of joint, Their pictures of life all naked and tattered Being thus applied to themselves with a point; And six or eight books that I wrote myself, To look at which, even, I'm half afraid; They brought me more labor and pleasure than pelf, And are clamoring still because they're not paid. But these raw levies remain still faithful, Because they know that volumes old Stand by me, although their eyes dim and wraithful Remind me they seldom at profit were sold. So I say, be they splendid or tatterdemalion, If only you know what they mean by their looks, You will never find a better battalion Of soldiers to serve you than well-tried books. WALTER LEARNED. _Written for the present collection._ At Cato's-Head in Russell Street These leaves she sat a-stitching; I fancy she was trim and neat, Blue-eyed and quite bewitching. Before her, in the street below, All powder, ruffs, and laces, There strutted idle London beaux To ogle pretty faces; While, filling many a Sedan chair With hoop and monstrous feather, In patch and powder London's fair Went trooping past together. Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap They sauntered slowly past her, Or printer's boy, with gown and cap For Steele, went trotting faster. For beau nor wit had she a look, Nor lord nor lady minding; She bent her head above this book, Attentive to her binding. And one stray thread of golden hair, Caught on her nimble fingers, Was stitched within this volume, where Until to-day it lingers. Past and forgotten, beaux and fair; Wigs, powder, all out-dated; A queer antique, the Sedan chair; Pope, stiff and antiquated. Yet as I turn these odd old plays, This single stray lock finding, I'm back in those forgotten days And watch her at her binding. ROBERT LEIGHTON. _From 'Reuben, and Other Poems.' 1875_ I would that we were only readers now, And wrote no more, or in rare heats of soul Sweated out thoughts when the o'er-burden'd brow Was powerless to control. Then would all future books be small and few, And, freed of dross, the soul's refined gold; So should we have a chance to read the new, Yet not forego the old. But as it is, Lord help us, in this flood Of daily papers, books, and magazines! We scramble blind as reptiles in the mud, And know not what it means. Is it the myriad spawn of vagrant tides, Whose growth would overwhelm both sea and shore, Yet often necessary loss, provides Sufficient and no more? Is it the broadcast sowing of the seeds, And from the stones, the thorns and fertile soil, Only enough to serve the world's great needs Rewards the sower's toil? Is it all needed for the varied mind? Gives not the teeming press a book too much-- Not one, but in its dense neglect shall find Some needful heart to touch? Ah, who can say that even this blade of grass No mission has--superfluous as it looks? Then wherefore feel oppressed and cry, Alas, There are too many books! FREDERICK LOCKER. _Written for the present collection._ Of yore, when books were few and fine, Will Shakspere cut these leaves of mine, But when he passed I went astray Till bought by Pope, a gift for Gay. Then, later on, betwixt my pages A nose was poked--the Bolt-Court Sage's. But though the Fame began with Rawleigh, And had not dwindled with Macaulay, Though still I tincture many tomes Like Lowell's pointed sense, and Holmes', For me the halcyon days have past-- I'm here, and with a dunce at last. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. _Written in December, 1881._ Sadly as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall, and full in sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed Trembled and fell upon his beard of white, So I behold these books upon their shelf, My ornaments and arms of other days; Not wholly useless, though no longer used, For they remind me of my other self, Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways, In which I walked, now clouded and confused. EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON. _From 'Earlier Poems.'_ Sit here and muse!--it is an antique room-- High-roof'd, with casements, through whose purple pane Unwilling Daylight steals amidst the gloom, Shy as a fearful stranger. There THEY reign (In loftier pomp than waking life had known), The Kings of Thought!--not crown'd until the grave. When Agamemnon sinks into the tomb, The beggar Homer mounts the Monarch's throne! Ye ever-living and imperial Souls, Who rule us from the page in which ye breathe, All that divide us from the clod ye gave!-- Law--Order--Love--Intelligence--the Sense Of Beauty--Music and the Minstrel's wreath!-- What were our wanderings if without your goals? As air and light, the glory ye dispense Becomes our being--who of us can tell What he had been, had Cadmus never taught The art that fixes into form the thought-- Had Plato never spoken from his cell, Or his high harp blind Homer never strung? Kinder all earth hath grown since genial Shakspere sung! Hark! while we muse, without the walls is heard The various murmur of the laboring crowd, How still, within those archive-cells interr'd, The Calm Ones reign!--and yet they rouse the loud Passions and tumults of the circling world! From them, how many a youthful Tully caught The zest and ardor of the eager Bar; From them, how many a young Ambition sought Gay meteors glancing o'er the sands afar-- By them each restless wing has been unfurl'd, And their ghosts urge each rival's rushing car! They made yon Preacher zealous for the truth; They made yon Poet wistful for the star; Gave Age its pastime--fired the cheek of Youth-- The unseen sires of all our beings are,-- And now so still! This, Cicero, is thy heart; I hear it beating through each purple line. This is thyself, Anacreon--yet, thou art Wreath'd, as in Athens, with the Cnidian vine. I ope thy pages, Milton, and, behold, Thy spirit meets me in the haunted ground!-- Sublime and eloquent, as while, of old, "It flamed and sparkled in its crystal bound;" These _are_ yourselves--your life of life! The Wise, (Minstrel or Sage) _out_ of their books are clay; But _in_ their books, as from their graves, they rise, Angels--that, side by side, upon our way, Walk with and warn us! Hark! the world so loud, And they, the movers of the world, so still! What gives this beauty to the grave? the shroud Scarce wraps the Poet, than at once there cease Envy and Hate! "Nine cities claim him dead, Through which the living Homer begg'd his bread!" And what the charm that can such health distil From wither'd leaves--oft poisons in their bloom? We call some books immoral! _Do they live?_ If so, believe me, TIME hath made them pure. In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace-- God wills that nothing evil shall endure; The grosser parts fly off and leave the whole, As the dust leaves the disembodied soul! Come from thy niche, Lucretius! Thou didst give Man the black creed of Nothing in the tomb! Well, when we read thee, does the dogma taint? No; with a listless eye we pass it o'er, And linger only on the hues that paint The Poet's spirit lovelier than his lore. None learn from thee to cavil with their God; None commune with thy genius to depart Without a loftier instinct of the heart. Thou mak'st no Atheist--thou but mak'st the mind Richer in gifts which Atheists best confute-- FANCY AND THOUGHT! 'Tis these that from the sod Lift us! The life which soars above the brute Ever and mightiest, breathes from a great Poet's lute! Lo! that grim Merriment of Hatred;--born Of him,--the Master-Mocker of Mankind, Beside the grin of whose malignant spleen, Voltaire's gay sarcasm seems a smile serene,-- Do we not place it in our children's hands, Leading young Hope through Lemuel's fabled lands?-- God's and man's libel in that foul yahoo!-- Well, and what mischief can the libel do? O impotence of Genius to belie Its glorious task--its mission from the sky! Swift wrote this book to wreak a ribald scorn On aught the Man should love or Priest should mourn-- And lo! the book, from all its ends beguil'd, A harmless wonder to some happy child! 'Gulliver's Travels.' All books grow homilies by time; they are Temples, at once, and Landmarks. In them, we Who _but_ for them, upon that inch of ground We call "THE PRESENT," from the cell could see No daylight trembling on the dungeon bar; Turn, as we list, the globe's great axle round, And feel the Near less household than the Far! Traverse all space, and number every star, There is no Past, so long as Books shall live! A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes again For him who seeks yon well; lost cities give Up their untarnish'd wonders, and the reign Of Jove revives and Saturn:--at our will Rise dome and tower on Delphi's sacred hill; Bloom Cimon's trees in Academe;--along Leucadia's headland, sighs the Lesbian's song; And learn how worlds are barter'd for a smile:-- Rise up, ye walls, with gardens blooming o'er, Ope but that page--lo, Babylon once more! Ye make the Past our heritage and home: And is this all? No; by each prophet-sage-- No; by the herald souls that Greece and Rome Sent forth, like hymns, to greet the Morning Star That rose on Bethlehem--by thy golden page, Melodious Plato--by thy solemn dreams, World-wearied Tully!--and, above ye all, By THIS, the Everlasting Monument Of God to mortals, on whose front the beams Flash glory-breathing day--our lights ye are To the dark Bourne beyond; in you are sent The types of Truths whose life is THE TO-COME; In you soars up the Adam from the fall; In you the FUTURE as the PAST is given-- Ev'n in our death ye bid us hail our birth;-- Unfold these pages, and behold the Heaven, Without one gravestone left upon the Earth? COSMO MONKHOUSE. _Written for the present collection._ True--there are books and books. There's Gray, For instance, and there's Bacon; There's Longfellow, and Monstrelet, And also Colton's 'Lacon,' With 'Laws of Whist' and those of Libel, And some are dear as friends, and some We keep because we need them; And some we ward from worm and thumb, And love too well to read them. My own are poor, and mostly new, But I've an Elzevir or two. That as a gift is prized, the next For trouble in the finding; This Aldine for its early text, That Plantin for the binding; This sorry Herrick hides a flower, The record of one perfect hour. But whether it be worth or looks We gently love or strongly, Such virtue doth reside in books We scarce can love them wrongly; To sages an eternal school, A hobby (harmless) to the fool. Nor altogether fool is he Who orders, free from doubt, Those books which "no good library Should ever be without," And blandly locks the well-glazed door On tomes that issue never more. Less may we scorn his cases grand, Where safely, surely linger Fair virgin fields of type, unscanned And innocent of finger. There rest, preserved from dust accurst, The first editions--and the worst. And least of all should we that write With easy jest deride them, Who hope to leave when "lost to sight" The best of us inside them, Dear shrines! where many a scribbler's name Has lasted--longer than his fame. ARTHUR J. MUNBY. _Written for the present collection._ Man that is born of woman finds a charm In that which he is born of. She it is Who moulds him with a frown or with a kiss To good or ill, to welfare or to harm: But, when he has attain'd her soft round arm And drawn it through his own, and made her his, He through her eyes beholds a wider bliss, As sweet as that she gives him, and as warm. What bliss? We dare not name it: her fond looks Are jealous too; she hardly understands, Girt by her children's laughter or their cries, The stately smooth companionship of books: And yet to her we owe it, to her hands And to her heart, that books can make us wise. "_Edward Danenhill: Book given him ARTHUR J. MUNBY. _was the inscription in a copy of Carew's the present collection._ A man unknown this volume gave, So long since, to his unknown friend, Ages ago, their lives had end, And each in some obscurest grave Lies mixt with earth: none now would care To ask or who or what they were. But, though these two are underground, Their book is here, all safe and sound; And he who wrote it (yea, and more Than a whole hundred years before) He, the trim courtier, old Carew, And all the loves he feign'd or knew, Have won from Aphrodite's eye Some show of immortality. 'Tis ever thus; by Nature's will The gift outlasts the giver still; And Love itself lives not so long As doth a lover's feeblest song. But doubly hard is that man's case, For whom and for his earnest rhymes Neither his own nor after-times Have any work, have any place: Who through a hundred years shall find No echoing voice, no answering mind; And, when this tann'd and tawny page Has one more century of age, And others buy the book anew, Because they care for old Carew, Not one who reads shall care or know What name was his, who owns it now: But all he wrote and all he did Shall be in such oblivion hid As hides the blurr'd and broken stones That cover his forgotten bones. CAROLINE NORTON. _From the 'Dream and other Poems.' 1840._ Silent companions of the lonely hour, Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, Let me return to YOU; this turmoil ending Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought; Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 'T will be like hearing in a foreign clime My native language spoke in friendly tone, And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell On these, my unripe musings, told so well. O finest essence of delicious rest! To bid for some short space the busy mill Of anxious, ever-grinding thought be still; And let the weary brain and throbbing breast Be by another's cooling hand caressed. This volume in my hand, I hold a charm Which lifts me out of reach of wrong or harm. I sail away from trouble; and most blessed Of every blessing, can myself forget: Can rise above the instance low and poor Into the mighty law that governs yet. This hinged cover, like a well hung door, Shuts out the noises of the jangling day, These fair leaves fan unwelcome thoughts away. Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day The bookworm, ravening beast of prey, Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds, As fame reports it, with the gods. Him frantic hunger wildly drives Against a thousand authors' lives: Through all the fields of wit he flies; Dreadful his head with clustering eyes, With horns without, and tusks within, And scales to serve him for a skin. Observe him nearly, lest he climb To wound the bards of ancient time, Or down the vale of fancy go To tear some modern wretch below. On every corner fix thine eye, Or ten to one he slips thee by. See where his teeth a passage eat: We'll rouse him from his deep retreat. But who the shelter's forc'd to give? 'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live! From leaf to leaf, from song to song He draws the tadpole form along, He mounts the gilded edge before, He's up, he scuds the cover o'er, He turns, he doubles, there he past, And here we have him, caught at last. Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse The sweetest servants of the Muse-- Nay, never offer to deny, I took thee in the fact to fly. His rose nipt in every page, My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage; By thee my Ovid wounded lies; By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies; Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd The work of love in Biddy Floyd; They rent Belinda's locks away, And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. For all, for every single deed, Relentless justice bids thee bleed: Then fall a victim to the Nine Myself the priest, my desk the shrine. Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near, To pile a sacred altar here: Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit, You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ; You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain; Pray take your mortal bards again. Come, bind the victim,--there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes This venerable dust I lay From manuscripts just swept away. The goblet in my hand I take, For the libation's yet to make: A health to poets! all their days May they have bread, as well as praise; Sense may they seek, and less engage In papers fill'd with party rage. But if their riches spoil their vein, Ye Muses, make them poor again. Now bring the weapon, yonder blade With which my tuneful pens are made. I strike the scales that arm thee round, And twice and thrice I print the wound; The sacred altar floats with red, And now he dies, and now he's dead. How like the son of Jove I stand, This Hydra stretch'd beneath the hand! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, And see what dangers threat the year: Ye gods! what sonnet on a wench! What lean translations out of French! 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, S--prints, before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene The sacred altar should be clean. O had I Shadwell's second bays, Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your works till now,) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, That only way you please the Nine: But since I chance to want these two, I'll make the songs of Durfey do. Rent from the corps, on yonder pin, I hang the scales that brac'd it in; I hang my studious morning gown, And write my own inscription down. "This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done, These, Parnell, glorying in the feat Hung on these shelves, the Muses seat. Here Ignorance and Hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage round; Here Ignorance and Hunger fell Two foes in one I sent to hell. Ye poets who my labors see Come share the triumph all with me! Ye critics, born to vex the Muse, Go mourn the grand ally you lose!" SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. _From 'Cap and Bells.' 1886._ Among my books--what rest is there From wasting woes! what balm for care! If ills appall or clouds hang low, And drooping, dim the fleeting show, I revel still in visions rare. At will I breathe the classic air, The wanderings of Ulysses share; Or see the plume of Bayard flow Among my books. Whatever face the world may wear-- If Lillian has no smile to spare, For others let her beauty blow, Such favors I can well forego; Perchance forget the frowning fair Among my books. "Imperious Caesar dead and turn'd to clay Might stop a hole to keep the wind away." Here the live thought of buried Caesar's brain That lights a dunce's fire. Here Homer's seen All torn or crumpled in the pettish spleen Of some spoilt urchin. Here a leaf from Glanvil Is reft to mark a place in 'On the Anvil.' Here, too, a heavy-blotted Shakspere's page Holds up an inky mirror to the age; Here looking round you're but too sure to see a Heart-breaking wreck from the 'Via Jacobaea;' Here some rare pamphlet, long a-missing, lurks In an odd volume of 'Lord Bacon's Works;' Here may you find a Stillingfleet or Blair Usurp the binding of a lost Voltaire; And here a tattered Boyle doth gape ungently Upon a damp-disfigured 'Life of Bentley.' Here half a Rabelais jostles for position The quarter of a 'Spanish Inquisition;' And here a rent and gilt-edged Sterne doth lack a ray Of sun that falls upon a bulging Thackeray; Here--but the tale's too sad at length to tell How a book-heaven's been turned to a book-hell. BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. _From 'An Autobiographical_ All round the room my silent servants wait,-- My friends in every season, bright and dim; Angels and seraphim Come down and murmur to me, sweet and low, And spirits of the skies all come and go Early and late; All from the old world's divine and distant date, From the sublimer few, Down to the poet who but yester-eve Sang sweet and made us grieve, All come, assembling here in order due. And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate, With Erato and all her vernal sighs, Great Clio with her victories elate, Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes. O friends, whom chance and change can never harm, Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die, Within whose folding soft eternal charm I love to lie, And meditate upon your verse that flows, And fertilizes whereso'er it goes, _The sale of the famous Roscoe library, made necessary by reverses in business,_ As one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile, To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart,-- Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art! Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore; When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. FRANCIS ST. CLAIR-ERSKINE, _From 'Sonnets.' 1883._ Alone, 'midst living works of mighty dead, Poets and Scholars versed in history's lore, With thoughts that reached beyond them and before, I dream, and leave their glorious works unread; Their greatness numbs me both in heart and head. I cannot weep with Petrarch, and still more I fail when I would delve the depths of yore, And learn old Truths of modern lies instead; The shelves frown on me blackly, with a life That ne'er can die, and helpless to begin, I can but own my weakness, and deplore This waste, this barren brain, ah! once so rife With hope and fancy. Pardon all my sin, Great Ghosts that wander on the Eternal Shore. _One of the excerpts from 'Occasional_ Here, e'en the sturdy democrat may find, Nor scorn their rank, the nobles of the mind; While kings may learn, nor blush at being shown, How Learning's patents abrogate their own. A goodly company and fair to see; Royal plebeians; earls of low degree; Beggars whose wealth enriches every clime; Princes who scarce can boast a mental dime; Crowd here together like the quaint array Of jostling neighbors on a market day. Homer and Milton,--can we call them blind?-- Of godlike sight, the vision of the mind; Shakspere, who calmly looked creation through, "Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new;" Plato the sage, so thoughtful and serene, He seems a prophet by his heavenly mien; Shrewd Socrates, whose philosophic power Xantippe proved in many a trying hour; And Aristophanes, whose humor run In vain endeavor to be-"cloud" the sun; Majestic AEschylus, whose glowing page Holds half the grandeur of the Athenian stage; Pindar, whose odes, replete with heavenly fire, Proclaim the master of the Grecian lyre; Anacreon, famed for many a luscious line Devote to Venus and the god of wine. I love vast libraries; yet there is a doubt If one be better with them or without,-- Unless he use them wisely, and indeed, Knows the high art of what and how to read, At learning's fountain it is sweet to drink, But 'tis a nobler privilege to think; And oft from books apart, the thirsting mind May make the nectar which it cannot find, 'T is well to borrow from the good and great; 'T is wise to learn; 't is godlike to create! CLINTON SCOLLARD. _From 'With Reed and Lyre.' 1886._ From the oriels one by one, Slowly fades the setting sun; On the marge of afternoon Stands the new-born crescent moon. In the twilight's crimson glow Dim the quiet alcoves grow. Drowsy-lidded Silence smiles On the long deserted aisles; Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look. Some with smiling eyes, and some He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep, He above whose grave are set Sprays of Roman violet; Poets, sages--all who wrought In the crucible of thought. Day by day as seasons glide On the great eternal tide, Noiselessly they gather thus In the twilight beauteous, Hold communion each with each, Closer than our earthly speech, Till within the east are born Premonitions of the morn! FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. _From the 'Century Magazine,' A cup of coffee, eggs, and rolls Sustain him on his morning strolls: Unconscious of the passers-by, He trudges on with downcast eye; He wears a queer old hat and coat, Suggestive of a style remote; His manner is preoccupied,-- A shambling gait, from side to side. For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop Is all in vain,--he does not stop. His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves Where musty volumes hide themselves,-- Rare prints of poetry and prose, And quaintly lettered folios,-- Perchance a parchment manuscript, In some forgotten corner slipped, Or monk-illumined missal bound In vellum with brass clasps around; These are the pictured things that throng His mind the while he walks along. A dingy street, a cellar dim, With book-lined walls, suffices him. The dust is white upon his sleeves; He turns the yellow, dog-eared leaves With just the same religious look That priests give to the Holy Book. He does not heed the stifling air If so he find a treasure there. He knows rare books, like precious wines, Are hidden where the sun ne'er shines; For him delicious flavors dwell In books as in old Muscatel; He finds in features of the type A clew to prove the grape was ripe. And when he leaves this dismal place, Behold, a smile lights up his face! Upon his cheeks a genial glow,-- Within his hand Boccaccio, A first edition worn with age, "Firenze" on the title-page. ROBERT SOUTHEY. _Written at Keswick in 1818._ My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been dedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead, with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn; Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead, anon My place with them shall be, And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. Summer fading, winter comes-- Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books. Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks And the picture story-books. All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books. We may see how all things are, Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks, In the picture story-books. How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books? A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of companions, men, women, and books. We have companions, comrade mine: Jolly good fellows, tried and true, Are filling their cups with the Rhenish wine, And pledging each other, as I do you. Never a man in all the land But has, in his hour of need, a friend, Who stretches to him a helping hand And stands by him to the bitter end. If not before, there is comfort then, In the strong companionship of men. But better than that, old friend of mine, Is the love of woman, the life of life, Whether in maiden's eyes it shine, Or melts in the tender kiss of wife; A heart contented to feel, not know, That finds in the other its sole delight; White hands that are loath to let us go, The tenderness that is more than might! On earth below, in heaven above, Is there anything better than woman's love? I do not say so, companion mine, For what, without it, would I be here? It lightens my troubles, like this good wine, And, if I must weep, sheds tear for tear! But books, old friends that are always new, Of all good things that we know are best; They never forsake us, as others do, And never disturb our inward rest. Here is truth in a world of lies, And all that in man is great and wise! Better than men and women, friend, That are dust, though dear in our joy and pain, Are the books their cunning hands have penned, For they depart, but the books remain; Through these they speak to us what was best In the loving heart and the noble mind: All their royal souls possessed Belongs forever to all mankind! When others fail him, the wise man looks To the sure companionship of books. _A Bibliographical Melody, printed in_ RICHARD THOMSON. _1820 at the press of John Johnson, as a gift to the members of the Roxburghe That Life is a Comedy oft hath been shown, By all who Mortality's changes have known; But more like a Volume its actions appear, Where each Day is a Page and each Chapter a year. 'Tis a Manuscript Time shall full surely unfold, Though with Black-Letter shaded, or shining with gold; The Initial, like Youth, glitters bright on its Page, But its Text is as dark--as the gloom of Old Age. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. Though the Title stands first it can little declare The Contents which the Pages ensuing shall bear; As little the first day of Life can explain The succeeding events which shall glide in its train, The Book follows next, and, delighted, we trace An Elzevir's beauty, a Guttemberg's grace; Thus on pleasure we gaze with as raptured an eye, Till, cut off like a Volume imperfect, we die! Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. Yet e'en thus imperfect, complete, or defaced, The skill of the Printer is still to be traced; And though death bend us early in life to his will, The wise hand of our Author is visible still. Like the Colophon lines is the Epitaph's lay, Which tells of what age and what nation our day, And, like the Device of the Printer, we bear The form of the Founder, whose Image we wear. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. The work thus completed its Boards shall inclose, Till a Binding more bright and more beauteous it shows; And who can deny, when Life's Vision hath past, That the dark Boards of Death shall surround us at last. Yet our Volume illumed with fresh splendors shall rise, To be gazed at by Angels, and read to the skies, Reviewed by its Author, revised by his Pen, In a fair new Edition to flourish again. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. _From 'Sonnets.' 1864._ Faith and fixt hope these pages may peruse, And still be faith and hope; but, O ye winds! Blow them far off from all unstable minds, And foolish grasping hands of youth! Ye dews Of heaven! be pleased to rot them where they fall, Lest loitering boys their fancies should abuse, And they get harm by chance, that cannot choose; So be they stain'd and sodden, each and all! And if, perforce, on dry and gusty days, Upon the breeze some truant leaf should rise, Brittle with many weathers, to the skies, Or flit and dodge about the public ways-- Man's choral shout, or organ's peal of praise Shall shake it into dust, like older lies. HENRY VAUGHAN. _From 'Silex Scintillans: Sacred Poems Bright books: perspectives on our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning lights, Burning in shining thoughts, man's posthume day, The track of fled souls in their milkie way, The dead alive and busy, the still voice Of enlarged spirits, kind heaven's white decoys! Who lives with you lives like those knowing flowers Which in commerce with light spend all their hours; Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun. Beneath you all is dark and a dead night, Which whoso lives in wants both health and sight. By sucking you, the wise, like bees, do grow Healing and rich, though this they do most slow, Because most choicely; for as great a store Have we of books as bees, of herbs, or more; And the great task to try, then know, the good, To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food, Is a rare scant performance. For man dies Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies. But you were all choice flowers; all set and drest By old sage florists, who well knew the best; And I amidst you all am turned to weed! Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed. Then thank thyself, wild fool, that would'st not be Content to know what was too much for thee! SAMUEL WADDINGTON. _Written for the present collection._ 'Mid Cambrian heights around Dolgelly vale, What time we scaled great Cader's rugged pile, Or loitered idly where still meadows smile Beside the Mawddach-stream, or far Cynfael-- Nor tome, nor rhythmic page, nor pastoral tale, Our summer-sated senses would beguile; Or lull our ears to melody, the while The voiceful rill ran lilting down the dale. In London town once more--behold, once more The old delight returns! 'Mid heights how vast, In Milton's verse, through what dim paths we wind; How Keats's canvas glows, and Wordsworth's lore, As tarn or torrent pure, by none surpass'd, Sheds light and love--unfathomed, undefined. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. _Sung at the opening of the "Let there be Light!" God spake of old, And over chaos dark and cold, And through the dead and formless frame Of nature, life and order came. Faint was the light at first that shone On giant fern and mastodon, On half-formed plant and beast of prey, And man as rude and wild as they. Age after age, like waves o'erran The earth, uplifting brute and man; And mind, at length, in symbols dark Its meanings traced on stone and bark. On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll, On plastic clay and leathern scroll, Man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed, And lo! the Press was found at last! Then dead souls woke; the thoughts of men Whose bones were dust revived again; The cloister's silence found a tongue, Old prophets spake, old poets sung. And here, to-day, the dead look down, The kings of mind again we crown; We hear the voices lost so long, The sage's word, the sibyl's song. Here Greek and Roman find themselves Alive along these crowded shelves; And Shakspere treads again his stage, And Chaucer paints anew his age. As if some Pantheon's marbles broke Their stony trance, and lived and spoke, Life thrills along the alcoved hall, The lords of thought awake our call. TOMAS YRIARTE. _An anonymous translation of one of the A country squire, of greater wealth than wit (For fools are often blessed with fortune's smile), Had built a splendid house, and furnished it In splendid style. "One thing is wanting," said a friend; "for, though The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse, You lack a library, dear sir, for show, If not for use." "'Tis true; but 'zounds!" replied the squire with glee, "The lumber-room in yonder northern wing (I wonder I ne'er thought of it) will be The very thing. "I'll have it fitted up without delay With shelves and presses of the newest mode And rarest wood, befitting every way A squire's abode." "And when the whole is ready, I'll dispatch My coachman--a most knowing fellow--down To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch Of books in town." But ere the library was half supplied With all its pomps of cabinet and shelf, The booby squire repented him, and cried Unto himself:-- "This room is much more roomy than I thought; Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice To fill it, and would cost, however bought, A plaguy price." "Now as I only want them for their looks, It might, on second thoughts, be just as good, And cost me next to nothing, if the books Were made of wood." "It shall be so, I'll give the shaven deal A coat of paint--a colorable dress, To look like calf or vellum, and conceal Its nakedness." "And, gilt and lettered with the author's name, Whatever is most excellent and rare Shall be, or seem to be ('tis all the same), Assembled there." The work was done; the simulated hoards Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood, In binding some; and some, of course, in _boards_, Where all were wood. From bulky folios down to slender twelves The choicest tomes, in many an even row Displayed their lettered backs upon the shelves, A goodly show. With such a stock as seemingly surpassed The best collection ever formed in Spain, What wonder if the owner grew at last Supremely vain? What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf, And conned their titles, that the squire began, Despite his ignorance, to think himself A learned man? _Let every amateur, who merely looks To backs and binding, take the hint, and sell His costly library--for painted books Would serve as well._ _From the appendix of 'How to Read_ ANON. _a Book in the Best Way.' I must confess I love old books! The dearest, too, perhaps most dearly; Thick, clumpy tomes, of antique looks, In pigskin covers fashioned queerly. Clasped, chained, or thonged, stamped quaintly too, With figures wondrous strange, or holy Men and women, and cherubs, few Might well from owls distinguish duly. I love black-letter books that saw The light of day at least three hundred Long years ago; and look with awe On works that live, so often plundered. I love the sacred dust the more It clings to ancient lore, enshrining Thoughts of the dead, renowned of yore, Embalmed in books, for age declining. Fit solace, food, and friends more sure To have around one, always handy, When sinking spirits find no cure In news, election brawls, or brandy. In these old books, more soothing far Than balm of Gilead or Nepenthe, I seek an antidote for care-- Of which most men indeed have plenty. "Five hundred times at least," I've said-- My wife assures me--"I would never Buy more old books;" yet lists are made, And shelves are lumbered more than ever. Ah! that our wives could only see How well the money is invested In these old books, which seem to be By them, alas! so much detested. There's nothing hath enduring youth, Eternal newness, strength unfailing, Except old books, old friends, old truth, That's ever battling--still prevailing. 'T is better in the past to live Than grovel in the present vilely, In clubs, and cliques, where placemen hive, And faction hums, and dolts rank highly. To be enlightened, counselled, led, By master minds of former ages, Come to old books--consult the dead-- Commune with silent saints and sages. Leave me, ye gods! to my old books-- Polemics yield to sects that wrangle-- Vile "parish politics" to folks Who love to squabble, scheme, and jangle. Dearly beloved old pigskin tomes! Of dingy hue--old bookish darlings! Oh, cluster ever round my rooms, And banish strifes, disputes, and snarlings. _In want and danger, the unknown poet sent this poem to Edmund_ GEORGE CRABBE. _Burke, who saw its merit, befriended its author, and procured its publication._ When the sad soul, by care and grief oppressed, Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest, When every object that appears in view Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too; Where shall affliction from itself retire? Where fade away and placidly expire? Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain; Care blasts the honors of the flowery plain; Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream; For when the soul is laboring in despair, In vain the body breathes a purer air: No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas-- He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze; On the smooth mirror of the deep resides Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides The ghost of every former danger glides. Thus, in the calms of life, we only see A steadier image of our misery; But lively gales and gently clouded skies Disperse the sad reflections as they rise; And busy thoughts and little cares avail To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail. When the dull thought, by no designs employed, Dwells on the past, or suffered or enjoyed, We bleed anew in every former grief, And joys departed furnish no relief. Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art, Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart: The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, And anxious searches for congenial cares; Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined, By mixed sensations ease th' afflicted mind, And steal our grief away, and leave their own behind; A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure. But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes? Or lead us, willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? This BOOKS can do;--nor this alone; they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish and confirm the wise: Their aid they yield to all: they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone: Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings. Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene, Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene; Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, The soul's best cure, in all her cares behold! Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, And mental physic the diseased in mind; See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage; See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage; Here alteratives, by slow degrees control The chronic habits of the sickly soul; And round the heart, and o'er the aching head, Mild opiates here their sober influence shed. Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, And view composed this silent multitude:-- Silent they are--but though deprived of sound, Here all the living languages abound; Here all that live no more; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious eye. Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind! Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring; But Man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend; 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise. In sweet repose, when Labor's children sleep, When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep, When Passion slumbers in the lover's breast, And Fear and Guilt partake the balm of rest, Why then denies the studious man to share Man's common good, who feels his common care? Because the hope is his that bids him fly Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy, That after-ages may repeat his praise, And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days. Delightful prospect! when we leave behind A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind! Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day, Shall all our labor, all our care repay. Yet all are not these births of noble kind, Not all the children of a vigorous mind; But where the wisest should alone preside, The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide; Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show The poor and troubled source from which they flow; Where most he triumphs we his wants perceive, And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve. But though imperfect all; yet wisdom loves This seat serene, and virtue's self approves:-- Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find; The curious here to feed a craving mind; Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; And here the poet meets his favoring Muse. With awe, around these silent walks I tread; These are the lasting mansions of the dead:-- "The dead!" methinks a thousand tongues reply; "These are the tombs of such as cannot die! Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time. Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above, Each, in his sphere, the literary Jove; And ye, the common people of these skies, A humbler crowd of nameless deities; Whether 't is yours to lead the willing mind Through History's mazes, and the turnings find; Or, whether led by Science, ye retire, Lost and bewildered in the vast desire, Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers, And crowns your placid brows with living flowers! Or godlike Wisdom teaches you to show The noblest road to happiness below; Or men and manners prompt the easy page To mark the flying follies of the age; Whatever good ye boast, that good impart; Inform the head and rectify the heart. Lo, all in silence, all in order stand, And mighty folios, first a lordly band; Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain, And light octavos fill a spacious plain: See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, A humbler band of duodecimos; While undistinguish'd trifles swell the scene, The last new play and frittered magazine. Thus 't is in life, where first the proud, the great, In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state: Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread, Are much admired, and are but little read: The commons next, a middle rank, are found; Professions fruitful pour their offspring round; Reasoners and wits are next their place allowed, And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd. First, let us view the form, the size, the dress: For these the manners, nay the mind, express: That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid; Those ample clasps of solid metal made; The close-pressed leaves, unclosed for many an age; The dull red edging of the well-filled page; On the broad back the stubborn ridges rolled, Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold; These all a sage and labored work proclaim, A painful candidate for lasting fame: No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk In the deep bosom of that weighty work; No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style, Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile. Hence, in these times, untouched the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality: They _had_ their day, when, after all his toil, His morning study, and his midnight oil, At length an author's ONE great work appeared, By patient hope, and length of days endeared: Expecting nations haled it from the press; Poetic friends prefixed each kind address; Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift, And ladies read the work they could not lift. Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools, Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules; From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she goes, And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes. For lo! these favorites of the ancient mode Lie all neglected like the Birthday Ode. Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain, Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain; No readers now invade their still retreat, None try to steal them from their parent seat; Like ancient beauties, they may now discard Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard. Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by, And rolled, o'er labored works, th' attentive eye: Page after page the much enduring men Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen: Till, every former note and comment known, They marked the spacious margin with their own; Minute corrections proved their studious care; The little index, pointing, told us where; And many an emendation showed the age Looked far beyond the rubric title-page. Our nicer palates lighter labors seek, Cloyed with a folio-_Number_ once a week; Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down: E'en light Voltaire is _numbered_ through the town: Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law, From men of study, and from men of straw; Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times, Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes: But though to write be now a task of ease, The task is hard by manly arts to please, When all our weakness is exposed to view, And half our judges are our rivals too. Amid these works, on which the eager eye Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by, When all combined, their decent pomp display, Where shall we first our early offering pay?-- To thee, DIVINITY! to thee, the light And guide of mortals, through their mental night; By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide; To bear with pain, and to contend with pride; When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive; And with the world in charity to live. Not truths like these inspired that numerous race, Whose pious labors fill this ample space; But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose, Awaked to war the long-contending foes. For dubious meanings, learned polemics strove, And wars on faith prevented works of love; The brands of discord far around were hurled, And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world:-- Dull though impatient, peevish though devout, With wit, disgusting and despised without; Saints in design, in execution men, Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen. Methinks I see, and sicken at the sight, Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight; Spirits who prompted every damning page, With pontiff pride, and still increasing rage: Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around, And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground! They pray, they fight, they murder, and they weep, Wolves in their vengeance, in their manners sheep; Too well they act the prophet's fatal part, Denouncing evil with a zealous heart; And each, like Jonah, is displeased if God Repent his anger, or withold his rod. But here the dormant fury rests unsought, And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought; Here all the rage of controversy ends, And rival zealots rest like bosom friends: An Athanasian here, in deep repose, Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes; Socinians here with Calvinists abide, And thin partitions angry chiefs divide; Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet, And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet. Great authors, for the church's glory fired, Are for the church's peace to rest retired; And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race, Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends; If learned, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads, And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads. But most she fears the controversial pen, The holy strife of disputatious men; Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page explore, Only to fight against its precepts more. Near to these seats behold yon slender frames, All closely filled and marked with modern names; Where no fair science ever shows her face, Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace; There sceptics rest, a still increasing throng, And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong; Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain; Some skirmish lightly, fly, and fight again; Coldly profane, and impiously gay, Their end the same, though various in their way. When first Religion came to bless the land, Her friends were then a firm believing band; To doubt was then to plunge in guilt extreme, And all was gospel that a monk could dream; Insulted Reason fled the grov'lling soul, For Fear to guide and visions to control: But now, when Reason has assumed her throne, She, in her turn demands to reign alone; Rejecting all that lies beyond her view, And, being judge, will be a witness too: Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind, To seek for truth, without a power to find: Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite, And pour on erring man resistless light! Next to the seats, well stored with works divine, An ample space, PHILOSOPHY! is thine; Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light We trace the moral bounds of wrong and right; Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay, To the bright orbs of yon celestial way! 'T is thine, the great, the golden chain to trace, Which runs through all, connecting race with race Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain, Which thy inferior light pursues in vain:-- How vice and virtue in the soul contend; How widely differ, yet how nearly blend; What various passions war on either part, And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart: How Fancy loves around the world to stray, While Judgment slowly picks his sober way; The stores of memory and the flights sublime Of genius, bound by neither space nor time;-- All these divine Philosophy explores, Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores. From these, descending to the earth, she turns, And matter, in its various forms, discerns; She parts the beamy light with skill profound, Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound; 'T is hers the lightning from the clouds to call, And teach the fiery mischief where to fall. Yet more her volumes teach--on these we look Abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book; Here, first described, the torpid earth appears, And next, the vegetable robe it wears; Where flowery tribes in valleys, fields, and groves, Nurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves; Loves where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain, Warm the glad heart or vex the laboring brain; But as the green blood moves along the blade, The bed of Flora on the branch is made; Where, without passion, love instinctive lives, And gives new life, unconscious that it gives. Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace, In dens and burning plains, her savage race With those tame tribes who on their lord attend, And find in man a master and a friend; Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new, A moral world, that well demands our view. This world is here; for, of more lofty kind, These neighboring volumes reason on the mind; They paint the state of man ere yet endued With knowledge;--man, poor, ignorant, and rude; Then, as his state improves, their pages swell, And all its cares, and all its comforts tell: Here we behold how inexperience buys, At little price, the wisdom of the wise; Without the troubles of an active state, Without the cares and dangers of the great, Without the miseries of the poor, we know What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow; We see how reason calms the raging mind, And how contending passions urge mankind: Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire; Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire; Whilst others, won by either, now pursue The guilty chase, now keep the good in view; Forever wretched, with themselves at strife, They lead a puzzled, vexed, uncertain life; For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain, Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain. Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul, New interest draws, new principles control: Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief, But here the tortured body finds relief; For see where yonder sage Arachne shapes Her subtle gin, that not a fly escapes! There PHYSIC fills the space, and far around, Pile above pile her learned works abound: Glorious their aim--to ease the laboring heart; To war with death, and stop his flying dart; To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew; And life's short lease on easier terms renew; To calm the frenzy of the burning brain; To heal the tortures of imploring pain; Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave, To ease the victim no device can save, And smooth the stormy passage to the grave. But man, who knows no good unmixed and pure, Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure; For grave deceivers lodge their labors here, And cloud the science they pretend to clear; Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent; Like fire and storms, they call us to repent; But storms subside, and fires forget to rage. _These_ are eternal scourges of the age: 'T is not enough that each terrific hand Spreads desolation round a guilty land; But trained to ill, and hardened by its crimes, Their pen relentless kills through future times, Say, ye, who search these records of the dead-- Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read, Can all the real knowledge ye possess, Or those--if such there are--who more than guess, Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes, And mend the blunders pride or folly makes? What thought so wild, what airy dream so light, That will not prompt a theorist to write? What art so prevalent, what proofs so strong, That will convince him his attempt is wrong? One in the solids finds each lurking ill, Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill; A learned friend some subtler reason brings, Absolves the channels, but condemns their spring; The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye, Escape no more his subtler theory; The vital heat, that warms the laboring heart, Lends a fair system to these sons of art; The vital air, a pure and subtile stream, Serves a foundation for an airy scheme, Assists the doctor and supports his dream. Some have their favorite ills, and each disease Is but a younger branch that kills from these; One to the gout contracts all human pain; He views it raging in the frantic brain; Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar, And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh; Bilious by some, by others nervous seen, Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen; And every symptom of the strange disease With every system of the sage agrees. Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted long The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song; Ye first seducers of my easy heart, Who promised knowledge ye could not impart; Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes; Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose; Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt, Light up false fires, and send us far about;-- Still may yon spider round your pages spin, Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin! Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell, Most potent, grave, and reverend friends--farewell! Near these, and where the setting sun displays, Through the dim window, his departing rays, And gilds yon columns, there, on either side, The huge Abridgments of the LAW abide; Fruitful as vice, the dread correctors stand, And spread their guardian terrors round the land; Yet, as the best that human care can do Is mixed with error, oft with evil too, Skilled in deceit, and practised to evade, Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were made, And justice vainly each expedient tries, While art eludes it, or while power defies. "Ah! happy age," the youthful poet sings, "When the free nations knew not laws nor kings, When all were blest to share a common store, And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor, No wars nor tumults vexed each still domain, No thirst of empire, no desire of gain; No proud great man, nor one who would be great, Drove modest merit from its proper state; Nor into distant climes would Avarice roam, To fetch delights for Luxury at home: Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe, They dwelt at liberty, and love was law!" "Mistaken youth! each nation first was rude, Each man a cheerless son of solitude, To whom no joys of social life were known, None felt a care that was not all his own; Or in some languid clime his abject soul Bowed to a little tyrant's stern control; A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised, And in rude song his ruder idol praised; The meaner cares of life were all he knew; Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few; But when by slow degrees the Arts arose, And Science wakened from her long repose; When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease, Ran round the land, and pointed to the seas; When Emulation, born with jealous eye, And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry; Then one by one the numerous laws were made, Those to control, and these to succor trade; To curb the insolence of rude command, To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand; To awe the bold, to yield the wronged redress, And feed the poor with Luxury's excess." Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong, His nature leads ungoverned man along; Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide, The laws are formed and placed on every side; Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed, New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed; More and more gentle grows the dying stream, More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem; Till, like a miner working sure and slow, Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below; The basis sinks, the ample piles decay; The stately fabric shakes and falls away; Primeval want and ignorance come on, But Freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone. Next HISTORY ranks;--there full in front she lies, And every nation her dread tale supplies; Yet History has her doubts, and every age With sceptic queries marks the passing page; Records of old nor later date are clear, Too distant those, and these are placed too near; There time conceals the objects from our view, Here our own passions and a writer's too: Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose! Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes; Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain, Lo! how they sunk to slavery again! Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possessed, A nation grows too glorious to be blest; Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all, And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race, The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace; The headlong course that maddening heroes run, How soon triumphant, and how soon undone; How slaves, turned tyrants, offer crowns to sale, And each fallen nation's melancholy tale. Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood, Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood; There, such the taste of our degenerate age, Stand the profane delusions of the STAGE: Yet virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a friend, Fable her means, morality her end; For this she rules all passions in their turns, And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns; Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl, Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul; She makes the vile to virtue yield applause, And own her sceptre while they break her laws; For vice in others is abhorred of all, And villains triumph when the worthless fall. Not thus her sister COMEDY prevails, Who shoots at Folly, for her arrow fails; Folly, by Dulness armed, eludes the wound, And harmless sees the feathered shafts rebound; Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill, Laughs at her malice, and is Folly still. Yet well the Muse portrays, in fancied scenes, What pride will stoop to, what profession means; How formal fools the farce of state applaud; How caution watches at the lips of fraud; The wordy variance of domestic life; The tyrant husband, the retorting wife; The snares for innocence, the lie of trade, And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade. With her the Virtues to obtain a place, Each gentle passion, each becoming grace; The social joy in life's securer road, Its easy pleasure, its substantial good; The happy thought that conscious virtue gives, And all that ought to live, and all that lives. But who are these? Methinks a noble mien And awful grandeur in their form are seen, Now in disgrace: what though by time is spread Polluting dust o'er every reverend head; What though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie, And dull observers pass insulting by: Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe, What seems so grave, should no attention draw! Come, let us then with reverend step advance, And greet--the ancient worthies of ROMANCE. Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread, A thousand visions float around my head: Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound, And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round; See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise, Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes; Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate; And bloody hand that beckons on to fate:-- "And who art thou, thou little page, unfold? Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold? Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign The captive queen;--for Claribel is mine." Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds, Black suits of armor, masks, and foaming steeds; The giant falls; his recreant throat I seize, And from his corselet take the massy keys:-- Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move, Released from bondage with my virgin love:-- She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth, Unequalled love, and unsuspected truth! Ah! happy he who thus, in magic themes, O'er worlds bewitched, in early rapture dreams, Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand, And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land; Where doubtful objects strange desires excite, And Fear and Ignorance afford delight. But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys, Which Reason scatters, and which Time destroys; Too dearly bought: maturer judgment calls My busied mind from tales and madrigals; My doughty giants all are slain or fled And all my knights--blue, green, and yellow--dead! No more the midnight fairy tribe I view, All in the merry moonshine tippling dew; E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain, The churchyard ghost is now at rest again; And all these wayward wanderings of my youth Fly Reason's power, and shun the light of Truth. With Fiction then does real joy reside, And is our reason the delusive guide? Is it then right to dream the sirens sing? Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing? No; 't is the infant mind, to care unknown, That makes th' imagined paradise its own; Soon as reflections in the bosom rise, Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes: The tear and smile, that once together rose, Are then divorced; the head and heart are foes: Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan, And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man. While thus, of power and fancied empire vain, With various thoughts my mind I entertain; While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize, Pleased with the pride that will not let them please, Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise, And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes; For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound, I see the CRITIC army ranged around. Foes to our race! if ever ye have known A father's fears for offspring of your own; If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line, Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine, Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt, With rage as sudden dashed the stanza out;-- If, after fearing much and pausing long, Ye ventured on the world your labored song, And from the crusty critics of those days Implored the feeble tribute of their praise; Remember now the fears that moved you then, And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen. What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foes Lie waiting all around them to oppose! What treacherous friends betray them to the fight! What dangers threaten them:--yet still they write: A hapless tribe! to every evil born, Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn: Strangers they come, amid a world of woe, And taste the largest portion ere they go. Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around; The roof, methought, returned a solemn sound; Each column seemed to shake, and clouds, like smoke, From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke; Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem, Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream; Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine Round the large members of a form divine; His silver beard, that swept his aged breast, His piercing eye, that inward light expressed, Were seen--but clouds and darkness veiled the rest. Fear chilled my heart: to one of mortal race, How awful seemed the Genius of the place! So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe; Like him I stood, and wrapped in thought profound, When from the pitying power broke forth a solemn sound:-- "Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save The wise from woe, no fortitude the brave; Grief is to man as certain as the grave: Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise, And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies. Some drops of comfort on the favored fall, But showers of sorrow are the lot of _all_: Partial to talents, then, shall Heaven withdraw Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law? Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views, Life's little cares and little pains refuse? Shall he not rather feel a double share Of mortal woe, when doubly armed to bear? "Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind On the precarious mercy of mankind; Who hopes for wild and visionary things, And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous wings; But as, of various evils that befall The human race, some portion goes to all; To him perhaps the milder lot's assigned Who feels his consolation in his mind. And, locked within his bosom, bears about A mental charm for every care without. E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief, Or health or vigorous hope affords relief; And every wound the tortured bosom feels, Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals; Some generous friend of ample power possessed; Some feeling heart, that bleeds for the distressed; Some breast that glows with virtues all divine; Some noble RUTLAND, misery's friend and thine. "Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen, Merit the scorn they meet from little men. With cautious freedom if the numbers flow, Not wildly high, nor pitifully low; If vice alone their honest aims oppose, Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes? Happy for men in every age and clime, If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme. Go on, then, Son of Vision! still pursue Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too. Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state, The pride of wealth, the splendor of the great, Stripped of their mask, their cares and troubles known, Are visions far less happy than thy own: Go on! and, while the sons of care complain, Be wisely gay and innocently vain; While serious souls are by their fears undone, Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun, And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show More radiant colors in their worlds below: Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove, And tell them, Such are all the toys they love. _Brown Books of mine, who never yet Have caused me anguish or regret,-- Save when some fiend in human shape Has set your tender sides agape, Or soiled with some unmanly smear The whiteness of your page sincere, Or scored you with some phrase inane, The bantling of his idle brain,-- I love you: and because must end This commerce between friend and friend, I do beseech each kindly fate-- To each and all I supplicate-- That you whom I have loved so long May not be vended "for a song,"-- That you, my dear desire and care, May 'scape the common thoroughfare, The dust, the eating rain, and all The shame and squalor of the stall. Rather I trust your lot may touch Some Croesus--if there should be such-- To buy you, and that you may so From Croesus unto Croesus go Till that inevitable day When comes your moment of decay._ _This, more than other good, I pray._

Harris Newmark

Sixty Years in Southern California 1853-1913 Containing the Reminiscences of Harris Newmark

Registered in Canada in accordance with the copyright law. Entered at Stationers' Hall, London. All rights reserved. The Nation's Hope The Sexton's Inn Better than Boodle Beryl's Boudoir Tired Man's Sleep Nero's Fiddle Woman's Progress Night's Illusions Schubert's Serenade Fashion's Devotee My Lady's Hair "Schubert's Serenade" "Up-to-Date Serenade" For the happy, youthful days That long since had an end; For the distant trodden ways That we no more may wend; For the dreams of woven gold And the memories of old, These little tales are told, My brother and my friend.] childhood's day! grandma's bier; while you perform this solemn task I'll to the I spent five cents for the Sunday "Dart," and hauled it home in a _The Nation's Hope_ _The Sexton's Inn_ In my youth I knew an aleck who was most exceeding smart, and his _Beryl's Boudoir_ underground_"] _Tired Man's Sleep_ _Nero's Fiddle_ _Woman's Progress_ I'd like to be a Pitcher, and on the Diamond stand, a cap upon my _Night's Illusions_ _The School-marm_ When a tiresome Chinese statesman bores his queen or overlord, he He's won success where others failed; he's built a weird machine, _Schubert's Serenade_ _Fashion's Devotee_ The Christmas bells again ring out a message sweet and clear; and Indiana's truest glory is missed--she ought to be ashamed. Like some lone mountain in the starry night, lifting its head journeyed to the county fair, to view the products of the farm; I cynic's--comfort brings. _My Lady's Hair_ _Up-to-Date Serenade_ When you have written a letter red hot, roasting some chap in his _for_ GEORGE MATTHEW ADAMS _Publisher_

Carlo Botta

Storia della Guerra della Independenza degli Stati Uniti di America, vol. 3

_All rights reserved_ Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1913. Between the barren pasture and the wood There is a patch of poultry-stricken grass, Where, in old time, Ryemeadows' Farmhouse stood, And human fate brought tragic things to pass. A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass, It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime, Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time. Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook, But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring, Past the Ryemeadows' lonely woodland nook Where many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing, On, by the woodland side. You hear it sing Past the lone copse where poachers set their wires, Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires. Another water joins it; then it turns, Runs through the Ponton Wood, still turning west, Past foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and ferns, And many a blackbird's, many a thrush's nest; The cattle tread it there; then, with a zest It sparkles out, babbling its pretty chatter Through Foxholes Farm, where it gives white-faced cattle water. Under the road it runs, and now it slips Past the great ploughland, babbling, drop and linn, To the moss'd stumps of elm trees which it lips, And blackberry-bramble-trails where eddies spin. Then, on its left, some short-grassed fields begin, Red-clayed and pleasant, which the young spring fills With the never-quiet joy of dancing daffodils. There are three fields where daffodils are found; The grass is dotted blue-gray with their leaves; Their nodding beauty shakes along the ground Up to a fir-clump shutting out the eaves Of an old farm where always the wind grieves High in the fir boughs, moaning; people call This farm The Roughs, but some call it the Poor Maid's Hall. There, when the first green shoots of tender corn Show on the plough; when the first drift of white Stars the black branches of the spiky thorn, And afternoons are warm and evenings light, The shivering daffodils do take delight, Shaking beside the brook, and grass comes green, And blue dog-violets come and glistening celandine. And there the pickers come, picking for town Those dancing daffodils; all day they pick; Hard-featured women, weather-beaten brown, Or swarthy-red, the colour of old brick. At noon they break their meats under the rick. The smoke of all three farms lifts blue in air As though man's passionate mind had never suffered there. And sometimes as they rest an old man comes, Shepherd or carter, to the hedgerow-side, And looks upon their gangrel tribe, and hums, And thinks all gone to wreck since master died; And sighs over a passionate harvest-tide Which Death's red sickle reaped under those hills, There, in the quiet fields among the daffodils. When this most tragic fate had time and place, And human hearts and minds to show it by, Ryemeadows' Farmhouse was in evil case: Its master, Nicholas Gray, was like to die. He lay in bed, watching the windy sky, Where all the rooks were homing on slow wings, Cawing, or blackly circling in enormous rings. With a sick brain he watched them; then he took Paper and pen, and wrote in straggling hand (Like spider's legs, so much his fingers shook) Word to the friends who held the adjoining land, Bidding them come; no more he could command His fingers twitching to the feebling blood; He watched his last day's sun dip down behind the wood, While all his life's thoughts surged about his brain: Memories and pictures clear, and faces known-- Long dead, perhaps; he was a child again, Treading a threshold in the dark alone. Then back the present surged, making him moan. He asked if Keir had come yet. "No," they said. "Nor Occleve?" "No." He moaned: "Come soon or I'll be dead." The names like live things wandered in his mind: Keir of the Foxholes"; but his brain was blind, A blind old alley in the storm of the year, Baffling the traveller life with "No way here," For all his lantern raised; life would not tread Within that brain again, along those pathways red. Soon all was dimmed but in the heaven one star. "I'll hold to that," he said; then footsteps stirred. Down in the court a voice said, "Here they are," And one, "He's almost gone." The sick man heard. "Oh God, be quick," he moaned. "Only one word. Keir! Occleve! Let them come. Why don't they come? "I'm neither doll nor dead; come in, come in. Curse you, you women, quick," the sick man flamed. "I shall be dead before I can begin. A sick man's womaned-mad, and nursed and damed." Death had him by the throat; his wrath was tamed. "Come in," he fumed; "stop muttering at the door." The friends came in; a creaking ran across the floor. "Now, Nick, how goes it, man?" said Occleve. "Oh," The dying man replied, "I am dying; past; Mercy of God, I die, I'm going to go. But I have much to tell you if I last. Come near me, Occleve, Keir. I am sinking fast, And all my kin are coming; there, look there. All the old, long dead Grays are moving in the air. "It is my Michael that I called you for: My son, abroad, at school still, over sea. See if that hag is listening at the door. No? Shut the door; don't lock it, let it be. No faith is kept to dying men like me. I am dipped deep and dying, bankrupt, done; I leave not even a farthing to my lovely son. "Neighbours, these many years our children played, Down in the fields together, down the brook; Your Mary, Keir, the girl, the bonny maid, And Occleve's Lion, always at his book; Them and my Michael: dear, what joy they took Picking the daffodils; such friends they've been-- My boy and Occleve's boy and Mary Keir for queen. "I had made plans; but I am done with, I. Give me the wine. I have to ask you this: I can leave Michael nothing, and I die. By all our friendship used to be and is, Help him, old friends. Don't let my Michael miss The schooling I've begun. Give him his chance. He does not know I am ill; I kept him there in France. "Saving expense; each penny counts. Oh, friends, Help him another year; help him to take His full diploma when the training ends, So that my ruin won't be his. Oh, make This sacrifice for our old friendship's sake, And God will pay you; for I see God's hand Pass in most marvellous ways on souls: I understand "How just rewards are given for man's deeds And judgment strikes the soul. The wine there, wine. Life is the daily thing man never heeds. It is ablaze with sign and countersign. Michael will not forget: that son of mine Is a rare son, my friends; he will go far. I shall behold his course from where the blessed are." "Why, Nick," said Occleve, "come, man. Gather hold. Rouse up. You've given way. If times are bad, Times must be bettering, master; so be bold; Lift up your spirit, Nicholas, and be glad. Michael's as much to me as my dear lad. I'll see he takes his school." "And I," said Keir. "Set you no keep by that, but be at rest, my dear. "We'll see your Michael started on the road." "But there," said Occleve, "Nick's not going to die. Out of the ruts, good nag, now; zook the load. Pull up, man. Death! Death and the fiend defy. We'll bring the farm round for you, Keir and I. Put heart at rest and get your health." "Ah, no," The sick man faintly answered, "I have got to go." Still troubled in his mind, the sick man tossed. "Old friends," he said, "I once had hoped to see Mary and Michael wed, but fates are crossed, And Michael starts with nothing left by me. Still, if he loves her, will you let it be? So in the grave, maybe, when I am gone, I'll know my hope fulfilled, and see the plan go on." "I judge by hearts, not money," answered Keir. "If Michael suits in that and suits my maid, I promise you, let Occleve witness here He shall be free for me to drive his trade. Free, ay, and welcome, too. Be not afraid, I'll stand by Michael as I hope some friend Will stand beside my girl in case my own life end." "And I," said Occleve; but the sick man seemed Still ill at ease. "My friends," he said, "my friends, Michael may come to all that I have dreamed, But he's a wild yarn full of broken ends. So far his life in France has made amends. God grant he steady so; but girls and drink Once brought him near to hell, aye, to the very brink. "There is a running vein of wildness in him: Wildness and looseness both, which vices make That woman's task a hard one who would win him: His life depends upon the course you take. He is a fiery-mettled colt to break, And one to curb, one to be curbed, remember." The dying voice died down, the fire left the ember. But once again it flamed. "Ah me," he cried; "Our secret sins take body in our sons, To haunt our age with what we put aside. I was a devil for the women once. He is as I was. Beauty like the sun's; Within, all water; minded like the moon. Go now. I sinned. I die. I shall be punished soon." The two friends tiptoed to the room below. There, till the woman came to them, they told Of brave adventures in the long ago, Ere Nick and they had thought of growing old; Snipe-shooting in the marshlands in the cold, Old soldiering days as yeomen, days at fairs, Days that had sent Nick tired to those self-same chairs. They vowed to pay the schooling for his son. They talked of Michael, testing men's report, How the young student was a lively one, Handsome and passionate both, and fond of sport, Eager for fun, quick-witted in retort. The girls' hearts quick to see him cocking by, Young April on a blood horse, with a roving eye. And, as they talked about the lad, Keir asked If Occleve's son had not, at one time, been Heartsick for Mary, though with passion masked. "Ay," Occleve said: "Time was. At seventeen. It took him hard, it ran his ribs all lean, All of a summer; but it passed, it died. Her fancying Michael better touched my Lion's pride." Mice flickered from the wainscot to the press, Nibbling at crumbs, rattling to shelter, squeaking. Each ticking in the clock's womb made life less; Oil slowly dropped from where the lamp was leaking. At times the old nurse set the staircase creaking, Harked to the sleeper's breath, made sure, returned, "Listen," said Occleve, "listen, Rowland. Hark." "It's Mary, come with Lion," answered Keir: "They said they'd come together after dark." He went to door and called "Come in, my dear." The burning wood log blazed with sudden cheer, So that a glowing lighted all the room. His daughter Mary entered from the outer gloom. The wind had brought the blood into her cheek, Heightening her beauty, but her great grey eyes Were troubled with a fear she could not speak. Firm, scarlet lips she had, not made for lies. Gentle she seemed, pure-natured, thoughtful, wise, And when she asked what turn the sickness took, Her voice's passing pureness on a low note shook. Young Lion Occleve entered at her side, A well-built, clever man, unduly grave, One whose repute already travelled wide For skill in breeding beasts. His features gave Promise of brilliant mind, far-seeing, brave, One who would travel far. His manly grace Grew wistful when his eyes were turned on Mary's face. "Tell me," said Mary, "what did doctor say? How ill is he? What chance of life has he? The cowman said he couldn't last the day, And only yesterday he joked with me." "We must be meek," the nurse said; "such things be." "There's little hope," said Keir; "he's dying, sinking." "Dying without his son," the young girl's heart was thinking. "Does Michael know?" she asked. "Has he been called?" A slow confusion reddened on the faces, As when one light neglect leaves friends appalled. "No time to think," said nurse, "in such like cases." Old Occleve stooped and fumbled with his laces. "Let be," he said; "there's always time for sorrow. He could not come in time; he shall be called to-morrow." "There is a chance," she cried, "there always is. Poor Mr. Gray might rally, might live on. Oh, I must telegraph to tell him this. Would it were day still and the message gone." She rose, her breath came fast, her grey eyes shone. She said, "Come, Lion; see me through the wood. Michael must know." Keir sighed. "Girl, it will do no good. "Our friend is on the brink and almost passed." "All the more need," she said, "for word to go; Michael could well arrive before the last. He'd see his father's face at least. I know The office may be closed; but even so, Father, I must. Come, Lion." Out they went, Into the roaring woodland where the saplings bent. Like breakers of the sea the leafless branches Swished, bowing down, rolling like water, roaring Like the sea's welcome when the clipper launches And full affronted tideways call to warring. Daffodils glimmered underfoot, the flooring Of the earthy woodland smelt like torn-up moss; Stones in the path showed white, and rabbits ran across. They climbed the rise and struck into the ride, Talking of death, while Lion, sick at heart, Thought of the woman walking at his side, And as he talked his spirit stood apart, Old passion for her made his being smart, Rankling within. Her thought for Michael ran Like glory and like poison through his inner man. "This will break Michael's heart," he said at length. "Poor Michael," she replied; "they wasted hours. He loved his father so. God give him strength. This is a cruel thing this life of ours." The windy woodland glimmered with shut flowers, White wood anemones that the wind blew down. The valley opened wide beyond the starry town. "Ten," clanged out of the belfry. Lion stayed One hand upon a many-carven bole. "Mary," he said. "Dear, my beloved maid, I love you, dear one, from my very soul." Her beauty in the dusk destroyed control. "Mary, my dear, I've loved you all these years." "Oh, Lion, no," she murmured, choking back her tears. "I love you," he repeated. "Five years since This thing began between us: every day Oh sweet, the thought of you has made me wince; The thought of you, my sweet, the look, the way. It's only you, whether I work or pray, You and the hope of you, sweet you, dear you. I never spoke before; now it has broken through. "Oh, my beloved, can you care for me?" She shook her head. "Oh, hush, oh, Lion dear, Don't speak of love, for it can never be Between us two, never, however near. Come on, my friend, we must not linger here." White to the lips she spoke; he saw her face White in the darkness by him in the windy place. "Mary, in time you could, perhaps," he pleaded. "No," she replied, "no, Lion; never, no." Over the stars the boughs burst and receded. The nobleness of Love comes in Love's woe. "God bless you then, beloved, let us go. Come on," he said, "and if I gave you pain, Forget it, dear; be sure I never will again." They stepped together down the ride, their feet Slipped on loose stones. Little was said; his fate, Staked on a kingly cast, had met defeat. Nothing remained but to endure and wait. She was still wonderful, and life still great. Great in that bitter instant side by side, Hallowed by thoughts of death there in the blinded ride. He heard her breathing by him, saw her face Dim, looking straight ahead; her feet by his Kept time beside him, giving life a grace; Night made the moment full of mysteries. "You are beautiful," he thought; "and life is this: Walking a windy night while men are dying, To cry for one to come, and none to heed our crying." "Mary," he said, "are you in love with him, With Michael? Tell me. We are friends, we three." They paused to face each other in the dim. "Tell me," he urged. "Yes, Lion," answered she; "I love him, but he does not care for me. I trust your generous mind, dear; now you know, You, who have been my brother, how our fortunes go. "Now come; the message waits." The heavens cleared, Cleared, and were starry as they trod the ride. Chequered by tossing boughs the moon appeared; A whistling reached them from the Hall House side; Climbing, the whistler came. A brown owl cried. The whistler paused to answer, sending far That haunting, hunting note. The echoes laughed Aha! Something about the calling made them start. Again the owl note laughed; the ringing cry Made the blood quicken within Mary's heart. Like a dead leaf a brown owl floated by. "Michael?" said Lion. "Hush." An owl's reply Came down the wind; they waited; then the man, Content, resumed his walk, a merry song began. "Michael," they cried together. "Michael, you?" "Who calls?" the singer answered. "Where away? Is that you, Mary?" Then with glad halloo The singer ran to meet them on the way. It was their Michael; in the moonlight grey, They made warm welcome; under tossing boughs, They met and told the fate darkening Ryemeadows' House. As they returned at speed their comrade spoke Strangely and lightly of his coming home, Saying that leaving France had been a joke, But that events now proved him wise to come. Down the steep 'scarpment to the house they clomb, And Michael faltered in his pace; they heard And as they came, high, from the sick man's room, Old Gray burst out a-singing of the light Streaming upon him from the outer gloom, As his eyes dying gave him mental sight. "Triumphing swords," he carolled, "in the bright; Oh fire, Oh beauty fire," and fell back dead. Occleve took Michael up to kneel beside the bed. So the night passed; the noisy wind went down; The half-burnt moon her starry trackway rode. Then the first fire was lighted in the town, And the first carter stacked his early load. Upon the farm's drawn blinds the morning glowed; And down the valley, with little clucks and trills, The dancing waters danced by dancing daffodils. They buried Gray; his gear was sold; his farm Passed to another tenant. Thus men go; The dropped sword passes to another arm, And different waters in the river flow. His two old faithful friends let Michael know His father's ruin and their promise. Keir Brought him to stay at Foxholes till a path was clear. There, when the sale was over, all three met To talk about the future, and to find Upon what project Michael's heart was set. Gentle the two old men were, thoughtful, kind. They urged the youth to speak his inmost mind, For they would compass what he chose; they told How he might end his training; they would find the gold. "Thanks, but I cannot," Michael said. He smiled. "Cannot. They've kicked me out. I've been expelled; Kicked out for good and all for being wild. They stopped our evening leave, and I rebelled. I am a gentle soul until compelled, And then I put my ears back. The old fool Said that my longer presence might inflame the school. "And I am glad, for I have had my fill Of farming by the book with those old fools, Exhausted talkatives whose blood is still, Who strive to bind a living man with rules. This fettered kind of life, these laws, these schools, These codes, these checks, what are they but the clogs Made by collected sheep to mortify the dogs? "And I have had enough of them; and now I make an end of them. I want to go Somewhere where man has never used a plough, Nor ever read a book; where clean winds blow, And passionate blood is not its owner's foe, And land is for the asking for it. There Man can create a life and have the open air. "The River Plate's the country. There, I know, A man like me can thrive. There, on the range, The cattle pass like tides; they ebb and flow, And life is changeless in unending change, And one can ride all day, and all day strange, Strange, never trodden, fenceless, waiting there, To feed unending cattle for the men who dare. "There I should have a chance; this land's too old." Old Occleve grunted at the young man's mood; Keir, who was losing money, thought him bold, And thought the scheme for emigration good. He said that, if he wished to go, he should. South to the pampas, there to learn the trade. Old Occleve thought it mad, but no objection made. So it was settled that the lad should start, A place was found for him, a berth was taken; And Michael's beauty plucked at Mary's heart, And now the fabric of their lives was shaken: For now the hour's nearness made love waken In Michael's heart for Mary. Now Time's guile Granted her passionate prayer, nor let her see his smile. Granted his greatest gifts; a night time came When the two walking down the water learned That life till then had only been a name; Love had unsealed their spirits: they discerned. Mutely, at moth time there, their spirits yearned. "I shall be gone three years, dear soul," he said. "Dear, will you wait for me?" "I will," replied the maid. So troth was pledged between them. Keir received Michael as Mary's suitor, feeling sure That the lad's fortunes would be soon retrieved, Having a woman's promise as a lure. The three years' wait would teach them to endure. He bade them love and prosper and be glad. And fast the day drew near that was to take the lad. Cowslips had come along the bubbling brook, Cowslips and oxlips rare, and in the wood The many-blossomed stalks of bluebells shook; The outward beauty fed their mental mood. Thought of the parting stabbed her as he wooed, Walking the brook with her, and day by day, The precious fortnight's grace dropped, wasted, slipped away. Till only one clear day remained to her: One whole clear, precious day, before he sailed. Some forty hours, no more, to minister To months of bleakness before which she quailed. Mist rose along the brook; the corncrake railed; Dim red the sunset burned. He bade her come Still as high June, the very water's noise Seemed but a breathing of the earth; the flowers Stood in the dim like souls without a voice. The wood's conspiracy of occult powers Drew all about them, and for hours on hours No murmur shook the oaks, the stars did house Their lights like lamps upon those never-moving boughs. Under their feet the woodland sloped away Down to the valley, where the farmhouse lights Were sparks in the expanse the moon made grey. June's very breast was bare this night of nights. Moths blundered up against them, greys and whites Moved on the darkness where the moths were out, Nosing for sticky sweet with trembling uncurled snout. But all this beauty was but music played, While the high pageant of their hearts prepared. A spirit thrilled between them, man to maid, Mind flowed in mind, the inner heart was bared, They needed not to tell how much each cared; All the soul's strength was at the other's soul. Flesh was away awhile, a glory made them whole. Nothing was said by them; they understood, They searched each other's eyes without a sound, Alone with moonlight in the heart of the wood, Knowing the stars and all the soul of the ground. "Mary," he murmured. "Come." His arms went round, A white moth glimmered by, the woods were hushed; The rose at Mary's bosom dropped its petals, crushed. No word profaned the peace of that glad giving, But the warm dimness of the night stood still, Drawing all beauty to the point of living, There in the beech-tree's shadow on the hill. Spirit to spirit murmured; mingling will Made them one being; Time's decaying thought Fell from them like a rag; it was the soul they sought. The moonlight found an opening in the boughs; It entered in, it filled that sacred place With consecration on the throbbing brows; It came with benediction and with grace. A whispering came from face to yearning face: "Beloved, will you wait for me?" "My own." "I shall be gone three years, you will be left alone; "You'll trust and wait for me?" "Yes, yes," she sighed; She would wait any term of years, all time-- So faithful to first love these souls abide, Carrying a man's soul with them as they climb. Life was all flower to them; the church bells' chime Rang out the burning hour ere they had sealed Love's charter there below the June sky's starry field. Sweetly the church bells' music reached the wood, Chiming an old slow tune of some old hymn, Calling them back to life from where they stood Under the moonlit beech-tree grey and dim. "Mary," he murmured; pressing close to him, Her kiss came on the gift he gave her there, A silken scarf that bore her name worked in his hair. But still the two affixed their hands and seals To a life compact witnessed by the sky, Where the great planets drove their glittering wheels, Bringing conflicting fate, making men die. They loved, and she would wait, and he would try. "Oh, beauty of my love," "My lovely man." So beauty made them noble for their little span. Time cannot pause, however dear the wooer; The moon declined, the sunrise came, the hours, Left to the lovers, dwindled swiftly fewer, Even as the seeds from dandelion-flowers Blow, one by one, until the bare stalk cowers, And the June grass grows over; even so Daffodil-picker Time took from their lives the glow, Stole their last walk along the three green fields, Their latest hour together; he took, he stole The white contentment that a true love yields; He took the triumph out of Mary's soul. Now she must lie awake and blow the coal Of sorrow of heart. The parting hour came; They kissed their last good-bye, murmuring the other's name. Then the flag waved, the engine snorted, then Slowly the couplings tautened, and the train Moved, bearing off from her her man of men; She looked towards its going blind with pain. Her father turned and drove her home again. It was a different home. Awhile she tried To cook the dinner there, but flung her down and cried. Then in the dusk she wandered down the brook, Treading again the trackway trod of old, When she could hold her loved one in a look. The night was all unlike those nights of gold. Michael was gone, and all the April old, Withered and hidden. Life was full of ills; She flung her down and cried i' the withered daffodils The steaming river loitered like old blood On which the tugboat bearing Michael beat, Past whitened horse bones sticking in the mud. The reed stems looked like metal in the heat. Then the banks fell away, and there were neat, Red herds of sullen cattle drifting slow. A fish leaped, making rings, making the dead blood flow. Wormed hard-wood piles were driv'n in the river bank, The steamer threshed alongside with sick screws Churning the mud below her till it stank; Big gassy butcher-bubbles burst on the ooze. There Michael went ashore; as glad to lose One not a native there, the Gauchos flung His broken gear ashore, one waved, a bell was rung. The bowfast was cast off, the screw revolved, Making a bloodier bubbling; rattling rope Fell to the hatch, the engine's tune resolved Into its steadier beat of rise and slope; The steamer went her way; and Michael's hope Died as she lessened; he was there alone. The lowing of the cattle made a gradual moan. He thought of Mary, but the thought was dim; That was another life, lived long before. His mind was in new worlds which altered him. The startling present left no room for more. The sullen river lipped, the sky, the shore Were vaster than of old, and lonely, lonely. Sky and low hills of grass and moaning cattle only. But for a hut bestrewn with skulls of beeves, Round which the flies danced, where an Indian girl Bleared at him from her eyes' ophthalmic eaves, Grinning a welcome; with a throaty skirl, She offered him herself; but he, the churl, Stared till she thought him fool; she turned, she sat, Scratched in her short, black hair, chewed a cigar-end, spat. Up, on the rise, the cattle bunched; the bulls Drew to the front with menace, pawing bold, Snatching the grass-roots out with sudden pulls, The distant cattle raised their heads; the wold Grew dusty at the top; a waggon rolled, Drawn by a bickering team of mules whose eyes Were yellow like their teeth and bared and full of vice. Down to the jetty came the jingling team, An Irish cowboy driving, while a Greek Beside him urged the mules with blow and scream. They cheered the Indian girl and stopped to speak. Then lifting her aloft they kissed her cheek, Calling to Michael to be quick aboard, Or they (they said) would fall from virtue, by the Lord. So Michael climbed aboard, and all day long He drove the cattle range, rise after rise, Dotted with limber shorthorns grazing strong, Cropping sweet-tasted pasture, switching flies; Dull trouble brooded in their smoky eyes. Some horsemen watched them. As the sun went down, The waggon reached the estancia builded like a town. With wide corrales where the horses squealed, Biting and lashing out; some half-wild hounds Gnawed at the cowbones littered on the field, Or made the stallions stretch their picket bounds. Some hides were drying; horsemen came from rounds, Unsaddled stiff, and turned their mounts to feed, And then brewed bitter drink and sucked it through a reed. The Irishman removed his pipe and spoke: "You take a fool's advice," he said. "Return. Go back where you belong before you're broke; You'll spoil more clothes at this job than you'll earn; It's living death, and when you die you'll burn: Body and soul it takes you. Quit it. No? Don't say I never told you, then. Amigos. Ho. "Here comes a Gringo; make him pay his shot. Pay up your footing, Michael; rum's the word, It suits my genius, and I need a lot." So the great cauldron full was mixed and stirred. And all night long the startled cattle heard Shouting and shooting, and the moon beheld Mobs of dim, struggling men, who fired guns and yelled That they were Abel Brown just come to town, Michael among them. By a bonfire some Betted on red and black for money down, Some danced unclad, rubbing their heads with rum. The grey dawn, bringing beauty to the skies, Saw Michael stretched among them, far too drunk to rise. His footing paid, he joined the living-shed, Lined with rude bunks and set with trestles: there He, like the other ranchers, slept and fed, Save when the staff encamped in open air, Rounding the herd for branding. Rude and bare That barrack was; men littered it about With saddles, blankets blue, old headstalls, many a clout Torn off to wipe a knife or clean a gun, Tin dishes, sailors' hookpots, all the mess Made where the outdoor work is never done And every cleaning makes the sleeping less. Men came from work too tired to undress, And slept all standing like the trooper's horse; Then with the sun they rose to ride the burning course, Whacking the shipment cattle into pen, Where, in the dust, among the stink of burning, The half-mad heifers bolted from the men, And tossing horns arose and hoofs were churning, A lover there had little time for yearning; But all day long, cursing the flies and heat, Michael was handling steers on horseback till his feet Gave on dismounting. All day long he rode, Then, when the darkness came, his mates and he Entered dog-tired to the rude abode And ate their meat and sucked their bitter tea, And rolled themselves in rugs and slept. The sea Could not make men more drowsy; like the dead, They lay under the lamp while the mosquitoes fed. There was no time to think of Mary, none; For when the work relaxed, the time for thought Was broken up by men demanding fun: Cards, or a well-kept ring while someone fought, Or songs and dancing; or a case was bought Of white Brazilian rum, and songs and cheers And shots and oaths rang loud upon the twitching ears Of the hobbled horses hopping to their feed. So violent images displaced the rose In Michael's spirit; soon he took the lead; None was more apt than he for games or blows. Even as the battle-seeking bantam crows, So crowed the cockerel of his mind to feel Life's bonds removed and blood quick in him toe to heel. But sometimes when her letters came to him, Full of wise tenderness and maiden mind, He felt that he had let his clearness dim; The riot with the cowboys seemed unkind To that far faithful heart; he could not find Peace in the thought of her; he found no spur To instant upright action in his love for her. She faded to the memory of a kiss, There in the rough life among foreign faces; Love cannot live where leisure never is; He could not write to her from savage places, Where drunken mates were betting on the aces, And rum went round and smutty songs were lifted. He would not raise her banner against that; he drifted, Ceasing, in time, to write, ceasing to think, But happy in the wild life to the bone; The riding in vast space, the songs, the drink, Some careless heart beside him like his own, The racing and the fights, the ease unknown In older, soberer lands; his young blood thrilled. The pampas seemed his own, his cup of joy was filled. And one day, riding far after strayed horses, He rode beyond the ranges to a land Broken and made most green by watercourses, Which served as strayline to the neighbouring brand. A house stood near the brook; he stayed his hand, Seeing a woman there, whose great eyes burned, So that he could not choose but follow when she turned. After that day he often rode to see That woman at the peach farm near the brook, And passionate love between them came to be Ere many days. Their fill of love they took; And even as the blank leaves of a book The days went over Mary, day by day, Blank as the last, was turned, endured, passed, turned away. Spring came again greening the hawthorn buds; The shaking flowers, new-blossomed, seemed the same, And April put her riot in young bloods; The jays flapped in the larch clump like blue flame. She did not care; his letter never came. Silent she went, nursing the grief that kills, And Lion watched her pass among the daffodils. Time passed, but still no letter came; she ceased, Almost, to hope, but never to expect. The June moon came which had beheld love's feast, Then waned, like it; the meadow-grass was flecked With moon-daisies, which died; little she recked Of change in outward things, she did not change; Her heart still knew one star, one hope, it did not range, Like to the watery hearts of tidal men, Swayed by all moons of beauty; she was firm, When most convinced of misery firmest then. She held a light not subject to the worm. The pageant of the summer ran its term, The last stack came to staddle from the wain; The snow fell, the snow thawed, the year began again. With the wet glistening gold of celandines, And snowdrops pushing from the withered grass, Before the bud upon the hawthorn greens, Or blackbirds go to building; but, alas! No spring within her bosom came to pass. "You're going like a ghost," her father said; "Now put him out of mind, and be my prudent maid." It was an April morning brisk with wind, She wandered out along the brook sick-hearted, Picking the daffodils where the water dinned, While overhead the first-come swallow darted. There, at the place where all the passion started, Where love first knocked about her maiden heart, Young Lion Occleve hailed her, calling her apart To see his tulips at The Roughs, and take A spray of flowering currant; so she went. It is a bitter moment, when hearts ache, To see the loved unhappy; his intent Was but to try to comfort her; he meant To show her that he knew her heart's despair, And that his own heart bled to see her wretched there. So, as they talked, he asked her, had she heard From Michael lately? No, she had not; she Had been a great while now, without a word. "No news is always good news," answered he. "You know," he said, "how much you mean to me; You've always been the queen. Oh, if I could Do anything to help, my dear, you know I would." "Nothing," she said, much touched. "But you believe-- You still believe in him?" "Why, yes," he said. Lie though it was he did not dare deceive The all too cruel faith within the maid. "That ranching is a wild and lonely trade, Far from all posts; it may be hard to send; All puzzling things like this prove simple in the end. "We should have heard if he were ill or dead. Keep a good heart. Now come"; he led the way Beyond the barton to the calving-shed, Where, on a strawy litter topped with hay, A double-pedigree prize bull-calf lay. "Near three weeks old," he said, "the Wrekin's pet; Come up, now, son, come up; you haven't seen him yet. "We have done well," he added, "with the stock, But this one, if he lives, will make a name." The bull-calf gambolled with his tail acock, Then shyly nosed towards them, scared but tame; His troublous eyes were sulky with blue flame. Softly he tip-toed, shying at a touch; They rubbed his head, and Mary went her way, Counting the dreary time, the dreary beat Of dreary minutes dragging through the day; Time crawled across her life with leaden feet; There still remained a year before her sweet Would come to claim her; surely he would come; Meanwhile there was the year, her weakening father, home. Home with its deadly round, with all its setting, Things, rooms, and fields and flowers to sting, to burn With memories of the love time past forgetting Ere absence made her very being yearn. "My love, be quick," she moaned, "return, return; Come when the three years end, oh, my dear soul, It's bitter, wanting you." The lonely nights took toll, Putting a sadness where the beauty was, Taking a lustre from the hair; the days Saw each a sadder image in the glass. And when December came, fouling the ways, And ashless beech-logs made a Christmas blaze, Some talk of Michael came; a rumour ran, Someone had called him "wild" to some returning mail, Who, travelling through that cattle-range, had heard Nothing more sure than this; but this he told At second-hand upon a cowboy's word. It struck on Mary's heart and turned her cold. That winter was an age which made her old. "But soon," she thought, "soon the third year will end; March, April, May, and June, then I shall see my friend. "He promised he would come; he will not fail. Oh, Michael, my beloved man, come soon; Stay not to make a home for me, but sail. Love and the hour will put the world in tune. You in my life for always is the boon I ask from life--we two, together, lovers." So leaden time went by who eats things and discovers. Then, in the winds of March, her father rode, Hunting the Welland country on Black Ned; The tenor cry gave tongue past Clencher's Lode, And on he galloped, giving the nag his head; Then, at the brook, he fell, was picked up dead. Hounds were whipped off; men muttered with one breath, "We knew that hard-mouthed brute would some day be his death." They bore his body on a hurdle home; Then came the burial, then the sadder day When the peaked lawyer entered like a gnome, With word to quit and lists of debts to pay. There was a sale; the Foxholes passed away To strangers, who discussed the points of cows, Where love had put such glory on the lovers' brows. Kind Lion Occleve helped the maid's affairs. Her sorrow brought him much beside her; he Caused her to settle, having stilled her cares, In the long cottage under Spital Gree. He had no hope that she would love him; she Still waited for her lover, but her eyes Thanked Lion to the soul; he made the look suffice. By this the yearling bull-calf had so grown That all men talked of him; mighty he grew, Huge-shouldered, scaled above a hundred stone, With deep chest many-wrinkled with great thew, Plain-loined and playful-eyed; the Occleves knew That he surpassed his pasture; breeders came From far to see this bull; he brought the Occleves fame. Till a meat-breeding rancher on the plains Where Michael wasted, sent to buy the beast, Meaning to cross his cows with heavier strains Until his yield of meat and bone increased. He paid a mighty price; the yearling ceased To be the wonder of the countryside. He sailed in Lion's charge, south, to the Plate's red tide. There Lion landed with the bull, and there The great beast raised his head and bellowed loud, Challenging that expanse and that new air; Trembling, but full of wrath and thunder-browed, Far from the daffodil fields and friends, but proud, His wild eye kindled at the great expanse. Two scraps of Shropshire life they stood there; their advance Was slow along the well-grassed cattle land, But at the last an end was made; the brute Ate his last bread crust from his master's hand, And snuffed the foreign herd and stamped his foot; Steers on the swelling ranges gave salute. The great bull bellowed back and Lion turned; His task was now to find where Michael lived; he learned The farm's direction, and with heavy mind, Thinking of Mary and her sorrow, rode, Leaving the offspring of his fields behind. A last time in his ears the great bull lowed. Then, shaking up his horse, the young man glowed To see the unfenced pampas opening out Grass that makes old earth sing and all the valleys shout. At sunset on the second day he came To that white cabin in the peach-tree plot Where Michael lived; they met, the Shropshire name Rang trebly dear in that outlandish spot. Old memories swam up dear, old joys forgot, Old friends were real again; but Mary's woe Came into Lion's mind, and Michael vexed him so, Talking with careless freshness, side by side With that dark Spanish beauty who had won, As though no heart-broke woman, heavy-eyed, Mourned for him over sea, as though the sun Shone but to light his steps to love and fun, While she, that golden and beloved soul, Worth ten of him, lay wasting like an unlit coal. So supper passed; the meat in Lion's gorge Stuck at the last, he could not bide that face. The idle laughter on it plied the forge Where hate was smithying tools; the jokes, the place, Wrought him to wrath; he could not stay for grace. The tin mug full of red wine spilled and fell. He kicked his stool aside with "Michael, this is hell. "Come out into the night and talk to me." The young man lit a cigarette and followed; The stars seemed trembling at a brink to see; A little ghostly white-owl stooped and holloed. Beside the stake-fence Lion stopped and swallowed, While all the wrath within him made him grey. Michael stood still and smoked, and flicked his ash away. "Well, Lion," Michael said, "men make mistakes, And then regret them; and an early flame Is frequently the worst mistake man makes. I did not seek this passion, but it came. Love happens so in life. Well? Who's to blame? You'll say I've broken Mary's heart; the heart Is not the whole of life, but an inferior part, "Useful for some few years and then a curse. Nerves should be stronger. You have come to say The three-year term is up; so much the worse. I cannot meet the bill; I cannot pay. I would not if I could. Men change. To-day I know that that first choice, however sweet, Was wrong and a mistake; it would have meant defeat, "Ruin and misery to us both. Let be. You say I should have told her this? Perhaps. You try to make a loving woman see That the warm link which holds you to her snaps. Neglect is deadlier than the thunder-claps. Yet she is bright and I am water. Well, I did not make myself; this life is often hell. "Judge if you must, but understand it first. We are old friends, and townsmen, Shropshire born, Under the Wrekin. You believe the worst. You have no knowledge how the heart is torn, Trying for duty up against the thorn. Now say I've broken Mary's heart: begin. Break hers, or hers and mine, which were the greater sin?" "Michael," said Lion, "I have heard you. Now Listen to me. Three years ago you made With a most noble soul a certain vow. Now you reject it, saying that you played. She did not think so, Michael, she has stayed, Eating her heart out for a line, a word, News that you were not dead; news that she never heard. "Not once, after the first. She has held firm To what you counted pastime; she has wept Life, day by weary day throughout the term, While her heart sickened, and the clock-hand crept. While you, you with your woman here, have kept Holiday, feasting; you are fat; you smile. You have had love and laughter all the ghastly while. "I shall be back in England six weeks hence, Standing with your poor Mary face to face; Far from a pleasant moment, but intense. I shall be asked to tell her of this place. And she will eye me hard and hope for grace, Some little crumb of comfort while I tell; And every word will burn like a red spark from hell, "That you have done with her, that you are living Here with another woman; that you care Nought for the pain you've given and are giving; That all your lover's vows were empty air. This I must tell: thus I shall burn her bare, Burn out all hope, all comfort, every crumb, "Or do I judge you wrongly?" He was still. The cigarette-end glowed and dimmed with ash; A preying night bird whimpered on the hill. Michael said "Ah!" and fingered with his sash, Then stilled. The night was still; there came no flash Of sudden passion bursting. All was still; A lonely water gurgled like a whip-poor-will. "Now I must go," said Lion; "where's the horse?" "There," said his friend; "I'll set you on your way." They caught and rode, both silent, while remorse Worked in each heart, though neither would betray What he was feeling, and the moon came grey, Then burned into an opal white and great, Silvering the downs of grass where these two travelled late, Thinking of English fields which that moon saw, Fields full of quiet beauty lying hushed At midnight in the moment full of awe, When the red fox comes creeping, dewy-brushed. But neither spoke; they rode; the horses rushed, Scattering the great clods skywards with such thrills As colts in April feel there in the daffodils. The river brimming full was silvered over By moonlight at the ford; the river bank Smelt of bruised clote buds and of yellow clover. Nosing the gleaming dark the horses drank, Drooping and dripping as the reins fell lank; The men drooped too; the stars in heaven drooped; Rank after hurrying rank the silver water trooped In ceaseless bright procession past the shallows, Talking its quick inconsequence. The friends, Warmed by the gallop on the unfenced fallows, Felt it a kindlier thing to make amends. "A jolly burst," said Michael; "here it ends. Your way lies straight beyond the water. There. Watch for the lights, and keep those two stars as they bear." Something august was quick in all that sky, Wheeling in multitudinous march with fire; The falling of the wind brought it more nigh, They felt the earth take solace and respire; The horses shifted foothold in the mire, Splashing and making eddies. Lion spoke: "Do you remember riding past the haunted oak "That Christmas Eve, when all the bells were ringing, So that we picked out seven churches' bells, Ringing the night, and people carol-singing? It hummed and died away and rose in swells Like a sea breaking. We have been through hells Since then, we two, and now this being here Brings all that Christmas back, and makes it strangely near." "Yes," Michael answered, "they were happy times, Riding beyond there; but a man needs change; I know what they connote, those Christmas chimes, Fudge in the heart, and pudding in the grange. It stifles me all that; I need the range, Like this before us, open to the sky; There every wing is clipped, but here a man can fly." "Ah," said his friend, "man only flies in youth, A few short years at most, until he finds That even quiet is a form of truth, And all the rest a coloured rag that blinds. Life offers nothing but contented minds. Some day you'll know it, Michael. I am grieved That Mary's heart will pay until I am believed." There was a silence while the water dripped From the raised muzzles champing on the steel. Flogging the crannied banks the water lipped. Night up above them turned her starry wheel; And each man feared to let the other feel How much he felt; they fenced; they put up bars. The moon made heaven pale among the withering stars. "Michael," said Lion, "why should we two part? Ride on with me; or shall we both return, Make preparation, and to-morrow start, And travel home together? You would learn How much the people long to see you; turn. We will ride back and say good-bye, and then Sail, and see home again, and see the Shropshire men, "And see the old Shropshire mountain and the fair, Full of drunk Welshmen bringing mountain ewes; And partridge shooting would be starting there." Michael hung down his head and seemed to choose. The horses churned fresh footing in the ooze. Then Michael asked if Tom were still alive, Old Tom, who fought the Welshman under Upton Drive, For nineteen rounds, on grass, with the bare hands? "Shaky," said Lion, "living still, but weak; Almost past speaking, but he understands." "And old Shon Shones we teased so with the leek?" "Dead." "When?" "December." Michael did not speak, But muttered "Old Jones dead." A minute passed. "What came to little Sue, his girl?" he said at last. "Got into trouble with a man and died; Her sister keeps the child." His hearer stirred. "Dead, too? She was a pretty girl," he sighed, "A graceful pretty creature, like a bird. What is the child?" "A boy. Her sister heard Too late to help; poor Susan died; the man None knew who he could be, but many rumours ran." "Ah," Michael said. The horses tossed their heads; A little wind arising struck in chill; "Time," he began, "that we were in our beds." A distant heifer challenged from the hill, Scraped at the earth with 's forefoot and was still. "Come with me," Lion pleaded. Michael grinned; He turned his splashing horse, and prophesied a wind. "So long," he said, and "Kind of you to call. Straight on, and watch the stars"; his horse's feet Trampled the firmer foothold, ending all. He flung behind no message to his sweet, No other word to Lion; the dull beat Of his horse's trample drummed upon the trail; Lion could watch him drooping in the moonlight pale, Drooping and lessening; half expectant still That he would turn and greet him; but no sound Came, save the lonely water's whip-poor-will And the going horse hoofs dying on the ground. "Michael," he cried, "Michael!" A lonely mound Beyond the water gave him back the cry. "That's at an end," he said, "and I have failed her--I." Soon the far hoof-beats died, save for a stir Half heard, then lost, then still, then heard again. A quickening rhythm showed he plied the spur. Then a vast breathing silence took the plain. The moon was like a soul within the brain Of the great sleeping world; silent she rode The water talked, talked, talked; it trembled as it flowed. A moment Lion thought to ride in chase. He turned, then turned again, knowing his friend. He forded through with death upon his face, And rode the plain that seemed never to end. Clumps of pale cattle nosed the thing unkenned, Riding the night; out of the night they rose, Snuffing with outstretched heads, stamping with surly lows, Till he was threading through a crowd, a sea Of curious shorthorns backing as he came, Barring his path, but shifting warily; He slapped the hairy flanks of the more tame. Unreal the ghostly cattle lumbered lame. His horse kept at an even pace; the cows Broke right and left like waves before advancing bows. Lonely the pampas seemed amid that herd. The thought of Mary's sorrow pricked him sore; He brought no comfort for her, not a word; He would not ease her pain, but bring her more. The long miles dropped behind; lights rose before, Lights and the seaport and the briny air; And so he sailed for home to comfort Mary there. When Mary knew the worst she only sighed, Looked hard at Lion's face, and sat quite still, White to the lips, but stern and stony-eyed, Beaten by life in all things but the will. Though the blow struck her hard it did not kill. She rallied on herself, a new life bloomed Out of the ashy heart where Michael lay entombed. And more than this: for Lion touched a sense That he, the honest humdrum man, was more Than he by whom the glory and the offence Came to her life three bitter years before. This was a treason in her being's core; It smouldered there; meanwhile as two good friends They met at autumn dusks and winter daylight-ends. And once, after long twilight talk, he broke His strong restraint upon his passion for her, And burningly, most like a man he spoke, Until her pity almost overbore her. It could not be, she said; her pity tore her; But still it could not be, though this was pain. Then on a frosty night they met and spoke again. And then he wooed again, clutching her hands, Calling the maid his mind, his heart, his soul, Saying that God had linked their lives in bands When the worm Life first started from the goal; That they were linked together, past control, Linked from all time, could she but pity; she Pitied him from the soul, but said it could not be. "Mary," he asked, "you cannot love me? No?" "No," she replied; "would God I could, my dear." "God bless you, then," he answered, "I must go, Go over sea to get away from here, I cannot think of work when you are near; My whole life falls to pieces; it must end. This meeting now must be 'good-bye,' beloved friend." White-lipped she listened, then with failing breath, She asked for yet a little time; her face Was even as that of one condemned to death. She asked for yet another three months' grace, Asked it, as Lion inly knew, in case Michael should still return; and "Yes" said he, "I'll wait three months for you, beloved; let it be." Slowly the three months dragged: no Michael came. March brought the daffodils and set them shaking. April was quick in Nature like green flame; May came with dog-rose buds, and corncrakes craking, Then dwindled like her blossom; June was breaking. "Mary," said Lion, "can you answer now?" White like a ghost she stood, he long remembered how. Wild-eyed and white, and trembling like a leaf, She gave her answer, "Yes"; she gave her lips, Cold as a corpse's to the kiss of grief, Shuddering at him as if his touch were whips. Then her best nature, struggling to eclipse This shrinking self, made speech; she jested there; They searched each other's eyes, and both souls saw despair. So the first passed, and after that began A happier time: she could not choose but praise That recognition of her in the man Striving to salve her pride in myriad ways; He was a gentle lover: gentle days Passed like a music after tragic scenes; Her heart gave thanks for that; but still the might-have-beens Haunted her inner spirit day and night, And often in his kiss the memory came Of Michael's face above her, passionate, white, His lips at her lips murmuring her name, Then she would suffer sleepless, sick with shame, And struggle with her weakness. She had vowed To give herself to Lion; she was true and proud. He should not have a woman sick with ghosts, But one firm-minded to be his; so time Passed one by one the summer's marking posts, The dog-rose and the foxglove and the lime. Then on a day the church-bells rang a chime. Men fired the bells till all the valley filled With bell-noise from the belfry where the jackdaws build. Lion and she were married; home they went, Home to The Roughs as man and wife; the news Was printed in the paper. Mary sent A copy out to Michael. Now we lose Sight of her for a time, and the great dews Fall, and the harvest-moon grows red and fills Over the barren fields where March brings daffodils. The rider lingered at the fence a moment, Tossed out the pack to Michael, whistling low, Then rode, waving his hand, without more comment, Down the vast grey-green pampas sloping slow. Michael's last news had come so long ago, He wondered who had written now; the hand Thrilled him with vague alarm, it brought him to a stand. He opened it with one eye on the hut, Lest she within were watching him, but she Was combing out her hair, the door was shut, The green sun-shutters closed, she could not see. Out fell the love-tryst handkerchief which he Had had embroidered with his name for her; It had been dearly kept, it smelt of lavender. Something remained: a paper, crossed with blue, Where he should read; he stood there in the sun, Reading of Mary's wedding till he knew What he had cast away, what he had done. He was rejected, Lion was the one. Lion, the godly and the upright, he. The black lines in the paper showed how it could be. He pocketed the love gift and took horse, And rode out to the pay-shed for his savings. Then turned, and rode a lonely water-course, Alone with bitter thoughts and bitter cravings. Sun-shadows on the reeds made twinkling wavings; An orange-bellied turtle scooped the mud; Mary had married Lion, and the news drew blood. And with the bitterness, the outcast felt A passion for those old kind Shropshire places, The ruined chancel where the nuns had knelt; The glimmering mere, the burr, the well-known faces, By Wrekin and by Zine and country town. The orange-bellied turtle burrowed further down. He could remember Mary now; her crying Night after night alone through weary years, Had touched him now and set the cords replying; He knew her misery now, her ache, her tears, The lonely nights, the ceaseless hope, the fears, The arm stretched out for one not there, the slow Loss of the lover's faith, the letting comfort go. "Now I will ride," he said. Beyond the ford He caught a fresh horse and rode on. The night Found him a guest at Pepe Blanco's board, Moody and drinking rum and ripe for fight; Drawing his gun, he shot away the light, And parried Pepe's knife and caught his horse, And all night long he rode bedevilled by remorse. At dawn he caught an eastward-going ferry, And all day long he steamed between great banks Which smelt of yellow thorn and loganberry. Then wharves appeared, and chimneys rose in ranks, Mast upon mast arose; the river's flanks Were filled with English ships, and one he found Needing another stoker, being homeward bound. And all the time the trouble in his head Ran like a whirlwind moving him; he knew Since she was lost that he was better dead. He had no project outlined, what to do, Beyond go home; he joined the steamer's crew. She sailed that night: he dulled his maddened soul, Plying the iron coal-slice on the bunker coal. Work did not clear the turmoil in his mind; Passion takes colour from the nature's core; His misery was as his nature, blind. Life was still turmoil when he went ashore. To see his old love married lay before; To see another have her, drink the gall, Kicked like a dog without, while he within had all. Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the place Whither, from over sea, his heart had turned Often at evening-ends in times of grace. But little outward change his eye discerned; A red rose at her bedroom window burned, Just as before. Even as of old the wasps Poised at the yellow plums: the gate creaked on its hasps, And the white fantails sidled on the roof Just as before; their pink feet, even as of old, Printed the frosty morning's rime with proof. Still the zew-tallat's thatch was green with mould; The apples on the withered boughs were gold. Men and the times were changed: "And I," said he, "Will go and not return, since she is not for me. "I'll go, for it would be a scurvy thing To spoil her marriage, and besides, she cares For that half-priest she married with the ring. Small joy for me in seeing how she wears, Or seeing what he takes and what she shares. That beauty and those ways: she had such ways, There in the daffodils in those old April days." So with an impulse of good will he turned, Leaving that place of daffodils; the road Was paven sharp with memories which burned; He trod them strongly under as he strode. At the Green Turning's forge the furnace glowed; Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled soft Fold from the fire's heart; down clanged the hammers oft. That was a bitter place to pass, for there Mary and he had often, often stayed To watch the horseshoe growing in the glare. It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed. There was a stile beside the forge; he laid His elbows on it, leaning, looking down The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown. Infinite, too, because it reached the sky, And distant spires arose and distant smoke; The whiteness on the blue went stilly by; Only the clinking forge the stillness broke. Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oak Where the White Woman walked; the black firs showed Around the Occleve homestead Mary's new abode. A long, long time he gazed at that fair place, So well remembered from of old; he sighed. "I will go down and look upon her face, See her again, whatever may betide. Hell is my future; I shall soon have died, But I will take to hell one memory more; She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before; "Before they turn the dogs upon me, even. I do not mean to speak; but only see. Even the devil gets a peep at heaven; One peep at her shall come to hell with me; One peep at her, no matter what may be." He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope. Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope. A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyond Ringed in The Roughs upon the side he neared. Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond; Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared. He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered. The drooping fir trees let their darkness trail Black like a pirate's masts bound under easy sail. The garden with its autumn flowers was there; Few that his wayward memory linked with her. Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare, But honey-hunting bees still made a stir. Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender, And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised; The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced. He could not see her there. Windows were wide, Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook. Smoke, like the house's breathing, floated, sighed; Among the trembling firs strange ways it took. But still no Mary's presence blessed his look; The house was still as if deserted, hushed. Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed. Fragrance that gave his memory's guard a hint Of times long past, of reapers in the corn, Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint, When first the berry reddens on the thorn. Memories of her that fragrance brought. Forlorn That vigil of the watching outcast grew; He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew. The windows of the kitchen opened wide. Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke; Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside. A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke. Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke; Pourri was being made; the listener heard Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred. While an old woman made remarks to one Who was not the beloved: Michael learned That Roger's wife at Upton had a son, And that the red geraniums should be turned; A hen was missing, and a rick was burned; Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke; The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke. Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door; A dairy-maid, whom he remembered well, Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before, Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell. He saw the dining-room; he could not tell If Mary were within: inly he knew That she was coming now, that she would be in blue, Blue with a silver locket at the throat, And that she would be there, within there, near, With the little blushes that he knew by rote, And the grey eyes so steadfast and so dear, The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear, Speaking to her belov'd within the room. The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom, Watching intently from below the boughs, While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay, Eyed the high clouds and went within the house. His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray. Dinner began within with much to say. Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke. Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke. Nor could her lover see her from the yew; She was not there at table; she was ill, Ill, or away perhaps--he wished he knew. Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still. "If sick," he thought, "the maid or Lion will Take food to her." He watched; the dinner ended. The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended. "Not here," he thought; but wishing to be sure, He waited till the Occleves went to field, Then followed, round the house, another lure, Using the well-known privet as his shield. He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled. He knew of old which bedroom would be hers; He crouched upon the north front in among the firs. The house stared at him with its red-brick blank, Its vacant window-eyes; its open door, With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank, Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore. Nothing had changed; the house was as before, The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide: "I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside. None could have seen him coming; all was still; He listened in the doorway for a sign. Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrill Moved, till the frames clacked on the picture line. "Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine," He muttered, listening. "Hush." A silence brooded. Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded. Still, to his right, the best room door was locked. Another door was at his left; he stayed. Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked, To one who slumbered breathing deep; it made An image of Time's going and man's trade. He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep, Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep. He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked. The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray, Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act. The nodding frames seemed ready to betray. The east room had been closed in Michael's day, Being the best; but now he guessed it hers; The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs. Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried, Somewhere below, "I'll get it." Lion's feet Struck on the flagstones with a hasty stride. "He's coming up," thought Michael, "we shall meet." He snatched the nearest door for his retreat, Opened with thieves' swift silence, dared not close, But stood within, behind it. Lion's footsteps rose, Running two steps at once, while Michael stood, Not breathing, only knowing that the room Was someone's bedroom smelling of old wood, Hung with engravings of the day of doom. The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom? A gentle question, tapping at a door, And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor. The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked; Within an eastern room the footsteps passed. Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked, Chattels were thrust aside and overcast. What could the thing be that he sought. At last His voice said, "Here it is." The wormed floor Creaked with returning footsteps down the corridor. The footsteps came as though the walker read, Or added rows of figures by the way; There was much hesitation in the tread; Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay; Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway, He swiftly crossed and shut it. "Always one For order," Michael muttered. "Now be swift, my son." The action seemed to break the walker's mood; The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall, Out at the door and off towards the wood. "Gone," Michael muttered. "Now to hazard all." Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall. Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to try The door where Lion tapped and waited for reply. It was the eastmost of the rooms which look Over the fields of daffodils; the bound Scanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook, Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground. Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound, Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind; The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned. A woman walked along the hall below, Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died, Listening intently still, he heard them go, Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside. The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide; The curtains streamed out like a waterfall; The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall. No one was there; no one; the room was hers. A book of praise lay open on the bed; The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders, Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled. Here she found peace of soul like daily bread, Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed; He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed. He took the love-gift handkerchief again; He laid it on her table, near the glass, So opened that the broidered name was plain; "Plain," he exclaimed, "she cannot let it pass. It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass. My answer, my heart's cry, to tell her this, That she is still my darling: all she was she is. "So she will know at least that she was wrong, That underneath the blindness I was true. Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong; Out from beyond life I was sealed to you. But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew; And now, the evil done, I know my need; Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed. "And now, goodbye." He closed the door behind him, Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair, Meaning to go where she would never find him; He would go down through darkness to despair. Out at the door he stept; the autumn air Came fresh upon his face; none saw him go. "Goodbye, my love," he muttered; "it is better so." Soon he was on the high road, out of sight Of valley and farm; soon he could see no more The oast-house pointing finger take the light As tumbling pigeons glittered over; nor Could he behold the wind-vane gilded o'er, Swinging above the church; the road swung round. "Now, the last look," he cried: he saw that holy ground. "Goodbye," he cried; he could behold it all, Spread out as in a picture; but so clear That the gold apple stood out from the wall; Precise, intensely coloured, all brought near, As in a vision, lay that holy ground. "Mary is there," he moaned, "and I am outward bound. "I never saw this place so beautiful, Never like this. I never saw it glow. Spirit is on this place; it fills it full. So let the die be cast; I will not go. But I will see her face to face and know From her own lips what thoughts she has of me; And if disaster come: right; let disaster be." Back, by another way, he turned. The sun Fired the yew-tops in the Roman woods. Lights in the valley twinkled one by one, The starlings whirled in dropping multitudes. Dusk fingered into one earth's many moods, Back to The Roughs he walked; he neared the brook; A lamp burned in the farm; he saw; his fingers shook. He had to cross the brook, to cross a field, Where daffodils were thick when years were young. Then, were she there, his fortunes should be sealed. Down the mud trackway to the brook he swung; Then while the passion trembled on his tongue, Dim, by the dim bridge-stile, he seemed to see A figure standing mute; a woman--it was she. She stood quite stilly, waiting for him there. She did not seem surprised; the meeting seemed Planned from all time by powers in the air To change their human fates; he even deemed That in another life this thing had gleamed, This meeting by the bridge. He said, "It's you." "Yes, I," she said, "who else? You must have known; you knew "That I should come here to the brook to see, After your message." "You were out," he said. "Gone, and I did not know where you could be. Where were you, Mary, when the thing was laid?" "Old Mrs. Gale is dying, and I stayed Longer than usual, while I read the Word. You could have hardly gone." She paused, her bosom stirred. "Mary, I sinned," he said. "Not that, dear, no," She said; "but, oh, you were unkind, unkind, Never to write a word and leave me so, But out of sight with you is out of mind." "Mary, I sinned," he said, "and I was blind. Oh, my beloved, are you Lion's wife?" "Belov'd sounds strange," she answered, "in my present life. "But it is sweet to hear it, all the same. It is a language little heard by me Alone, in that man's keeping, with my shame. I never thought such miseries could be. I was so happy in you, Michael. He Came when I felt you changed from what I thought you. Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you." "That is untrue," he said. "I am in hell. You are my heart's beloved, Mary, you. By God, I know your beauty now too well. We are each other's, flesh and soul, we two." "That was sweet knowledge once," she said; "we knew That truth of old. Now, in a strange man's bed, I read it in my soul, and find it written red." "Is he a brute?" he asked. "No," she replied. "I did not understand what it would mean. And now that you are back, would I had died; Died, and the misery of it not have been. Lion would not be wrecked, nor I unclean. I was a proud one once, and now I'm tame; Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame." She sobbed; his arms went round her; the night heard Intense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul, Love running hot on many a murmured word, Love's passionate giving into new control. Their present misery did but blow the coal, Did but entangle deeper their two wills, While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils. Upon a light gust came a waft of bells, Ringing the chimes for nine; a broken sweet, Like waters bubbling out of hidden wells, Dully upon those lovers' ears it beat, Their time was at an end. Her tottering feet Trod the dim field for home; he sought an inn. "Oh, I have sinned," she cried, "but not a secret sin." Inside The Roughs they waited for her coming; Eyeing the ticking clock the household sat. "Nine," the clock struck; the clock-weights ran down drumming; Old Mother Occleve stretched her sewing flat. "It's nine," she said. Old Occleve stroked the cat. "Ah, cat," he said, "hast had good go at mouse?" Lion sat listening tense to all within the house "Mary is late to-night," the gammer said. "The times have changed," her merry husband roared. "Young married couples now like lonely trade, Don't think of bed at all, they think of board. No multiplying left in people. Lord! When I was Lion's age I'd had my five. There was some go in folk when us two took to wive." Lion arose and stalked and bit his lip. "Or was it six?" the old man muttered, "six. Us had so many I've alost the tip. Us were two right good souls at getting chicks. "Now give a young man time," the mother cried. Mary came swiftly in and flung the room door wide. Lion was by the window when she came, Old Occleve and his wife were by the fire; Big shadows leapt the ceiling from the flame. She fronted the three figures and came nigher. "Lion," she whispered, "I return my hire." She dropped her marriage-ring upon the table. Then, in a louder voice, "I bore what I was able, "And Time and marriage might have worn me down, Perhaps, to be a good wife and a blest, With little children clinging to my gown, And little blind mouths fumbling for my breast, And this place would have been a place of rest For you and me; we could have come to know The depth; but that is over; I have got to go. "He has come back, and I have got to go. Our marriage ends." She stood there white and breathed. Old Occleve got upon his feet with "So." Blazing with wrath upon the hearth he seethed. A log fell from the bars; blue spirals wreathed Across the still old woman's startled face; The cat arose and yawned. Lion was still a space. Old Occleve turned to Lion. Lion moved Nearer to Mary, picking up the ring. His was grim physic from the soul beloved; His face was white and twitching with the sting. "You are my wife, you cannot do this thing," He said at last. "I can respect your pride. This thing affects your soul; my judgment must decide. "You are unsettled, shaken from the shock." "Not so," she said. She stretched a hand to him, White, large and noble, steady as a rock, Cunning with many powers, curving, slim. The smoke, drawn by the door-draught, made it dim. "Right," Lion answered. "You are steady. Then There is but one world, Mary; this, the world of men. "And there's another world, without its bounds, Peopled by streaked and spotted souls who prize The flashiness that comes from marshy grounds Above plain daylight. In their blinkered eyes Nothing is bright but sentimental lies, Such as are offered you, dear, here and now; Lies which betray the strongest, God alone knows how. "You, in your beauty and your whiteness, turn Your strong, white mind, your faith, your fearless truth, All for these rotten fires that so burn. A sentimental clutch at perished youth. I am too sick for wisdom, sick with ruth, And this comes suddenly; the unripe man Misses the hour, oh God. But you, what is your plan? "What do you mean to do, how act, how live? What warrant have you for your life? What trust? You are for going sailing in a sieve. This brightness is too mortal not to rust. So our beginning marriage ends in dust. I have not failed you, Mary. Let me know What you intend to do, and whither you will go." "Go from this place; it chokes me," she replied. "This place has branded me; I must regain My truth that I have soiled, my faith, my pride, It is all poison and it leaves a stain. I cannot stay nor be your wife again. Never. You did your best, though; you were kind. I have grown old to-night and left all that behind. "Goodbye." She turned. Old Occleve faced his son. Wrath at the woman's impudence was blent, Upon his face, with wrath that such an one Should stand unthrashed until her words were spent. He stayed for Lion's wrath; but Mary went Unchecked; he did not stir. Her footsteps ground The gravel to the gate; the gate-hinge made a sound Like to a cry of pain after a shot. Swinging, it clicked, it clicked again, it swung Until the iron latch bar hit the slot. Mary had gone, and Lion held his tongue. Old Mother Occleve sobbed; her white head hung Over her sewing while the tears ran down Her worn, blood-threaded cheeks and splashed upon her gown. "Yes, it is true," said Lion, "she must go. Michael is back. Michael was always first, I did but take his place. You did not know. Now it has happened, and you know the worst. So passion makes the passionate soul accurst And crucifies his darling. Michael comes And the savage truth appears and rips my life to thrums." Upon Old Occleve's face the fury changed First to contempt, and then to terror lest Lion, beneath the shock, should be deranged. But Lion's eyes were steady, though distressed. "Father, good-night," he said, "I'm going to rest. Good-night, I cannot talk. Mother, good-night." He kissed her brow and went; they heard him strike a light, And go with slow depressed step up the stairs, Up to the door of her deserted bower; They heard him up above them, moving chairs; The memory of his paleness made them cower. They did not know their son; they had no power To help, they only saw the new-won bride Defy their child, and faith and custom put aside. After a time men learned where Mary was: Over the hills, not many miles away, Renting a cottage and a patch of grass Where Michael came to see her. Every day Taught her what fevers can inhabit clay, Shaking this body that so soon must die. The time made Lion old: the winter dwindled by. Till the long misery had to end or kill: And "I must go to see her," Lion cried; "I am her standby, and she needs me still; If not to love she needs me to decide. Dear, I will set you free. Oh, my bright bride, Lost in such piteous ways, come back." He rode Over the wintry hills to Mary's new abode. And as he topped the pass between the hills, Towards him, up the swerving road, there came Michael, the happy cause of all his ills; Walking as though repentance were the shame, Sucking a grass, unbuttoned, still the same, Humming a tune; his careless beauty wild Drawing the women's eyes; he wandered with a child. Who heard, wide-eyed, the scraps of tales which fell Between the fragments of the tune; they seemed A cherub bringing up a soul from hell. Meeting unlike the meeting long since dreamed. Lion dismounted; the great valley gleamed With waters far below; his teeth were set His heart thumped at his throat; he stopped; the two men met. The child well knew that fatal issues joined; He stood round-eyed to watch them, even as Fate Stood with his pennypiece of causes coined Ready to throw for issue; the bright hate Throbbed, that the heavy reckoning need not wait. Lion stepped forward, watching Michael's eyes. "We are old friends," he said. "Now, Michael, you be wise, "And let the harm already done suffice; Go, before Mary's name is wholly gone. Spare her the misery of desertion twice, There's only ruin in the road you're on-- Ruin for both, whatever promise shone In sentimental shrinkings from the fact. So, Michael, play the man, and do the generous act. "And go; if not for my sake, go for hers. You only want her with your sentiment. You are water roughed by every wind that stirs, One little gust will alter your intent All ways, to every wind, and nothing meant, Is your life's habit. Man, one takes a wife, Not for a three months' fancy, but the whole of life. "We have been friends, and so I speak you fair. How will you bear her ill, or cross, or tired? Sentiment sighing will not help you there. You call a half life's volume not desired. I know your love for her. I saw it mired, Mired, past going, by your first sharp taste Of life and work; it stopped; you let her whole life waste, "Rather than have the trouble of such love, You will again; but if you do it now, It will mean death, not sorrow. But enough. You know too well you cannot keep a vow. There are gray hairs already on her brow. You brought them there. Death is the next step. Go, Before you take the step." "No," Michael answered, "No. "As for my past, I was a dog, a cur, And I have paid blood-money, and still pay. But all my being is ablaze with her; There is no talk of giving up to-day. I will not give her up. You used to say Bodies are earth. I heard you say it. Liar! You never loved her, you. She turns the earth to fire." "Michael," said Lion, "you have said such things Of other women; less than six miles hence You and another woman felt love's wings Rosy and fair, and so took leave of sense. She's dead, that other woman, dead, with pence Pressed on her big brown eyes, under the ground; She that was merry once, feeling the world go round. "Her child (and yours) is with her sister now, Out there, behind us, living as they can; Pinched by the poverty that you allow. All a long autumn many rumours ran About Sue Jones that was: you were the man. The lad is like you. Think about his mother, Before you turn the earth to fire with another." "That is enough," said Michael, "you shall know Soon, to your marrow, what my answer is; Know to your lying heart; now kindly go. The neighbours smell that something is amiss. We two will keep a dignity in this, Such as we can. No quarrelling with me here. Mary might see; now go; but recollect, my dear, "That if you twit me with your wife, you lie; And that your further insult waits a day When God permits that Mary is not by; I keep the record of it, and shall pay. And as for Mary; listen: we betray No one. We keep our troth-plight as we meant. Now go, the neighbours gather." Lion bowed and went. Home to his memories for a month of pain, Each moment like a devil with a tongue, Urging him, "Set her free," or "Try again," Or "Kill that man and stamp him into dung." "See her," he cried. He took his horse and swung Out on the road to her; the rain was falling; Drowned yellow jasmine dripped; his horse's flanks Steamed, and dark runnels on his yellow hair Streaked the groomed surface into blotchy ranks. The noise of water dropping filled the air. He knocked again; but there was no one there; No one within, the door was locked, no smoke Came from the chimney stacks, no clock ticked, no one spoke. Only the water dripped and dribble-dripped, And gurgled through the rain-pipe to the butt; Drops, trickling down the windows paused or slipped; A wet twig scraked as though the glass were cut. The blinds were all drawn down, the windows shut. No one was there. Across the road a shawl Showed at a door a space; a woman gave a call. "They're gone away," she cried. "They're gone away. Been gone a matter of a week." Where to? The woman thought to Wales, but could not say, Nor if she planned returning; no one knew. She looked at Lion sharply; then she drew The half-door to its place and passed within, Saying she hoped the rain would stop and spring begin. Lion rode home. A month went by, and now Winter was gone; the myriad shoots of green Bent to the wind, like hair, upon the plough, And up from withered leaves came celandine. And sunlight came, though still the air was keen, So that the first March market was most fair, And Lion rode to market, having business there. And in the afternoon, when all was done, While Lion waited idly near the inn, Watching the pigeons sidling in the sun, As Jim the ostler put his gelding in, He heard a noise of rioting begin Outside the yard, with catcalls; there were shouts Of "Occleve. Lion Occleve," from a pack of louts, Who hung about the courtyard-arch, and cried, "Yah, Occleve, of The Roughs, the married man, Occleve, who had the bed and not the bride." At first without the arch; but some began To sidle in, still calling; children ran To watch the baiting; they were farmer's leavings Who shouted thus, men cast for drunkenness and thievings. Lion knew most of them of old; he paid No heed to them, but turned his back and talked To Jim, of through-pin in his master's jade, And how no horse-wounds should be stuped or caulked. The rabble in the archway, not yet baulked, Came crowding nearer, and the boys began, "Who was it took your mistress, master married man?" "Who was it, master, took your wife away?" "I wouldn't let another man take mine." "She had two husbands on her wedding day." "See at a blush: he blushed as red as wine." "She'd ought a had a cart-whip laid on fine." The farmers in the courtyard watched the baiting, Grinning, the barmaids grinned above the window grating. Then through the mob of brawlers Michael stepped Straight to where Lion stood. "I come," he said, "To give you back some words which I have kept Safe in my heart till I could see them paid. You lied about Sue Jones; she died a maid As far as I'm concerned, and there's your lie, Full in your throat, and there, and there, and in your eye. "And there's for stealing Mary" ... as he struck, He slipped upon a piece of peel and dropped Souse in a puddle of the courtyard muck; Loud laughter followed when he rose up sopped. Friends rushed to intervene, the fight was stopped. The two were hurried out by different ways. Men said, "'Tis stopped for now, but not for many days." April appeared, the green earth's impulse came, Pushing the singing sap until each bud Trembled with delicate life as soft as flame, Filled by the mighty heart-beat as with blood; Death was at ebb, and Life in brimming flood. But little joy in life could Lion see, Striving to gird his will to set his loved one free, While in his heart a hope still struggled dim That the mad hour would pass, the darkness break, The fever die, and she return to him, The routed nightmare let the sleeper wake. "Then we could go abroad," he cried, "and make A new life, soul to soul; oh, love! return." "Too late," his heart replied. At last he rode to learn. Bowed, but alive with hope, he topped the pass, And saw, below, her cottage by the way, White, in a garden green with springing grass, And smoke against the blue sky going gray. "God make us all the happier for to-day," He muttered humbly; then, below, he spied, Mary and Michael entering, walking side by side. Arm within arm, like lovers, like dear lovers Matched by the happy stars and newly wed, Over whose lives a rosy presence hovers. Lion dismounted, seeing hope was dead. A child was by the road, he stroked his head, And "Little one," he said, "who lives below There, in the cottage there, where those two people go?" "They do," the child said, pointing: "Mrs. Gray Lives in the cottage there, and he does, too. They've been back near a week since being away." It was but seal to what he inly knew. He thanked the child and rode. The Spring was blue, Bluer than ever, and the birds were glad; Such rapture in the hedges all the blackbirds had. He was not dancing to that pipe of the Spring. He reached The Roughs, and there, within her room, Bowed for a time above her wedding ring, Which had so chained him to unhappy doom; All his dead marriage haunted in the gloom Of that deserted chamber; all her things Lay still as she had left them when her love took wings. He kept a bitter vigil through the night, Knowing his loss, his ten years' passion wasted, His life all blasted, even at its height, His cup of life's fulfilment hardly tasted. Gray on the budding woods the morning hasted, And looking out he saw the dawn come chill Over the shaking acre pale with daffodil. Birds were beginning in the meadows; soon The blackbirds and the thrushes with their singing Piped down the withered husk that was the moon, And up the sky the ruddy sun came winging. Cows plodded past, yokes clanked, the men were bringing Milk from the barton. Someone shouted "Hup, Dog, drive them dangy red ones down away on up." Some heavy hours went by before he rose. He went out of the house into the grass, Down which the wind flowed much as water flows; The daffodils bowed down to let it pass. At the brook's edge a boggy bit there was, Right at the field's north corner, near the bridge, Fenced by a ridge of earth; he sat upon the ridge, Watching the water running to the sea, Watching the bridge, the stile, the path beyond, Where the white violet's sweetness brought the bee. He paid the price of being overfond. The water babbled always from the pond Over the pretty shallows, chattering, tinkling, With trembles from the sunlight in its clearness wrinkling. So gazing, like one stunned, it reached his mind, That the hedge-brambles overhung the brook More than was right, making the selvage blind; The dragging brambles too much flotsam took. Dully he thought to mend. He fetched a hook, And standing in the shallow stream he slashed, Splashed and were bobbed away across the shallows; Pale grasses with the sap gone from them fell, Sank, or were carried down beyond the sallows. The bruised ground-ivy gave out earthy smell. "I must be dead," he thought, "and this is hell." Fiercely he slashed, till, glancing at the stile, He saw that Michael stood there, watching, with a smile, His old contemptuous smile of careless ease, As though the world with all its myriad pain Sufficed, but only just sufficed, to please. Michael was there, the robber come again. A tumult ran like flame in Lion's brain; Then, looking down, he saw the flowers shake: Gold, trembling daffodils; he turned, he plucked a stake Out of the hedge that he had come to mend, And flung his hook to Michael, crying, "Take; We two will settle our accounts, my friend, Once and for ever. May the Lord God make You see your sins in time." He whirled his stake And struck at Michael's head; again he struck; While Michael dodged and laughed, "Why, man, I bring you luck. "Don't kill a bringer of good news. You fool, Stop it and listen. I have come to say: Lion, for God's sake, listen and be cool. You silly hothead, put that stake away. Listen, I tell you." But he could not stay The anger flaming in that passionate soul. Blows rained upon him thick; they stung; he lost control. Till, "If you want to fight," he cried, "let be. Let me get off the bridge and we will fight. That firm bit by the quag will do for me. So. Be on guard, and God defend the right. You foaming madman, with your hell's delight, Smashing a man with stakes before he speaks: On guard. I'll make you humbler for the next few weeks." The ground was level there; the daffodils Glimmered and danced beneath their cautious feet, Quartering for openings for the blow that kills. Beyond the bubbling brook a thrush was sweet. Quickly the footsteps slid; with feint and cheat, The weapons poised and darted and withdrew. "Now stop it," Michael said, "I want to talk to you." "We do not stop till one of us is dead,", Said Lion, rushing in. A short blow fell Dizzily, through all guard, on Michael's head. His hedging-hook slashed blindly but too well: It struck in Lion's side. Then, for a spell, Both, sorely stricken, staggered, while their eyes Dimmed under mists of blood; they fell, they tried to rise,-- Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay, Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky, Touched with a redness from the end of day. There was all April in the blackbird's cry. And lying there they felt they had to die, Die and go under mould and feel no more April's green fire of life go running in earth's core. "There was no need to hit me," Michael said; "You quiet thinking fellows lose control. This fighting business is a foolish trade. And now we join the grave-worm and the mole. You always were hot-headed. Well, let be: You deep and passionate souls have always puzzled me. "I'm sorry that I struck you. I was hit, And lashed out blindly at you; you were mad. It would be different if you'd stopped a bit. You are too blind when you are angry, lad. Oh, I am giddy, Lion; dying, bad, Dying." He raised himself, he sat, his look Grew greedy for the water bubbling in the brook. And as he watched it, Lion raised his head; Out of a bloodied clump of daffodil. "Michael," he moaned, "I, too, am dying: dead. You're nearer to the water. Could you fill Your hat and give me drink? Or would it spill? Spill, I expect." "I'll try," said Michael, "try-- I may as well die trying, since I have to die." Slowly he forced his body's failing life Down to the water; there he stooped and filled; And as his back turned Lion drew his knife, And hid it close, while all his being thrilled To see, as Michael came, the water spilled, Nearer and ever nearer, bright, so bright. "Drink," muttered Michael, "drink. We two shall sleep to-night." He tilted up the hat, and Lion drank. Lion lay still a moment, gathering power, Then rose, as Michael gave him more, and sank. Then, like a dying bird whom death makes tower, He raised himself above the bloodied flower And struck with all his force in Michael's side. "You should not have done that," his stricken comrade cried. "No; for I meant to tell you, Lion; meant To tell you; but I cannot now; I die. That hit me to the heart and I am spent. Mary and I have parted; she and I Agreed she must return, lad. That is why I came to see you. She is coming here, Back to your home to-night. Oh, my beloved dear, "You come to tread a bloody path of flowers. All the gold flowers are covered up with blood, And the bright bugles blow along the towers; The bugles triumph like the Plate in flood." His spilled life trickled down upon the mud Between weak, clutching fingers. "Oh," he cried, "This isn't what we planned here years ago." He died. Lion lay still while the cold tides of death Came brimming up his channels. With one hand He groped to know if Michael still drew breath. His little hour was running out its sand. Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary stand Above. He cried aloud, "He was my brother. I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other. "Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me. We wise who try to change. Oh, you wild birds, Help my unhappy spirit to the sea. The golden bowl is scattered into sherds." And Mary knelt and murmured passionate words To that poor body on the dabbled flowers: "Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours-- "Michael, my own heart's darling, speak; it's me, Mary. You know my voice. I'm here, dear, here. Oh, little golden-haired one, listen. See, It's Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear. Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear; And you have killed him, Lion; he is dead. My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head. "We had such fun together, such sweet fun, My love and I, my merry love and I. Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun. Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye." Then in a great voice Lion called, "I die. Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear. Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear. "Better than he; not better, dear, as well. If you could kiss me, dearest, at this last. We have made bloody doorways from our hell, Cutting our tangle. Now, the murder past, We are but pitiful poor souls; and fast The darkness and the cold come. Kiss me, sweet; I loved you all my life; but some lives never meet "Though they go wandering side by side through Time. Kiss me," he cried. She bent, she kissed his brow: "Oh, friend," she said, "you're lying in the slime." "Three blind ones, dear," he murmured, "in the slough, Caught fast for death; but never mind that now; Go home and tell my people. I am dying, Dying, dear, dying now." He died; she left him lying, And kissed her dead one's head and crossed the field. "They have been killed," she called, in a great crying. "Killed, and our spirits' eyes are all unsealed. The blood is scattered on the flowers drying." It was the hush of dusk, and owls were flying; They hooted as the Occleves ran to bring That sorry harvest home from Death's red harvesting. They laid the bodies on the bed together. And "You were beautiful," she said, "and you Were my own darling in the April weather. You knew my very soul, you knew, you knew. Oh, my sweet, piteous love, I was not true. Fetch me fair water and the flowers of spring; My love is dead, and I must deck his burying." They left her with her dead; they could not choose But grant the spirit burning in her face Rights that their pity urged them to refuse. They did her sorrow and the dead a grace. All night they heard her passing footsteps trace Down to the garden from the room of death. They heard her singing there, lowly, with gentle breath, To the cool darkness full of sleeping flowers, Then back, still singing soft, with quiet tread, But at the dawn her singing gathered powers Like to the dying swan who lifts his head On Eastnor, lifts it, singing, dabbled red, Singing the glory in his tumbling mind, Before the doors burst in, before death strikes him blind. So triumphing her song of love began, Ringing across the meadows like old woe Sweetened by poets to the help of man Unconquered in eternal overthrow; Like a great trumpet from the long ago Her singing towered; all the valley heard. Men jingling down to meadow stopped their teams and stirred. And they, the Occleves, hurried to the door, And burst it, fearing; there the singer lay Drooped at her lover's bedside on the floor, Singing her passionate last of life away. White flowers had fallen from a blackthorn spray Over her loosened hair. Pale flowers of spring Filled the white room of death; they covered everything. Primroses, daffodils, and cuckoo-flowers. She bowed her singing head on Michael's breast. "Oh, it was sweet," she cried, "that love of ours. You were the dearest, sweet; I loved you best. Beloved, my beloved, let me rest By you forever, little Michael mine. Now the great hour is stricken, and the bread and wine "Broken and spilt; and now the homing birds Draw to a covert, Michael; I to you. Bury us two together," came her words. The dropping petals fell about the two. Her heart had broken; she was dead. They drew Her gentle head aside; they found it pressed Against the broidered 'kerchief spread on Michael's breast, The one that bore her name in Michael's hair, Given so long before. They let her lie, While the dim moon died out upon the air, And happy sunlight coloured all the sky. The last cock crowed for morning; carts went by; Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; from the byre The yokes went clanking by, to dairy, through the mire. In the day's noise the water's noise was stilled, But still it slipped along, the cold hill-spring, Dropping from leafy hollows, which it filled, On to the pebbly shelves which made it sing; Glints glittered on it from the 'fisher's wing; It saw the moorhen nesting; then it stayed In a great space of reeds where merry otters played. Slowly it loitered past the shivering reeds Into a mightier water; thence its course Becomes a pasture where the salmon feeds, Wherein no bubble tells its humble source; But the great waves go rolling, and the horse Snorts at the bursting waves and will not drink, And the great ships go outward, bubbling to the brink, Outward, with men upon them, stretched in line, Handling the halliards to the ocean's gates, Where flicking windflaws fill the air with brine, And all the ocean opens. Then the mates Cry, and the sunburnt crew no longer waits, But sing triumphant and the topsail fills To this old tale of woe among the daffodils. The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan poems by the same author. "--recreates a wholly new drama of existence."--WILLIAM STANLEY "Originality, force, distinction, and deep knowledge of the human "They are truly great pieces."--Kentucky Post. "A vigor and sincerity rare in modern English literature."--_The The Story of a Round-House, and other Poems "John Masefield is the most interesting poetic personality of the literature."--_Boston Transcript_. "A remarkable poem of the sea."--_San Francisco Chronicle_. "Vivid and thrillingly realistic."--_Current Literature_.

George P. (George Putnam) Upton

The Standard Light Operas Their Plots and Their Music

1834

_First Edition, Crown 8vo, November 1911;_ _Reset December 1912; reprinted January_ _New Edition, Foolscap 8vo, thirteenth_ _Fourteenth thousand, November 1913._ _All rights reserved_ Paper Wrappers, 1s. 6d. net. _Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys deer,_ _Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse,_ _Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,_ _For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise._ I was my folk's contrary son; I bit my father's hand right through And broke my mother's heart in two. I sometimes go without my dinner Now that I know the times I've gi'n her. I cut my teeth and took to fun. I learned what not to be afraid of And what stuff women's lips are made of; I learned with what a rosy feeling Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling, And how the moon gives shiny light To lads as roll home singing by't. My blood did leap, my flesh did revel, Saul Kane was tokened to the devil. I lived in disbelief of heaven. I did despite unto the Lord, I cursed, 'twould make a man look pale, And nineteen times I went to jail. Now, friends, observe and look upon me, Mark how the Lord took pity on me. By Dead Man's Thorn, while setting wires, Who should come up but Billy Myers, A friend of mine, who used to be As black a sprig of hell as me, With whom I'd planned, to save encroachin', Which fields and coverts each should poach in. Now when he saw me set my snare, He tells me 'Get to hell from there. This field is mine,' he says, 'by right; If you poach here, there'll be a fight. Out now,' he says, 'and leave your wire; 'You closhy put.' 'You bloody liar.' 'This is my field.' 'This is my wire.' 'I'm ruler here.' 'I'll fight you for it.' 'Right, by damn. Not now, though, I've a-sprained my thumb, We'll fight after the harvest hum. And Silas Jones, that bookie wide, Will make a purse five pounds a side.' Those were the words, that was the place By which God brought me into grace. On Wood Top Field the peewits go Mewing and wheeling ever so; And like the shaking of a timbrel Cackles the laughter of the whimbrel. In the old quarry-pit they say Head-keeper Pike was made away. He walks, head-keeper Pike, for harm, He taps the windows of the farm; The blood drips from his broken chin, He taps and begs to be let in. On Wood Top, nights, I've shaked to hark The peewits wambling in the dark Lest in the dark the old man might Creep up to me to beg a light. But Wood Top grass is short and sweet And springy to a boxer's feet; At harvest hum the moon so bright Did shine on Wood Top for the fight. When Bill was stripped down to his bends I thought how long we two'd been friends, And in my mind, about that wire, I thought 'He's right, I am a liar, As sure as skilly's made in prison The right to poach that copse is his'n. I'll have no luck to-night,' thinks I. 'I'm fighting to defend a lie. And this moonshiny evening's fun Is worse than aught I ever done.' And thinking that way my heart bled so I almost stept to Bill and said so. And now Bill's dead I would be glad If I could only think I had. But no. I put the thought away For fear of what my friends would say. They'd backed me, see? O Lord, the sin Done for the things there's money in. The stakes were drove, the ropes were hitched, Into the ring my hat I pitched. My corner faced the Squire's park Just where the fir-trees make it dark; The place where I begun poor Nell Upon the woman's road to hell. I thought oft, sitting in my corner After the time-keep struck his warner (Two brandy flasks, for fear of noise, Clinked out the time to us two boys). And while my seconds chafed and gloved me I thought of Nell's eyes when she loved me, And wondered how my tot would end, First Nell cast off and now my friend; And in the moonlight dim and wan I knew quite well my luck was gone; And looking round I felt a spite At all who'd come to see me fight; The five and forty human faces Inflamed by drink and going to races, Faces of men who'd never been Merry or true or live or clean; Who'd never felt the boxer's trim Of brain divinely knit to limb, Nor felt the whole live body go One tingling health from top to toe; Nor took a punch nor given a swing, But just soaked deady round the ring Until their brains and bloods were foul Enough to make their throttles howl, While we whom Jesus died to teach Fought round on round, three minutes each. And thinking that, you'll understand I thought, 'I'll go and take Bill's hand. I'll up and say the fault was mine, He sha'n't make play for these here swine.' And then I thought that that was silly, They'd think I was afraid of Billy: They'd think (I thought it, God forgive me) I funked the hiding Bill could give me. And that thought made me mad and hot. 'Think that, will they? Well, they shall not. They sha'n't think that. I will not. I'm Damned if I will. I will not.' From the beginning of the bout My luck was gone, my hand was out. Right from the start Bill called the play, But I was quick and kept away Till the fourth round, when work got mixed, And then I knew Bill had me fixed. My hand was out, why, Heaven knows; Bill punched me when and where he chose. Through two more rounds we quartered wide And all the time my hands seemed tied; Bill punched me when and where he pleased. The cheering from my backers ceased, But every punch I heard a yell Of 'That's the style, Bill, give him hell.' No one for me, but Jimmy's light 'Straight left! Straight left!' and 'Watch his right.' I don't know how a boxer goes When all his body hums from blows; I know I seemed to rock and spin, I don't know how I saved my chin; I know I thought my only friend Was that clinked flask at each round's end When my two seconds, Ed and Jimmy, Had sixty seconds help to gimme. But in the ninth, with pain and knocks I stopped: I couldn't fight nor box. Bill missed his swing, the light was tricky, 'Get up,' cried Jim. I said, 'I will.' Then all the gang yelled, 'Out him, Bill. Out him.' Bill rushed ... and Clink, Clink, Clink. Time! and Jim's knee, and rum to drink. 'Saved by the call, the bloody quitter.' They drove (a dodge that never fails) A pin beneath my finger nails. They poured what seemed a running beck Of cold spring water down my neck; Jim with a lancet quick as flies Lowered the swellings round my eyes. They sluiced my legs and fanned my face Through all that blessed minute's grace; They gave my calves a thorough kneading, They salved my cuts and stopped the bleeding. A gulp of liquor dulled the pain, And then the two flasks clinked again. There was Bill as grim as death. He rushed, I clinched, to get more breath. And breath I got, though Billy bats Some stinging short-arms in my slats. And when we broke, as I foresaw, He swung his right in for the jaw. I stopped it on my shoulder bone, And at the shock I heard Bill groan-- A little groan or moan or grunt As though I'd hit his wind a bunt. At that, I clinched, and while we clinched, His old-time right-arm dig was flinched, And when we broke he hit me light As though he didn't trust his right, He flapped me somehow with his wrist As though he couldn't use his fist, And when he hit he winced with pain. I thought, 'Your sprained thumb's crocked again.' So I got strength and Bill gave ground, And that round was an easy round. During the wait my Jimmy said, 'What's making Billy fight so dead? He's all to pieces. Is he blown?' 'His thumb's out.' 'No? Then it's your own. It's all your own, but don't be rash-- He's got the goods if you've got cash, And what one hand can do he'll do, Be careful this next round or two.' Time! There was Bill, and I felt sick That luck should play so mean a trick And give me leave to knock him out After he'd plainly won the bout. But by the way the man came at me He made it plain he meant to bat me; If you'd a seen the way he come You wouldn't think he'd crocked a thumb. With all his skill and all his might He clipped me dizzy left and right; The Lord knows what the effort cost, But he was mad to think he'd lost, And knowing nothing else could save him He didn't care what pain it gave him. He called the music and the dance For five rounds more and gave no chance. Try to imagine if you can The kind of manhood in the man, And if you'd like to feel his pain, You sprain your thumb and hit the sprain, And hit it hard, with all your power On something hard for half-an-hour, While someone thumps you black and blue, And then you'll know what Billy knew. Bill took that pain without a sound Till half-way through the eighteenth round, And then I sent him down and out, And Silas said, 'Kane wins the bout.' When Bill came to, you understand, I ripped the mitten from my hand And went across to ask Bill shake. My limbs were all one pain and ache, I was so weary and so sore I don't think I'd a stood much more. Bill in his corner bathed his thumb, Buttoned his shirt and glowered glum. 'I'll never shake your hand,' he said. 'I'd rather see my children dead. I've been about and had some fun with you, But you're a liar and I've done with you. You've knocked me out, you didn't beat me; Look out the next time that you meet me, There'll be no friend to watch the clock for you And no convenient thumb to crock for you, And I'll take care, with much delight, You'll get what you'd a got to-night; That puts my meaning clear, I guess, Now get to hell; I want to dress.' I dressed. My backers one and all Said, 'Well done you,' or 'Good old Saul. 'Saul is a wonder and a fly 'un, What'll you have, Saul, at the Lion?' With merry oaths they helped me down The stony wood-path to the town. The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk, It made the limestone look like chalk, It was too late for any people, Twelve struck as we went by the steeple. A dog barked, and an owl was calling, The Squire's brook was still a-falling, The carved heads on the church looked down On 'Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,' And all the graves of all the ghosts Who rise on Christmas Eve in hosts To dance and carol in festivity For joy of Jesus Christ's Nativity (Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sons Beheld 'em from the bell-tower once), Two and two about about Singing the end of Advent out, Dwindling down to windlestraws When the glittering peacock craws, As craw the glittering peacock should When Christ's own star comes over the wood. Lamb of the sky come out of fold Wandering windy heavens cold. So they shone and sang till twelve When all the bells ring out of theirselve; Rang a peal for Christmas morn, Glory, men, for Christ is born. All the old monks' singing places Glimmered quick with flitting faces, Singing anthems, singing hymns Under carven cherubims. Ringer Dawe aloft could mark Faces at the window dark Crowding, crowding, row on row, Till all the church began to glow. The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir, All the faces became fire Below the eastern window high To see Christ's star come up the sky. Then they lifted hands and turned, And all their lifted fingers burned, Burned like the golden altar tallows, Burned like a troop of God's own Hallows, Bringing to mind the burning time When all the bells will rock and chime And burning saints on burning horses Will sweep the planets from their courses And loose the stars to burn up night. Lord, give us eyes to bear the light. We all went quiet down the Scallenge Lest Police Inspector Drew should challenge. But 'Spector Drew was sleeping sweet, His head upon a charges sheet, Under the gas-jet flaring full, Snorting and snoring like a bull, His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing, His ugly yellow front teeth showing. Just as we peeped we saw him fumble And scratch his head, and shift, and mumble. Down in the lane so thin and dark The tan-yards stank of bitter bark, The curate's pigeons gave a flutter, A cat went courting down the gutter, And none else stirred a foot or feather. The houses put their heads together, Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly, Of all the folk they'd seen go by, Children, and men and women, merry all, Who'd some day pass that way to burial. It was all dark, but at the turning The Lion had a window burning. So in we went and up the stairs, Treading as still as cats and hares. The way the stairs creaked made you wonder If dead men's bones were hidden under. At head of stairs upon the landing A woman with a lamp was standing; She greet each gent at head of stairs With 'Step in, gents, and take your chairs. The punch'll come when kettle bubble, But don't make noise or there'll be trouble.' 'Twas Doxy Jane, a bouncing girl With eyes all sparks and hair all curl, And cheeks all red and lips all coal, And thirst for men instead of soul. She's trod her pathway to the fire. Old Rivers had his nephew by her. I step aside from Tom and Jimmy To find if she'd a kiss to gimme. I blew out lamp 'fore she could speak. She said, 'If you ain't got a cheek,' And then beside me in the dim, 'Did he beat you or you beat him?' 'Why, I beat him' (though that was wrong). She said, 'You must be turble strong. I'd be afraid you'd beat me, too.' 'You'd not,' I said, 'I wouldn't do.' 'O Saul. Here's missus. Let me go.' It wasn't missus, so I didn't, Whether I mid do or I midn't, Until she'd promised we should meet Next evening, six, at top of street, When we could have a quiet talk On that low wall up Worcester Walk. And while we whispered there together I give her silver for a feather And felt a drunkenness like wine And shut out Christ in husks and swine. I felt the dart strike through my liver. God punish me for't and forgive her. Each one could be a Jesus mild, Each one has been a little child, A little child with laughing look, A lovely white unwritten book; A book that God will take, my friend, As each goes out at journey's end. The Lord who gave us Earth and Heaven Takes that as thanks for all He's given. The book he lent is given back All blotted red and smutted black. 'Open the door,' said Jim, 'and call.' Jane gasped 'They'll see me. Loose me, Saul.' She pushed me by, and ducked downstair With half the pins out of her hair. I went inside the lit room rollin' Her scented handkerchief I'd stolen. 'What would you fancy, Saul?' they said. 'A gin punch hot and then to bed.' 'Jane, fetch the punch bowl to the gemmen; And mind you don't put too much lemon. Our good friend Saul has had a fight of it, Now smoke up, boys, and make a night of it.' The room was full of men and stink Of bad cigars and heavy drink. Riley was nodding to the floor And gurgling as he wanted more. His mouth was wide, his face was pale, His swollen face was sweating ale; And one of those assembled Greeks Had corked black crosses on his cheeks. Thomas was having words with Goss, He 'wouldn't pay, the fight was cross.' And Goss told Tom that 'cross or no, The bets go as the verdicts go, By all I've ever heard or read of. So pay, or else I'll knock your head off.' Jim Gurvil said his smutty say About a girl down Bye Street way. And how the girl from Froggatt's circus Died giving birth in Newent work'us. Bore twins, poor thing, on Dog Hill bench; And how he'd owned to one in court And how Judge made him sorry for't. 'Gimme another cup,' said Riley. A dozen more were in their glories With laughs and smokes and smutty stories; And Jimmy joked and took his sup And sang his song of 'Up, come up.' Jane brought the bowl of stewing gin And poured the egg and lemon in, And whisked it up and served it out While bawdy questions went about. Jack chucked her chin, and Jim accost her With bits out of the 'Maid of Gloster.' And fifteen arms went round her waist. (And then men ask, Are Barmaids chaste?) O young men, pray to be kept whole From bringing down a weaker soul. Your minute's joy so meet in doin' May be the woman's door to ruin; The door to wandering up and down, The bright mind fouled, the beauty gay All eaten out and fallen away, By drunken days and weary tramps From pub to pub by city lamps, Till men despise the game they started Till health and beauty are departed, And in a slum the reeking hag Mumbles a crust with toothy jag, Or gets the river's help to end The life too wrecked for man to mend. We spat and smoked and took our swipe Till Silas up and tap his pipe, And begged us all to pay attention Because he'd several things to mention. We'd seen the fight (Hear, hear. That's you); But still one task remained to do; That task was his, he didn't shun it, To give the purse to him as won it; With this remark, from start to out He'd never seen a brisker bout. There was the purse. At that he'd leave it. Let Kane come forward to receive it. I took the purse and hemmed and bowed, And called for gin punch for the crowd; And when the second bowl was done, I called, 'Let's have another one.' Si's wife come in and sipped and sipped (As women will) till she was pipped. Because he put his arm about her; But after Si got overtasked She sat and kissed whoever asked. My Doxy Jane was splashed by this, I took her on my knee to kiss. And Tom cried out, 'O damn the gin; Why can't we all have women in? Bess Evans, now, or Sister Polly, Or those two housemaids at the Folly? Let someone nip to Biddy Price's, They'd all come in a brace of trices. One man, one girl, and damn all Turks.' But, no. 'More gin,' they cried; 'Come on. We'll have the girls in when it's gone.' So round the gin went, hot and heady, Hot Hollands punch on top of deady. Hot Hollands punch on top of stout Puts madness in and wisdom out. From drunken man to drunken man The drunken madness raged and ran. 'I'm climber Joe who climbed the spire.' 'You're climber Joe the bloody liar.' 'Who says I lie?' 'You lie, I climbed the spire and had a fly.' 'I'm French Suzanne, the Circus Dancer, I'm going to dance a bloody Lancer.' 'If I'd my rights I'm Squire's heir.' 'By rights I'd be a millionaire.' 'By rights I'd be the lord of you, He done me, so I've had to hoove it, I've got it all wrote down to prove it. And one of these dark winter nights He'll learn I mean to have my rights; I'll bloody him a bloody fix, I'll bloody burn his bloody ricks.' From three long hours of gin and smokes, And two girls' breath and fifteen blokes', A warmish night, and windows shut, The room stank like a fox's gut. The heat and smell and drinking deep Began to stun the gang to sleep. Some fell downstairs to sleep on the mat, Some snored it sodden where they sat. But all the drunken others slept. Jane slept beside me in the chair, And I got up; I wanted air. I opened window wide and leaned Out of that pigstye of the fiend And felt a cool wind go like grace About the sleeping market-place. The clock struck three, and sweetly, slowly, The bells chimed Holy, Holy, Holy; And in a second's pause there fell The cold note of the chapel bell, And then a cock crew, flapping wings, And summat made me think of things How long those ticking clocks had gone From church and chapel, on and on, Ticking the time out, ticking slow To men and girls who'd come and go, And how they ticked in belfry dark When half the town was bishop's park, And how they'd rung a chime full tilt The night after the church was built, And how that night was Lambert's Feast, The night I'd fought and been a beast. And how a change had come. And then I thought, 'You tick to different men.' What with the fight and what with drinking And being awake alone there thinking, My mind began to carp and tetter, 'If this life's all, the beasts are better.' And then I thought, 'I wish I'd seen The many towns this town has been; I wish I knew if they'd a-got A kind of summat we've a-not, If them as built the church so fair Were half the chaps folk say they were; For they'd the skill to draw their plan, And skill's a joy to any man; And they'd the strength, not skill alone, To build it beautiful in stone; And strength and skill together thus... O, they were happier men than us. 'But if they were, they had to die The same as every one and I. And no one lives again, but dies, And all the bright goes out of eyes, And all the skill goes out of hands, And all the wise brain understands, And all the beauty, all the power Is cut down like a withered flower. In all the show from birth to rest I wondered, then, why life should be, And what would be the end of me When youth and health and strength were gone And cold old age came creeping on? A keeper's gun? The Union ward? Or that new quod at Hereford? And looking round I felt disgust At all the nights of drink and lust, And all the looks of all the swine Who'd said that they were friends of mine; And yet I knew, when morning came, The morning would be just the same, For I'd have drinks and Jane would meet me And drunken Silas Jones would greet me, And I'd risk quod and keeper's gun Till all the silly game was done. 'For parson chaps are mad supposin' A chap can change the road he's chosen.' And then the Devil whispered 'Saul, Why should you want to live at all? Why fret and sweat and try to mend? It's all the same thing in the end. But when it's done,' he said, 'it's ended. Why stand it, since it can't be mended?' And in my heart I heard him plain, 'Throw yourself down and end it, Kane.' 'Why not?' said I. 'Why not? But no. I won't. I've never had my go. I've not had all the world can give. Death by and by, but first I'll live. The world owes me my time of times, And that time's coming now, by crimes.' A madness took me then. I felt I'd like to hit the world a belt. I felt that I could fly through air, A screaming star with blazing hair, A rushing comet, crackling, numbing The folk with fear of judgment coming, A 'Lijah in a fiery car Coming to tell folk what they are. 'That's what I'll do,' I shouted loud, 'I'll tell this sanctimonious crowd, This town of window-peeping, prying, Maligning, peering, hinting, lying, Male and female human blots That they're so steeped in petty vice That they're less excellent than lice, That they're so soaked in petty virtue That touching one of them will dirt you, Dirt you with the stain of mean Cheating trade and going between, Pinching, starving, scraping, hoarding To see if Sue the prentice lean Dares to touch the margarine. Fawning, cringing, oiling boots, Raging in the crowd's pursuits, Flinging stones at all the Stephens, Standing firm with all the evens, Making hell for all the odd, All the lonely ones of God, Those poor lonely ones who find Dogs more mild than human kind. For dogs,' I said, 'are nobles born To most of you, you cockled corn. I've known dogs to leave their dinner, Nosing a kind heart in a sinner. Poor old Crafty wagged his tail The day I first came home from jail, When all my folk, so primly clad, Glowered black and thought me mad, And muttered how they'd been respected, While I was what they'd all expected. (I've thought of that old dog for years, And of how near I come to tears.) 'But you, you minds of bread and cheese, Are less divine than that dog's fleas. You suck blood from kindly friends, And kill them when it serves your ends. Double traitors, double black, Stabbing only in the back, Stabbing with the knives you borrow From the friends you bring to sorrow. You stab all that's true and strong; Truth and strength you say are wrong; Meek and mild, and sweet and creeping, Repeating, canting, cadging, peeping, That's the art and that's the life To win a man his neighbour's wife. All that's good and all that's true, You kill that, so I'll kill you.' At that I tore my clothes in shreds And hurled them on the window leads; I flung my boots through both the winders And knocked the glass to little flinders; The punch bowl and the tumblers followed, And then I seized the lamps and holloed. And down the stairs, and tore back bolts, As mad as twenty blooded colts; And out into the street I pass, As mad as two-year-olds at grass, A naked madman waving grand A blazing lamp in either hand. I yelled like twenty drunken sailors, 'The devil's come among the tailors.' A blaze of flame behind me streamed, And then I clashed the lamps and screamed 'I'm Satan, newly come from hell.' And then I spied the fire-bell. I've been a ringer, so I know How best to make a big bell go. So on to bell-rope swift I swoop, And stick my one foot in the loop And heave a down-swig till I groan, 'Awake, you swine, you devil's own.' I made the fire-bell awake, I felt the bell-rope throb and shake; I felt the air mingle and clang And beat the walls a muffled bang, And stifle back and boom and bay Like muffled peals on Boxing Day, And then surge up and gather shape, And spread great pinions and escape; And each great bird of clanging shrieks O Fire, Fire! from iron beaks. My shoulders cracked to send around Those shrieking birds made out of sound With news of fire in their bills. (They heard 'em plain beyond Wall Hills.) Up go the winders, out come heads, I heard the springs go creak in beds; But still I heave and sweat and tire, And still the clang goes 'Fire, Fire!' 'Where is it, then? Who is it, there? You ringer, stop, and tell us where.' 'Run round and let the Captain know.' 'It must be bad, he's ringing so.' 'It's in the town, I see the flame; Look there! Look there, how red it came.' 'Where is it, then 'O stop the bell.' I stopped and called: 'It's fire of hell; And this is Sodom and Gomorrah, And now I'll burn you up, begorra.' By this the firemen were mustering, The half-dressed stable men were flustering, Backing the horses out of stalls While this man swears and that man bawls, 'Don't take th'old mare. Back, Toby, back. Back, Lincoln. Where's the fire, Jack?' 'Damned if I know. Out Preston way.' 'No. It's at Chancey's Pitch, they say.' 'It's sixteen ricks at Pauntley burnt.' 'You back old Darby out, I durn't.' They ran the big red engine out, And put 'em to with damn and shout. And then they start to raise the shire, 'Who brought the news, and where's the fire?' They'd moonlight, lamps, and gas to light 'em. I give a screech-owl's screech to fright 'em, And snatch from underneath their noses The nozzles of the fire hoses. 'I am the fire. Back, stand back, Or else I'll fetch your skulls a crack; D'you see these copper nozzles here? They weigh ten pounds apiece, my dear; I'm fire of hell come up this minute To burn this town, and all that's in it. To burn you dead and burn you clean, You cogwheels in a stopped machine, You hearts of snakes, and brains of pigeons, You dead devout of dead religions, You offspring of the hen and ass, By Pilate ruled, and Caiaphas. Now your account is totted. Learn Hell's flames are loose and you shall burn.' At that I leaped and screamed and ran, I heard their cries go 'Catch him, man.' 'Who was it?' 'Down him.' 'Out him, Ern. 'Duck him at pump, we'll see who'll burn.' A policeman clutched, a fireman clutched, A dozen others snatched and touched. 'By God, he's stripped down to his buff.' 'By God, we'll make him warm enough.' 'After him.' 'Catch him,' 'Out him,' 'Scrob him. 'We'll give him hell.' 'By God, we'll mob him.' 'We'll duck him, scrout him, flog him, fratch him. 'All right,' I said. 'But first you'll catch him.' The men who don't know to the root The joy of being swift of foot, Have never known divine and fresh The glory of the gift of flesh, Nor felt the feet exult, nor gone Along a dim road, on and on, Knowing again the bursting glows, The mating hare in April knows, Who tingles to the pads with mirth At being the swiftest thing on earth. O, if you want to know delight, Run naked in an autumn night, And laugh, as I laughed then, to find A running rabble drop behind, And whang, on every door you pass, Two copper nozzles, tipped with brass, And doubly whang at every turning, And yell, 'All hell's let loose, and burning.' I beat my brass and shouted fire At doors of parson, lawyer, squire, At all three doors I threshed and slammed And yelled aloud that they were damned. I clodded squire's glass with turves Because he spring-gunned his preserves. Through parson's glass my nozzle swishes Because he stood for loaves and fishes, He give me an orange once when little, And he who gives a child a treat Makes joy-bells ring in Heaven's street, And he who gives a child a home Builds palaces in Kingdom come, And she who gives a baby birth Brings Saviour Christ again to Earth, For life is joy, and mind is fruit, And body's precious earth and root. But lawyer's glass--well, never mind, Th'old Adam's strong in me, I find. God pardon man, and may God's son Forgive the evil things I've done. What more? By Dirty Lane I crept Back to the Lion, where I slept. The raging madness hot and floodin' Boiled itself out and left me sudden, Left me worn out and sick and cold, Aching as though I'd all grown old; So there I lay, and there they found me On door-mat, with a curtain round me. Si took my heels and Jane my head And laughed, and carried me to bed. And from the neighbouring street they reskied My boots and trousers, coat and weskit; They bath-bricked both the nozzles bright To be mementoes of the night, And knowing what I should awake with They flannelled me a quart to slake with, And sat and shook till half-past two I woke and drank, and went to meat In clothes still dirty from the street. Down in the bar I heard 'em tell How someone rang the fire-bell, And how th'inspector's search had thriven, And how five pounds reward was given. And Shepherd Boyce, of Marley, glad us By saying it was blokes from mad'us, Or two young rips lodged at the Prince Whom none had seen nor heard of since, Or that young blade from Worcester Walk (You know how country people talk). Young Joe the ostler come in sad, He said th'old mare had bit his dad. He said there'd come a blazing screeching Daft Bible-prophet chap a-preaching, Had put th'old mare in such a taking She'd thought the bloody earth was quaking. And others come and spread a tale Of cut-throats out of Gloucester jail, And how we needed extra cops With all them Welsh come picking hops; With drunken Welsh in all our sheds We might be murdered in our beds. By all accounts, both men and wives Had had the scare up of their lives. I ate and drank and gathered strength, And stretched along the bench full length, Or crossed to window seat to pat Black Silas Jones's little cat. At four I called, 'You devil's own, The second trumpet shall be blown. The second trump, the second blast; Hell's flames are loosed, and judgment's passed. Too late for mercy now. Take warning I'm death and hell and Judgment morning.' I hurled the bench into the settle, I banged the table on the kettle, I sent Joe's quart of cider spinning. 'Lo, here begins my second inning.' Each bottle, mug, and jug and pot I smashed to crocks in half a tot; I rolled together topsy versy. And as I ran I heard 'em call, 'Now damn to hell, what's gone with Saul?' Out into street I ran uproarious The devil dancing in me glorious. And as I ran I yell and shriek 'Come on, now, turn the other cheek.' Across the way by almshouse pump I see old puffing parson stump. Old parson, red-eyed as a ferret From nightly wrestlings with the spirit; I ran across, and barred his path. His turkey gills went red as wrath And then he froze, as parsons can. 'The police will deal with you, my man.' 'Not yet,' said I, 'not yet they won't; And now you'll hear me, like or don't. The English Church both is and was A subsidy of Caiaphas. I don't believe in Prayer nor Bible, They're lies all through, and you're a libel, A libel on the Devil's plan When first he miscreated man. You mumble through a formal code To get which martyrs burned and glowed. I look on martyrs as mistakes, But still they burned for it at stakes; Your only fire's the jolly fire Where you can guzzle port with Squire, And back and praise his damned opinions About his temporal dominions. You let him give the man who digs, A filthy hut unfit for pigs, Without a well, without a drain, With mossy thatch that lets in rain, Without a 'lotment, 'less he rent it, And never meat, unless he scent it, But weekly doles of 'leven shilling To make a grown man strong and willing, To do the hardest work on earth And feed his wife when she gives birth, And feed his little children's bones. I tell you, man, the Devil groans. With all your main and all your might You back what is against what's right; You let the Squire do things like these, You back him in't and give him ease, You take his hand, and drink his wine, And he's a hog, but you're a swine. For you take gold to teach God's ways And teach man how to sing God's praise. And now I'll tell you what you teach In downright honest English speech. 'You teach the ground-down starving man That Squire's greed's Jehovah's plan. You get his learning circumvented Lest it should make him discontented (Better a brutal, starving nation Than men with thoughts above their station), You let him neither read nor think, You goad his wretched soul to drink And then to jail, the drunken boor; O sad intemperance of the poor. You starve his soul till it's rapscallion, Then blame his flesh for being stallion. You send your wife around to paint The golden glories of "restraint." How moral exercise bewild'rin' Would soon result in fewer children. You work a day in Squire's fields And see what sweet restraint it yields; A woman's day at turnip picking, Your heart's too fat for plough or ricking. 'And you whom luck taught French and Greek Have purple flaps on either cheek, A stately house, and time for knowledge, And gold to send your sons to college, That pleasant place, where getting learning Is also key to money earning. But quite your damn'dest want of grace Is what you do to save your face; The way you sit astride the gates By padding wages out of rates; Your Christmas gifts of shoddy blankets That every working soul may thank its Loving parson, loving squire Through whom he can't afford a fire. Your well-packed bench, your prison pen, To keep them something less than men; Your friendly clubs to help 'em bury, Your charities of midwifery. Your bidding children duck and cap To them who give them workhouse pap. O, what you are, and what you preach, And what you do, and what you teach Is not God's Word, nor honest schism, But Devil's cant and pauperism.' By this time many folk had gathered To listen to me while I blathered; I said my piece, and when I'd said it, I'll do old purple parson credit, He sunk (as sometimes parsons can) His coat's excuses in the man. 'You think that Squire and I are kings Who made the existing state of things, And made it ill. I answer, No, States are not made, nor patched; they grow, Grow slow through centuries of pain And grow correctly in the main, But only grow by certain laws Of certain bits in certain jaws. You want to doctor that. Let be. You cannot patch a growing tree. Put these two words beneath your hat, These two: securus judicat. The social states of human kinds Are made by multitudes of minds. And after multitudes of years A little human growth appears Worth having, even to the soul Who sees most plain it's not the whole. This state is dull and evil, both, I keep it in the path of growth; You think the Church an outworn fetter; Kane, keep it, till you've built a better. And keep the existing social state; I quite agree it's out of date, One does too much, another shirks, Unjust, I grant; but still ... it works. To get the whole world out of bed And washed, and dressed, and warmed, and fed, To work, and back to bed again, Believe me, Saul, costs worlds of pain. Then, as to whether true or sham That book of Christ, Whose priest I am; The Bible is a lie, say you, Where do you stand, suppose it true? Good-bye. But if you've more to say, My doors are open night and day. Meanwhile, my friend, 'twould be no sin To mix more water in your gin. We're neither saints nor Philip Sidneys, But mortal men with mortal kidneys.' He took his snuff, and wheezed a greeting, And waddled off to mothers' meeting; I hung my head upon my chest, I give old purple parson best. For while the Plough tips round the Pole The trained mind outs the upright soul, As Jesus said the trained mind might, Being wiser than the sons of light, But trained men's minds are spread so thin They let all sorts of darkness in; Whatever light man finds they doubt it, They love not light, but talk about it. But parson'd proved to people's eyes That I was drunk, and he was wise; And little children mocked and twittered So blazing mad, I stalked to bar To show how noble drunkards are, And guzzled spirits like a beast, To show contempt for Church and priest, Until, by six, my wits went round Like hungry pigs in parish pound. At half-past six, rememb'ring Jane, I staggered into street again With mind made up (or primed with gin) To bash the cop who'd run me in; For well I knew I'd have to cock up My legs that night inside the lock-up, And it was my most fixed intent To have a fight before I went. Our Fates are strange, and no one knows his; Our lovely Saviour Christ disposes. Jane wasn't where we'd planned, the jade. She'd thought me drunk and hadn't stayed. So I went up the Walk to look for her And lingered by the little brook for her, And dowsed my face, and drank at spring, And watched two wild duck on the wing. The moon come pale, the wind come cool, A big pike leapt in Lower Pool, The peacock screamed, the clouds were straking, My cut cheek felt the weather breaking; An orange sunset waned and thinned Foretelling rain and western wind, And while I watched I heard distinct The metals on the railway clinked. The blood-edged clouds were all in tatters, The sky and earth seemed mad as hatters; They had a death look, wild and odd, Of something dark foretold by God. And seeing it so, I felt so shaken I wouldn't keep the road I'd taken, But wandered back towards the inn Resolved to brace myself with gin. And as I walked, I said, 'It's strange, There's Death let loose to-night, and Change.' In Cabbage Walk I made a haul Of two big pears from lawyer's wall, And, munching one, I took the lane Back into Market-place again. And all the Homend lamps were burning, The windows shone, the shops were busy, But that strange Heaven made me dizzy. The sky had all God's warning writ In bloody marks all over it, And over all I thought there was A ghastly light beside the gas. The Devil's tasks and Devil's rages Were giving me the Devil's wages. In Market-place it's always light, The big shop windows make it bright; And in the press of people buying I spied a little fellow crying Because his mother'd gone inside And left him there, and so he cried. And mother'd beat him when she found him, And mother's whip would curl right round him, And mother'd say he'd done't to crost her, Though there being crowds about he'd lost her. Lord, give to men who are old and rougher The things that little children suffer, And let keep bright and undefiled The young years of the little child. I pat his head at edge of street And gi'm my second pear to eat. Right under lamp, I pat his head, 'I'll stay till mother come,' I said, And stay I did, and joked and talked, And shoppers wondered as they walked. 'There's that Saul Kane, the drunken blaggard, Talking to little Jimmy Jaggard. The drunken blaggard reeks of drink.' 'Whatever will his mother think?' 'Wherever has his mother gone? Nip round to Mrs Jaggard's, John, And say her Jimmy's out again, In Market-place, with boozer Kane.' 'When he come out to-day he staggered. 'His mother's gone inside to bargain, Run in and tell her, Polly Margin, And tell her poacher Kane is tipsy And selling Jimmy to a gipsy.' Or else, dear knows, there'll be no tellin', And don't dare leave yer till you've fount her, You'll find her at the linen counter.' I told a tale, to Jim's delight, Of where the tom-cats go by night, And how when moonlight come they went Among the chimneys black and bent, From roof to roof, from house to house, With little baskets full of mouse All red and white, both joint and chop Like meat out of a butcher's shop; Then all along the wall they creep And everyone is fast asleep, And honey-hunting moths go by, And by the bread-batch crickets cry; Then on they hurry, never waiting To lawyer's backyard cellar grating Where Jaggard's cat, with clever paw, Unhooks a broke-brick's secret door; Then down into the cellar black, Across the wood slug's slimy track, Into an old cask's quiet hollow, Where they've got seats for what's to follow; Then each tom-cat lights little candles, And O, the stories and the scandals, And O, the songs and Christmas carols, And O, the milk from little barrels. They light a fire fit for roasting (And how good mouse-meat smells when toasting), Then down they sit to merry feast While moon goes west and sun comes east. Sometimes they make so merry there Old lawyer come to head of stair To 'fend with fist and poker took firm His parchments channelled by the bookworm, And all his deeds, and all his packs Of withered ink and sealing wax; And there he stands, with candle raised, And listens like a man amazed, He says, 'Hush! Hush! I'm sure there's summat!' He hears outside the brown owl call, He hears the death-tick tap the wall, The gnawing of the wainscot mouse, The creaking up and down the house, The unhooked window's hinges ranging, The sounds that say the wind is changing. At last he turns, and shakes his head, 'It's nothing, I'll go back to bed.' And just then Mrs Jaggard came To view and end her Jimmy's shame. She made one rush and gi'm a bat And shook him like a dog a rat. 'I can't turn round but what you're straying. I'll give you tales and gipsy playing. I'll give you wand'ring off like this And listening to whatever 't is, You'll laugh the little side of the can, You'll have the whip for this, my man; And not a bite of meat nor bread You'll touch before you go to bed. Some day you'll break your mother's heart, After God knows she's done her part, Working her arms off day and night Trying to keep your collars white. Look at your face, too, in the street. What dirty filth 've you found to eat? Now don't you blubber here, boy, or I'll give you sum't to blubber for.' She snatched him off from where we stand And knocked the pear-core from his hand, And looked at me, 'You Devil's limb, How dare you talk to Jaggard's Jim; You drunken, poaching, boozing brute, you. If Jaggard was a man he'd shoot you.' She glared all this, but didn't speak, She gasped, white hollows in her cheek; Jimmy was writhing, screaming wild, The shoppers thought I'd killed the child. I had to speak, so I begun. 'You'd oughtn't beat your little son; He did no harm, but seeing him there I talked to him and gi'm a pear; I'm sure the poor child meant no wrong, It's all my fault he stayed so long, He'd not have stayed, mum, I'll be bound If I'd not chanced to come around. It's all my fault he stayed, not his. I kept him here, that's how it is.' 'Oh! And how dare you, then?' says she, 'How dare you tempt my boy from me? How dare you do't, you drunken swine, Is he your child or is he mine? A drunken sot they've had the beak to, His dirty mates with whom he drink, Not little children, one would think. Look on him, there,' she says, 'look on him And smell the stinking gin upon him, The lowest sot, the drunk'nest liar, The dirtiest dog in all the shire: Nice friends for any woman's son After ten years, and all she's done. 'For I've had eight, and buried five, And only three are left alive. I've given them all we could afford, I've taught them all to fear the Lord. They've had the best we had to give, The only three the Lord let live. 'For Minnie whom I loved the worst Died mad in childbed with her first. And John and Mary died of measles, And Rob was drownded at the Teasels. And little Nan, dear little sweet, A cart run over in the street; Her little shift was all one stain, I prayed God put her out of pain. And all the rest are gone or going The road to hell, and there's no knowing For all I've done and all I've made them I'd better not have overlaid them. For Susan went the ways of shame The time the 'till'ry regiment came, And t'have her child without a father I think I'd have her buried rather. And now't's to be the same with Jimmy. And all I've done and all I've bore And my old hairs are going gray, And my poor man's a withered knee, And all the burden falls on me. 'I've washed eight little children's limbs, I've taught eight little souls their hymns, I've risen sick and lain down pinched And borne it all and never flinched; But to see him, the town's disgrace, With God's commandments broke in's face, Who never worked, not he, nor earned, Nor will do till the seas are burned, Who never did since he was whole A hand's turn for a human soul, But poached and stole and gone with women, And swilled down gin enough to swim in; To see him only lift one finger To make my little Jimmy linger. In spite of all his mother's prayers, And all her ten long years of cares, And all her broken spirit's cry That drunkard's finger puts them by, And Jimmy turns. And now I see And all my life will have been vain. I might have spared myself the pain, And done the world a blessed riddance If I'd a drowned 'em all like kittens. And he the sot, so strong and proud, Who'd make white shirts of's mother's shroud, He laughs now, it's a joke to him, Though it's the gates of hell to Jim. 'I've had my heart burnt out like coal, And drops of blood wrung from soul Day in, day out, in pain and tears, For five and twenty wretched years; And he, he's ate the fat and sweet, And loafed and spat at top of street, And drunk and leched from day till morrow, And never known a moment's sorrow. He come out drunk from th'inn to look The day my little Ann was took; He sat there drinking, glad and gay, The night my girl was led astray; And when my corpse goes stiff and blind, Leaving four helpless souls behind, He will be there still, drunk and strong. It do seem hard. It do seem wrong. But "Woe to him by whom the offence," Whatever seems, God doth not slumber Though He lets pass times without number. He'll come with trump to call His own, And this world's way'll be overthrown. He'll come with glory and with fire To cast great darkness on the liar, To burn the drunkard and the treacher, And do His judgment on the lecher, To glorify the spirits' faces Of those whose ways were stony places, Who chose with Ruth the better part; O Lord, I see Thee as Thou art, O God, the fiery four-edged sword, The thunder of the wrath outpoured, The fiery four-faced creatures burning, And all the four-faced wheels all turning, Coming with trump and fiery saint. Jim, take me home, I'm turning faint.' They went, and some cried, 'Good old sod. 'She put it to him straight, by God.' Summat she was, or looked, or said, Went home and made me hang my head. I slunk away into the night Knowing deep down that she was right. I'd often heard religious ranters, And put them down as windy canters, But this old mother made me see The harm I done by being me, Being both strong and given to sin I 'tracted weaker vessels in. So back to bar to get more drink, I didn't dare begin to think, And there were drinks and drunken singing, As though this life were dice for flinging; Dice to be flung, and nothing furder, And Christ's blood just another murder. 'Come on, drinks round, salue, drink hearty. Now, Jane, the punch-bowl for the party. If any here won't drink with me I'll knock his bloody eyes out. See? Come on, cigars round, rum for mine, Sing us a smutty song, some swine.' But though the drinks and songs went round That thought remained, it was not drowned. And when I'd rise to get a light I'd think, 'What's come to me to-night?' There's always crowds when drinks are standing. The house doors slammed along the landing, The rising wind was gusty yet, And those who came in late were wet; And all my body's nerves were snappin' With sense of summat 'bout to happen, And music seemed to come and go And seven lights danced in a row. There used to be a custom then, Miss Bourne, the Friend, went round at ten To all the pubs in all the place To bring the drunkard's soul to grace; Some sulked, of course, and some were stirred, But none gave her a dirty word. A tall pale woman, grey and bent, Folk said of her that she was sent. She wore Friend's clothes, and women smiled, But she'd a heart just like a child. She come to us near closing time When we were at some smutty rhyme, And I was mad and ripe for fun; I wouldn't a minded what I done, So when she come so prim and grey I pound the bar and sing, 'Hooray, Here's Quaker come to bless and kiss us, Come, have a gin and bitters, missus. Or may be Quaker girls so prim Would rather start a bloody hymn. A song to make one's belly ache, Or that sweet song, the talk in town, "The lady fair and Abel Brown." "O, who's that knocking at the door." Miss Bourne'll play the music score.' They grinned, but thought I'd gone too far, There come a hush and no one break it, They wondered how Miss Bourne would take it. She up to me with black eyes wide, She looked as though her spirit cried; She took my tumbler from the bar Beside where all the matches are And poured it out upon the floor dust, 'Saul Kane,' she said, 'when next you drink, Do me the gentleness to think That every drop of drink accursed Makes Christ within you die of thirst, That every dirty word you say Is one more flint upon His way, Another thorn about His head, Another mock by where He tread, Another nail, another cross. All that you are is that Christ's loss.' The clock run down and struck a chime And Mrs Si said, 'Closing time.' The wet was pelting on the pane And something broke inside my brain, I heard the rain drip from the gutters And Silas putting up the shutters, While one by one the drinkers went; I got a glimpse of what it meant, How she and I had stood before In some old town by some old door Waiting intent while someone knocked Before the door for ever locked; She was so white that I was scared, A gas-jet, turned the wrong way, flared, And Silas snapped the bars in place. Miss Bourne stood white and searched my face. When Silas done, with ends of tunes He 'gan a-gathering the spittoons, His wife primmed lips and took the till. Miss Bourne stood still and I stood still, And 'Tick. Slow. Tick. Slow' went the clock. She said, 'He waits until you knock.' She turned at that and went out swift, Si grinned and winked, his missus sniffed. I heard her clang the Lion door, I marked a drink-drop roll to floor; It took up scraps of sawdust, furry, And crinkled on, a half inch, blurry; A drop from my last glass of gin; And someone waiting to come in, A hand upon the door latch gropin' Knocking the man inside to open. I know the very words I said, They bayed like bloodhounds in my head. 'The water's going out to sea And there's a great moon calling me; But there's a great sun calls the moon, And all God's bells will carol soon For joy and glory and delight Of someone coming home to-night.' Out into darkness, out to night, My flaring heart gave plenty light, So wild it was there was no knowing Whether the clouds or stars were blowing; Blown chimney pots and folk blown blind And puddles glimmering like my mind, And inn signs swung like people hanging, And in my heart the drink unpriced, The burning cataracts of Christ. I did not think, I did not strive, The deep peace burnt my me alive; The bolted door had broken in, I knew that I had done with sin. I knew that Christ had given me birth To brother all the souls on earth, And every bird and every beast Should share the crumbs broke at the feast. O glory of the lighted mind. The station brook, to my new eyes, Was babbling out of Paradise; The waters rushing from the rain Were singing Christ has risen again. I thought all earthly creatures knelt From rapture of the joy I felt. The narrow station-wall's brick ledge, The wild hop withering in the hedge, The lights in huntsman's upper storey Were parts of an eternal glory, Were God's eternal garden flowers. I stood in bliss at this for hours. O glory of the lighted soul. The dawn came up on Bradlow Knoll, The dawn with glittering on the grasses, The dawn which pass and never passes. 'It's dawn,' I said, 'and chimney's smoking, And all the blessed fields are soaking. It's dawn, and there's an engine shunting; And hounds, for huntsman's going hunting. It's dawn, and I must wander north Along the road Christ led me forth.' So up the road I wander slow Past where the snowdrops used to grow With celandines in early springs, When rainbows were triumphant things And dew so bright and flowers so glad, Eternal joy to lass and lad. And past the lovely brook I paced, The brook whose source I never traced, The brook, the one of two which rise In my green dream in Paradise, In wells where heavenly buckets clink To give God's wandering thirsty drink By those clean cots of carven stone Where the clear water sings alone. Then down, past that white-blossomed pond, And past the chestnut trees beyond, And past the bridge the fishers knew, Where yellow flag flowers once grew, Where we'd go gathering cops of clover, In sunny June times long since over. O clover-cops half white, half red, O beauty from beyond the dead. O blossom, key to earth and heaven, O souls that Christ has new forgiven. Then down the hill to gipsies' pitch By where the brook clucks in the ditch. A gipsy's camp was in the copse, Three felted tents, with beehive tops, And round black marks where fires had been, And one old waggon painted green, And three ribbed horses wrenching grass, And three wild boys to watch me pass, And one old woman by the fire Hulking a rabbit warm from wire. I loved to see the horses bait. I felt I walked at Heaven's gate, That Heaven's gate was opened wide Yet still the gipsies camped outside. The waste souls will prefer the wild, Long after life is meek and mild. Perhaps when man has entered in His perfect city free from sin, The campers will come past the walls With old lame horses full of galls, And waggons hung about with withies, And burning coke in tinkers' stithies, And see the golden town, and choose, And think the wild too good to lose. And camp outside, as these camped then With wonder at the entering men. So past, and past the stone-heap white That dewberry trailers hid from sight, And down the field so full of springs, Where mewing peewits clap their wings, And past the trap made for the mill Into the field below the hill. There was a mist along the stream, A wet mist, dim, like in a dream; I heard the heavy breath of cows, And waterdrops from th'alder boughs; And eels, or snakes, in dripping grass Whipping aside to let me pass. The gate was backed against the ryme To pass the cows at milking time. And by the gate as I went out A moldwarp rooted earth wi 's snout. A few steps up the Callows' Lane Brought me above the mist again; The two great fields arose like death Above the mists of human breath. All earthly things that blessed morning Were everlasting joy and warning. The gate was Jesus' way made plain, The mole was Satan foiled again, Black blinded Satan snouting way Along the red of Adam's clay; The mist was error and damnation, The lane the road unto salvation, Out of the mist into the light; O blessed gift of inner sight. The past was faded like a dream; There come the jingling of a team, A ploughman's voice, a clink of chain, Slow hoofs, and harness under strain. Up the slow slope a team came bowing, Old Callow at his autumn ploughing, Old Callow, stooped above the hales. Ploughing the stubble into wales; His grave eyes looking straight ahead, Shearing a long straight furrow red; His plough-foot high to give it earth To bring new food for men to birth. O wet red swathe of earth laid bare, O truth, O strength, O gleaming share, O patient eyes that watch the goal, O ploughman of the sinner's soul. O Jesus, drive the coulter deep To plough my living man from sleep. Slow up the hill the plough team plod, Old Callow at the task of God, Helped by man's wit, helped by the brute Turning a stubborn clay to fruit, His eyes for ever on some sign To help him plough a perfect line. At top of rise the plough team stopped, The fore-horse bent his head and cropped Then the chains chack, the brasses jingle, The lean reins gather through the cringle, The figures move against the sky, The clay wave breaks as they go by. I kneeled there in the muddy fallow, I knew that Christ was there with Callow, That Christ was standing there with me, That Christ had taught me what to be, That I should plough, and as I ploughed My Saviour Christ would sing aloud, And as I drove the clods apart Christ would be ploughing in my heart, Through rest-harrow and bitter roots, Through all my bad life's rotten fruits. O Christ who holds the open gate, O Christ who drives the furrow straight, O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter Of holy white birds flying after, Lo, all my heart's field red and torn, And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, The young green corn divinely springing, The young green corn for ever singing; And when the field is fresh and fair Thy blessed feet shall glitter there. And we will walk the weeded field, And tell the golden harvest's yield, The corn that makes the holy bread By which the soul of man is fed, The holy bread, the food unpriced, Thy everlasting mercy, Christ. The share will jar on many a stone, Thou wilt not let me stand alone; And I shall feel (Thou wilt not fail), Thy hand on mine upon the hale. Thy everlasting mercy showed The ploughman patient on the hill For ever there, for ever still, Ploughing the hill with steady yoke Of pine-trees lightning-struck and broke. I've marked the May Hill ploughman stay There on his hill, day after day Driving his team against the sky, While men and women live and die. And now and then he seems to stoop To clear the coulter with the scoop, Or touch an ox to haw or gee While Severn stream goes out to sea. The sea with all her ships and sails, And that great smoky port in Wales, And Gloucester tower bright i' the sun, All know that patient wandering one. And sometimes when they burn the leaves The bonfires' smoking trails and heaves, And girt red flames twink and twire As though he ploughed the hill afire. And in men's hearts in many lands A spiritual ploughman stands For ever waiting, waiting now, The heart's 'Put in, man, zook the plough.' By this the sun was all one glitter, The little birds were all in twitter; Out of a tuft a little lark Went higher up than I could mark, His little throat was all one thirst To sing until his heart should burst, To sing aloft in golden light His song from blue air out of sight. The mist drove by, and now the cows Came plodding up to milking house, Followed by Frank, the Callows' cowman, Who whistled 'Adam was a ploughman.' There come such cawing from the rooks, Such running chuck from little brooks, One thought it March, just budding green With hedgerows full of celandine. An otter out of stream and played, Two hares come loping up and stayed; Wide-eyed and tender-eared but bold. Sheep bleated up by Penny's fold. I heard a partridge covey call; The morning sun was bright on all. Down the long slope the plough team drove The tossing rooks arose and hove. A stone struck on the share. A word Came to the team. The red earth stirred. I crossed the hedge by shooter's gap, I hitched my boxer's belt a strap, I jumped the ditch and crossed the fallow I took the hales from farmer Callow. How swift the summer goes, Forget-me-not, pink, rose. The young grass when I started And now the hay is carted, And now my song is ended, And all the summer spended; The blackbird's second brood Routs beech-leaves in the wood The pink and rose have speeded, Forget-me-not has seeded. Only the winds that blew, The rain that makes things new, The earth that hides things old, And blessings manifold. O lovely lily clean, O lily springing green, O lily bursting white, Dear lily of delight, Spring in my heart agen That I may flower to men. GREAT HAMPDEN. June 1911. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net. Third Impression Coloured Plates, 16 full-page and 90 other Illustrations. Second end-papers. Designed cloth extra, in coloured wrapper, 5s. MASEFIELD. Impl. 16mo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. net. "Mr Masefield has formed a high opinion of Miss Mayor's work, but "A vivid and arresting piece of work."--_Manchester Guardian_. TIME'S WALLET: A Novel Told in Letters. By LUCY DALE and G. M. FAULDING. Crown 8vo, 6s. FOUR PLAYS. By GILBERT CANNAN. "James and John," "Miles Dixon," MISS TASSEY. A Play in One Act. By ELIZABETH BAKER, Author of "Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are choosing their plays excellently."--_Saturday Review_. wrappers, 1s. net.

C. N. (Charles Norris) Williamson

Angel Unawares: A Story of Christmas Eve

1859

_All rights reserved_ Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town, There lived a widow with her only son: She had no wealth nor title to renown, Nor any joyous hours, never one. She rose from ragged mattress before sun And stitched all day until her eyes were red, And had to stitch, because her man was dead. Sometimes she fell asleep, she stitched so hard, Letting the linen fall upon the floor; And hungry cats would steal in from the yard, And mangy chickens pecked about the door Craning their necks so ragged and so sore To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse, But they got nothing in the widow's house. Mostly she made her bread by hemming shrouds For one rich undertaker in the High Street, Who used to pray that folks might die in crowds And that their friends might pay to let them lie sweet; And when one died the widow in the Bye Street Stitched night and day to give the worm his dole. The dead were better dressed than that poor soul. Her little son was all her life's delight, For in his little features she could find A glimpse of that dead husband out of sight, Where out of sight is never out of mind. And so she stitched till she was nearly blind, Or till the tallow candle end was done, To get a living for her little son. Her love for him being such she would not rest, It was a want which ate her out and in, Another hunger in her withered breast Pressing her woman's bones against the skin. To make him plump she starved her body thin. And he, he ate the food, and never knew, He laughed and played as little children do. When there was little sickness in the place She took what God would send, and what God sent Never brought any colour to her face Nor life into her footsteps when she went Going, she trembled always withered and bent For all went to her son, always the same, He was first served whatever blessing came. Sometimes she wandered out to gather sticks, For it was bitter cold there when it snowed. And she stole hay out of the farmer's ricks For bands to wrap her feet in while she sewed, And when her feet were warm and the grate glowed She hugged her little son, her heart's desire, With 'Jimmy, ain't it snug beside the fire?' So years went on till Jimmy was a lad And went to work as poor lads have to do, And then the widow's loving heart was glad To know that all the pains she had gone through And all the years of putting on the screw, Down to the sharpest turn a mortal can, Had borne their fruit, and made her child a man. He got a job at working on the line Tipping the earth down, trolly after truck, From daylight till the evening, wet or fine, With arms all red from wallowing in the muck, And spitting, as the trolly tipped, for luck, And singing 'Binger' as he swung the pick Because the red blood ran in him so quick. So there was bacon then, at night, for supper In Bye Street there, where he and mother stay; And boots they had, not leaky in the upper, And room rent ready on the settling day; And beer for poor old mother, worn and grey, And fire in frost; and in the widow's eyes It seemed the Lord had made earth paradise. And there they sat of evenings after dark Singing their song of 'Binger,' he and she, Her poor old cackle made the mongrels bark And 'You sing Binger, mother,' carols he; 'By crimes, but that's a good song, that her be': And then they slept there in the room they shared, And all the time fate had his end prepared. One thing alone made life not perfect sweet: The mother's daily fear of what would come When woman and her lovely boy should meet, When the new wife would break up the old home. And when her darling and a woman met, She shook and prayed, 'Not her, O God; not yet.' 'Not yet, dear God, my Jimmy go from me.' Then she would subtly question with her son. 'Not very handsome, I don't think her be?' 'God help the man who marries such an one.' Her red eyes peered to spy the mischief done. She took great care to keep the girls away, And all her trouble made him easier prey. There was a woman out at Plaister's End, Light of her body, fifty to the pound, A copper coin for any man to spend, Lovely to look on when the wits were drowned. Her husband's skeleton was never found, It lay among the rocks at Glydyr Mor She was not native there, for she belonged Out Milford way, or Swansea; no one knew. She had the piteous look of someone wronged, 'Anna,' her name, a widow, last of Triw. She had lived at Plaister's End a year or two; At Callow's cottage, renting half an acre; She was a hen-wife and a perfume-maker. Secret she was; she lived in reputation; But secret unseen threads went floating out: Her smile, her voice, her face, were all temptation, All subtle flies to trouble man the trout; Man to entice, entrap, entangle, flout... To take and spoil, and then to cast aside: Gain without giving was the craft she plied. And she complained, poor lonely widowed soul, How no one cared, and men were rutters all; While true love is an ever-burning goal Burning the brighter as the shadows fall. And all love's dogs went hunting at the call, Married or not she took them by the brain, Sucked at their hearts and tossed them back again. Like the straw fires lit on Saint John's Eve, She burned and dwindled in her fickle heart; For if she wept when Harry took his leave, Her tears were lures to beckon Bob to start. And if, while loving Bob, a tinker's cart Came by, she opened window with a smile And gave the tinker hints to wait a while. She passed for pure; but, years before, in Wales, Living at Mountain Ash with different men, Her less discretion had inspired tales Of certain things she did, and how, and when. Those seven years of youth; we are frantic then. She had been frantic in her years of youth, The tales were not more evil than the truth. She had two children as the fruits of trade Though she drank bitter herbs to kill the curse, Both of them sons, and one she overlaid, The other one the parish had to nurse. Now she grew plump with money in her purse, Passing for pure a hundred miles, I guess, From where her little son wore workhouse dress. There with the Union boys he came and went, Wearing a bright tin badge in furthest Gwent, And no one knowing who his folk could be. His mother never knew his new name: she,-- She touched the lust of those who served her turn, And chief among her men was Shepherd Ern. A moody, treacherous man of bawdy mind, Married to that mild girl from Ercall Hill, Whose gentle goodness made him more inclined To hotter sauces sharper on the bill. The new lust gives the lecher the new thrill, The new wine scratches as it slips the throat, The new flag is so bright by the old boat. Ern was her man to buy her bread and meat, Half of his weekly wage was hers to spend, She used to mock 'How is your wife, my sweet?' Or wail, 'O, Ernie, how is this to end?' Or coo, 'My Ernie is without a friend, She cannot understand my precious life,' And Ernie would go home and beat his wife. So the four souls are ranged, the chess-board set, The dark, invisible hand of secret Fate Brought it to come to being that they met After so many years of lying in wait. While we least think it he prepares his Mate. Mate, and the King's pawn played, it never ceases Though all the earth is dust of taken pieces. October Fair-time is the time for fun, For all the street is hurdled into rows Of pens of heifers blinking at the sun, And Lemster sheep which pant and seem to doze, And stalls of hardbake and galanty shows, And cheapjacks smashing crocks, and trumpets blowing, And the loud organ of the horses going. There you can buy blue ribbons for your girl Or take her in a swing-boat tossing high, Or hold her fast when all the horses whirl Round to the steam pipe whanging at the sky, Or stand her cockshies at the cocoa-shy, Or buy her brooches with her name in red, Or Queen Victoria done in gingerbread. Then there are rifle shots at tossing balls, 'And if you hit you get a good cigar.' And strength-whackers for lads to lamm with mauls, And Cheshire cheeses on a greasy spar. The country folk flock in from near and far, Women and men, like blow-flies to the roast, All love the fair; but Anna loved it most. Anna was all agog to see the fair; She made Ern promise to be there to meet her, To arm her round to all the pleasures there, And buy her ribbons for her neck, and treat her, So that no woman at the fair should beat her In having pleasure at a man's expense. She planned to meet him at the chapel fence. So Ernie went; and Jimmy took his mother, Dressed in her finest with a Monmouth shawl, And there was such a crowd she thought she'd smother, And O, she loved a pep'mint above all. Clash go the crockeries where the cheapjacks bawl, Baa go the sheep, thud goes the waxwork's drum, And Ernie cursed for Anna hadn't come. He hunted for her up and down the place, Raging and snapping like a working brew. 'If you're with someone else I'll smash his face, And when I've done for him I'll go for you.' He bought no fairings as he'd vowed to do For his poor little children back at home Stuck at the glass 'to see till father come.' Not finding her, he went into an inn, Busy with ringing till and scratching matches. Where thirsty drovers mingled stout with gin And three or four Welsh herds were singing catches. The swing-doors clattered, letting in in snatches The noises of the fair, now low, now loud. Ern called for beer and glowered at the crowd. While he was glowering at his drinking there In came the gipsy Bessie, hawking toys; A bold-eyed strapping harlot with black hair, One of the tribe which camped at Shepherd's Bois. She lured him out of inn into the noise Of the steam-organ where the horses spun, And so the end of all things was begun. Newness in lust, always the old in love. 'Put up your toys,' he said, 'and come along, We'll have a turn of swing-boats up above, And see the murder when they strike the gong.' 'Don't 'ee,' she giggled. 'My, but ain't you strong. And where's your proper girl? You don't know me.' Anna was late because the cart which drove her Called for her late (the horse had broke a trace), She was all dressed and scented for her lover, Her bright blue blouse had imitation lace, The paint was red as roses on her face, She hummed a song, because she thought to see How envious all the other girls would be. When she arrived and found her Ernie gone, Her bitter heart thought, 'This is how it is. Keeping me waiting while the sports are on: Promising faithful, too, and then to miss. O, Ernie, won't I give it you for this.' And looking up she saw a couple cling, Ern with his arm round Bessie in the swing. Ern caught her eye and spat, and cut her dead, Bessie laughed hardly, in the gipsy way. Anna, though blind with fury, tossed her head, Biting her lips until the red was grey, For bitter moments given, bitter pay, The time for payment comes, early or late, No earthly debtor but accounts to Fate. She turned aside, telling with bitter oaths What Ern should suffer if he turned agen, And there was Jimmy stripping off his clothes Within a little ring of farming men. 'Now, Jimmy, put the old tup into pen.' His mother, watching, thought her heart would curdle, To see Jim drag the old ram to the hurdle. Then the ram butted and the game began, Till Jimmy's muscles cracked and the ram grunted. The good old wrestling game of Ram and Man, At which none knows the hunter from the hunted. 'Come and see Jimmy have his belly bunted.' 'Good tup. Good Jim. Good Jimmy. Sick him, Rover, By dang, but Jimmy's got him fairly over.' Then there was clap of hands and Jimmy grinned And took five silver shillings from his backers, And said th'old tup had put him out of wind Or else he'd take all comers at the Whackers. And some made rude remarks of rams and knackers, And mother shook to get her son alone, So's to be sure he hadn't broke a bone. None but the lucky man deserves the fair, For lucky men have money and success, Or dip, at least, a finger in the mess. Anne, with her raddled cheeks and Sunday dress, Smiled upon Jimmy, seeing him succeed, As though to say, 'You are a man, indeed.' All the great things of life are swiftly done, Creation, death, and love the double gate. However much we dawdle in the sun We have to hurry at the touch of Fate; When Life knocks at the door no one can wait, When Death makes his arrest we have to go. And so with love, and Jimmy found it so. Love, the sharp spear, went pricking to the bone, In that one look, desire and bitter aching, Longing to have that woman all alone For her dear beauty's sake all else forsaking; And sudden agony that set him shaking Lest she, whose beauty made his heart's blood cruddle, Should be another man's to kiss and cuddle. She was beside him when he left the ring, Her soft dress brushed against him as he passed her; He thought her penny scent a sweeter thing Than precious ointment out of alabaster; Love, the mild servant, makes a drunken master. She smiled, half sadly, out of thoughtful eyes, And all the strong young man was easy prize. She spoke, to take him, seeing him a sheep, 'How beautiful you wrastled with the ram, It made me all go tremble just to peep, I am that fond of wrastling, that I am. Why, here's your mother, too. Good-evening, ma'am. I was just telling Jim how well he done, How proud you must be of so fine a son.' Old mother blinked, while Jimmy hardly knew Whether he knew the woman there or not; But well he knew, if not, he wanted to, Joy of her beauty ran in him so hot, Old trembling mother by him was forgot, While Anna searched the mother's face, to know The woman's maxim, 'Win the woman first,' Made her be gracious to the withered thing. 'This being in crowds do give one such a thirst, I wonder if they've tea going at "The King"? My throat's that dry my very tongue do cling, Perhaps you'd take my arm, we'd wander up (If you'd agree) and try and get a cup. Come, ma'am, a cup of tea would do you good; There's nothing like a nice hot cup of tea After the crowd and all the time you've stood; And "The King's" strict, it isn't like "The Key," Now, take my arm, my dear, and lean on me.' And Jimmy's mother, being nearly blind, Took Anna's arm, and only thought her kind. So off they set, with Anna talking to her, How nice the tea would be after the crowd, And mother thinking half the time she knew her, And Jimmy's heart's blood ticking quick and loud, And Death beside him knitting at his shroud, And all the High Street babbling with the fair, And white October clouds in the blue air. So tea was made, and down they sat to drink; O the pale beauty sitting at the board! There is more death in women than we think, There is much danger in the soul adored, The white hands bring the poison and the cord; Death has a lodge in lips as red as cherries, Death has a mansion in the yew-tree berries. They sat there talking after tea was done, And Jimmy blushed at Anna's sparkling looks, And Anna flattered mother on her son, Catching both fishes on her subtle hooks. With twilight, tea and talk in ingle-nooks, And music coming up from the dim street, Mother had never known a fair so sweet. Now cow-bells clink, for milking-time is come, The drovers stack the hurdles into carts, New masters drive the straying cattle home, Many a young calf from his mother parts, Hogs straggle back to sty by fits and starts; The farmers take a last glass at the inns, And now the frolic of the fair begins. All of the side shows of the fair are lighted, Flares and bright lights, and brassy cymbals clanging, 'Beginning now' and 'Everyone's invited,' Shatter the pauses of the organ's whanging, 'The Murder in the Red Barn,' with real blood, The rifles crack, the Sally shy-sticks thud. Anna walked slowly homewards with her prey, Holding old tottering mother's weight upon her, And pouring in sweet poison on the way Of 'Such a pleasure, ma'am, and such an honour,' And 'One's so safe with such a son to con her Through all the noises and through all the press, Boys daredn't squirt tormenters on her dress.' At mother's door they stop to say 'Good-night.' And mother must go in to set the table. Anna pretended that she felt a fright To go alone through all the merry babel: 'My friends are waiting at "The Cain and Abel," Just down the other side of Market Square, It'd be a mercy if you'd set me there.' So Jimmy came, while mother went inside; Anna has got her victim in her clutch. Jimmy, all blushing, glad to be her guide, Thrilled by her scent, and trembling at her touch. She was all white and dark, and said not much; She sighed, to hint that pleasure's grave was dug, And smiled within to see him such a mug. They passed the doctor's house among the trees, She sighed so deep that Jimmy asked her why. 'I'm too unhappy upon nights like these, When everyone has happiness but I!' 'Then, aren't you happy?' She appeared to cry, Blinked with her eyes, and turned away her head: 'Not much; but some men understand,' she said. Her voice caught lightly on a broken note, Jimmy half-dared but dared not touch her hand, Yet all his blood went pumping in his throat Beside the beauty he could understand, And Death stopped knitting at the muffling band. 'The shroud is done,' he muttered, 'toe to chin.' He snapped the ends, and tucked his needles in. Jimmy, half stammering, choked, 'Has any man----' He stopped, she shook her head to answer 'No.' 'Then tell me.' 'No. P'raps some day, if I can. It hurts to talk of some things ever so. But you're so different. There, come, we must go None but unhappy women know how good It is to meet a soul who's understood.' 'No. Wait a moment. May I call you Anna?' 'Perhaps. There must be nearness 'twixt us two.' Love in her face hung out his bloody banner, And all love's clanging trumpets shocked and blew. 'When we got up to-day we never knew.' 'I'm sure I didn't think, nor you did.' 'Never.' 'And now this friendship's come to us for ever.' 'Now, Anna, take my arm, dear.' 'Not to-night, That must come later when we know our minds, We must agree to keep this evening white, We'll eat the fruit to-night and save the rinds.' And all the folk whose shadows darked the blinds, And all the dancers whirling in the fair, Were wretched worms to Jim and Anna there. 'How wonderful life is,' said Anna, lowly. 'But it begins again with you for friend.' In the dim lamplight Jimmy thought her holy, A lovely fragile thing for him to tend, Grace beyond measure, beauty without end. 'Anna,' he said; 'Good-night. This is the door. I never knew what people meant before.' 'Good-night, my friend. Good-bye.' 'But, O my sweet, The night's quite early yet, don't say good-bye, Come just another short turn down the street, The whole life's bubbling up for you and I. Somehow I feel to-morrow we may die. Come just as far as to the blacksmith's light.' But 'No' said Anna; 'Not to-night. Good-night.' All the tides triumph when the white moon fills. Down in the race the toppling waters shout, The breakers shake the bases of the hills, There is a thundering where the streams go out, And the wise shipman puts his ship about Seeing the gathering of those waters wan, But what when love makes high tide in a man? Jimmy walked home with all his mind on fire, One lovely face for ever set in flame. He shivered as he went, like tautened wire, Surge after surge of shuddering in him came And then swept out repeating one sweet name, 'Anna, O Anna,' to the evening star. Anna was sipping whiskey in the bar. So back to home and mother Jimmy wandered, Thinking of Plaister's End and Anna's lips. He ate no supper worth the name, but pondered On Plaister's End hedge, scarlet with ripe hips, And of the lovely moon there in eclipse, And how she must be shining in the house Behind the hedge of those old dog-rose boughs. Old mother cleared away. The clock struck eight. 'Why, boy, you've left your bacon, lawks a me, So that's what comes of having tea so late, Another time you'll go without your tea. Your father liked his cup, too, didn't he, Always "another cup" he used to say, He never went without on any day. How nice the lady was and how she talked, I've never had a nicer fair, not ever.' 'She said she'd like to see us if we walked To Plaister's End, beyond by Watersever. Nice-looking woman, too, and that, and clever; We might go round one evening, p'raps, we two; Or I might go, if it's too far for you.' 'No,' said the mother, 'we're not folk for that; Meet at the fair and that, and there an end. Rake out the fire and put out the cat, These fairs are sinful, tempting folk to spend. Of course she spoke polite and like a friend; Of course she had to do, and so I let her, But now it's done and past, so I forget her.' 'I don't see why forget her. Why forget her? She treat us kind. She weren't like everyone. I never saw a woman I liked better, And he's not easy pleased, my father's son. So I'll go round some night when work is done.' 'Now, Jim, my dear, trust mother, there's a dear.' 'Well, so I do, but sometimes you're so queer.' She blinked at him out of her withered eyes Below her lashless eyelids red and bleared. Her months of sacrifice had won the prize, Her Jim had come to what she always feared. And yet she doubted, so she shook and peered And begged her God not let a woman take The lovely son whom she had starved to make. Doubting, she stood the dishes in the rack, 'We'll ask her in some evening, then,' she said, 'How nice her hair looked in the bit of black.' And still she peered from eyes all dim and red To note at once if Jimmy drooped his head, Or if his ears blushed when he heard her praised, And Jimmy blushed and hung his head and gazed. 'This is the end,' she thought. 'This is the end. I'll have to sew again for Mr Jones, Do hems when I can hardly see to mend, And have the old ache in my marrow-bones. And when his wife's in child-bed, when she groans, She'll send for me until the pains have ceased, And give me leavings at the christening feast. And sit aslant to eye me as I eat, "You're only wanted here, ma'am, for to-day, Just for the christ'ning party, for the treat, Don't ever think I mean to let you stay; Two's company, three's none, that's what I say." Life can be bitter to the very bone When one is poor, and woman, and alone. 'Jimmy,' she said, still doubting, 'Come, my dear, Let's have our "Binger," 'fore we go to bed,' And then 'The parson's dog,' she cackled clear, 'Lep over stile,' she sang, nodding her head. 'His name was little Binger.' 'Jim,' she said, 'Binger, now, chorus' ... Jimmy kicked the hob, The sacrament of song died in a sob. Jimmy went out into the night to think Under the moon so steady in the blue. The woman's beauty ran in him like drink, The fear that men had loved her burnt him through; The fear that even then another knew All the deep mystery which women make To hide the inner nothing made him shake. 'Anna, I love you, and I always shall.' He looked towards Plaister's End beyond Cot Hills. A white star glimmered in the long canal, A droning from the music came in thrills. Love is a flame to burn out human wills, Love is a flame to set the will on fire, Love is a flame to cheat men into mire. One of the three, we make Love what we choose, But Jimmy did not know, he only thought That Anna was too beautiful to lose, That she was all the world and he was naught, That it was sweet, though bitter, to be caught. 'Anna, I love you.' Underneath the moon, 'I shall go mad unless I see you soon.' The fair's lights threw aloft a misty glow. The organ whangs, the giddy horses reel, The rifles cease, the folk begin to go, The hands unclamp the swing-boats from the wheel, There is a smell of trodden orange peel; The organ drones and dies, the horses stop, And then the tent collapses from the top. The fair is over, let the people troop, The drunkards stagger homewards down the gutters, The showmen heave in an excited group, The poles tilt slowly down, the canvas flutters, The mauls knock out the pins, the last flare sputters. 'Lower away.' 'Go easy.' 'Lower, lower.' 'You've dang near knock my skull in. Loose it slower.' 'Back in the horses.' 'Are the swing-boats loaded?' 'All right to start.' 'Bill, where's the cushion gone? The red one for the Queen?' 'I think I stowed it.' 'You think, you think. Lord, where's that cushion, John?' 'It's in that bloody box you're sitting on, What more d'you want?' A concertina plays Far off as wandering lovers go their ways. Up the dim Bye Street to the market-place The dead bones of the fair are borne in carts, Horses and swing-boats at a funeral pace After triumphant hours quickening hearts; A policeman eyes each waggon as it starts, The drowsy showmen stumble half asleep, One of them catcalls, having drunken deep. So out, over the pass, into the plain, And the dawn finds them filling empty cans In some sweet-smelling dusty country lane, Where a brook chatters over rusty pans. The iron chimneys of the caravans Smoke as they go. And now the fair has gone To find a new pitch somewhere further on. But as the fair moved out two lovers came, Ernie and Bessie loitering out together; Bessie with wild eyes, hungry as a flame, Ern like a stallion tugging at a tether. It was calm moonlight, and October weather, So still, so lovely, as they topped the ridge. They brushed by Jimmy standing on the bridge. And, as they passed, they gravely eyed each other, And the blood burned in each heart beating there; And out into the Bye Street tottered mother, Without her shawl, in the October air. 'Jimmy,' she cried, 'Jimmy.' And Bessie's hair Drooped on the instant over Ernie's face, And the two lovers clung in an embrace. 'O, Ern.' 'My own, my Bessie.' As they kissed Jimmy was envious of the thing unknown. So this was Love, the something he had missed, Woman and man athirst, aflame, alone. Envy went knocking at his marrow-bone, And Anna's face swam up so dim, so fair, Shining and sweet, with poppies in her hair. After the fair, the gang began again. Tipping the trollies down the banks of earth. The truck of stone clanks on the endless chain, A clever pony guides it to its berth. 'Let go.' It tips, the navvies shout for mirth To see the pony step aside, so wise, But Jimmy sighed, thinking of Anna's eyes. And when he stopped his shovelling he looked Over the junipers towards Plaister way, The beauty of his darling had him hooked, He had no heart for wrastling with the clay. 'O Lord Almighty, I must get away; O Lord, I must. I must just see my flower, Why, I could run there in the dinner hour.' The whistle on the pilot engine blew, The men knocked off, and Jimmy slipped aside Over the fence, over the bridge, and through, And then ahead along the water-side, Under the red-brick rail-bridge, arching wide, Over the hedge, across the fields, and on; The foreman asked: 'Where's Jimmy Gurney gone?' It is a mile and more to Plaister's End, But Jimmy ran the short way by the stream, And there was Anna's cottage at the bend, With blue smoke on the chimney, faint as steam. 'God, she's at home,' and up his heart a gleam Leapt like a rocket on November nights, And shattered slowly in a burst of lights. Anna was singing at her kitchen fire, She was surprised, and not well pleased to see A sweating navvy, red with heat and mire, Come to her door, whoever he might be. But when she saw that it was Jimmy, she Smiled at his eyes upon her, full of pain, And thought, 'But, still, he mustn't come again. But he's a dear boy though he is so green.' So, hurriedly, she slipped her apron strings, And dabbed her hair, and wiped her fingers clean, And came to greet him languid as a queen, Looking as sweet, as fair, as pure, as sad, As when she drove her loving husband mad. 'Poor boy,' she said, 'Poor boy, how hot you are.' She laid a cool hand to his sweating face. 'How kind to come. Have you been running far? I'm just going out; come up the road a pace. O dear, these hens; they're all about the place.' So Jimmy shooed the hens at her command, And got outside the gate as she had planned. 'Anna, my dear, I love you; love you, true; I had to come--I don't know--I can't rest-- I lay awake all night, thinking of you. Many must love you, but I love you best.' 'Many have loved me, yes, dear,' she confessed, She smiled upon him with a tender pride, 'But my love ended when my husband died. Still, we'll be friends, dear friends, dear, tender friends; Love with its fever's at an end for me. Be by me gently now the fever ends, Life is a lovelier thing than lovers see, I'd like to trust a man, Jimmy,' said she, 'May I trust you?' 'Oh, Anna dear, my dear---- 'Don't come so close,' she said, 'with people near. Dear, don't be vexed; it's very sweet to find One who will understand; but life is life, And those who do not know are so unkind. But you'll be by me, Jimmy, in the strife, I love you though I cannot be your wife; And now be off, before the whistle goes, Or else you'll lose your quarter, goodness knows.' 'When can I see you, Anna? Tell me, dear. To-night? To-morrow? Shall I come to-night? 'Jimmy, my friend, I cannot have you here; But when I come to town perhaps we might. Dear, you must go; no kissing; you can write, And I'll arrange a meeting when I learn What friends are doing' (meaning Shepherd Ern). 'Good-bye, my own.' 'Dear Jim, you understand. If we were only free, dear, free to meet, Dear, I would take you by your big, strong hand And kiss your dear boy eyes so blue and sweet; But my dead husband lies under the sheet, Dead in my heart, dear, lovely, lonely one, So, Jim, my dear, my loving days are done. But though my heart is buried in his grave Something might be--friendship and utter trust-- And you, my dear starved little Jim shall have Flowers of friendship from my dead heart's dust; Life would be sweet if men would never lust. Why do you, Jimmy? Tell me sometime, dear, Why men are always what we women fear. Not now. Good-bye; we understand, we two, And life, O Jim, how glorious life is; This sunshine in my heart is due to you; I was so sad, and life has given this. I think "I wish I had something of his," Do give me something, will you be so kind? Something to keep you always in my mind. 'I will,' he said. 'Now go, or you'll be late.' He broke from her and ran, and never dreamt That as she stood to watch him from the gate Her heart was half amusement, half contempt, Comparing Jim the squab, red and unkempt, In sweaty corduroys, with Shepherd Ern. She blew him kisses till he passed the turn. The whistle blew before he reached the line; The foreman asked him what the hell he meant, Whether a duke had asked him out to dine, Or if he thought the bag would pay his rent? And Jim was fined before the foreman went. But still his spirit glowed from Anna's words, Cooed in the voice so like a singing bird's. 'O Anna, darling, you shall have a present; I'd give you golden gems if I were rich, And everything that's sweet and all that's pleasant.' He dropped his pick as though he had a stitch, And stared tow'rds Plaister's End, past Bushe's Pitch. O beauty, what I have to give I'll give, All mine is yours, beloved, while I live.' All through the afternoon his pick was slacking, His eyes were always turning west and south, The foreman was inclined to send him packing, But put it down to after fair-day drouth; He looked at Jimmy with an ugly mouth, And Jimmy slacked, and muttered in a moan, 'My love, my beautiful, my very own.' So she had loved. Another man had had her; She had been his with passion in the night; An agony of envy made him sadder, Yet stabbed a pang of bitter-sweet delight-- O he would keep his image of her white. The foreman cursed, stepped up, and asked him flat What kind of gum-tree he was gaping at. It was Jim's custom, when the pay day came, To take his weekly five and twenty shilling Back in the little packet to his dame; Not taking out a farthing for a filling, That she should have it all to save or spend. But love makes many lovely customs end. Next pay day came and Jimmy took the money, But not to mother, for he meant to buy A thirteen-shilling locket for his honey, Whatever bellies hungered and went dry, A silver heart-shape with a ruby eye. He bought the thing and paid the shopman's price, And hurried off to make the sacrifice. 'Is it for me? You dear, dear generous boy. How sweet of you. I'll wear it in my dress. When you're beside me life is such a joy, You bring the sun to solitariness.' She brushed his jacket with a light caress, His arms went round her fast, she yielded meek; He had the happiness to kiss her cheek. 'My dear, my dear.' 'My very dear, my Jim, How very kind my Jimmy is to me; I ache to think that some are harsh to him; Not like my Jimmy, beautiful and free. My darling boy, how lovely it would be If all would trust as we two trust each other.' And Jimmy's heart grew hard against his mother. She, poor old soul, was waiting in the gloom For Jimmy's pay, that she could do the shopping. The clock ticked out a solemn tale of doom; Clogs on the bricks outside went clippa-clopping, The owls were coming out and dew was dropping. The bacon burnt, and Jimmy not yet home. The clock was ticking dooms out like a gnome. 'What can have kept him that he doesn't come? O God, they'd tell me if he'd come to hurt.' The unknown, unseen evil struck her numb, She saw his body bloody in the dirt, She saw the life blood pumping through the shirt, She saw him tipsy in the navvies' booth, She saw all forms of evil but the truth. At last she hurried up the line to ask If Jim were hurt or why he wasn't back. She found the watchman wearing through his task; Over the fire basket in his shack; Behind, the new embankment rose up black. 'Gurney?' he said. 'He'd got to see a friend.' 'Where?' 'I dunno. I think out Plaister's End. Thanking the man, she tottered down the hill, The long-feared fang had bitten to the bone. The brook beside her talked as water will That it was lonely singing all alone, The night was lonely with the water's tone, And she was lonely to the very marrow. Love puts such bitter poison on Fate's arrow. She went the long way to them by the mills, She told herself that she must find her son. The night was ominous of many ills; The soughing larch-clump almost made her run, Her boots hurt (she had got a stone in one) And bitter beaks were tearing at her liver That her boy's heart was turned from her forever. She kept the lane, past Spindle's, past the Callows', Her lips still muttering prayers against the worst, And there were people coming from the sallows, Along the wild duck patch by Beggar's Hurst. Being in moonlight mother saw them first, She saw them moving in the moonlight dim, A woman with a sweet voice saying 'Jim.' Trembling she grovelled down into the ditch, They wandered past her pressing side to side. 'O Anna, my belov'd, if I were rich.' It was her son, and Anna's voice replied, 'Dear boy, dear beauty boy, my love and pride.' And he: 'It's but a silver thing, but I Will earn you better lockets by and bye.' 'Dear boy, you mustn't.' 'But I mean to do.' 'What was that funny sort of noise I heard?' 'Where?' 'In the hedge; a sort of sob or coo. Listen. It's gone.' 'It may have been a bird.' Jim tossed a stone but mother never stirred. She hugged the hedgerow, choking down her pain, While the hot tears were blinding in her brain. The two passed on, the withered woman rose, For many minutes she could only shake, Staring ahead with trembling little 'Oh's,' The noise a very frightened child might make. 'O God, dear God, don't let the woman take My little son, God, not my little Jim. O God, I'll have to starve if I lose him.' So back she trembled, nodding with her head, Laughing and trembling in the bursts of tears, Her ditch-filled boots both squelching in the tread, Her shopping-bonnet sagging to her ears, The nightmare whickering with the laugh of death Could not have added terror to her breath. She reached the house, and: 'I'm all right,' said she, 'I'll just take off my things; but I'm all right, 'I'd be all right with just a cup of tea, If I could only get this grate to light, The paper's damp and Jimmy's late to-night; "Belov'd, if I was rich," was what he said, O Jim, I wish that God would kill me dead.' While she was blinking at the unlit grate, Scratching the moistened match-heads off the wood, She heard Jim coming, so she reached his plate, And forked the over-frizzled scraps of food. 'You're late,' she said, 'and this yer isn't good, Whatever makes you come in late like this?' 'I've been to Plaister's End, that's how it is.' 'You've been to Plaister's End?' 'I've been staying For money for the shopping ever so. Down here we can't get victuals without paying, There's no trust down the Bye Street, as you know, And now it's dark and it's too late to go. You've been to Plaister's End. What took you there?' 'The lady who was with us at the fair.' 'The lady, eh? The lady?' 'You've been to see her?' 'What happened then?' 'Yes. And what filth did she trade ye? Or d'you expect your locket back agen? What did it cost ye?' 'What did what cost?' Your devil's penny for the devil's bit.' 'I don't know what you mean.' 'Jimmy, my own. Don't lie to mother, boy, for mother knows. I know you and that lady to the bone, A harlot with the devil's skill to tell The special key of each man's door to hell.' 'She's not. She's nothing of the kind, I tell'ee.' 'You can't tell women like a woman can; A beggar tells a lie to fill his belly, A strumpet tells a lie to win a man, Women were liars since the world began; And she's a liar, branded in the eyes, A rotten liar, who inspires lies.' 'I say she's not.' 'No, don't'ee Jim, my dearie, You've seen her often in the last few days, She's given a love as makes you come in weary To lie to me before going out to laze. She's tempted you into the devil's ways, She's robbing you, full fist, of what you earn, In God's name, what's she giving in return?' 'Her faith, my dear, and that's enough for me.' 'Her faith. Her faith. O Jimmy, listen, dear; Love doesn't ask for faith, my son, not he; He asks for life throughout the live-long year, And life's a test for any plough to ere Life tests a plough in meadows made of stones, Love takes a toll of spirit, mind and bones. I know a woman's portion when she loves, It's hers to give, my darling, not to take; It isn't lockets, dear, nor pairs of gloves, It isn't marriage bells nor wedding cake, It's up and cook, although the belly ache; And bear the child, and up and work again, And count a sick man's grumble worth the pain. Will she do this, and fifty times as much?' 'No. I don't ask her.' 'No. I warrant, no. She's one to get a young fool in her clutch, And you're a fool to let her trap you so. She love you? She? O Jimmy, let her go; I was so happy, dear, before she came, And now I'm going to the grave in shame. I bore you, Jimmy, in this very room. For fifteen years I got you all you had, You were my little son, made in my womb, Left all to me, for God had took your dad, You were a good son, doing all I bade, Until this strumpet came from God knows where, And now you lie, and I am in despair. Jimmy, I won't say more. I know you think That I don't know, being just a withered old, With chaps all fallen in and eyes that blink, And hands that tremble so they cannot hold. A bag of bones to put in churchyard mould, A red-eyed hag beside your evening star.' And Jimmy gulped, and thought 'By God, you are.' 'Well, if I am, my dear, I don't pretend. I got my eyes red, Jimmy, making you. My dear, before our love time's at an end Think just a minute what it is you do. If this were right, my dear, you'd tell me true; You don't, and so it's wrong; you lie; and she Lies too, or else you wouldn't lie to me. Women and men have only got one way And that way's marriage; other ways are lust. If you must marry this one, then you may, If not you'll drop her.' 'No.' 'I say you must. Or bring my hairs with sorrow to the dust. By God, you shall not, not while I'm alive. Never, so help me God, shall that thing be. If she's a woman fit to touch she'll wive, And may God's blessed mercy help us see And may He make my Jimmy count the cost, My little boy who's lost, as I am lost.' People in love cannot be won by kindness, And opposition makes them feel like martyrs. It's best to flog them with each other's garters, And have the flogging done by Shropshire carters, Born under Ercall where the while stones lie; Ercall that smells of honey in July. Jimmy said nothing in reply, but thought That mother was an old, hard jealous thing. 'I'll love my girl through good and ill report, I shall be true whatever grief it bring.' And in his heart he heard the death-bell ring For mother's death, and thought what it would be To bury her in churchyard and be free. He saw the narrow grave under the wall, Home without mother nagging at his dear, And Anna there with him at evenfall, Bidding him dry his eyes and be of cheer. 'The death that took poor mother brings me near, Nearer than we have ever been before, Near as the dead one came, but dearer, more.' 'Good-night, my son,' said mother. 'Night,' he said. He dabbed her brow wi's lips and blew the light, She lay quite silent crying on the bed, Stirring no limb, but crying through the night. He slept, convinced that he was Anna's knight. And when he went to work he left behind Money for mother crying herself blind. After that night he came to Anna's call, He was a fly in Anna's subtle weavings, Mother had no more share in him at all; All that the mother had was Anna's leavings. There were more lies, more lockets, more deceivings, Taunts from the proud old woman, lies from him, And Anna's coo of 'Cruel. Leave her, Jim.' Also the foreman spoke: 'You make me sick, You come-day-go-day-God-send-plenty-beer. Or get your time, I'll have no slackers here, I've had my eye on you too long, my dear.' And Jimmy pondered while the man attacked, 'I'd see her all day long if I were sacked.' And trembling mother thought, 'I'll go to see'r. She'd give me back my boy if she were told Just what he is to me, my pretty dear: She wouldn't leave me starving in the cold, Like what I am.' But she was weak and old. She thought, 'But if I ask her, I'm afraid He'd hate me ever after,' so she stayed. Bessie, the gipsy, got with child by Ern, She joined her tribe again at Shepherd's Meen, In that old quarry overgrown with fern, Where goats are tethered on the patch of green. There she reflected on the fool she'd been, And thought that love was glorious while it lasted. And Ern the moody man went moody home, To that most gentle girl from Ercall Hill, And bade her take a heed now he had come, Or else, by cripes, he'd put her through the mill. He didn't want her love, he'd had his fill, Thank you, of her, the bread and butter sack. And Anna heard that Shepherd Ern was back. 'Back. And I'll have him back to me,' she muttered, 'This lovesick boy of twenty, green as grass, Has made me wonder if my brains are buttered, He, and his lockets, and his love, the ass. I don't know why he comes. Alas! alas! God knows I want no love; but every sun I bolt my doors on some poor loving one. It breaks my heart to turn them out of doors, I hear them crying to me in the rain; One, with a white face, curses, one implores, "Anna, for God's sake, let me in again, Anna, belov'd, I cannot bear the pain." Like hoovey sheep bleating outside a fold "Anna, belov'd, I'm in the wind and cold." I want no men. I'm weary to the soul Of men like moths about a candle flame, Of men like flies about a sugar bowl, Acting alike, and all wanting the same, My dreamed-of swirl of passion never came, No man has given me the love I dreamed, But in the best of each one something gleamed. If my dear darling were alive, but he... He was the same; he didn't understand. The eyes of that dead child are haunting me, I only turned the blanket with my hand. It didn't hurt, he died as I had planned. A little skinny creature, weak and red; It looked so peaceful after it was dead. I have been all alone, in spite of all. Never a light to help me place my feet: I have had many a pain and many a fall. Life's a long headache in a noisy street, Love at the budding looks so very sweet, Men put such bright disguises on their lust, And then it all goes crumble into dust. Jimmy the same, dear, lovely Jimmy, too, He goes the self-same way the others went: I shall bring sorrow to those eyes of blue. He asks the love I'm sure I never meant. Am I to blame? And all his money spent! Men make this shutting doors such cruel pain. O, Ern, I want you in my life again.' On Sunday afternoons the lovers walk Arm within arm, dressed in their Sunday best, The man with the blue necktie sucks a stalk, The woman answers when she is addressed. On quiet country stiles they sit to rest, And after fifty years of wear and tear They think how beautiful their courtships were. Jimmy and Anna met to walk together The Sunday after Shepherd Ern returned; And Anna's hat was lovely with a feather Bought and dyed blue with money Jimmy earned. They walked towards Callows Farm, and Anna yearned: 'Dear boy,' she said, 'This road is dull to-day, Suppose we turn and walk the other way.' They turned, she sighed. 'What makes you sigh?' he asked. 'Thinking,' she said, 'thinking and grieving, too. Perhaps some wicked woman will come masked Into your life, my dear, to ruin you. And trusting every woman as you do It might mean death to love and be deceived; You'd take it hard, I thought, and so I grieved.' 'Dear one, dear Anna.' 'O my lovely boy, Life is all golden to the finger tips. What will be must be: but to-day's a joy. Reach me that lovely branch of scarlet hips.' He reached and gave; she put it to her lips. 'And here,' she said, 'we come to Plaister Turns.' And then she chose the road to Shepherd Ern's. As the deft angler, when the fishes rise, Flicks on the broadening circle over each The delicatest touch of dropping flies, Then pulls more line and whips a longer reach, Longing to feel the rod bend, the reel screech, And the quick comrade net the monster out, So Anna played the fly over her trout. Twice she passed, thrice, she with the boy beside her, A lovely fly, hooked for a human heart, She passed his little gate, while Jimmy eyed her, Feeling her beauty tear his soul apart: Then did the great trout rise, the great pike dart, The gate went clack, a man came up the hill, The lucky strike had hooked him through the gill. Her breath comes quick, her tired beauty glows, She would not look behind, she looked ahead. It seemed to Jimmy she was like a rose, A golden white rose faintly flushed with red. Her eyes danced quicker at the approaching tread, Her finger nails dug sharp into her palm. She yearned to Jimmy's shoulder, and kept calm. 'Evening,' said Shepherd Ern. She turned and eyed him, Cold and surprised, but interested too, To see how much he felt the hook inside him, And how much be surmised, and Jimmy knew, And if her beauty still could make him do The love tricks he had gambolled in the past. A glow shot through her that her fish was grassed. 'Evening,' she said. 'Good evening.' Jimmy felt Jealous and angry at the shepherd's tone; He longed to hit the fellow's nose a belt, He wanted his beloved his alone. A fellow's girl should be a fellow's own. Ern gave the lad a glance and turned to Anna, Jim might have been in China by his manner. 'Still walking out?' 'As you are.' 'I'll be bound.' 'Can you talk gipsy yet, or plait a kipe?' 'I'll teach you if I can when I come round.' 'And when will that be?' 'When the time is ripe.' And Jimmy longed to hit the man a swipe Under the chin to knock him out of time, But Anna stayed: she still had twigs to lime. 'Come, Anna, come, my dear,' he muttered low. She frowned, and blinked and spoke again to Ern. 'I hear the gipsy has a row to hoe.' 'The more you hear,' he said, 'the less you'll learn.' 'We've just come out,' she said, 'to take a turn; Suppose you come along: the more the merrier.' 'All right,' he said, 'but how about the terrier?' He cocked an eye at Jimmy. 'Does he bite?' Jimmy blushed scarlet. 'He's a dear,' said she. Ern walked a step, 'Will you be in to-night?' She shook her head, 'I doubt if that may be. Jim, here's a friend who wants to talk to me, So will you go and come another day?' 'By crimes, I won't!' said Jimmy, 'I shall stay.' 'I thought he bit,' said Ern, and Anna smiled, And Jimmy saw the smile and watched her face While all the jealous devils made him wild; A third in love is always out of place; And then her gentle body full of grace Leaned to him sweetly as she tossed her head, 'Perhaps we two'll be getting on,' she said. They walked, but Jimmy turned to watch the third. 'I'm here, not you,' he said; the shepherd grinned: Anna was smiling sweet without a word; She got the scarlet berry branch unpinned. 'It's cold,' she said, 'this evening, in the wind.' A quick glance showed that Jimmy didn't mind her, She beckoned with the berry branch behind her, Then dropped it gently on the broken stones, Preoccupied, unheeding, walking straight, Saying 'You jealous boy,' in even tones, Looking so beautiful, so delicate, Being so very sweet: but at her gate She felt her shoe unlaced and looked to know If Ern had taken up the sprig or no. He had, she smiled. 'Anna,' said Jimmy sadly, 'That man's not fit to be a friend of yourn, He's nobbut just an oaf; I love you madly, And hearing you speak kind to'm made me burn. Who is he then?' She answered 'Shepherd Ern, A pleasant man, an old, old friend of mine.' 'By cripes, then, Anna, drop him, he's a swine.' 'Jimmy,' she said, 'you must have faith in me, Faith's all the battle in a love like ours. You must believe, my darling, don't you see That life to have its sweets must have its sours. Love isn't always two souls picking flowers. You must have faith. I give you all I can. What, can't I say "Good evening" to a man?' 'Yes,' he replied, 'But not a man like him.' 'Why not a man like him?' she said, 'What next?' By this they'd reached her cottage in the dim, Among the daisies that the cold had kexed. 'Because I say. Now, Anna, don't be vexed.' 'I'm more than vexed,' she said, 'with words like these. "You say," indeed. How dare you. Leave me, please.' 'Anna, my Anna.' 'Leave me.' She was cold, Proud and imperious with a lifting lip, Blazing within, but outwardly controlled; He had a colt's first instant of the whip. The long lash curled to cut a second strip. 'You to presume to teach. Of course, I know You're mother's Sunday scholar, aren't you? Go.' She slammed the door behind her, clutching skirts. 'Anna.' He heard her bedroom latches thud. He learned at last how bitterly love hurts; He longed to cut her throat and see her blood, To stamp her blinking eyeballs into mud. 'Anna, by God!' Love's many torments make That tune soon change to 'Dear, for Jesus' sake.' He beat the door for her. She never stirred, But primming bitter lips before her glass; Admired her hat as though she hadn't heard, And tried her front hair parted, and in mass. She heard her lover's hasty footsteps pass. 'He's gone,' she thought. She crouched below the pane, And heard him cursing as he tramped the lane. Rage ran in Jimmy as he tramped the night; Rage, strongly mingled with a youth's disgust At finding a beloved woman light, And all her precious beauty dirty dust; A tinsel-varnish gilded over lust. Nothing but that. He sat him down to rage, Beside the stream whose waters never age. Plashing, it slithered down the tiny fall To eddy wrinkles in the trembling pool With that light voice whose music cannot pall, Always the note of solace, flute-like, cool. And when hot-headed man has been a fool, He could not do a wiser thing than go To that dim pool where purple teazles grow. He glowered there until suspicion came, To mutter to him till his heart was flame, And every fibre of his soul was wrung, That even then Ern and his Anna clung Mouth against mouth in passionate embrace. There was no peace for Jimmy in the place. Raging he hurried back to learn the truth. The little swinging wicket glimmered white, The chimney jagged the skyline like a tooth, Bells came in swoons for it was Sunday night. The garden was all dark, but there was light Up in the little room where Anna slept: The hot blood beat his brain; he crept, he crept. Clutching himself to hear, clutching to know, Along the path, rustling with withered leaves, Up to the apple, too decayed to blow, Which crooked a palsied finger at the eaves. And up the lichened trunk his body heaves. Dust blinded him, twigs snapped, the branches shook, He leaned along a mossy bough to look. Nothing at first, except a guttering candle Shaking amazing shadows on the ceiling, Then Anna's voice upon a bar of 'Randal, Where have you been:' and voice and music reeling, Trembling, as though she sang with flooding feeling. The singing stopped midway upon the stair, Then Anna showed in white with loosened hair. Her back was towards him, and she stood awhile, Like a wild creature tossing back her mane, And then her head went back, he saw a smile On the half face half turned towards the pane; Her eyes closed, and her arms went out again. Jim gritted teeth, and called upon his Maker, She drooped into a man's arms there to take her. Agony first, sharp, sudden, like a knife, Then down the tree to batter at the door; 'Open there. Let me in. I'll have your life. Talk about faith, I'll give you faith galore.' The window creaked, a jug of water came Over his head and neck with certain aim. 'Clear out,' said Ern; 'I'm here, not you, to-night, Clear out. We whip young puppies when they yap.' 'If you're a man,' said Jim, 'Come down and fight, I'll put a stopper on your ugly chap.' 'Go home,' said Ern; 'Go home and get your pap. To kennel, pup, and bid your mother bake Some soothing syrup in your puppy cake.' There was a dibble sticking in the bed, Jim wrenched it out and swung it swiftly round, And sent it flying at the shepherd's head: 'I'll give you puppy-cake. Take that, you hound.' The broken glass went clinking to the ground, The dibble balanced, checked, and followed flat. 'My God,' said Ern, 'I'll give you hell for that.' He flung the door ajar with 'Now, my pup-- Hold up the candle, Anna--now, we'll see.' 'By crimes, come on,' said Jimmy; 'Put them up. Come, put them up, you coward, here I be.' And Jim, eleven stone, what chance had he Against fourteen? but what he could he did; Ern swung his right: 'That settles you, my kid.' Jimmy went down and out: 'The kid,' said Ern. 'A kid, a sucking puppy; hold the light.' And Anna smiled: 'It gave me such a turn, You look so splendid, Ernie, when you fight.' She looked at Jim with: 'Ern, is he all right?' 'He's coming to.' She shuddered, 'Pah, the brute. What things he said'; she stirred him with her foot. 'You go inside,' said Ern, 'and bolt the door, I'll deal with him.' She went and Jimmy stood. 'Now, pup,' said Ern, 'don't come round here no more. I'm here, not you, let that be understood. I tell you frankly, pup, for your own good.' 'Give me my hat,' said Jim. He passed the gate, And as he tottered off he called, 'You wait.' 'Thanks, I don't have to,' Shepherd Ern replied; 'You'll do whatever waiting's being done.' The door closed gently as he went inside, The bolts jarred in the channels one by one. 'I'll give you throwing bats about, my son. Anna.' 'My dear?' 'Where are you?' 'Come and find.' The light went out, the windows stared out blind. Blind as blind eyes forever seeing dark. And in the dim the lovers went upstairs, Her eyes fast closed, the shepherd's burning stark, His lips entangled in her straying hairs, Breath coming short as in a convert's prayers, Her stealthy face all drowsy in the dim And full of shudders as she yearned to him. Jim crossed the water, cursing in his tears, 'By cripes, you wait. My God, he's with her now And all her hair pulled down over her ears; Loving the blaggard like a filthy sow, I saw her kiss him from the apple bough. O God, how sweet her eyes are when she smiles. Curse her and curse her. No, my God, she's sweet, It's all a helly nightmare. I shall wake. If it were all a dream I'd kiss her feet, I wish it were a dream for Jesus' sake. One thing: I bet I made his guzzle ache, I cop it fair before he sent me down, I'll cop him yet some evening on the crown. O God, O God, what pretty ways she had, He's kissing all her skin, so white and soft. She's kissing back. I think I'm going mad. Like rutting rattens in the apple loft. She held that light she carried high aloft Full in my eyes for him to hit me by, I had the light all dazzling in my eye. She had her dress all clutched up to her shoulder, And all her naked arm was all one gleam. It's going to freeze to-night, it's turning colder, I wish there was more water in the stream, I'd drownd myself. Perhaps it's all a dream, And bye and bye I'll wake and find it stuff; By crimes, the pain I suffer's real enough.' About two hundred yards from Gunder Loss He stopped to shudder, leaning on the gate, He bit the touchwood underneath the moss; 'Rotten, like her,' he muttered in his hate; He spat it out again with 'But, you wait, We'll see again, before to-morrow's past, In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.' All through the night the stream ran to the sea, The different water always saying the same, Cat-like, and then a tinkle, never glee, A lonely little child alone in shame. An otter snapped a thorn twig when he came, It drifted down, it passed the Hazel Mill, It passed the Springs; but Jimmy stayed there still. Over the pointed hill-top came the light Out of the mists on Ercall came the sun, Red like a huntsman halloing after night, Blowing a horn to rouse up everyone; Through many glittering cities he had run, Splashing the wind vanes on the dewy roofs With golden sparks struck by his horses' hoofs. The watchman rose, rubbing his rusty eyes, He stirred the pot of cocoa for his mate; The fireman watched his head of power rise. 'What time?' he asked. 'You haven't long to wait.' 'Now, is it time?' 'Yes. Let her ripple.' Straight The whistle shrieked its message, 'Up to work! Up, or be fined a quarter if you shirk.' Hearing the whistle, Jimmy raised his head, 'The warning call, and me in Sunday clo'es; I'd better go; I've time. The sun looks red, I feel so stiff' I'm very nearly froze.' So over brook and through the fields he goes, And up the line among the navvies' smiles, 'Young Jimmy Gurney's been upon the tiles.' The second whistle blew and work began, Jimmy worked too, not knowing what he did, He tripped and stumbled like a drunken man; He muddled all, whatever he was bid, The foreman cursed, 'Good God, what ails the kid? Hi! Gurney. You. We'll have you crocking soon, You take a lie down till the afternoon.' 'I won't,' he answered. 'Why the devil should I? I'm here, I mean to work. I do my piece, Or would do if a man could, but how could I Then you come nagging round and never cease? Well, take the job and give me my release, I want the sack, now give it, there's my pick; Give me the sack.' The sack was given quick. Dully he got his time-check from the keeper. He stumbled drunkenly across a sleeper-- 'Give all you have and get kicked out a-doors.' He cashed his time-check at the station stores. 'Bett'ring yourself, I hope, Jim,' said the master; 'That's it,' said Jim; 'and so I will do, blast her.' Beyond the bridge, a sharp turn to the right Leads to 'The Bull and Boar,' the carters' rest; An inn so hidden it is out of sight To anyone not coming from the west. The high embankment hides it with its crest. Far up above the Chester trains go by, The drinkers see them sweep against the sky. Canal men used it when the barges came, The navvies used it when the line was making; The pigeons strut and sidle, ruffling, tame, The chuckling brook in front sets shadows shaking. Cider and beer for thirsty workers' slaking, A quiet house; like all that God controls, It is Fate's instrument on human souls. Thither Jim turned. 'And now I'll drink,' he said. 'I'll drink and drink--I never did before-- I'll drink and drink until I'm mad or dead, He called for liquor at 'The Bull and Boar'; Moody he drank; the woman asked him why: 'Have you had trouble?' 'No,' he said, 'I'm dry. Dry and burnt up, so give's another drink; That's better, that's much better, that's the sort.' And then he sang, so that he should not think, His Binger-Bopper song, but cut it short. His wits were working like a brewer's wort Until among them came the vision gleaming Of Ern with bloody nose and Anna screaming. 'That's what I'll do,' he muttered; 'knock him out, And kick his face in with a running jump. I'll not have dazzled eyes this second bout, And she can wash the fragments under pump.' It was his ace; but Death had played a trump. 'My game; the shroud is ready, Jimmy--come.' Meanwhile, the mother, waiting for her child, Had tottered out a dozen times to search. 'Jimmy,' she said, 'you'll drive your mother wild; Your father's name's too good a name to smirch, Come home, my dear, she'll leave you in the lurch; He was so good, my little Jim, so clever; He never stop a night away, not ever. He never slept a night away till now, Never, not once, in all the time he's been. It's the Lord's will, they say, and we must bow, But O it's like a knife, it cuts so keen! He'll work in's Sunday clothes, it'll be seen, And then they'll laugh, and say "It isn't strange; He slept with her, and so he couldn't change." Perhaps,' she thought, 'I'm wrong; perhaps he's dead; Killed himself like; folk do in love, they say. He never tells what passes in his head, And he's been looking late so old and grey. A railway train has cut his head away, Like the poor hare we found at Maylow's shack. O God have pity, bring my darling back!' All the high stars went sweeping through the sky, The sun made all the orient clean, clear gold, 'O blessed God,' she prayed, 'do let me die, Or bring my wand'ring lamb back into fold. The whistle's gone, and all the bacon's cold; I must know somehow if he's on the line, He could have bacon sandwich when he dine.' She cut the bread, and started, short of breath, Up the canal now draining for the rail; A poor old woman pitted against death, Bringing her pennyworth of love for bail. Wisdom, beauty, and love may not avail. She was too late. 'Yes, he was here; oh, yes. He chucked his job and went.' 'Where?' 'Home, I guess.' 'Home, but he hasn't been home.' 'Well, he went. Perhaps you missed him, mother.' 'Or perhaps He took the field path yonder through the bent. He very likely done that, don't he, chaps?' The speaker tested both his trouser straps And took his pick. 'He's in the town,' he said. 'He'll be all right, after a bit in bed.' She trembled down the high embankment's ridge Glad, though too late; not yet too late, indeed. For forty yards away, beyond the bridge, Jimmy still drank, the devil still sowed seed. 'A bit in bed,' she thought, 'is what I need. I'll go to "Bull and Boar" and rest a bit, They've got a bench outside they'd let me sit.' Even as two soldiers on a fortress wall See the bright fire streak of a coming shell. Catch breath, and wonder 'Which way will it fall? To you? to me? or will it all be well?' Ev'n so stood life and death, and could not tell Whether she'd go to th'inn and find her son, Or take the field and let the doom be done. 'No, not the inn,' she thought. 'People would talk. I couldn't in the open daytime; no. I'll just sit here upon the timber balk, I'll rest for just a minute and then go.' Resting, her old tired heart began to glow, Glowed and gave thanks, and thought itself in clover, 'He's lost his job, so now she'll throw him over.' Sitting, she saw the rustling thistle-kex, The picks flash bright above, the trollies tip. The bridge-stone shining, full of silver specks, And three swift children running down the dip. A Stoke Saint Michael carter cracked his whip, The water in the runway made its din. She half heard singing coming from the inn. She turned, and left the inn, and took the path And 'Brother Life, you lose,' said Brother Death, 'Even as the Lord of all appointed hath In this great miracle of blood and breath.' He doeth all things well as the book saith, He bids the changing stars fulfil their turn, His hand is on us when we least discern. Slowly she tottered, stopping with the stitch, Catching her breath, 'O lawks, a dear, a dear. How the poor tubings in my heart do twitch, It hurts like the rheumatics very near.' And every painful footstep drew her clear From that young life she bore with so much pain. She never had him to herself again. Out of the inn came Jimmy, red with drink, Crying: 'I'll show her. Wait a bit. I'll show her. You wait a bit. I'm not the kid you think. I'm Jimmy Gurney, champion tupper-thrower, When I get done with her you'll never know her, Nor him you won't. Out of my way, you fowls, Or else I'll rip the red things off your jowls.' He went across the fields to Plaister's End. There was a lot of water in the brook, Sun and white cloud and weather on the mend For any man with any eyes to look. He found old Callow's plough-bat, which he took, 'My innings now, my pretty dear,' said he. 'You wait a bit. I'll show you. Now you'll see.' Her chimney smoke was blowing blue and faint, The wise duck shook a tail across the pool, The blacksmith's shanty smelt of burning paint, Four newly-tired cartwheels hung to cool. He had loved the place when under Anna's rule. Now he clenched teeth and flung aside the gate, There at the door they stood. He grinned. 'Now wait.' Ern had just brought her in a wired hare, She stood beside him stroking down the fur. 'Oh, Ern, poor thing, look how its eyes do stare,' 'It isn't it,' he answered. 'It's a her.' She stroked the breast and plucked away a bur, She kissed the pads, and leapt back with a shout, 'My God, he's got the spudder. Ern. Look out.' Ern clenched his fists. Too late. He felt no pain, Only incredible haste in something swift, A shock that made the sky black on his brain, Then stillness, while a little cloud went drift. The weight upon his thigh bones wouldn't lift; Then poultry in a long procession came, Grey-legged, doing the goose-step, eyes like flame. Grey-legged old cocks and hens sedate in age, Marching with jerks as though they moved on springs, With sidelong hate in round eyes red with rage, And shouldered muskets clipped by jealous wings, Then an array of horns and stupid things: Sheep on a hill with harebells, hare for dinner. 'Hare.' A slow darkness covered up the sinner. 'But little time is right hand fain of blow.' Only a second changes life to death; Hate ends before the pulses cease to go, There is great power in the stop of breath. Hate never goes so far as that, nor can. 'I am what life becomes. D'you hate me, man?' Hate with his babbling instant, red and damning, Passed with his instant, having drunken red. 'You've killed him.' 'No, I've not, he's only shamming. Get up.' 'He can't.' 'O God, he isn't dead.' 'O God.' 'Here. Get a basin. Bathe his head. Ernie, for God's sake, what are you playing at? I only give him one like, with the bat.' Man cannot call the brimming instant back; Time's an affair of instants spun to days; If man must make an instant gold, or black, Let him, he may, but Time must go his ways. Life may be duller for an instant's blaze. Life's an affair of instants spun to years, Instants are only cause of all these tears. Then Anna screamed aloud. 'Help. Murder. Murder.' Backing, she screamed, until the blacksmith heard her. 'Hurry,' they cried, 'the woman's throat's being cut.' Jim had his coat off by the water butt. 'He might come to,' he said, 'with wine or soup. I only hit him once, like, with the scoop. Splash water on him, chaps. I only meant To hit him just a clip, like, nothing more. There. Look. He isn't dead, his eyelids went. And he went down. O God, his head's all tore. I've washed and washed: it's all one gob of gore. He don't look dead to you? What? Nor to you? Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn't do.' 'God send; he looks damn bad,' the blacksmith said. 'Py Cot,' his mate said, 'she wass altogether; She hass an illness look of peing ted.' 'Here. Get a glass,' the smith said, 'and a feather.' 'Wass you at fightings or at playings whether?' 'Here, get a glass and feather. Quick's the word.' The glass was clear. The feather never stirred. 'By God, I'm sorry, Jim. That settles it.' 'By God. I've killed him then.' 'The doctor might.' 'Try, if you like; but that's a nasty hit.' 'Doctor's gone by. He won't be back till night.' 'Py Cot, the feather was not looking right.' 'By Jesus, chaps, I never meant to kill 'un. Only to bat. I'll go to p'leece and tell 'un. O Ern, for God's sake speak, for God's sake speak.' No answer followed: Ern had done with dust, 'The p'leece is best,' the smith said, 'or a beak. I'll come along; and so the lady must. Evans, you bring the lady, will you just? Tell 'em just how it come, lad. Come your ways; And Joe, you watch the body where it lays.' They walked to town, Jim on the blacksmith's arm. Jimmy was crying like a child, and saying, 'I never meant to do him any harm.' His teeth went clack, like bones at murmurs playing, And then he trembled hard and broke out praying, 'God help my poor old mother. If he's dead, I've brought her my last wages home,' he said. He trod his last free journey down the street; Treading the middle road, and seeing both sides, The school, the inns, the butchers selling meat, The busy market where the town divides. Then past the tanpits full of stinking hides, And up the lane to death, as weak as pith. 'By God, I hate this, Jimmy,' said the smith. Anna in black, the judge in scarlet robes, A fuss of lawyers' people coming, going, The windows shut, the gas alight in globes, Evening outside, and pleasant weather blowing. 'They'll hang him?' 'I suppose so; there's no knowing.' 'A pretty piece, the woman, ain't she, John? He killed the fellow just for carrying on.' 'She give her piece to counsel pretty clear.' 'Ah, that she did, and when she stop she smiled.' 'She's had a-many men, that pretty dear; She's drove a-many pretty fellows wild.' 'Well, I don't know.' 'Well, I do. See her eyes? Mystery, eh? A woman's mystery's lies.' 'Perhaps.' 'No p'raps about it, that's the truth. I know these women; they're a rotten lot.' 'You didn't use to think so in your youth.' 'No; but I'm wiser now, and not so hot. Married or buried, _I_ say, wives or shot, These unmanned, unattached Maries and Susans Make life no better than a proper nuisance.' 'Well, I don't know.' 'Well, if you don't you will.' 'I look on women as as good as men.' 'Now, that's the kind of talk that makes me ill. When have they been as good? I ask you when?' 'Always they have.' 'They haven't. Now and then P'raps one or two was neither hen nor fury.' 'One for your mother, that. Here comes the jury.' Guilty. Thumbs down. No hope. The judge passed sentence; 'A frantic passionate youth, unfit for life, A fitting time afforded for repentance, Then certain justice with a pitiless knife. For her his wretched victim's widowed wife, Pity. For her who bore him, pity. (Cheers.) The jury were exempt for seven years.' All bowed; the Judge passed to the robing-room, Dismissed his clerks, disrobed, and knelt and prayed As was his custom after passing doom, Doom upon life, upon the thing not made. 'O God, who made us out of dust, and laid Thee in us bright, to lead us to the truth, O God, have pity upon this poor youth. Show him Thy grace, O God, before he die; Shine in his heart; have mercy upon me, Who deal the laws men make to travel by Under the sun upon the path to Thee; O God Thou knowest I'm as blind as he, As blind, as frantic, not so single, worse, Only Thy pity spared me from the curse. Thy pity, and Thy mercy, God, did save, Thy bounteous gifts, not any grace of mine, From all the pitfalls leading to the grave, From all the death-feasts with the husks and swine. God, who hast given me all things, now make shine Bright in this sinner's heart that he may see. God, take this poor boy's spirit back to Thee.' Then trembling with his hands, for he was old, He went to meet his college friend, the Dean, The loiterers watched him as his carriage rolled. 'There goes the Judge,' said one, and one was keen: 'Hanging that wretched boy, that's where he's been.' A policeman spat, two lawyers talked statistics, '"Crime passionel" in Agricultural Districts.' 'They'd oughtn't hang a boy': but one said 'Stuff. This sentimental talk is rotten, rotten. The law's the law and not half strict enough, Forgers and murderers are misbegotten, Let them be hanged and let them be forgotten. A rotten fool should have a rotten end; Mend them, you say? The rotten never mend.' And one 'Not mend? The rotten not, perhaps. The rotting would; so would the just infected. A week in quod has ruined lots of chaps Who'd all got good in them till prison wrecked it.' And one, 'Society must be protected.' 'He's just a kid. She trapped him.' 'No, she didden.' 'He'll be reprieved.' 'He mid be and he midden.' So the talk went; and Anna took the train, Too sad for tears, and pale; a lady spoke Asking if she were ill or suffering pain? 'Neither,' she said; but sorrow made her choke, 'I'm only sick because my heart is broke. My friend, a man, my oldest friend here, died. I had to see the man who killed him, tried. He's to be hanged. Only a boy. My friend. I thought him just a boy; I didn't know. And Ern was killed, and now the boy's to end, And all because he thought he loved me so.' 'My dear,' the lady said; and Anna, 'Oh. It's very hard to bear the ills men make, He thought he loved, and it was all mistake.' 'My dear,' the lady said; 'you poor, poor woman, Have you no friends to go to?' 'I'm alone. I've parents living, but they're both inhuman, And none can cure what pierces to the bone. I'll have to leave and go where I'm not known. Begin my life again.' Her friend said 'Yes. Certainly that. But leave me your address: For I might hear of something; I'll enquire, Perhaps the boy might be reprieved or pardoned. Couldn't we ask the rector or the squire To write and ask the Judge? He can't be hardened. What do you do? Is it housework? Have you gardened? Your hands are very white and soft to touch.' 'Lately I've not had heart for doing much.' So the talk passes as the train descends Into the vale and halts and starts to climb To where the apple-bearing country ends And pleasant-pastured hills rise sweet with thyme, Where clinking sheepbells make a broken chime And sunwarm gorses rich the air with scent And kestrels poise for mice, there Anna went. There, in the April, in the garden-close, One heard her in the morning singing sweet, Calling the birds from the unbudded rose, Offering her lips with grains for them to eat. The redbreasts come with little wiry feet, Brushing her lifted face with quivering wings. Jimmy was taken down into a cell, He did not need a hand, he made no fuss. The men were kind 'for what the kid done ... well The same might come to any one of us.' They brought him bits of cake at tea time: thus The love that fashioned all in human ken, Works in the marvellous hearts of simple men. And in the nights (they watched him night and day) They told him bits of stories through the grating, Of how the game went at the football play, And how the rooks outside had started mating. And all the time they knew the rope was waiting, And every evening friend would say to friend, 'I hope we've not to drag him at the end.' And poor old mother came to see her son, 'The Lord has gave,' she said, 'The Lord has took; I loved you very dear, my darling one, And now there's none but God where we can look. We've got God's promise written in His Book, He will not fail; but oh, it do seem hard.' She hired a room outside the prison yard. 'Where did you get the money for the room? And how are you living, mother; how'll you live?' 'It's what I'd saved to put me in the tomb, I'll want no tomb but what the parish give.' 'Mother, I lied to you that time, O forgive, I brought home half my wages, half I spent, And you went short that week to pay the rent. I went to see'r, I spent my money on her, And you who bore me paid the cost in pain. You went without to buy the clothes upon her: A hat, a locket, and a silver chain. O mother dear, if all might be again, Only from last October, you and me; O mother dear, how different it would be. We were so happy in the room together, Singing at "Binger-Bopper," weren't us, just? And going a-hopping in the summer weather, And all the hedges covered white with dust, And blackberries, and that, and traveller's trust. I thought her wronged, and true, and sweet, and wise, The devil takes sweet shapes when he tells lies. Mother, my dear, will you forgive your son?' 'God knows I do, Jim, I forgive you, dear; You didn't know, and couldn't, what you done. God pity all poor people suffering here, And may His mercy shine upon us clear, And may we have His Holy Word for mark, To lead us to His Kingdom through the dark.' 'Amen.' 'Amen,' said Jimmy; then they kissed. The warders watched, the little larks were singing, A plough team jangled, turning at the rist; Beyond, the mild cathedral bells were ringing, The elm-tree rooks were cawing at the springing: O beauty of the time when winter's done, And all the fields are laughing at the sun! 'I s'pose they've brought the line beyond the Knapp?' 'Ah, and beyond the Barcle, so they say.' 'Hearing the rooks begin reminds a chap. Look queer, the street will, with the lock away; O God, I'll never see it.' 'Let us pray. Don't think of that, but think,' the mother said, 'Of men going on long after we are dead. Red helpless little things will come to birth, And hear the whistles going down the line, And grow up strong and go about the earth, And have much happier times than yours and mine; And some day one of them will get a sign, And talk to folk, and put an end to sin, And then God's blessed kingdom will begin. God dropped a spark down into everyone, And if we find and fan it to a blaze It'll spring up and glow like--like the sun, And light the wandering out of stony ways. God warms His hands at man's heart when he prays, And light of prayer is spreading heart to heart; It'll light all where now it lights a part. And God who gave His mercies takes His mercies, And God who gives beginning gives the end. I dread my death; but it's the end of curses, A rest for broken things too broke to mend. O Captain Christ, our blessed Lord and Friend, We are two wandered sinners in the mire, Burn our dead hearts with love out of Thy fire. And when thy death comes, Master, let us bear it As of Thy will, however hard to go; Thy Cross is infinite for us to share it, Thy help is infinite for us to know. And when the long trumpets of the Judgment blow May our poor souls be glad and meet agen, There was a group outside the prison gate, Waiting to hear them ring the passing bell, Waiting as empty people always wait For the strong toxic of another's hell. And mother stood there, too, not seeing well, Praying through tears to let His will be done, And not to hide His mercy from her son. Talk in the little group was passing quick. 'It's nothing now to what it was, to watch.' 'Poor wretched kid, I bet he's feeling sick.' 'Eh? What d'you say, chaps? Someone got a match?' 'They draw a bolt and drop you down a hatch And break your neck, whereas they used to strangle In olden times, when you could see them dangle.' Some one said, 'Off hats' when the bell began. Mother was whimpering now upon her knees. A broken ringing like a beaten pan It sent the sparrows wavering to the trees. The wall-top grasses whickered in the breeze, The broken ringing clanged, clattered and clanged As though men's bees were swarming, not men hanged. Now certain Justice with the pitiless knife. The white sick chaplain snuffling at the nose. 'I am the resurrection and the life.' The bell still clangs, the small procession goes, The prison warders ready ranged in rows. 'Now, Gurney, come, my dear; it's time,' they said. And ninety seconds later he was dead. Some of life's sad ones are too strong to die, Grief doesn't kill them as it kills the weak, Sorrow is not for those who sit and cry Lapped in the love of turning t'other cheek, But for the noble souls austere and bleak Who have had the bitter dose and drained the cup And wait for Death face fronted, standing up. As the last man upon the sinking ship, Seeing the brine creep brightly on the deck, Hearing aloft the slatting topsails rip, Ripping to rags among the topmast's wreck, Yet hoists the new red ensign without speck, That she, so fair, may sink with colours flying, So the old widowed mother kept from dying. She tottered home, back to the little room, It was all over for her, but for life; She drew the blinds, and trembled in the gloom; 'I sat here thus when I was wedded wife; Sorrow sometimes, and joy; but always strife. Struggle to live except just at the last, O God, I thank Thee for the mercies past. Harry, my man, when we were courting; eh... The April morning up the Cony-gree. How grand he looked upon our wedding day. "I wish we'd had the bells," he said to me; And we'd the moon that evening, I and he, And dew come wet, oh, I remember how, And we come home to where I'm sitting now. And he lay dead here, and his son was born here; He never saw his son, his little Jim. And now I'm all alone here, left to mourn here, And there are all his clothes, but never him. He's down under the prison in the dim, With quicklime working on him to the bone, The flesh I made with many and many a groan. Oh, how his little face come, with bright hair, Dear little face. We made this room so snug; He sit beside me in his little chair, I give him real tea sometimes in his mug. He liked the velvet in the patchwork rug. He used to stroke it, did my pretty son, He called it Bunny, little Jimmie done. And then he ran so, he was strong at running, Always a strong one, like his dad at that. In summertimes I done my sewing sunning, And he'd be sprawling, playing with the cat. And neighbours brought their knitting out to chat Till five o'clock; he had his tea at five; How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive.' Darkness and midnight, and the midnight chimes. Another four-and-twenty hours begin, Darkness again, and many, many times, The alternating light and darkness spin Until the face so thin is still more thin, Gazing each earthly evening wet or fine For Jimmy coming from work along the line. Over her head the Chester wires hum, Under the bridge the rocking engines flash. 'He's very late this evening, but he'll come And bring his little packet full of cash (Always he does) and supper's cracker hash, That is his favourite food excepting bacon. They say my boy was hanged; but they're mistaken. And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile, Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do, Singing 'The parson's dog lep over a stile,' Along the path where water lilies grow. The stars are placid on the evening's blue, Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid, On all that God has given and man has made. Burning they watch, and mothlike owls come out, The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops; The homing cowman gives his dog a shout, The lamps are lighted in the village shops. Silence; the last bird passes; in the copse The hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins, Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins. Singing as though her heart were full of peace, Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose, Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece, The moon droops west, but still she does not cease, The little mice peep out to hear her sing, Until the inn-man's cockerel shakes his wing. And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys, The labourers going to meadow see her there. Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes, They lean upon the parapet to stare; They see her plaiting basil in her hair, Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover, The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover. Dully they watch her, then they turn to go To that high Shropshire upland of late hay; Her singing lingers with them as they mow, And many times they try it, now grave, now gay, Till, with full throat, over the hills away, They lift it clear; oh, very clear it towers Mixed with the swish of many falling flowers. Fifth Impression. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net Library Edition, 3s. 6d. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net "Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are choosing their plays excellently."--_Saturday Review_. "Mr Granville Barker, by virtue of these three plays alone, unquestionably ranks among the first of our serious literary dramatists."--_The Observer_. THE MADRAS HOUSE. A Comedy in Four Acts. PRUNELLA; or, Love in a Dutch Garden. CHAINS. A Play in Four Acts. THE NEW SIN. A Play in Three Acts. By BASIL MACDONALD HASTINGS. Cloth, 2s. net; illustrated paper wrappers, 1s. net. RUTHERFORD AND SON. A Play in Three Acts. By GITHA SOWERBY. Cloth, 2s. 6d. net. "Miss Sowerby's 'Rutherford and Son' is the best first play since "I have read few good acting plays which are so consecutive and satisfactory to read."--_T. P.'s Weekly_. Vedrenne-Barker Management. 2s. 6d. net. Uniform with "Sailing Ships and Their Story." BRITAIN'S RECORD: What She has done for the World. By E. KEBLE CHATTERTON. Demy 8vo, illustrated. 7s. 6d. net.

Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Good Wolf

1849

The Slumber--the Wood--the Hill--the three Beasts--Virgil--the Dante's misgivings--Virgil's account of how he was induced to come to his help--the three Heavenly Ladies--the beginning of The Gate of Inferno--the Vestibule of the Caitiffs--the Great Refusal--Acheron--Charon--the Earthquake--the Slumber of Dante, The First Circle, which is the Limbo of the Unbaptized and of the Virtuous Heathen--the Great Poets--the Noble Castle--the Sages and Worthies of the ancient world, The Second Circle, which is that of Carnal Sinners--Minos--the Tempest--The Troop of those who died because of their Love-- Francesca da Rimini--Dante's Swoon, The Third Circle, which is that of the Gluttonous--the Hail and The Fourth Circle, which is that of the Avaricious and the Thriftless--Plutus--the Great Weights rolled by the sinners in opposite directions--Fortune--the Fifth Circle, which is that of the Wrathful--Styx--the Lofty Tower, The Fifth Circle continued--the Signals--Phlegyas--the Skiff-- Philip Argenti--the City of Dis--the Fallen Angels--the Rebuff The City of Dis, which is the Sixth Circle and that of the Heretics--the Furies and the Medusa head--the Messenger of Heaven City--the red-hot Tombs, The Sixth Circle continued--Farinata degli Uberti--Cavalcante dei The Sixth Circle continued--Pope Anastasius--Virgil explains on what principle sinners are classified in Inferno--Usury, The Seventh Circle, First Division--the Minotaur--the River of Blood, which forms the Outer Ring of the Seventh Circle-- in it are those guilty of Violence against others--the Guy of Montfort--the Passage of the River of Blood, The Seventh Circle continued--the Second Division consisting of a Tangled Wood in which are those guilty of Violence against themselves--the Harpies--Pier delle Vigne--Lano--Jacopo da Sant' The Seventh Circle continued--the Violent against Nature-- Brunetto Latini--Francesco d'Accorso--Andrea de' Mozzi, Bishop The Seventh Circle continued--the Violent against Nature-- the Cataract--the Cord--Geryon, The Seventh Circle continued--the Violent against Art--Usurers-- the descent on Geryon's back into the Eighth Circle, The Eighth Circle, otherwise named Malebolge, which consists of ten concentric Pits or Moats connected by bridges of rock--in these are punished those guilty of Fraud of different kinds-- First Bolgia or Moat, where are Panders and Seducers, scourged by Demons--Venedico Caccianimico--Jason--Second Bolgia, where are Flatterers plunged in filth--Alessio Interminei, The Eighth Circle--Third Bolgia, where are the Simoniacs, stuck head downwards in holes in the rock--Pope Nicholas III.--the The Eighth Circle--Fifth Bolgia, where the Barrators, or corrupt officials, are plunged in the boiling pitch which fills the Bolgia--a Senator of Lucca is thrown in--the Malebranche, or Demons who guard the Moat--the Devilish Escort, The Eighth Circle--Fifth Bolgia continued--the Navarese--trick played by him on the Demons--Fra Gomita--Michael Zanche--the Demons fall foul of one another, The Eighth Circle--escape from the Fifth to the Sixth Bolgia, where the Hypocrites walk at a snail's pace, weighed down by Gilded Cloaks of lead--the Merry Friars Catalano and constantly undergoing a hideous metamorphosis--Vanni Fucci, The Eighth Circle--Seventh Bolgia continued--Cacus--Agnello Brunelleschi, Buoso degli Abati, Puccio Sciancato, Cianfa Donati, The Eighth Circle--Eighth Bolgia, where are the Evil Counsellors, death, The Eighth Circle--Ninth Bolgia, where the Schismatics in Church and State are for ever being dismembered--Mahomet--Fra Dolcino-- The Eighth Circle--Ninth Bolgia continued--Geri del Bello--Tenth Bolgia, where Counterfeiters of various kinds, as Alchemists and Forgers, are tormented with loathsome diseases--Griffolino of The Eighth Circle--Tenth Bolgia continued--Myrrha--Gianni Schicchi--Master Adam and his confession--Sinon, The Ninth Circle, outside of which they remain till the end of this Canto--this, the Central Pit of Inferno, is encircled and guarded by Giants--Nimrod, Ephialtes, and Antaeus--entrance to The Ninth Circle--that of the Traitors, is divided into four concentric rings, in which the sinners are plunged more or less deep in the ice of the frozen Cocytus--the Outer Ring is Caina, where are those who contrived the murder of their Kindred-- Camicion de' Pazzi--Antenora, the Second Ring, where are such as betrayed their Country--Bocca degli Abati--Buoso da Duera-- The Ninth Circle--Antenora continued--Ugolino and his tale--the Third Ring, or Ptolomaea, where are those treacherous to their Friends--Friar Alberigo--Branca d'Oria, The Ninth Circle--the Fourth Ring or Judecca, the deepest point of the Inferno and the Centre of the Universe--it is the place of those treacherous to their Lords or Benefactors--Lucifer with Judas, Brutus, and Cassius hanging from his mouths--passage through the Centre of the Earth--ascent from the depths to the light of the stars in the Southern Hemisphere, impelled unconsciously by the forces that in every society divide The opportunity of this class might seem to have come when the threatened for their persevering and active enmity to Siena, now were ready to betray a gate to them. In vain did Tegghiaio The fortifications of Florence had been recently completed and Cacciaguida, and feigns contrition for the pleasure with which he blood. In Inferno he catches a glimpse, sudden and terrible, of a Dante was born in Florence in the May of 1265. A brother of his father had been one of the guards of the Florentine Caroccio, or standard-bearing car, at the battle of Montaperti (1260). Whether Baptistery, his beautiful St. John's. At the font he received the written down of necessity, the poet says--the necessity of being Of the poems written in his youth he made a selection, and with a circumstances of her departure, he says, without being his own imagination and of his heart. The narrative of the _Vita Nuova_ is fluent and graceful, in this verse. These inherited from the Provencal and Sicilian poets much 'After losing the earliest joy of my life, I was so smitten with sorrow that in nothing could I find any comfort. Yet after some time my mind, eager to recover its tone, since nought that I or reading that little-known book by Boethius, by writing which he, friend Scipio, I read that too. And though at the first I found their meaning hard, at last I comprehended it as far as my knowledge of the language and some little command of mother-wit enabled me to do: which same mother-wit had already helped me to much, as may be seen by the _Vita Nuova_. And as it often happens tears, became possessed of wisdom from authors and sciences and books. Weighing this well, I deemed that philosophy, the mistress things. And imagining her to myself fashioned like a great lady, rich in compassion, my admiration of her was so unbounded that I found in very deed--in the schools of theology, to wit, and the In this passage it is less the poet that is heard than the sober One strong claim which Corso Donati had on the goodwill of his fellow-townsmen was that by his ready courage in pushing on the absence from Florence to treat freely with the Pope. Besides Dante many other Whites had been expelled from Florence. successor, sent the Cardinal of Ostia to Florence with powers to reconcile the two parties. Dante is usually credited with the composition of the letter in which Vieri dei Cerchi and his fellow-exiles answered the call of the Cardinal to discuss the himself. With the Whites, then, he had little more to do; and the addressed to the 'wicked Florentines,' to the Emperor, and to the obedience, but to descend on Florence, the rotten sheep which was Florentines he had raised fresh barriers against his return. The Italy, and had 'been held cheap by many who, because of his fame, We have Dante's own word for it that he found his exile almost intolerable. Besides the bitter resentment which he felt at the debt appears to be ascertained; but, without knowing the husband. But this is all matter of the merest speculation. Gemma is known to have been alive in 1314. She brought up her children, matter Boccaccio is a prejudiced witness, and, in the absence of first annexed to the world of Romance. For hours of relaxation, humanists of a century or two later were to make the world intellectual perception of these that Dante had--or professed to when required to declare in what he believes, nothing against the priest-ridden. It was liberty that he went seeking on his great journey; and he gives no hint that it is to be gained by the servants. If e'er it comes that this my sacred Lay, To which both Heaven and Earth have set their hand-- Through which these many years I waste away-- Shall quell the cruelty that keeps me banned From the fair fold where I, a lamb, was found Hostile to wolves who 'gainst it violence planned; With other fleece and voice of other sound, Poet will I return, and at the font Where I was christened be with laurel crowned. Whether by Matilda the great Countess is meant has been eagerly disputed, and many of the best critics--such as Witte and Scartazzini--prefer to find in her one of the ladies of the _Vita See note on _Inferno_ xxx. 73. Dante sets the Abbot among the traitors in Inferno, and says Villani throws doubt on the guilt of the Abbot. There were some cases of churchmen being Ghibelines, as for instance that of the Manfred, says John Villani (_Cronica_, vi. 74 and 75), at first Provenzano is found by Dante in Purgatory, which he has been For this good advice he gets a word of praise in Inferno (_Inf._ These mercenaries, though called Germans, were of various races. Lucera was a fortress which had been peopled with Saracens by For an account of the constitution and activity of the _Parte The month is indicated by Dante himself, _Parad._ xxii. 110. The _Inf._ viii. 45, where Virgil says of Dante that blessed was she statement. surface--between his experience and Dante's. G. Villani, viii. 10. Latini died in 1294. Villani gives the old We may, I think, assume the _Vita Nuova_ to have been published So long as even Italian critics are not agreed as to whether the As, indeed, Boccaccio, _Vita di Dante_, expressly says was the case. The _Vita Nuova_ contains some thirty poems. In this matter we must not judge the conduct of Dante by English Beatrice died in June 1290, having been born in April 1266. His sister is probably meant by the 'young and gentle lady, most The difference between the Teutonic and Southern conception of marriage must be kept in mind. He describes the weather on the day of the battle with the exactness of one who had been there (_Purg._ v. 155). The _Convito_ was to have consisted of fifteen books. Only four were written. From the last canzone of the _Convito_. Sacchetti's stories of how Dante showed displeasure with the blacksmith and the donkey-driver who murdered his _canzoni_ are 'In painting Cimabue deemed the field His own, but now on Giotto goes the cry, Till by his fame the other's is concealed.' No unusual provision in the industrious Italian cities. Harsh At a later period the Priors were known as the Signory. Fraticelli, _Storia della Vita di Dante_, page 112 and note. It is to be regretted that Ampere in his charming _Voyage Florentine embassies. The tendency of his early biographers is to Dante has a word of praise for Giano, at _Parad._ xvi. 127. At which Dante fought. See page lxii. Vieri was called Messer, a title reserved for magnates, knights, Villani acted for some time as an agent abroad of the great business house of Peruzzi. Albert of Hapsburg was chosen Emperor in 1298, but was never crowned at Rome. As in the days of Guelf and Ghibeline, so now in those of Blacks excommunication. Charles of Anjou had lost Sicily at the Sicilian Vespers, 1282. _Inf._ vi. 66, where their expulsion is prophesied. See at _Purg._ xx. 43 Dante's invective against Philip and the Capets in general. The ingenious speculations of Troya (_Del Veltro Allegorico di The _Convito_ is in Italian, and his words are: 'wherever this language is spoken.' There is a splendid passage in praise of this family, _Purg._ It is true that Villani not only says that 'he went to study at 'O ye, who have hitherto been following me in some small In the notes to Fraticelli's _Vita di Dante_ (Florence 1861) are The details are given by Witte, _Dante-Forschungen_, vol ii. p. See in Scartazzini, _Dante Alighieri_, 1879, page 552, extract In Purgatory his conscience accuses him of pride, and he already In a letter of a few lines to one of the Marquises Malaspina, However early the _De Monarchia_ may have been written, it is The _De Vulgari Eloquio_ is in Latin. Dante's own Italian is barbarous, even for the period. But in urgent need of more of it.--He says of 'the sublime As, for instance, Herr Scheffer-Boichorst in his _Aus Dantes The Traversari (_Purg._ xiv. 107). Guido's wife was of the In 1350 a sum of ten gold florins was sent from Florence by the The embassy to Venice is mentioned by Villani, and there was a Not that Dante ever mentions these any more than a hundred other A certain Cecco d'Ascoli stuck to him like a bur, charging him, _Inf._ x. and xxviii. There is no place in Purgatory where those Vasari, in his _Lives of the Painters_, tells that in his day the 'All inferences to be deduced from the subject and form of these frescos point to the date of 1301-2. It may be inquired whether portrait would hardly have been introduced into a picture so conspicuously visible as this, had not the poet at the time been executed previous to Dante's exile, and this view is confirmed by the technical and artistic progress which they reveal. They difficulties it presents. bloodshed. Nor is it easy to imagine how, at any time during his In 1326 Dante had been dead for five years. The grudge his anachronisms. Had Dante been still living the painter would have been less at liberty to create, out of the records he doubtless It is best known, and can now be judged of only through the Antonio Pucci, born in 1300, in his _Centiloquio_, describes the In the Munich collection of drawings, and ascribed to Masaccio, but with how much reason I do not know. Painted by Domenico Michelino in 1465, after a sketch by Alessio 'Wearing over the long hair of the Frenchmen of the period a The Priorate was the highest office to which a citizen could aspire, but by no means the highest in Florence. I suppose the meaning is 'immediately previous.' John Villani, _Cronica_, viii. 40 and 49; and Perrens, _Hist. de Who the other Florentines in the fresco are does not greatly Only twenty-five, if the commonly accepted date of his birth is correct. In any case, he was still a young man. It is true that, on technical grounds, it has been questioned if Long since destroyed. An anachronism of another kind would have been committed by In middle of the journey of our days I found that I was in a darksome wood-- The right road lost and vanished in the maze. Ah me! how hard to make it understood How rough that wood was, wild, and terrible: By the mere thought my terror is renewed. More bitter scarce were death. But ere I tell At large of good which there by me was found, I will relate what other things befell. Scarce know I how I entered on that ground, So deeply, at the moment when I passed From the right way, was I in slumber drowned. But when beneath a hill arrived at last, Which for the boundary of the valley stood, That with such terror had my heart harassed, I upwards looked and saw its shoulders glowed, Radiant already with that planet's light Which guideth surely upon every road. A little then was quieted by the sight The fear which deep within my heart had lain Through all my sore experience of the night. And as the man, who, breathing short in pain, Hath 'scaped the sea and struggled to the shore, Turns back to gaze upon the perilous main; Even so my soul which fear still forward bore Turned to review the pass whence I egressed, And which none, living, ever left before. My wearied frame refreshed with scanty rest, I to ascend the lonely hill essayed; The lower foot still that on which I pressed. And lo! ere I had well beginning made, A nimble leopard, light upon her feet, And in a skin all spotted o'er arrayed: Nor ceased she e'er me full in the face to meet, And to me in my path such hindrance threw That many a time I wheeled me to retreat. It was the hour of dawn; with retinue Of stars that were with him when Love Divine In the beginning into motion drew Those beauteous things, the sun began to shine; And I took heart to be of better cheer Touching the creature with the gaudy skin, Seeing 'twas morn, and spring-tide of the year; Yet not so much but that when into sight A lion came, I was disturbed with fear. Towards me he seemed advancing in his might, Rabid with hunger and with head high thrown: The very air was tremulous with fright. A she-wolf, too, beheld I further on; All kinds of lust seemed in her leanness pent: Through her, ere now, much folk have misery known. By her oppressed, and altogether spent By the terror breathing from her aspect fell, I lost all hope of making the ascent. And as the man who joys while thriving well, When comes the time to lose what he has won In all his thoughts weeps inconsolable, So mourned I through the brute which rest knows none: She barred my way again and yet again, And thrust me back where silent is the sun. And as I downward rushed to reach the plain, Before mine eyes appeared there one aghast, When I beheld him in the desert vast, 'Whate'er thou art, or ghost or man,' I cried, 'I pray thee show such pity as thou hast.' 'No man, though once I was; on either side Lombard my parents were, and both of them For native place had Mantua,' he replied. 'Though late, _sub Julio_, to the world I came, And lived at Rome in good Augustus' day, While yet false gods and lying were supreme. Poet I was, renowning in my lay Anchises' righteous son, who fled from Troy What time proud Ilion was to flames a prey. But thou, why going back to such annoy? The hill delectable why fear to mount, The origin and ground of every joy?' 'And thou in sooth art Virgil, and the fount Whence in a stream so full doth language flow?' Abashed, I answered him with humble front. 'Of other poets light and honour thou! Let the long study and great zeal I've shown In searching well thy book, avail me now! My master thou, and author thou, alone! From thee alone I, borrowing, could attain The style consummate which has made me known. Behold the beast which makes me turn again: Deliver me from her, illustrious Sage; Because of her I tremble, pulse and vein.' 'Thou must attempt another pilgrimage,' Observing that I wept, he made reply, 'If from this waste thyself thou 'dst disengage. Because the beast thou art afflicted by Will suffer none along her way to pass, But, hindering them, harasses till they die. So vile a nature and corrupt she has, Her raging lust is still insatiate, And food but makes it fiercer than it was. Many a creature hath she ta'en for mate, And more she'll wed until the hound comes forth To slay her and afflict with torment great. He will not batten upon pelf or earth; But he shall feed on valour, love, and lore; Feltro and Feltro 'tween shall be his birth. He will save humbled Italy, and restore, For which of old virgin Camilla died; Turnus, Euryalus, Nisus, died of yore. Her through all cities chasing far and wide, He at the last to Hell will thrust her down, Whence envy first unloosed her. I decide Therefore and judge that thou hadst best come on With me for guide; and hence I'll lead thee where A place eternal shall to thee be shown. There shalt thou hear the howlings of despair In which the ancient spirits make lament, All of them fain the second death to share. Next shalt thou them behold who are content, Because they hope some time, though now in fire, To join the blessed they will win consent. And if to these thou later wouldst aspire, A soul shall guide thee, worthier far than I; When I depart thee will I leave with her. Because the Emperor who reigns on high Wills not, since 'gainst His laws I did rebel, That to His city I bring any nigh. O'er all the world He rules, there reigns as well; There is His city and exalted seat: O happy whom He chooses there to dwell!' And I to him: 'Poet, I thee entreat, Even by that God who was to thee unknown, That I may 'scape this present ill, nor meet With worse, conduct me whither thou hast shown, That I may see Saint Peter's gate, and those Whom thou reportest in such misery thrown.' He moved away; behind him held I close. _Middle_: In his _Convito_ (iv. 23), comparing human life to an _Darksome wood_: A state of spiritual darkness or despair into which he has gradually drifted, not without fault of his own. _The lower foot, etc._: This describes a cautious, slow ascent. _A nimble leopard_: The leopard and the lion and wolf that come _A lion_: Pride or arrogance; to be taken in its widest sense of _No man_: Brunetto Latini, the friend and master of Dante, says 'the soul is the life of man, but without the body is not man.' _Author_: Dante defines an author as 'one worthy to be believed _The style, etc._: Some at least of Dante's minor works had been _Many a creature, etc._: Great men and states, infected with _Feltro and Feltro, etc._: Who the deliverer was that Dante _Camilla, etc._: All persons of the _AEneid_. _Thou hadst best, etc._: As will be seen from the next Canto, _A soul_: Beatrice. It was the close of day; the twilight brown All living things on earth was setting free From toil, while I preparing was alone To face the battle which awaited me, As well of ruth as of the perilous quest, Now to be limned by faultless memory. Help, lofty genius! Muses, manifest Goodwill to me! Recording what befell, Do thou, O mind, now show thee at thy best! I thus began: 'Poet, and Guide as well, Ere trusting me on this adventure wide, Judge if my strength of it be capable. Thou say'st that Silvius' father, ere he died, Still mortal to the world immortal went, There in the body some time to abide. Yet that the Foe of evil was content That he should come, seeing what high effect, And who and what should from him claim descent, No room for doubt can thoughtful man detect: For he of noble Rome, and of her sway Imperial, in high Heaven grew sire elect. And both of these, the very truth to say, Were founded for the holy seat, whereon The Greater Peter's follower sits to-day. Upon this journey, praised by thee, were known And heard things by him, to the which he owed His triumph, whence derives the Papal gown. That path the Chosen Vessel later trod So of the faith assurance to receive, Which is beginning of salvation's road. But why should I go? Who will sanction give? For I am no AEneas and no Paul; Me worthy of it no one can believe, Nor I myself. Hence venturing at thy call, I dread the journey may prove rash. But vain For me to reason; wise, thou know'st it all.' Like one no more for what he wished for fain, Whose purpose shares mutation with his thought Till from the thing begun he turns again; On that dim slope so grew I all distraught, Because, by brooding on it, the design I shrank from, which before I warmly sought. 'If well I understand these words of thine,' The shade of him magnanimous made reply, 'Thy soul 'neath cowardice hath sunk supine, Which a man often is so burdened by, It makes him falter from a noble aim, As beasts at objects ill-distinguished shy. To loose thee from this terror, why I came, And what the speech I heard, I will relate, When first of all I pitied thee. A dame Hailed me where I 'mongst those in dubious state Had my abode: so blest was she and fair, Her to command me I petitioned straight. Her eyes were shining brighter than the star; And she began to say in accents sweet And tuneable as angel's voices are: "O Mantuan Shade, in courtesy complete, Whose fame survives on earth, nor less shall grow Through all the ages, while the world hath seat; A friend of mine, with fortune for his foe, Has met with hindrance on his desert way, And, terror-smitten, can no further go, But turns; and that he is too far astray, And that I rose too late for help, I dread, From what in Heaven concerning him they say. Go, with thy speech persuasive him bestead, And with all needful help his guardian prove, That touching him I may be comforted. Know, it is Beatrice seeks thee thus to move. Thence come I where I to return am fain: My coming and my plea are ruled by love. When I shall stand before my Lord again, Often to Him I will renew thy praise." "O virtuous Lady, thou alone the race Of man exaltest 'bove all else that dwell Beneath the heaven which wheels in narrowest space. To do thy bidding pleases me so well, Though 'twere already done 'twere all too slow; Thy wish at greater length no need to tell. But say, what tempted thee to come thus low, Even to this centre, from the region vast, Whither again thou art on fire to go?" "This much to learn since a desire thou hast," She answered, "briefly thee I'll satisfy, How, coming here, I through no terrors passed. We are, of right, such things alarmed by, As have the power to hurt us; all beside Are harmless, and not fearful. Wherefore I-- Thus formed by God, His bounty is so wide-- Am left untouched by all your miseries, And through this burning unmolested glide. A noble lady is in Heaven, who sighs O'er the obstruction where I'd have thee go, And breaks the rigid edict of the skies. Calling on Lucia, thus she made her know What she desired: 'Thy vassal now hath need Of help from thee; do thou then helpful show.' Lucia, who hates all cruelty, in speed Rose, and approaching where I sat at rest, To venerable Rachel giving heed, Me: 'Beatrice, true praise of God,' addressed; 'Why not help him who had such love for thee, And from the vulgar throng to win thee pressed? Dost thou not hear him weeping pitiably, Nor mark the death now threatening him upon A flood than which less awful is the sea?' Never on earth did any ever run, Allured by profit or impelled by fear, Swifter than I, when speaking she had done, From sitting 'mong the blest descended here, My trust upon thy comely rhetoric cast, Which honours thee and those who lend it ear." When of these words she spoken had the last, She turned aside bright eyes which tears did fill, And I by this was urged to greater haste. And so it was I joined thee by her will, And from that raging beast delivered thee, Which barred the near way up the beauteous hill. What ails thee then? Why thus a laggard be? Why cherish in thy heart a craven fear? Where is thy franchise, where thy bravery, When three such blessed ladies have a care For thee in Heaven's court, and these words of mine Thee for such wealth of blessedness prepare?' As flowers, by chills nocturnal made to pine And shut themselves, when touched by morning bright Upon their stems arise, full-blown and fine; So of my faltering courage changed the plight, And such good cheer ran through my heart, it spurred Me to declare, like free-born generous wight: 'O pitiful, who for my succour stirred! And thou how full of courtesy to run, Alert in service, hearkening her true word! Thou with thine eloquence my heart hast won To keen desire to go, and the intent Which first I held I now no longer shun. Therefore proceed; my will with thine is blent: Thou art my Guide, Lord, Master; thou alone!' Thus I; and with him, as he forward went, The steep and rugged road I entered on. _Close of day_: The evening of the Friday. It comes on us with _Alone_: Of earthly creatures, though in company with Virgil, a displayed his commission. _Silvius' father_: AEneas, whose visit to the world of shades is _Both of these_: Dante uses language slightly apologetic as he _Papal gown_: 'The great mantle' Dante elsewhere terms it; the emblem of the Papal dignity. It was only in Dante's own time that _Chosen Vessel_: Paul, who like AEneas visited the other world, _Dubious state_: The limbo of the virtuous heathen (Canto iv.). _The star_: In the _Vita Nuova_ Dante speaks of the star in the singular when he means the stars. _In narrowest space_: The heaven of the moon, on the Ptolemaic _The region vast_: The empyrean, or tenth and highest heaven of _A noble lady_: The Virgin Mary, of whom it is said (_Parad._ _Thy vassal_: Saint Lucy being held in special veneration by _Rachel_: Symbol of the contemplative life. _Tears_: Beatrice weeps for human misery--especially that of _My Guide, etc._: After hearing how Virgil was moved to come, Through me to the city dolorous lies the way, Who pass through me shall pains eternal prove, Through me are reached the people lost for aye. 'Twas Justice did my Glorious Maker move; I was created by the Power Divine, No thing's creation earlier was than mine, If not eternal; I for aye endure: Ye who make entrance, every hope resign! These words beheld I writ in hue obscure On summit of a gateway; wherefore I: 'Hard is their meaning, Master.' Like one sure Beforehand of my thought, he made reply: 'Here it behoves to leave all fears behind; All cowardice behoveth here to die. For now the place I told thee of we find, Where thou the miserable folk shouldst see Who the true good of reason have resigned.' Then, with a glance of glad serenity, He took my hand in his, which made me bold, And brought me in where secret things there be. There sighs and plaints and wailings uncontrolled The dim and starless air resounded through; Nor at the first could I from tears withhold. The various languages and words of woe, The uncouth accents, mixed with angry cries And smiting palms and voices loud and low, Composed a tumult which doth circling rise For ever in that air obscured for aye; As when the sand upon the whirlwind flies. And, horror-stricken, I began to say: 'Master, what sound can this be that I hear, And who the folk thus whelmed in misery?' And he replied: 'In this condition drear Are held the souls of that inglorious crew Who lived unhonoured, but from guilt kept clear. Mingled they are with caitiff angels, who, Though from avowed rebellion they refrained, Disloyal to God, did selfish ends pursue. Heaven hurled them forth, lest they her beauty stained; Received they are not by the nether hell, Else triumph thence were by the guilty gained.' And I: 'What bear they, Master, to compel Their lamentations in such grievous tone?' He answered: 'In few words I will thee tell. No hope of death is to the wretches known; So dim the life and abject where they sigh They count all sufferings easier than their own. Of them the world endures no memory; Mercy and justice them alike disdain. Speak we not of them: glance, and pass them by.' I saw a banner when I looked again, Which, always whirling round, advanced in haste As if despising steadfast to remain. And after it so many people chased In long procession, I should not have said That death had ever wrought such countless waste. Some first I recognised, and then the shade I saw and knew of him, the search to close, Straightway I knew and was assured that those Were of the tribe of caitiffs, even the race Despised of God and hated of His foes. The wretches, who when living showed no trace Of life, went naked, and were fiercely stung By wasps and hornets swarming in that place. Blood drawn by these out of their faces sprung And, mingled with their tears, was at their feet Sucked up by loathsome worms it fell among. Casting mine eyes beyond, of these replete, People I saw beside an ample stream, Whereon I said: 'O Master, I entreat, Tell who these are, and by what law they seem Impatient till across the river gone; As I distinguish by this feeble gleam.' And he: 'These things shall unto thee be known What time our footsteps shall at rest be found Upon the woful shores of Acheron.' Then with ashamed eyes cast on the ground, Fearing my words were irksome in his ear, Until we reached the stream I made no sound. And toward us, lo, within a bark drew near A veteran who with ancient hair was white, Shouting: 'Ye souls depraved, be filled with fear. Hope never more of Heaven to win the sight; I come to take you to the other strand, To frost and fire and everlasting night. And thou, O living soul, who there dost stand, From 'mong the dead withdraw thee.' Then, aware That not at all I stirred at his command, 'By other ways, from other ports thou'lt fare; But they will lead thee to another shore, And 'tis a skiff more buoyant must thee bear.' And then my leader: 'Charon, be not sore, For thus it has been willed where power ne'er came Short of the will; thou therefore ask no more.' And hereupon his shaggy cheeks grew tame Who is the pilot of the livid pool, And round about whose eyes glowed wheels of flame. But all the shades, naked and spent with dool, Stood chattering with their teeth, and changing hue Soon as they heard the words unmerciful. God they blasphemed, and families whence they grew; Mankind, the time, place, seed in which began Their lives, and seed whence they were born. Then drew They crowding all together, as they ran, Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore Predestinate for every godless man. The demon Charon, with eyes evermore Aglow, makes signals, gathering them all; And whoso lingers smiteth with his oar. And as the faded leaves of autumn fall One after the other, till at last the bough Sees on the ground spread all its coronal; With Adam's evil seed so haps it now: At signs each falls in turn from off the coast, As fowls into the ambush fluttering go. The gloomy waters thus by them are crossed, And ere upon the further side they land, On this, anew, is gathering a host. 'Son,' said the courteous Master, 'understand, All such as in the wrath of God expire, From every country muster on this strand. To cross the river they are all on fire; Their wills by Heavenly justice goaded on Until their terror merges in desire. This way no righteous soul has ever gone; Wherefore of thee if Charon should complain, Now art thou sure what by his words is shown.' When he had uttered this the dismal plain Trembled so violently, my terror past Recalling now, I'm bathed in sweat again. Out of the tearful ground there moaned a blast Whence lightning flashed forth red and terrible, Which vanquished all my senses; and, as cast In sudden slumber, to the ground I fell. _Power Divine, etc._: The Persons of the Trinity, described by their attributes. _If not eternal_: Only the angels and the heavenly spheres were _Uncouth accents_: 'Like German,' says Boccaccio. _Else triumph, etc._: The satisfaction of the rebel angels at _A banner_: Emblem of the instability of those who would never take a side. representative caitiff is just that, being himself virtuous, he suggested in place of Celestine. To either of them there lies the _As fowls, etc._: 'As a bird to its lure'--generally interpreted _Trembled, etc._: Symbolical of the increase of woe in Inferno Resounding thunder broke the slumber deep That drowsed my senses, and myself I shook Like one by force awakened out of sleep. Then rising up I cast a steady look, With eyes refreshed, on all that lay around, And cognisance of where I found me took. In sooth, me on the valley's brink I found Of the dolorous abyss, where infinite Despairing cries converge with thundering sound. Cloudy it was, and deep, and dark as night; So dark that, peering eagerly to find What its depths held, no object met my sight. 'Descend we now into this region blind,' Began the Poet with a face all pale; 'I will go first, and do thou come behind.' Marking the wanness on his cheek prevail, I asked, 'How can I, seeing thou hast dread, My wonted comforter when doubts assail?' 'The anguish of the people,' then he said, 'Who are below, has painted on my face Pity, by thee for fear interpreted. Come! The long journey bids us move apace.' Then entered he and made me enter too The topmost circle girding the abyss. Therein, as far as I by listening knew, There was no lamentation save of sighs, Whence throbbed the air eternal through and through. This, sorrow without suffering made arise From infants and from women and from men, Gathered in great and many companies. And the good Master: 'Wouldst thou nothing then Of who those spirits are have me relate? Yet know, ere passing further, although when On earth they sinned not, worth however great Availed them not, they being unbaptized-- Part of the faith thou holdest. If their fate Was to be born ere man was Christianised, God, as behoved, they never could adore: And I myself am with this folk comprised. For such defects--our guilt is nothing more-- We are thus lost, suffering from this alone That, hopeless, we our want of bliss deplore.' Greatly I sorrowed when he made this known, Because I knew that some who did excel In worthiness were to that limbo gone. 'Tell me, O Sir,' I prayed him, 'Master, tell,' --That I of the belief might surety win, Victorious every error to dispel-- 'Did ever any hence to bliss attain By merit of another or his own?' And he, to whom my hidden drift was plain: 'I to this place but lately had come down, When I beheld one hither make descent; A Potentate who wore a victor's crown. The shade of our first sire forth with him went, And his son Abel's, Noah's forth he drew, Moses' who gave the laws, the obedient Patriarch Abram's, and King David's too; And, with his sire and children, Israel, And Rachel, winning whom such toils he knew; And many more, in blessedness to dwell. And I would have thee know, earlier than these No human soul was ever saved from Hell.' While thus he spake our progress did not cease, But we continued through the wood to stray; The wood, I mean, with crowded ghosts for trees. Ere from the summit far upon our way We yet had gone, I saw a flame which glowed, Holding a hemisphere of dark at bay. 'Twas still a little further on our road, Yet not so far but that in part I guessed That honourable people there abode. 'Of art and science Ornament confessed! Who are these honoured in such high degree, And in their lot distinguished from the rest?' He said: 'For them their glorious memory, Still in thy world the subject of renown, Wins grace by Heaven distinguished thus to be.' Meanwhile I heard a voice: 'Be honour shown To the illustrious poet, for his shade Is now returning which a while was gone.' When the voice paused nor further utterance made, Four mighty shades drew near with one accord, In aspect neither sorrowful nor glad. 'Consider that one, armed with a sword,' Began my worthy Master in my ear, 'Before the three advancing like their lord; For he is Homer, poet with no peer: Horace the satirist is next in line, Ovid comes third, and Lucan in the rear. And 'tis because their claim agrees with mine Upon the name they with one voice did cry, They to their honour in my praise combine.' Thus I beheld their goodly company-- The lords of song in that exalted style Which o'er all others, eagle-like, soars high. Having conferred among themselves a while They turned toward me and salutation made, And, this beholding, did my Master smile. And honour higher still to me was paid, For of their company they made me one; So I the sixth part 'mong such genius played. Thus journeyed we to where the brightness shone, Holding discourse which now 'tis well to hide, As, where I was, to hold it was well done. At length we reached a noble castle's side Which lofty sevenfold walls encompassed round, And it was moated by a sparkling tide. This we traversed as if it were dry ground; I through seven gates did with those sages go; Then in a verdant mead people we found Whose glances were deliberate and slow. Authority was stamped on every face; Seldom they spake, in tuneful voices low. We drew apart to a high open space Upon one side which, luminously serene, Did of them all a perfect view embrace. Thence, opposite, on the enamel green Were shown me mighty spirits; with delight I still am stirred them only to have seen. With many more, Electra was in sight; 'Mong them I Hector and AEneas spied, Caesar in arms, his eyes, like falcon's, bright. And, opposite, Camilla I descried; Penthesilea too; the Latian King Sat with his child Lavinia by his side. Brutus I saw, who Tarquin forth did fling; Saladin sat alone. Considering What lay beyond with somewhat lifted eyes, The Master I beheld of those that know, 'Mong such as in philosophy were wise. All gazed on him as if toward him to show Becoming honour; Plato in advance With Socrates: the others stood below. Democritus who set the world on chance; Zeno, and Anaxagoras met my glance; Wise judge of nature. Tully, Orpheus, were With ethic Seneca and Linus. These, And Ptolemy, too, and Euclid, geometer, Averroes, the same who did prepare The Comment, saw I; nor can tell again The names of all I saw; the subject wide So urgent is, time often fails me. Then Into two bands the six of us divide; Me by another way my Leader wise Doth from the calm to air which trembles, guide. I reach a part which all benighted lies. _Limbo_: Border, or borderland. Dante makes the First Circle _Hidden drift_: to find out, at first hand as it were, if the _A Potentate_: The name of Christ is not mentioned in the _Wins grace, etc._: The thirst for fame was one keenly felt and _A sword_: Because Homer sings of battles. Dante's acquaintance with his works can have been but slight, as they were not then translated into Latin, and Dante knew little or no Greek. _Did my Master smile_: To see Dante made free of the guild of _A noble castle_: Where the light burns, and in which, as their _Caesar in arms, etc._: Suetonius says of Caesar that he was of _Brutus_: Introduced here that he may not be confounded with the _Marcia_: Wife of Cato; mentioned also in _Purg._ i. _Julia_: daughter of Caesar and wife of Pompey. _Saladin_: Died 1193. To the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries commentator. _The Master_: Aristotle, often spoken of by Dante as the _Linus_: Not Livy, into which some have changed it. Linus is mentioned by Virgil along with Orpheus, _Egl._ iv. _Ptolemy_: Greek geographer of the beginning of the second _Avicenna_: A physician, born in Bokhara, and died at Ispahan, _A part, etc._: He passes into the darkness of the Limbo out of From the First Circle thus I downward went Into the Second, which girds narrower space, But greater woe compelling loud lament. Minos waits awful there and snarls, the case Examining of all who enter in; And, as he girds him, dooms them to their place. I say, each ill-starred spirit must begin On reaching him its guilt in full to tell; And he, omniscient as concerning sin, Sees to what circle it belongs in Hell; Then round him is his tail as often curled As he would have it stages deep to dwell. And evermore before him stand a world Of shades; and all in turn to judgment come, Confess and hear, and then are downward hurled. 'O thou who comest to the very home Of woe,' when he beheld me Minos cried, Ceasing a while from utterance of doom, 'Enter not rashly nor in all confide; By ease of entering be not led astray.' 'Why also growling?' answered him my Guide; 'Seek not his course predestinate to stay; For thus 'tis willed where nothing ever fails Of what is willed. No further speech essay.' And now by me are agonising wails Distinguished plain; now am I come outright Where grievous lamentation me assails. Now had I reached a place devoid of light, Raging as in a tempest howls the sea When with it winds, blown thwart each other, fight. The infernal storm is raging ceaselessly, Sweeping the shades along with it, and them It smites and whirls, nor lets them ever be. Arrived at the precipitous extreme, In shrieks and lamentations they complain, And even the Power Divine itself blaspheme. I understood that to this mode of pain Are doomed the sinners of the carnal kind, Who o'er their reason let their impulse reign. As starlings in the winter-time combined Float on the wing in crowded phalanx wide, So these bad spirits, driven by that wind, Float up and down and veer from side to side; Nor for their comfort any hope they spy Of rest, or even of suffering mollified. And as the cranes in long-drawn company Pursue their flight while uttering their song, So I beheld approach with wailing cry Shades lifted onward by that whirlwind strong. 'Master, what folk are these,' I therefore said, 'Who by the murky air are whipped along?' 'She, first of them,' his answer thus was made, 'Of whom thou wouldst a wider knowledge win, O'er many tongues and peoples, empire swayed. So ruined was she by licentious sin That she decreed lust should be uncontrolled, To ease the shame that she herself was in. She is Semiramis, of whom 'tis told She followed Ninus, and his wife had been. Hers were the realms now by the Sultan ruled. The next is she who, amorous and self-slain, Unto Sichaeus' dust did faithless show: Then lustful Cleopatra.' Next was seen Helen, for whom so many years in woe Ran out; and I the great Achilles knew, Who at the last encountered love for foe. Paris I saw and Tristram. In review A thousand shades and more, he one by one Pointed and named, whom love from life withdrew. And after I had heard my Teacher run O'er many a dame of yore and many a knight, I, lost in pity, was wellnigh undone. Then I: 'O Poet, if I only might Speak with the two that as companions hie, And on the wind appear to be so light!' And he to me: 'When they shall come more nigh Them shalt thou mark, and by the love shalt pray Which leads them onward, and they will comply.' Soon as the wind bends them to where we stay I lift my voice: 'O wearied souls and worn! Come speak with us if none the boon gainsay.' Then even as doves, urged by desire, return On outspread wings and firm to their sweet nest As through the air by mere volition borne, From Dido's band those spirits issuing pressed Towards where we were, athwart the air malign; My passionate prayer such influence possessed. 'O living creature, gracious and benign, Us visiting in this obscured air, Who did the earth with blood incarnadine; If in the favour of the King we were Who rules the world, we for thy peace would pray, Since our misfortunes thy compassion stir. Whate'er now pleases thee to hear or say We listen to, or tell, at your demand; While yet the wind, as now, doth silent stay. My native city lies upon the strand Where to the sea descends the river Po For peace, with all his tributary band. Love, in a generous heart set soon aglow, Seized him for the fair form was mine above; And still it irks me to have lost it so. Love, which absolves no one beloved from love, So strong a passion for him in me wrought That, as thou seest, I still its mastery prove. Love led us where we in one death were caught. For him who slew us waits Caina now.' Unto our ears these words from them were brought. When I had heard these troubled souls, my brow I downward bent, and long while musing stayed, Until the Poet asked: 'What thinkest thou?' And when I answered him, 'Alas!' I said, 'Sweet thoughts how many, and what strong desire, These to their sad catastrophe betrayed!' Then, turned once more to them, I to inquire Began: 'Francesca, these thine agonies Me with compassion unto tears inspire. But tell me, at the season of sweet sighs What sign made love, and what the means he chose To strip your dubious longings of disguise?' And she to me: 'The bitterest of woes Is to remember in the midst of pain A happy past; as well thy teacher knows. Yet none the less, and since thou art so fain The first occasion of our love to hear, Like one I speak that cannot tears restrain. As we for pastime one day reading were How Lancelot by love was fettered fast-- All by ourselves and without any fear-- Moved by the tale our eyes we often cast On one another, and our colour fled; But one word was it, vanquished us at last. When how the smile, long wearied for, we read Was kissed by him who loved like none before, This one, who henceforth never leaves me, laid A kiss on my mouth, trembling the while all o'er. The book was Galahad, and he as well Who wrote the book. That day we read no more.' And while one shade continued thus to tell, The other wept so bitterly, I swooned Away for pity, and as dead I fell: Yea, as a corpse falls, fell I on the ground. _The Second_: The Second Circle of the Inferno, and the first of _Downward hurled_: Each falls to his proper place without _Precipitous extreme_: Opinions vary as to what is meant by lamentations against their irremediable fate. _I understood, etc._: From the nature of the punishment, which, _The cranes_: 'The cranes are a kind of bird that go in a troop, _What folk are these_: The general crowd of sinners guilty of _The next_: Dido, perhaps not named by Virgil because to him she _If none_: If no Superior Power. _Doves_: The motion of the tempest-driven shades is compared to _Dido_: Has been already indicated, and is now named. This _Living creature_: 'Animal.' No shade, but an animated body. goodheartedness is left her--a consolation, if not a grace. _Your demand_: By a refinement of courtesy, Francesca, though _Native city_: Ravenna. The speaker is Francesca, daughter of _To have lost it so_: A husband's right and duty were too well breathing-space for repentance and farewells. _Which absolves, etc._: Which compels whoever is beloved to love _Thy teacher_: Boethius, one of Dante's favourite authors _Lancelot_: King Arthur's famous knight, who was too bashful to _Galahad_: From the part played by Galahad, or Galeotto, in the When I regained my senses, which had fled At my compassion for the kindred two, Which for pure sorrow quite had turned my head, New torments and a crowd of sufferers new I see around me as I move again, Where'er I turn, where'er I bend my view. In the Third Circle am I of the rain Which, heavy, cold, eternal, big with woe, Doth always of one kind and force remain. Large hail and turbid water, mixed with snow, Keep pouring down athwart the murky air; And from the ground they fall on, stenches grow. The savage Cerberus, a monster drear, Howls from his threefold throat with canine cries Above the people who are whelmed there. Oily and black his beard, and red his eyes, His belly huge: claws from his fingers sprout. The shades he flays, hooks, rends in cruel wise. Beat by the rain these, dog-like, yelp and shout, And shield themselves in turn with either side; And oft the wretched sinners turn about. When we by Cerberus, great worm, were spied, He oped his mouths and all his fangs he showed, While not a limb did motionless abide. My Leader having spread his hands abroad, Filled both his fists with earth ta'en from the ground, And down the ravening gullets flung the load. Then, as sharp set with hunger barks the hound, But is appeased when at his meat he gnaws, And, worrying it, forgets all else around; So with those filthy faces there it was Of the fiend Cerberus, who deafs the crowd Of souls till they from hearing fain would pause. We, travelling o'er the spirits who lay cowed And sorely by the grievous showers harassed, Upon their semblances of bodies trod. Prone on the ground the whole of them were cast, Save one of them who sat upright with speed When he beheld that near to him we passed. 'O thou who art through this Inferno led, Me if thou canst,' he asked me, 'recognise; For ere I was dismantled thou wast made.' And I to him: 'Thy present tortured guise Perchance hath blurred my memory of thy face, Until it seems I ne'er on thee set eyes. But tell me who thou art, within this place So cruel set, exposed to such a pain, Than which, if greater, none has more disgrace.' And he: 'Thy city, swelling with the bane Of envy till the sack is running o'er, Me in the life serene did once contain. As Ciacco me your citizens named of yore; And for the damning sin of gluttony I, as thou seest, am beaten by this shower. No solitary woful soul am I, For all of these endure the selfsame doom For the same fault.' Here ended his reply. I answered him, 'O Ciacco, with such gloom Thy misery weighs me, I to weep am prone; But, if thou canst, declare to what shall come The citizens of the divided town. Holds it one just man? And declare the cause Why 'tis of discord such a victim grown.' Then he to me: 'After contentious pause Blood will be spilt; the boorish party then Will chase the others forth with grievous loss. The former it behoves to fall again Within three suns, the others to ascend, Holpen by him whose wiles ere now are plain. Long time, with heads held high, they'll make to bend The other party under burdens dire, Howe'er themselves in tears and rage they spend. There are two just men, at whom none inquire. Envy, and pride, and avarice, even these Are the three sparks have set all hearts on fire.' With this the tearful sound he made to cease: And I to him, 'Yet would I have thee tell-- And of thy speech do thou the gift increase-- Tegghiaio and Farinata, honourable, With all the rest so studious to excel In good; where are they? Help me this to know; Great hunger for the news hath seized me; Delights them Heaven, or tortures Hell below?' He said: 'Among the blackest souls they be; Them to the bottom weighs another sin. Shouldst thou so far descend, thou mayst them see. But when the sweet world thou again dost win, I pray thee bring me among men to mind; No more I tell, nor new reply begin.' Then his straightforward eyes askance declined; He looked at me a moment ere his head He bowed; then fell flat 'mong the other blind. 'Henceforth he waketh not,' my Leader said, 'Till he shall hear the angel's trumpet sound, Ushering the hostile Judge. By every shade Its dismal sepulchre shall then be found, Its flesh and ancient form it shall resume, And list what echoes in eternal round.' So passed we where the shades and rainy spume Made filthy mixture, with steps taken slow; Touching a little on the world to come. Wherefore I said: 'Master, shall torments grow After the awful sentence hath been heard, Or lesser prove and not so fiercely glow?' 'Repair unto thy Science,' was his word; 'Which tells, as things approach a perfect state To keener joy or suffering they are stirred. Therefore although this people cursed by fate Ne'er find perfection in its full extent, To it they then shall more approximate Than now.' Our course we round the circle bent, Still holding speech, of which I nothing say, Until we came where down the pathway went: There found we Plutus, the great enemy. _As I move again_: In his swoon he has been conveyed from the Second Circle down to the Third. _Cerberus_: In the Greek mythology Cerberus is the watch-dog of wine-bibbers. _Great worm_: Though human in a monstrous form, Cerberus is so called as being a disgusting brute. _Semblances, etc._: 'Emptiness which seems to be a person.' To _Ciacco_: The name or nickname of a Florentine wit, and, in his _After, etc._: In the following nine lines the party history of _Holpen, etc._: Pope Boniface, already intriguing to gain the _Two just_: Dante and another, unknown. He thus distinctly puts _But when, etc._: In the Inferno many such prayers are addressed _And list, etc._: The final sentence against them is to echo, in _The world to come_: The life after doomsday. _Thy Science_: To Aristotle. In the _Convito_, iv. 16, he quotes _Than now_: Augustine says that 'after the resurrection of the Plutus began in accents rough and hard: And that mild Sage, all-knowing, said to me, For my encouragement: 'Pay no regard Unto thy fear; whatever power he sways Thy passage down this cliff shall not be barred.' Then turning round to that inflamed face He bade: 'Accursed wolf, at peace remain; And, pent within thee, let thy fury blaze. Down to the pit we journey not in vain: So rule they where by Michael in Heaven's height On the adulterous pride was vengeance ta'en.' Then as the bellied sails, by wind swelled tight, Suddenly drag whenever snaps the mast; Such, falling to the ground, the monster's plight. To the Fourth Cavern so we downward passed, Winning new reaches of the doleful shore Where all the vileness of the world is cast. Justice of God! which pilest more and more Pain as I saw, and travail manifold! Why will we sin, to be thus wasted sore? As at Charybdis waves are forward rolled To break on other billows midway met, The people here a counterdance must hold. A greater crowd than I had seen as yet, With piercing yells advanced on either track, Rolling great stones to which their chests were set. They crashed together, and then each turned back Upon the way he came, while shouts arise, 'Why clutch it so?' and 'Why to hold it slack?' In the dark circle wheeled they on this wise From either hand to the opposing part, Where evermore they raised insulting cries. Thither arrived, each, turning, made fresh start Through the half circle a new joust to run; And I, stung almost to the very heart, Said, 'O my Master, wilt thou make it known Who the folk are? Were these all clerks who go Before us on the left, with shaven crown?' And he replied: 'All of them squinted so In mental vision while in life they were, They nothing spent by rule. And this they show, And with their yelping voices make appear When half-way round the circle they have sped, And sins opposing them asunder tear. Each wanting thatch of hair upon his head Was once a clerk, or pope, or cardinal, In whom abound the ripest growths of greed.' And I: 'O Master, surely among all Of these I ought some few to recognise, Who by such filthy sins were held in thrall.' And he to me: 'Vain thoughts within thee rise; Their witless life, which made them vile, now mocks-- Dimming their faces still--all searching eyes. Eternally they meet with hostile shocks; These rising from the tomb at last shall stand With tight clenched fists, and those with ruined locks. Squandering or hoarding, they the happy land Have lost, and now are marshalled for this fray; Which to describe doth no fine words demand. Know hence, my Son, how fleeting is the play Of goods at the dispose of Fortune thrown, And which mankind to such fierce strife betray. Not all the gold which is beneath the moon Could purchase peace, nor all that ever was, To but one soul of these by toil undone.' 'Master,' I said, 'tell thou, ere making pause, Who Fortune is of whom thou speak'st askance, Who holds all worldly riches in her claws.' 'O foolish creatures, lost in ignorance!' He answer made. 'Now see that the reply Thou store, which I concerning her advance. He who in knowledge is exalted high, Framing all Heavens gave such as should them guide, That so each part might shine to all; whereby Is equal light diffused on every side: And likewise to one guide and governor, Of worldly splendours did control confide, That she in turns should different peoples dower With this vain good; from blood should make it pass To blood, in spite of human wit. Hence, power, Some races failing, other some amass, According to her absolute decree Which hidden lurks, like serpent in the grass. Vain 'gainst her foresight yours must ever be. She makes provision, judges, holds her reign, As doth his power supreme each deity. Her permutations can no truce sustain; Necessity compels her to be swift, So swift they follow who their turn must gain. And this is she whom they so often lift Upon the cross, who ought to yield her praise; And blame on her and scorn unjustly shift. But she is blest nor hears what any says, With other primal creatures turns her sphere, Jocund and glad, rejoicing in her ways. To greater woe now let us downward steer. The stars which rose when I began to guide Are falling now, nor may we linger here.' We crossed the circle to the other side, Arriving where a boiling fountain fell Into a brooklet by its streams supplied. In depth of hue the flood did perse excel, And we, with this dim stream to lead us on, Descended by a pathway terrible. A marsh which by the name of Styx is known, Fed by this gloomy brook, lies at the base Of threatening cliffs hewn out of cold grey stone. And I, intent on study of the place, Saw people in that ditch, mud-smeared. In it All naked stood with anger-clouded face. Nor with their fists alone each fiercely hit The other, but with feet and chest and head, And with their teeth to shreds each other bit. 'Son, now behold,' the worthy Master said, 'The souls of those whom anger made a prize; And, further, I would have thee certified That 'neath the water people utter sighs, And make the bubbles to the surface come; As thou mayst see by casting round thine eyes. Fixed in the mud they say: "We lived in gloom In the sweet air made jocund by the day, Nursing within us melancholy fume. In this black mud we now our gloom display." This hymn with gurgling throats they strive to sound, Which they in speech unbroken fail to say.' And thus about the loathsome pool we wound For a wide arc, between the dry and soft, With eyes on those who gulp the filth, turned round. At last we reached a tower that soared aloft. _Pape, etc._: These words have exercised the ingenuity of many _Wolf_: Frequently used by Dante as symbolical of greed. _Pride_: Which in its way was a kind of greed--that of dominion. _The half circle_: This Fourth Circle is divided half-way round _Clerks_: Churchmen. The tonsure is the sign that a man is of ecclesiastical condition. Many took the tonsure who never became priests. _I ought, etc._: Dante is astonished that he can pick out no _Dimming, etc._: Their original disposition is by this time _The happy land_: Heaven. _Her claws_: Dante speaks of Fortune as if she were a brutal and _Some races failing_: It was long believed, nor is the belief _Necessity, etc._: Suggested, perhaps, by Horace's _Te semper _Whom they so often, etc._: Treat with contumely. _The stars, etc._: It is now past midnight, and towards the _Perse_: 'Perse is a colour between purple and black, but the _In gloom_: These submerged spirits are, according to the older I say, continuing, that long before To its foundations we approached nigh Our eyes went travelling to the top of the tower; For, hung out there, two flames we could espy. Then at such distance, scarce our eyesight made It clearly out, another gave reply. And, to the Sea of Knowledge turned, I said: 'What meaneth this? and what reply would yield That other light, and who have it displayed?' 'Thou shouldst upon the impure watery field,' He said, 'already what approaches know, But that the fen-fog holds it still concealed.' Never was arrow yet from sharp-drawn bow Urged through the air upon a swifter flight Than what I saw a tiny vessel show, Across the water shooting into sight; A single pilot served it for a crew, Who shouted: 'Art thou come, thou guilty sprite?' 'O Phlegyas, Phlegyas, this thy loud halloo! For once,' my Lord said, 'idle is and vain. Thou hast us only till the mud we're through.' And, as one cheated inly smarts with pain When the deceit wrought on him is betrayed, His gathering ire could Phlegyas scarce contain. Into the bark my Leader stepped, and made Me take my place beside him; nor a jot, Till I had entered, was it downward weighed. Soon as my Guide and I were in the boat, To cleave the flood began the ancient prow, Deeper than 'tis with others wont to float. Then, as the stagnant ditch we glided through, One smeared with filth in front of me arose And said: 'Thus coming ere thy period, who Art thou?' And I: 'As one who forthwith goes I come; but thou defiled, how name they thee?' 'I am but one who weeps,' he said. 'With woes,' I answered him, 'with tears and misery, Accursed soul, remain; for thou art known Unto me now, all filthy though thou be.' Then both his hands were on the vessel thrown; But him my wary Master backward heaved, Saying: 'Do thou 'mong the other dogs be gone!' Then to my neck with both his arms he cleaved, And kissed my face, and, 'Soul disdainful,' said, 'O blessed she in whom thou wast conceived! He in the world great haughtiness displayed. No deeds of worth his memory adorn; And therefore rages here his sinful shade. And many are there by whom crowns are worn On earth, shall wallow here like swine in mire, Leaving behind them names o'erwhelmed in scorn.' And I: 'O Master, I have great desire To see him well soused in this filthy tide, Ere from the lake we finally retire.' And he: 'Or ever shall have been descried The shore by thee, thy longing shall be met; For such a wish were justly gratified.' A little after in such fierce onset The miry people down upon him bore, I praise and bless God for it even yet. 'Philip Argenti! at him!' was the roar; And then that furious spirit Florentine Turned with his teeth upon himself and tore. Here was he left, nor wins more words of mine. Now in my ears a lamentation rung, Whence I to search what lies ahead begin. And the good Master told me: 'Son, ere long We to the city called of Dis draw near, Where in great armies cruel burghers throng.' And I: 'Already, Master, I appear Mosques in the valley to distinguish well, Vermilion, as if they from furnace were Fresh come.' And he: 'Fires everlasting dwell Within them, whence appear they glowing hot, As thou discernest in this lower hell.' We to the moat profound at length were brought, Which girds that city all disconsolate; The walls around it seemed of iron wrought. Not without fetching first a compass great, We came to where with angry cry at last: 'Get out,' the boatman yelled; 'behold the gate!' More than a thousand, who from Heaven were cast, I saw above the gates, who furiously Demanded: 'Who, ere death on him has passed, Holds through the region of the dead his way?' And my wise Master made to them a sign That he had something secretly to say. Then ceased they somewhat from their great disdain, And said: 'Come thou, but let that one be gone Who thus presumptuous enters on this reign. Let him retrace his madcap way alone, If he but can; thou meanwhile lingering here, Through such dark regions who hast led him down.' Judge, reader, if I was not filled with fear, Hearing the words of this accursed threat; For of return my hopes extinguished were. 'Beloved Guide, who more than seven times set Me in security, and safely brought Through frightful dangers in my progress met, Leave me not thus undone;' I him besought: 'If further progress be to us denied, Let us retreat together, tarrying not.' The Lord who led me thither then replied: 'Fear not: by One so great has been assigned Our passage, vainly were all hindrance tried. Await me here, and let thy fainting mind Be comforted and with good hope be fed, Not to be left in this low world behind.' Thus goes he, thus am I abandoned By my sweet Father. I in doubt remain, With Yes and No contending in my head. I could not hear what speech he did maintain, But no long time conferred he in that place, Till, to be first, all inward raced again. And then the gates were closed in my Lord's face By these our enemies; outside stood he; Then backward turned to me with lingering pace, With downcast eyes, and all the bravery Stripped from his brows; and he exclaimed with sighs; 'Who dare deny the doleful seats to me!' And then he said: 'Although my wrath arise, Fear not, for I to victory will pursue, Howe'er within they plot, the enterprise. This arrogance of theirs is nothing new; They showed it once at a less secret door Which stands unbolted since. Thou didst it view, And saw the dark-writ legend which it bore. Thence, even now, is one who hastens down Through all the circles, guideless, to this shore, And he shall win us entrance to the town.' _Continuing_: The account of the Fifth Circle, begun in the preceding Canto, is continued in this. It is impossible to adopt _Two flames_: Denoting the number of passengers who are to be _Phlegyas_: Who burnt the temple of Apollo at Delphi in revenge for the violation of his daughter by the god. _Deeper, etc._: Because used to carry only shades. _Ere thy period_: The curiosity of the shade is excited by the _Names o'erwhelmed, etc._: 'Horrible reproaches.' _Philip Argenti_: A Florentine gentleman related to the great _Dis_: A name of Pluto, the god of the infernal regions. _Burghers_: The city of Dis composes the Sixth Circle, and, as _Mosques_: The feature of an Infidel city that first struck crusader and pilgrim. _The gate_: They have floated across the stagnant marsh into the _From Heaven_: 'Rained from Heaven.' Fallen angels. _Seven times_: Given as a round number. _Who dare, etc._: Virgil knows the hindrance is only temporary, The hue which cowardice on my face did paint When I beheld my guide return again, Put his new colour quicker 'neath restraint. Like one who listens did he fixed remain; For far to penetrate the air like night, And heavy mist, the eye was bent in vain. 'Yet surely we must vanquish in the fight;' Thus he, 'unless--but with such proffered aid-- O how I weary till he come in sight!' Well I remarked how he transition made, Covering his opening words with those behind, Which contradicted what at first he said. Nath'less his speech with terror charged my mind, For, haply, to the word which broken fell Worse meaning than he purposed, I assigned. Down to this bottom of the dismal shell Comes ever any from the First Degree, Where all their pain is, stripped of hope to dwell? To this my question thus responded he: 'Seldom it haps to any to pursue The journey now embarked upon by me. Yet I ere this descended, it is true, Beneath a spell of dire Erichtho's laid, Who could the corpse with soul inform anew. Short while my flesh of me was empty made When she required me to o'erpass that wall, From Judas' circle to abstract a shade. That is the deepest, darkest place of all, And furthest from the heaven which moves the skies; I know the way; fear nought that can befall. These fens from which vile exhalations rise The doleful city all around invest, Which now we reach not save in angry wise.' Of more he spake nought in my mind doth rest, For, with mine eyes, my every thought had been Fixed on the lofty tower with flaming crest, Where, in a moment and upright, were seen Three hellish furies, all with blood defaced, And woman-like in members and in mien. Hydras of brilliant green begirt their waist; Snakes and cerastes for their tresses grew, And these were round their dreadful temples braced. That they the drudges were, full well he knew, Of her who is the queen of endless woes, And said to me: 'The fierce Erynnyes view! Herself upon the left Megaera shows; That is Alecto weeping on the right; Tisiphone's between.' Here made he close. Each with her nails her breast tore, and did smite Herself with open palms. They screamed in tone So fierce, I to the Poet clove for fright. 'Medusa, come, that we may make him stone!' All shouted as they downward gazed; 'Alack! Theseus escaped us when he ventured down.' 'Keep thine eyes closed and turn to them thy back, For if the Gorgon chance to be displayed And thou shouldst look, farewell the upward track!' Thus spake the Master, and himself he swayed Me round about; nor put he trust in mine But his own hands upon mine eyelids laid. O ye with judgment gifted to divine Look closely now, and mark what hidden lore Lies 'neath the veil of my mysterious line! Across the turbid waters came a roar And crash of sound, which big with fear arose: Because of it fell trembling either shore. The fashion of it was as when there blows A blast by cross heats made to rage amain, Which smites the forest and without repose The shattered branches sweeps in hurricane; In clouds of dust, majestic, onward flies, Wild beasts and herdsmen driving o'er the plain. 'Sharpen thy gaze,' he bade--and freed mine eyes-- 'Across the foam-flecked immemorial lake, Where sourest vapour most unbroken lies.' And as the frogs before the hostile snake Together of the water get them clear, And on the dry ground, huddling, shelter take; More than a thousand ruined souls in fear Beheld I flee from one who, dry of feet, Was by the Stygian ferry drawing near. Waving his left hand he the vapour beat Swiftly from 'fore his face, nor seemed he spent Save with fatigue at having this to meet. Well I opined that he from Heaven was sent, And to my Master turned. His gesture taught Ah me, how with disdain appeared he fraught! He reached the gate, which, touching with a rod, He oped with ease, for it resisted not. 'People despised and banished far from God,' Upon the awful threshold then he spoke, 'How holds in you such insolence abode? Why kick against that will which never broke Short of its end, if ever it begin, And often for you fiercer torments woke? Butting 'gainst fate, what can ye hope to win? Your Cerberus, as is to you well known, Still bears for this a well-peeled throat and chin.' Then by the passage foul he back was gone, Nor spake to us, but like a man was he By other cares absorbed and driven on Than that of those who may around him be. And we, confiding in the sacred word, Moved toward the town in all security. We entered without hindrance, and I, spurred By my desire the character to know And style of place such strong defences gird, Entering, begin mine eyes around to throw, And see on every hand a vast champaign, The teeming seat of torments and of woe. And as at Arles where Rhone spreads o'er the plain, Or Pola, hard upon Quarnaro sound Which bathes the boundaries Italian, The sepulchres uneven make the ground; So here on every side, but far more dire And grievous was the fashion of them found. For scattered 'mid the tombs blazed many a fire, Because of which these with such fervour burned No arts which work in iron more require. All of the lids were lifted. I discerned By keen laments which from the tombs arose That sad and suffering ones were there inurned. I said: 'O Master, tell me who are those Buried within the tombs, of whom the sighs Come to our ears thus eloquent of woes?' And he to me: 'The lords of heresies With followers of all sects, a greater band Than thou wouldst think, these sepulchres comprise. To lodge them like to like the tombs are planned. The sepulchres have more or less of heat.' Then passed we, turning to the dexter hand, 'Tween torments and the lofty parapet. _Unless_: To conceal his misgiving from Dante, Virgil refrains _This bottom_: The lower depths of Inferno. How much still lies below him is unknown to Dante. _First Degree_: The limbo where Virgil resides. Dante by an _Erichtho_: A Thessalian sorceress, of whom Lucan (_Pharsalia_ _The heaven, etc._: The _Primum Mobile_; but used here for the _These fens, etc._: Virgil knows the locality. They have no _Erynnyes_: The Furies. The Queen of whom they are handmaids is Proserpine, carried off by Dis, or Pluto, to the under world. _Theseus_: Who descended into the infernal regions to rescue Proserpine, and escaped by the help of Hercules. _Mysterious line_: 'Strange verses:' That the verses are called _A rod_: A piece of the angelic outfit, derived from the _caduceus_ of Mercury. _Cerberus_: Hercules, when Cerberus opposed his entrance to the _Arles_: The Alyscampo (Elysian Fields) at Arles was an enormous _Pola_: In Istria, near the Gulf of Quarnaro, said to have contained many ancient tombs. And now advance we by a narrow track Between the torments and the ramparts high, My Master first, and I behind his back. 'O mighty Virtue, at whose will am I Wheeled through these impious circles,' then I said, 'Speak, and in full my longing satisfy. The people who within the tombs are laid, May they be seen? The coverings are all thrown Open, nor is there any guard displayed.' And he to me: 'All shall be fastened down When hither from Jehoshaphat they come Again in bodies which were once their own. All here with Epicurus find their tomb Who are his followers, and by whom 'tis held That the soul shares the body's mortal doom. Things here discovered then shall answer yield, And quickly, to thy question asked of me; As well as to the wish thou hast concealed.' And I: 'Good Leader, if I hide from thee My heart, it is that I may little say; 'O Tuscan, who, still living, mak'st thy way, Modest of speech, through the abode of flame, Be pleased a little in this place to stay. The accents of thy language thee proclaim To be a native of that state renowned Which I, perchance, wronged somewhat.' Sudden came These words from out a tomb which there was found 'Mongst others; whereon I, compelled by fright, A little toward my Leader shifted ground. And he: 'Turn round, what ails thee? Lo! upright Beginneth Farinata to arise; All of him 'bove the girdle comes in sight.' On him already had I fixed mine eyes. Towering erect with lifted front and chest, He seemed Inferno greatly to despise. And toward him I among the tombs was pressed By my Guide's nimble and courageous hand, While he, 'Choose well thy language,' gave behest. Beneath his tomb when I had ta'en my stand Regarding me a moment, 'Of what house Art thou?' as if in scorn, he made demand. To show myself obedient, anxious, I nothing hid, but told my ancestors; And, listening, he gently raised his brows. 'Fiercely to me they proved themselves adverse, And to my sires and party,' then he said; 'Because of which I did them twice disperse.' I answered him: 'And what although they fled! Twice from all quarters they returned with might, An art not mastered yet by these you led.' Beside him then there issued into sight Another shade, uncovered to the chin, Propped on his knees, if I surmised aright. He peered around as if he fain would win Knowledge if any other was with me; And then, his hope all spent, did thus begin, Weeping: 'By dint of genius if it be Thou visit'st this dark prison, where my son? And wherefore not found in thy company?' And I to him: 'I come not here alone: He waiting yonder guides me: but disdain Of him perchance was by your Guido shown.' The words he used, and manner of his pain, Revealed his name to me beyond surmise; Hence was I able thus to answer plain. Then cried he, and at once upright did rise, 'How saidst thou--was? Breathes he not then the air? The pleasant light no longer smites his eyes?' When he of hesitation was aware Displayed by me in forming my reply, He fell supine, no more to reappear. But the magnanimous, at whose bidding I Had halted there, the same expression wore, Nor budged a jot, nor turned his neck awry. 'And if'--resumed he where he paused before-- 'They be indeed but slow that art to learn, Than this my bed, to hear it pains me more. But ere the fiftieth time anew shall burn The lady's face who reigneth here below, Of that sore art thou shalt experience earn. And as to the sweet world again thou'dst go, Tell me, why is that people so without Ruth for my race, as all their statutes show?' And I to him: 'The slaughter and the rout Which made the Arbia to run with red, Cause in our fane such prayers to be poured out.' Whereon he heaved a sigh and shook his head: 'There I was not alone, nor to embrace That cause was I, without good reason, led. But there I was alone, when from her place All granted Florence should be swept away. 'Twas I defended her with open face.' 'So may your seed find peace some better day,' I urged him, 'as this knot you shall untie In which my judgment doth entangled stay. If I hear rightly, ye, it seems, descry Beforehand what time brings, and yet ye seem 'Neath other laws as touching what is nigh.' 'Like those who see best what is far from them, We see things,' said he, 'which afar remain; Thus much enlightened by the Guide Supreme. To know them present or approaching, vain Are all our powers; and save what they relate Who hither come, of earth no news we gain. Hence mayst thou gather in how dead a state Shall all our knowledge from that time be thrown When of the future shall be closed the gate.' Then, for my fault as if repentant grown, I said: 'Report to him who fell supine, That still among the living breathes his son. Tell him it was that I upon the knot Was pondering then, you helped me to untwine.' Me now my Master called, whence I besought With more than former sharpness of the shade, To tell me what companions he had got. He answered me: 'Some thousand here are laid With me; 'mong these the Second Frederick, The Cardinal too; of others nought be said.' Then was he hid; and towards the Bard antique I turned my steps, revolving in my brain The ominous words which I had heard him speak. He moved, and as we onward went again Demanded of me: 'Wherefore thus amazed?' And to his question I made answer plain. 'Within thy mind let there be surely placed,' The Sage bade, 'what 'gainst thee thou heardest say. Now mark me well' (his finger here he raised), 'When thou shalt stand within her gentle ray Whose beauteous eye sees all, she will make known The stages of thy journey on life's way.' Turning his feet, he to the left moved on; Leaving the wall, we to the middle went Upon a path that to a vale strikes down, Which even to us above its foulness sent. _Nor is there, etc._: The gate was found to be strictly guarded, _Jehoshaphat_: 'I will also gather all nations, and will bring them down into the valley of Jehoshaphat' (Joel iii. 2). _Epicurus_: The unbelief in a future life, or rather the indifference to everything but the calls of ambition and worldly _Nor only now, etc._: Virgil has on previous occasions imposed silence on Dante, as, for instance, at _Inf._ iii. 51. _His brows_: When Dante tells he is of the Alighieri, a Guelf family, Farinata shows some slight displeasure. Or, as a modern _You_: See also line 95. Dante never uses the plural form to a _Guido_: Farinata's companion in the tomb is Cavalcante _The Lady_: Proserpine; _i.e._ the moon. Ere fifty months from _Our fane_: The Parliament of the people used to meet in Santa _The Cardinal_: Ottaviano, of the powerful Tuscan family of the _Ominous words_: Those in which Farinata foretold Dante's exile. _The stages, etc._: It is Cacciaguida, his ancestor, who in Paradise instructs Dante in what his future life is to be--one of _To the middle_: Turning to the left they cut across the circle We at the margin of a lofty steep Made of great shattered stones in circle bent, Arrived where worser torments crowd the deep. So horrible a stench and violent Was upward wafted from the vast abyss, Behind the cover we for shelter went Of a great tomb where I saw written this: 'Pope Anastasius is within me thrust, Whom the straight way Photinus made to miss.' 'Now on our course a while we linger must,' The Master said, 'be but our sense resigned A little to it, and the filthy gust We shall not heed.' Then I: 'Do thou but find Some compensation lest our time should run Wasted.' And he: 'Behold, 'twas in my mind. Girt by the rocks before us, O my son, Lie three small circles,' he began to tell, 'Graded like those with which thou now hast done, All of them filled with spirits miserable. That sight of them may thee henceforth suffice. Hear how and wherefore in these groups they dwell. Whate'er in Heaven's abhorred as wickedness Has injury for its end; in others' bane By fraud resulting or in violent wise. Since fraud to man alone doth appertain, God hates it most; and hence the fraudulent band, Set lowest down, endure a fiercer pain. Of the violent is the circle next at hand To us; and since three ways is violence shown, 'Tis in three several circuits built and planned. To God, ourselves, or neighbours may be done Violence, or on the things by them possessed; As reasoning clear shall unto thee make known. Our neighbour may by violence be distressed With grievous wounds, or slain; his goods and lands By havoc, fire, and plunder be oppressed. Hence those who wound and slay with violent hands, Robbers, and spoilers, in the nearest round Are all tormented in their various bands. Violent against himself may man be found, And 'gainst his goods; therefore without avail They in the next are in repentance drowned Who on themselves loss of your world entail, Who gamble and their substance madly spend, And who when called to joy lament and wail. And even to God may violence extend By heart denial and by blasphemy, Scorning what nature doth in bounty lend. Sodom and Cahors hence are doomed to lie Within the narrowest circlet surely sealed; And such as God within their hearts defy. Fraud, 'gainst whose bite no conscience findeth shield, A man may use with one who in him lays Trust, or with those who no such credence yield. Beneath this latter kind of it decays The bond of love which out of nature grew; Hence, in the second circle herd the race To feigning given and flattery, who pursue Magic, false coining, theft, and simony, Pimps, barrators, and suchlike residue. The other form of fraud makes nullity Of natural bonds; and, what is more than those, The special trust whence men on men rely. Hence in the place whereon all things repose, The narrowest circle and the seat of Dis, Each traitor's gulfed in everlasting woes.' 'Thy explanation, Master, as to this Is clear,' I said, 'and thou hast plainly told Who are the people stowed in the abyss. But tell why those the muddy marshes hold, The tempest-driven, those beaten by the rain, And such as, meeting, virulently scold, Are not within the crimson city ta'en For punishment, if hateful unto God; And, if not hateful, wherefore doomed to pain?' And he to me: 'Why wander thus abroad, More than is wont, thy wits? or how engrossed Is now thy mind, and on what things bestowed? Hast thou the memory of the passage lost In which thy Ethics for their subject treat Of the three moods by Heaven abhorred the most-- Malice and bestiality complete; And how, compared with these, incontinence Offends God less, and lesser blame doth meet? If of this doctrine thou extract the sense, And call to memory what people are Above, outside, in endless penitence, Why from these guilty they are sundered far Thou shalt discern, and why on them alight The strokes of justice in less angry war.' 'O Sun that clearest every troubled sight, So charmed am I by thy resolving speech, Doubt yields me joy no less than knowing right. Therefore, I pray, a little backward reach,' I asked, 'to where thou say'st that usury Sins 'gainst God's bounty; and this mystery teach.' He said: 'Who gives ear to Philosophy Is taught by her, nor in one place alone, What nature in her course is governed by, Even Mind Divine, and art which thence hath grown; And if thy Physics thou wilt search within, Thou'lt find ere many leaves are open thrown, This art by yours, far as your art can win, Is followed close--the teacher by the taught; As grandchild then to God your art is kin. And from these two--do thou recall to thought How Genesis begins--should come supplies Of food for man, and other wealth be sought. And, since another plan the usurer plies, Nature and nature's child have his disdain; Because on other ground his hope relies. But come, for to advance I now am fain: The Fishes over the horizon line Quiver; o'er Caurus now stands all the Wain; And further yonder does the cliff decline.' _Pope Anastasius_: The second of the name, elected Pope in 496. _Three small circles_: The Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth; small in _Who gamble, etc._: A different sin from the lavish spending _Fraud, etc._: Fraud is of such a nature that conscience never _The second circle_: The second now beneath them; that is, the _Seat of Dis_: The Ninth and last Circle. _Physics_: The Physics of Aristotle, in which it is said: 'Art imitates nature.' Art includes handicrafts. _Genesis_: 'And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the _His disdain_: The usurer seeks to get wealth independently of The place of our descent before us lay Precipitous, and there was something more From sight of which all eyes had turned away. As at the ruin which upon the shore Of Adige fell upon this side of Trent-- Through earthquake or by slip of what before Upheld it--from the summit whence it went Far as the plain, the shattered rocks supply Some sort of foothold to who makes descent; Such was the passage down the precipice high. And on the riven gully's very brow Lay spread at large the Cretan Infamy Which was conceived in the pretended cow. Us when he saw, he bit himself for rage Like one whose anger gnaws him through and through. 'Perhaps thou deemest,' called to him the Sage, 'This is the Duke of Athens drawing nigh, Who war to the death with thee on earth did wage. Begone, thou brute, for this one passing by Untutored by thy sister has thee found, And only comes thy sufferings to spy,' And as the bull which snaps what held it bound On being smitten by the fatal blow, Halts in its course, and reels upon the ground, The Minotaur I saw reel to and fro; And he, the alert, cried: 'To the passage haste; While yet he chafes 'twere well thou down shouldst go.' So we descended by the slippery waste Of shivered stones which many a time gave way 'Neath the new weight my feet upon them placed. I musing went; and he began to say: 'Perchance this ruined slope thou thinkest on, Watched by the brute rage I did now allay. But I would have thee know, when I came down The former time into this lower Hell, The cliff had not this ruin undergone. It was not long, if I distinguish well, Ere He appeared who wrenched great prey from Dis From out the upmost circle. Trembling fell Through all its parts the nauseous abyss With such a violence, the world, I thought, Was stirred by love; for, as they say, by this She back to Chaos has been often brought. And then it was this ancient rampart strong Was shattered here and at another spot. But toward the valley look. We come ere long Down to the river of blood where boiling lie All who by violence work others wrong.' By which in our brief life we are so spurred, Ere downward plunged in evil case for aye! An ample ditch I now beheld engird And sweep in circle all around the plain, As from my Escort I had lately heard. Between this and the rock in single train Centaurs were running who were armed with bows, As if they hunted on the earth again. Observing us descend they all stood close, Save three of them who parted from the band With bow, and arrows they in coming chose. 'What torment,' from afar one made demand, 'Come ye to share, who now descend the hill? I shoot unless ye answer whence ye stand.' My Master said: 'We yield no answer till We come to Chiron standing at thy side; But thy quick temper always served thee ill.' Then touching me: ''Tis Nessus; he who died With love for beauteous Dejanire possessed, And who himself his own vendetta plied. He in the middle, staring on his breast, Is mighty Chiron, who Achilles bred; And next the wrathful Pholus. They invest The fosse and in their thousands round it tread, Shooting whoever from the blood shall lift, More than his crime allows, his guilty head.' As we moved nearer to those creatures swift Chiron drew forth a shaft and dressed his beard Back on his jaws, using the arrow's cleft. And when his ample mouth of hair was cleared, He said to his companions: 'Have ye seen The things the second touches straight are stirred, As they by feet of shades could ne'er have been?' And my good Guide, who to his breast had gone-- The part where join the natures, 'Well I ween He lives,' made answer; 'and if, thus alone, He seeks the valley dim 'neath my control, Necessity, not pleasure, leads him on. One came from where the alleluiahs roll, Who charged me with this office strange and new: No robber he, nor mine a felon soul. But, by that Power which makes me to pursue The rugged journey whereupon I fare, Accord us one of thine to keep in view, That he may show where lies the ford, and bear This other on his back to yonder strand; No spirit he, that he should cleave the air.' Wheeled to the right then Chiron gave command To Nessus: 'Turn, and lead them, and take tent They be not touched by any other band.' We with our trusty Escort forward went, Threading the margin of the boiling blood Where they who seethed were raising loud lament. People I saw up to the chin imbrued, 'These all are tyrants,' the great Centaur said, 'Who blood and plunder for their trade pursued. Here for their pitiless deeds tears now are shed By Alexander, and Dionysius fell, Through whom in Sicily dolorous years were led. The forehead with black hair so terrible Is Ezzelino; that one blond of hue, Obizzo d'Este, whom, as rumours tell, His stepson murdered, and report speaks true.' I to the Poet turned, who gave command: 'Regard thou chiefly him. I follow you.' Ere long the Centaur halted on the strand, Close to a people who, far as the throat, Forth of that bulicame seemed to stand. Thence a lone shade to us he pointed out Saying: 'In God's house ran he weapon through The heart which still on Thames wins cult devout.' Then I saw people, some with heads in view, And some their chests above the river bore; And many of them I, beholding, knew. And thus the blood went dwindling more and more, Until at last it covered but the feet: Here took we passage to the other shore. 'As on this hand thou seest still abate In depth the volume of the boiling stream,' The Centaur said, 'so grows its depth more great, Believe me, towards the opposite extreme, Until again its circling course attains The place where tyrants must lament. Supreme Justice upon that side involves in pains, With Attila, once of the world the pest, Pyrrhus and Sextus: and for ever drains Tears out of Rinier of Corneto pressed And Rinier Pazzo in that boiling mass, Whose brigandage did so the roads infest.' Then turned he back alone, the ford to pass. _Our descent_: To the Seventh Circle. _The Cretan Infamy_: The Minotaur, the offspring of Pasiphae; a _Duke of Athens_: Theseus, instructed by Ariadne, daughter of _The slippery waste_: The word used here, _scarco_, means in _The new weight_: The slope had never before been trodden by mortal foot. _Another spot_: See _Inf._ xxi. 112. The earthquake at the Crucifixion shook even Inferno to its base. _The river of blood_: Phlegethon, the 'boiling river.' Styx and _Centaurs_: As this round is the abode of such as are guilty of violence against their neighbours, it is guarded by these brutal monsters, half-man and half-horse. _Chiron_: Called the most just of the Centaurs. _Nessus_: Slain by Hercules with a poisoned arrow. When dying he The natures: The part of the Centaur where the equine body is joined on to the human neck and head. _Other band_: Of Centaurs. _Alexander_: It is not known whether Alexander the Great or a _That bulicame_: The stream of boiling blood is probably named _In God's house_: Literally, 'In the bosom of God.' The shade is _Here took we passage_: Dante on Nessus' back. Virgil has fallen _Pyrrhus_: King of Epirus. _Sextus_: Son of Pompey; a great _Rinier of Corneto_: Who in Dante's time disturbed the coast of the States of the Church by his robberies and violence. _Rinier Pazzo_: Of the great family of the Pazzi of Val d'Arno, was excommunicated in 1269 for robbing ecclesiastics. Ere Nessus landed on the other shore We for our part within a forest drew, Which of no pathway any traces bore. Not green the foliage, but of dusky hue; Not smooth the boughs, but gnarled and twisted round; For apples, poisonous thorns upon them grew. No rougher brakes or matted worse are found Where savage beasts betwixt Corneto roam And Cecina, abhorring cultured ground. The loathsome Harpies nestle here at home, Who from the Strophades the Trojans chased With dire predictions of a woe to come. Great winged are they, but human necked and faced, With feathered belly, and with claw for toe; They shriek upon the bushes wild and waste. 'Ere passing further, I would have thee know,' The worthy Master thus began to say, 'Thou'rt in the second round, nor hence shalt go Till by the horrid sand thy footsteps stay. Give then good heed, and things thou'lt recognise That of my words will prove the verity.' Wailings on every side I heard arise: Of who might raise them I distinguished nought; Whereon I halted, smitten with surprise. I think he thought that haply 'twas my thought The voices came from people 'mong the trees, Who, to escape us, hiding-places sought; Wherefore the Master said: 'From one of these Snap thou a twig, and thou shalt understand How little with thy thought the fact agrees.' Thereon a little I stretched forth my hand And plucked a tiny branch from a great thorn. 'Why dost thou tear me?' made the trunk demand. When dark with blood it had begun to turn, It cried a second time: 'Why wound me thus? Doth not a spark of pity in thee burn? Though trees we be, once men were all of us; Yet had our souls the souls of serpents been Thy hand might well have proved more piteous.' At one extremity, the other sighs, And wind, escaping, hisses; so was seen, At where the branch was broken, blood to rise And words were mixed with it. I dropped the spray And stood like one whom terror doth surprise. The Sage replied: 'Soul vexed with injury, Had he been only able to give trust To what he read narrated in my lay, His hand toward thee would never have been thrust. 'Tis hard for faith; and I, to make it plain, Urged him to trial, mourn it though I must. But tell him who thou wast; so shall remain This for amends to thee, thy fame shall blow Afresh on earth, where he returns again.' And then the trunk: 'Thy sweet words charm me so, If I some pains upon my speech bestow. For I am he who held both keys in ward Of Frederick's heart, and turned them how I would, And softly oped it, and as softly barred, Till scarce another in his counsel stood. To my high office I such loyalty bore, It cost me sleep and haleness of my blood. The harlot who removeth nevermore From Caesar's house eyes ignorant of shame-- A common curse, of courts the special sore-- Set against me the minds of all aflame, And these in turn Augustus set on fire, Till my glad honours bitter woes became. My soul, filled full with a disdainful ire, Thinking by means of death disdain to flee, 'Gainst my just self unjustly did conspire. I swear even by the new roots of this tree My fealty to my lord I never broke, For worthy of all honour sure was he. If one of you return 'mong living folk, Let him restore my memory, overthrown And suffering yet because of envy's stroke.' Still for a while the poet listened on, But make request if more thou'dst have made known.' And I replied: 'Do thou inquire once more Of what thou thinkest I would gladly know; I cannot ask; ruth wrings me to the core.' On this he spake: 'Even as the man shall do, And liberally, what thou of him hast prayed, Imprisoned spirit, do thou further show How with these knots the spirits have been made Incorporate; and, if thou canst, declare If from such members e'er is loosed a shade.' Then from the trunk came vehement puffs of air; Next, to these words converted was the wind: 'My answer to you shall be short and clear. When the fierce soul no longer is confined In flesh, torn thence by action of its own, To the Seventh Depth by Minos 'tis consigned. No choice is made of where it shall be thrown Within the wood; but where by chance 'tis flung It germinates like seed of spelt that's sown. A forest tree it grows from sapling young; Eating its leaves, the Harpies cause it pain, And open loopholes whence its sighs are wrung. We for our vestments shall return again Like others, but in them shall ne'er be clad: Men justly lose what from themselves they've ta'en. Dragged hither by us, all throughout the sad Forest our bodies shall be hung on high; Each on the thorn of its destructive shade.' While to the trunk we listening lingered nigh, Thinking he might proceed to tell us more, A sudden uproar we were startled by Like him who, that the huntsman and the boar To where he stands are sweeping in the chase, Knows by the crashing trees and brutish roar. Upon our left we saw a couple race Naked and scratched; and they so quickly fled The forest barriers burst before their face. 'Speed to my rescue, death!' the foremost pled. The next, as wishing he could use more haste; 'Not thus, O Lano, thee thy legs bested When one at Toppo's tournament thou wast.' Then, haply wanting breath, aside he stepped, Merged with a bush on which himself he cast. Behind them through the forest onward swept A pack of dogs, black, ravenous, and fleet, Like greyhounds from their leashes newly slipped. In him who crouched they made their teeth to meet, And, having piecemeal all his members rent, Haled them away enduring anguish great. Grasping my hand, my Escort forward went And led me to the bush which, all in vain, Through its ensanguined openings made lament. 'James of St. Andrews,' it we heard complain; 'What profit hadst thou making me thy shield? For thy bad life doth blame to me pertain?' Then, halting there, this speech my Master held: 'Who wast thou that through many wounds dost sigh, Mingled with blood, words big with sorrow swelled?' 'O souls that hither come,' was his reply, 'To witness shameful outrage by me borne, Whence all my leaves torn off around me lie, Gather them to the root of this drear thorn. My city for the Baptist changed of yore Her former patron; wherefore, in return, He with his art will make her aye deplore; And were it not some image doth remain Of him where Arno's crossed from shore to shore, Those citizens who founded her again On ashes left by Attila, had spent Their labour of a surety all in vain. In my own house I up a gibbet went.' _A forest_: The second round of the Seventh Circle consists of a _Harpies_: Monsters with the bodies of birds and the heads of _My lay_: See previous note. Dante thus indirectly acknowledges _For I am he, etc._: The speaker is Pier delle Vigne, who from _The harlot_: Envy. _Of what thou thinkest, etc._: Virgil never asks a question for _My city, etc._: According to tradition the original patron of _Attila_: A confusion with Totila. Attila was never so far south _My own house, etc._: It is not settled who this was who hanged Me of my native place the dear constraint Led to restore the leaves which round were strewn, To him whose voice by this time was grown faint. Thence came we where the second round joins on Unto the third, wherein how terrible The art of justice can be, is well shown. But, clearly of these wondrous things to tell, I say we entered on a plain of sand Which from its bed doth every plant repel. The dolorous wood lies round it like a band, As that by the drear fosse is circled round. Upon its very edge we came to a stand. And there was nothing within all that bound But burnt and heavy sand; like that once trod Beneath the feet of Cato was the ground. Ah, what a terror, O revenge of God! Shouldst thou awake in any that may read Of what before mine eyes was spread abroad. I of great herds of naked souls took heed. Most piteously was weeping every one; And different fortunes seemed to them decreed. For some of them upon the ground lay prone, And some were sitting huddled up and bent, While others, restless, wandered up and down. More numerous were they that roaming went Than they that were tormented lying low; But these had tongues more loosened to lament. O'er all the sand, deliberate and slow, Broad open flakes of fire were downward rained, As 'mong the Alps in calm descends the snow. Such Alexander saw when he attained The hottest India; on his host they fell And all unbroken on the earth remained; Wherefore he bade his phalanxes tread well The ground, because when taken one by one The burning flakes they could the better quell. So here eternal fire was pouring down; As tinder 'neath the steel, so here the sands Kindled, whence pain more vehement was known. And, dancing up and down, the wretched hands Beat here and there for ever without rest; Brushing away from them the falling brands. And I: 'O Master, by all things confessed Victor, except by obdurate evil powers Who at the gate to stop our passage pressed, Who is the enormous one who noway cowers Beneath the fire; with fierce disdainful air Lying as if untortured by the showers?' And that same shade, because he was aware That touching him I of my Guide was fain To learn, cried: 'As in life, myself I bear In death. Though Jupiter should tire again His smith, from whom he snatched in angry bout The bolt by which I at the last was slain; Though one by one he tire the others out At the black forge in Mongibello placed, While "Ho, good Vulcan, help me!" he shall shout-- The cry he once at Phlegra's battle raised; Though hurled with all his might at me shall fly His bolts, yet sweet revenge he shall not taste.' Then spake my Guide, and in a voice so high Never till then heard I from him such tone: 'O Capaneus, because unquenchably Thy pride doth burn, worse pain by thee is known. Into no torture save thy madness wild Fit for thy fury couldest thou be thrown.' Then, to me turning with a face more mild, He said: 'Of the Seven Kings was he of old, Who leaguered Thebes, and as he God reviled Him in small reverence still he seems to hold; But for his bosom his own insolence Supplies fit ornament, as now I told. Now follow; but take heed lest passing hence Thy feet upon the burning sand should tread; But keep them firm where runs the forest fence.' We reached a place--nor any word we said-- Where issues from the wood a streamlet small; I shake but to recall its colour red. Like that which does from Bulicame fall, And losel women later 'mong them share; So through the sand this brooklet's waters crawl. Its bottom and its banks I was aware Were stone, and stone the rims on either side. From this I knew the passage must be there. 'Of all that I have shown thee as thy guide Since when we by the gateway entered in, Whose threshold unto no one is denied, Nothing by thee has yet encountered been So worthy as this brook to cause surprise, O'er which the falling fire-flakes quenched are seen.' These were my Leader's words. For full supplies I prayed him of the food of which to taste Keen appetite he made within me rise. 'In middle sea there lies a country waste, Known by the name of Crete,' I then was told, 'Under whose king the world of yore was chaste. There stands a mountain, once the joyous hold Of woods and streams; as Ida 'twas renowned, Now 'tis deserted like a thing grown old. For a safe cradle 'twas by Rhea found. To nurse her child in; and his infant cry, Lest it betrayed him, she with clamours drowned. Within the mount an old man towereth high. Towards Damietta are his shoulders thrown; On Rome, as on his mirror, rests his eye. His head is fashioned of pure gold alone; Of purest silver are his arms and chest; 'Tis brass to where his legs divide; then down From that is all of iron of the best, Save the right foot, which is of baken clay; And upon this foot doth he chiefly rest. Save what is gold, doth every part display A fissure dripping tears; these, gathering all Together, through the grotto pierce a way. From rock to rock into this deep they fall, Then downward travelling by this strait canal, Far as the place where further slope is none, Cocytus form; and what that pool may be I say not now. Thou'lt see it further on.' 'If this brook rises,' he was asked by me, 'Within our world, how comes it that no trace We saw of it till on this boundary?' And he replied: 'Thou knowest that the place Is round, and far as thou hast moved thy feet, Still to the left hand sinking to the base, Nath'less thy circuit is not yet complete. Therefore if something new we chance to spy, Amazement needs not on thy face have seat.' I then: 'But, Master, where doth Lethe lie, And Phlegethon? Of that thou sayest nought; Of this thou say'st, those tears its flood supply.' 'It likes me well to be by thee besought; But by the boiling red wave,' I was told, 'To half thy question was an answer brought. Lethe, not in this pit, shalt thou behold. Thither to wash themselves the spirits go, When penitence has made them spotless souled.' Then said he: 'From the wood 'tis fitting now That we depart; behind me press thou nigh. Keep we the margins, for they do not glow, And over them, ere fallen, the fire-flakes die.' _Dear constraint_: The mention of Florence has awakened Dante to _Cato_: Cato of Utica, who, after the defeat of Pompey at _Some of them, etc._: In this the third round of the Seventh Circle are punished those guilty of sins of violence against God, _The Alps_: Used here for mountains in general. _Eternal fire_: As always, the character of the place and of the _The wretched hands_: The dance, named in the original the _At the gate_: Of the city of Dis (_Inf._ viii. 82). _Was slain, etc._: Capaneus, one of the Seven Kings, as told _Mongibello_: A popular name of Etna, under which mountain was situated the smithy of Vulcan and the Cyclopes. _Phlegra_: Where the giants fought with the gods. _The forest fence_: They do not trust themselves so much as to _Bulicame_: A hot sulphur spring a couple of miles from Viterbo, _The passage_: On each edge of the canal there is a flat pathway _The gateway_: At the entrance to Inferno. _Whose king_: Saturn, who ruled the world in the Golden Age. He, _Her child_: Jupiter, hidden in the mountain from his father _Feed Acheron, etc._: The idea of this image is taken from the _To the left hand_: Twice only as they descend they turn their _Lethe_: Found in the Earthly Paradise, as described in Now lies our way along one of the margins hard; Steam rising from the rivulet forms a cloud, Which 'gainst the fire doth brook and borders guard. Like walls the Flemings, timorous of the flood Which towards them pours betwixt Bruges and Cadsand, Have made, that ocean's charge may be withstood; Or what the Paduans on the Brenta's strand To guard their castles and their homesteads rear, Ere Chiarentana feel the spring-tide bland; Of the same fashion did those dikes appear, Though not so high he made them, nor so vast, Whoe'er the builder was that piled them here. We, from the wood when we so far had passed I should not have distinguished where it lay Though I to see it backward glance had cast, A group of souls encountered on the way, Whose line of march was to the margin nigh. Each looked at us--as by the new moon's ray Men peer at others 'neath the darkening sky-- Sharpening his brows on us and only us, Like an old tailor on his needle's eye. And while that crowd was staring at me thus, One of them knew me, caught me by the gown, And cried aloud: 'Lo, this is marvellous!' And straightway, while he thus to me held on, I fixed mine eyes upon his fire-baked face, And, spite of scorching, seemed his features known, And whose they were my memory well could trace; And I, with hand stretched toward his face below, Asked: 'Ser Brunetto! and is this your place?' 'O son,' he answered, 'no displeasure show, If now Brunetto Latini shall some way Step back with thee, and leave his troop to go.' I said: 'With all my heart for this I pray, And, if you choose, I by your side will sit; If he, for I go with him, grant delay.' 'Son,' said he, 'who of us shall intermit Motion a moment, for an age must lie Nor fan himself when flames are round him lit. On, therefore! At thy skirts I follow nigh, Then shall I overtake my band again, Who mourn a loss large as eternity.' I dared not from the path step to the plain To walk with him, but low I bent my head, Like one whose steps are all with reverence ta'en. 'What fortune or what destiny,' he said, 'Hath brought thee here or e'er thou death hast seen; And who is this by whom thou'rt onward led?' 'Up yonder,' said I, 'in the life serene, I in a valley wandered all forlorn Before my years had full accomplished been. I turned my back on it but yestermorn; Again I sought it when he came in sight Guided by whom I homeward thus return.' And he to me: 'Following thy planet's light Thou of a glorious haven canst not fail, If in the blithesome life I marked aright. And had my years known more abundant tale, Seeing the heavens so held thee in their grace I, heartening thee, had helped thee to prevail. But that ungrateful and malignant race Which down from Fiesole came long ago, And still its rocky origin betrays, Will for thy worthiness become thy foe; And with good reason, for 'mong crab-trees wild It ill befits the mellow fig to grow. By widespread ancient rumour are they styled A people blind, rapacious, envious, vain: See by their manners thou be not defiled. Fortune reserves such honour for thee, fain Both sides will be to enlist thee in their need; But from the beak the herb shall far remain. Let beasts of Fiesole go on to tread Themselves to litter, nor the plants molest, If any such now spring on their rank bed, In whom there flourishes indeed the blest Seed of the Romans who still lingered there When of such wickedness 'twas made the nest.' 'Had I obtained full answer to my prayer, You had not yet been doomed,' I then did say, 'This exile from humanity to bear. For deep within my heart and memory Lives the paternal image good and dear Of you, as in the world, from day to day, How men escape oblivion you made clear; My thankfulness for which shall in my speech While I have life, as it behoves, appear. I note what of my future course you teach. Stored with another text it will be glozed By one expert, should I that Lady reach. Yet would I have this much to you disclosed: If but my conscience no reproaches yield, To all my fortune is my soul composed. Not new to me the hint by you revealed; Therefore let Fortune turn her wheel apace, Even as she will; the clown his mattock wield.' Thereon my Master right about did face, And uttered this, with glance upon me thrown: 'He hears to purpose who doth mark the place.' And none the less I, speaking, still go on With Ser Brunetto; asking him to tell Who of his band are greatest and best known. And he to me: 'To hear of some is well, And time is lacking all their names to spell. That all of them were clerks, know thou in sum, All men of letters, famous and of might; Stained with one sin all from the world are come. Priscian goes with that crowd of evil plight, Francis d'Accorso too; and hadst thou mind For suchlike trash thou mightest have had sight Of him the Slave of Slaves to change assigned From Arno's banks to Bacchiglione, where His nerves fatigued with vice he left behind. More would I say, but neither must I fare Nor talk at further length, for from the sand I see new dust-clouds rising in the air, I may not keep with such as are at hand. Care for my _Treasure_; for I still survive In that my work. I nothing else demand.' Then turned he back, and ran like those who strive For the Green Cloth upon Verona's plain; And seemed like him that shall the first arrive, And not like him that labours all in vain. _Cadsand_: An island opposite to the mouth of the great canal of _Chiarentana_: What district or mountain is here meant has been _Not so high, etc._: This limitation is very characteristic of _Marvellous_: To find Dante, whom he knew, still living, and passing through the Circle. _Ser Brunetto_: Brunetto Latini, a Florentine, was born in 1220. _Low I bent my head_: But not projecting it beyond the line of _Guided by whom_: Brunetto has asked who the guide is, and Dante _Thy planet's light_: Some think that Brunetto had cast Dante's _Another text_: Ciacco and Farinata have already hinted at the troubles that lie ahead of him (_Inf._ vi. 65, and x. 79). _The clown, etc._: The honest performance of duty is the best defence against adverse fortune. _Right about_: In traversing the sands they keep upon the _He hears, etc._: Of all the interpretations of this somewhat obscure sentence that seems the best which applies it to Virgil's _His band_: That is, the company to which Brunetto specially belongs, and from which for the time he has separated himself. _Francis d'Accorso_: Died about 1294. The son of a great civil _Of him the Slave, etc._: One of the Pope's titles is _Servus _New dust-clouds_: Raised by a band by whom they are about to be _My Treasure_: The _Tresor_, or _Tesoro_, Brunetto's principal _The Green Cloth_: To commemorate a victory won by the Veronese Now could I hear the water as it fell To the next circle with a murmuring sound Like what is heard from swarming hives to swell; When three shades all together with a bound Burst from a troop met by us pressing on 'Neath rain of that sharp torment. O'er the ground Toward us approaching, they exclaimed each one: 'Halt thou, whom from thy garb we judge to be A citizen of our corrupted town.' Alas, what scars I on their limbs did see, Both old and recent, which the flames had made: Even now my ruth is fed by memory. My Teacher halted at their cry, and said: 'Await a while:' and looked me in the face; 'Some courtesy to these were well displayed. And but that fire--the manner of the place-- Descends for ever, fitting 'twere to find Rather than them, thee quickening thy pace.' When we had halted, they again combined In their old song; and, reaching where we stood, Into a wheel all three were intertwined. And as the athletes used, well oiled and nude, To feel their grip and, wary, watch their chance, Ere they to purpose strike and wrestle could; So each of them kept fixed on me his glance As he wheeled round, and in opposing ways His neck and feet seemed ever to advance. 'Ah, if the misery of this sand-strewn place Bring us and our petitions in despite,' One then began, 'and flayed and grimy face; Let at the least our fame goodwill incite To tell us who thou art, whose living feet Thus through Inferno wander without fright. For he whose footprints, as thou see'st, I beat, Though now he goes with body peeled and nude, More than thou thinkest, in the world was great. The grandson was he of Gualdrada good; He, Guidoguerra, with his armed hand Did mighty things, and by his counsel shrewd. The other who behind me treads the sand Is one whose name should on the earth be dear; And I, who am tormented with them here, James Rusticucci was; my fierce and proud Wife of my ruin was chief minister.' If from the fire there had been any shroud I should have leaped down 'mong them, nor have earned Blame, for my Teacher sure had this allowed. But since I should have been all baked and burned, Terror prevailed the goodwill to restrain With which to clasp them in my arms I yearned. Then I began: ''Twas not contempt but pain Which your condition in my breast awoke, Where deeply rooted it will long remain, When this my Master words unto me spoke, By which expectancy was in me stirred That ye who came were honourable folk. I of your city am, and with my word Your deeds and honoured names oft to recall Delighted, and with joy of them I heard. To the sweet fruits I go, and leave the gall, As promised to me by my Escort true; But first I to the centre down must fall.' 'So may thy soul thy members long endue With vital power,' the other made reply, 'And after thee thy fame its light renew; As thou shalt tell if worth and courtesy Within our city as of yore remain, Or from it have been wholly forced to fly. For William Borsier, one of yonder train, And but of late joined with us in this woe, Causeth us with his words exceeding pain.' 'Upstarts, and fortunes suddenly that grow, Have bred in thee pride and extravagance, Whence tears, O Florence! thou art shedding now.' Thus cried I with uplifted countenance. The three, accepting it for a reply, Glanced each at each as hearing truth men glance. And all: 'If others thou shalt satisfy As well at other times at no more cost, Happy thus at thine ease the truth to cry! Therefore if thou escap'st these regions lost, Returning to behold the starlight fair, Then when "There was I," thou shalt make thy boast, Something of us do thou 'mong men declare.' Then broken was the wheel, and as they fled Their nimble legs like pinions beat the air. So much as one _Amen!_ had scarce been said Quicker than what they vanished from our view. On this once more the way my Master led. I followed, and ere long so near we drew To where the water fell, that for its roar Speech scarcely had been heard between us two. And as the stream which of all those which pour East (from Mount Viso counting) by its own Course falls the first from Apennine to shore-- As Acquacheta in the uplands known By name, ere plunging to its bed profound; Name lost ere by Forli its waters run-- Above St. Benedict with one long bound, Where for a thousand would be ample room, Falls from the mountain to the lower ground; Down the steep cliff that water dyed in gloom We found to fall echoing from side to side, Stunning the ear with its tremendous boom. There was a cord about my middle tied, With which I once had thought that I might hold Secure the leopard with the painted hide. When this from round me I had quite unrolled To him I handed it, all coiled and tight; As by my Leader I had first been told. Himself then bending somewhat toward the right, He just beyond the edge of the abyss Threw down the cord, which disappeared from sight. 'That some strange thing will follow upon this Unwonted signal which my Master's eye Thus follows,' so I thought, 'can hardly miss.' Ah, what great caution need we standing by Those who behold not only what is done, But who have wit our hidden thoughts to spy! He said to me: 'There shall emerge, and soon, What I await; and quickly to thy view That which thou dream'st of shall be clearly known.' From utterance of truth which seems untrue A man, whene'er he can, should guard his tongue; Lest he win blame to no transgression due. Yet now I must speak out, and by the song Of this my Comedy, Reader, I swear-- So in good liking may it last full long!-- I saw a shape swim upward through that air. All indistinct with gross obscurity, Enough to fill the stoutest heart with fear: Like one who rises having dived to free An anchor grappled on a jagged stone, Or something else deep hidden in the sea; With feet drawn in and arms all open thrown. _The next circle_: The Eighth. _Thy garb_: 'Almost every city,' says Boccaccio, 'had in those _As he wheeled round_: Virgil and Dante have come to a halt upon _Guidoguerra_: A descendant of the Counts Guidi of Modigliana. _William Borsiere_: A Florentine, witty and well bred, according introduced as an authority on the noble style of manners. _Pride and extravagance_: In place of the nobility of mind that _There was I, etc._: _Forsan et haec olim meminisse _Acquacheta_: The fall of the water of the brook over the lofty _Toward the right_: The attitude of one about to throw. virtuous purpose, is not strange to Dante. In _Purg._ vii. 114 he Dante attributes to Virgil full knowledge of all that is in his 'Behold the monster with the pointed tail, Who passes mountains and can entrance make Through arms and walls! who makes the whole world ail, Corrupted by him!' Thus my Leader spake, And beckoned him that he should land hard by, Where short the pathways built of marble break. And that foul image of dishonesty Moving approached us with his head and chest, But to the bank drew not his tail on high. His face a human righteousness expressed, 'Twas so benignant to the outward view; A serpent was he as to all the rest. On both his arms hair to the arm-pits grew: On back and chest and either flank were knot And rounded shield portrayed in various hue; No Turk or Tartar weaver ever brought To ground or pattern a more varied dye; Nor by Arachne was such broidery wrought. As sometimes by the shore the barges lie Partly in water, partly on dry land; And as afar in gluttonous Germany, Watching their prey, alert the beavers stand; So did this worst of brutes his foreparts fling Upon the stony rim which hems the sand. All of his tail in space was quivering, Its poisoned fork erecting in the air, Which scorpion-like was armed with a sting. My Leader said: 'Now we aside must fare A little distance, so shall we attain Unto the beast malignant crouching there.' So we stepped down upon the right, and then A half score steps to the outer edge did pace, Thus clearing well the sand and fiery rain. And when we were hard by him I could trace Upon the sand a little further on Some people sitting near to the abyss. 'That what this belt containeth may be known Completely by thee,' then the Master said; 'To see their case do thou advance alone. Let thy inquiries be succinctly made. While thou art absent I will ask of him, With his strong shoulders to afford us aid.' Then, all alone, I on the outmost rim Of that Seventh Circle still advancing trod, Where sat a woful folk. Full to the brim Their eyes with anguish were, and overflowed; Their hands moved here and there to win some ease, Now from the flames, now from the soil which glowed. No otherwise in summer-time one sees, Working its muzzle and its paws, the hound When bit by gnats or plagued with flies or fleas. And I, on scanning some who sat around Of those on whom the dolorous flames alight, Could recognise not one. I only found A purse hung from the throat of every wight, Each with its emblem and its special hue; And every eye seemed feasting on the sight. As I, beholding them, among them drew, I saw what seemed a lion's face and mien Upon a yellow purse designed in blue. Still moving on mine eyes athwart the scene I saw another scrip, blood-red, display A goose more white than butter could have been. And one, on whose white wallet blazoned lay A pregnant sow in azure, to me said: 'What dost thou in this pit? Do thou straightway Begone; and, seeing thou art not yet dead, Know that Vitalian, neighbour once of mine, Shall on my left flank one day find his bed. A Paduan I: all these are Florentine; And oft they stun me, bellowing in my ear: "Come, Pink of Chivalry, for whom we pine, Whose is the purse on which three beaks appear:"' Then he from mouth awry his tongue thrust out Like ox that licks its nose; and I, in fear Lest more delay should stir in him some doubt Who gave command I should not linger long, Me from those wearied spirits turned about. I found my Guide, who had already sprung Upon the back of that fierce animal: He said to me: 'Now be thou brave and strong. By stairs like this we henceforth down must fall. Mount thou in front, for I between would sit So thee the tail shall harm not nor appal.' Like one so close upon the shivering fit Of quartan ague that his nails grow blue, And seeing shade he trembles every whit, I at the hearing of that order grew; But his threats shamed me, as before the face Of a brave lord his man grows valorous too. On the great shoulders then I took my place, And wished to say, but could not move my tongue As I expected: 'Do thou me embrace!' But he, who other times had helped me 'mong My other perils, when ascent I made Sustained me, and strong arms around me flung, And, 'Geryon, set thee now in motion!' said; 'Wheel widely; let thy downward flight be slow; Think of the novel burden on thee laid.' As from the shore a boat begins to go Backward at first, so now he backward pressed, And when he found that all was clear below, He turned his tail where earlier was his breast; And, stretching it, he moved it like an eel, While with his paws he drew air toward his chest. More terror Phaethon could hardly feel What time he let the reins abandoned fall, Whence Heaven was fired, as still its tracts reveal; Nor wretched Icarus, on finding all His plumage moulting as the wax grew hot, While, 'The wrong road!' his father loud did call; Than what I felt on finding I was brought Where nothing was but air and emptiness; For save the brute I could distinguish nought. He slowly, slowly swims; to the abyss Wheeling he makes descent, as I surmise From wind felt 'neath my feet and in my face. Already on the right I heard arise From out the caldron a terrific roar, Whereon I stretch my head with down-turned eyes. Terror of falling now oppressed me sore; Hearing laments, and seeing fires that burned, My thighs I tightened, trembling more and more. Earlier I had not by the eye discerned That we swept downward; scenes of torment now Seemed drawing nearer wheresoe'er we turned. And as a falcon (which long time doth go Upon the wing, not finding lure or prey), While 'Ha!' the falconer cries, 'descending so!' Comes wearied back whence swift it soared away; Wheeling a hundred times upon the road, Then, from its master far, sulks angrily: So we, by Geryon in the deep bestowed, Were 'neath the sheer-hewn precipice set down: He, suddenly delivered from our load, Like arrow from the string was swiftly gone. _The monster_: Geryon, a mythical king of Spain, converted here _Who passes mountains, etc._: Neither art nor nature affords any _Knot and rounded shield_: Emblems of subtle devices and subterfuges. _ Varied dye_: Denoting the various colours of deceit. _Gluttonous Germany_: The habits of the German men-at-arms in Italy, odious to the temperate Italians, explains this gibe. _The right_: This is the second and last time that, in their _A half score steps, etc._: Traversing the stone-built border _Woful folk_: Usurers; those guilty of the unnatural sin of represented as 'obscured from any recognition' (_Inf._ vii. 44). _Pink of Chivalry_: 'Sovereign Cavalier;' identified by his arms _His tongue thrust out_: As if to say: We know well what sort of _By stairs like this_: The descent from one circle to another _Heaven was fired_: As still appears in the Milky Way. In the _A terrific roar_: Of the water falling to the ground. On _Lure_: An imitation bird used in training falcons. Dante Of iron colour, and composed of stone, A place called Malebolge is in Hell, Girt by a cliff of substance like its own. In that malignant region yawns a well Right in the centre, ample and profound; Of which I duly will the structure tell. The zone that lies between them, then, is round-- Between the well and precipice hard and high; Into ten vales divided is the ground. As is the figure offered to the eye, Where numerous moats a castle's towers enclose That they the walls may better fortify; A like appearance was made here by those. And as, again, from threshold of such place Many a drawbridge to the outworks goes; So ridges from the precipice's base Cutting athwart the moats and barriers run, Till at the well join the extremities. From Geryon's back when we were shaken down 'Twas here we stood, until the Poet's feet Moved to the left, and I, behind, came on. New torments on the right mine eyes did meet With new tormentors, novel woe on woe; With which the nearer Bolgia was replete. Sinners, all naked, in the gulf below, This side the middle met us; while they strode On that side with us, but more swift did go. Even so the Romans, that the mighty crowd Across the bridge, the year of Jubilee, Might pass with ease, ordained a rule of road-- Facing the Castle, on that side should be The multitude which to St. Peter's hied; So to the Mount on this was passage free. On the grim rocky ground, on either side, I saw horned devils armed with heavy whip Which on the sinners from behind they plied. Ah, how they made the wretches nimbly skip At the first lashes; no one ever yet But sought from the second and the third to slip. And as I onward went, mine eyes were set On one of them; whereon I called in haste: 'This one already I have surely met!' Therefore to know him, fixedly I gazed; And my kind Leader willingly delayed, While for a little I my course retraced. On this the scourged one, thinking to evade My search, his visage bent without avail, For: 'Thou that gazest on the ground,' I said, 'If these thy features tell trustworthy tale, Venedico Caccianimico thou! But what has brought thee to such sharp regale?' And he, 'I tell it 'gainst my will, I trow, But thy clear accents to the old world bear My memory, and make me all avow. I was the man who Ghisola the fair To serve the Marquis' evil will led on, Whatever the uncomely tale declare. Of Bolognese here weeping not alone Am I; so full the place of them, to-day 'Tween Reno and Savena are not known So many tongues that _Sipa_ deftly say: And if of this thou'dst know the reason why, Think but how greedy were our hearts alway.' To him thus speaking did a demon cry: 'Pander, begone!' and smote him with his thong; 'Here are no women for thy coin to buy.' Then, with my Escort joined, I moved along. Few steps we made until we there had come, Where from the bank a rib of rock was flung. With ease enough up to its top we clomb, And, turning on the ridge, bore to the right; And those eternal circles parted from. When we had reached where underneath the height A passage opes, yielding the scourged a way, My Guide bade: 'Tarry, so to hold in sight Those other spirits born in evil day, Whose faces until now from thee have been Concealed, because with ours their progress lay.' Then from the ancient bridge by us were seen The troop which toward us on that circuit sped, Chased onward, likewise, by the scourges keen. And my good Master, ere I asked him, said: 'That lordly one now coming hither, see, By whom, despite of pain, no tears are shed. What mien he still retains of majesty! 'Tis Jason, who by courage and by guile The Colchians of the ram deprived. 'Twas he Who on his passage by the Lemnian isle, Where all of womankind with daring hand Upon their males had wrought a murder vile, With loving pledges and with speeches bland The tender-yeared Hypsipyle betrayed, Who had herself a fraud on others planned. Forlorn he left her then, when pregnant made. That is the crime condemns him to this pain; And for Medea too is vengeance paid. Who in his manner cheat compose his train. Of the first moat sufficient now is known, And those who in its jaws engulfed remain.' Already had we by the strait path gone To where 'tis with the second bank dovetailed-- The buttress whence a second arch is thrown. Here heard we who in the next Bolgia wailed And puffed for breath; reverberations told They with their open palms themselves assailed. The sides were crusted over with a mould Plastered upon them by foul mists that rise, And both with eyes and nose a contest hold. The bottom is so deep, in vain our eyes Searched it till further up the bridge we went, To where the arch o'erhangs what under lies. Ascended there, our eyes we downward bent, And I saw people in such ordure drowned, A very cesspool 'twas of excrement. And while I from above am searching round, One with a head so filth-smeared I picked out, I knew not if 'twas lay, or tonsure-crowned. 'Why then so eager,' asked he with a shout, 'To stare at me of all the filthy crew?' And I to him: 'Because I scarce can doubt That formerly thee dry of hair I knew, And therefore thee I chiefly hold in view.' Smiting his head-piece, then, his words were these: ''Twas flattery steeped me here; for, using such, My tongue itself enough could never please.' 'Now stretch thou somewhat forward, but not much,' Thereon my Leader bade me, 'and thine eyes Slowly advance till they her features touch And the dishevelled baggage recognise, Clawing her yonder with her nails unclean, Now standing up, now squatting on her thighs. 'Tis harlot Thais, who, when she had been Asked by her lover, "Am I generous And worthy thanks?" said, "Greatly so, I ween." Enough of this place has been seen by us.' _Malebolge_: Or Evil Pits; literally, Evil Pockets. _A well_: The Ninth and lowest Circle, to be described in Canto _The zone_: The Eighth Circle, in which the fraudulent of all description of the Second Circle the atmosphere is represented as _The extremities_: The _Malebolge_ consists of ten circular pits _Horned devils_: Here the demons are horned--terrible remembrancers to the sinner of the injured husband. _Venedico Caccianimico_: A Bolognese noble, brother of Ghisola, _Such sharp regale_: 'Such pungent sauces.' There is here a play _Thy clear accents_: Not broken with sobs like his own and those _Whatever, etc._: Different accounts seem to have been current about the affair of Ghisola. _'Tween Reno, etc._: The Reno and Savena are streams that flow past Bologna. _Sipa_ is Bolognese for Maybe, or for Yes. So Dante _To the right_: This is only an apparent departure from their _Medea_: When the Argonauts landed on Lemnos, they found it _Who in the next Bolgia wailed_: The flatterers in the Second _Alessio Interminei_: Of the Great Lucchese family of the Interminelli, to which the famous Castruccio Castrucani belonged. _Thais_: In the _Eunuch_ of Terence, Thraso, the lover of that _Enough, etc._: Most readers will agree with Virgil. O Simon Magus! ye his wretched crew! The gifts of God, ordained to be the bride Of righteousness, ye prostitute that you With gold and silver may be satisfied; Therefore for you let now the trumpet blow, Seeing that ye in the Third Bolgia 'bide. Arrived at the next tomb, we to the brow Of rock ere this had finished our ascent, Which hangs true plumb above the pit below. What perfect art, O Thou Omniscient, Is Thine in Heaven and earth and the bad world found! How justly does Thy power its dooms invent! The livid stone, on both banks and the ground, I saw was full of holes on every side, All of one size, and each of them was round. No larger seemed they to me nor less wide Than those within my beautiful St. John For the baptizers' standing-place supplied; And one of which, not many years agone, I broke to save one drowning; and I would Have this for seal to undeceive men known. Out of the mouth of each were seen protrude A sinner's feet, and of the legs the small Far as the calves; the rest enveloped stood. And set on fire were both the soles of all, Which made their ankles wriggle with such throes As had made ropes and withes asunder fall. And as flame fed by unctuous matter goes Over the outer surface only spread; So from their heels it flickered to the toes. 'Master, who is he, tortured more,' I said, 'Than are his neighbours, writhing in such woe; And licked by flames of deeper-hearted red?' And he: 'If thou desirest that below I bear thee by that bank which lowest lies, Thou from himself his sins and name shalt know.' And I: 'Thy wishes still for me suffice: Thou art my Lord, and knowest I obey Thy will; and dost my hidden thoughts surprise.' To the fourth barrier then we made our way, And, to the left hand turning, downward went Into the narrow hole-pierced cavity; Nor the good Master caused me make descent From off his haunch till we his hole were nigh Who with his shanks was making such lament. 'Whoe'er thou art, soul full of misery, Set like a stake with lower end upcast,' I said to him, 'Make, if thou canst, reply.' I like a friar stood who gives the last Shrift to a vile assassin, to his side Called back to win delay for him fixed fast. 'Art thou arrived already?' then he cried, 'Art thou arrived already, Boniface? By several years the prophecy has lied. Art so soon wearied of the wealthy place, For which thou didst not fear to take with guile, Then ruin the fair Lady?' Now my case Was like to theirs who linger on, the while They cannot comprehend what they are told, And as befooled from further speech resile. But Virgil bade me: 'Speak out loud and bold, "I am not he thou thinkest, no, not he!"' And I made answer as by him controlled. The spirit's feet then twisted violently, And, sighing in a voice of deep distress, He asked: 'What then requirest thou of me? If me to know thou hast such eagerness, That thou the cliff hast therefore ventured down, Know, the Great Mantle sometime was my dress. I of the Bear, in sooth, was worthy son: As once, the Cubs to help, my purse with gain I stuffed, myself I in this purse have stown. Stretched out at length beneath my head remain All the simoniacs that before me went, And flattened lie throughout the rocky vein. I in my turn shall also make descent, Soon as he comes who I believed thou wast, When I asked quickly what for him was meant. O'er me with blazing feet more time has past, While upside down I fill the topmost room, Than he his crimsoned feet shall upward cast; For after him one viler still shall come, A Pastor from the West, lawless of deed: To cover both of us his worthy doom. A modern Jason he, of whom we read In Maccabees, whose King denied him nought: With the French King so shall this man succeed.' Perchance I ventured further than I ought, But I spake to him in this measure free: 'Ah, tell me now what money was there sought Of Peter by our Lord, when either key He gave him in his guardianship to hold? Sure He demanded nought save: "Follow me!" Nor Peter, nor the others, asked for gold Or silver when upon Matthias fell The lot instead of him, the traitor-souled. Keep then thy place, for thou art punished well, And clutch the pelf, dishonourably gained, Which against Charles made thee so proudly swell. And, were it not that I am still restrained By reverence for those tremendous keys, Borne by thee while the glad world thee contained, I would use words even heavier than these; Seeing your avarice makes the world deplore, Crushing the good, filling the bad with ease. 'Twas you, O Pastors, the Evangelist bore In mind what time he saw her on the flood Who with seven heads was born; and as she would By the ten horns to her was service done, Long as her spouse rejoiced in what was good. Now gold and silver are your god alone: What difference 'twixt the idolater and you, Save that ye pray a hundred for his one? Ah, Constantine, how many evils grew-- Not from thy change of faith, but from the gift Wherewith thou didst the first rich Pope endue!' While I my voice continued to uplift To such a tune, by rage or conscience stirred Both of his soles he made to twist and shift. My Guide, I well believe, with pleasure heard; Listening he stood with lips so well content To me propounding truthful word on word. Then round my body both his arms he bent, And, having raised me well upon his breast, Climbed up the path by which he made descent. Nor was he by his burden so oppressed But that he bore me to the bridge's crown, Which with the fourth joins the fifth rampart's crest. And lightly here he set his burden down, Found light by him upon the precipice, Up which a goat uneasily had gone. And thence another valley met mine eyes. _Simon Magus_: The sin of simony consists in setting a price on _The trumpet_: Blown at the punishment of criminals, to call attention to their sentence. _The next tomb_: The Third Bolgia, appropriately termed a tomb, _The prophecy_: 'The writing.' The speaker is Nicholas III., of _The fair Lady_: The Church. The guile is that shown by Boniface _As befooled_: Dante does not yet suspect that it is with a Pope _All the simoniacs_: All the Popes that had been guilty of the _Jason_: Or Joshua, who purchased the office of High Priest from _By reverence, etc._: Dante distinguishes between the office and _Her spouse_: In the preceding lines the vision of the Woman in _Ah, Constantine, etc._: In Dante's time, and for some centuries Now of new torment must my verses tell, And matter for the Twentieth Canto win Of Lay the First, which treats of souls in Hell. Already was I eager to begin To peer into the visible profound, Which tears of agony was bathed in: And I saw people in the valley round; Like that of penitents on earth the pace At which they weeping came, nor uttering sound. When I beheld them with more downcast gaze, That each was strangely screwed about I learned, Where chest is joined to chin. And thus the face Of every one round to his loins was turned; And stepping backward all were forced to go, For nought in front could be by them discerned. Smitten by palsy although one might show Perhaps a shape thus twisted all awry, I never saw, and am to think it slow. As, Reader, God may grant thou profit by Thy reading, for thyself consider well If I could then preserve my visage dry When close at hand to me was visible Our human form so wrenched that tears, rained down Out of the eyes, between the buttocks fell. In very sooth I wept, leaning upon A boss of the hard cliff, till on this wise My Escort asked: 'Of the other fools art one? Here piety revives as pity dies; For who more irreligious is than he In whom God's judgments to regret give rise? Lift up, lift up thy head, and thou shalt see Him for whom earth yawned as the Thebans saw, All shouting meanwhile: "Whither dost thou flee, Amphiaraues? Wherefore thus withdraw From battle?" But he sinking found no rest Till Minos clutched him with all-grasping claw. Lo, how his shoulders serve him for a breast! Because he wished to see too far before Backward he looks, to backward course addressed. Behold Tiresias, who was changed all o'er, Till for a man a woman met the sight, And not a limb its former semblance bore; And he behoved a second time to smite The same two twisted serpents with his wand, Ere he again in manly plumes was dight. With back to him, see Aruns next at hand, Who up among the hills of Luni, where Peasants of near Carrara till the land, Among the dazzling marbles held his lair Within a cavern, whence could be descried The sea and stars of all obstruction bare. The other one, whose flowing tresses hide Her bosom, of the which thou seest nought, And all whose hair falls on the further side, Was Manto; who through many regions sought: Where I was born, at last her foot she stayed. It likes me well thou shouldst of this be taught. When from this life her father exit made, And Bacchus' city had become enthralled, She for long time through many countries strayed. 'Neath mountains by which Germany is walled And bounded at Tirol, a lake there lies High in fair Italy, Benacus called. The waters of a thousand springs that rise 'Twixt Val Camonica and Garda flow Down Pennine; and their flood this lake supplies. And from a spot midway, if they should go And Brescia might their blessings all bestow. Peschiera, with its strength for ornament, Lies where the bank to lower curve is bent. And there the waters, seeking more of ease, For in Benacus is not room for all, Forming a river, lapse by green degrees. The river, from its very source, men call No more Benacus--'tis as Mincio known, Which into Po does at Governo fall. A flat it reaches ere it far has run, Spreading o'er which it feeds a marshy fen, Whence oft in summer pestilence has grown. Wayfaring here the cruel virgin, when She found land girdled by the marshy flood, Untilled and uninhabited of men, That she might 'scape all human neighbourhood Stayed on it with her slaves, her arts to ply; And there her empty body was bestowed. On this the people from the country nigh Into that place came crowding, for the spot, Girt by the swamp, could all attack defy, And for the town built o'er her body sought A name from her who made it first her seat, Calling it Mantua, without casting lot. The dwellers in it were in number great, Till stupid Casalodi was befooled And victimised by Pinamonte's cheat. Hence, shouldst thou ever hear (now be thou schooled!) Another story to my town assigned, Let by no fraud the truth be overruled.' And I: 'Thy reasonings, Master, to my mind So cogent are, and win my faith so well, What others say I shall black embers find. But of this people passing onward tell, If thou, of any, something canst declare, For all my thoughts on that intently dwell.' And then he said: 'The one whose bearded hair Falls from his cheeks upon his shoulders dun, Was, when the land of Greece of males so bare Was grown the very cradles scarce held one, An augur; he with Calchas gave the sign In Aulis through the first rope knife to run. Eurypylus was he called, and in some line Of my high Tragedy is sung the same, As thou know'st well, who mad'st it wholly thine. That other, thin of flank, was known to fame As Michael Scott; and of a verity He knew right well the black art's inmost game. Who mourns he ever should have parted from His thread and leather; but too late mourns he. Lo the unhappy women who left loom, Spindle, and needle that they might divine; With herb and image hastening men's doom. But come; for where the hemispheres confine Cain and the Thorns is falling, to alight Underneath Seville on the ocean line. The moon was full already yesternight; Which to recall thou shouldst be well content, For in the wood she somewhat helped thy plight.' Thus spake he to me while we forward went. _The visible profound_: The Fourth Bolgia, where soothsayers of _Nor uttering, etc._: They who on earth told too much are now _More downcast gaze_: Standing as he does on the crown of the _Stepping backward_: Once they peered far into the future; now they cannot see a step before them. _Of the other fools_: Dante, weeping like the sinners in the _Amphiaraues_: One of the Seven Kings who besieged Thebes. He _Tiresias_: A Theban soothsayer whose change of sex is described _Benacus_: The ancient Benacus, now known as the Lake of Garda. _The Pastors, etc._: About half-way down the western side of the _An augur_: Eurypylus, mentioned in the Second _AEneid_ as being _Michael Scott_: Of Balwearie in Scotland, familiar to English sciences, as they were then deemed, of astrology, alchemy, and physiognomy. He acted for some time as astrologer to the Emperor _Guido Bonatti_: Was a Florentine, a tiler by trade, and was Conversing still from bridge to bridge we went; But what our words I in my Comedy Care not to tell. The top of the ascent Holding, we halted the next pit to spy Of Malebolge, with plaints bootless all: There, darkness full of wonder met the eye. As the Venetians in their Arsenal Boil the tenacious pitch at winter-tide, To caulk the ships with for repairs that call; For then they cannot sail; and so, instead, One builds his bark afresh, one stops with tow His vessel's ribs, by many a voyage tried; One hammers at the poop, one at the prow; Some fashion oars, and others cables twine, And others at the jib and main sails sew: So, not by fire, but by an art Divine, Pitch of thick substance boiled in that low Hell, And all the banks did as with plaster line. I saw it, but distinguished nothing well Except the bubbles by the boiling raised, Now swelling up and ceasing now to swell. While down upon it fixedly I gazed, 'Beware, beware!' my Leader to me said, And drew me thence close to him. I, amazed, Turned sharply round, like him who has delayed, Fain to behold the thing he ought to flee, Then, losing nerve, grows suddenly afraid, Nor lingers longer what there is to see; For a black devil I beheld advance Over the cliff behind us rapidly. Ah me, how fierce was he of countenance! What bitterness he in his gesture put, As with spread wings he o'er the ground did dance! Upon his shoulders, prominent and acute, Was perched a sinner fast by either hip; And him he held by tendon of the foot. He from our bridge: 'Ho, Malebranche! Grip An Elder brought from Santa Zita's town: Stuff him below; myself once more I slip Back to the place where lack of such is none. There, save Bonturo, barrates every man, And No grows Yes that money may be won.' He shot him down, and o'er the cliff began To run; nor unchained mastiff o'er the ground, Chasing a robber, swifter ever ran. The other sank, then rose with back bent round; But from beneath the bridge the devils cried: 'Not here the Sacred Countenance is found, One swims not here as on the Serchio's tide; So if thou wouldst not with our grapplers deal Do not on surface of the pitch abide.' Then he a hundred hooks was made to feel. 'Best dance down there,' they said the while to him, 'Where, if thou canst, thou on the sly mayst steal.' So scullions by the cooks are set to trim The caldrons and with forks the pieces steep Down in the water, that they may not swim. And the good Master said to me: 'Now creep Behind a rocky splinter for a screen; So from their knowledge thou thyself shalt keep. And fear not thou although with outrage keen I be opposed, for I am well prepared, And formerly have in like contest been.' Then passing from the bridge's crown he fared To the sixth bank, and when thereon he stood He needed courage doing what he dared. In the same furious and tempestuous mood In which the dogs upon the beggar leap, Who, halting suddenly, seeks alms or food, They issued forth from underneath the deep Vault of the bridge, with grapplers 'gainst him stretched; But he exclaimed: 'Aloof, and harmless keep! Ere I by any of your hooks be touched, Come one of you and to my words give ear; And then advise you if I should be clutched.' All cried: 'Let Malacoda then go near;' On which one moved, the others standing still. He coming said: 'What will this help him here?' 'O Malacoda, is it credible That I am come,' my Master then replied, 'Secure your opposition to repel, Without Heaven's will, and fate, upon my side? Let me advance, for 'tis by Heaven's behest That I on this rough road another guide.' Then was his haughty spirit so depressed, He let his hook drop sudden to his feet, And, 'Strike him not!' commanded all the rest My Leader charged me thus: 'Thou, from thy seat Where 'mid the bridge's ribs thou crouchest low, Rejoin me now in confidence complete.' Whereon I to rejoin him was not slow; And then the devils, crowding, came so near, I feared they to their paction false might show. So at Caprona saw I footmen fear, Spite of their treaty, when a multitude Of foes received them, crowding front and rear. With all my body braced I closer stood To him, my Leader, and intently eyed The aspect of them, which was far from good. Lowering their grapplers, 'mong themselves they cried: 'Shall I now tickle him upon the thigh?' 'Yea, see thou clip him deftly,' one replied. The demon who in parley had drawn nigh Unto my Leader, upon this turned round; 'Scarmiglione, lay thy weapon by!' He said; and then to us: 'No way is found Further along this cliff, because, undone, All the sixth arch lies ruined on the ground. But if it please you further to pass on, Over this rocky ridge advancing climb To the next rib, where passage may be won. Yestreen, but five hours later than this time, Twelve hundred sixty-six years reached an end, Since the way lost the wholeness of its prime. Thither I some of mine will straightway send To see that none peer forth to breathe the air: Go on with them; you they will not offend. You, Alichin and Calcabrin, prepare To move,' he bade; 'Cagnazzo, thou as well; Guiding the ten, thou, Barbariccia, fare. With Draghignazzo, Libicocco fell, Fanged Ciriatto, Graffiacane too, Search on all quarters round the boiling glue. Let these go safe, till at the bridge they be, Which doth unbroken o'er the caverns go.' 'Alas, my Master, what is this I see?' Said I, 'Unguided, let us forward set, If thou know'st how. I wish no company. If former caution thou dost not forget, Dost thou not mark how each his teeth doth grind, The while toward us their brows are full of threat?' And he: 'I would not fear should fill thy mind; Let them grin all they will, and all they can; 'Tis at the wretches in the pitch confined.' They wheeled and down the left hand bank began To march, but first each bit his tongue, and passed The signal on to him who led the van. He answered grossly as with trumpet blast. _From bridge to bridge_: They cross the barrier separating the _The Venetians_: But for this picturesque description of the old _A sinner_: This is the only instance in the _Inferno_ of the _Malebranche_: Evil Claws, the name of the devils who have the sinners of this Bolgia in charge. _Santa Zita's town_: Zita was a holy serving-woman of Lucca, who _Save Bonturo_, _barrates, etc._: It is the barrators, those who _The Sacred Countenance_: An image in cedar wood, of Byzantine _The Serchio_: The stream which flows past Lucca. _A hundred hooks_: So many devils with their pronged hooks were _The sixth bank_: Dante remains on the crown of the arch _What will this, etc._: As if he said: What good will this delay _At Caprona_: Dante was one of the mounted militia sent by Florence in 1289 to help the Lucchese against the Pisans, and was _Yestreen, etc._: This is the principal passage in the _Comedy_ _Alichino, etc._: The names of the devils are all descriptive: _Unbroken_: Malacoda repeats his lie. Horsemen I've seen in march across the field, Hastening to charge, or, answering muster, stand, And sometimes too when forced their ground to yield; I have seen skirmishers upon your land, O Aretines! and those on foray sent; With trumpet and with bell to sound command Have seen jousts run and well-fought tournament, With drum, and signal from the castle shown, And foreign music with familiar blent; But ne'er by blast on such a trumpet blown Beheld I horse or foot to motion brought, Nor ship by star or landmark guided on. With the ten demons moved we from the spot; Ah, cruel company! but 'with the good In church, and in the tavern with the sot.' Still to the pitch was my attention glued Fully to see what in the Bolgia lay, And who were in its burning mass imbrued. As when the dolphins vaulted backs display, Warning to mariners they should prepare To trim their vessel ere the storm makes way; So, to assuage the pain he had to bear, Some wretch would show his back above the tide, Then swifter plunge than lightnings cleave the air. And as the frogs close to the marsh's side With muzzles thrust out of the water stand, While feet and bodies carefully they hide; So stood the sinners upon every hand. But on beholding Barbariccia nigh Beneath the bubbles disappeared the band. I saw what still my heart is shaken by: One waiting, as it sometimes comes to pass That one frog plunges, one at rest doth lie; And Graffiacan, who nearest to him was, Him upward drew, clutching his pitchy hair: To me he bore the look an otter has. I of their names ere this was well aware, For I gave heed unto the names of all When they at first were chosen. 'Now prepare, And, Rubicante, with thy talons fall Upon him and flay well,' with many cries And one consent the accursed ones did call. I said: 'O Master, if in any wise Thou canst, find out who is the wretched wight Thus at the mercy of his enemies.' Whereon my Guide drew full within his sight, Asking him whence he came, and he replied: 'In kingdom of Navarre I first saw light. Me servant to a lord my mother tied; Through her I from a scoundrel sire did spring, Waster of goods and of himself beside. As servant next to Thiebault, righteous king, I set myself to ply barratorship; And in this heat discharge my reckoning.' And Ciriatto, close upon whose lip On either side a boar-like tusk did stand, Made him to feel how one of them could rip. The mouse had stumbled on the wild cat band; But Barbariccia locked him in embrace, And, 'Off while I shall hug him!' gave command. Round to my Master then he turned his face: 'Ask more of him if more thou wouldest know, While he against their fury yet finds grace.' My Leader asked: 'Declare now if below The pitch 'mong all the guilty there lies here A Latian?' He replied: 'Short while ago From one I parted who to them lived near; And would that I might use him still for shield, Then hook or claw I should no longer fear,' Said Libicocco: 'Too much grace we yield.' And in the sinner's arm he fixed his hook, And from it clean a fleshy fragment peeled. But seeing Draghignazzo also took Aim at his legs, the leader of the Ten Turned swiftly round on them with angry look. On this they were a little quieted; then Of him who still gazed on his wound my Guide Without delay demanded thus again: 'Who was it whom, in coming to the side, Thou say'st thou didst do ill to leave behind?' 'Gomita of Gallura,' he replied, 'A vessel full of fraud of every kind, Who, holding in his power his master's foes, So used them him they bear in thankful mind; For, taking bribes, he let slip all of those, He says; and he in other posts did worse, And as a chieftain 'mong barrators rose. Don Michael Zanche doth with him converse, From Logodoro, and with endless din They gossip of Sardinian characters. But look, ah me! how yonder one doth grin. More would I say, but that I am afraid He is about to claw me on the skin.' To Farfarel the captain turned his head, For, as about to swoop, he rolled his eye, And, 'Cursed hawk, preserve thy distance!' said. 'If ye would talk with, or would closer spy,' The frighted wretch began once more to say, 'Tuscans or Lombards, I will bring them nigh. But let the Malebranche first give way, That of their vengeance they may not have fear, And I to this same place where now I stay For me, who am but one, will bring seven near When I shall whistle as we use to do Whenever on the surface we appear.' On this Cagnazzo up his muzzle threw, Shaking his head and saying: 'Hear the cheat He has contrived, to throw himself below.' Then he who in devices was complete: 'Far too malicious, in good sooth,' replied, 'When for my friends I plan a sorer fate.' This, Alichin withstood not but denied The others' counsel, saying: 'If thou fling Thyself hence, thee I strive not to outstride. But o'er the pitch I'll dart upon the wing. Leave we the ridge, and be the bank a shield; And see if thou canst all of us outspring.' O Reader, hear a novel trick revealed. All to the other side turned round their eyes, He first who slowest was the boon to yield. In choice of time the Navarrese was wise; Taking firm stand, himself he forward flung, Eluding thus their hostile purposes. Then with compunction each of them was stung, But he the most whose slackness made them fail; Therefore he started, 'Caught!' upon his tongue. But little it bested, nor could prevail His wings 'gainst fear. Below the other went, While he with upturned breast aloft did sail. And as the falcon, when, on its descent, The wild duck suddenly dives out of sight, Returns outwitted back, and malcontent; To be befooled filled Calcabrin with spite. Hovering he followed, wishing in his mind The wretch escaping should leave cause for fight. When the barrator vanished, from behind He on his comrade with his talons fell And clawed him, 'bove the moat with him entwined. The other was a spar-hawk terrible To claw in turn; together then the two Plunged in the boiling pool. The heat full well How to unlock their fierce embraces knew; But yet they had no power to rise again, So were their wings all plastered o'er with glue. Then Barbariccia, mourning with his train, Caused four to fly forth to the other side With all their grapplers. Swift their flight was ta'en. Down to the place from either hand they glide, Reaching their hooks to those who were limed fast, And now beneath the scum were being fried. And from them thus engaged we onward passed. _O Aretines_: Dante is mentioned as having taken part in the _Bell_: The use of the bell for martial music was common in the _Beneath the bubbles, etc._: As the barrators took toll of the _Their names_: The names of all the demons. All of them urge _In kingdom of Navarre, etc._: The commentators give the name of _Thiebault_: King of Navarre and second of that name. He _Gomita of Gallura_: 'Friar Gomita' was high in favour with Nino prisoners free for bribes. _Don Michael Zanche_: Enzo, King of Sardinia, married Adelasia, _They gossip, etc._: Zanche's experience of Sardinia was of an _The others' counsel_: Alichino, confident in his own powers, is _He first, etc._: Cagnazzo. See line 106. _No power_: The foolish ineptitude of the devils for anything Silent, alone, not now with company We onward went, one first and one behind, As Minor Friars use to make their way. On AEsop's fable wholly was my mind Intent, by reason of that contest new-- The fable where the frog and mouse we find; For _Mo_ and _Issa_ are not more of hue Than like the fable shall the fact appear, If but considered with attention due. And as from one thought springs the next, so here Out of my first arose another thought, Until within me doubled was my fear. For thus I judged: Seeing through us were brought Contempt upon them, hurt, and sore despite, They needs must be to deep vexation wrought. If anger to malevolence unite, Then will they us more cruelly pursue Than dog the hare which almost feels its bite. All my hair bristled, I already knew, With terror when I spake: 'O Master, try To hide us quick' (and back I turned to view What lay behind), 'for me they terrify, These Malebranche following us; from dread I almost fancy I can feel them nigh.' And he: 'Were I a mirror backed with lead I should no truer glass that form of thine, Than all thy thought by mine is answered. For even now thy thoughts accord with mine, Alike in drift and featured with one face; And to suggest one counsel they combine. If the right bank slope downward at this place, To the next Bolgia offering us a way, Swiftly shall we evade the imagined chase.' Ere he completely could his purpose say, I saw them with their wings extended wide, Close on us; as of us to make their prey. Then quickly was I snatched up by my Guide: Even as a mother when, awaked by cries, She sees the flames are kindling at her side, Delaying not, seizes her child and flies; Careful for him her proper danger mocks, Nor even with one poor shift herself supplies. And he, stretched out upon the flinty rocks, Himself unto the precipice resigned Which one side of the other Bolgia blocks. A swifter course ne'er held a stream confined, That it may turn a mill, within its race, Where near the buckets 'tis the most declined Than was my Master's down that rock's sheer face; Nor seemed I then his comrade, as we sped, But like a son locked in a sire's embrace. And barely had his feet struck on the bed Of the low ground, when they were seen to stand Upon the crest, no more a cause of dread. For Providence supreme, who so had planned In the Fifth Bolgia they should minister, Them wholly from departure thence had banned. 'Neath us we saw a painted people fare, Weeping as on their way they circled slow, Crushed by fatigue to look at, and despair. Cloaks had they on with hoods pulled down full low Upon their eyes, and fashioned, as it seemed, Like those which at Cologne for monks they sew. The outer face was gilt so that it gleamed; Inside was all of lead, of such a weight Frederick's to these had been but straw esteemed. O weary robes for an eternal state! With them we turned to the left hand once more, Intent upon their tears disconsolate. But those folk, wearied with the loads they bore, So slowly crept that still new company Was ours at every footfall on the floor. Whence to my Guide I said: 'Do thou now try To find some one by name or action known, And as we go on all sides turn thine eye.' And one, who recognised the Tuscan tone, Called from behind us: 'Halt, I you entreat Who through the air obscure are hastening on; Haply in me thou what thou seek'st shalt meet.' Whereon my Guide turned round and said: 'Await, And keep thou time with pacing of his feet.' I stood, and saw two manifesting great Desire to join me, by their countenance; But their loads hampered them and passage strait. And, when arrived, me with an eye askance They gazed on long time, but no word they spoke; Then, to each other turned, held thus parlance: 'His heaving throat proves him of living folk. If they are of the dead, how could they gain To walk uncovered by the heavy cloak?' Then to me: 'Tuscan, who dost now attain To the college of the hypocrites forlorn, To tell us who thou art show no disdain.' And I to them: 'I was both bred and born In the great city by fair Arno's stream, And wear the body I have always worn. But who are ye, whose suffering supreme Makes tears, as I behold, to flood the cheek; And what your mode of pain that thus doth gleam?' 'Ah me, the yellow mantles,' one to speak Began, 'are all of lead so thick, its weight Maketh the scales after this manner creak. We, Merry Friars of Bologna's state, Were by thy town together designate, As for the most part one is used to be, To keep the peace within it; and around Gardingo, what we were men still may see.' I made beginning: 'Friars, your profound--' But said no more, on suddenly seeing there One crucified by three stakes to the ground, Who, when he saw me, writhed as in despair, Breathing into his beard with heavy sigh. And Friar Catalan, of this aware, Said: 'He thus fixed, on whom thou turn'st thine eye, Counselled the Pharisees that it behoved One man as victim for the folk should die. Naked, thou seest, he lies, and ne'er removed From where, set 'cross the path, by him the weight Of every one that passes by is proved. And his wife's father shares an equal fate, With others of the Council, in this fosse; Meanwhile at him thus stretched upon the cross Virgil, I saw, displayed astonishment-- At his mean exile and eternal loss. And then this question to the Friars he sent: 'Be not displeased, but, if ye may, avow If on the right hand there lies any vent By which we, both of us, from hence may go, Nor need the black angelic company To come to help us from this valley low.' 'Nearer than what thou think'st,' he made reply, 'A rib there runs from the encircling wall, The cruel vales in turn o'erarching high; Save that at this 'tis rent and ruined all. Ye can climb upward o'er the shattered heap Where down the side the piled-up fragments fall.' His head bent down a while my Guide did keep, Then said: 'He warned us in imperfect wise, Who sinners with his hook doth clutch and steep.' The Friar: 'At Bologna many a vice I heard the Devil charged with, and among The rest that, false, he father is of lies.' Then onward moved my Guide with paces long, And some slight shade of anger on his face. I with him parted from the burdened throng, Stepping where those dear feet had left their trace. _Mo_ and _Issa_: Two words for _now_. _Through us_: The quarrel among the fiends arose from Dante's insatiable desire to confer with 'Tuscan or Lombard.' _To the next Bolgia_: The Sixth. They are now on the top of the _No more a cause of dread_: There seems some incongruity between _Cologne_: Some make it Clugny, the great Benedictine monastery; _Frederick's, etc._: The Emperor Frederick II.; but that he used _An eye askance_: They cannot turn their heads. _Gardingo_: A quarter of Florence, in which many palaces were destroyed about the time of the Podestaship of the Frati. _One man as victim_: _St. John_ xi. 50. Caiaphas and Annas, with _On the right_: As they are moving round the Bolgia to the left, _The encircling wall_: That which encloses all the Malebolge. _He warned us_: Malacoda (_Inf._ xxi. 109) had assured him that In season of the new year, when the sun Beneath Aquarius warms again his hair, And somewhat on the nights the days have won; When on the ground the hoar-frost painteth fair A mimic image of her sister white-- But soon her brush of colour is all bare-- The clown, whose fodder is consumed outright, Rises and looks abroad, and, all the plain Beholding glisten, on his thigh doth smite. Returned indoors, like wretch that seeks in vain What he should do, restless he mourns his case; But hope revives when, looking forth again, He sees the earth anew has changed its face. Then with his crook he doth himself provide, And straightway doth his sheep to pasture chase: So at my Master was I terrified, His brows beholding troubled; nor more slow To where I ailed the plaster was applied. For when the broken bridge we stood below My Guide turned to me with the expression sweet Which I beneath the mountain learned to know. His arms he opened, after counsel meet Held with himself, and, scanning closely o'er The fragments first, he raised me from my feet; And like a man who, working, looks before, With foresight still on that in front bestowed, Me to the summit of a block he bore And then to me another fragment showed, Saying: 'By this thou now must clamber on; But try it first if it will bear thy load.' The heavy cowled this way could ne'er have gone, For hardly we, I holpen, he so light, Could clamber up from shattered stone to stone. And but that on the inner bank the height Of wall is not so great, I say not he, But for myself I had been vanquished quite. But Malebolge to the cavity Of the deep central pit is planned to fall; Hence every Bolgia in its turn must be High on the out, low on the inner wall; So to the summit we attained at last, Whence breaks away the topmost stone of all. My lungs were so with breathlessness harassed, The summit won, I could no further go; And, hardly there, me on the ground I cast 'Well it befits that thou shouldst from thee throw All sloth,' the Master said; 'for stretched in down Or under awnings none can glory know. And he who spends his life nor wins renown Leaves in the world no more enduring trace Than smoke in air, or foam on water blown. Therefore arise; o'ercome thy breathlessness By force of will, victor in every fight When not subservient to the body base. Of stairs thou yet must climb a loftier flight: 'Tis not enough to have ascended these. Up then and profit if thou hear'st aright.' Rising I feigned to breathe with greater ease Than what I felt, and spake: 'Now forward plod, For with my courage now my strength agrees.' Up o'er the rocky rib we held our road; And rough it was and difficult and strait, And steeper far than that we earlier trod. Speaking I went, to hide my wearied state, When from the neighbouring moat a voice we heard Which seemed ill fitted to articulate. Of what it said I knew not any word, Though on the arch that vaults the moat set high; But he who spake appeared by anger stirred. Though I bent downward yet my eager eye, So dim the depth, explored it all in vain; I then: 'O Master, to that bank draw nigh, And let us by the wall descent obtain, Because I hear and do not understand, And looking down distinguish nothing plain.' 'My sole reply to thee,' he answered bland, 'Is to perform; for it behoves,' he said, 'With silent act to answer just demand.' Then we descended from the bridge's head, Where with the eighth bank is its junction wrought; And full beneath me was the Bolgia spread. And I perceived that hideously 'twas fraught With serpents; and such monstrous forms they bore, Even now my blood is curdled at the thought. Henceforth let sandy Libya boast no more! Though she breed hydra, snake that crawls or flies, Twy-headed, or fine-speckled, no such store Of plagues, nor near so cruel, she supplies, Though joined to all the land of Ethiop, And that which by the Red Sea waters lies. 'Midst this fell throng and dismal, without hope A naked people ran, aghast with fear-- No covert for them and no heliotrope. Their hands were bound by serpents at their rear, Which in their reins for head and tail did get A holding-place: in front they knotted were. And lo! to one who on our side was set A serpent darted forward, him to bite At where the neck is by the shoulders met. Nor _O_ nor _I_ did any ever write More quickly than he kindled, burst in flame, And crumbled all to ashes. And when quite He on the earth a wasted heap became, The ashes of themselves together rolled, Resuming suddenly their former frame. Thus, as by mighty sages we are told, The Phoenix dies, and then is born again, When it is close upon five centuries old. In all its life it eats not herb nor grain, But only tears that from frankincense flow; It, for a shroud, sweet nard and myrrh contain. And as the man who falls and knows not how, By force of demons stretched upon the ground, Or by obstruction that makes life run low, When risen up straight gazes all around In deep confusion through the anguish keen He suffered from, and stares with sighs profound: So was the sinner, when arisen, seen. Justice of God, how are thy terrors piled, Showering in vengeance blows thus big with teen! My Guide then asked of him how he was styled. Whereon he said: 'From Tuscany I rained, Not long ago, into this gullet wild. From bestial life, not human, joy I gained, Mule that I was; me, Vanni Fucci, brute, Pistoia, fitting den, in life contained.' I to my Guide: 'Bid him not budge a foot, And ask what crime has plunged him here below. In rage and blood I knew him dissolute.' The sinner heard, nor insincere did show, But towards me turned his face and eke his mind, With spiteful shame his features all aglow; Then said: 'It pains me more thou shouldst me find And catch me steeped in all this misery, Than when the other life I left behind. What thou demandest I can not deny: I'm plunged thus low because the thief I played Within the fairly furnished sacristy; And falsely to another's charge 'twas laid. Lest thou shouldst joy such sight has met thy view If e'er these dreary regions thou evade, Give ear and hearken to my utterance true: The Neri first out of Pistoia fail, Her laws and parties Florence shapes anew; Mars draws a vapour out of Magra's vale, Which black and threatening clouds accompany: Then bursting in a tempest terrible Upon Piceno shall the war run high; The mist by it shall suddenly be rent, And every Bianco smitten be thereby: And I have told thee that thou mayst lament.' _Aquarius_: The sun is in the constellation of Aquarius from the perplexity as to how they are to escape from the Bolgia; and his _The broken bridge_: They are about to escape from the bottom of _The heavy cowled_: He finds his illustration on the spot, his mind being still full of the grievously burdened hypocrites. _But Malebolge, etc._: Each Bolgia in turn lies at a lower level _The topmost stone_: The stone that had formed the beginning of the arch at this end of it. _A loftier flight_: When he ascends the Mount of Purgatory. _The arch, etc._: He has gone on hiding his weariness till he is _Their hands, etc._: The sinners in this Bolgia are the thieves, _The ashes, etc._: The sufferings of the thieves, if looked _The Phoenix_: Dante here borrows very directly from Ovid _And ask, etc._: Dante wishes to find out why Fucci is placed acquaintance and old enmity. _Lest thou shouldst joy_: Vanni, a _Nero_ or Black, takes his The robber, when his words were ended so, Made both the figs and lifted either fist, Shouting: 'There, God! for them at thee I throw.' Then were the snakes my friends; for one 'gan twist And coiled itself around the sinner's throat, As if to say: 'Now would I have thee whist.' Another seized his arms and made a knot, Clinching itself upon them in such wise He had no power to move them by a jot. Pistoia! thou, Pistoia, shouldst devise To burn thyself to ashes, since thou hast Outrun thy founders in iniquities. The blackest depths of Hell through which I passed Showed me no soul 'gainst God so filled with spite, No, not even he who down Thebes' wall was cast. He spake no further word, but turned to flight; And I beheld a Centaur raging sore Come shouting: 'Of the ribald give me sight!' I scarce believe Maremma yieldeth more Snakes of all kinds than what composed the load Which on his back, far as our form, he bore. Behind his nape, with pinions spread abroad, A dragon couchant on his shoulders lay To set on fire whoever bars his road. 'This one is Cacus,' did my Master say, 'Who underneath the rock of Aventine Watered a pool with blood day after day. Not with his brethren runs he in the line, Because of yore the treacherous theft he wrought Upon the neighbouring wealthy herd of kine: Whence to his crooked course an end was brought 'Neath Hercules' club, which on him might shower down A hundred blows; ere ten he suffered nought.' While this he said, the other had passed on; And under us three spirits forward pressed Of whom my Guide and I had nothing known But that: 'Who are ye?' they made loud request. Whereon our tale no further could proceed; And toward them wholly we our wits addressed. I recognised them not, but gave good heed; Till, as it often haps in such a case, To name another, one discovered need, Saying: 'Now where stopped Cianfa in the race?' Then, that my Guide might halt and hearken well, On chin and nose I did my finger place. If, Reader, to believe what now I tell Thou shouldst be slow, I wonder not, for I Who saw it all scarce find it credible. While I on them my brows kept lifted high A serpent, which had six feet, suddenly flew At one of them and held him bodily. Its middle feet about his paunch it drew, And with the two in front his arms clutched fast, And bit one cheek and the other through and through. Its hinder feet upon his thighs it cast, Thrusting its tail between them till behind, Distended o'er his reins, it upward passed. The ivy to a tree could never bind Itself so firmly as this dreadful beast Its members with the other's intertwined. Each lost the colour that it once possessed, And closely they, like heated wax, unite, The former hue of neither manifest: Even so up o'er papyrus, when alight, Before the flame there spreads a colour dun, Not black as yet, though from it dies the white. The other two meanwhile were looking on, Crying: 'Agnello, how art thou made new! Thou art not twain, and yet no longer one.' A single head was moulded out of two; And on our sight a single face arose, Which out of both lost countenances grew. Four separate limbs did but two arms compose; Belly with chest, and legs with thighs did grow To members such as nought created shows. Their former fashion was all perished now: The perverse shape did both, yet neither seem; And, thus transformed, departed moving slow. And as the lizard, which at fierce extreme Of dog-day heat another hedge would gain, Flits 'cross the path swift as the lightning's gleam; Right for the bellies of the other twain A little snake quivering with anger sped, Livid and black as is a pepper grain, And on the part by which we first are fed Pierced one of them; and then upon the ground It fell before him, and remained outspread. The wounded gazed on it, but made no sound. Rooted he stood and yawning, scarce awake, As seized by fever or by sleep profound. It closely watched him and he watched the snake, While from its mouth and from his wound 'gan swell Volumes of smoke which joined one cloud to make. Of plagued Sabellus and Nassidius, But, hearkening to what follows, mark it well. Silent be Ovid: of him telling us How Cadmus to a snake, and to a fount Changed Arethuse, I am not envious; For never of two natures front to front In metamorphosis, while mutually The forms their matter changed, he gives account. 'Twas thus that each to the other made reply: Its tail into a fork the serpent split; Bracing his feet the other pulled them nigh: And then in one so thoroughly were knit His legs and thighs, no searching could divine At where the junction had been wrought in it. The shape, of which the one lost every sign, The cloven tail was taking; then the skin Of one grew rough, the other's soft and fine. I by the armpits saw the arms drawn in; And now the monster's feet, which had been small, What the other's lost in length appeared to win. Together twisted, its hind feet did fall And grew the member men are used to hide: For his the wretch gained feet with which to crawl. Dyed in the smoke they took on either side A novel colour: hair unwonted grew On one; the hair upon the other died. The one fell prone, erect the other drew, With cruel eyes continuing to glare, 'Neath which their muzzles metamorphose knew. The erect to his brows drew his. Of stuff to spare Of what he upward pulled, there was no lack; So ears were formed on cheeks that erst were bare. Of that which clung in front nor was drawn back, Superfluous, on the face was formed a nose, And lips absorbed the skin that still was slack. His muzzle who lay prone now forward goes; Backward into his head his ears he draws Even as a snail appears its horns to lose. The tongue, which had been whole and ready was For speech, cleaves now; the forked tongue of the snake Joins in the other: and the smoke has pause. The soul which thus a brutish form did take, Along the valley, hissing, swiftly fled; The other close behind it spluttering spake, Then, toward it turning his new shoulders, said Unto the third: 'Now Buoso down the way May hasten crawling, as I earlier sped.' Ballast which in the Seventh Bolgia lay Thus saw I shift and change. Be my excuse The novel theme, if swerves my pen astray. And though these things mine eyesight might confuse A little, and my mind with fear divide, Such secrecy they fleeing could not use But that Puccio Sciancatto plain I spied; And he alone of the companions three Who came at first, was left unmodified. For the other, tears, Gaville, are shed by thee. _The robber, etc._: By means of his prophecy Fucci has, after a fashion, taken revenge on Dante for being found by him among the _Pistoia_: The Pistoiese bore the reputation of being hard and _Our tale_: Of Cacus. It is interrupted by the arrival of three Florentine thieves of quality. _Cianfa_: Another Florentine gentleman, one of the Donati. Since six-footed serpent. Immediately appearing, he darts upon Agnello. _On chin, etc._: A gesture by which silence is requested. The mention of Cianfa shows Dante that he is among Florentines. _A little snake_: As transpires from the last line of the Canto, _The forms, etc._: The word _form_ is here to be taken in its _The novel theme_: He has lingered longer than usual on this Bolgia, and pleads wonder of what he saw in excuse either of his _Gaville_: The other, and the only one of those five Florentine serpent, comes and throws himself on Agnello, and then, grown Rejoice, O Florence, in thy widening fame! Thy wings thou beatest over land and sea, And even through Inferno spreads thy name. Burghers of thine, five such were found by me Among the thieves; whence I ashamed grew, Nor shall great glory thence redound to thee. But if 'tis toward the morning dreams are true, Thou shalt experience ere long time be gone The doom even Prato prays for as thy due. And came it now, it would not come too soon. Would it were come as come it must with time: 'Twill crush me more the older I am grown. Departing thence, my Guide began to climb The jutting rocks by which we made descent Some while ago, and pulled me after him. And as upon our lonely way we went 'Mong splinters of the cliff, the feet in vain, Without the hand to help, had labour spent. I sorrowed, and am sorrow-smit again, Recalling what before mine eyes there lay, And, more than I am wont, my genius rein From running save where virtue leads the way; So that if happy star or holier might Have gifted me I never mourn it may. At time of year when he who gives earth light His face shows to us longest visible, When gnats replace the fly at fall of night, Not by the peasant resting on the hill Are seen more fire-flies in the vale below, Where he perchance doth field and vineyard till, Than flamelets I beheld resplendent glow Throughout the whole Eighth Bolgia, when at last I stood whence I the bottom plain could know. And as he whom the bears avenged, when passed From the earth Elijah, saw the chariot rise With horses heavenward reared and mounting fast, And no long time had traced it with his eyes Till but a flash of light it all became, Which like a rack of cloud swept to the skies: Deep in the valley's gorge, in mode the same, These flitted; what it held by none was shown, And yet a sinner lurked in every flame. To see them well I from the bridge peered down, And if a jutting crag I had not caught I must have fallen, though neither thrust nor thrown. My Leader me beholding lost in thought: 'In all the fires are spirits,' said to me; 'His flame round each is for a garment wrought.' 'O Master!' I replied, 'by hearing thee I grow assured, but yet I knew before That thus indeed it was, and longed to be Told who is in the flame which there doth soar, Cloven, as if ascending from the pyre Where with Eteocles there burned of yore His brother.' He: 'Ulysses in that fire And Diomedes burn; in punishment Thus held together, as they held in ire. And, wrapped within their flame, they now repent The ambush of the horse, which oped the door Through which the Romans' noble seed forth went. For guile Deidamia makes deplore In death her lost Achilles, tears they shed, And bear for the Palladium vengeance sore.' 'Master, I pray thee fervently,' I said, 'If from those flames they still can utter speech-- Give ear as if a thousand times I pled! Refuse not here to linger, I beseech, Until the cloven fire shall hither gain: Thou seest how toward it eagerly I reach.' And he: 'Thy prayers are worthy to obtain Exceeding praise; thou hast what thou dost seek: But see that thou from speech thy tongue refrain. I know what thou wouldst have; leave me to speak, For they perchance would hear contemptuously Shouldst thou address them, seeing they were Greek.' Soon as the flame toward us had come so nigh That to my Leader time and place seemed met, I heard him thus adjure it to reply: 'O ye who twain within one fire are set, If what I did your guerdon meriteth, If much or little ye are in my debt For the great verse I built while I had breath, By one of you be openly confessed Where, lost to men, at last he met with death.' Of the ancient flame the more conspicuous crest Murmuring began to waver up and down Like flame that flickers, by the wind distressed. At length by it was measured motion shown, Like tongue that moves in speech; and by the flame Was language uttered thus: 'When I had gone From Circe who a long year kept me tame Beside her, ere the near Gaeta had Received from AEneas that new name; No softness for my son, nor reverence sad For my old father, nor the love I owed Penelope with which to make her glad, Could quench the ardour that within me glowed A full experience of the world to gain-- Of human vice and worth. But I abroad Launched out upon the high and open main With but one bark and but the little band Which ne'er deserted me. As far as Spain I saw the sea-shore upon either hand, And as Morocco; saw Sardinia's isle, And all of which those waters wash the strand. I and my comrades were grown old the while And sluggish, ere we to the narrows came Where Hercules of old did landmarks pile For sign to men they should no further aim; And Seville lay behind me on the right, As on the left lay Ceuta. Then to them I spake: "O Brothers, who through such a fight Of hundred thousand dangers West have won, In this short watch that ushers in the night Of all your senses, ere your day be done, Refuse not to obtain experience new Of worlds unpeopled, yonder, past the sun. Consider whence the seed of life ye drew; Ye were not born to live like brutish herd, But righteousness and wisdom to ensue." My comrades to such eagerness were stirred By this short speech the course to enter on, They had no longer brooked restraining word. Turning our poop to where the morning shone We of the oars made wings for our mad flight, Still tending left the further we had gone. And of the other pole I saw at night Now all the stars; and 'neath the watery plain Our own familiar heavens were lost to sight. Five times afresh had kindled, and again The moon's face earthward was illumed no more, Since out we sailed upon the mighty main; Then we beheld a lofty mountain soar, Dim in the distance; higher, as I thought, By far than any I had seen before. We joyed; but with despair were soon distraught When burst a whirlwind from the new-found world And the forequarter of the vessel caught. With all the waters thrice it round was swirled; At the fourth time the poop, heaved upward, rose, The prow, as pleased Another, down was hurled; And then above us did the ocean close.' _Toward the morning, etc._: There was a widespread belief in the _Some while ago_: See note, _Inf._ xxiv. 79. _'Mong splinters, etc._: They cross the wall or barrier between _Happy star_: See note, _Inf._ xv. 55. Dante seems to have been _Field and vineyard_: These lines, redolent of the sweet Tuscan _And yet a sinner, etc._: The false counsellors who for selfish _Eteocles_: Son of Oedipus and twin brother of Polynices. The _Deidamia_: That Achilles might be kept from joining the Greek _The Palladium_: The Trojan sacred image of Pallas, stolen by _From Circe_: It is Ulysses that speaks. _The open main_: The Mediterranean as distinguished from the AEgean. _Which ne'er deserted me_: There seems no reason for supposing, _The mighty main_: The Atlantic Ocean. They bear to the left as _A lofty mountain_: This is the Mountain of Purgatory, according _As pleased Another_: Ulysses is proudly resigned to the failure Now, having first erect and silent grown (For it would say no more), from us the flame, The Poet sweet consenting, had moved on; And then our eyes were turned to one that came Behind it on the way, by sounds that burst Out of its crest in a confused stream. As the Sicilian bull, which bellowed first With his lamenting--and it was but right-- Who had prepared it with his tools accurst, Roared with the howlings of the tortured wight, So that although constructed all of brass Yet seemed it pierced with anguish to the height; So, wanting road and vent by which to pass Up through the flame, into the flame's own speech The woeful language all converted was. But when the words at length contrived to reach The top, while hither thither shook the crest As moved the tongue at utterance of each, We heard: 'Oh thou, to whom are now addressed My words, who spakest now in Lombard phrase: "Depart; of thee I nothing more request." Though I be late arrived, yet of thy grace Let it not irk thee here a while to stay: It irks not me, yet, as thou seest, I blaze. If lately to this world devoid of day From that sweet Latian land thou art come down Whence all my guilt I bring, declare and say Has now Romagna peace? because my own Native abode was in the mountain land 'Tween springs of Tiber and Urbino town.' While I intent and bending low did stand, My Leader, as he touched me on the side, 'Speak thou, for he is Latian,' gave command. Whereon without delay I thus replied-- Because already was my speech prepared: 'Soul, that down there dost in concealment 'bide, In thy Romagna wars have never spared And spare not now in tyrants' hearts to rage; But when I left it there was none declared. No change has fallen Ravenna for an age. There, covering Cervia too with outspread wing, Polenta's Eagle guards his heritage. Over the city which long suffering Endured, and Frenchmen slain on Frenchmen rolled, The Green Paws once again protection fling. The Mastiffs of Verrucchio, young and old, Who to Montagna brought such evil cheer, Still clinch their fangs where they were wont to hold. Cities, Lamone and Santerno near, The Lion couched in white are governed by Which changes party with the changing year. And that to which the Savio wanders nigh As it is set 'twixt mountain and champaign Lives now in freedom now 'neath tyranny. But who thou art I to be told am fain: Be not more stubborn than we others found, As thou on earth illustrious wouldst remain.' When first the fire a little while had moaned After its manner, next the pointed crest Waved to and fro; then in this sense breathed sound: 'If I believed my answer were addressed To one that earthward shall his course retrace, This flame should forthwith altogether rest. But since none ever yet out of this place Returned alive, if all be true I hear, I yield thee answer fearless of disgrace. I was a warrior, then a Cordelier; Thinking thus girt to purge away my stain: And sure my hope had met with answer clear Had not the High Priest--ill with him remain! Plunged me anew into my former sin: And why and how, I would to thee make plain. While I the frame of bones and flesh was in My mother gave me, all the deeds I wrought Were fox-like and in no wise leonine. Of every wile and hidden way I caught The secret trick, and used them with such sleight That all the world with fame of it was fraught. When I perceived I had attained quite The time of life when it behoves each one To furl his sails and coil his cordage tight, Sorrowing for deeds I had with pleasure done, Contrite and shriven, I religious grew. Ah, wretched me! and well it was begun But for the Chieftain of the Pharisees new, Then waging war hard by the Lateran, For Christian were his enemies every man, And none had at the siege of Acre been Or trafficked in the Empire of Soldan. His lofty office he held cheap, and e'en His Sacred Orders and the cord I wore, Which used to make the wearers of it lean. As from Soracte Constantine of yore Sylvester called to cure his leprosy, I as a leech was called this man before To cure him of his fever which ran high; For drunken all his words appeared to be. He said; "For fear be in thy heart no room; Beforehand I absolve thee, but declare How Palestrina I may overcome. Heaven I unlock, as thou art well aware, And close at will; because the keys are twin My predecessor was averse to bear." Then did his weighty reasoning on me win Till to be silent seemed the worst of all; And, "Father," I replied, "since from this sin Thou dost absolve me into which I fall-- The scant performance of a promise wide Will yield thee triumph in thy lofty stall." Francis came for me soon as e'er I died; But one of the black Cherubim was there And "Take him not, nor rob me of him" cried, "For him of right among my thralls I bear Because he offered counsel fraudulent; Since when I've had him firmly by the hair. None is absolved unless he first repent; Nor can repentance house with purpose ill, For this the contradiction doth prevent." Ah, wretched me! How did I shrinking thrill When clutching me he sneered: "Perhaps of old Thou didst not think I had in logic skill." He carried me to Minos: Minos rolled His tail eight times round his hard back; in ire Biting it fiercely, ere of me he told: "Among the sinners of the shrouding fire!" Therefore am I, where thou beholdest, lost; And, sore at heart, go clothed in such attire.' What he would say thus ended by the ghost, Away from us the moaning flame did glide While to and fro its pointed horn was tossed. But we passed further on, I and my Guide, Along the cliff to where the arch is set O'er the next moat, where paying they reside, As schismatics who whelmed themselves in debt. _Consenting_: See line 21. _One that came_: This is the fire-enveloped shade of Guido of _The Sicilian bull_: Perillus, an Athenian, presented Phalaris, _Accurst_: Not in the original. 'Rime in English hath such scarcity,' as Chaucer says. _As moved the tongue, etc._: The shade being enclosed in the _Depart, etc._: One at least of the words quoted as having been _'Tween springs, etc._: Montefeltro lies between Urbino and the mountain where the Tiber has its source. _Romagna_: The district of Italy lying on the Adriatic, south of _Ravenna_: Ravenna and the neighbouring town of Cervia were in _The Mastiffs of Verrucchio_: Verrucchio was the castle of the _The High Priest_: Boniface VIII. _The Pharisees new_: The members of the Court of Rome. Saint _Which used, etc._: In former times, when the rule of the Order _From Soracte_: Referring to the well-known legend. The fee for the cure was the fabulous Donation. See _Inf._ xix. 115. _My predecessor_: Celestine v. See _Inf._ iii. 60. _The scant performance, etc._: That Guido gave such counsel is _Thou didst not think, etc._: Guido had forgot that others could Could any, even in words unclogged by rhyme Recount the wounds that now I saw, and blood, Although he aimed at it time after time? Here every tongue must fail of what it would, Because our human speech and powers of thought To grasp so much come short in aptitude. If all the people were together brought Who in Apulia, land distressed by fate, Made lamentation for the bloodshed wrought By Rome; and in that war procrastinate When the large booty of the rings was won, As Livy writes whose every word has weight; With those on whom such direful deeds were done When Robert Guiscard they as foes assailed; And those of whom still turns up many a bone At Ceperan, where each Apulian failed In faith; and those at Tagliacozzo strewed, Where old Alardo, not by arms, prevailed; And each his wounds and mutilations showed, Yet would they far behind by those be left Who had the vile Ninth Bolgia for abode. No cask, of middle stave or end bereft, E'er gaped like one I saw the rest among, Slit from the chin all downward to the cleft. Between his legs his entrails drooping hung; The pluck and that foul bag were evident Which changes what is swallowed into dung. And while I gazed upon him all intent, Opening his breast his eyes on me he set, Saying: 'Behold, how by myself I'm rent! See how dismembered now is Mahomet! Ali in front of me goes weeping too; With visage from the chin to forelock split. By all the others whom thou seest there grew Scandal and schism while yet they breathed the day; Because of which they now are cloven through. There stands behind a devil on the way, Us with his sword thus cruelly to trim: He cleaves again each of our company As soon as we complete the circuit grim; Because the wounds of each are healed outright Or e'er anew he goes in front of him. But who art thou that peerest from the height, It may be putting off to reach the pain Which shall the crimes confessed by thee requite?' 'Death has not seized him yet, nor is he ta'en To torment for his sins,' my Master said; 'But, that he may a full experience gain, By me, a ghost, 'tis doomed he should be led Down the Infernal circles, round on round; And what I tell thee is the truth indeed.' A hundred shades and more, to whom the sound Had reached, stood in the moat to mark me well, Their pangs forgot; so did the words astound. 'Let Fra Dolcin provide, thou mayst him tell-- Thou, who perchance ere long shalt sunward go-- Unless he soon would join me in this Hell, Much food, lest aided by the siege of snow The Novarese should o'er him victory get, Which otherwise to win they would be slow.' While this was said to me by Mahomet One foot he held uplifted; to the ground He let it fall, and so he forward set Next, one whose throat was gaping with a wound, Whose nose up to the brows away was sheared And on whose head a single ear was found, At me, with all the others, wondering peered; And, ere the rest, an open windpipe made, The outside of it all with crimson smeared. 'O thou, not here because of guilt,' he said; 'And whom I sure on Latian ground did know Unless by strong similitude betrayed, Upon Pier da Medicin bestow A thought, shouldst thou revisit the sweet plain That from Vercelli slopes to Marcabo. And make thou known to Fano's worthiest twain-- They, unless foresight here be wholly vain, Thrown overboard in gyve and manacle Shall drown fast by Cattolica, as planned By treachery of a tyrant fierce and fell. Between Majolica and Cyprus strand A blacker crime did Neptune never spy By pirates wrought, or even by Argives' hand. The traitor who is blinded of an eye, Lord of the town which of my comrades one Had been far happier ne'er to have come nigh, To parley with him will allure them on, Then so provide, against Focara's blast No need for them of vow or orison.' And I: 'Point out and tell, if wish thou hast To get news of thee to the world conveyed, Who rues that e'er his eyes thereon were cast?' On a companion's jaw his hand he laid, And shouted, while the mouth he open prised: ''Tis this one here by whom no word is said. He quenched all doubt in Caesar, and advised-- Himself an outlaw--that a man equipped For strife ran danger if he temporised.' Alas, to look on, how downcast and hipped Curio, once bold in counsel, now appeared; With gorge whence by the roots the tongue was ripped. Another one, whose hands away were sheared, In the dim air his stumps uplifted high So that his visage was with blood besmeared, And, 'Mosca, too, remember!' loud did cry, 'Who said, ah me! "A thing once done is done!" An evil seed for all in Tuscany.' I added: 'Yea, and death to every one Of thine!' whence he, woe piled on woe, his way Went like a man with grief demented grown. But I to watch the gang made longer stay, And something saw which I should have a fear, Without more proof, so much as even to say, But that my conscience bids me have good cheer-- The comrade leal whose friendship fortifies A man beneath the mail of purpose clear. I saw in sooth (still seems it 'fore mine eyes), A headless trunk; with that sad company It forward moved, and on the selfsame wise. The severed head, clutched by the hair, swung free Down from the fist, yea, lantern-like hung down; Staring at us it murmured: 'Wretched me!' A lamp he made of head-piece once his own; And he was two in one and one in two; But how, to Him who thus ordains is known. Arrived beneath the bridge and full in view, With outstretched arm his head he lifted high To bring his words well to us. These I knew: 'Consider well my grievous penalty, Thou who, though still alive, art visiting The people dead; what pain with this can vie? In order that to earth thou news mayst bring Of me, that I'm Bertrand de Born know well, Who gave bad counsel to the Younger King. I son and sire made each 'gainst each rebel: David and Absalom were fooled not more By counsels of the false Ahithophel. Kinsmen so close since I asunder tore, Severed, alas! I carry now my brain From what it grew from in this trunk of yore: And so I prove the law of pain for pain.' _That now I saw_: In the Ninth Bolgia, on which he is looking _Apulia_: The south-eastern district of Italy, owing to its situation a frequent battle-field in ancient and modern times. _War procrastinate_: The second Punic war lasted fully fifteen years, and in the course of it the battle of Cannae was gained by _Guiscard_: One of the Norman conquerors of the regions which up _Ceperan_: In the swift and decisive campaign undertaken by _Tagliacozzo_: The crown Charles had won from Manfred he had to defend against Manfred's nephew Conradin (grandson and last _Mahomet_: It has been objected to Dante by M. Littre that he _Ali_: Son-in-law of Mahomet. _Fra Dolcin_: At the close of the thirteenth century, Boniface _Majolica, etc._: On all the Mediterranean, from Cyprus in the east to Majorca in the west. _The traitor, etc._: The one-eyed traitor is Malatesta, lord of _Focara_: The name of a promontory near Cattolica, subject to squalls. The victims were never to double the headland. _Curio_: The Roman Tribune who, according to Lucan--the incident _Bertrand de Born_: Is mentioned by Dante in his Treatise _De _From what, etc._: The spinal cord, as we should now say, though _Pain for pain_: In the City of Dis we found the heresiarchs, The many folk and wounds of divers kind Had flushed mine eyes and set them on the flow, Till I to weep and linger had a mind; But Virgil said to me: 'Why gazing so? Why still thy vision fastening on the crew Of dismal shades dismembered there below? Thou didst not thus the other Bolgias view: Think, if to count them be thine enterprise, The valley circles twenty miles and two. Beneath our feet the moon already lies; The time wears fast away to us decreed; And greater things than these await thine eyes.' I answered swift: 'Hadst thou but given heed To why it was my looks were downward bent, To yet more stay thou mightest have agreed.' My Guide meanwhile was moving, and I went Behind him and continued to reply, Adding: 'Within the moat on which intent I now was gazing with such eager eye I trow a spirit weeps, one of my kin, The crime whose guilt is rated there so high.' Then said the Master: 'Henceforth hold thou in Thy thoughts from wandering to him: new things claim Attention now, so leave him with his sin. Him saw I at thee from the bridge-foot aim A threatening finger, while he made thee known; Geri del Bello heard I named his name. But, at the time, thou wast with him alone Engrossed who once held Hautefort, nor the place Didst look at where he was; so passed he on.' 'O Leader mine! death violent and base, And not avenged as yet,' I made reply, 'By any of his partners in disgrace, Made him disdainful; therefore went he by And spake not with me, if I judge aright; Which does the more my ruth intensify.' So we conversed till from the cliff we might Of the next valley have had prospect good Down to the bottom, with but clearer light. When we above the inmost Cloister stood Of Malebolge, and discerned the crew Of such as there compose the Brotherhood, So many lamentations pierced me through-- And barbed with pity all the shafts were sped-- My open palms across my ears I drew. From Valdichiana's every spital bed All ailments to September from July, With all in Maremma and Sardinia bred, Heaped in one pit a sickness might supply Like what was here; and from it rose a stink Like that which comes from limbs that putrefy. Then we descended by the utmost brink Of the long ridge--leftward once more we fell-- Until my vision, quickened now, could sink Deeper to where Justice infallible, The minister of the Almighty Lord, Chastises forgers doomed on earth to Hell. AEgina could no sadder sight afford, As I believe (when all the people ailed And all the air was so with sickness stored, Down to the very worms creation failed And died, whereon the pristine folk once more, As by the poets is for certain held, From seed of ants their family did restore), Than what was offered by that valley black With plague-struck spirits heaped upon the floor. Supine some lay, each on the other's back Or stomach; and some crawled with crouching gait For change of place along the doleful track. Speechless we moved with step deliberate, With eyes and ears on those disease crushed down Nor left them power to lift their bodies straight. I saw two sit, shoulder to shoulder thrown As plate holds plate up to be warmed, from head Down to the feet with scurf and scab o'ergrown. Nor ever saw I curry-comb so plied By varlet with his master standing by, Or by one kept unwillingly from bed, As I saw each of these his scratchers ply Upon himself; for nought else now avails Against the itch which plagues them furiously. The scab they tore and loosened with their nails, As with a knife men use the bream to strip, Or any other fish with larger scales. 'Thou, that thy mail dost with thy fingers rip,' My Guide to one of them began to say, 'And sometimes dost with them as pincers nip, Tell, is there any here from Italy Among you all, so may thy nails suffice For this their work to all eternity.' 'Latians are both of us in this disguise Of wretchedness,' weeping said one of those; 'But who art thou, demanding on this wise?' My Guide made answer: 'I am one who goes Down with this living man from steep to steep That I to him Inferno may disclose.' Then broke their mutual prop; trembling with deep Amazement each turned to me, with the rest To whom his words had echoed in the heap. Me the good Master cordially addressed: 'Whate'er thou hast a mind to ask them, say.' And since he wished it, thus I made request: 'So may remembrance of you not decay Within the upper world out of the mind Of men, but flourish still for many a day, As ye shall tell your names and what your kind: Let not your vile, disgusting punishment To full confession make you disinclined.' 'An Aretine, I to the stake was sent By Albert of Siena,' one confessed, 'But came not here through that for which I went To death. 'Tis true I told him all in jest, I through the air could float in upward gyre; And he, inquisitive and dull at best, Did full instruction in the art require: I could not make him Daedalus, so then His second father sent me to the fire. But to the deepest Bolgia of the ten, For alchemy which in the world I wrought, The unerring Minos doomed me.' 'Now were men E'er found,' I of the Poet asked, 'so fraught With vanity as are the Sienese? French vanity to theirs is surely nought.' The other leper hearing me, to these My words: 'Omit the Stricca,' swift did shout, 'Who knew his tastes with temperance to please; And Nicholas, who earliest found out The lavish custom of the clove-stuffed roast Within the garden where such seed doth sprout. Nor count the club where Caccia d' Ascian lost Vineyards and woods; 'mid whom away did throw His wit the Abbagliato. But whose ghost It is, that thou mayst weet, that backs thee so Against the Sienese, make sharp thine eyes That thou my countenance mayst surely know. In me Capocchio's shade thou'lt recognise, Who forged false coin by means of alchemy: Thou must remember, if I well surmise, How I of nature very ape could be.' _Twenty miles and two_: The Ninth Bolgia has a circumference of _The moon_: It is now some time after noon on the Saturday. The last indication of time was at Canto xxi. 112. _The time, etc._: Before nightfall they are to complete their _Geri del Bello_: One of the Alighieri, a full cousin of Dante's _Hautefort_: Bertrand de Born's castle in Gascony. _My ruth_: Enlightened moralist though Dante is, he yet shows _With but clearer light_: They have crossed the rampart dividing _The Brotherhood_: The word used properly describes the Lay _Valdichiana_: The district lying between Arezzo and Chiusi; in _Sardinia_: Had in the middle ages an evil reputation for its _The long ridge_: One of the ribs of rock which, like the spokes _AEgina_: The description is taken from Ovid (_Metam._ vii.). _The scab, etc._: As if by an infernal alchemy the matter of the _An Aretine_: Called Griffolino, and burned at Florence or Siena _The Sienese_: The comparison of these to the French would have light-headedness; also, it ought to be added, of great urbanity. _The club_: The commentators tell that the two young Sienese _The Abbagliato_: Nothing is known, though a great deal is Because of Semele when Juno's ire Was fierce 'gainst all that were to Thebes allied, As had been proved by many an instance dire; So mad grew Athamas that when he spied His wife as she with children twain drew near, Each hand by one encumbered, loud he cried: 'Be now the nets outspread, that I may snare Cubs with the lioness at yon strait ground!' And stretching claws of all compassion bare He on Learchus seized and swung him round, And shattered him upon a flinty stone; Then she herself and the other burden drowned. And when by fortune was all overthrown The Trojans' pride, inordinate before-- Monarch and kingdom equally undone-- Hecuba, sad and captive, mourning o'er Polyxena, when dolorous she beheld The body of her darling Polydore Upon the coast, out of her wits she yelled, And spent herself in barking like a hound; So by her sorrow was her reason quelled. But never yet was Trojan fury found, Nor that of Thebes, to sting so cruelly Brute beasts, far less the human form to wound, As two pale naked shades were stung, whom I Saw biting run, like swine when they escape Famished and eager from the empty sty. Capocchio coming up to, in his nape One fixed his fangs, and hauling at him made His belly on the stony pavement scrape. The Aretine who stood, still trembling, said: 'That imp is Gianni Schicchi, and he goes Rabid, thus trimming others.' 'O!' I prayed, 'So may the teeth of the other one of those Not meet in thee, as, ere she pass from sight, Thou freely shalt the name of her disclose.' And he to me: 'That is the ancient sprite Of shameless Myrrha, who let liking rise For him who got her, past all bounds of right. As, to transgress with him, she in disguise Came near to him deception to maintain; So he, departing yonder from our eyes, That he the Lady of the herd might gain, Bequeathed his goods by formal testament While he Buoso Donate's form did feign.' And when the rabid couple from us went, Who all this time by me were being eyed, Upon the rest ill-starred I grew intent; And, fashioned like a lute, I one espied, Had he been only severed at the place Where at the groin men's lower limbs divide. The grievous dropsy, swol'n with humours base, Which every part of true proportion strips Till paunch grows out of keeping with the face, Compelled him widely ope to hold his lips Like one in fever who, by thirst possessed, Has one drawn up while the other chinward slips. 'O ye! who by no punishment distressed, Nor know I why, are in this world of dool,' He said; 'a while let your attention rest On Master Adam here of misery full. Living, I all I wished enjoyed at will; Now lust I for a drop of water cool. The water-brooks that down each grassy hill Of Casentino to the Arno fall And with cool moisture all their courses fill-- Always, and not in vain, I see them all; Because the vision of them dries me more Than the disease 'neath which my face grows small. For rigid justice, me chastising sore, Can in the place I sinned at motive find To swell the sighs in which I now deplore. There lies Romena, where of the money coined With the Baptist's image I made counterfeit, And therefore left my body burnt behind. But could I see here Guido's wretched sprite, Or Alexander's, or their brother's, I For Fonte Branda would not give the sight. One is already here, unless they lie-- Mad souls with power to wander through the crowd-- What boots it me, whose limbs diseases tie? But were I yet so nimble that I could Creep one poor inch a century, some while Ago had I begun to take the road Searching for him among this people vile; And that although eleven miles 'tis long, And has a width of more than half a mile. Because of them am I in such a throng; For to forge florins I by them was led, Which by three carats of alloy were wrong,' 'Who are the wretches twain,' I to him said, 'Who smoke like hand in winter-time fresh brought From water, on thy right together spread?' 'Here found I them, nor have they budged a jot,' He said, 'since I was hurled into this vale; And, as I deem, eternally they'll not. One with false charges Joseph did assail; False Sinon, Greek from Troy, is the other wight. Burning with fever they this stink exhale.' Then one of them, perchance o'ercome with spite Because he thus contemptuously was named, Smote with his fist upon the belly tight. It sounded like a drum; and then was aimed A blow by Master Adam at his face With arm no whit less hard, while he exclaimed: 'What though I can no longer shift my place Because my members by disease are weighed! I have an arm still free for such a case.' To which was answered: 'When thou wast conveyed Unto the fire 'twas not thus good at need, But even more so when the coiner's trade Was plied by thee.' The swol'n one: 'True indeed! But thou didst not bear witness half so true When Trojans at thee for the truth did plead.' 'If I spake falsely, thou didst oft renew False coin,' said Sinon; 'one fault brought me here; Thee more than any devil of the crew.' 'Bethink thee of the horse, thou perjurer,' He of the swol'n paunch answered; 'and that by All men 'tis known should anguish in thee stir.' 'Be thirst that cracks thy tongue thy penalty, And putrid water,' so the Greek replied, 'Which 'fore thine eyes thy stomach moundeth high.' The coiner then: 'Thy mouth thou openest wide, As thou art used, thy slanderous words to vent; But if I thirst and humours plump my hide Thy head throbs with the fire within thee pent. To lap Narcissus' mirror, to implore And urge thee on would need no argument.' While I to hear them did attentive pore My Master said: 'Thy fill of staring take! To rouse my anger needs but little more.' And when I heard that he in anger spake Toward him I turned with such a shame inspired, Recalled, it seems afresh on me to break. And, as the man who dreams of hurt is fired With wish that he might know his dream a dream, And so what is, as 'twere not, is desired; Craving to find excuse, unwittingly The meanwhile made the apology supreme. 'Less shame,' my Master said, 'would nullify A greater fault, for greater guilt atone; All sadness for it, therefore, lay thou by. But bear in mind that thou art not alone, If fortune hap again to bring thee near Where people such debate are carrying on. To things like these 'tis shame to lend an ear.' _Trojan fury, etc._: It was by the agency of a Fury that Athamas _Capocchio_: See close of the preceding Canto. Here as elsewhere _The Aretine_: Griffolino, who boasted he could fly; already represented as trembling (_Inf._ xxix. 97). _Myrrha_: This is a striking example of Dante's detestation of _Buoso Donati_: Introduced as a thief in the Seventh Bolgia _O ye, etc._: The speaker has heard and noted Virgil's words of explanation given in the previous Canto, line 94. _The money coined, etc._: The gold florin, afterwards adopted in _Guido, etc._: The Guidi of Romena were a branch of the great _Fonte Branda_: A celebrated fountain in the city of Siena. Near _One, etc._: Potiphar's wife. _When Trojans, etc._: When King Priam sought to know for what purpose the wooden horse was really constructed. _Narcissus' mirror_: The pool in which Narcissus saw his form reflected. _'Tis shame_: Dante knows that Virgil would have scorned to The very tongue that first had caused me pain, Biting till both my cheeks were crimsoned o'er, With healing medicine me restored again. So have I heard, the lance Achilles bore, Which earlier was his father's, first would wound And then to health the wounded part restore. From that sad valley we our backs turned round, Up the encircling rampart making way Nor uttering, as we crossed it, any sound. Here was it less than night and less than day, And scarce I saw at all what lay ahead; But of a trumpet the sonorous bray-- No thunder-peal were heard beside it--led Mine eyes along the line by which it passed, Till on one spot their gaze concentrated. When by the dolorous rout was overcast The sacred enterprise of Charlemagne Roland blew not so terrible a blast. Short time my head was that way turned, when plain I many lofty towers appeared to see. 'Master, what town is this?' I asked. 'Since fain Thou art,' he said, 'to pierce the obscurity While yet through distance 'tis inscrutable, Thou must of error needs the victim be. Arriving there thou shalt distinguish well How much by distance was thy sense betrayed; Therefore to swifter course thyself compel.' Then tenderly he took my hand, and said: 'Ere we pass further I would have thee know, That at the fact thou mayst be less dismayed, These are not towers but giants; in a row Set round the brink each in the pit abides, His navel hidden and the parts below.' And even as when the veil of mist divides Little by little dawns upon the sight What the obscuring vapour earlier hides; So, piercing the gross air uncheered by light, As I step after step drew near the bound My error fled, but I was filled with fright. As Montereggion with towers is crowned Which from the walls encircling it arise; So, rising from the pit's encircling mound, Half of their bodies towered before mine eyes-- Dread giants, still by Jupiter defied From Heaven whene'er it thunders in the skies. The face of one already I descried, His shoulders, breast, and down his belly far, And both his arms dependent by his side. When Nature ceased such creatures as these are To form, she of a surety wisely wrought Wresting from Mars such ministers of war. And though she rue not that to life she brought The whale and elephant, who deep shall read Will justify her wisdom in his thought; For when the powers of intellect are wed To strength and evil will, with them made one, The race of man is helpless left indeed. As large and long as is St. Peter's cone At Rome, the face appeared; of every limb On scale like this was fashioned every bone. So that the bank, which covered half of him As might a tunic, left uncovered yet So much that if to his hair they sought to climb Three Frisians end on end their match had met; For thirty great palms I of him could see, Counting from where a man's cloak-clasp is set. _Rafel mai amech zabi almi!_ Out of the bestial mouth began to roll, Which scarce would suit more dulcet psalmody. And then my Leader charged him: 'Stupid soul, Stick to thy horn. With it relieve thy mind When rage or other passions pass control. Feel at thy neck, round which the thong is twined O puzzle-headed wretch! from which 'tis slung; Clipping thy monstrous breast thou shalt it find.' And then to me: 'From his own mouth is wrung Whim hindered men from speaking in one tongue. Leave we him here nor spend our speech in vain; For words to him in any language said, As unto others his, no sense contain.' Turned to the left, we on our journey sped, And at the distance of an arrow's flight We found another huger and more dread. By what artificer thus pinioned tight I cannot tell, but his left arm was bound In front, as at his back was bound the right, By a chain which girt him firmly round and round; About what of his frame there was displayed Below the neck, in fivefold gyre 'twas wound. 'Incited by ambition this one made Trial of prowess 'gainst Almighty Jove,' My Leader told, 'and he is thus repaid. 'Tis Ephialtes, mightily who strove What time the giants to the gods caused fright: The arms he wielded then no more will move.' And I to him: 'Fain would I, if I might, On the enormous Briareus set eye, And know the truth by holding him in sight.' 'Antaeus thou shalt see,' he made reply, 'Ere long, and he can speak, nor is in chains. Us to the depth of all iniquity He shall let down. The one thou'dst see remains Far off, like this one bound and like in make, But in his face far more of fierceness reigns.' Never when earth most terribly did quake Shook any tower so much as what all o'er And suddenly did Ephialtes shake. Terror of death possessed me more and more; The fear alone had served my turn indeed, But that I marked the ligatures he wore. Then did we somewhat further on proceed, Reaching Antaeus who for good five ell, His head not counted, from the pit was freed. 'O thou who from the fortune-haunted dell-- Where Scipio of glory was made heir When with his host to flight turned Hannibal-- A thousand lions didst for booty bear Away, and who, hadst thou but joined the host And like thy brethren fought, some even aver The victory to earth's sons had not been lost, Lower us now, nor disobliging show, To where Cocytus fettered is by frost. To Tityus nor to Typhon make us go. To grant what here is longed for he hath power, Cease them to curl thy snout, but bend thee low. He can for wage thy name on earth restore; He lives, and still expecteth to live long, If Grace recall him not before his hour.' So spake my Master. Then his hands he swung Downward and seized my Leader in all haste-- Hands in whose grip even Hercules once was wrung. And Virgil when he felt them round him cast Said: 'That I may embrace thee, hither tend,' And in one bundle with him made me fast. And as to him that under Carisend Stands on the side it leans to, while clouds fly Counter its slope, the tower appears to bend; Even so to me who stood attentive by Antaeus seemed to stoop, and I, dismayed, Had gladly sought another road to try. But us in the abyss he gently laid, Where Lucifer and Judas gulfed remain; Nor to it thus bent downward long time stayed, But like a ship's mast raised himself again. _From that sad valley_: Leaving the Tenth and last Bolgia they _Roland_: Charles the Great, on his march north after defeating _Montereggioni_: A fortress about six miles from Siena, of which _St. Peter's cone_: The great pine cone of bronze, supposed to _Three Frisians_: Three very tall men, as Dante took Frisians to _Rafel, etc._: These words, like the opening line of the Seventh _Antaeus_: Is to be asked to lift them over the wall, because, unlike Nimrod, he can understand what is said to him, and, unlike _Cocytus_: The frozen lake fed by the waters of Phlegethon. See Canto xiv. at the end. _Tityus, etc._: These were other giants, stated by Lucan to be _Carisenda_: A tower still standing in Bologna, built at the Had I sonorous rough rhymes at command, Such as would suit the cavern terrible Rooted on which all the other ramparts stand, The sap of fancies which within me swell Closer I'd press; but since I have not these, With some misgiving I go on to tell. For 'tis no task to play with as you please, Of all the world the bottom to portray, Nor one that with a baby speech agrees. But let those ladies help me with my lay Who helped Amphion walls round Thebes to pile, And faithful to the facts my words shall stay. O 'bove all creatures wretched, for whose vile Abode 'tis hard to find a language fit, As sheep or goats ye had been happier! While We still were standing in the murky pit-- Beneath the giant's feet set far below-- And at the high wall I was staring yet, When this I heard: 'Heed to thy steps bestow, Lest haply by thy soles the heads be spurned Of wretched brothers wearied in their woe.' Before me, as on hearing this I turned, Beneath my feet a frozen lake, its guise Rather of glass than water, I discerned. In all its course on Austrian Danube lies No veil in time of winter near so thick, Nor on the Don beneath its frigid skies, As this was here; on which if Tabernicch Or Mount Pietrapana should alight Not even the edge would answer with a creak. And as the croaking frog holds well in sight Its muzzle from the pool, what time of year The peasant girl of gleaning dreams at night; The mourning shades in ice were covered here, Seen livid up to where we blush with shame. In stork-like music their teeth chattering were. With downcast face stood every one of them: To cold from every mouth, and to despair From every eye, an ample witness came. And having somewhat gazed around me there I to my feet looked down, and saw two pressed So close together, tangled was their hair, 'Say, who are you with breast thus strained to breast?' I asked; whereon their necks they backward bent, And when their upturned faces lay at rest Their eyes, which earlier were but moistened, sent Tears o'er their eyelids: these the frost congealed And fettered fast before they further went. Plank set to plank no rivet ever held More firmly; wherefore, goat-like, either ghost Butted the other; so their wrath prevailed. And one who wanted both ears, which the frost Had bitten off, with face still downward thrown, Asked: 'Why with us art thou so long engrossed? If who that couple are thou'dst have made known-- The vale down which Bisenzio's floods decline Was once their father Albert's and their own. One body bore them: search the whole malign Caina, and thou shalt not any see More worthy to be fixed in gelatine; Not he whose breast and shadow equally Were by one thrust of Arthur's lance pierced through: Nor yet Focaccia; nor the one that me With his head hampers, blocking out my view, Whose name was Sassol Mascheroni: well Thou must him know if thou art Tuscan too. And that thou need'st not make me further tell-- I weary for, whose guilt shall mine excel.' A thousand faces saw I dog-like grin, Frost-bound; whence I, as now, shall always shake Whenever sight of frozen pools I win. While to the centre we our way did make To which all things converging gravitate, And me that chill eternal caused to quake; Whether by fortune, providence, or fate, I know not, but as 'mong the heads I went I kicked one full in the face; who therefore straight 'Why trample on me?' snarled and made lament, 'Unless thou com'st to heap the vengeance high For Montaperti, why so virulent 'Gainst me?' I said: 'Await me here till I By him, O Master, shall be cleared of doubt; Then let my pace thy will be guided by.' My Guide delayed, and I to him spake out, While he continued uttering curses shrill: 'Say, what art thou, at others thus to shout?' 'But who art thou, that goest at thy will Through Antenora, trampling on the face Of others? 'Twere too much if thou wert still In life.' 'I live, and it may help thy case,' Was my reply, 'if thou renown wouldst gain, Should I thy name upon my tablets place.' And he: 'I for the opposite am fain. Depart thou hence, nor work me further dool; Within this swamp thou flatterest all in vain.' Then I began him by the scalp to pull, And 'Thou must tell how thou art called,' I said, 'Or soon thy hair will not be plentiful.' And he: 'Though every hair thou from me shred I will not tell thee, nor my face turn round; No, though a thousand times thou spurn my head.' His locks ere this about my fist were wound, And many a tuft I tore, while dog-like wails Burst from him, and his eyes still sought the ground. Then called another: 'Bocca, what now ails? Is't not enough thy teeth go chattering there, But thou must bark? What devil thee assails?' 'Ah! now,' said I, 'thou need'st not aught declare, Accursed traitor; and true news of thee To thy disgrace I to the world will bear.' 'Begone, tell what thou wilt,' he answered me; 'But, if thou issue hence, not silent keep Of him whose tongue but lately wagged so free. He for the Frenchmen's money here doth weep. Him of Duera saw I, mayst thou tell, Where sinners shiver in the frozen deep. Shouldst thou be asked who else within it dwell-- Thou hast the Beccheria at thy side; Across whose neck the knife at Florence fell. John Soldanieri may be yonder spied With Ganellon, and Tribaldell who threw Faenza's gates, when slept the city, wide.' Him had we left, our journey to pursue, When frozen in a hole a pair I saw; One's head like the other's hat showed to the view. And, as their bread men hunger-driven gnaw, The uppermost tore fiercely at his mate Where nape and brain-pan to a junction draw. No worse by Tydeus in his scornful hate Were Menalippus' temples gnawed and hacked Than skull and all were torn by him irate. 'O thou who provest by such bestial act Hatred of him who by thy teeth is chewed, Declare thy motive,' said I, 'on this pact-- That if with reason thou with him hast feud, Knowing your names and manner of his crime I in the world to thee will make it good; If what I speak with dry not ere the time.' _The giant's feet_: Antaeus. A bank slopes from where the giants _Tabernicch_: It is not certain what mountain is here meant; _Pietrapana_: A mountain between Modena and Lucca, visible from _Time of year_: At harvest-time, when in the warm summer nights the wearied gleaner dreams of her day's work. _To where we blush_: The bodies of the shades are seen buried in _With breast, etc._: As could be seen through the clear ice. _Fettered fast_: Binding up their eyes. In the punishment of _Their father Albert's_: Albert, of the family of the Counts _Arthur's lance_: Mordred, natural son of King Arthur, was slain _Focaccia_: A member of the Pistoiese family of Cancellieri, in _Sassol Mascheroni_: Of the Florentine family of the Toschi. He _Camicion de' Pazzi_: To distinguish the Pazzi to whom Camicione _The centre_: The bottom of Inferno is the centre of the earth, and, on the system of Ptolemy, the central point of the universe. _Cleared of doubt_: The mention of Montaperti in this place of _Not silent keep, etc._: Like all the other traitors Bocca finds _Beccheria_: Tesauro of the Pavian family Beccheria, Abbot of _Soldanieri_: Deserted from the Florentine Ghibelines after the defeat of Manfred. _Tribaldello_: A noble of Faenza, who, as one account says, to _Frozen in a hole, etc._: The two are the Count Ugolino and the _Tydeus_: One of the Seven against Thebes, who, having been _I in the world, etc._: Dante has learned from Bocca that the His mouth uplifting from the savage feast, The sinner rubbed and wiped it free of gore On the hair of the head he from behind laid waste; And then began: 'Thou'dst have me wake once more A desperate grief, of which to think alone, Ere I have spoken, wrings me to the core. But if my words shall be as seed that sown May fructify unto the traitor's shame Whom thus I gnaw, I mingle speech and groan. Of how thou earnest hither or thy name I nothing know, but that a Florentine In very sooth thou art, thy words proclaim. Thou then must know I was Count Ugolin, The Archbishop Roger he. Now hearken well Why I prove such a neighbour. How in fine, And flowing from his ill designs, it fell That I, confiding in his words, was caught Then done to death, were waste of time to tell. But that of which as yet thou heardest nought Is how the death was cruel which I met: Hearken and judge if wrong to me he wrought. Scant window in the mew whose epithet Of Famine came from me its resident, And cooped in which shall many languish yet, Had shown me through its slit how there were spent Full many moons, ere that bad dream I dreamed When of my future was the curtain rent. Lord of the hunt and master this one seemed, Chasing the wolf and wolf-cubs on the height By which from Pisan eyes is Lucca hemmed. With famished hounds well trained and swift of flight, Lanfranchi and Gualandi in the van, And Sismond he had set. Within my sight Both sire and sons--nor long the chase--began To grow (so seemed it) weary as they fled; Then through their flanks fangs sharp and eager ran. When I awoke before the morning spread I heard my sons all weeping in their sleep-- For they were with me--and they asked for bread. Ah! cruel if thou canst from pity keep At the bare thought of what my heart foreknew; And if thou weep'st not, what could make thee weep? Now were they 'wake, and near the moment drew At which 'twas used to bring us our repast; But each was fearful lest his dream came true. And then I heard the under gate made fast Of the horrible tower, and thereupon I gazed In my sons' faces, silent and aghast. I did not weep, for I to stone was dazed: They wept, and darling Anselm me besought: "What ails thee, father? Wherefore thus amazed?" And yet I did not weep, and answered not The whole day, and that night made answer none, Till on the world another sun shone out. Soon as a feeble ray of light had won Into our doleful prison, made aware Of the four faces featured like my own, Both of my hands I bit at in despair; And they, imagining that I was fain To eat, arose before me with the prayer: "O father, 'twere for us an easier pain If thou wouldst eat us. Thou didst us array In this poor flesh: unclothe us now again." I calmed me, not to swell their woe. That day And the next day no single word we said. Ah! pitiless earth, that didst unyawning stay! When we had reached the fourth day, Gaddo, spread Out at my feet, fell prone; and made demand: "Why, O my father, offering us no aid?" There died he. Plain as I before thee stand I saw the three as one by one they failed, The fifth day and the sixth; then with my hand, Blind now, I groped for each of them, and wailed On them for two days after they were gone. Famine at last, more strong than grief, prevailed,' When he had uttered this, his eyes all thrown Awry, upon the hapless skull he fell With teeth that, dog-like, rasped upon the bone. Ah, Pisa! byword of the folk that dwell In the sweet country where the Si doth sound, Since slow thy neighbours to reward thee well Let now Gorgona and Capraia mound Themselves where Arno with the sea is blent, Till every one within thy walls be drowned. For though report of Ugolino went That he betrayed thy castles, thou didst wrong Thus cruelly his children to torment. These were not guilty, for they were but young, Thou modern Thebes! Brigata and young Hugh, And the other twain of whom above 'tis sung. We onward passed to where another crew Of shades the thick-ribbed ice doth fettered keep; Their heads not downward these, but backward threw. Their very weeping will not let them weep, And grief, encountering barriers at their eyes, Swells, flowing inward, their affliction deep; For the first tears that issue crystallise, And fill, like vizor fashioned out of glass, The hollow cup o'er which the eyebrows rise. And though, as 'twere a callus, now my face By reason of the frost was wholly grown Benumbed and dead to feeling, I could trace (So it appeared), a breeze against it blown, And asked: 'O Master, whence comes this? So low As where we are is any vapour known?' And he replied: 'Thou ere long while shalt go Where touching this thine eye shall answer true, Discovering that which makes the wind to blow.' Then from the cold crust one of that sad crew Demanded loud: 'Spirits, for whom they hold The inmost room, so truculent were you, Back from my face let these hard veils be rolled, That I may vent the woe which chokes my heart, Ere tears again solidify with cold.' And I to him: 'First tell me who thou art If thou'dst have help; then if I help not quick To the bottom of the ice let me depart.' He answered: 'I am Friar Alberic-- He of the fruit grown in the orchard fell-- And here am I repaid with date for fig.' 'Ah!' said I to him, 'art thou dead as well?' 'How now my body fares,' he answered me, 'Up in the world, I have no skill to tell; For Ptolomaea has this quality-- The soul oft plunges hither to its place Ere it has been by Atropos set free. And that more willingly from off my face Thou mayst remove the glassy tears, know, soon As ever any soul of man betrays As I betrayed, the body once his own A demon takes and governs until all The span allotted for his life be run. Into this tank headlong the soul doth fall; And on the earth his body yet may show Whose shade behind me wintry frosts enthral. But thou canst tell, if newly come below: It is Ser Branca d'Oria, and complete Is many a year since he was fettered so.' 'It seems,' I answered, 'that thou wouldst me cheat, For Branca d'Oria never can have died: He sleeps, puts clothes on, swallows drink and meat.' 'Or e'er to the tenacious pitchy tide Which boils in Malebranche's moat had come The shade of Michael Zanche,' he replied, 'That soul had left a devil in its room Within its body; of his kinsmen one Treacherous with him experienced equal doom. But stretch thy hand and be its work begun Of setting free mine eyes.' This did not I. Twas highest courtesy to yield him none. Ah, Genoese, strange to morality! Ye men infected with all sorts of sin! Out of the world 'tis time that ye should die. Here, to Romagna's blackest soul akin, I chanced on one of you; for doing ill His soul o'erwhelmed Cocytus' floods within, Though in the flesh he seems surviving still. _The sinner_: Count Ugolino. See note at the end of the Canto. _Mingle speech, etc._: A comparison of these words with those of _The Archbishop Roger_: Ruggieri, of the Tuscan family of the _Many moons_: The imprisonment having already lasted for eight months. _The height, etc._: Lucca is about twelve miles from Pisa, Mount _Lanfranchi, etc._: In the dream, these, the chief Ghibeline _My sons_: According to Dante, taken literally, four of Ugo were grandsons by their mother of King Enzo, natural son of Frederick _The under gate, etc._: The word translated _made fast_ _Where the Si, etc._: Italy, _Si_ being the Italian for _Yes_. In his _De Vulg. El._, i. 8, Dante distinguishes the Latin _That he betrayed, etc._: Dante seems here to throw doubt on the _Another crew_: They are in Ptolomaea, the third division of the _Is any vapour_: Has the sun, so low down as this, any influence _To the bottom, etc._: Dante is going there in any case, and his _Ptolomaea_: This division is named from the Hebrew Ptolemy, who _Branca d'Oria_: A Genoese noble who in 1275 slew his treacherous host and not as a treacherous kinsman that Branca is _Of his kinsmen one_: A cousin or nephew of Branca was engaged _To yield him none_: Alberigo being so unworthy of courtesy. See _Romagna's blackest soul_: Friar Alberigo. '_Vexilla_ _Regis prodeunt Inferni_ Towards where we are; seek then with vision keen,' My Master bade, 'if trace of him thou spy.' As, when the exhalations dense have been, Or when our hemisphere grows dark with night, A windmill from afar is sometimes seen, I seemed to catch of such a structure sight; And then to 'scape the blast did backward draw Behind my Guide--sole shelter in my plight. Now was I where (I versify with awe) The shades were wholly covered, and did show Visible as in glass are bits of straw. Some stood upright and some were lying low, Some with head topmost, others with their feet; And some with face to feet bent like a bow. But we kept going on till it seemed meet Unto my Master that I should behold The creature once of countenance so sweet. He stepped aside and stopped me as he told: 'Lo, Dis! And lo, we are arrived at last Where thou must nerve thee and must make thee bold,' How I hereon stood shivering and aghast, Demand not, Reader; this I cannot write; So much the fact all reach of words surpassed. I was not dead, yet living was not quite: Think for thyself, if gifted with the power, What, life and death denied me, was my plight. Of that tormented realm the Emperor Out of the ice stood free to middle breast; And me a giant less would overtower Than would his arm a giant. By such test Judge then what bulk the whole of him must show, Of true proportion with such limb possessed. If he was fair of old as hideous now, And yet his brows against his Maker raised, Meetly from him doth all affliction flow. O how it made me horribly amazed When on his head I saw three faces grew! The one vermilion which straight forward gazed; And joining on to it were other two, One rising up from either shoulder-bone, Till to a junction on the crest they drew. 'Twixt white and yellow seemed the right-hand one; The left resembled them whose country lies Where valleywards the floods of Nile flow down. Beneath each face two mighty wings did rise, Such as this bird tremendous might demand: Sails of sea-ships ne'er saw I of such size. Not feathered were they, but in style were planned Like a bat's wing: by them a threefold breeze-- For still he flapped them--evermore was fanned, And through its depths Cocytus caused to freeze. Down three chins tears for ever made descent From his six eyes; and red foam mixed with these. In every mouth there was a sinner rent By teeth that shred him as a heckle would; Thus three at once compelled he to lament. To the one in front 'twas little to be chewed Compared with being clawed and clawed again, Till his back-bone of skin was sometimes nude. 'The soul up yonder in the greater pain Is Judas 'Scariot, with his head among The teeth,' my Master said, 'while outward strain His legs. Of the two whose heads are downward hung, Brutus is from the black jowl pendulous: See how he writhes, yet never wags his tongue. The other, great of thew, is Cassius: But night is rising and we must be gone; For everything hath now been seen by us.' Then, as he bade, I to his neck held on While he the time and place of vantage chose; And when the wings enough were open thrown He grasped the shaggy ribs and clutched them close, And so from tuft to tuft he downward went Between the tangled hair and crust which froze. We to the bulging haunch had made descent, To where the hip-joint lies in it; and then My Guide, with painful twist and violent, Turned round his head to where his feet had been, And like a climber closely clutched the hair: I thought to Hell that we returned again. 'Hold fast to me; it needs by such a stair,' Panting, my Leader said, like man foredone, 'That we from all that wretchedness repair.' Right through a hole in a rock when he had won, The edge of it he gave me for a seat And deftly then to join me clambered on. I raised mine eyes, expecting they would meet With Lucifer as I beheld him last, But saw instead his upturned legs and feet. If in perplexity I then was cast, Let ignorant people think who do not see What point it was that I had lately passed. 'Rise to thy feet,' my Master said to me; 'The way is long and rugged the ascent, And at mid tierce the sun must almost be.' 'Twas not as if on palace floors we went: A dungeon fresh from nature's hand was this; Rough underfoot, and of light indigent. 'Or ever I escape from the abyss, O Master,' said I, standing now upright, 'Correct in few words where I think amiss. Where lies the ice? How hold we him in sight Set upside down? The sun, how had it skill In so short while to pass to morn from night?' And he: 'In fancy thou art standing, still, On yon side of the centre, where I caught The vile worm's hair which through the world doth drill. There wast thou while our downward course I wrought; But when I turned, the centre was passed by Which by all weights from every point is sought. And now thou standest 'neath the other sky, Opposed to that which vaults the great dry ground And 'neath whose summit there did whilom die The Man whose birth and life were sinless found. Thy feet are firm upon the little sphere, On this side answering to Judecca's round. 'Tis evening yonder when 'tis morning here; And he whose tufts our ladder rungs supplied. Fixed as he was continues to appear. Headlong from Heaven he fell upon this side; Whereon the land, protuberant here before, For fear of him did in the ocean hide, And 'neath our sky emerged: land, as of yore Still on this side, perhaps that it might shun His fall, heaved up, and filled this depth no more.' From Belzebub still widening up and on, Far-stretching as the sepulchre, extends A region not beheld, but only known By murmur of a brook which through it wends, Declining by a channel eaten through The flinty rock; and gently it descends. My Guide and I, our journey to pursue To the bright world, upon this road concealed Made entrance, and no thought of resting knew. He first, I second, still ascending held Our way until the fair celestial train Was through an opening round to me revealed: And, issuing thence, we saw the stars again. arch-traitor, it takes the name of Judecca. fellow-sinners. _The creature once, etc._: Lucifer, guilty of treachery against _Three faces_: By the three faces are represented the three _A bat's wing_: Which flutters and flaps in dark and noisome _A heckle_: Or brake; the instrument used to clear the fibre of flax from the woody substance mixed with it. _Sometimes nude_: We are to imagine that the frame of Judas is being for ever renewed and for ever mangled and torn. _Night is rising_: It is Saturday evening, and twenty-four hours _I thought to Hell, etc._: Virgil, holding on to Lucifer's hairy _Mid tierce_: The canonical day was divided into four parts, of which Tierce was the first and began at sunrise. It is now about _To morn from night_: Dante's knowledge of the time of day is _The Man_: The name of Christ is not mentioned in the _Inferno_. _The sepulchre_: The Inferno, tomb of Satan and all the wicked. _A brook_: Some make this to be the same as Lethe, one of the Abati, Bocca degli, xxxii. 106. Agnello Brunelleschi, xxv. 68. Alberigo, Friar, xxxiii. 118. Alberto of Siena, xxix. 110. Alchemists, xxix. 43, etc. Alexander, Count of Romena, xxx. 77. Alessio Interminei, xviii. 122. Andrea, Jacopo da Sant', xiii. 133. Anger, those guilty of, vii. 110, etc. Angiolello, xxviii. 77. Anselmuccio, xxxiii. 50. Apulia, xxviii. 8. Apulians, xxviii. 16. Aquarius, xxiv. 2. Argenti, Philip, viii. 61. Arrogance, viii. 46, etc. Arsenal of Venice, xxi. 7. Aulis, xx. III. Barrators, xxi. xxii. Beccheria, Abbot, xxxii. 119. Bello, Geri del, xxix. 27. Benedict, Abbey of St., xvi. 100. Bertrand de Born, xxviii. 134. Bianchi, the party of the, vi. 65, xxiv. 150. Bocca degli Abati, xxxii. 106. Born, Bertrand de, xxviii. 134. Borsieri, William, xvi. 70. Bridge of St. Angelo, xviii. 29. Brunelleschi, Agnello, xxv. 68. Brunetto Latini, xv. 30, etc. Buoso da Duera, xxxii. 116. Caccia D' Asciano, xxix. 130. Caccianimico Venedico, xviii. 50. Caesar, Frederick II, xiii. 65. Camicion de' Pazzi, xxxii. 68. Cancellieri, xxxii. 63. Carlino de' Pazzi, xxxii. 68. Carnal sinners, v. Cassero, Guido del, xxviii. 77. Castle of St. Angelo, xviii. 31. Cato of Utica, xiv. 15. Cattolica, xxviii. 80. Centre of the universe, xxxiv. 110. Ceperano, xxviii. 16. Charlemagne, xxxi. 17. Chiana, Val di, xxix. 46. Cianfa de' Donati, xxv. 43. City of Dis, viii. 68, etc. Coiners, false, xxix. Colchians, xviii. 87. Colonna, family, xxvii. 86. Corneto, xiii. 8. Counsellors, false, xxvi. xxvii. Counterfeiters of all kinds, xxix. xxx. Dolcino, Fra, xxviii. 55. Elder of Lucca, xxi. 38. False coiners, xxix. xxx. ---- counsellors, xxvi. xxvii. Flatterers, xviii. Foccaccia, xxxii. 63. Francis of Assisi, xxvii. 112. Friars, Merry--Frati Godenti, xxiii. 103. Gallura, Gomita of, xxii. 81. Gate of Inferno, iii. 1. Geri del Bello, xxix. 27. Giants, xxxi. Gualandi, xxxiii. 32. Guido of Montefeltro, xxvii. 4, etc. Guidoguerra, xvi. 38. Guiscard, Robert, xxviii. 14. Guy of Montfort, xii. 119. Heathen, the virtuous, iv. 37. Henry of England, the Young King, xxviii. 135. Heretics, x. and xxviii. Homicides, xii. Hypocrites, xxiii. Hypsipyle, xviii. 92. Infants, unbaptized, iv. 29. Interminei, Alessio, xviii. 122. Irascible, the, vii. and viii. Jacopo da Sant' Andrea (James of St. Andrews), xiii. 133. Jubilee, year of, xviii. 29. Lanfranchi, xxxiii. 32. Latini, Brunetto, xv. 30, etc. Loderingo, Friar, xxiii. 104. Lombardy, xxviii. 74. Magus, Simon, xix. 1. Mahomet, xxviii. 31, etc. Mainardo Pagani, xxvii. 50. Manfredi, Alberigo, xxxiii. 118. Marquis of Este, xviii. 56. Mascheroni, Sassol, xxxii. 65. Matthias, Apostle, xix. 95. Medicina, Pier da, xxviii. 73. Messenger of heaven, ix. 85. Michael, Archangel, vii. 11. Montereggione, xxxi. 40. Murderers, xii. Napoleone Degli Alberti, xxxii. 55. Neptune, xxviii 83. Nicholas of Siena, xxix. 127. Novarese, xxviii. 59. Ordelaffi, xxvii. 45. Pagani, Mainardo, xxvii. 50. Panders, xviii. Pazzi, Camicion de', xxxii. 68. Peculators, xxi. xxii. Perillus, xxvii. 8. Phalaris, xxvii. 7. Philip Argenti, viii. 61. Pier da Medicina, xxviii. 73. Pietrapana, xxxii. 29. Pine cone of St. Peter's, xxxi. 59. Potiphar's wife, xxx. 97. Priest, the High, Boniface VIII., xxvii. 70. Puccio Sciancato, xxv. 148. Refusal, the great, iii. 60. Rinier da Corneto, xii. 136. Robert Guiscard, xxviii. 14. Roger, the Archbishop, xxxiii. 14. Roman Church, xix. 57. Roncesvalles, xxxi. 17. Sassol Mascheroni, xxxii. 65. Schicchi, Gianni, xxx. 32. Schismatics, xxviii. Sciancatto, Puccio, xxv. 148. Seducers, xviii. Seven Kings against Thebes, xiv. 68. Sicilian Bull, xxvii. 7. Simon Magus, xix. 1. Simoniacs, xix. Sismondi, xxxiii. 33. Soldanieri, Gianni del, xxii. 121. Spendthrifts, vii. Statue of Time, xiv. 103. Strophades, xiii. 11. Suicides, xiii. Tabernicch, xxxii. 28. Tagliacozzo, xxviii. 17. Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, vi. 79, xvi. 42. Thieves, xxiv. xxv. Traitors, xxxii., etc. Trojan Furies, xxx. 22. Uguccione, xxxiii. 89. Valdichiana, xxix. 46. Vendetta, the, and Dante, xxix. 32. Venetians, xxi. 7. Vercelli, xxviii. 75. Verucchio, xxvii. 46. Vigne, Pier delle, xiii. 58. Violent, the, against others, xii.; against themselves, xiii.; against God and Nature, xiv., etc. And elsewhere in the _Inferno_ mentioned by name, though usually by some title, as, _e.g._ Master, Leader, or Lord. Volto, the Santo, xxi. 48. Wanton, the, v. Witches and wizards, xx.

H. G. (Herbert George) Wells

The Plattner Story and Others

1866

_The accompanying Rhymes are affectionately dedicated by_ "TUFFY TODD'S ADVENTURE" is the record of an incident which actually occurred during the past summer while the writer was spending his vacation in a retired but charming part of the It was written for the amusement of the guests at TODD'S "Hillside Home," to whom the facts as set forth were familiar, and who will recognize in the following lines the story as it originally appeared in the so-called _Dry Brook Evening Mail_. There is a little dog whose name Is Tuffy Todd, who has the same Wise look as many a dog you've met; And is a well-bred house-dog pet, But quaintly called in rhyme a hound, To please the poet's ear for sound. Round as a mole, he's fat and fair, And robed in coat of whitest hair; His soft brown eyes are bright and clear, His little ears are quick to hear. He has a kind expressive face, With every feature full of grace; In disposition meek and mild, He's gentle as a little child; But has his own peculiar way, As all who hear will surely say. He is to people so polite, You'd think he'd never bark or bite, But strangers climbing up the hill Will shout in vain: "You hound, be still!" And traveler late in midnight dark Is sure to hear Tuff's loudest bark, While tramps who come about the yard Must flee or face a valiant guard. Although he has a host of friends, To them he rarely condescends, And their caresses kindly made Are with indifference coldly paid. He lives for Master Orrin Todd And worships him as household god; With him Tuff wildly romps and plays, And from his side but seldom strays. At times when Orrin goes away To tarry but a single day, He bids his Tuffy stay behind And try to have a peaceful mind. But Tuff, so sad and desolate, Lies down alone to meditate; Or seeks the porch--a sunny place-- To watch for Todd's returning face, Or wait until the voice so dear Shall fall like music on his ear. Unmoved by other sight or sound He lies as if in thought profound. Unless you say: "Ho! _Orrin's_ come!" When quick, like one from sleep, he springs, And flies, as swift as bird on wings, To meet his master and his friend,-- Then Tuffy's mourning has an end. His ways eccentric may appear, But in the sequel they'll be clear. Now little Tuff, it may seem strange, Had lived at home, nor thought of change; But one calm morning clear and bright, As if new visions filled his sight, To _Griffin's Corners_ begged a ride In Orrin's wagon by his side. Good Master Todd could not deny The pleading of poor Tuffy's eye, And said: "Jump in and take a seat, And you shall have a royal treat; For though we go by mountain road And do not want a heavy load, Our sprightly horses strong and true Will never mind a mite like you." Then Tuff leaped in and sat erect As if to show his intellect, When off they rode with hearts of glee, And warmer friends you rarely see. Now Orrin thought it would be nice To give his Tuffy some advice: "Be careful, Tuffy mine," said he, "We go where many dangers be; Turn not aside nor leave my track Till setting sun shall warn us back. In town you will a stranger be; Again I say: Go not from me." To which the simple dog replied: "Oh, never will I leave thy side, But follow where thy footsteps lead, Thou dearest friend in time of need." (Our Tuff can talk like dogs of old Of whom in fable AEsop told.) Then Todd, to pass away the time, Thus entertained his guest in rhyme: "I've always made you stay at home And never let you widely roam, Because I feared you might be lost And by the world be rudely tossed; Or lest in some unlucky way You might be hurt as on that day-- That doleful, direful day,--when life And death seemed balanced in the strife. You then were but a little pup, And with a snail could scarce keep up, But seeing Flora's gentle pace, You thought with her you'd run a race! And as she moved along the road And pulled with care her heavy load, You chanced to fall beneath the wheel Which crushed your leg and made you reel. O dreadful sight! O fearful cry! A mangled limb! no surgeon nigh! I stanched the blood which freely flowed, And in my arms--a tiny load-- I bore you safely to our door; Then said: 'You shall go out no more Until your leg is fully healed, Or death shall take you from the field!' I set and bandaged well your limb, (Should surgeon doubt, I'd challenge him,) And laid you on an easy bed And saw that you were kindly fed. I closely watched you night and day And did not fail for you to pray! When you had reached the third long week, Thank God! (with reverence do I speak) 'Twas plain you needed nothing more Than just to walk about the floor. At length, when people thought you dead, You left your room and little bed; "He's _tough_," they said, "as hickory rod," And called you "_Tough_," then Tuffy Todd; And thus you see it strangely came You have a soft and pretty name. Now since to perfect health restored, To thank me well you can afford." Tuff answered: "Do you doubt, dear friend, That I shall thank you to the end? Since I was struck by wheel so rude, Have I not shown you gratitude? Have I not always been to you Obedient, faithful, good and true? Through evil and through good report I've never failed in my support! Forsaking friends, let none deny For you I've lived, for you I'll die; What care I for the world around When all my joy in you is found? Please pardon if too bold I seem And hold me firm in your esteem." "I did not mean to grieve your heart, Good Tuff, nor cause a single smart, But just to have a little play, I thought I'd see what you would say In answer to my sober talk, While slow the horses onward walk." Conversing thus as friend with friend, At last they reach their journey's end. Todd's heart with anxious fears beset, Foreboding peril to his pet, He turns to Tuffy: "You've been warned In language clear and unadorned, To stay by me and to beware Of dangers lurking everywhere. Although no prophet born or bred, Though on my mind no light is shed, I fear from knowledge of your race, _The day will end in your disgrace_." Out jumped brave Tuff and Farmer Todd, But scarce had gone a single rod Before they heard: "Bow-wow! Friend Tuff! For that's your name I'm sure enough; How glad I am to see your face And give to you a friend's embrace; Now while in town, stay thou with me, And boon companions we will be." Then Tuff, (poor "Innocent abroad," Who never dreamed of any fraud,) Replied: "Perhaps we've met before, I'll take your word and ask no more: It would not seem polite, I know, Should I refuse with you to go." Away they marched, as large as life, Their hearts with hope and pleasure rife, And wandered in their heedless play, Through many a dark and devious way. Unchecked they raced and chased around, A lawless cur and recreant hound; They took no note of time, nor cared How far they strayed nor how they fared; For Tuff could not foresee his woes Till darkness did around him close. Oh, Tuffy, born and reared in ease, With bread enough to eat and cheese, Where now thy master's tender care? Where now the bed thou erst didst share? Thy new-made friend all false will be In time of thy adversity! Upon the cold, cold ground to-night No sleep shall come ere morning light, Nor morsel sweet for hungry maw, Nor peace for nature's broken law! The westering sun had low declined, When homeward with an easy mind Good Orrin turned his horses' feet, Expecting there his dog to meet; But drawing near, no Tuff was found To greet him with accustomed sound. Poor Orrin could not sleep a wink, But lay awake all night to think How sad the fate of Tuff might be, Who late was in prosperity. Back, in the early morning bright, To Griffin's Orrin took his flight, But thoughts of Tuff so filled his mind No other thought a place could find, And as he passed each neighbor's door 'Twas little known the load he bore. The dogs ran out and barked so bold They wakened echoes in the wold, While ducks and geese joined in the strife And quacked and screamed for their dear life. Then proudly crowed vain chanticleer: "I am, you see, without a peer, Let none within my realm intrude To scare my hens and little brood." But patient kine in farmyard pent Were mute with meek-eyed wonderment, While grazing sheep on hillside near, Heard all and said: "We need not fear;" Each mother called her own dear lamb, Who answered back: "Oh, here I am!" The squirrel with his nimble feet Now quickly found a safe retreat, And from the wall, or limb on high, Peeped slyly out as Todd went by. The birds from out the leafy trees, So gently swayed by morning breeze, Poured forth their notes in merry lay And sang: "Good speed and happy day!" And insect world, on joyous wing, In sunlight clear did sweetly sing, Or hum in myriad tones so gay: "We cheer the traveler on his way." But ferns and flowers in wayside beds With meek surprise did lift their heads And whisper low: "Our friend's in haste And has no time on us to waste. In days gone by he'd stop awhile To praise our charms and make us smile, Or take us in his gentle hands As if rare gifts from foreign lands." And thus each loving, living thing Had kindly thought or word to bring, Which proved a balm to soothe Todd's soul As he moved onward to his goal. The livelong day through street and lane He sought his dog, but sought in vain; From house to house he asked each man, "Where's Tuff? Pray tell me if you can." "Why, Tuff has gone with Bruno Brown, A dog," they said, "of poor renown." It was enough to turn one's brain To always hear this sad refrain. Retracing now in twilight drear His weary steps, Todd dropped a tear And took with heavy heart the way His feet had pressed at opening day, And walked in doubt and gloom along Where late he sang his cheerful song,-- Where frisked his faithful dog with glee And kept him joyful company. Poor Tuff, a wanderer forlorn, Now loud bewailed that he was born! For though in darkness and in grief, There came no friend to his relief. But being born he did not care Just then to die. With reason rare, He searched along the dusty ground To see where footprints could be found, When he with keen instinctive nose Discerned the course of Orrin's toes! Then light and hope began to rise And cheer the darkness of his skies, While slow he kept the lonely road Which led him safe to his abode. Scarce twelve had struck the kitchen clock When lo! was heard a scratch or knock. "Oh!" said his wife: "Oh, Orrin dear! _The lost is found; our Tuff is here!_" Then up sprang Orrin with a bound, And welcomed home his truant hound, Whose downcast eye and trembling frame Betrayed a sense of guilt and shame. But Todd in sweet forgiving mood Spread Tuff a couch and gave him food, And bade him now find rest in sleep, And thus forget his sorrows deep. Then Tuff in silence ate his meal, But made by looks this sad appeal: "Oh friend, in sorrow and in cheer, There's none on earth as you so dear; For all the trouble I have brought I am not worthy of your thought, And would receive a just return Should you my presence coldly spurn, Or from me turn with angry frown And let me in despair sink down. I will not plead in self-defence Nor try to prove my innocence, But truth requires that I should say How I was duped and led astray By cunning dog, who boldly claimed He'd seen my home ere I was named-- Had heard of Tuffy Todd before When passing by our cottage door! He led me captive at his will And made me suffer direst ill, Which was no more than I deserved, Who from the path of duty swerved. I have my sins and woes confessed, And ask forgiveness, peace and rest. Oh grant the mercy which I crave Or I shall find an early grave!" To such petition all unused, With faltering words and eyes suffused, Kind Orrin made this brief reply: "The same true friends are you and I; As we have ever been before We will be now and evermore. And since you mourn this first offence With deep and humble penitence, I grant forgiveness full and free, And trust no lapse again to see." To banish care and doubt and fear And waken hope and faith and cheer, Good Orrin, with a tact supreme, From great to small then changed his theme. "My dog," quoth he, "with morning sun I'll see what can for you be done. There comes just now this happy thought-- For you a collar shall be bought, That if perchance you go astray You will be known, though far away. On it must be inscribed your name And Latin words to give you fame! _Nil desperandum_, they shall be, And from despair may you be free!" What more did pass between these friends, The curtain now around descends; Their mutual joys, their mutual woes, The poet's pen may not disclose. To dog and master, both so true, Long life and peace, and our adieu. Now turning from the gay or sad, This moral we will simply add: Ye maidens fair and comely youth, Accept the words of love and truth: _Not all is gold with golden gleam,_ _Not all are friends who friendly seem;_ _The_ TRIED, _the_ TRUSTED _and the_ TRUE, _These are the friends we name for you._

Percy Moore Turner

Millet

1877

London NEW YORK Montreal Mammy's Baby Chile The Washerwoman's Song A Seller ob Ole Clo'es A Well-Cleaner's Revery Aunty's Affliction Ike's Temptation 'Fo'e de Wah Jeff's Fun'ral Sermon Cotton's Comin' In Uncle Ben's Superstition "I rub en I rub" "En he drive a ox so slow" "How de News git roun dem posts" Mammy's Baby Chile. Hush, now hush, do' cry no mo' Kaze yo' daddy had ter go In de massa's fiel' ter hoe, Mammy's baby chile. He gwine come back, dat you'll see, Kaze he b'long ter you en me, En he'll jog you on his knee, Mammy's baby chile. Hush, den hush, do' cry no mo'! Set dar quiet on de flo' While I wash de clo'es, you know, Mammy's baby chile. When de cotton season come, Me en you won' stay at home, Kaze yo' mammy gwine pick some, Mammy's baby chile. You kin set in de sunshine On de cotton, sof' en fine, Lis'nin' ter de moanin' pine, Mammy's baby chile. When we done, at en' ob day, En come home (heah what I say!) Daddy'll ride you all de way, Mammy's baby chile. Hush, den hush, do' cry no mo' Kaze yo' daddy had ter go In de massa's fiel' ter hoe, Mammy's baby chile. What you git dat nickel change Up in coppers fo', What de preacher gib ter you Las' night 'fo'e he go? Bet you soon be wid dem chaps Roun' de corner playin' craps. What you say? You done bin dar? Sho's de pleeceman know 'Bout dem dirty little chaps Roun' de corner playin' craps. What you gwine make up ter tell When he as' you 'bout dat nickel-- When, en how, en why? Dat you los' it ter dem chaps Roun' de corner playin' craps? Neber los' it? Well, I say! Why you talk so slow? Bring dat money out ter sight, So I sho kin know If you 'scape dem cunnin' chaps Roun' de corner playin' craps. Thirteen ob dem! Thirteen coppers, Sho ez I'm erlive! Han' dem ebry one to me-- Scusin ob des five;-- En you stay 'way frum them chaps Roun' de corner playin' craps! The Washerwoman's Song. Oh, I rub en I rub All day in de tub! I went fo' dese clo'es 'fo'e de clock strike eight, En I rubbin' on dem in de evenin' late. I rub en I rub All day in de tub. Oh, I rub en I rub All day in de tub! I soap all de pieces in places erbout, En I scrub till I git all de dinginess out. I rub en I rub All day in de tub. Oh, I rub en I rub All day in de tub! Sho ez de good Missus pay me fo' dese I gwine treat you chillun ter crackers en cheese. Ain't you glad I kin rub All day in de tub? A Seller Ob Ole Clo'es. Dese am pretty clo'es, fo' true, En I'll sell 'em quick fo' you, Dat I will! Dey does look des lak you, Miss, En I feel dat I could kiss Ebry frill. Dis heah flower on dis hat-- Lan'! My heart do cry fo' dat-- It so sweet! I would sholy lak ter go Wid it on my head, des so, Down de street. Now, you know dat I cain't pay Fo' dat hat! Sellin' clo'es ain't made me rich, But my head do sholy itch To weah dat. Allers fo' de clo'es dey say Dey gwine git, I would hab de change ter buy Somethin' when my heart do cry So fo' it. Ten cents on de dollar, Miss, Won' buy soon a hat lak dis, Dat am sho; Hab ter buy some bread en meat, Ez you know. Well, good-day! Dese pretty clo'es, Wid dey laces en dey bows, Soon be gone; Kaze dem gals, when dey heah tell Dat I got yo' clo'es ter sell, Sho gwine run. The Well-Cleaner's Revery. Me en Tom bin cleanin' wells Long time, sho; En we'll clean 'em till God tells Us ter go Up dar whar de shinin' stream, Pu' en sweet, Flow frue heaven, lak a dream, At our feet. En I min' me how us two, Ez time pass, Work togedder good, fo' true, Fus' en las'; One stay up en one go down, En bofe know Dey mus' fill dey place, I boun', High or low. When Tom turn de win'lass roun', En I go Fur down underneath de groun', Dark en low, I trus' allers dat he gwine Ter de place whar de sun shine All erbout. En I b'lieve dat if a man Fall in sin, We mus' lif' him, if we kin, Up ag'in; Kaze he need de he'pin' han', Dat am sho, If all safe he rise en stan' God done take dis simple way Ter show me Dat while in de worl' we stay We must be 'Pendent on each other, sho, Till we rise Frum de dang'rous deeps below Ter de skies. I don' ride erlong de street Wid my mouth shet tight, Kaze I know I got ter sing, Lak a singer right, If I make dis pile ob goods Dwindle frum de sight: "Tomatoes en okra Passin' right by! Beans en pertatoes-- De prices ain't high! Apples en peaches, De fines' ter-day! Oh, come out en buy 'Fo'e dey all git away-- Come out en buy!" All de white men down de street Wantin' me, fo' sho, Des to drive en sell fo' dem, Kaze dey say dey know I git rid ob all my truck, "Tomatoes en okra Passin' right by! Beans en pertatoes-- De prices ain't high! Apples en peaches, De fines' ter-day! Oh, come out en buy 'Fo'e dey all git away-- Come out en buy!" Once de preacher what hol' fo'th Say: "Oh, man, I b'l'eve dat you Done yo' callin' miss! Why'n't you use dat voice ter preach 'Stead ob shoutin' dis: "'Tomatoes en okra Passin' right by! Beans en pertatoes-- De prices ain't high! Apples en peaches, De fines' ter-day! Oh, come out en buy 'Fo'e dey all git away-- Come out en buy!'" En I laugh en tell him dat Dis town full ter-day Ob fine men, des lak hisse'f, What kin preach en pray; But dey ain't but one dat go Singin' 'long dis way: "Tomatoes en okra Passin' right by! Beans en pertatoes-- De prices ain't high! Apples en peaches, De fines' ter-day! Oh, come out en buy 'Fo'e dey all git away-- Come out en buy!" By en By. Uncle Reuben, ole en good, Come ter town wid nice fat wood Frum de san' hills fur away-- 'Mos' eleben miles, dey say. En he drive a ox so slow, En a cart dat wobble so, Dat it look lak dey gwine fall, En ole Uncle gwine lose all, By en by, by en by. Uncle got dat wood dervide, En in hones' bundles tied, En he holler 'cross de fence: "Three big bunches fo' ten cents! Buy some, Missus, please, frum me, Kaze I need de change, you see; En I mus' go down de street Ter git me some meal en meat, By en by, by en by. Missus say she don' want none; What he brought befo' ain't gone; En ole Uncle pass on by, Still wid courage in his eye; En he doan' lose heart dat day, But wid smilin' face he say: "I ain't bin all 'roun' de town-- I gwine sell it, I am boun', By en by, by en by." En he sell it all, fo' true, Ez he said dat he would do! When at las' he go down street, He buy mo' dan meal en meat, Kaze he lak terbacco, too, En he say: "I'll 'joy it, sho, Ez erlong de road I go, By en by, by en by." When he 'bout ter leave de town Ez de sun am gwine down, "Bet you won't git home ter-day Wid dat ox, so ole en slow, En dat cart dat wobble so!" En he bow his head en say: "I gwine git dar, anyway, By en by, by en by." Uncle Reuben's gittin' ole-- He's pas' sixty, I'se bin tole; En his han' sho shake ter-day In a weak en trimblin' way; En his ole legs wobbled too, Lak de wheels ob his cart do, Ez he say: "De en' soon come, Kaze de Lawd gwine call me home, By en by, by en by." Dat Sambo ain't got good sense; Work agin hisse'f for sho; 'Tain't no parable I'm tellin', 'Tis de truf, en dat am so. He wus 'ployed by Missus Johnsing Ter run erran's en bring wood;-- Ter do anything, in fac', En Sambo, he done right well Till de boys begin ter sell Bunches ob de mistletoe. 'Twus de Chris'mas time ercomin', En it tingled in his blood, Till he couldn't stick ter sawin' En ter choppin' ob de wood; En he couldn't heah de Missus When she say: "Be smart, Sambo!" Kaze de soun' ob dem boys callin' In de street wus all he know; "We is lucky, sho, ter-day; We des sells de mistletoe!" Sambo didn't stop ter say: "'Scuse me, Missus, I mus' go!" Do his po' ole mammy teach him Better manners, dat you know. He des leave dat yard en clim' Up de neares' ole oak tree, Whar de mistletoe wus growin' Fresh en green ez it could be; En he jine dem boys dat cry: "Mistletoe er passin' by! Don' you want some mistletoe?" En he sell it mighty good-- He des scoop de nickles in! Seem de Lawd wus blessin' him In his foolishness en sin. Dar de Missus wus er needin' Him ter chop en bring in wood, En he orter gone en done it-- Kaze she sho bin mighty good, But he strut erlong de street, Hol'rin' out: "It's hard to beat Dis fine bunch ob mistletoe!" But de jedgment come at las', Ez it boun' ter come, fo' sho, His ownse'f, lak dat Sambo. When de holidays wus pas' Missus say dat she don' need Him to work no mo' fo' her, Kaze she got some one instead. En dat boy got sense ter know White folks don' buy mistletoe When de season am done pas'! Chris'mas Gif'! I go tip-toe down de alley Ter de Missus' kitchen do', Kaze I know she got some Chris'mas Somewhar fo' dis darkey, sho; She don' spec' me roun' dat way, En I s'prise her when I say: Den she turn roun', des er laughin', En she say: "De same ter you! Is you got a present fo' me? Kaze I want one--I sho do!" "You's des foolin'," den I say; "'Sides I hollered fus dis day: Den she git a big bandanna-- One wid po'ka dots ob red, En she say: "Ez you done ketch me, You kin hab dis fo' yo' head." So I sho am glad dis day Dat I wus de fus ter say: Dis mornin' when I went ter po' Water out my cabin do', I wus sho surprised ter see, While de darkness all roun' me, Snow wus des er fallin' down Till it civered all de groun'. Bin des 'bout two yeahs or mo' Sence I seed a flake ob snow; En I call to Mandy: "Say! Heah's a sight, fo' sho, ter-day! Yestiday was lak de spring; Look what des one night done bring." En she come en poke her head Out from under dat ole shed; En she say: "When you go down Ter de Massa's in de town, You mus' civer up yo' back Wid a nice warm crocus sack." En she say: "Yo' shoes am ole; Sho dey days am neahly tole." En she wrap 'em, fo'th en back, Wid dem bits ob crocus sack, Till you hardly see my feet When I walk erlong de street. Massa p'int ter dem en say: "Wouldn't dress up dat erway! Why'n't you git some rubber shoes? You could buy 'em if you choose." But I won't! Kaze don't I know Soon de sun gwine drink dat snow? Aunty's Affliction. How is I dis mornin', Miss? Po'ly, dat am true! In de night-time I don' sleep Lak I orter do, Kaze I got de miz'ry bad In me, up en down, En some day, fo' sho, it gwine Fetch me ter de groun'. Oh, I's full ob trouble, Miss!-- Ain't you got some liniment You kin gib ter me? I is 'bleeged ter git some he'p Somewhar, dat am sho, Else dis miz'ry in de j'ints Soon gwine lay me low. Oh, I thank you, thank you, Miss! God will bless you, sho. All de goodness ob yo' heart He mus' sholey know; En he'll pay you when at las' He done lay me down;-- When dis pain en miz'ry done Fetch me ter de groun'. If de white man am a sinner He go walkin', walkin' free, In de penitentiary. Now dat Simeon steal some cotton (Cunjud by de evil one) En dey sen' him ter de prison Fo' de wrong dat he am done. Fo' three yeahs he done bin workin' In de penitentiary, En he got ter stay dar longer Frum de chillun en frum me. Dat rich farmer git de cotton-- Ebry poun' ob it--ag'in, But dey keep dat Simeon lock up Lak he done an awful sin. If de white man am a sinner He go walkin', walkin' free, In de penitentiary. Missus, please write me a letter back home, En tell 'em I say dat I want 'em ter come At blackberry time in June. My little ole cabin won't hol' any mo', But nobody freeze in de yard, dat am sho, At blackberry time in June. Tell 'em I lonesome. I sholy will die If dey don' come to he'p me eat blackberry pie At blackberry time in June. When de fruit ebrywhar hangin' juicy en sweet At blackberry time in June. So, Missus, please write me a letter back home, En tell 'em I say dat I want 'em ter come At blackberry time in June. "No, sah ree! You do'n' ketch me Shinin' yo' shoes fo' de ha'f ob a dime; Ter de union strong, En he charge you de full price ebry time."] I does try ter fetch up Jim So de white folks respec' him; But in spite ob all I say He des set out dar all day On de back do' step, en play De fus job he git ter do, I wus glad, it sho am true; But he come home, sleek en sly, Wid de sunshine in his eye, Soon's he git enough ter buy "Whar yo' senses gone ter-day? Dey mus' 'arn dey bread en meat?" But he des play, sof' en sweet, When I tell ole Missus once Jim wus des a lazy dunce, She say: "Hush! Don' talk dat way; He's a ginious, I dare say, En de muses bid him play Pshaw! De ginious en de muses! What's de use ob dem ixcuses? If I hab ter flog dat Jim Wid a great big hick'ry lim', Bet he'll frow away frum him When I git down my banjo Des to pick a tune or so, Tobin 'gin ter pat de flo' Wid his feet. He don't neber heah me play In de night-time or de day, But he sho gwine ac' dat way Wid his feet. En he pat, now fas', now slow;-- Easy now, den loud, he go, Keepin' time ter my banjo Wid his feet. En who ever heah dat coon Allers say, en dat right soon: "He kin play a purty tune Wid his feet." He kin make mo' music, sho, Dan I kin wid my banjo When he pat de cabin flo' Wid his feet. In dis little ole log cabin Whar de gray moss hang in sight; Whar de screech-owl make me trimble In de middle ob de night; Dar at ebenin' you gwine fin' me, If you look fo' me at all, Wid my Fido settin' by me, En my banjo on de wall. Once, when de long day wus finish, 'Fo'e ter res' me I done go, I would set out on de do' step Pickin' sof' my ole banjo, "Annie Laurie," en dem all;-- But my banjo am done broken, En am hangin' on de wall. So I set heah dreamin', dreamin', Ob de time dat use ter be 'Fo'e my Dinah went to heaben-- Dinah she wus lovin' me! En if she had neber lef' me I would neber weep at all, En I would not miss de music Ob de banjo on de wall. When dem darkies sing togedder 'Fo'e de houses in de street, People passin' stop en lis'n Ez dey say: "Now, ain't dat sweet? En dey sho kin keep good time; I would ruther heah dem singin' Dan de bells ob Michael chime." When dem darkies sing togedder Wid dem tamb'rine bells a-ringin' En dem bottles dat dey blow, Oh, it sho do seem lak music Ob de holy angel ban', En I feel lak shoutin': "Glory! Take me ter de Canaan lan'." When dem darkies sing togedder, Dey kin make you laugh or cry; Oh, dey kin, fo' joy or sorrow, Bring de tear-drop ter yo' eye! Dey kin make you stan' dar quiet, Lis'nin' ter de singin' sweet, Or kin hab you dancin', dancin', Long ez you kin lif' yo' feet. When dem darkies sing togedder, White folks frow some shinin' dimes Out de winder. My, en den Don't dey hab some happy times? Den de people what wus lis'nin' Say dey mus' be gwine home; Say dey sorry dat de singin' Stop mos' soon ez dey had come. Oh, now, Missus, wus I 'sleep? I is sorry, sho! I des set down heah ter res' Wid my head down, so. En I meant to pray fo' grace Des a little bit, Kaze I got a sinnin' soul, En I 'knowledge it. Yes, I knows you pays me well Fo' de work I do, En I orter stick ter it So dat I please you. But I couldn't he'p it, Miss, If I shet my eyes; God done made dem wid dese hinges, En He sho am wise. Why'n't I sleep at night, you as'? Missus, you don't know How dem voices call en call, En when once I git in church, Dar I sho gwine stay Till de stars am gittin' pale 'Fo'e de light ob day. Dar's a meetin' gwine on Wid de Baptis' now, En do I ain't jine dat church, I kin go, I 'low; Dey don't shet de do' on me 'Cept when dey commune, En it won't be time fo' dat, So dey say, right soon. My, dey hab a whoopin' time Roun' dar eb'ry night, En dat preacher sho kin put Down de law des right; En he preach de holy word Till dey leab dey seats at las', Dancin' all erbout. Anthea Allen got religion Roun' dar las' night, sho, En she clap her han's en waltz Up en down de flo', I is on de way! Angels peepin' down frum heaven Beckon me ter-day." Den she fall down in a trance, Right dar on de flo', En dem darkies po' de camphor Onto her, fo' sho; But she don't wake up at all-- Lak de dead she lay, En we lef' her lyin' dar When we come away. Dey sho take a big collection At dat church las' night, En dat money on de table Sho wus shinin' bright. En de preacher in de pulpit Stan' up straight en say: "Dem dat am not got a cent-- Dey kin go away!" En he say: "Come up en bring Dat He love de chee'ful giver, He say in His word; What you gib ter Him ter-night Am not frowed away, Kaze de bread cas' on de sea Gwine come back some day." Passin' up en down, Some wid coppers, some wid nickels, Some wid dimes, I'm boun'; En dey make de music ring, While de preacher say: "Oh, I lak ter see de money Comin' up dat way!" I sot up till mos' dis mornin' At dat church las' night; Dat how come my eyes don't feel Wide awake en bright; But I sorry dat I let em Shet deysel's up tight When I workin' heah fo' you-- Kaze _you_ treat me right! Dat de preacher know All dat's fit ter study 'bout In dis worl' below; Think he am so smart dat he Look beyon' de sky, Whar he read what am gwine be In de by en by. I's a 'ception ter dat rule, Ez you sho will fin', En I come ter my conclusions Out ob my own min': Preachers ain't no mo' conspired Dan is you en me; Dat, if you des crack yo' eyes, You am sho gwine see. "Oh, I work hard, sho, When de col' win' blow, Sawin' en splittin' de white folks' wood! But I do'n' complain Ob de col' en de rain, Kaze de Lawd gwine sen' what He know am good."] Eb'ry man what see a tex' In de trees en stones, Ain't bin called ter preach en raise Life in dead, dry bones. Dat ole rooster scratchin' dar Am a sarmont, sho, But des kaze I read him right, I ain't called, you know. If you don't read it, you ain't Got de seein' eyes, En yo' heart cain't see dem things What would make you wise. Sho's de Bible done say dat Dem what works kin eat, Dat's a noble sarmont dar-- One dat cain't be beat. When dat rooster scratch fo' worms In de lowly groun', He's a sayin' we mus' work Fo' our bread, I'm boun'; En when he fin' food, en call Till dat hen do run, He sho mean dat man mus' work Fo' de weakly one. He don't shet his knowledge up In a selfish min'; When he see de mornin' break He tell all mankin'. Do ter me all dis en mo', Dat same rooster teach, He don't say dat I's conspired By de Lawd ter preach. My ole shanty am a fallin', En de rain am leakin' frue, En de rheumatiz done grip me Till I don't know what ter do; But I thank God fo' dis frame, En I happy, des de same. I cain't go en jine de singin', Lak I did in ole-time days, Whar dey sing glad songs ob praise; But my heart ain't sick en lame, En it singin', des de same. Mandy say de safe am empty-- We ain't got no food ter-day! Say she do' know whar we git it, 'Thout an angel come dis way; But I trus' in Jesus' name, En my soul feas', des de same. If de rooster crow, dey say, 'Fo'e de clock strike ten, Atter he done gone ter roos' In de chicken pen, Den de weather sho gwine change 'Fo'e dat time nex' day, En I don't care if it do-- So de sunshine stay. How de rooster know if win' Am gwine res' or blow, Or if clouds gwine hol' de rain, Or gwine let it po', I cain't tell, do I live heah Forty yeahs terday; But I know my heart am glad If de sunshine stay. Why am you so tall? You look lak yo' head Gwine soon touch de wall; En it take many stitches Ter sew up dem breeches." Make answer ter me: "De fines' fruit grow In de top ob de tree, En I's made tall ez dis So's de bes' I won't miss." Oh, I had a happy time-- Happy time las' night! Staid inside dat meetin' house Till it mos' daylight. En I sho did sing en holler Till de people know Couldn't hol' no mo'. When I leave dat meetin' house-- Leave at ha'f pas' two, I wuz gittin' hungry ez En des den I heah a rooster Gib a mighty crow; "Don't he think he big?" I say, "I gwine fetch him low!" Oh, I fetch him low! En I Tote him home wid me, En wid dumplin's I done cook him Wid religion en dat chicken I am full up, sho, But I reckon when night come I kin hol' some mo'! Ike's Temptation. Ebry day dat come, I pass Whar de watermilyun grow In de Massa's milyun patch, En dey is a sight, fo' sho. Dey des peeps frum out de leaves, Playin' hide en seek wid me; En dey beg me come en ta'se 'em, Des ter see how good dey be; But I sho does pass 'em by-- Same's I don't know whar dey lie. I's a member ob de church, En you'll neber see me steal; I kin sho han' out de cash Fo' my bacon en corn-meal. Dey will keep me des ez fat Ez I eber want ter be, En de luxuries ob life-- Heah dem milyuns callin' me! Don't dey know dat I done say I ain't gwine take dem away? One ob dem--he sho am big-- Prettiest thing I eber seen-- All arrayed, mo' bright dan lilies, In dem shades ob shinnin' green. He done creep frum out dem leaves Till he close ter dis low fence, En he beckon me ter take him-- Think dat I ain't got good sense! But dat coat ob him do shine, En I wish dat he wus mine. Wonder if he look ez nice On de inside ez de out? Wonder if he's lak dem Christians What do nothin' else but shout? Guess dat I could mighty soon Bu's' him on a rock, en see, If I had him on dis side Ob de ole rail-fence wid me. Dat I'll do! If he's deceivin', Nothin' else ain't wuth believin'! He am mellow ter de co'; Sho de heart ob him am right; Since I gone en bu's' him open, I mus' git him out ob sight. I would sin agin my conshuns If I let him go ter was'e When so many mouths is thirstin' Fo' de juice dey loves ter tas'e;-- Mo' dan all dat's bought wid gol'. It wus good, dat watermilyun, But I sho am gittin' sick; Go en git de doctor, honey-- Go en git him mighty quick! 'Twus a dirty trick, fo' cartin, What de Massa gone en done, Puttin' strychnine in dat milyun So's ter ketch de guilty one;-- But I ain't a rogue, he know-- I's a Christian, dat am sho! I wus fetch up fur away Frum dis city whar I stay, In de lan' ob shinin' day Whar de watermilyun grow. Oh, my boss heah treat me gran'! But I sad, you understan', Longing fo' de Dixie lan' Whar de watermilyun grow. Fiel's ob cotton beckon me, En de sweet magnolia tree, En my heart des cry ter be Whar de watermilyun grow. Oh, de South am des de place Fo' de thirsty cullud race! En I long ter turn my face Whar de watermilyun grow. If dey try to 'tice you 'way, Don't you lis'n what dey say, Whar de watermilyun grow. What dat you say? Sen' Zeke ter school Des kaze he ain't bin bo'n a fool? Now you talkin'! You ain't heerd He wus smart, his ma tell me, En he l'arn his A, B, C, 'Thout no' difficult at all-- Nat'ral ez de ripe fruit fall. En dat smartness grow on him Fas' ez leaves grow on de lim', Till at las' de people say: "He mus' sholy go away Ter de college in de town!" 'Twus a great one, I am boun', Whar dey teach dat young man mo' When he reach ter gradiation, My! Dey make a great 'miration; En dey say: "Spite ob his race, En dat shinin', coal-black face, He gwine make de people's eyes Open wide wid dey surprise; Dat wus sho a good essay, What he read fo' us ter-day." En dey say dem people chee'ed Say he look en ac' ez gran' Ez de fines' in de lan; Wid a smile dat seem ter say: "I is ready now ter do Somethin' dat will 'stonish you." Den what nex'? He des come home-- Wait dar fo' de chance ter come Ter git some big job, fo' true, Lak falutin' white folks do;-- Think he am too smart, you know, Or ter do work, han' ter han', Wid de ignorant cullud man. Dar he set en dar he wait, Sayin' dat de worl' am hard, When we all know dat de Lawd Make it easier, fo' sho', When de man use what he know; When he don't des set en wait, Railin' allers 'gin his fate. Ez you say, dat Zeke ob mine Got a min' dat sho could shine, En dem han's ob his kin do Mos' ez much ez mine, fo' true. He won't neber lack fo' bread Wid dem han's en wid dat head; En I don't sen' him ter school Whar he l'arn ter be a fool. People tell de news las' week Dat a cullud man gwine speak At de college hall; Say he try ter lif' his race Ter a high en shinin' place On dis 'restial ball. En dey say dat cullud man Doin' work dat sho am gran' In dis worl' below; Say he gib his life, fo' true, Better dan befo'. He done 'stablish a fine school, Whar, dey say, he 'force dis rule: Train de man all roun'; Let de han's dey duty know; Let de min' wake up en grow; Let de heart be soun'. Dat great school am situate Down in Alabamy state, In dis Dixie lan'; En folks north en eas' en wes', When dey heah it do its bes', Mr. Washington come down Las' week ter dis very town, Ez I spec' you know; En when I went ter dat hall Des ter heah him speak, en all, I wus 'sprised, fo' sho; 'Sprised ter see dat cullud man On de platform, dress up gran', Wid de bes' white men; En if he don't speak dat day Words ez good ez dey kin say-- Den my name ain't Ben! Oh, I wish dat I could tell What he say! It make me swell All up fat wid pride; En I say: "I sho gwine shake His right han' fo' dem words' sake, When we git outside." When he finish en set down, I go outside en walk roun' Till his face I see; Den I say, sho ez I bo'n: Won't you speak ter me?" En he shake my han' de way Dat men do when dey hearts say: "Glad ter see yo' face!" En I tell him; "'Fo'e you go I mus' say, you make me, sho, Proud ob de black race." When he talk dat way 'Bout de mansion on de hill Whar de gov'nor stay; Sho ez life gwine be Walkin' on dem flo's some day. He ain't wise on politics, En we tell him so, En we say: "Nobody vote But he say dat he Sometime sho gwine be Walkin' on dat mansion flo'. His vote he'p de white man git Ter dat place, he say, En he waitin' fo' de state Ter do right, en pay Him wid dis job soon: Washin' de spittoon What dey use dar ebry day! Neber seen a feller grin When you as' him anything He des look at you;-- Neber answer what you say-- Grin en grin dat stupid way. When somebody what don't know As' him what he name, He hang down dat head ob his Ez do' he ashame; En he show dem teeth ob white Lak dey speak fo' him all right. "Is de cat done got yo' tongue?" Mammy as' him once, "Or is you des bo'n to be A dum', stupid dunce?" But he hang dat head en grin, Silly ez he allers bin. I mos' b'lieve dat when he git Up ter heaven's gate, If de angels as' him why He stan' dar en wait, He won't say: "Please let me in," But des grin en grin en grin! When de vaccinater come, My Elmiry run frum home Fas' ez she could go; Run away ter Missus' house, Whar she slip in lak a mouse, So de Miss won't know. En she scramble hin' de head Ob de Missus' high pos' bed, Des ter hide erwhile; En de Missus come en go Frue dat room, but she don't know 'Bout dat silly chile. By en by, when she come frue, She heah somethin' breave, she do, Lak somebody 'sleep; En her heart stan' still dat day, En she am too sca'ed, she say, Des to take a peep. So she run out-do's en call; "Sen' de pleeceman (heah me all!) Right now ter my house; Dar's a robber 'hin' my bed, Waitin' till de day be dead, Quiet ez a mouse." En de news dem people spread 'Bout de robber 'hin' de bed, Waitin' till day done; En de pleeceman sho did race, So he reach dat hidin' place, 'Fo'e de robber run. But when he git dar en see Dat chile sleepin' quiet, he Des frow back his head, En he laugh en laugh en say: "Come in, Missus, right away! Who dis 'hin' yo' bed?" Dey take hol' ob her en shake Dat Elmiry till she wake 'Nough ter rub her eyes; When she open dem en see Who dat man am--goodness me!-- She am sho surprise'. "Please, Mister Pleeceman," den she say, "I'll be vaccernate' dis day If you let me go!" But he say dat des a tale, En he take her ter de jail 'Fo'e her mammy know. Take her ter be vaccernate, En she grunt now, soon en late, Wid dat arm dat's so'. 'Tain't no use ter run frum home When de vaccernater come;-- He gwine git you, sho. Des cartin ez dey is a way Ter miss doin what am right, Dat boy gwine allers fin' it out What work fo' Mistah White. Las' yeah dey had him drive 'em all Out ter de ole school groun', Whar all de white folks congregate Frum miles en miles er-roun'. En Mistah White, when dey git dar, Say: "Simon, now you min', En put dis ice we got heah, in De cooles' place you fin'." En when dey all go in ter heah De chillun speak en sing, Dat boy--he go en drap dat ice Right in de bubblin' spring! Dat Tom, he allers want ter know All 'bout de things he see; I neber could remember ha'f Ob what he done as' me. He see dem posts down by de road, Wid wires stretch ercrost, En ast me why dem wires wus Hung dar from post ter post. I tell him den, de bes' I kin, Dat dey wus made to sen' De news ercrost, so men kin heah Frum dey fur absent frien'. He stan' en gaze en gaze on dem In his onquirin' way; Den: "How de news git roun dem posts?" He sho ain't got de sense ter know (De good fo' nothin' scamp!) Dat des ter meet dat obstickle We got de postage stamp. Two of a kind. Sime say he don't know what ter do wid dat mule Dat he done gone en bought (he wus sholy a fool!) At de sale in de town; He say it so stubborn dat when he say "gee," It allers gwine "haw," ez sho ez kin be, En I's glad, I am boun'. He say when he want it ter stan' it gwine walk;-- When he want it ter go, it am sholy gwine balk, Lak a dunce all de time. He say dey ain't neber bin bo'n sich a fool, But I know, I sho do, dat pesky ole mule Ain't ez stubborn ez Sime. He neber gwine do what I tell him am right, Do he know I wus bo'n wid a caul on my sight, En kin see what am bes'; I tol' him ter stay frum dat sale in de town, But somethin' des draw him ez blood do de houn', Till he foller de res'. I sho knew dat day what dat man wus erbout When I seen him a-takin' de las' money out Ob de cup on de she'f; En I glad he done spent ebry cent on dat mule, En's got ter work now wid dat pesky ole fool, Kaze he's stubborn hisse'f. Who am sca'ed ob small-pox? Pshaw! Las' yeah dar wus lots ob it Down in Spilman's row; En de pleeceman walk erbout, Keepin' some in en some out. En I ask: "What dey gwine do Fo' 'nough food to eat?" En Sime answer: "Ez fo' dat, Small-pox cain't be beat; Kaze when it done shet yo' gate, Den de town gwine fill yo' plate." He say dem dat's quarantined Down in Spilman's row, Gittin' better things ter eat Dan we am, fo' sho; Say he see 'em take some food Back dar dat wus mighty good. Den I min' me ob my frien's, How dey lonesome be, En I say: "I cain't fo'get 'em-- Dey am deah ter me!" En dey voices call en call, Till I heah dem ober all. 'T last I say dat I mus' go If I am dey frien';-- While de guard walk up _dat_ way, En in Spilman's row I stay Till de small-pox pass erway. I don't ketch it--no, suhree! Neber git de chance; Zeke wus down dar wid his fiddle, En I jine de dance;-- En de city furnish food Dat, fo' sho, tas'e mighty good. Oh, de preacher done fine When I marry Em'line, But what did he mean, I wonder, When he stan dar en' say: "I done jine you ter-day; Let nobody put you ter thunder!" Fo'e de Wah. I ain't neber work, not me! Fo' de white trash. Kaze, you see, I wus fetch up mighty gran' By de bes' folks in de lan';-- En dey teach me how ter do Work fo' ladies rich ez you, 'Fo'e de wah. "Who fetch me up?" Now, Missus, sho I done tol' you dat befo'! Why a Miss wid heart ez true Ez wus eber knowed by you; En a face dat shine ez bright Ez dem days so full ob light, 'Fo'e de wah. When I sick in dem ole days, Missus don't des go her ways, Leabin' me ter cry en groan In dat cabin all alone; Wid her han's she wait on me Till I well ez I kin be, 'Fo'e de wah. When de fus' sweet baby come, Blessin' my deah Missus' home, 'Twarn't nobody else but me Dressed it nice ez it could be In a dress ob spotless white, (Shinin' lak de robes ob light!) 'Fo'e de wah. En when angels, by en by, Call dat darlin' ter de sky, 'Twus me robe it in its bes', Ez I say: "Now, sleep en res'." Den de house wus sad erwhile Kaze we lose our only chile,-- 'Fo'e de wah. God won't hab dem arms ob Miss Empty ob de mammy's bliss, En he fill em up wid joy-- Now a gal, en den a boy; En deysel's dem chillun twine Roun' dis happy heart ob mine, 'Fo'e de wah. Take de notion in his head Dat he want ter marry me, Missus say: "Well, we will see;" En she buy him fo' her slave (He bin long time in his grave!) 'Fo'e de wah. Buy him fo' her slave, you see, So dat he kin live wid me In de hut whar de sweet vine Ob de yellow jes'mine twine; Whar de mockin'-bird all day Sing kaze we wus glad en gay, 'Fo'e de wah. Den dem Yankees come, you know, En dey beat de South, fo' sho; Missus tell us: "You is free! You don't b'long no mo' ter me." "We gwine stay right whar we stay En we stay. We didn't go Ter de North lak some I know. Dey sho thought dat dey gwine be Rich up dar ez dey wus free; But dey soon come back agin Ter de lan' whar dey had bin 'Fo'e de wah. Missus die.--Please 'scuse dese teahs; I mus' cry, spite ob de yeahs, When I min' me ob dat day Dat dey laid her deep away By de willow bendin' low,-- One she planted long ago 'Fo'e de wah. Den dey scatter, all de res', Some ter eas', en some to wes'; One done jine de Miss on high In de mansions ob de sky; Dem dat's libin' write ter me Ob de times dat used ter be 'Fo'e de wah. En dey sen's some change erlong, Calling it "but des a song;" Frum a lot ob care en woe; En it make me dream dat I Libin in dem days gone by 'Fo'e de wah. I is gittin weak en ole, En I know dat soon my soul Sho gwine heah de angels come, Singin', singin', "Home, sweet home!" En up dar my eyes gwine see All de white folks deah to me 'Fo'e de wah. What de use ter go agin What de groun' hog say, Little bud, dat done unfol' 'Fo'e Spring come dis way? 'Tis a shame fo' dat sunshine Ter be foolin' you, When mo' fros' am prophesied By de prophet true: If de sun am shinin' bright, He turn right away Back into dat cozy bed, Whar till spring he stay. But if clouds am in de sky, Den he know, fo' sho, Dat de winter am done pass Ter return no mo'. Yestiday, when he creep out Frum his winter den, He des turn his se'f erbout, En went in agin. He ain't easy ter deceive By warm sun en breeze, Kaze he got a way ter know If dey'll be a freeze. Wish de sunshine wouldn't 'vite Flowers ter unfol', When de prophet prophesy Dar gwine be mo' col'; Wish de little buds could know What de groun' hog say, En would stay shet, close en tight, Till Spring come ter stay. Why you go en fight dat boy? Don't you know he white? Bet de pleeceman come en git you 'Fo'e you sleep dis night! Don't you heah yo' mammy say, Why you knock him down dat way? Den you done des right! Eb'ry time de po' white buckra Call you dat, you fight! If you am one, I am sho 'Taint dey place ter tell you so! Jeff's Funeral Sermon. Git my mou'nin' dress, Susanah, Out de bottom draw';-- It bin waitin' long time wid Dis black hat ob straw, Fo' de preacher ter come by En preach Jeff up ter de sky. Jeff done pass away befo' us Des six months ter-day; But it don't seem long ez dat (How time pass away!) Since dey laid dat po' boy down In de churchyard's holy groun'. Yestiday when I ast Missus Let me go ter-day Ter Jeff's fun'ral, she so s'prised Till she up en say: "Sakes! dey bury him, you know, Las' yeah, long en long ago!" En I tell her dat de people Libin fur frum home, Couldn't heah dat he wus gone, En dey want ter come; So we wait till news wus spread Ebrywhar dat he wus dead. En we 'vite so many people Frum de country roun', At dat church, I'm boun'; So we better be gwine on, Kaze we set wid dem dat mou'n. Uncle Bob say ter his dog, Leo: "You tangle yo'se'f in my heart-strings, sho, But de day gwine come when you got ter go, Kaze I ain't got a dollar Ter buy you a collar, En de dog-ketcher ketch you, sho." Uncle Bob say: "I dervide my bread, En I kiver you up in my nice, straw bed, But I sca'ed dat my dog gwine soon be dead, Kaze I ain't got a dollar Ter buy you a collar, En de dog-ketcher ketch you, sho." Uncle Bob say: "Oh, de stolen am sweet, En dat why you clim' frue de fence ter de street, Do I already tol' you de en' you gwine meet! Kaze I ain't got a dollar Ter buy you a collar, En de dog-ketcher ketch you, sho." Sho ez dat dar sun on high Shine on me ter-day, Dar gwine be a riber-rise, Lis'n what I say! 'Fo'e de summer am done pas' Am gwine over-flow dem banks, Rushin' ter de sea. I does closely watch de signs, En de wasp, fo' true, Biuldin' higher up dis yeah Dan she mos'ly do. By dat nes', so safe en high, She done say ter me; "Dar gwine be a rise dis yeah De pe'simmons in de pastur' am a-fallin', fallin' down, En de sweet pertaters waitin' ter be dug frum out de groun'; Dat dey good de possum know, En he fatten on 'em, sho! En I tas'e his juice ter-morrer, else I neber tas'e it mo'. Bring de light-wood torch, Horiah, en don't creep so slow erlong; "Mr. Possum, hear me say, 'Tain't no use ter run away, Kaze I sho gwine ketch en bleed you 'fo'e de breakin' ob de day! Dem two dogs already trace him ter de big pe'simmon tree, En I see dem eyes ob his'n shinin' down lak stars at me. He for sho am perch up high, But I git him, by en by, En dat feas' I hab to-morrer beat de fines' chicken pie. I done grab him by de neck, en I comin' down agin, En de weight ob him do tell me he am fur frum bein' thin; En he droop hisse'f en play Dat he dead en pass away, Do he know dat if I loose him he gwine mighty soon be gay. He am sho a fine one, en I proud ter take him home, En de mammy en de chillun wake ter see him when he come; En I singe his tender hide Till it look lak it done fried, Den I try ter go ter sleep, but my eyes stay open wide. Oh, my eyes stay open wide, till de breakin' ob de day, When de long, long night oh waitin' am at las' done pass away; En I go outside en scratch Sweet pertaters frum de patch, Kaze wid juices ob de possum dey ain't nothin' else ter match. When we bake dat critter brown, wid pertaters stuff inside, Come en dine wid us ter-day, En we know dat you gwine stay Till de las ob dat good possum am done hid frum sight away. Cotton's Comin' In. Bet de goldenrod's a-bloomin' 'Long de country roads; Bet de hick'ry nuts am fallin' By de loads en loads. Bet pe'simmons am mos' ripe-- Makes a feller grin! What's de sign? Why, man alive, Cotton's comin' in! Bet ole Pete am busy now Bilin' sorghum down; Bet dey'll hab a pullin' soon-- 'Vite me frum de town; Bet de apple's dryin' on Chiny plates en tin, Bet all dis, en mo', des kaze Cotton's comin' in. Bet de rice am hangin' now Head down in de sun; Bet ole Massa's habin' times Wid his rod en gun; Wish I'd staid dar in de woods-- Town's chuck full ob sin, En I sho git homesick when Cotton's comin' in. Bet de pinders spread out on De ole shed ter dry; Bet de possum know de way Ter de tree-top high. Soon dem darkies put away 'Taters in de bin;-- Lan'! I's gwine back when Pete Brings his cotton in! I bin watchin' you, big Jim, En I s'prised, fo' sho; You is done fo'git mos' all Dat you eber know. Dar you wus, at de cake-walk, Makin' eyes at Sue, When you orter know dat gal Ain't gwine look at you. Yo' hair curl on top yo' head Lak sheep's wool, fo' sho, En yo' skin am des ez black Ez de blackes' crow. Ebry time you pass dat gal She stick up her nose, En draw back, des lak she sca'ed You gwine touch her clo'es. Think she am too good ter speak Ter a coal-black man What, ez ebrybody know, Do de bes' he kin, Kaze her skin ain't black lak yourn, En her hair ain't wool, She ac' lak she am de queen-- Sick'nin' yaller fool! Ebry day she com' dat hair Lak de white folks do; Pin it back wid fine hair-pins, Shinin lak bran' new; En she go erlong de street Holding her head high, Lak she neber see her race When dey pass her by. Us don't ac' lak dat! When we com' our hair we make Heah en dar a plait; En we wrap 'em good wid cord So dey sho gwine stay Right in place a week or mo' Frum de com'in' day. En we don't pass cullud folks Wid our head up high, But we stop en speak wid dem 'Fo'e we pass on by. En we as' 'em: "How you do? How's de folks at home?" En we tell 'em whar we live, Sayin' "You mus' come." I's bin watchin' you, big Jim, En I's s'prised, fo' sho; Ez I sed, you is fo'got All you eber know. If you's got good sense you'll quit Makin' eyes at Sue, Kaze dat stuck-up yaller gal Ain't gwine look at you. Dem gals stan' erbout, en giggle en grin; Dey say: "His shoes shine' lak a bran' new pin!" En de way dat dey treat him am sholy a sin, When John go ter walk wid his gal. Dey laugh at his hat en dey laugh at his tie, En dey say: "Will you 'low us ter see you go by?" When John go ter walk wid his gal. "Oh, shet up!" I tell 'em, "en dat right away,-- I know what's de matter, now heah what I say; You's ebry one jealous, you sho is, ter-day, Kaze John gone ter walk wid his gal!" Frow fish salt out on de grass Ebrywhar dat man done pass, En be quick; Scatter it all roun' de do', Else somebody heah, fo' sho, Gwine be sick. He done cunjur' me, you know, One time long en long ago, En it ain't fo' good ter-day Dat he stop by heah dat way, Den pass on. Dat de way he done befo', En wid fever laid me low In de bed. Go en spread de salt all roun' 'Fo'e we bofe am lyin' down, Sick or dead. Uncle Ben's Superstition. Oh, please, Missus, don't as' dat! Is you neber heah it sed Him dat plants a holly tree Sho gwine lie down, stiff en dead, Soon's dat tree grow big en high 'Nough ter shade him whar he lie? I ain't sca'ed ob death, not me! I's bin baptized in de creek, En in big experience meetin's I does rise sometimes ter speak; But I don't tempt Providence;-- 'Tis a act ob wickedness. "How ter git it planted, den?" Ain't got time, yo'se'f, you say? Lis'n, mum, en I will tell you What's, fo' true, de only way, 'Th'out you hab somebody die Soon's dat tree grow big en high: Put a seed somewhar out do's, So de win' will blow it down Des whar you would hab it planted, On a nice, sof' bit ob groun'. Dar it will take root en grow; I is tried it, en I know. But ter put de seed in groun', Or ter plant dar de young tree, Am sho temptin' Providence-- En it ain't bin done by me; Dat am how I'm heah ter-day Ter teach ole Missus de right way. When I hab ter go ter bed, I sho civer up my head, Kaze I allers mighty sca'ed Dat de witches come at night. Dey does come sometimes, you know, En wid dem you got ter go, Ridin' fas' or ridin' slow, When dey come fo' you at night. I does try my bes' ter shriek, But my voice git low en weak, En I shake so I cain't speak When de witches come at night. Oh, dey tote you up so high Till you neahly touch de sky, En you sca'ed mos' 'nough ter die When you ride wid dem at night. "You des dream dat," Missus say, But she don't fool me ter-day! I done bin too fur away Wid dem witches des las' night. "Don't b'I'eve in hants?" Well, dat des show Dat you cartin neber know 'Bout dat big house on de hill, Whar a sperit walk at night When de dark done quench de light, En de worl' am calm en still. "Who lib dar?" Well, gracious me! You won't as' dat when you see Dat ghos' walkin' roun' de place; Ghos' dat allers kneels en prays Under dem magnolia trees, Wid a sad en longin' face. Once, dey say, a sweet bride come Frum her fur-off northern home, Ter dis lan' ob flow'rs en song; En she love de birds en bees Hummin' 'roun' dem fragrant trees, En wus happy all day long. Dar she go mos' ebry day When de noon-sun shine dat way, Waitin' fo' her man ter come; En when evenin' light grow dim Dar she go ter watch fo' him Ter come back ter dat glad home. En dey walk dar, des dem two, When de stars am peepin' frue Leaves ob dem magnolia trees; En dey bofe am glad ob heart Des kaze dey don't walk apart, En am kiss by dat same breeze. When one day dat man come home, He don't see his young wife come Out ter meet him on de lawn; She took sick, de people say, En her spirit pass away 'Fo'e de little baby bo'n. Den her mammy write en say: "Fetch en bury her, we pray, By her sisters heah at home." So she lie dar in de col', Whar de win's am strong en bol', Waitin' fo' de kingdom come. But her sperit walk at night, When de dark done quench de light, Under dem magnolia trees; En she stop dar en kneel down Wid her white dress floatin' roun' In de gentle, sighin' breeze. Oh, my heart ache in my breas' Fo' dat sperit cravin' res'! En I know it would fin' ease If dey bring dem bones some day Ter de south, en let 'em lay Under dem magnolia trees. Ike wus workin' on de chain gang Ebry day till set ob sun, Kaze he bin took up fo' somethin' Dat he neber orter done. En he ketch de quick consumption Workin' in de col' en rain, En he say if dey des free him He won't do so bad agin. Den his white frien's write a letter Dat dey as' us all ter sign, Sayin': "Ike am weak en sickly, En he mus' be treated kin'." Sayin': "He cain't lib much longer, En we hope you let him come Back ter dem dat am his people, So he pass away at home." En we des keep waiting', waitin', Till a letter come at las', Sayin' dat de gov'nor glad He kin grant us what we as'. When we carry Ike dat message, Ho don't heah us what we say, Kaze de Lawd done come en call him, En his soul done pass away.

L. T. Meade

Scamp and I A Story of City By-Ways

1854

My thanks are due to the Editors and Publishers who have kindly allowed me to use here verses written for them. In token of indebtment. "Come, fill me flagons full and fair Of red wine and of white, And, maidens mine, my bower prepare-- It is my wedding night. And make me fair and fine-- This is the day that brings the night When my desire is mine." They decked her bower with roses blown, With rushes strewed the floor, Than ever she wore before. She wore two roses in her face, Her hair was crowned with sunset rays, Her brows shone white between. "Tapers at the bed's foot," she saith, "Two tapers at the head!" It seemed more like the bed of death Than like a bridal bed. He came; he took her hands in his, He kissed her on the face; "There is more heaven in thy kiss Than in our Lady's grace". He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, He kissed her three times o'er; He kissed her brow, he kissed her eyes, He kissed her mouth's red flower. "O Love, what is it ails thy knight? I sicken and I pine; Is it the red wine or the white, Or that sweet kiss of thine?" "No kiss, no wine or white or red, Can make such sickness be, Lie down and die on thy bride-bed For I have poisoned thee. "And though the curse of saints and men I would it were to do again Since thou wert false to me. "Thou shouldst have loved or one or none, Nor she nor I loved twain, But we are twain thou hast undone, And therefore art thou slain. "And when before my God I stand With no base flesh between, I shall hold up this guilty hand And He shall judge it clean." He fell across the bridal bed Between the tapers pale: "I first shall see our God," he said, "And I will tell thy tale. "And if God judge thee as I do, Then art thou justified. I loved thee and I was not true, And that was why I died. "If I could judge thee, thou shouldst be First of the saints on high; But ah, I fear God loveth thee Not half so dear as I!" The year fades, as the west wind sighs, And droops in many-coloured ways, But your soft presence never dies From out the pathway of my days. The spring is where you are, but still You from your heaven to me can bring Sweet dreams and flowers enough to fill A thousand empty worlds with Spring. I walk the wet and leafless woods; Your shadow ever goes before And paints the russet solitudes With colours Summer never wore. I sit beside my lonely fire; The ghostly twilight brings your face And lights with memory and desire My desolated dwelling-place. Among my books I feel your hand That turns the page just past my sight, Sometimes behind my chair you stand And read the foolish rhymes I write. The old piano's keys I press In random chords until I hear Your voice, your rustling silken dress, And smell the violets that you wear. I do not weep now any more, I think I hardly even sigh; I would not have you think I bore The kind of wound of which men die. Believe that smooth content has grown Over the ghastly grave of pain-- "Content!" ... O lips, that were my own, That I shall never kiss again! For what wilt thou sell thy Lord? "For certain pieces of silver, since wealth buys the world's good word." But the world's word, how canst thou hear it, while thy brothers cry scorn on thy name? And how shall thy bargain content thee, when thy brothers shall clothe thee with shame? For what shall thy brother be sold? thy head, For what wilt thou sell thy soul? "For the world." And what shall it profit, when thou shalt have gained the whole? might-have-been? "But, when my soul shall be gone, No more shall I fail to profit by all the deeds I have done! And wealth and the world and pleasure shall sing sweet songs in my ear When the stupid soul is silenced, which never would let me hear. "And if a void there should be I shall not feel it or know it; it will be nothing to me!" It will be nothing to thee, and thou shalt be nothing to men But a ghost whose treasure is lost, and who shall not find it again. "But I shall have pleasure and praise!" Praise shall not pleasure thee then, nor pleasure laugh in thy days: For as colour is not, without light, so happiness is not, without I will not hear thy music sweet! If I should listen, then I know I should no more know friend from foe, But follow thy capricious feet-- Thy wings, than mine so much more fleet-- I will not go! I will not go away! Away From reeds and pool why should I go To where sun burns, and hot winds blow? Here sleeps cool twilight all the day; Do I not love thy tune? No, no! I will not say! I will not say I love thy tune; I do not know if so it be; It surely is enough for me To know I love cool rest at noon, Spread thy bright wings--ah, go--go soon! I will not see! I will not see thy gleaming wings, I will not hear thy music clear. It is not love I feel, but fear; I love the song the marsh-frog sings, But thine, which after-sorrow brings, I will not hear! _A man of like passions with ourselves._ It is too late, too late! The wine is spilled, the altar violate; Now all the foolish virtues of the past-- Its joys that could not last, Its flowers that had to fade, Its bliss so long delayed, Its sun so soon o'ercast, Its faith so soon betrayed, Its prayers so madly prayed, Its wildly-fought-for right, Its dear renounced delight, Its passions and its pain-- All these stand gray about My bed, like ghosts from Paradise shut out, And I, in torment, lying here alone, See what myself have done-- How all good things were butchered, one by one. Not one of these but life has fouled its name, Blotted it out with sin and loss and shame-- Until my whole life's striving is made vain. It is too late, too late! My house is left unto me desolate. Yet what if here, Through this despair too dark for dreams of fear, Through the last bitterness of the last vain tear, One saw a face-- Human--not turned away from man's disgrace-- A face divinely dear-- A head that had a crown of thorns to wear; If there should come a hand Drawing this tired head to a place of rest On a most loving breast; And as one felt that one could almost bear To tell the whole long sickening trivial tale Of how one came so utterly to fail Of all one once knew that one might attain-- If one should feel consoling arms about, Shutting one in, shutting the black past out-- Should feel the tears that washed one clean again, "My child, my child, do I not understand?" Oh, rapture of infinite peace! Many are weeping without; From the lost crowd of these, God, Thou hast lifted me out! Though strong be the devil's net, Thy grace, O God, is more strong; I never was tempted yet To even the edge of wrong. The world never fired my brain, The flesh never moved my heart-- Thou hast spared me the strife and strain, The struggle and sorrow and smart. The dreams that never were deeds, The thought that shines not in word, The struggle that never succeeds-- Thou hast saved me from these, O Lord! I stood in my humble place While those who aimed high fell low; Oh the glorious gift of Thy grace The souls of Thy saved ones know! And yet if in heaven at last, When all is won and is well, Dear hands stretch out from the past, Dear voices call me from hell-- My love whom I long for yet, My little one gone astray!-- No; God will make me forget In His own wise wonderful way. Oh the infinite marvels of grace, Oh the great atonement's cost! Lifting my soul above Those other souls that are lost! Mine are the harp and throne, Theirs is the outer night. This, my God, Thou has done, And all that Thou dost is right! Lost as I am--degraded, foul, polluted, Sunk in deep sloughs of failure and of sin, Yet is my hell by God's great grace commuted, For what I lose the others yet may win. I--sport of flesh and fate--in all my living Met the world's laughter and the Christian's frown, Ever the spirit fiercely vainly striving, Ever the flesh, triumphant, laughed it down. Down, lower still, but ever battling vainly, Dying to win, yet living to be lost, My soul through depths where all its guilt showed plainly Into the chaos of despair was tossed. Yet not despair. I see far off a splendour; Here from my hell I see a heaven on high For those brave men whom earth could never render Cowards as foul and beasts as base as I! Hell is not hell lit by such consolation, Heaven were not heaven that lacked a thought like this-- That, though my soul may never see salvation, God yet saves all these other souls of His! The waves of death come faster, faster, faster; Christ, ere I perish, hear my heart's last word-- It was not I denied my Lord and Master; The flesh denied Thee, not the spirit, Lord. And God be praised that other men are wearing The white, white flower I trampled as I trod; That all fail not, that all are not despairing, That all are not as I, I thank Thee, God! _And underneath us are the everlasting arms._ Once by a foreign prison gate, Deep in the gloom of frowning stone, I saw a woman, desolate, Sitting alone; Immeasurable pain enwound Infinite anguish lapped her round, As the sea laps some sunken shore Where flowers will blossom never more. Despair sat shrined in her dry eyes-- Her heart, I thought, in blood must weep For hopes that never more can rise From their death-sleep; And round her hovered phantoms gray-- Ghosts of delight dead many a day; And all the thorns of life seemed wed In one sharp crown about her head. And all the poor world's aching heart Beat there, I thought, and could not break. Oh! to be strong to bear the smart-- The vast heart-ache! Then through my soul a clear light shone; What I would do, my Lord has done; He bore the whole world's crown of thorn-- For her sake, too, that crown was worn! A priest tells how, in his youth, a church was built by the free labour of love--as was men's wont in those days; and how the stone and wood were paid for by one who had grown rich on usury and the pillage of the poor--and of what chanced thereafter. Arsenius, priest of God, I tell, For warning in your younger ears, Humbly and plainly what befel That year--gone by a many years-- When Veraignes church was built. Ah! then Brave churches grew 'neath hands of men: We see not now their like again. We built it on the green hill-side That leans its bosom o'er the town, So that its presence, sanctified, Might ever on our lives look down. We built; and those who built not, they Brought us their blessing day by day, And lingered to rejoice and pray. For years the masons toiled, for years The craftsmen wrought till they had made A church we scarce could see for tears-- Its fairness made our love afraid. Its clear-cut cream-white tracery Stood out against the deep bright sky Like good deeds 'gainst eternity. In the deep roof each separate beam Had its own garland--ivy, vine,-- Giving to man the carver's dream, In sight of men a certain sign-- And all day long the workers plied. "The church shall finished be," we cried, "And consecrate by Easter-tide." Our church! It was so fair, so dear, So fit a church to praise God in! It had such show of carven gear, Such chiselled work, without, within! Such marble for the steps and floor, Of gold and gems the altar bore! Each stone by loving hands was hewn, By loving hands each beam was sawn; The hammers made a merry tune In winter dusk and summer dawn. Love built the house, but gold had paid For that wherewith the house was made. "Would love had given all!" we said. But poor in all save love were we, And he was poor in all save gold Who gave the gold. By usury Were gained his riches manifold. We knew that? If we knew, we thought 'Tis good if men do good in aught, And by good works may heaven be bought! At last the echo died in air Of the last stroke. The silence then Passed in to fill the church, left bare Of the loving voice of Christian men. The silence saddened all the sun, So gladly was our work begun. Now all that happy work was done. Did any voices in the night Call through those arches? Were there wings That swept between the pillars white-- Wide pinions of unvisioned things? The priests who watched the relics heard Wing-whispers--not of bat or bird-- And moan of inarticulate word. Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air Adorned our church, and there were borne Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair To grace the consecration morn. Then round our church trooped knight and dame; Within, alone, the bishop came, And the twelve candles leaped to flame. Then round our church the bishop went With all his priests--a brave array. There was no sign nor portent sent As, glad at heart, he went his way, Sprinkling the holy water round Three times on walls and crowd and ground Within the churchyard's sacred bound. Then--but ye know the function's scope At consecration--all the show Of torch and incense, stole and cope; And how the acolytes do go Before the bishop--how they bear The lighted tapers, flaming fair, Blown back by the sweet wavering air. The bishop, knocking at the door, The deacon answering from within, "Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure The King of Glory shall come in"-- The bishop passed in with the choir. Thank God for this--our soul's desire, Our altar, meet for heaven's fire! The bishop, kneeling in his place Where our bright windows made day dim, With all heaven's glory in his face, Began the consecration hymn: "_Veni_," he sang, in clear strong tone. Then--on the instant--song was done, Its very echo scattered--gone! For, as the bishop's voice rang clear, Another voice rang clearer still-- A voice wherein the soul could hear The discord of unmeasured ill-- And sudden breathless silence fell On all the church. And I wot well There are such silences in hell. Taper and torch died down--went out-- And all our church grew dark and cold, And deathly odours crept about, And chill, as of the churchyard mould; And every flower drooped its head, And all the rose's leaves were shed, And all the lilies dropped down dead. There, in the bishop's chair, we saw-- How can I tell you? Memories shrink To mix anew the cup of awe We shuddering mortals had to drink. What was it? There! The shape that stood Before the altar and the rood-- It was not human flesh and blood! A light more bright than any sun, A shade more dark than any night, A shape that human shape was none, A cloud, a sense of winged might, And, like an infernal trumpet sound, Rang through the church's hush profound A voice. We listened horror-bound. "_Venio!_ Cease, cease to consecrate! Love built the church, but it is mine! 'Tis built of stone hewn out by hate, Cemented by man's blood divine. Whence came the gold that paid for this? From pillage of the poor, I wis-- That gold was mine, and mine this is! "Your King has cursed the usurer's gold, He gives it to me for my fee! Your church is builded, but behold Your church is fair for me--for me! Who robs the poor to me is given; Impenitent and unforgiven, His church is built for hell, not heaven!" Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear, And all men stood as turned to stone; Each man beheld through dews of fear A face--his own--yet not his own; His own face, darkened, lost, debased, With hell's own signet stamped and traced, And all the God in it effaced. A crash like thunder shook the walls, A flame like lightning shot them through: "Fly, fly before the judgment falls, And all the stones be fallen on you!" And as we fled we saw bright gleams Of fire leap out 'mid joists and beams. Our church! Oh, love--oh, hopes--oh, dreams! We stood without--a pallid throng-- And as the flame leaped high and higher, Shrill winds we heard that rushed along And fanned the transports of the fire. The sky grew black; against the sky The blue and scarlet flames leaped high, And cries as of lost souls wailed by. The church in glowing vesture stood, The lead ran down as it were wax, The great stones cracked and burned like wood, The wood caught fire and flamed like flax: A horrid chequered light and shade, By smoke and flame alternate made, Upon men's upturned faces played. Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire-- A blackened ruin--fell and lay. The very earth about caught fire, And flame-tongues licked along the clay. The fire did neither stay nor spare Till the foundations were laid bare To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air. There in the sight of men it lay, Our church that we had made so fair! A heap of ashes white and gray, With sparks still gleaming here and there. The sun came out again, and shone On all our loving work undone-- Our church destroyed, our labour gone! Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no! The hands that builded built aright: The men who loved and laboured so, Their church is built in heaven's height! In every stone a glittering gem, Gold in the gold Jerusalem-- The church their love built waits for them. Through the glowing meadows aflame With buttercup gold I came To the green, still heart of the wood. A wood-pigeon cooed and cooed, The hazel-stems grew close, Like leaves round the heart of a rose, Round the still, green nest that I chose. Then I gathered the bracken that grew In a fairy forest all round, And I laid it in heaps on the ground With grass and blossoms and leaves. I gathered the summer in sheaves, And pale, rare roses a few, And spread out a carpet meet For the touch of my lady's feet. I waited; the wood was still; Only one little brown bird On a hazel swayed and stirred With the impulse of his song; And I waited, and time was long. Then I heard a step on the grass In the path where the others pass, And a voice like a voice in a dream; And I saw a glory, a gleam, A flash of white through the green (Her arms and her gown are white); And the summer sighed her name As she and the sunshine came: O sun and blue sky and delight! O eyes and lips of my queen! What was done there or said No one will ever know, For nobody saw or heard Save one little, brown, bright bird Who swayed on a twig overhead, And he will never betray; But all who pass by that way, As they near the spot where we lay Among the blossoms and grass Where the leaves and the ferns lay thick (Though it lies out of reach, out of sight Of the path where the world may pass), Feel their heart and their pulse beat quick In a measure that rhymes with the leaves and flowers, That rhymes with the summer and sun, With the lover to win or won, With the wild-flower crown of delight, The crown of love that was ours. My garden was lovely to see, For all things fair, Sweet flowers and blossoms rare, I had planted there. There were pinks and lilies and stocks, Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue, And clematis white and blue, And pansies and daisies and phlox. And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady, And all things were ready to greet my lady On the Life's-love-crowning day When she should come To her lover's home, To give herself to me. I saw the red of the roses-- The royal roses that bloomed for her sake. "They shall lie," I said, "where my heart's hopes lie: They shall droop on her heart and die." I dreamed in the orchard-closes: "'Tis here we will walk in the July days, When the paths and the lawn are ablaze; We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss: And thank God for this". I leaned where the jasmine white Wreathed all my window round: "Here we will lean, I and my queen, And look out on the broad moonlight. For there shall be moonlight--bright-- On my wedding-night." She never saw the flowers That were hers from their first sweet hours. The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn. Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose, They were gathered--to honour and sorrow born. They lay round her, touched her close. The jasmine stars--white stars, that about our window their faint Lay round her head. And the white, white roses lay on her breast, And a long, white lily lay in her hand. They lie by her--rest with her rest; But I, unhonoured, unblest-- I stand outside, In the ruined garden solitude-- Where she never stood-- On the trim green sod Which she never trod; And the red, red roses grow and blow,-- As if any one cared How they fared! And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand And see the Angel with flaming sword-- Life's pitiless Lord-- And I know I never may pass. Alas! alas! O Rose! my rose! I never may reach the place where she grows, A rose in the garden of God. O God, let there be rain! Rain, till this sky of gray That covers us every day Be utterly wept away, Let there be rain, we pray, Till the sky be washed blue again Let there be rain! O God, let there be rain, For the sky hangs heavy with pain, And we, who walk upon earth, We find our days not of worth; None blesses the day of our birth, We question of death's day in vain,-- Let there be rain! O God, let there be rain Till the full-fed earth complain. Yea, though it sweep away The seeds sown yesterday And beat down the blossoms of May And ruin the border gay: In storm let this gray noon wane, Let there be rain! O God, let there be rain Till the rivers rise a-main! Though the waters go over us quite And cover us up from the light And whelm us away in the night And the flowers of our life be slain, O God, let there be rain! O God, let there be rain, Out of the gray sky, rain! To wash the earth and to wash the sky And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh In the gray of a sordid satiety. Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High, And some day send us the sun again. O God, let there be rain! Squalid street after squalid street, Endless rows of them, each the same, Black dust under your weary feet, Dust upon every face you meet, Dust in their hearts, too,--or so it seems-- Dust in the place of dreams. Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives, Here men hardly have heard her name. Work is the end and aim of their lives-- Work, work, work! for their children and wives; Work for a life which, when it is won, Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun! Work--one dark and incessant round In black dull workshops, out of the light; Work that others' ease may abound, Work that delight for them may be found, Work without hope, without pause, without peace, That only in death can cease. Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, What of these men, at work in the night? God will ask you what you have done; Their lives be required of you--every one-- Ye, who were glad and who liked life well, While they did your work--in hell! In all my work, in all the children's play, I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear Its never-ending wail, by night and day. So many millions--is it vain to pray That all may win such peace as I have here, With books, and work, and little children dear?-- That flowers like mine may grow along their way? Through all my happy life I hear the cry, The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by. I can do nothing--even hope is vain That the bright light of peace and purity In those lost souls may ever shine again! 'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood: "Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good. Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!" I left the mill, the meadows and the trees, And came to do the little best I could For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would I had a thousand lives to give for these! What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong? Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay? The foe is mighty, and the battle long (And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May), And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong; But, while these fight, I dare not turn away. Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! One's heart and one's eyes on fire, And never a spark in one's brain. The stupid paper and ink, That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused Since one's brain refused To do its tricks--as of old. One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more. There's no fire in the grate, No food on the plate, And the East-wind shrieks through the door. The sunshine grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat; And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line! Molly, my pet--don't cry, Father can't write if you do-- And anyhow, if you only knew, It's hard enough as it is. There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the floor; We'll have some dinner by-and-by. Now, fool, try! Try once more! Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear! The children are starving--your little ones-- While you sit fooling there. Beth, with her golden hair; Moll, with her rough, brown head-- Here they are--see! Against your knee, Waiting there to be fed!-- I cannot bear their eyes. Their soft little kisses burn-- They will cry again In vain, in vain, For the food that I cannot earn. If I could only write Just a dozen pages or so The printers are waiting for copy now, I've had my next week's screw, There'll be nothing more till I've written something, Oh, God! what am I to do? If I could only write! The paper glares up white Like the cursed white of the heavy stone Under which _she_ lies alone; And the ink is black like death, And the room and the window are black. Molly, Molly--the sun's gone out, Cannot you fetch it back? Did I frighten my little ones? Never mind, daddy dropped asleep-- Cuddle down closely, creep Close to his knee And daddy will see If he can't do his writing. Vain! I shall never write again! Oh, God! was it like a love divine To make their lives hang on my pen When I cannot write a line? Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear, Thee shall no want or pain come near; Sleep softly on thy downy nest, Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast. Thy cradle is all silken lined, Wrought roses on thy curtains twined, Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread, With soft white pillows for thy head. Much gold those little hands shall hold, And wealth about thy life shall fold, And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife, Nor the low ills of common life. These little feet shall never tread Except on paths soft-carpeted, And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine To deck that darling head of thine. Thou shalt have overflowing measure Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure, And thou shalt be right charitable With all the crumbs that leave thy table. And thou shalt praise God every day For His good gifts that come thy way, And again thank Him, and again, That thou art not as other men. For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall-- 'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all; And when all's spent that life has given, Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven. Sleep, little baby, sleep, Though the wind is cruel and cold, And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in Is old and ragged and thin; And my hand is too frozen to hold-- Yet my bosom's still warm--so creep Close to thy mother, and sleep! Sleep, little baby, and rest, Though we wander alone through the night, And there is no food for me, No shelter for me and thee. Through the windows red fires shine bright, And tables show, heaped with the best-- But there's naught for us there--so rest. Sleep, you poor little thing! Just as pretty and dear As any fine lady's child. Oh, but my heart grows wild!-- Is it worth while to stay here? What good thing from life will spring For you--you poor little thing? Sleep, you poor little thing! Mine, my treasure, my own-- I clasp you, I hold you close, My darling, my bird, my rose! Rich mothers have hearts like stone, Or else some help they would bring To you--you poor little thing! Sleep, little baby, sleep-- If some good, rich mother would take My dear, I would kiss thee, and then Never come near thee again-- Not though my heart should break! I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake-- For the river is dark and deep, And gives sleep, little baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The greeny glow-worms creep, The pigeons to their cote are gone And, to their fold, the sheep. Rest, baby, rest! The sun sinks in the west, The daisies all have gone to sleep, The birds are in the nest. Sleep, baby, sleep! The sky grows dark and deep, The stars watch over all the world, God's angels guard thy sleep. Wake, baby dear! The good, glad morning's here; The dove is cooing soft and low, The lark sings loud and clear. Wake, baby, wake! Long since the day did break, The daisy buds are all uncurled, The sun laughs in the lake. Wake, baby dear! Thy mother's waiting near, And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun, And all things bright and dear. Sleep, my darling; mother will sing Soft low songs to her little king, Nobody else must listen or hear The pretty secrets I tell my dear. Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day, Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear, Soon enough will the day be here. Lie here quiet on mother's arm, Safe from harm; Nestled closely to mother's breast, Sleep and rest! Mother feels your breath's soft stir Close to her; Mother holds you, clasps you tight, All the night. When the little Jesus lay On the manger's hay, He was a Baby, if tales tell true, Just like you. And He had no crown to wear But His bright hair; And such kisses as I give you He had too. Mary never loved her Son More than I love my little one; And her Baby never smiled More divinely than my little child. Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear, All too soon will the day be here. You said that you would never wed: "My love, my life's one work lie here, 'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear, Where all life's flower-petals are shed!" You said. I heard: I bowed to what I heard; I bowed my head and worshipped you-- So brave, so beautiful, so true-- How could I doubt a single word I heard? My sweet, white lily! All the street, As you passed by, grew clean again; The fallen, blackened souls of men Looked heavenward when men heard your feet, My sweet. But one came, dared to woo, and won-- He heard your vows, and laughed at them; He plucked my lily from its stem-- Sacred to all men under sun, But one! Ah me, how hot and weary here in town The days crawl by! How otherwise they go my heart records, Where the marsh meadows lie And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail Between the lovely earth and lovely sky. Here the sun grins along the dusty street Beneath pale skies: Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet, Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries-- Through these I hear the song that the sea sings To the far meadowlands of Paradise. O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn-- O long sweet days-- With sedge and water mace-- O fair marsh land desirable and dear-- How far from you lie my life's weary ways! Yet in my darkest night there shines a star More fair than day; There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white In the sad city way. That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam, That star shines only when the skies are gray. For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane Before the light Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life, And turn to noon our night: We fight for freedom and the souls of men-- Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight! A little room with scanty grace Of drapery or ordered ease; White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,-- But there's a hum of summer bees, The sun sends through the quiet place The scent that honeysuckle hoards. Outside, the little garden glows With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright; Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood Where trail the briony and wild rose, And where grow blossoms of delight In an inviolate solitude. Through that green world there blows an air That cools my forehead even here In this sad city's riotous roar-- And from that room my ears can hear Tears and the echo of a prayer, And the world's voice is heard no more. Across the grim, gray, northern sea The Danish warships went, Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men On blood and plunder bent; And they landed on a smiling land-- The garden-land of Kent. They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn, They set the ricks aflame; They slew the men with axe and sword, They slew the maids with shame; Until, to Canterbury town, Made mad with blood, they came. Archbishop Alphege walked the wall And looked down on the foe. "Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored, "While yet a man may go!" "Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried, "To shame your bishop so! "What, would you have the shepherd flee, Like any hireling knave? What, leave my church, my poor--God's poor, To a dark and prayerless grave? No! by the body of my Lord, _My_ skin I will not save!" And when men heard his true, strong word, They bore them as men should. For twenty nights and twenty days The foemen they withstood, And, day and night, shone tapers bright, And incense veiled the rood. The warriors manned the walls without, The monks prayed on within, Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer And valour fared to win, Whispered a traitor, who stole out And let the foemen in. Then through the quiet church there ran A sudden breath of fear; The monks made haste to bar the door, And hide the golden gear; And to their lord once more they cried, "Hide, hide! the foe is here!" Through all the church's windows showed The sudden laugh of flame; Along the street went trampling feet, And through the smoke there came The voice of women, calling shrill Upon the Saviour's name. And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried, "Nor meet such foes as these!" "Be still," he said, "hide if ye will, Live on, and take your ease! By my Lord's death, _my_ latest breath, Like His, shall speak of peace!" He strode along the dusky aisle, And flung the church doors wide; Bright armour shone, and blazing homes Lit up the world outside, And in the streets reeled to and fro A bloody human tide. The mailed barbarians laughed aloud To see the brave blood flow; They trampled on the breast and hair Of girls their swords laid low, And on the points of reeking spears Tossed babies to and fro. Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed Against the dark red tide. "Forbear, your cup of guilt is full! Your sins are red," he cried; "Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom The King of Heaven died!" Drunken with blood and lust of fight, Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane. "Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep Before thy foolish fane! Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep, That thou mayst know their pain!" He stood, and saw his monks all slain; The altar steps ran red; In horrid heaps men lay about, The dying with the dead; And the east brightened, and the sky Grew rosy overhead. Then from the church a tiny puff Of smoke rose 'gainst the sky, Out broke the fire, and flame on flame Leaped palely out on high, Till but the church's walls were left For men to know it by. And when the sweet sun laughed again O'er fields and furrows brown, The brave archbishop hid his eyes, Until the tears dropped down On the charred blackness of the wreck Of Canterbury town. "Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word Unto thy timid sheep, And bid them greaten up their hearts, And to our feet dare creep, And bring a ransom here which we, Instead of thee, may keep!" Archbishop Alphege stood alone, Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed; Loaded with chains, with aching heart, And wounded in the side; And in his hour of utmost pain Thus to the Dane replied: "Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow Before this thing shall be; If I be held till ransom come, I never shall be free; For by God's heart, God's poor shall never Be robbed to ransom me!" They flung him in a dungeon dark, They heaped on him fresh chains, They promised him unnumbered ills And unimagined pains; But still he said, "No English shall Be taxed to profit Danes!" Six months passed by; no ransom came; Their threats had almost ceased, When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve, A great and brutal feast; And they sent and dragged the Christian man Before the pagan beast. Down the great hall, from east to west, The long rough tables ran; They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer, And then the drink began-- At last in all that mighty hall Was not one sober man. 'Twas then they brought the bishop forth Before the drunken throng; And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried, "You are weak, and we are strong, Or, by the hand of Thor, you die-- We have borne with you too long!" The savage faces of the Danes Leered redly all around; The bones of beasts and empty cups Lay heaped upon the ground, And 'mid the crowd of howling wolves The Christian saint stood bound. He looked in Thorkill's angry eyes And knew what thing should be, Then spake: "By God, who died to save The poor, and me, and thee, Thou art not strong enough--God's poor Shall not be taxed for me!" "Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round The rising tumult ran. "I give my life, I give God's word, I give what gifts I can! Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves? Find you some other man!" And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose With one fierce shout and yell; They flung at him the bones of beasts, They aimed right strong and well. "O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!" The bishop cried--and fell. And so men call him "Saint," yet some Deemed this an unearned crown, Since 'twas not for the Church or faith He laid his brave life down; But otherwise men deemed of it In Canterbury town. "Not for the Church he died," they said, "Yet he our saint shall be, Since for Christ's poor he gave his life, So for Christ's self died he. 'Who does it to the least of these, Has done it unto Me!'" It was about the time of day When all the lawns with dew are wet; I wandered down a steep wood-way, And there I met with Margaret-- Her hands were full of boughs of may. It was the merest chance we met: I could not find a word to say, And she was silent too--and yet For hand and lips I dared to pray-- And Margaret did not say me nay. Still on my lips her kisses stay, Her eyes are like the violet; Will time take this joy, too, away, And ever teach me to forget-- And to forget without regret-- The dawn, the woods, and Margaret? They talk of money and of fame, Would make a fortune or a name, And gold and laurel both must be For ever out of reach of me. And if I asked of God or fate The gift most gracious and most great, It would not be such gifts as these That I should pray for on my knees. No, I should ask a greater grace-- A little, quiet, firelit place, Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she Should hold my baby on her knee. There she should sit and softly sing The songs my heart hears echoing; And I, made pure by joy, should come Not all unworthy to our home. But if I dared to ask this grace, Would not God laugh out in my face? Since gold and fame indeed are His To give, but, ah! not this, not this! When autumn winds the river grieve, And autumn mists about it creep, The river maids all shivering leave The stream, and singing, sink to sleep. The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow Alike are impotent to break The spell of sleep that laid them low-- The lovely ladies will not wake. But when the spring with lavish grace Strews blossom on the river's breast, Flowers fall upon each sleeping face And break the deep and dreamless rest. Then with white arms that gleam afar Through alders green and willows gray, They rise where sedge and iris are, And laugh beneath the blossomed May. They lie beside the river's edge, By fields with buttercups a-blaze; They whisper in the whispering sedge, They say the spell the cuckoo says. And when they hear the nightingale And see the blossomed hawthorn tree, What time the orchard pink grows pale-- The river maidens beckon me. Through all the city's smoke appear White arms and golden hair a-gleam, And through the noise of life I hear "Come back--to the enchanted stream. "Come back to water, wood and weir! See what the summer has to show! Come back, come back--we too are here." I hear them calling, and I go. But when once more my dripping oar Makes music on the dreaming air, I vainly look to stream and shore For those white arms that lured me there. I listen to the singing weir, I hold my breath where thrushes are, But I can never, never hear The voice that called me from afar. Only when spring grows fair next year, Even where sin and cities be, I know what voices I shall hear, And what white arms will beckon me. In summer evening, love, We glide by grassy meadows, Red sun is shining, Day is declining, Peace is around, above. The poplar folds on high Dark wings against the sky; Through dreaming shadows On we move, And seaward still we row, By sedge and bulrush sliding, Breezes are sending Ripples unending Above the poplar tree The moon sails white and free, The boat goes gliding Swift or slow, But ever towards the sea. Dip, drip, in and out The rhythmic oars move slowly, Mist-kissed, round about The pale sky reddens wholly; Chill, still, through waxing light Mystical and tender, Morn, born of starlit night, Clothes herself with splendour. Rose-glows in eastern sky, In the north faint flushes; Boat, float idly by Past the sedge and rushes! Here, near the willow screen River-gods bathe gaily; White, bright against the green, Poets see them daily. See, we, we alone Greet this fresh sun-waking, Too few, who hail day done, See it in the making! Sad, glad, we two see Dawn the earth adorning, Sigh: "Why can no noon be Worth so gold a morning?" It was beside a wide, white weir, Where the foam dances in the sun, The butterflies are fair this year, And o'er the weir there hovered one-- A far-off cottage curled its smoke Against a blue and perfect sky; There love triumphant laughed and woke, And we were silent--you and I. Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands, And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright, Then fell the careful cobweb bands With which our will had bound his might; His royal presence made us still, Our will was water, matched with his; Like water-spray he broke our will And joined our lips in our first kiss. Look out! The stars are shining, The dew makes gray the meadow! The jasmine stars are twining About your window bright; The glow-worms green are creeping On lawns all dressed in shadow, The roses all are sleeping-- Good-night, my heart, good-night! The nightingale is singing Her song of ceaseless sorrow, The night's slow feet pass, bringing The day when I rejoice; Beloved beyond measure, Our bridal is to-morrow-- Oh, thrill the night with pleasure! Oh, let me hear thy voice! From cloudy confines sliding, The moon sails white and splendid; No roses now are hiding The glory of their grace; So, if my song thou hearest-- For thee begun and ended-- Light up the night, my dearest, And let me see thy face! O gleaming, gliding river, Where ash and alder lean, Where sighing sedges shiver By willows gray and green; Upon thy shifting shadows The yellow lily lies, And all along thy meadows Grow flowers of Paradise. The red-roofed village sleeping, Soft sounds of farm and fold, The dappled shadows creeping, The sunset's rose and gold, Twilight of mist and glamour, Noontide of sunlit ease, How, 'mid life's sordid clamour, Our hearts will long for these! Yet, since at heart we treasure These weirs and woods and fields, This crown of lovely leisure Which Kentish country yields-- These, these are ours for ever, Though dream-sweet days be done; Through all our dreams our river Will evermore flow on. When all is over, lay me down Far from this dull and jaded town, Not in a churchyard's ordered bound, But in some wide green meadow-ground. No stone upon me! Above all Let no cold railing's shadows fall Across my rest. Dead, let me be What no one may be living--free. Let no one mourning garments wear, And if you love me, shed no tear; Don't weight me with a clay-built heap, But plant the daisies where I sleep. There is a certain field I know, I met my dear there, years ago; Perhaps, if you should speak them fair, They'd let you lay her lover there. Laid there, perhaps my ears would hear The ceaseless singing of the weir, The soft wind sighing thro' the grass, And hear the little children pass. Or, if my ears were stopped with clay From all sweet sounds of night and day, I should at least (so lay me there) Sleep better there than anywhere! There is none anywhere So beautiful as she nor half so dear; My heart sings ever when she draweth near, Because she is so good and sweet and fair. I may not be the one To break the cloistered stillness of her life, To teach her passion and love and grief and strife, And lead her through the garden of the sun. For I am sad and wise; I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies--none; Yet she has taught me that I am alone, And what men mean who talk of Paradise. But, when her joybells ring, I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sigh And wish the roses did not have to die, And that the birds might never cease to sing. Among his books he sits all day To think and read and write; He does not smell the new-mown hay, The roses red and white. I walk among them all alone, His silly, stupid wife; The world seems tasteless, dead and done-- An empty thing is life. At night his window casts a square Of light upon the lawn; I sometimes walk and watch it there Until the chill of dawn. I have no brain to understand The books he loves to read; I only have a heart and hand He does not seem to need. He calls me "Child"--lays on my hair Thin fingers, cold and mild; Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer, I wish I were a child! And no one sees and no one knows (He least would know or see) That ere Love gathers next year's rose Death will have gathered me; And on my grave will bindweed pink And round-faced daisies grow; _He_ still will read and write and think, And never, never know! It's lonely in my study here alone Now you are gone; I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers, While, hours on hours, I studied--toiled to weave a crown of fame About your name. I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring; To hear you sing About the house while I sat reading here, My child, my dear; To know you glad with all the life-joys fair I dared not share. I thought there would be time enough to show My love, to throw Some day with crowns of laurel at your feet Love's roses sweet; I thought I could taste love when fame was won-- Now both are done! Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to miss The passionate kiss Which I dared never give, lest love should rise Mighty, unwise, And bind me, with my life-work incomplete, Beside your feet. You never knew, you lived and were content; My one chance went; You died, my little one, and are at rest-- And I, unblest, Look at these broken fragments of my life, My child, my wife. The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep, Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air, Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere. No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering, But in her garden--risen from Summer's tomb To bear the gospel of eternal Spring-- The Christmas roses bloom. O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain, Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways-- Ah that such dreams should always be in vain! We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour, Too chill to let the redder roses blow, We, too, had our delicious hidden flower That blossomed in life's snow. O heart, if we again might hope to be Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white! If dreams and deeds might but be one to me, And one to thee be duty and delight! If that may ever be, one hand we know Must beckon us along the way she goes, The hand of her--as pure as any snow, And sweet as any rose. I passed beneath the stately Norman portal, I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod, I passed between the pillars tall and slender, That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God. The coloured glory of the pictured windows Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden, The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine. The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices, The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten-- And all the soul of all the past was there. But in my heart as there I kneeled before her, Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew-- They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence; The incense of my soul was burned for you. For you, for you were all the tapers lighted, For you the flowers were on the altar laid, For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancel To the clerestory's mysteries of shade. To you the anthems of a thousand churches Rose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear; To you--through all these leagues of deathly distance, To you--as unattainable as dear. Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom, Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew, Pure as the love which only you could waken, Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you! When God some day shall call my name And scorch me with a blaze of shame, Bringing to light my inmost thought And all the evil I have wrought, Tearing away the veils I wove To hide my foulness from my love, And leaving my transgressions bare To the whole heaven's clear, cold air-- When all the angels weep to see The branded, outcast soul of me, One saint at least will hide her face-- She will not look at my disgrace. "At least, O God, O God Most High, He loved me truly!" she will cry, And God will pause before He send My soul to find its fitting end. Then, lest heaven's light should leave her face To think one loved her and was base, I will speak out at judgment day-- "I never loved her!" I will say. Light of my life! though far away, My sun, you shine, Your radiance warms me every day Like fire or wine. Life of my heart! in every beat This sad heart gives, It owns your sovereignty complete, By which it lives. Heart of my soul! serene and strong, Eyes of my sight! Together we can do no wrong, Apart, no right. Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill, Where the wild plovers scream against the sky; Down in the valley everything is still-- We also will be silent, you and I. Come down, and hold my hand as we go down. A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar; The lights come out down in the little town, 'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star. Did my heart forge the bitter words I said? Did your heart breed those bitterer replies-- Spoken with plovers wheeling overhead In the gray pallor of the cheerless skies? Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid, Life being so little and love so great a thing? The price of all life's follies has been paid When we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling. Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and pass Where the sharp needles of the pines are shed. Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass; Tread softly over these forgotten dead. We are alive, and here--O love! O wife! While life is ours, and we are yours and mine, How dare we crush the blossom of our life? How dare we spill love's sacramental wine? Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now, And life is all too short for love, my dear. When one of us beneath these flowers lies low, The other will remember we kissed here. Some one some day will come here all alone And look out on the desolated years, With bitter tears of longing for the one Who will not then be here to dry the tears! There's a little house by an orchard side Where the Spring wears pink and white; There's a garden with pansies and London pride, And a bush of lad's delight. Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen As trim as a garden can be, And the grass of the orchard is much more green Than most of the grass you see. There used to be always a mother's smile And a father's face at the door, When one clambered over the orchard stile, So glad to be home once more. But now I never go by that way, For when I was there of late, A stranger was cutting the orchard hay, And a stranger leaned on the gate. The wheel goes round--the wheel goes round With drip and whir and plash, It keeps all green the grassy ground, The alder, beech and ash. The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool, Forget-me-nots are found Blue in the shadow by the pool-- And still the wheel goes round. Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel, The foam is white like cream, The merry waters dance and reel Along the stony stream. The little garden of the mill, It is enchanted ground, I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still, And still the wheel goes round. The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, And life's wheel too must go-- But all their clamour has not drowned A voice I used to know. Her window's blank. The garden's bare As her chill new-made mound, But still my heart's delight is there, And still the wheel goes round. A red, red rose, all wet with dew, With leaves of green by red shot through, And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings Delicious memories of lost things, A red rose, sweet--yet sad as rue. 'Twas a red rose you gave me--you Whose gifts so sacred were, and few-- And that is why your lover sings A red, red rose. I sing--with lute untuned, untrue, And worse than other lovers do, Because perplexing memory stings-- Because from your green grave there springs, With your spilt life-blood coloured through, A red, red rose. I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear, I live in splendour and state; But I'd give it all to be young once more, And steal through the old low-lintelled door, To watch at the orchard gate. There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear, Fair blossoms, wondrous and new; But all the flowers that a hot-house grows I would give for the scent of a certain rose That a cottage garden grew! Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair, Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow-- I am tired of my bargain and tired of you! I would give you all for a daisy or two From a little grave I know. It's weary lying here, While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near, And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room, When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom-- So far away, so far! They say that I shall die-- And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by: Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent, "What be these messengers who come fleet-footed Between the images that guard our roadway, Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels-- Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?" "We come to crave the counsel of Apollo-- The men of Cyme he has counselled often-- Ask of the god an answer to our question, Ask of Apollo here in Branch[)i]dae. "Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian, Has sought in Cyme refuge and protection; The Persian bids us yield--our hearts bid shield him, What does Apollo bid his servants do?" The Oracle replied--and straight returning To Cyme ran the messengers fleet-footed, Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer: "Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will". So when the men of Cyme heard the answer, They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant, But Aristodicus, loved of the city, Withstood their will,--and thus to them spake he. "Your messengers have lied--they have made merry In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo; The god in Branch[)i]dae had never counselled That we should yield our suppliant to the foe. "Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing, Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer, _I_ would not yield the man who trusted Cyme-- What--is the god of baser stuff than I?" So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens, A second time to Branch[)i]dae they journeyed, A second time beneath the purple shadows Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane. Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cyme Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia-- And she demands him, but we dare not yield him, Until we know what thou wouldst have us do. "Our arm is weak against the power of Persia, The foe is strong, and our defences slender; Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates." So the Cymean spake. Apollo answered: "Yield ye your suppliant--yield him to the Persians". Then Aristodicus bethought him further, And in this fashion craftily he wrought. All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies Of carven work made by man's love and labour, In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded, The swallows and the sparrows built their nests. And all day long their floating wings made beauty About the temple and the whispering laurels, And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur, Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears. Now round the temple went the men of Cyme, Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows, And a wild wind went moaning through the branches. The sunlight died, and all the sky grew gray. Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide, And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened, And, in the heart of every man beholding, The anger of the immortal gods made night. Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple Came forth a voice more beautiful than music, More terrible than thunder and wild waters, And more to be desired than summer sun. "O thou most impious of all impious mortals, Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple, And torn away the homes of those who trust me, Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?" Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered: "Lord, is it thus _thy_ suppliants are succoured, What time thy Oracle bids men of Cyme To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?" Then on the hush of awful expectation Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals, Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodious With all the song and sorrow of the world:-- "Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning Against the gods ye may the sooner perish-- And come no more to question at my temple Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!" Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say? The crowd says it will make my name-- A name I'd gladly throw away For a certain unseen star's pure ray. I want success I've missed--not fame. You see the mother kneeling there, The child who cries for bread in vain. The hard straw bed, the window bare, The rags, the rat, the broken chair, The misery and cold and pain. But what you don't see--(never will!)-- Is what was there while yet I drew The lines--which are not drawn so ill, Put on the colours--worthy still Of praise from critics such as you. I used to paint all day, to pour My soul out as I painted--see There, to the life, the rotten floor, The rags, the damp, the broken door, For those your world will honour me. But, though if here my models were, You should not find a line drawn wrong, Yet there is food for my despair, But half my picture's finished fair; Words without music are not song. Sometimes I almost caught the tune, Then changing lights across the sky, Turned gray morn to red afternoon, I had to drop my brush too soon, Lay the transfigured _palette_ by. That woman did not kneel on there, When once my back was turned, I know, She used to leave the broken chair And show her face and its despair: Oh--if I could have seen her so! About her neck child-arms clung close, Close to her heart the child-heart crept, My room could tell you--if it chose. There was a picture, then--God knows! And I--who might have painted--slept. Then when birds bade the world prepare For dawn--ere yet the East grew wan, She stepped back to the canvas there, Wearing the look she will not wear When eyes like yours and mine look on. And when the mother kneeled once more, While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint, The child's white face the one look bore, Which to my eyes it never wore, Which I would give my soul to paint. Hung, as you see--upon the line-- But when I laid the varnish on And left my two--Fate laughed, malign, "Farewell to that last hope of thine, Thy chance of painting them is gone!" Larranagas! Thank you, thank you! Not a knife. I never use one-- I've the right thing on my watch-chain Which some fool or other gave me-- Takes the end off in a second-- Sharp as life bites off our pleasures. See! The soft wreath upward curling, Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows; Blue as skies in mild October; Vague, elusive as delight is. Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to When they're looked at by a dreamer! Waves that moan--cold, gray, and curling, On a shore where gray rocks break them; Skies where gray and blue are blended As our life blends joy and sorrow. Angel wings, and smoke of battles, Lines of beauty, curved perfection! Half-shut eyes see many marvels; Gazed at through one's half-closed lashes Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny-- Beckoning hands and warning fingers-- But the gray cloud always somehow Ends by looking like a woman. Like a woman tall and slender, Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight, Soft, and dreamy, and delicious. Through my half-shut eyes I see her-- Through my half-dead life am conscious Of her pure, perpetual presence. Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly Till they make a level landscape, Toneless, dull, and very rainy-- And an open grave--I saw it. Through the rain I heard the falling Of the tears the heart sheds inly. Oh, I saw it! I remember Leafless branches, dripping, dripping, Through a chill not born of Autumn. To that grave tends all my dreaming-- Oh, I saw it, I remember ... By that grave all dreaming ended! Oh! to be alone! To escape from the work, the play, The talking, everyday; To escape from all I have done, And all that remains to do. To escape, yes, even from you, My only love, and be Alone, and free. Could I only stand Between gray moor and gray sky Where the winds and the plovers cry, And no man is at hand. And feel the free wind blow On my rain-wet face, and know I am free--not yours--but my own. Free--and alone! For the soft fire-light And the home of your heart, my dear, They hurt--being always here. I want to stand up--upright And to cool my eyes in the air And to see how my back can bear Burdens--to try, to know, To learn, to grow! I am only you! I am yours--part of you--your wife! And I have no other life. I cannot think, cannot do, I cannot breathe, cannot see; There is "us," but there is not "me"-- And worst, at your kiss, I grow Above the rocks, above the waves Shines the strong light that warns and saves. So you, too high for storm or strife, Light up the shipwreck of my life. The lighthouse warns the wise, but these Not only sail the stormy seas; Towards the light the foolish steer And, drowning, read its meaning, dear. And, if the lamp by chance allure Some foolish ship to death, be sure The lamp will to itself protest: "His be the blame! I did my best!" Tired of work? Then drop away From the land of cheerful day! Pen the muse, and drive the pen If you'd stay with living men. Fancy fails? Then pluck from those Gardens where her blossom blows; Trim the buds and wire them well, And your bouquet's sure to sell. Write, write, write! Produce, produce! Write for sale, and not for use. This is a commercial age! Write! and fill your ledger page. If your soul should droop and die, Bury it with undimmed eye. Never mind what memory says-- Soul's a thing that never pays! Let me go! I cannot be All you think me, pure and true: They were trampled down by me. Horrid ghosts rise up between You and me; I dare not pass! What might be is dead; what was Is its poison, O my Queen! I should wither up your life, Blacken, blight its maiden flower; You would live to curse the hour When you made yourself my wife. Yet, your hand held out, your eyes Pleading, longing, brimmed with tears ... I have lived in hell for years: Do not show me Paradise. Lest I answer: "Take me, then! Take me, save me if you can, Worse than any other man, Loving more than other men." The castle had been held in siege, While thrice three weeks went past, And still the foe no vantage gained And still our men stood fast. We held the castle for our king Against our foes and his; Stout was our heart, as man's must be In such brave cause as this. But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall, And oh! his heart was sore, For the foe held fast the only son His dead wife ever bore. The castle gates were firm and fast, Strong was the castle wall, Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heart For the thing that might befal. He looked out to the pearly east, Ere day began to break: "God save my boy till evensong," He said, "for Mary's sake!" He looked out on the western sky When the sun sank, blood-red: "God keep my son till morning light For His son's sake," he said. And morn and eve, and noon and night, His heart one prayer did make: "God keep my boy, my little one, For his dear dead mother's sake!" At last, worn out with bootless siege-- Our walls being tall and stout-- The rebel captain neared our gates With a flag of truce held out. "A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you, Ere yet it be too late; We have a prisoner and would know What is to be his fate. "Yield up your castle, or he dies! 'Tis thus the bargain stands: His body in our hands we hold, His life is in your hands!" Sir Hugh looked down across the moat And, in the sunlight fair, He saw the child's blue, frightened eyes And tangled golden hair. He saw the little arms held out; The little voice rang thin: "O father dear, undo the gates! O father--let me in!" Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements; His voice rang strong and true: "My son--I cannot let thee in, As my heart bids me do; "If I should open and let thee in, I let in, with thee, shame: And that thing never shall be done By one who bears our name! "For honour and our king command And we must needs obey; So bear thee as a brave man's son, As I will do this day." The boy looked up, his shoulders squared, Threw back his bright blond hair: "Father, I will not be the one To shame the name we bear. "And, whatsoever they may do, Whether I live or die, I'll bear me as a brave man's son, For that, thank God, am I!" Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe, He spake full fierce and free: "Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affair With cowards such as ye be? "What? I must yield my castle up, Or else my son be slain? I trow ye never had to do Till now with honest men! "'Tis but by traitors such as you That such foul deeds be done; Not to betray his king and cause Did I beget my son! "My son was bred to wield the sword And hew down knaves like you, Or, at the least, die like a man, As he this day shall do! "And, since ye lack a weapon meet To take so good a life (For your coward steel would stain his blood), Here--take his father's knife!" With that he flung the long knife down From off the castle wall, It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight, Full in the sight of all. Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair, We held our breath in awe ... May my tongue wither ere it tell The damned work we saw! When all was done, a shout went up From that accursed crew, And from the chapel's silence dim Came forth in haste Sir Hugh. "And what may mean this clamour and din?" "Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!" "I deemed the foe had entered in, But God is good!" he said. We stood upon the topmost tower, Full in the setting sun; Shamed silence grew in the traitor's camp Now that foul deed was done. See! on the hills the gleam of steel, Hark! threatening clarions ring, See! horse and foot and spear and shield And the banner of the king! And in the camp of those without, Hot tumult and cold fear, For the traitor only dares be brave, Until his king be near! We armed at speed, we sallied forth, Sir Hugh was at our head; He set his teeth and he marked his path By a line of traitors, dead. He hacked his way straight to the churl Who did the boy to death, He swung his sword in his two strong hands And clove him to the teeth. And while the blade was held in the bone, The caitiffs round him pressed, And he died, as one of his line should die, With three blades in his breast. And when they told the king these things, He turned his head away, And said: "A braver man than I Has fallen for me this day!" The Spring's in the air-- Here, there, Though there's scarce a green tip to a bud, Spring laughs over hill and plain, As the sunlight turns the lane's mud To a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other; And longings one cannot smother, And delight that sings through the brain, Turn all one's life into glory-- 'Tis the old new ravishing story-- The Spring's here again! When the leaves grew red And dead, We said: "See how much more fair Than the green leaves shimmering Are the mists and the tints of decay!" In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November, Did our hearts not remember The green woods--and linnets that sing? Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended 'Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended; Who calls the Autumn season drear? It was in Autumn that we met, When under foot dead leaves lay wet In the black London gardens, dear. The fog was yellow everywhere, And very thick in Finsbury Square, Where in those days we used to meet. I used to buy you violets sweet From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street. 'Twas Autumn then--can we forget?-- When first we met. Who says that Spring is dear and fair? It is in Spring-time that we part, And weary heart from weary heart Turns, as the birds begin to pair. The sun shines on the golden dome, The primroses in baskets come, With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer The town with dreams of the crowned year. We're both polite and insincere: Though neither says it, yet--at heart-- We mean to part. Oh, I'm weary of the town, Where life's too hard for smiling--and the dreary houses frown, And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats Upon the miles of dusty roofs--the dreary squares and streets; Our little church is gray, It stands upon a hill-side--you can see it miles away, The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor. I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door, When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,-- Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays. There are elm trees all around Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound, And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar, And you hear the low of cattle--where the red farm buildings are; And forget the cruel city--on this first blue day of June! The grass is high--I know; And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow; But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day-- It would only be to count my dead--whom God has taken away. That graveyard where the daisies grow--not yet my heart can bear To pass that way--but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there! The night hardly covers the face of the sky, But the darkness is drawn Like a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July, A veil rent at dawn, When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver, And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river, And the light in the east keener grows--clearer grows, Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose, And o'er the hill's shoulder--the night wholly past-- The sun peeps at last! Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song, That soothes like a sleep; And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along, Where the downs slope up steep. There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven, Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven, And the old earth looks new--and our hearts seem new-born, And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn-- And hope and brave purpose awaken anew 'Mid the sunshine and dew. Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by Across the gold sun and blue sky, Which still are there eternally. Above the sodden garden-bed Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead, Where the tall lily bent its head Over carnations white and red. The leafless poplars, straight and tall, Stand by the gray-green garden wall, From which such rare fruit used to fall. In the verandah, where of old Sweet August spent the roses' gold, Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold. And we, by cosy fireside, muse On what the Fates grant, what refuse; And what we waste and what we use. Summer returns--despite the rain That weeps against the window-pane. Who'd weep--'mid fame and golden gain-- For youth, that does not come again? Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud; Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things-- Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings. Thousands of pigeons all the year Fly in and out of the arches here. What prisoned hands have torn at the stone Where your soft hand lies--oh my heart!--alone? What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears To see what we see after all these years-- The free, broad river go smoothly by And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky? And now--O Time, how you work your will! --The pitiless walls are standing still, But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge, And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge, And where once the imprisoned heart beat low, The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro! In the sad, stern arches they build and pair, As happy as dreams and as free as air, And sorrow and longing and life-long pain Man brings not into these walls again; And yet--O my love, with the face of flowers-- What do we bring in these hearts of ours? "And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church was, and how long it was since any music but that of the moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria'--it was Gounod's music, I think--with her voice and her face like an angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely as before."--_Extract from our Diary._ The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds That greenly cover all the waterways, Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days, Through grasses, water-mint and rushes green And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays. From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down, Unscared to see my boat and me go by; The elm trees showed their dress of golden brown To winds that should disrobe them presently; And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold, And the still water caught the lavished gold, The primrose and the purple of the sky. The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around; The iris nodded at the water's edge, Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound; With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light, Leaving my solitude the more profound. We moved towards the church, my boat and I-- The church that at the marsh edge stands alone; It caught the reflex of the sunset sky On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone. Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood In the thronged graveyard's infinite solitude, While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone. From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves But just a step, across a lichened wall. Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh grass waves, And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall, And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red Over still hearts that once in torment fed At Life's intolerable festival. The plaster of the porch has fallen away From the lean stones, that now are all awry, Creeps in--sad emblem of fidelity-- And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams Hewn long ago--with, ah! what faith and dreams!-- By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by. The rusty key, the heavy rotten door, The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green With mould and damp, the desecrated floor With bricks and boards where tombstones should have been And were once; all the musty, dreary chill-- They strike a shudder through my being still When memory lights again that lightless scene. And where the altar stood, and where the Christ Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood Law-tables, as if love had not sufficed To all the world has ever known of good! Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine; There was no human heart and no divine, No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood. There was no scent of incense in the air, No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle, The white glass windows turned to mocking glare The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile. A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep All that a man might give his life to keep If only for an instant's breathing while! Cold with my rage against the men who held At such cheap rate the labours of the dead, My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled A sadness that would not be comforted; An awe came on me, and I seemed to face The invisible spirit of the dreary place, To hear the unheard voice of it, which said:-- "Is love, then, dead upon earth? Ah! who shall tell or be told What my walls were once worth When men worked for love, not for gold? Each stone was made to hold A heartful of love and faith; Now love and faith are dead, Dead are the prayers that are said, Nothing is living but Death! "Oh for the old glad days, Incense thick in the air, Passion of thanks and of praise, Passion of trust and of prayer! Ah! the old days were fair, Love on the earth was then, Strong were men's souls, and brave: Those men lie in the grave, They will live not again! "Then all my arches rang With music glorious and sweet, Men's souls burned as they sang, Tears fell down at their feet, Hearts with the Christ-heart beat, Hands in men's hands held fast; Union and brotherhood were! Ah! the old days were fair, Therefore the old days passed. "Then, when later there came Hatred, anger and strife, The sword blood-red and the flame And the stake and contempt of life, Husband severed from wife, Hearts with the Christ-heart bled: Through the worst of the fight Still the old fire burned bright, Still the old faith was not dead. "Though they tore my Christ from the cross, And mocked at the Mother of Grace, And broke my windows across, Defiling the holy place-- Children of death and disgrace! They spat on the altar stone, They tore down and trampled the rood, Stained my pillars with blood, Left me lifeless, alone-- "Yet, when my walls were left Robbed of all beauty and bare, Still God cancelled the theft, The soul of the thing was there. In my damp, unwindowed air Fugitives stopped to pray, And their prayers were splendid to hear, Like the sound of a storm that is near-- And love was not dead that day. "Then the birds of the air built nests In these empty shadows of mine, And the warmth of their brooding breasts Still warmed the untended shrine. His creatures are all divine; He is praised by the woodland throng, And my old walls echoed and heard The passionate praising word, And love still lived in their song. "Then came the Protestant crew And made me the thing you have known-- Whitewashed and plastered me new, Covered my marble and stone-- Could they not leave me alone? Vain was the cry, for they trod Over my tombs, and I saw Set in the place of my God. "And love is dead, so it seems! Shall I never hear again The music of heaven and of dreams, Songs of ideals of men? Great dreams and songs we had then, Now I but hear from the wood Cry of a bat or a bird. Oh for love's passionate word Sent from men's hearts to the Good! "Sometimes men come, and they sing, But I know not their song nor their voice; They have no hearts they can bring, They have no souls to rejoice, Theirs is but folly and noise. Oh for a voice that could sing Songs to the Queen of the blest, The church was full of silence. I shut in Its loss and loneliness, and went my way. Its sadness was not less its walls within Because I wore it in my heart that day, And many a day since, when I see again Marsh sunsets, and across the golden plain The church's golden roof and arches gray. Along wet roads, all shining with late rain, And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere, I came one day towards the church again. It was the spring-time of the day and year; The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloud That, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowed Sun and blue sky to smile and disappear. The sky behind the old gray church was gray-- Gray as my memories, and gray as I; The forlorn graves each side the grassy way Called to me "Brother!" as I passed them by. The door was open. "I shall feel again," I thought, "that inextinguishable pain Of longing loss and hopeless memory." When--O electric flash of ecstasy! No spirit's moan of pain fell on my ear-- A human voice, an angel's melody, God let me in that perfect moment hear. Oh, the sweet rush of gladness and delight, Of human striving to the heavenly light, Of great ideals, permanent and dear! All the old dreams linked with the newer faith, All the old faith with higher dreams enwound, Surged through the very heart of loss and death In passionate waves of pure and perfect sound. The past came back: the Christ, the Mother-maid, The incense of the hearts that praised and prayed, The past's peace, and the future's faith profound. Gratia plena, Dominus tecum: In mulieribus, Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Ora pro nobis peccatoribus Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen._" And all the soul of all the past was here-- A human heart that loved the great and good, A heart to which the great ideals were dear, One that had heard and that had understood, As I had done, the church's desolate moan, And answered it as I had never done, And never willed to do and never could. I left the church, glad to the soul and strong, And passed along by fresh earth-scented ways; Safe in my heart the echo of that song Lived, as it will live with me all my days. The church will never lose that echo, nor Be quite as lonely ever any more; Nor will my soul, where too that echo stays. A little town that stands upon a hill, Against whose base the white waves once leaped high; Now spreading round it, even, green and still, The placid pastures of the marshes lie. The red-roofed houses and the gray church tower Bear half asleep the sunshine and the rain; They wait, so long have waited, for the hour When the wild, welcome sea shall come again. The lovely lights across the marshes pass, The patient beasts crop the long, cool, green grass, The willows shiver at the water's edge; But the town sleeps, it will not wake for these. The sea some day again will round it break, Will surge across these leagues of pastoral peace, And then the little town will laugh, and wake. "Why dost thou weep?" the mass priest said; "Fair dame, why dost thou weep?" "I weep because my lord is laid In an enchanted sleep. "It was upon our bridal day The bitter thing befel, My love and lord was lured away By an ill witch's spell. "She lured him to her hidden bower Among the cypress trees, And there she holdeth manhood's flower Asleep across her knees." "Pray to our Father for His aid, God knows ye need it sore." "O God of Heaven, have I not prayed? But I will pray no more. "God will not listen to my prayer, And never a Saint will hear, Else should I stand beside him there, Or he be with me here. "But there he sleeps--and I wake here And wet my bread with tears-- And still they say that God can hear, And still God never hears. "If I could learn a mighty spell, Would get my love awake, I'd sell my soul alive to hell, And learn it for his sake. "So say thy mass, and go thy way, And let my grief alone-- Teach thou the happy how to pray And leave the devil his own." Within the witch's secret bower Through changeful day and night, Hour after priceless golden hour, Lay the enchanted knight. The witch's arms about him lay, His face slept in her hair; The devil taught her the spell to say Because she was so fair. And all about the bower were flowers And gems and golden gear, And still she watched the slow-foot hours Because he was so dear. Watched in her tower among the trees For his long sleep to break; And still he lay across her knees And still he did not wake. What whisper stirs the curtain's fold? What foot comes up the stair? What hand draws back the cloth of gold And leaves the portal bare? The night wind sweeps through all the room, The tapers fleer and flare, And from the portal's outer gloom His true love enters there. "Give place, thou wicked witch, give place, For his true wife is here, Who for his sake has lost heaven's grace Because he was so dear. "My soul is lost and his is won; Thy spells his sleep did make, But I know thy spell, the only one Can get my lord awake." The witch looked up, her shining eyes Gleamed through her yellow hair-- (She was cast out of Paradise Because she was so fair). "Speak out the spell, thou loving wife, And what it beareth, bide, Go--bring thy lover back to life And give thy lord a bride." The wife's soul burned in every word As low she spoke the spell, Weeping in heaven, her angel heard, One, hearing, laughed in hell. And when the spell was spoken through, Sudden the knight awoke And turned his eyes upon the two-- And neither of them spoke. He did not see his pale-faced wife Whom sorrow had made wise, He only saw the light of life Burn in the witch's eyes. He only saw her bosom sweet, Her golden fleece of hair, And he fell down before her feet Because she was so fair. She stooped and raised him from the floor And held him in her arms; She said: "He would have waked no more For any of my charms. "You only could pronounce the spell Would set his spirit free; And you have sold your soul to hell And wakened him--for me! "I hold him now by my blue eyes And by my yellow hair, He never will miss Paradise, Because I am so fair." The wife looked back, looked back to see The golden-curtained place, Her lord's head on the witch's knee, Her gold hair on his face. "I would my soul once more were mine, Then God my prayer would hear And slay my soul in place of thine Because thou art so dear!" When you were tired and went away, I said, amid my new heart-ache: "When I catch breath from pain some day, I will teach grief a worthier way, And make a great song for his sake!" Yet there is silence. O my friend, You gave me love such years ago-- A child who could not comprehend Its worth, yet kept it to the end-- How can I sing when you lie low? Not always silence. O my dear, Not when the empty heart and hand Reach out for you, who are not near. If you could see, if you could hear, I think that you would understand. The grief that can get leave to run In channels smooth of tender song Wins solace mine has never won. I have left all my work undone, And only dragged my grief along. Many who loved you many years (Not more than I shall always do), Will breathe their songs in your dead ears; God help them if they weep such tears As I, who have no song for you. You would forgive me, if you knew! Silence is all I have to bring (Where tears are many, words are few); I have but tears to bring to you, For, since you died, I cannot sing! Your dainty Muse her form arrays In soft brocades of bygone days. She walks old gardens where the dews Gem sundials and trim-cut yews And tremble on the tulip's blaze. The magic scent her charm conveys Which lives on when the rose decays. She had her portrait done by Greuze-- Your dainty Muse! Mine's hardier--walks life's muddy ways Barefooted; preaches, sometimes prays, Is modern, is advanced, has views; Goes in for lectures, reads the news, And sends her homespun verse to praise Your dainty Muse! Dream and delight had passed away, Their springs dried by the dusty day, And sordid fetters bound me tight, Forged for poor song by money-might; I writhed, and could not get away. There might have been no flowering may In all the world--life looked so gray With dust of railways, choking quite Dream and delight. When, lo! your white book came my way, With scent of honey-buds and hay, Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright, The rose blood-red, the may moon-white. I owe you--would I could repay-- Dream and delight. There is a country far away from here-- A world of dreams--a fair enchanted land-- Where woods bewitched and fairy forests stand, And all the seasons rhyme through all the year. The greenest meadows, deepest skies, are there; There grows the rose of dreams, that never dies; And there men's heads and hands and hearts and eyes Are never, as here, too tired to find them fair. Thither, when life becomes too hard to bear, The poet and the painter steal away To watch those glories of the night and day Which here the days and nights so seldom wear. In that brave land I, too, have part and lot. Dim woods, lush meadows, little red-roofed towns, Walled flowery gardens, wide gray moors and downs; Sedge, meadow-sweet, and wet forget-me-not; The Norman church, with whispering elm trees round; A certain wood where earliest violets grow; One wide still marsh where hidden waters flow; The cottage porch with honey-buds enwound-- These are my portion of enchanted ground, To these the years add somewhat in their flight; Some wood or field, deep-dyed in heart's delight, Becomes my own--treasure to her who found. To my dream fields your art adds one field more, A field of red, red clover, blossoming, Where the sun shines, and where more skylarks sing Than ever in any field of mine before. Between the midnight and the morn When wake the weary heart and head, Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn Keep tryst about my sleepless bed. I hear their cold, thin voices say: "Your youth is dying; by-and-by All that makes up your life to-day, Withered by age, will shrink and die!" Will it be so? Will age slay all The dreams of love and hope and faith-- Put out the sun beyond recall, And lap us in a living death? Will hearts grown old forget their youth? And hands grown old give up the strife? Shall we accept as ordered truth The dismal anarchy of life? Better die now--at once be free Of hope and fear--renounce the whole: For of what worth would living be Should one--grown old--outlive one's soul? Yet see: through curtains closely drawn Creeps in the exorcising light; The sacred fingers of the dawn Put all my troop of ghosts to flight. And then I hear the brave Sun's voice, Though still the skies are gray and dim: "Old age comes never--Oh, rejoice-- Except to those who beckon him. "All that youth's dreams are nourished by, By that shall dreams in age be fed-- Thy noble dreams can never die Until thyself shall wish them dead!"

L. T. Meade

Turquoise and Ruby

1854

Ode on Lord Hay's Birthday The Battle of the Pigmies and Cranes, from the Epitaph; being part of an Inscription designed for a Monument erected by a Gentleman to the Memory of his Lady On the Report of a Monument to be erected in Westminster Abbey, to the Memory of a late Author Song, in Imitation of Shakspeare's 'Blow, Blow, thou winter wind' Epitaph on two young Men of the name of Leitch, who Epitaph intended for himself Verses written by Mr. Blacklock, on a blank leaf of his Poems, sent to the Author To the Rt. Hon. Lady Charlotte Gordon, dressed in a Tartan Scotch Bonnet, with Plumes Anacreon, Ode XXII. The beginning of the First Book of Lucretius Book III. Ode XIII. Epitaph for a Sheriff's Messenger, written and published at the particular desire of the Person for whom it is intended Shepherdess,' and other Poems in the broad Scotch Dialect "Heard you that Hermit's strain from Scotia borne, 'For virtue lost, and ruin'd man I mourn?' Who may forget thee, Beattie? who supply The tale half-told of Edwin's minstrelsy?" In 1749 he began his academical career, at the Marischal College, In 1760, a chair in the Marischal College becoming vacant, it was In 1761 Beattie made his first appearance in print, in his own character, by publishing a small volume, dedicated to the Earl of _The Judgment of Paris_, printed in 4to, in 1765, was the least successful of our author's poetical works. Several passages of considerable beauty could not prevent this elaborate, cold, and Marischal College of Aberdeen, 30th August, 1765. "If I thought it necessary to offer an apology for venturing to attachment to your character; but who is he that could not, with truth, urge the same excuse for intruding upon your retirement? I necessary, or otherwise I must despair of obtaining what has long all hopes of seeing you, and conversing with you. "It was yesterday I received the agreeable news of your being in agreeable days with him in Glammis, and found him as easy in his manners, and as communicative and frank, as I could have wished." "The favourable reception you gave to my little poem, demands my To Dr. Blacklock he again writes concerning _The Minstrel_: travelled into England, and supported themselves there by singing check his genius for poetry and adventures, by representing the happiness of obscurity and solitude, and the bad reception which dissatisfied with what I have written." During this year, a poem in broad Scotch, entitled _The Fortunate consistence with moderation, candour, and liberal inquiry. If I understand my own design, it is certainly this; whether I shall accomplish this design or not, the event only will determine. time some excellent antisceptical works made their appearance, different temper of mind. A very little truth will sometimes enlighten a vast extent of science. I found that the sceptical philosophy was not what the world imagined it to be, nor what I, extraordinary degree of vanity and presumption. You will easily perceive that I am speaking of this philosophy only in its most foresaw, what I have since found to happen, that this controversy logicians, than as a disquisition in which the best interests of mankind were concerned; and that the world, especially the extravagant compliments that pass between them, but also the considerably from that of the gentlemen just mentioned. They have destructive of genuine philosophy, as well as of religion and cannot possibly do any good, but may do, and actually have done, philosophers follow a different method of reasoning: and that, fortify the mind against the sceptical poison, and to propose "You are sensible, that, in order to attain these ends, it is absolutely necessary for me to use great plainness of speech. My expressions must not be so tame as to seem to imply either a should be proud to take for my model, if I were not aware of the word, I will be as soft and delicate as the subject and my animosity against any man whatsoever: sometimes I may perhaps be keen; but I trust I shall never depart from the Christian and philosophic character. "A scheme like this of mine cannot be popular, far less can it be Providence, and in the goodness of my cause, that my attempts in behalf of truth shall not be altogether ineffectual, and that my that I deliberated whether I should not throw my papers into the fire, with a _Si populus vult decipi, decipiatur_: but I rejected _duty_ to publish these papers, that I almost began to think so certainly tired you with so long a detail, about so trifling a opportunity of cultivating it." "From the questions your Ladyship is pleased to propose in the expressed approbation of his writings, and had even declared his important letters of introduction--one addressed to the Earl of popularity. To a new and improved edition in quarto, of the _Essay on Truth_, "Bolt Court, Fleet Street, 21st August, 1780. "More years than I have any delight to reckon have past since you busier, and more fertile of amusement than Aberdeen." His _Dissertations, Moral and Critical_, were published in 1783. "The stranger alluded to finished his studies in medicine in considerable time. Next morning I saw him again at prayers in his who attended her, made a slight courtesy, and stepped into the Beattie's pen. "Knowing with what kindness and condescension your grace takes an return, with the little ability that is left me, and with entire submission to the will of Providence, to the ordinary business of "He was taken ill in the night of the 30th of November, 1789; and "He has left many things in writing, serious and humorous, scientific and miscellaneous, prose and verse, Latin and English; For some time past he had occupied himself in the melancholy yet concerning whose adorable nature I gave him such information as I introduced it." apprehension; but it cut him off in five days. He himself thought approaching dissolution: he even gave some directions about his nothing could be heard but the words _incorruptible glory_. Pious attention that skilful and affectionate physicians could bestow. I give you the trouble to notify this event to Mr. Arbuthnot. I would have written to him, but have many things to mind, and but indifferent health. However, I heartily acquiesce in the "He will be much regretted; for wherever he went he was a very popular character." temporary hut almost utter loss of memory respecting him. Having searched every room in the house, he would say to his niece, Mrs. To Sir William Forbes he says, 17th of the same month: "I have been these many days resolving to write to you and Mr. Though I am of opinion with Gilbert Wakefield, that the maxim _De His fame now rests upon _The Minstrel_ alone. Since its first With the exception of _The Hermit_ and the following exquisite contemptible. original edition. Scottish melodies. intercourse. "O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven, O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!" "It has also been hinted to me, by several persons of very sound I am informed, by the incomparable actress in question, that the in testimony of the utmost respect, esteem, and gratitude, from J. Beattie. "Bard of the North! I thank thee with my tears For this fond work of thy paternal hand: It bids the buried youth before me stand In nature's softest light, which love endears. Parents like thee, whose grief the world reveres, Faithful to pure affection's proud command, For a lost child have lasting honours plann'd, To give in fame what fate denied in years. The filial form of Icarus was wrought By his afflicted sire, the sire of art! And Tullia's fane engross'd her father's heart: That fane rose only in perturbed thought; But sweet perfection crowns, as truth begun, This Christian image of thy happier son." FATHER HODGE had his pipe and his dram, And at night, his cloy'd thirst to awaken, He was served with a rasher of ham, Which procured him the surname of _Bacon_. He has shown that, though logical science And dry theory oft prove unhandy, Honest Truth will ne'er set at defiance Experiment, aided by brandy. Des Cartes bore a musket, they tell us, Ere he wished, or was able, to write, And was noted among the brave fellows, Who are bolder to tipple than fight. Of his system the cause and design We no more can be pos'd to explain:-- The _materia subtilis_ was wine, And the _vortices_ whirl'd in his brain. Old Hobbes, as his name plainly shows, At a _hob-nob_ was frequently tried: That all virtue from selfishness rose He believ'd, and all laughter from pride. The truth of his creed he would brag on, Smoke his pipe, murder Homer, and quaff, Then staring, as drunk as a dragon, In the pride of his heart he would laugh. Sir Isaac discover'd, it seems, The nature of colors and light, In remarking the tremulous beams That swom on his wandering sight. Ever sapient, sober though seldom, From experience _attraction_ he found, By observing, when no one upheld him, That his wise head fell souse on the ground. As to Berkley's philosophy--he has Left his poor pupils nought to inherit, But a swarm of deceitful ideas Kept like other monsters, in spirit. Tar-drinkers can't think what's the matter, That their health does not mend, but decline: Why, they take but some wine to their water, He took but some water to wine. One Mandeville once, or Man-devil, (Either name you may give as you please) By a brain ever brooding on evil, Hatch'd a monster call'd _Fable of Bees_, Vice, said he, aggrandizes a people; By this light let my conduct be view'd; I swagger, swear, guzzle, and tipple: And d---- ye, 'tis all for your good. David Hume ate a swinging great dinner, And grew every day fatter and fatter; And yet the huge hulk of a sinner Said there was neither spirit nor matter. Now there's no sober man in the nation, Who such nonsense could write, speak, or think: It follows, by fair demonstration, That he philosophiz'd in his drink. As a smuggler, even Priestley could sin; Who, in hopes the poor gauger of frightening, While he fill'd the case-bottles with gin, Swore he fill'd them with thunder and lightning. In his cups, (when Locke's laid on the shelf), Could he speak, he would frankly confess t' ye, That unable to manage himself, He puts his whole trust in Necessity. If the young in rash folly engage, How closely continues the evil! Old Franklin retains, as a sage, The thirst he acquired when a devil. That charging drives fire from a phial, It was natural for him to think, After finding, from many a trial, That drought may be kindled by drink. A certain high priest could explain, How the soul is but nerve at the most; And how Milton had glands in his brain, That secreted the Paradise Lost. And sure it is what they deserve, Of such theories if I aver it, They are not even dictates of nerve, But mere muddy suggestions of claret. Our Holland Philosophers say, Gin Is the true philosophical drink, As it made Doctor Hartley imagine That to _shake_ is the same as to _think_. For, while drunkenness throbb'd in his brain, The sturdy materialist chose (O fye!) To believe its vibrations not pain, But wisdom, and downright philosophy. Ye sages, who shine in my verse, On my labours with gratitude think, Which condemn not the faults they rehearse, But impute all your sin to your drink. In drink, poets, philosophers, mob, err; Then excuse if my satire e'er nips ye: When I praise, think me prudent and sober, If I blame, be assur'd I am tipsy. Roger Bacon, the father of experimental philosophy. He flourished in the thirteenth century. Hobbes was a great smoker, and wrote what some have been pleased to call a Translation of Homer. He taught that the external universe has no existence, but an ideal one, in the mind (or _spirit_) that perceives it; and he thought tar-water a universal remedy. Private vices public benefits. Electrical batteries. Bred a printer. This was written long before Dr. Franklin's death. Dr. L., Bp. of C., is probably the person here alluded to. He was a zealous materialist. He resolved Perception and Thinking into _vibrations_, and (what he called) _vibratiuncles_ of the brain. superior." Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine Waves o'er the gloomy stream: _Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose._ Some of the few now offered to the Public would perhaps have been respectable, but sacred. Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musae, Quarum sacra fero, ingenti perculsus amore, Accipiant.---- VIRG. Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar! Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war; Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! And yet the languor of inglorious days, Not equally oppressive is to all: Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise, The silence of neglect can ne'er appall. There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame; Supremely blest, if to their portion fall Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. The rolls of fame I will not now explore; Nor need I here describe, in learned lay, How forth the Minstrel far'd in days of yore, Right glad of heart, though homely in array; His waving locks and beard all hoary gray; While from his bending shoulder decent hung His harp, the sole companion of his way, Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide: The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms: They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, While warbling larks on russet pinions float; Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, Where the gray linnets carol from the hill: O let them ne'er, with artificial note, To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will! Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; Nor was perfection made for man below: Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd, Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow; If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire; Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse The imperial banquet, and the rich attire: Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined? No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign'd; Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind. Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, On the dull couch of Luxury to loll, Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen; Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, (The mansion then no more of joy serene), Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide, And impotent desire, and disappointed pride? O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven! These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy impart. But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart: For, ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart; Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme, The stern resolve unmov'd by pity's smart, The troublous day, and long distressful dream. Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purpos'd theme. There liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell, A shepherd swain, a man of low degree; Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady; But he, I ween, was of the north countrie; A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms; Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms; Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms. The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd; An honest heart was almost all his stock: His drink the living water from the rock; The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And he, tho' oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went. From labour health, from health contentment springs: Contentment opes the source of every joy. He envied not, he never thought of, kings; Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy: Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguil'd; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smil'd, And her alone he lov'd, and lov'd her from a child. No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; Each season look'd delightful, as it past, To the fond husband, and the faithful wife. Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life They never roam'd: secure beneath the storm Which in Ambition's lofty land is rife, Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. The wight, whose tale these artless lines unfold, Was all the offspring of this humble pair; His birth no oracle or seer foretold; No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare. You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth; The parent's transport, and the parent's care; The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer day of indolence and mirth. And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy, Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy: Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy; And now his look was most demurely sad; And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbours star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad: Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad. But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled; Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head, Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, releas'd the weary team. Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, To him nor vanity nor joy could bring. His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed To work the woe of any living thing, By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling; These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield: He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field; And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield. Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine: While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn: Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn, Where twilight loves to linger for a while; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, And villager abroad at early toil. But, lo! the Sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost. What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound! In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight: Nor less, than when on ocean wave serene The southern Sun diffus'd his dazzling shene. Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul: And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. "O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom!" (The Muse interprets thus his tender thought) "Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, Of late so grateful in the hour of drought! Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake? Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought? For now the storm howls mournful through the brake, And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake. "Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool, And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crown'd! Ah! see, th' unsightly slime and sluggish pool Have all the solitary vale imbrown'd; Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound, The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray: And, hark! the river, bursting every mound, Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away. "Yet such the destiny of all on Earth: So flourishes and fades majestic Man. Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan. O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan, Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime Nor lessen of his life the little span! Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time, Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime. "And be it so. Let those deplore their doom, Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn: But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return? Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed? Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn, And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. "Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive? Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live? Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain? No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive And man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign." This truth sublime his simple sire had taught. In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought, Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue. "Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his view, Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right, By pleasure unseduc'd, unaw'd by lawless might. "And, from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe, O never, never turn away thine ear! Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear! To others do (the law is not severe) What to thyself thou wishest to be done. Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear, And friends, and native land; nor those alone; All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own." See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower The visionary boy from shelter fly; For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky, And, lo! in the dark east, expanded high, The rainbow brightens to the setting Sun! Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh, How vain the chace thine ardour has begun! 'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run. Yet could'st thou learn, that thus it fares with age, When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm, This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, And disappointment of her sting disarm. But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm? Perish the lore that deadens young desire; Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm, Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire: Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire. When the long-sounding curfew from afar Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. There would he dream of graves, and corses pale; And ghosts that to the charnel dungeon throng, And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song, Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along. Or, when the setting Moon, in crimson dy'd, Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold; And forth an host of little warriors march, Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold, And green their helms, and green their silk attire; And here and there, right venerably old, The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance; The little warriors doff the targe and spear, And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along: with many-colour'd rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill, Fell chanticleer! who oft hast reft away My fancied good, and brought substantial ill! O to thy cursed scream, discordant still, Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear; Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear! Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune thy line. Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so. For how should he at wicked chance repine, Who feels from every change amusement flow! Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. O Nature, how in every charm supreme! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! O for the voice and fire of seraphim, To sing thy glories with devotion due! Blest be the day I 'scap'd the wrangling crew, From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty; And held high converse with the godlike few, Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth and love, and melody. Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain! Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime First gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign (Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,) With vengeance to pursue you sacrilegious crime. But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth! Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay, Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth. O let your spirit still my bosom soothe, Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide! Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, For well I know wherever ye reside, There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide. Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art. Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And halls, and knights, and feats of arms display'd; Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid; The moonlight revel of the fairy glade; Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood, And ply in caves th' unutterable trade, Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood. But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone. Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, The babes now famish'd lay them down to die; Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend nor stranger hears their dying cry; "For from the town the man returns no more." But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore, When death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store. A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, "But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy, And innocence thus die by doom severe?" O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere, Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel: Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel; Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well. Nor be thy generous indignation check'd, Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given; From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect, This soften and refine the soul for heaven. But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe. Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age, Scarce fill the circle of one summer day, Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage, Exclaim that nature hastens to decay, If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray, If but a momentary shower descend! Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, Which bade the series of events extend Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end! One part, one little part, we dimly scan Thro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem; Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. O then renounce that impious self-esteem, That aims to trace the secrets of the skies! For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years. For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for Truth, but never hit. For why? Their powers inadequate before, This idle art makes more and more unfit; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit. Nor was this ancient Dame a foe to mirth. Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth; Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice To purchase chat or laughter at the price Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed, That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. Ah! had they been of court or city breed, Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed. Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue: Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drew, Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day, Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, Along the trembling wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall, From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd, Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind. Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly, To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd! Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compar'd of heavenly melancholy! Is there a heart that music cannot melt? Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn; Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt Of solitude and melancholy born? He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn. The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; Song was his favourite and first pursuit. The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand, And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute. His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance as yet he took no care; For this of time and culture is the fruit; And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare: As in some future verse I purpose to declare. Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new, Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance, or search was offered to his view, He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry. At last, though long by penury control'd, And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold. Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms are bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. Here pause, my gothic lyre, a little while. The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. But on this verse if Montagu should smile, New strains ere long shall animate thy frame. And her applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords her taste refined. At lucre or renown let others aim, I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind. Brightness, splendour. The word is used by some late writers, as _Macbeth._ How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags? _Witches._ A deed without a name. See the fine old ballad, called The Children in the Wood. Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, Rectique cultus pectora roborant. HORAT. Of chance or change O let not man complain, Else shall he never never cease to wail: For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel th' assault of fortune's fickle gale; Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd; Earthquakes have rais'd to heaven the humble vale: And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd, And where th' Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd. But sure to foreign climes we need not range, Nor search the ancient records of our race, To learn the dire effects of time and change, Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace. Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face, Or hoary hair, I never will repine: But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace, Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine! So I, obsequious to truth's dread command, Shall here without reluctance change my lay, And smite the gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path for aye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song. "Perish the lore that deadens young desire," Is the soft tenor of my song no more. Edwin, though lov'd of Heaven, must not aspire To bliss, which mortals never knew before. On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy: But now and then the shades of life explore; Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy, And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy. Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows, The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; But soon it withers in the chilling hour. Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, And from the stormy promontory tower, And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies. And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime; And walks of wider circuit were his choice, And vales more wild, and mountains more sublime. One evening, as he fram'd the careless rhyme, It was his chance to wander far abroad, And o'er a lonely eminence to climb, Which heretofore his foot had never trode; A vale appear'd below, a deep retir'd abode. Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene. For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell, Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green, Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell. Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, Whose long long groves eternal murmur made: And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, Where, through the cliffs, the eye, remote, survey'd Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd. Along this narrow valley you might see The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground, And, here and there, a solitary tree, Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd. Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound Of parted fragments tumbling from on high; And from the summit of that craggy mound The perching eagle oft was heard to cry, Or on resounding wings, to shoot athwart the sky. One cultivated spot there was, that spread Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam, Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head, And herbs for food with future plenty teem. Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream, Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul: He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll; When slowly on his ear these moving accents Stole: "Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, And woo the weary to profound repose! Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest, And whisper comfort to the man of woes! Here innocence may wander, safe from foes, And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. O Solitude! the man who thee foregoes, When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs. "Vain man! is grandeur given to gay attire? Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid: To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire? It is thy weakness that requires their aid: To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid? They fear the thief and tremble in the storm: To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade? Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm! Behold, what deeds of woe the locust can perform! "True dignity is his whose tranquil mind Virtue has raised above the things below; Who every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd, Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow." This strain from 'midst the rocks was heard to flow In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star; And from embattled clouds emerging slow Cynthia came riding on her silver car; And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar. Soon did the solemn voice its theme renew; (While Edwin wrapt in wonder listening stood) "Ye tools and toys of tyranny, adieu, Scorn'd by the wise, and hated by the good! Ye only can engage the servile brood Of Levity and Lust, who all their days, Asham'd of truth and liberty, have woo'd And hugg'd the chain that, glittering on their gaze, Seems to outshine the pomp of heaven's empyreal blaze. "Like them, abandon'd to Ambition's sway, I sought for glory in the paths of guile; And fawn'd and smil'd, to plunder and betray, Myself betray'd and plunder'd all the while; So gnaw'd the viper the corroding file: But now, with pangs of keen remorse, I rue Those years of trouble and debasement vile. Yet why should I this cruel theme pursue! Fly, fly, detested thoughts, for ever from my view! "The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care, And storms of disappointment, all o'erpast, Henceforth no earthly hope with Heaven shall share This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. And if for me no treasure be amass'd, And if no future age shall hear my name, I lurk the more secure from fortune's blast, And with more leisure feed this pious flame, Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame. "The end and the reward of toil is rest. Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possess'd, Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease! Ah! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, The lay heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece, All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring, If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring! "Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, In the deep dungeon of some gothic dome, Where night and desolation ever frown. Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down; Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrown, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. "And thither let the village swain repair; And, light of heart, the village maiden gay, To deck with flowers her half-dishevel'd hair, And celebrate the merry morn of May. There let the shepherd's pipe the livelong day Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe; And when mild Evening comes in mantle gray, Let not the blooming band make haste to go; No ghost, nor spell, my long, my last abode shall know. "For though I fly to 'scape from Fortune's rage, And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn, Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn: For virtue lost, and ruin'd man, I mourn. O man! creation's pride, Heaven's darling child, Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn, Why from thy home are truth and joy exil'd, And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defil'd? "Along yon glittering sky what glory streams! What majesty attends Night's lovely queen! Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams; And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, And all conspire to beautify the scene. But, in the mental world, what chaos drear! What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien! O when shall that eternal morn appear, These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear! "O Thou, at whose creative smile, yon heaven, In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light, Rose from th' abyss; when dark Confusion, driven Down, down the bottomless profound of night, Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight! O glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, To blast the fury of oppressive might, Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway, And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way!" Silence ensu'd; and Edwin rais'd his eyes In tears, for grief lay heavy at his heart. "And is it thus in courtly life," he cries, "That man to man acts a betrayer's part? And dares he thus the gifts of Heaven pervert, Each social instinct, and sublime desire? Hail Poverty, if honour, wealth, and art, If what the great pursue, and learn'd admire, Thus dissipate and quench the soul's ethereal fire!" He said, and turn'd away; nor did the sage O'erhear, in silent orisons employ'd. The youth, his rising sorrow to assuage, Home as he hied, the evening scene enjoy'd: For now no cloud obscures the starry void; The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills; Nor is the mind with startling sounds annoy'd, A soothing murmur the lone region fills, Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills. But he from day to day more anxious grew, The voice still seem'd to vibrate on his ear. Nor durst he hope the hermit's tale untrue; For man he seem'd to love, and Heaven to fear; And none speaks false, where there is none to hear. "Yet can man's gentle heart become so fell! No more in vain conjecture let me wear My hours away, but seek the hermit's cell; 'Tis he my doubt can clear, perhaps my care dispel." At early dawn the youth his journey took, And many a mountain pass'd and valley wide, Then reach'd the wild; where, in a flowery nook, And seated on a mossy stone, he spied An ancient man: his harp lay him beside. A stag sprang from the pasture at his call, And, kneeling, lick'd the wither'd hand that tied A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall, And hung his lofty neck with many a flow'ret small. And now the hoary sage arose, and saw The wanderer approaching: innocence Smil'd on his glowing cheek, but modest awe Depress'd his eye, that fear'd to give offence. "Who art thou, courteous stranger? and from whence? Why roam thy steps to this sequester'd dale?" "A shepherd-boy," the youth replied, "far hence My habitation; hear my artless tale; Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail. "Late as I roam'd, intent on Nature's charms, I reach'd at eve this wilderness profound; And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms, Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound: (For in thy speech I recognize the sound). You mourn'd for ruin'd man, and virtue lost, And seem'd to feel of keen remorse the wound, Pondering on former days by guilt engross'd, Or in the giddy storm of dissipation toss'd. "But say, in courtly life can craft be learn'd, Where knowledge opens, and exalts the soul? Where Fortune lavishes her gifts unearn'd, Can selfishness the liberal heart control? Is glory there achiev'd by arts, as foul As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan? Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tigers prowl; Love is the godlike attribute of man. O teach a simple youth this mystery to scan! "Or else the lamentable strain disclaim, And give me back the calm, contented mind; Which, late exulting, view'd in Nature's frame, Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfin'd, Grace, grandeur, and utility combin'd. Restore those tranquil days, that saw me still Well pleas'd with all, but most with humankind; When Fancy roam'd through Nature's works at will, Uncheck'd by cold distrust, and uninform'd of ill." "Wouldst thou," the sage replied, "in peace return To the gay dreams of fond romantic youth, Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn, From every gentle ear the dreadful truth: For if my desultory strain with ruth And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow, Alas! what comfort could thy anguish soothe, Shouldst thou th' extent of human folly know. Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe. "But let untender thoughts afar be driven; Nor venture to arraign the dread decree. For know, to man, as candidate for heaven, The voice of the Eternal said, Be free: And this divine prerogative to thee Does virtue, happiness, and heaven convey; For virtue is the child of liberty, And happiness of virtue; nor can they Be free to keep the path, who are not free to stray. "Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief, Which else might thy young virtue overpower; And in thy converse I shall find relief; When the dark shades of melancholy lower; For solitude has many a dreary hour, Even when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain: Come often then; for, haply, in my bower, Amusement, knowledge, wisdom thou may'st gain: If I one soul improve, I have not liv'd in vain." And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze The Muse of history unrolls her page. But few, alas! the scenes her art displays, To charm his fancy, or his heart engage. Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage, And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn: Here smiling Virtue prompts the patriot's rage, But lo, ere long, is left alone to mourn, And languish in the dust, and clasp the abandon'd urn! "Ambition's slippery verge shall mortals tread, Where ruin's gulf unfathom'd yawns beneath? Shall life, shall liberty be lost," he said, "For the vain toys that pomp and power bequeath? The car of victory, the plume, the wreath, Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave: No note the clarion of renown can breathe, To alarm the long night of the lonely grave, Or check the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelming wave. "Ah, what avails it to have trac'd the springs That whirl of empire the stupendous wheel! Ah, what have I to do with conquering kings, Hands drench'd in blood, and breasts begirt with steel! To those whom Nature taught to think and feel, Heroes, alas! are things of small concern. Could History man's secret heart reveal, And what imports a heaven-born mind to learn, Her transcripts to explore what bosom would not yearn! "This praise, O Cheronean sage, is thine! (Why should this praise to thee alone belong?) All else from Nature's moral path decline, Lur'd by the toys that captivate the throng; To herd in cabinets and camps, among Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride; Or chant of heraldry the drowsy song, How tyrant blood, o'er many a region wide, Rolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tide. "O who of man the story will unfold, Ere victory and empire wrought annoy, In that elysian age (misnam'd of gold), The age of love, and innocence, and joy, When all were great and free! man's sole employ To deck the bosom of his parent earth; Or toward his bower the murmuring stream decoy, To aid the floweret's long-expected birth, And lull the bed of peace, and crown the board of mirth. "Sweet were your shades, O ye primeval groves! Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent, Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves, His eyes still smiling, and his heart content. Then, hand in hand, health, sport, and labour went. Nature supply'd the wish she taught to crave. None prowl'd for prey, none watch'd to circumvent. To all an equal lot Heaven's bounty gave: No vassal fear'd his lord, no tyrant fear'd his slave. "But ah! th' historic Muse has never dar'd To pierce those hallow'd bowers: 'tis Fancy's beam Pour'd on the vision of th' enraptur'd bard, That paints the charms of that delicious theme. Then hail sweet Fancy's ray! and hail the dream That weans the weary soul from guilt and woe! Careless what others of my choice may deem, I long, where Love and Fancy lead, to go And meditate on Heaven; enough of Earth I know." "I cannot blame thy choice," the sage replied, "For soft and smooth are Fancy's flowery ways. And yet, even there, if left without a guide, The young adventurer unsafely plays. Eyes dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays In modest truth no light nor beauty find. And who, my child, would trust the meteor-blaze, That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind, More dark and helpless far, than if it ne'er had shin'd? "Fancy enervates, while it soothes, the heart, And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight: To joy each heightening charm it can impart, But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night. And often, where no real ills affright, Its visionary fiends, an endless train, Assail with equal or superior might, And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain, And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain. "And yet, alas! the real ills of life Claim the full vigour of a mind prepar'd, Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife, Its guide experience, and truth its guard. We fare on Earth as other men have far'd. Were they successful? Let not us despair. Was disappointment oft their sole reward? Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare How they have borne the load ourselves are doom'd to bear. "What charms th' historic Muse adorn, from spoils, And blood, and tyrants, when she wings her flight, To hail the patriot prince, whose pious toils, Sacred to science, liberty, and right, And peace, through every age divinely bright Shall shine the boast and wonder of mankind! Sees yonder Sun, from his meridian height, A lovelier scene, than virtue thus enshrin'd In power, and man with man for mutual aid combin'd? "Hail sacred Polity, by Freedom rear'd! Hail sacred Freedom, when by law restrain'd! Without you what were man? A grovelling herd, In darkness, wretchedness, and want enchain'd. Sublim'd by you, the Greek and Roman reign'd In arts unrivall'd: O, to latest days, In Albion may your influence unprofan'd To godlike worth the generous bosom raise, And prompt the sage's lore, and fire the poet's lays! "But how let other themes our care engage. For lo, with modest yet majestic grace, To curb Imagination's lawless rage, And from within the cherish'd heart to brace, Philosophy appears. The gloomy race By Indolence and moping Fancy bred, Fear, Discontent, Solicitude, give place, And Hope and Courage brighten in their stead, While on the kindling soul her vital beams are shed. "Then waken from long lethargy to life The seeds of happiness, and powers of thought; Then jarring appetites forego their strife, A strife by ignorance to madness wrought. Pleasure by savage man is dearly bought With fell revenge, lust that defies control, With gluttony and death. The mind untaught Is a dark waste where fiends and tempests howl: As Phoebus to the world, is science to the soul. "And reason now through number, time, and space, Darts the keen lustre of her serious eye, And learns from facts compar'd, the laws to trace, Whose long progression leads to Deity. Can mortal strength presume to soar so high! Can mortal sight, so oft bedimm'd with tears, Such glory bear!--for lo, the shadows fly From Nature's face; confusion disappears, And order charms the eye, and harmony the ears. "In the deep windings of the grove, no more The hag obscene and grisly phantom dwell; Nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar Of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell; No wizard mutters the tremendous spell, Nor sinks convulsive in prophetic swoon; Nor bids the noise of drums and trumpets swell, To ease of fancied pangs the labouring Moon, Or chase the shade that blots the blazing orb of noon. "Many a long-lingering year, in lonely isle, Stunn'd with th' eternal turbulence of waves, Lo, with dim eyes, that never learn'd to smile, And trembling hands, the famish'd native craves Of Heaven his wretched fare: shivering in caves, Or scorch'd on rocks, he pines from day to day; But Science gives the word; and lo, he braves The surge and tempest, lighted by her ray, And to a happier land wafts merrily away! "And even where Nature loads the teeming plain With the full pomp of vegetable store, Her bounty unimprov'd, is deadly bane. Dark woods and rankling wilds, from shore to shore, Stretch their enormous gloom; which to explore Even Fancy trembles, in her sprightliest mood; For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore, Nestless each murderous and each monstrous brood, Plague lurks in every shade, and steams from every flood. "Twas from Philosophy man learn'd to tame The soil, by plenty to intemperance fed. Lo, from the echoing axe, and thundering flame, Poison and plague and yelling rage are fled! The waters, bursting from their slimy bed, Bring health and melody to every vale: And, from the breezy main, and mountain's head, Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale, To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale. What dire necessities on every hand Our art, our strength, our fortitude require! Of foes intestine what a numerous band Against this little throb of life conspire! Yet Science can elude their fatal ire Awhile, and turn aside Death's levell'd dart, Soothe the sharp pang, allay the fever's fire, And brace the nerves once more, and cheer the heart, And yet a few soft nights and balmy days impart. "Nor less to regulate man's moral frame Science exerts her all-composing sway. Flutters thy breast with fear, or pants for fame, Or pines, to indolence and spleen a prey, Or avarice, a fiend more fierce than they? Flee to the shade of Academus' grove; Where cares molest not, discord melts away In harmony, and the pure passions prove How sweet the words of Truth breath'd from the lips of Love. "What cannot Art and Industry perform, When Science plans the progress of their toil! They smile at penury, disease, and storm; And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil. When tyrants scourge, or demagogues embroil A land, or when the rabble's headlong rage Order transforms to anarchy and spoil, Deep-vers'd in man the philosophic sage Prepares with lenient hand their frenzy to assuage. "'Tis he alone, whose comprehensive mind, From situation, temper, soil, and clime Explor'd, a nation's various powers can bind, And various orders, in one form sublime Of polity, that, midst the wrecks of time, Secure shall lift its head on high, nor fear Th' assault of foreign or domestic crime, While public faith, and public love sincere, And industry and law maintain their sway severe." Enraptur'd by the hermit's strain, the youth Proceeds the path of Science to explore. And now, expanded to the beams of truth, New energies and charms unknown before His mind discloses: Fancy now no more Wantons on fickle pinion through the skies; But, fix'd in aim, and conscious of her power, Aloft from cause to cause exults to rise, Creation's blended stores arranging as she flies. Nor love of novelty alone inspires, Their laws and nice dependencies to scan; For, mindful of the aids that life requires, And of the services man owes to man, He meditates new arts on Nature's plan; The cold desponding breast of sloth to warm, The flame of industry and genius fan, And emulation's noble rage alarm, And the long hours of toil and solitude to charm. But she, who set on fire his infant heart, And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shar'd And bless'd, the Muse, and her celestial art, Still claim th' enthusiast's fond and first regard. From Nature's beauties variously compar'd And variously combin'd, he learns to frame Those forms of bright perfection, which the bard, While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame, Enamour'd consecrates to never-dying fame. Of late, with cumbersome, tho' pompous show, Edwin would oft his flowery rhyme deface, Through ardour to adorn: but Nature now To his experienc'd eye a modest grace Presents, where ornament the second place Holds, to intrinsic worth and just design Subservient still. Simplicity apace Tempers his rage; he owns her charm divine, And clears th' ambiguous phrase, and lops th' unwieldy line. Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains) What sweet delirium o'er his bosom stole, When the great shepherd of the Mantuan plains His deep majestic melody 'gan roll: Fain would I sing what transport storm'd his soul, How the red current throbb'd his veins along, When, like Pelides, bold beyond control, Without art graceful, without effort strong, Homer rais'd high to Heaven the loud, th' impetuous song. And how his lyre, though rude her first essays, Now skill'd to soothe, to triumph, to complain, Warbling at will through each harmonious maze, Was taught to modulate the artful strain, I fain would sing:--but ah! I strive in vain. Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound. With trembling step, to join yon weeping train, I haste, where gleams funereal glare around, And, mix'd with shrieks of woe, the knells of death resound. Adieu, ye lays, that Fancy's flowers adorn, The soft amusement of the vacant mind! He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn, He, whom each virtue fir'd, each grace refin'd, Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind! He sleeps in dust. Ah, how shall I pursue My theme! To heart-consuming grief resign'd, Here on his recent grave I fix my view, And pour my bitter tears. Ye flowery lays, adieu! Art thou, my Gregory, for ever fled! And am I left to unavailing woe! When fortune's storms assail this weary head, Where cares long since have shed untimely snow! Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go! No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers: Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow, My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears. 'Tis meet that I should mourn; flow forth afresh, my tears. See Plato's Timeus. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank. General ideas of excellence, the immediate archetypes of sublime When in the crimson cloud of even The lingering light decays, And Hesper on the front of heaven His glittering gem displays; Deep in the silent vale, unseen, Beside a lulling stream, A pensive youth of placid mien Indulg'd this tender theme: "Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd High o'er the glimmering dale; Ye woods, along whose windings wild Murmurs the solemn gale: Where Melancholy strays forlorn, And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep: "To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew ambition's eye, Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly. Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline, Where Solitude, mild, modest power, Leans on her ivy'd shrine. "How shall I woo thee, matchless fair! Thy heavenly smile how win! Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care And stills the storm within. O wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing! "Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When in the lap of Peace reclin'd He fram'd his infant lays; When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care Nor cold Distrust alarm'd, Nor Envy with malignant glare His simple youth had harm'd. "'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid, From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Devoted to the shade. Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy!-- O take the wanderer home. "Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine Waves o'er the gloomy stream, Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose. "O while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly warbling song, And balmy from the bank of flowers The Zephyr breathes along; Let no rude sound invade from far, No vagrant foot be nigh, No ray from Grandeur's gilded car Flash on the startled eye. "But if some pilgrim through the glade Thy hallow'd bowers explore, O guard from harm his hoary head, And listen to his lore; For he of joys divine shall tell That wean from earthly woe, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains this heart below. "For me, no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread: No more I climb those toilsome heights By guileful Hope misled; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more To Mirth's enlivening strain; For present pleasure soon is o'er, And all the past is vain." Still shall unthinking man substantial deem The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream? Till at some stroke of Fate the vision flies, And sad realities in prospect rise; And, from Elysian slumbers rudely torn, The startled soul awakes, to think, and mourn. O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance, Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance, Who flowery plains in endless pomp survey, Glittering in beams of visionary day; O yet, while Fate delays th' impending woe, Be rous'd to thought, anticipate the blow; Lest, like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill; Lest, thus encompass'd with funereal gloom, Like me, ye bend o'er some untimely tomb, Pour your wild ravings in Night's frighted ear, And half pronounce Heaven's sacred doom severe. Wise, beauteous, good! O every grace combin'd, That charms the eye, or captivates the mind! Fresh, as the floweret opening on the morn, Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn! Sweet, as the downy-pinion'd gale, that roves To gather fragrance in Arabian groves! Mild, as the melodies at close of day, That, heard remote, along the vale decay! Yet, why with these compar'd? What tints so fine, What sweetness, mildness, can be match'd with thine? Why roam abroad, since recollection true Restores the lovely form to fancy's view? Still let me gaze, and every care beguile, Gaze on that cheek, where all the Graces smile; That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright, Where meekness beams ineffable delight; That brow, where wisdom sits enthron'd serene, Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien: Still let me listen, while her words impart The sweet effusions of the blameless heart, Till all my soul, each tumult charm'd away, Yields, gently led, to Virtue's easy sway. By thee inspir'd, O Virtue, age is young, And music warbles from the faltering tongue: Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow, And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow, Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies Pure heavenly lustre to the languid eyes: But when youth's living bloom reflects thy beams, Resistless on the view the glory streams; Love, wonder, joy, alternately alarm, And beauty dazzles with angelic charm. Ah, whither fled! ye dear illusions stay! Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay. How are the roses on that cheek decay'd, Which late the purple light of youth display'd! Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow'd; With life and thought each speaking feature glow'd, Fair was the blossom, soft the vernal sky; Elate with hope, we deem'd no tempest nigh: When lo, a whirlwind's instantaneous gust Left all its beauties withering in the dust. Cold the soft hand, that sooth'd Woe's weary head! And quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed! And mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole, Infusing balm, into the rankled soul! O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power, And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower! Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven! Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven! But peace, bold thought! be still, my bursting heart! We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart. Escap'd the dungeon, does the slave complain, Nor bless the friendly hand that broke the chain? Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn, On this dark wild condemn'd to roam forlorn? Where Reason's meteor-rays, with sickly glow, O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw; Disclosing dubious to th' affrighted eye O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high, Black billowy deeps in storms perpetual toss'd, And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost? O happy stroke, that bursts the bonds of clay, Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day, And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar, Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more. Transporting thought! here let me wipe away The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay. But ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew; Nor check the sacred drops to pity due: Lo, where in speechless, hopeless anguish, bend O'er her lov'd dust, the parent, brother, friend! How vain the hope of man! but cease thy strain, Nor sorrow's dread solemnity profane; Mix'd with yon drooping mourners, on her bier In silence shed the sympathetic tear. O Thou, who gladd'st the pensive soul, More than Aurora's smile the swain forlorn, Left all night long to mourn Where desolation frowns, and tempests howl; And shrieks of woe, as intermits the storm, Far o'er the monstrous wilderness resound, And 'cross the gloom darts many a shapeless form, And many a fire-ey'd visage glares around; O come, and be once more my guest! Come, for thou oft thy suppliant's vow hast heard And oft with smiles indulgent cheer'd And sooth'd him into rest. Smit by thy rapture-beaming eye Deep flashing through the midnight of their mind, The sable bands combin'd, Where Fear's black banner bloats the troubled sky, Appall'd retire. Suspicion hides her head, Nor dares the obliquely gleaming eyeball raise: Despair, with gorgon-figur'd veil o'erspread, Speeds to dark Phlegethon's detested maze Lo, startled at the heavenly ray, With speed unwonted Indolence upsprings, And, heaving, lifts her leaden wings, And sullen glides away: Ten thousand forms, by pining Fancy view'd, Dissolve.--Above the sparkling flood When Phoebus rears his awful brow, From lengthening lawn and valley low The troops of fen-born mists retire. Along the plain The joyous swain Eyes the gay villages again, And gold-illumin'd spire; While on the billowy ether borne Floats the loose lay's jovial measure; And light along the fairy Pleasure, Her green robes glittering to the morn, Wantons on silken wing. And goblins all To the damp dungeon shrink, or hoary hall, Or westward, with impetuous flight, Shoot to the desert realms of their congenial night. When first on childhood's eager gaze Life's varied landscape, stretch'd immense around, Starts out of night profound, Thy voice incites to tempt th' untrodden maze. Fond he surveys thy mild maternal face, His bashful eye still kindling as he views, And, while thy lenient arm supports his pace, With beating heart the upland path pursues: The path that leads where, hung sublime, And seen afar, youth's gallant trophies, bright In Fancy's rainbow ray, invite His wingy nerves to climb. Pursue thy pleasurable way, Safe in the guidance of thy heavenly guard, While melting airs are heard, And soft-ey'd cherub-forms around thee play: Simplicity, in careless flowers array'd, Prattling amusive in his accent meek; And Modesty, half turning as afraid, The smile just dimpling on his glowing cheek! Content and Leisure, hand in hand With Innocence and Peace, advance, and sing; And Mirth, in many a mazy ring, Frisks o'er the flowery land. Frail man, how various is thy lot below! To-day though gales propitious blow, And Peace soft gliding down the sky, Lead Love along, and Harmony, To-morrow the gay scene deforms: Then all around The thunder's sound Rolls rattling on through heaven's profound, And down rush all the storms. Ye days, that balmy influence shed, When sweet childhood, ever sprightly, In paths of pleasure sported lightly, Whither, ah whither are ye fled? Ye cherub train, that brought him on his way O leave him not midst tumult and dismay; For now youth's eminence he gains: But what a weary length of lingering toil remains! They shrink, they vanish into air. Now Slander taints with pestilence the gale; And mingling cries assail, The wail of Woe, and groan of grim Despair. Lo, wizard Envy from his serpent eye Darts quick destruction in each baleful glance; Pride smiling stern, and yellow Jealousy, Frowning Disdain, and haggard Hate advance; Behold, amidst the dire array, Pale wither'd Care his giant-stature rears, And lo, his iron hand prepares To grasp its feeble prey. Who now will guard bewilder'd youth Safe from the fierce assault of hostile rage? Such war can Virtue wage, Virtue that bears the sacred shield of Truth? Alas! full oft on Guilt's victorious car, The spoils of Virtue are in triumph borne; While the fair captive, mark'd with many a scar, In long obscurity, oppress'd, forlorn, Resigns to tears her angel form. Ill-fated youth, then whither wilt thou fly? No friend, no shelter now is nigh, And onward rolls the storm But whence the sudden beam that shoots along? Why shrink aghast the hostile throng? Lo, from amidst affliction's night Hope bursts all radiant on the sight: Her words the troubled bosom soothe. "Why thus dismay'd? Though foes invade, Hope ne'er is wanting to their aid, Who tread the path of truth. 'Tis I, who smooth the rugged way, I, who close the eyes of Sorrow, And with glad visions of to-morrow Repair the weary soul's decay. When Death's cold touch thrills to the freezing heart, Dreams of heaven's opening glories I impart, Till the freed spirit springs on high In rapture too severe for weak mortality." A Muse, unskill'd in venal praise, Unstain'd with flattery's art; Who loves simplicity of lays Breath'd ardent from the heart; While gratitude and joy inspire, Resumes the long-unpractis'd lyre, To hail, O HAY, thy natal morn: No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves, But twines with oak the laurel leaves, Thy cradle to adorn. For not on beds of gaudy flowers Thine ancestors reclin'd, Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours All energy of mind. To hurl the dart, to ride the car, To stem the deluges of war, And snatch from fate a sinking land; Trample th' invaders' lofty crest, And from his grasp the dagger wrest, And desolating brand: 'Twas this that rais'd th' illustrious line To match the first in fame! A thousand years have seen it shine With unabated flame; Have seen thy mighty sires appear Foremost in glory's high career, The pride and pattern of the brave: Yet pure from lust of blood their fire, And from ambition's wild desire, They triumph'd but to save. The Muse with joy attends their way The vale of peace along; There to its lord the village gay Renews the grateful song. Yon castle's glittering towers contain No pit of woe, nor clanking chain, Nor to the suppliant's wail resound; The open doors the needy bless, Th' unfriended hail their calm recess, And gladness smiles around. There to the sympathetic heart Life's best delights belong, To mitigate the mourner's smart, To guard the weak from wrong. Ye sons of luxury, be wise: Know, happiness for ever flies The cold and solitary breast; Then let the social instinct glow, And learn to feel another's woe, And in his joy be blest. O yet, ere Pleasure plant her snare For unsuspecting youth; Ere Flattery her song prepare To check the voice of Truth; O may his country's guardian power Attend the slumbering infant's bower, And bright, inspiring dreams impart; To rouse th' hereditary fire, To kindle each sublime desire, Exalt, and warm the heart. Swift to reward a parent's fears, A parent's hopes to crown, Roll on in peace, ye blooming years, That rear him to renown; When in his finish'd form and face Admiring multitudes shall trace Each patrimonial charm combin'd, The courteous yet majestic mien, The liberal smile, the look serene, The great and gentle mind. Yet, though thou draw a nation's eyes, And win a nation's love, Let not thy towering mind despise The village and the grove. No slander there shall wound thy fame, No ruffian take his deadly aim, No rival weave the secret snare: For Innocence with angel smile, Simplicity that knows no guile, And Love and Peace are there. When winds the mountain oak assail, And lay its glories waste, Content may slumber in the vale, Unconscious of the blast. Through scenes of tumult while we roam, The heart, alas! is ne'er at home, It hopes in time to roam no more; The mariner, not vainly brave, Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest at last on shore. Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe, How vain your mask of state! The good alone have joy sincere, The good alone are great: Great, when, amid the vale of peace, They bid the plaint of sorrow cease, And hear the voice of artless praise; As when along the trophy'd plain Sublime they lead the victor train, While shouting nations gaze. The pigmy-people, and the feather'd train, Mingling in mortal combat on the plain, I sing. Ye Muses, favour my designs, Lead on my squadrons, and arrange the lines; The flashing swords and fluttering wings display, And long bills nibbling in the bloody fray; Cranes darting with disdain on tiny foes, Conflicting birds and men, and war's unnumber'd woes. The wars and woes of heroes six feet long Have oft resounded in Pierian song. Who has not heard of Colchos' golden fleece, And Argo mann'd with all the flower of Greece? Of Thebes' fell brethren, Theseus stern of face, And Peleus' son, unrivall'd in the race; AEneas, founder of the Roman line, And William, glorious on the banks of Boyne? Who has not learn'd to weep at Pompey's woes, And over Blackmore's epic page to doze? 'Tis I, who dare attempt unusual strains, Of hosts unsung, and unfrequented plains; The small shrill trump, and chiefs of little size, And armies rushing down the darken'd skies. Where India reddens to the early dawn, Winds a deep vale from vulgar eye withdrawn; Bosom'd in groves the lowly region lies, And rocky mountains round the border rise. Here, till the doom of fate its fall decreed, The empire flourish'd of the pigmy-breed; Here Industry perform'd, and Genius plann'd, And busy multitudes o'erspread the land. But now to these lone bounds if pilgrim stray, Tempting through craggy cliffs the desperate way, He finds the puny mansion fallen to earth, Its godlings mouldering on th' abandon'd hearth; And starts, where small white bones are spread around, "Or little footsteps lightly print the ground;" While the proud crane her nest securely builds, Chattering amid the desolated fields. But different fates befell her hostile rage, While reign'd, invincible through many an age, The dreaded pigmy: rous'd by war's alarms, Forth rush'd the madding manikin to arms. Fierce to the field of death the hero flies; The faint crane fluttering flaps the ground, and dies; And by the victor borne (o'erwhelming load!) With bloody bill loose-dangling marks the road. And oft the wily dwarf in ambush lay, And often made the callow young his prey; With slaughter'd victims heap'd his board, and smil'd, T' avenge the parent's trespass on the child. Oft, where his feather'd foe had rear'd her nest, And laid her eggs and household gods to rest, Burning for blood, in terrible array, The eighteen-inch militia burst their way; All went to wreck; the infant foeman fell, When scarce his chirping bill had broke the shell. Loud uproar hence, and rage of arms arose, And the fell rancour of encountering foes; Hence dwarfs and cranes one general havoc whelms, And Death's grim visage scares the pigmy-realms. Not half so furious blaz'd the warlike fire Of mice, high theme of the Meonian lyre; When bold to battle march'd the accoutred frogs, And the deep tumult thunder'd through the bogs. Pierc'd by the javelin bulrush on the shore Here agonizing roll'd the mouse in gore; And there the frog, (a scene full sad to see!) Shorn of one leg, slow sprawl'd along on three: He vaults no more with vigorous hops on high, But mourns in hoarsest croaks his destiny. And now the day of woe drew on apace, A day of woe to all the pigmy-race, When dwarfs were doom'd (but penitence was vain) To rue each broken egg, and chicken slain. For, roused to vengeance by repeated wrong, From distant climes the long-bill'd legions throng: From Strymon's lake, Cayster's plashy meads, And fens of Scythia, green with rustling reeds, From where the Danube winds through many a land, To rendezvous they waft on eager wing, And wait assembled the returning spring. Meanwhile they trim their plumes for length of flight, Whet their keen beaks and twisting claws for fight; Each crane the pigmy power in thought o'erturns, And every bosom for the battle burns. When genial gales the frozen air unbind, The screaming legions wheel, and mount the wind: Far in the sky they form their long array, And land and ocean stretch'd immense survey Deep deep beneath: and, triumphing in pride, With clouds and winds commix'd, innumerous ride; 'Tis wild obstreperous clangour all, and heaven Whirls in tempestuous undulation driven. Nor less th' alarm that shook the world below, Where march'd in pomp of war th' embattled foe: Where manikins with haughty step advance, And grasp the shield, and couch the quivering lance: To right and left the lengthening lines they form, And rank'd in deep array await the storm. High in the midst the chieftain-dwarf was seen, Of giant stature, and imperial mien: Full twenty inches tall he strode along, And view'd with lofty eye the wondering throng: And while with many a scar his visage frown'd, Bared his broad bosom, rough with many a wound Of beaks and claws, disclosing to their sight The glorious meed of high heroic might: For with insatiate vengeance, he pursued, And never-ending hate, the feathery brood. Unhappy they, confiding in the length Of horny beak, or talon's crooked strength, Who durst abide his rage; the blade descends, And from the panting trunk the pinion rends: Laid low in dust the pinion waves no more, The trunk disfigur'd stiffens in its gore. What hosts of heroes fell beneath his force! What heaps of chicken carnage mark'd his course! How oft, O Strymon, thy lone banks along, Did wailing Echo waft the funeral song! And now from far the mingling clamours rise, Loud and more loud rebounding through the skies. From skirt to skirt of heaven, with stormy sway, A cloud rolls on, and darkens all the day. Near and more near descends the dreadful shade; And now in battalions array display'd, On sounding wings, and screaming in their ire, The cranes rush onward, and the fight require. The pigmy warriors eye with fearless glare The host thick swarming o'er the burden'd air: Thick swarming now, but to their native land Doom'd to return a scanty straggling band-- When sudden, darting down the depth of heaven, Fierce on th' expecting foe the cranes are driven. The kindling frenzy every bosom warms, The region echoes to the crash of arms: Loose feathers from th' encountering armies fly, And in careering whirlwinds mount the sky. To breathe from toil upsprings the panting crane, Then with fresh vigour downward darts again. Success in equal balance hovering hangs. Here, on the sharp spear, mad with mortal pangs, The bird transfix'd in bloody vortex whirls, Yet fierce in death the threatening talon curls: There, while the life-blood bubbles from his wound, With little feet the pigmy beats the ground; Deep from his breast the short, short sob he draws, And dying curses the keen pointed claws. Trembles the thundering field, thick cover'd o'er With falchions, mangled wings, and streaming gore, And pigmy arms, and beaks of ample size, And here a claw, and there a finger lies. Encompass'd round with heaps of slaughter'd foes, All grim in blood the pigmy champion glows, And on th' assailing host impetuous springs, Careless of nibbling bills, and flapping wings; And midst the tumult, wheresoe'er he turns, The battle with redoubled fury burns. From every side th' avenging cranes amain Throng, to o'erwhelm this terror of the plain: When suddenly (for such the will of Jove) A fowl enormous, sousing from above, The gallant chieftain clutch'd, and, soaring high, (Sad chance of battle!) bore him up the sky. The cranes pursue, and clustering in a ring, Chatter triumphant round the captive king. But ah! what pangs each pigmy bosom wrung, When, now to cranes a prey, on talons hung, High in the clouds they saw their helpless lord, His wriggling form still lessening as he soar'd. Lo! yet again, with unabated rage, In mortal strife the mingling hosts engage. The crane with darted bill assaults the foe, Hovering; then wheels aloft to scape the blow: The dwarf in anguish aims the vengeful wound; But whirls in empty air the falchion round. Such was the scene, when midst the loud alarms Sublime th' eternal Thunderer rose in arms: When Briareus, by mad ambition driven, Heav'd Pelion huge, and hurl'd it high at heaven. Jove roll'd redoubling thunders from on high, Mountains and bolts encounter'd in the sky; Till one stupendous ruin whelm'd the crew, Their vast limbs weltering wide in brimstone blue. But now at length the pigmy legions yield, And wing'd with terror fly the fatal field. They raise a weak and melancholy wail, All in distraction scattering o'er the vale. Prone on their routed rear the cranes descend; Their bills bite furious, and their talons rend: With unrelenting ire they urge the chase, Sworn to exterminate the hated race. 'Twas thus the pigmy name, once great in war, For spoils of conquer'd cranes renown'd afar, Perish'd. For, by the dread decree of Heaven, Short is the date to earthly grandeur given, And vain are all attempts to roam beyond Where fate has fix'd the everlasting bound. Fall'n are the trophies of Assyrian power, And Persia's proud dominion is no more; Yea, though to both superior far in fame, Thine empire, Latium, is an empty name. And now with lofty chiefs of ancient time The pigmy heroes roam'd th' Elysian clime. Or, if belief to matron-tales be due, Full oft, in the belated shepherd's view, Their frisking forms, in gentle green array'd, Gambol secure amid the moonlight glade. Secure, for no alarming cranes molest, And all their woes in long oblivion rest: Down the deep dale, and narrow winding way, They foot it featly, ranged in ringlets gay: 'Tis joy and frolic all, where'er they rove, And Fairy-people is the name they love. Yes, yes, I grant the sons of Earth Are doom'd to trouble from their birth. We all of sorrow have our share; But say, is yours without compare? Look round the world; perhaps you'll find Each individual of our kind Press'd with an equal load of ill, Equal at least. Look further still, And own your lamentable case Is little short of happiness. In yonder hut that stands alone Attend to Famine's feeble moan; Or view the couch where Sickness lies, Mark his pale cheek, and languid eyes, His frame by strong convulsion torn, His struggling sighs, and looks forlorn. Or see, transfix'd with keener pangs, Where o'er his hoard the miser hangs; Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares, Nor Slumber's balmy blessing shares; Despair, Remorse, and Terror roll, Their tempests on his harass'd soul. But here perhaps it may avail T' enforce our reasoning with a tale. Mild was the morn, the sky serene, The jolly hunting band convene, The beagle's breast with ardour burns, The bounding steed the champaign spurns, And Fancy oft the game descries Through the hound's nose, and huntsman's eyes. Just then, a council of the hares Had met, on national affairs. The chiefs were set; while o'er their head The furze its frizzled covering spread. Long lists of grievances were heard, And general discontent appear'd. "Our harmless race shall every savage Both quadruped and biped ravage? Shall horses, hounds, and hunters still Unite their wits to work us ill? The youth, his parent's sole delight, Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite, Whose pulse in every vein beats strong, Whose limbs leap light the vales along, May yet ere noontide meet his death, And lie dismember'd on the heath. For youth, alas, nor cautious age, Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage. In every field we meet the foe, Each gale comes fraught with sounds of woe; The morning but awakes our fears, The evening sees us bath'd in tears. But must we ever idly grieve, Nor strive our fortunes to relieve? Small is each individual's force: To stratagem be our recourse; And then, from all our tribes combin'd, The murderer to his cost may find No foes are weak, whom Justice arms, Whom Concord leads, and Hatred warms. Be rous'd; or liberty acquire, Or in the great attempt expire." He said no more, for in his breast Conflicting thoughts the voice suppress'd: The fire of vengeance seem'd to stream From his swoln eyeball's yellow gleam. And now the tumults of the war, Mingling confusedly from afar, Swell in the wind. Now louder cries Distinct of hounds and men arise. Forth from the brake, with beating heart, Th' assembled hares tumultuous start, And, every straining nerve on wing, Away precipitately spring. The hunting band, a signal given, Thick thundering o'er the plain are driven; O'er cliff abrupt, and shrubby mound, And river broad, impetuous bound: Now plunge amid the forest shades, Glance through the openings of the glades; Now o'er the level valley sweep, Now with short steps strain up the steep; While backward from the hunter's eyes The landscape like a torrent flies. At last an ancient wood they gain'd, By pruner's axe yet unprofan'd. High o'er the rest, by Nature rear'd, The oak's majestic boughs appear'd: Beneath, a copse of various hue In barbarous luxuriance grew. No knife had curb'd the rambling sprays, No hand had wove th' implicit maze. The flowering thorn, self-taught to wind, The hazel's stubborn stem entwin'd, And bramble twigs were wreath'd around, And rough furze crept along the ground. Here sheltering, from the sons of murther, The hares drag their tir'd limbs no further. But lo, the western wind ere long Was loud, and roar'd the woods among; From rustling leaves, and crashing boughs The sound of woe and war arose. The hares distracted scour the grove, As terror and amazement drove; But danger, wheresoe'er they fled, Still seem'd impending o'er their head. Now crowded in a grotto's gloom, All hope extinct, they wait their doom. Dire was the silence, till, at length, Even from despair deriving strength, With bloody eye and furious look, A daring youth arose and spoke. "O wretched race, the scorn of Fate, Whom ills of every sort await! O, curs'd with keenest sense to feel The sharpest sting of every ill! Say ye, who, fraught with mighty scheme, Of liberty and vengeance dream, What now remains? To what recess Shall we our weary steps address, Since Fate is evermore pursuing All ways and means to work our ruin? Are we alone, of all beneath, Condemn'd to misery worse than death? Must we, with fruitless labour, strive In misery worse than death to live? No. Be the smaller ill our choice: So dictates Nature's powerful voice. Death's pang will in a moment cease; And then, All hail, eternal peace!" Thus while he spoke, his words impart The dire resolve to every heart. A distant lake in prospect lay, That, glittering in the solar ray, Gleam'd through the dusky trees, and shot A trembling light along the grot. Thither with one consent they bend, Their sorrows with their lives to end, While each, in thought, already hears The water hissing in his ears. Fast by the margin of the lake, Conceal'd within a thorny brake, A linnet sate, whose careless lay Amus'd the solitary day. Careless he sung, for on his breast Sorrow no lasting trace impress'd; When suddenly he heard a sound Of swift feet traversing the ground. Quick to the neighbouring tree he flies, Thence trembling casts around his eyes; No foe appear'd, his fears were vain; Pleas'd he renews the sprightly strain. The hares, whose noise had caus'd his fright, Saw with surprise the linnet's flight. "Is there on Earth a wretch," they said, "Whom our approach can strike with dread?" An instantaneous change of thought To tumult every bosom wrought. So fares the system-building sage, Who, plodding on from youth to age, At last on some foundation-dream Has rear'd aloft his goodly scheme, And prov'd his predecessors fools, And bound all nature by his rules; So fares he in that dreadful hour, When injur'd Truth exerts her power, Some new phenomenon to raise, Which, bursting on his frighted gaze, From its proud summit to the ground Proves the whole edifice unsound. "Children," thus spoke a hare sedate, Who oft had known th' extremes of fate, "In slight events the docile mind May hints of good instruction find. That our condition is the worst, And we with such misfortunes curst As all comparison defy, Was late the universal cry; When lo, an accident so slight As yonder little linnet's flight Has made your stubborn heart confess (So your amazement bids me guess) That all our load of woes and fears Is but a part of what he bears. Where can he rest secure from harms, Whom even a helpless hare alarms? Yet he repines not at his lot, When past, the danger is forgot: On yonder bough he trims his wings, And with unusual rapture sings: While we, less wretched, sink beneath Our lighter ills, and rush to death. No more of this unmeaning rage, But hear, my friends, the words of age. "When by the winds of autumn driven The scatter'd clouds fly cross the heaven, Oft have we, from some mountain's head, Beheld th' alternate light and shade Sweep the long vale. Here, hovering, lowers The shadowy cloud; there downward pours, Streaming direct, a flood of day, Which from the view flies swift away; It flies, while other shades advance, And other streaks of sunshine glance. Thus chequer'd is the life below With gleams of joy and clouds of woe. Then hope not, while we journey on, Still to be basking in the sun: Nor fear, though now in shades ye mourn, That sunshine will no more return. If, by your terrors overcome, Ye fly before th' approaching gloom, The rapid clouds your flight pursue, And darkness still o'ercasts your view. Who longs to reach the radiant plain Must onward urge his course amain; For doubly swift the shadow flies, When 'gainst the gale the pilgrim plies. At least be firm, and undismay'd Maintain your ground; the fleeting shade Ere long spontaneous glides away, And gives you back th' enlivening ray. Lo, while I speak, our danger past! No more the shrill horn's angry blast Howls in our ear; the savage roar Of war and murder is no more. Then snatch the moment fate allows, Nor think of past or future woes." He spoke; and hope revives; the lake That instant one and all forsake, In sweet amusement to employ The present sprightly hour of joy. Now from the western mountain's brow, Compass'd with clouds of various glow, The sun a broader orb displays, And shoots aslope his ruddy rays. The lawn assumes a fresher green, And dewdrops spangle all the scene; The balmy zephyr breathes along, The shepherd sings his tender song, With all their lays the groves resound, And falling waters murmur round. Discord and care were put to flight, And all was peace, and calm delight. Farewell! my best-belov'd; whose heavenly mind Genius with virtue, strength with softness join'd; Devotion, undebas'd by pride or art, With meek simplicity, and joy of heart; Though sprightly, gentle: though polite, sincere; And only of thyself a judge severe; Unblam'd, unequall'd in each sphere of life, The tenderest daughter, sister, parent, wife. In thee their patroness th' afflicted lost; Thy friends, their pattern, ornament, and boast; And I--but ah, can words my loss declare, Or paint th' extremes of transport and despair! O thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell, My guide, my friend, my best beloved, farewell! At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. But, if pity inspire thee renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass--but they never return. "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The Moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again: But man's faded glory what change shall renew! Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain! "'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew: Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save: But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!" ''Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. "O pity, great Father of light," then I cried, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free." 'And darkness and doubt are now flying away; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.' Far in the depth of Ida's inmost grove, A scene for love and solitude design'd, Where flowery woodbines wild by Nature wove Form'd the lone bower, the Royal Swain reclin'd. All up the craggy cliffs, that tower'd to heaven, Green wav'd the murmuring pines on every side; Save where, fair opening to the beam of even, A dale slop'd gradual to the valley wide. Echoed the vale with many a cheerful note; The lowing of the herds resounding long. The shrilling pipe, and mellow horn remote, And social clamours of the festive throng. For now, low hovering o'er the western main, Where amber clouds begirt his dazzling throne, The sun with ruddier verdure deck'd the plain, And lakes, and streams, and spires triumphal shone. And many a band of ardent youths were seen; Some into rapture fir'd by glory's charms, Or hurl'd the thundering car along the green, Or march'd embattled on in glittering arms. Others more mild, in happy leisure gay, The darkening forest's lonely gloom explore, Or by Scamander's flowery margin stray, Or the blue Hellespont's resounding shore. But chief the eye to Ilion's glories turn'd That gleam'd along th' extended champaign far, And bulwarks, in terrific pomp adorn'd, Where Peace sat smiling at the frowns of War. Rich in the spoils of many a subject-clime, In pride luxurious blaz'd th' imperial dome; Tower'd mid th' encircling grove the fane sublime, And dread memorials mark'd the hero's tomb, Who from the black and bloody cavern led The savage stern, and sooth'd his boisterous breast; Who spoke, and Science rear'd her radiant head, And brighten'd o'er the long benighted waste; Or, greatly daring in his country's cause, Whose heaven-taught soul the awful plan design'd, Whence Power stood trembling at the voice of laws, Whence soar'd on Freedom's wing th' ethereal mind. But not the pomp that royalty displays, Nor all the imperial pride of lofty Troy, Nor Virtue's triumph of immortal praise, Could rouse the languor of the lingering boy. Abandon'd all to soft Enone's charms, He to oblivion doom'd the listless day; Inglorious lull'd in Love's dissolving arms, While flutes lascivious breath'd th' enfeebling lay. To trim the ringlets of his scented hair, To aim, insidious, Love's bewitching glance, Or cull fresh garlands for the gaudy fair, Or wanton loose in the voluptuous dance; These were his arts; these won Enone's love, Nor sought his fetter'd soul a nobler aim. Ah, why should beauty's smile those arts approve, Which taint with infamy the lover's flame? Now laid at large beside a murmuring spring, Melting he listen'd to the vernal song, And Echo listening wav'd her airy wing, While the deep winding dales the lays prolong. When slowly floating down the azure skies A crimson cloud flash'd on his startled sight; Whose skirts gay-sparkling with unnumber'd dyes Launch'd the long billowy trails of flickering light. That instant, hush'd was all the vocal grove, Hush'd was the gale, and every ruder sound, And strains aerial, warbling far above, Rung in the ear a magic peal profound. Near, and more near, the swimming radiance roll'd; Along the mountains stream the lingering fires, Sublime the groves of Ida blaze with gold, And all the heaven resounds with louder lyres. The trumpet breath'd a note: and all in air The glories vanish'd from the dazzled eye; And three ethereal forms, divinely fair, Down the steep glade were seen advancing nigh. The flowering glade fell level where they mov'd, O'erarching high the clustering roses hung, And gales from heaven on balmy pinion rov'd, And hill and dale with gratulation rung. The first with slow and stately step drew near, Fix'd was her lofty eye, erect her mien: Sublime in grace, in majesty severe, She look'd and mov'd a goddess and a queen. Her robe along the gale profusely stream'd, Light lean'd the sceptre on her bending arm; And round her brow a starry circlet gleam'd, Heightening the pride of each commanding charm. Milder the next came on with artless grace, And on a javelin's quivering length reclin'd: T' exalt her mien she bade no splendour blaze, Nor pomp of vesture fluctuate on the wind. Serene, though awful, on her brow the light Of heavenly wisdom shone; nor rov'd her eyes, Save to the shadowy cliff's majestic height, Or the blue concave of th' involving skies. Keen were her eyes to search the inmost soul; Yet Virtue triumph'd in their beams benign, And impious Pride oft felt their dread control, When in fierce lightning flash'd the wrath divine. With awe and wonder gaz'd th' adoring swain; His kindling cheek great Virtue's power confess'd; But soon 'twas o'er; for Virtue prompts in vain, Where Pleasure's influence numbs the nerveless breast. And now advanc'd the queen of melting joy, Smiling supreme in unresisted charms. Ah, then, what transports fir'd the trembling boy! How throb'd his sickening frame with fierce alarms! Her eyes in liquid light luxurious swim, And languish with unutterable love: Heaven's warm bloom glows along each brightening limb, Where fluttering bland the veil's thin mantlings rove. Quick, blushing as abash'd, she half withdrew: One hand a bough of flowering myrtle wav'd, One graceful spread, where, scarce conceal'd from view, Soft through the parting robe her bosom heav'd. "Offspring of Jove supreme! belov'd of Heaven! Attend." Thus spoke the empress of the skies. "For know, to thee, high-fated prince, 'tis given Thro' the bright realms of Fame sublime to rise. "Beyond man's boldest hope; if nor the wiles Of Pallas triumph o'er th' ennobling thought; Nor Pleasure lure with artificial smiles To quaff the poison of her luscious draught. "When Juno's charms the prize of beauty claim, Shall aught on Earth, shall aught in Heaven contend? Whom Juno calls to high triumphant fame, Shall he to meaner sway inglorious bend? "Yet lingering comfortless in lonesome wild, Where Echo sleeps mid cavern'd vales profound, The pride of Troy, Dominion's darling child, Pines while the slow hour stalks its sullen round. "Hear thou, of Heaven unconscious! From the blaze Of glory, stream'd from Jove's eternal throne, Thy soul, O mortal, caught th' inspiring rays That to a god exalt earth's raptur'd son. "Hence the bold wish, on boundless pinion borne, That fires, alarms, impels the maddening soul; The hero's eye, hence, kindling into scorn, Blasts the proud menace, and defies control. "But, unimprov'd, Heaven's noblest boons are vain: No sun with plenty crowns th' uncultur'd vale; Where green lakes languish on the silent plain, Death rides the billows of the western gale. "Deep in yon mountain's womb, where the dark cave Howls to the torrent's everlasting roar, Does the rich gem its flashy radiance wave? Or flames with steady ray th' imperial ore? "Toil deck'd with glittering domes yon champaign wide, And wakes yon grove-embosom'd lawns to joy, And rends the rough ore from the mountain's side, Spangling with starry pomp the thrones of Troy. "Fly these soft scenes. Even now, with playful art, Love wreathes thy flowery ways with fatal snare. And nurse th' ethereal fire that warms thy heart, That fire ethereal lives but by thy care. "Lo, hovering near on dark and dampy wing. Sloth with stern patience waits the hour assign'd, From her chill plume the deadly dews to fling, That quench Heaven's beam, and freeze the cheerless mind. "Vain, then, th' enlivening sound of Fame's alarms, For Hope's exulting impulse prompts no more; Vain even the joys that lure to Pleasure's arms, The throb of transport is for ever o'er. "O who shall then to Fancy's darkening eyes Recall th' Elysian dreams of joy and light? Dim through the gloom the formless visions rise, Snatch'd instantaneous down, the gulf of night. "Thou, who securely lull'd in youth's warm ray, Mark'st not the desolations wrought by Time, Be rous'd or perish. Ardent for its prey Speeds the fell hour that ravages thy prime. "And, midst the horrors shrin'd of midnight storm, The fiend Oblivion eyes thee from afar, Black with intolerable frowns her form, Beckoning th' embattled whirlwinds into war. "Fanes, bulwarks, mountains, worlds, their tempest whelms: Yet Glory braves unmov'd th' impetuous sweep. Fly then, ere hurl'd from life's delightful realms, Thou sink t' Oblivion's dark and boundless deep. "Fly then, where Glory points the path sublime: See her crown dazzling with eternal light! 'Tis Juno prompts thy daring steps to climb, And girds thy bounding heart with matchless might. "Warm in the raptures of divine desire, Burst the soft chain that curbs th' aspiring mind; And fly, where Victory, borne on wings of fire, Waves her red banner to the rattling wind. "Ascend the car. Indulge the pride of arms, Where clarions roll their kindling strains on high, Where the eye maddens to the dread alarms, And the long shout tumultuous rends the sky. "Plung'd in the uproar of the thundering field I see thy lofty arm the tempest guide; Fate scatters lightning from thy meteor-shield, And Ruin spreads around the sanguine tide. "Go, urge the terrors of thy headlong car On prostrate Pride, and Grandeur's spoils o'erthrown, While all amaz'd even heroes shrink afar, And hosts embattled vanish at thy frown. "When glory crowns thy godlike toils, and all The triumph's lengthening pomp exalts thy soul, When lowly at thy feet the mighty fall, And tyrants tremble at thy stern control; "When conquering millions hail thy sovereign might, And tribes unknown dread acclamation join; How wilt thou spurn the forms of low delight! For all the ecstasies of heaven are thine: "For thine the joys, that fear no length of days, Whose wide effulgence scorns all mortal bound: Fame's trump in thunder shall announce thy praise, Nor bursting worlds her clarion's blast confound." The goddess ceas'd, not dubious of the prize: Elate she mark'd his wild and rolling eye, Mark'd his lip quiver, and his bosom rise, And his warm cheek suffus'd with crimson dye. But Pallas now drew near. Sublime, serene In conscious dignity, she view'd the swain; Then, love and pity softening all her mien, Thus breathed with accents mild the solemn strain. "Let those, whose arts to fatal paths betray, The soul with passion's gloom tempestuous blind, And snatch from Reason's ken th' auspicious ray Truth darts from Heaven to guide th' exploring mind. "But Wisdom loves the calm and serious hour, When Heaven's pure emanation beams confess'd: Rage, ecstasy, alike disclaim her power, She wooes each gentler impulse of the breast. "Sincere th' unalter'd bliss her charms impart, Sedate th' enlivening ardours they inspire: She bids no transient rapture thrill the heart, She wakes no feverish gust of fierce desire. "Unwise, who, tossing on the watery way, All to the storm th' unfetter'd sail devolve: Man more unwise resigns the mental sway, Borne headlong on by passion's keen resolve. "While storms remote but murmur on thine ear, Nor waves in ruinous uproar round thee roll, Yet, yet a moment check thy prone career, And curb the keen resolve that prompts thy soul. "Explore thy heart, that, rous'd by Glory's name, Pants all enraptur'd with the mighty charm-- And, does Ambition quench each milder flame? And is it conquest that alone can warm? "T' indulge fell Rapine's desolating lust, To drench the balmy lawn in streaming gore, To spurn the hero's cold and silent dust-- Are these thy joys? Nor throbs thy heart for more? "Pleas'd canst thou listen to the patriot's groan, And the wild wail of Innocence forlorn? And hear th' abandon'd maid's last frantic moan, Her love for ever from her bosom torn? "Nor wilt thou shrink, when Virtue's fainting breath Pours the dread curse of vengeance on thy head? Nor when the pale ghost bursts the cave of death, To glare distraction on thy midnight bed? "Was it for this, though born to regal power, Kind Heaven to thee did nobler gifts consign, Bade Fancy's influence gild thy natal hour, And bade Philanthropy's applause be thine? "Theirs be the dreadful glory to destroy, And theirs the pride of pomp, and praise suborn'd, Whose eye ne'er lighten'd at the smile of Joy, Whose cheek the tear of Pity ne'er adorn'd; "Whose soul, each finer sense instinctive quell'd, The lyre's mellifluous ravishment defies; Nor marks where Beauty roves the flowery field, Or Grandeur's pinion sweeps th' unbounded skies. "Hail to sweet Fancy's unexpressive charm! Hail to the pure delights of social love! Hail, pleasures mild, that fire not while ye warm, Nor rack th' exulting frame, but gently move! "But Fancy soothes no more, if stern Remorse With iron grasp the tortur'd bosom wring. Ah then, even Fancy speeds the venom's course, Even Fancy points with rage the maddening sting! "Her wrath a thousand gnashing fiends attend, And roll the snakes, and toss the brands of hell: The beam of Beauty blasts; dark Heavens impend Tottering; and Music thrills with startling yell. "What then avails, that with exhaustless store Obsequious Luxury loads thy glittering shrine? What then avails, that prostrate slaves adore, And Fame proclaims thee matchless and divine? "What though bland Flattery all her arts apply? Will these avail to calm th' infuriate brain? Or will the roaring surge, when heav'd on high, Headlong hang, hush'd, to hear the piping swain? "In health how fair, how ghastly in decay Man's lofty form! how heavenly fair the mind Sublim'd by Virtue's sweet enlivening sway! But ah! to guilt's outrageous rule resign'd, "How hideous and forlorn! when ruthless Care With cankering tooth corrodes the seeds of life, And deaf with passion's storms when pines Despair, And howling furies rouse th' eternal strife. "O, by thy hopes of joy that restless glow, Pledges of Heaven! be taught by Wisdom's lore: With anxious haste each doubtful path forego, And life's wild ways with cautious fear explore. "Straight be thy course; nor tempt the maze that leads Where fell Remorse his shapeless strength conceals: And oft Ambition's dizzy cliff he treads, And slumbers oft in Pleasure's flowery vales. "Nor linger unresolv'd: Heaven prompts the choice; Save when Presumption shuts the ear of Pride: With grateful awe attend to Nature's voice, The voice of Nature Heaven ordain'd thy guide. "Warn'd by her voice the arduous path pursue, That leads to Virtue's fane a hardy band. What, though no gaudy scenes decoy their view, Nor clouds of fragrance roll along the land; "What, though rude mountains heave the flinty way, Yet there the soul drinks light and life divine, And pure aerial gales of gladness play, Brace every nerve, and every sense refine. "Go, prince, be virtuous and be blest. The throne Rears not its state to swell the couch of Lust; Nor dignify Corruption's daring son, T' o'erwhelm his humbler brethren of the dust. "But yield an ampler scene to Bounty's eye, And ampler range to Mercy's ear expand; And 'midst admiring nations, set on high Virtue's fair model, fram'd by Wisdom's hand. "Go then: the moan of Woe demands thine aid; Pride's licens'd outrage claims thy slumbering ire; Pale Genius roams the bleak neglected shade, And battening Avarice mocks his tuneless lyre. "Even Nature pines by vilest chains oppress'd; Th' astonish'd kingdoms crouch to Fashion's nod. O ye pure inmates of the gentle breast, Truth, Freedom, Love, O where is your abode? "O yet once more shall Peace from heaven return, And young Simplicity with mortals dwell! Nor Innocence th' august pavilion scorn, Nor meek Contentment fly the humble cell! "Wilt thou, my prince, the beauteous train implore, Midst earth's forsaken scenes once more to bide? Then shall the shepherd sing in every bower, And Love with garlands wreathe the domes of Pride. "The bright tear starting in th' impassion'd eyes Of silent gratitude; the smiling gaze Of gratulation, faltering while he tries With voice of transport to proclaim thy praise; "Th' ethereal glow that stimulates thy frame, When all th' according powers harmonious move, And wake to energy each social aim, Attun'd spontaneous to the will of Jove; "Be these, O man, the triumphs of thy soul; And all the conqueror's dazzling glories slight, That meteor-like o'er trembling nations roll, To sink at once in deep and dreadful night. "Like thine, yon orb's stupendous glories burn With genial beam; nor at th' approach of even, In shades of horror leave the world to mourn, But gild with lingering light th' empurpled heaven." Thus while she spoke, her eye, sedately meek, Look'd the pure fervour of maternal love. No rival zeal intemperate flush'd her cheek-- Can Beauty's boast the soul of Wisdom move? Worth's noble pride, can Envy's leer appall, Or staring Folly's vain applauses soothe? Can jealous Fear Truth's dauntless heart enthrall? Suspicion lurks not in the heart of Truth. And now the shepherd rais'd his pensive head: Yet unresolv'd and fearful rov'd his eyes, Scared at the glances of the awful maid; For young unpractis'd guilt distrusts the guise Of shameless Arrogance. His wavering breast, Though warm'd by Wisdom, own'd no constant fire; While lawless Fancy roam'd afar, unblest Save in th' oblivious lap of soft Desire. When thus the queen of soul-dissolving smiles. "Let gentle fates my darling prince attend: Joyless and cruel are the warrior's spoils, Dreary the path stern Virtue's sons ascend. "Of human joy full short is the career, And the dread verge still gains upon your sight: While idly gazing, far beyond your sphere, Ye scan the dream of unapproach'd delight; "Till every sprightly hour and blooming scene Of life's gay morn unheeded glides away, And clouds of tempests mount the blue serene, And storm and ruin close the troublous day. "Thou still exult to hail the present joy, Thine be the boon that comes unearn'd by toil; No forward vain desire thy bliss annoy, No flattering hope thy longing hours beguile. "Ah! why should man pursue the charms of Fame, For ever luring, yet forever coy? Light as the gaudy rainbow's pillar'd gleam, That melts illusive from the wondering boy! "What though her throne irradiate many a clime, If hung loose-tottering o'er th' unfathom'd tomb? What though her mighty clarion, rear'd sublime, Display the imperial wreath and glittering plume? "Can glittering plume, or can the imperial wreath Redeem from unrelenting fate the brave? What note of triumph can her clarion breathe, T' alarm th' eternal midnight of the grave? "That night draws on: nor will the vacant hour Of expectation linger as it flies; Nor Fate one moment unenjoy'd restore: Each moment's flight how precious to the wise! "O shun th' annoyance of the bustling throng, That haunt with zealous turbulence the great; Their coward Office boasts th' unpunish'd wrong, And sneaks secure in insolence of state. "O'er fancy'd injury Suspicion pines, And in grim silence gnaws the festering wound; Deceit the rage-embitter'd smile refines, And Censure spreads the viperous hiss around. "Hope not, fond prince, though Wisdom guard thy throne, Though Truth and Bounty prompt each generous aim, Though thine the palm of peace, the victor's crown, The Muse's rapture, and the patriot's flame: "Hope not, though all that captivates the wise, All that endears the good exalt thy praise; Hope not to taste repose; for Envy's eyes At fairest worth still point their deadly rays. "Envy, stern tyrant of the flinty heart, Can aught of Virtue, Truth, or Beauty charm? Can soft Compassion thrill with pleasing smart, Repentance melt, or Gratitude disarm? "Ah no. Where Winter Scythia's waste enchains, And monstrous shapes roar to the ruthless storm, Not Phoebus' smile can cheer the dreadful plains, Or soil accurs'd with balmy life inform. "Then, Envy, then is thy triumphant hour, When mourns Benevolence his baffled scheme; When Insult mocks the clemency of Power, And loud Dissension's livid firebrands gleam; "When squint-ey'd Slander plies th' unhallow'd tongue, From poison'd maw when Treason weaves his line, And Muse apostate (infamy to song!) Grovels, low-muttering, at Sedition's shrine. "Let not my prince forego the peaceful shade, The whispering grove, the fountain, and the plain: Power, with th' oppressive weight of pomp array'd, Pants for simplicity and ease in vain. "The yell of frantic Mirth may stun his ear, But frantic Mirth soon leaves the heart forlorn; And Pleasure flies that high tempestuous sphere; Far different scenes her lucid paths adorn. "She loves to wander on th' untrodden lawn, Or the green bosom of reclining hill, Sooth'd by the careless warbler of the dawn, Or the lone plaint of ever-murmuring rill. "Or from the mountain-glade's aerial brow, While to her song a thousand echoes call, Marks the wild woodland wave remote below, Where shepherds pipe unseen, and waters fall. "Her influence oft the festive hamlet proves, Where the high carol cheers th' exulting ring; And oft she roams the maze of wildering groves, Listening th' unnumber'd melodies of spring. "Or to the long and lonely shore retires; What time, loose-glimmering to the lunar beam, Faint heaves the slumberous wave, and starry fires Gild the blue deep with many a lengthening gleam. "Then, to the balmy bower of Rapture borne, While strings self-warbling breathe Elysian rest, Melts in delicious vision, till the morn Spangle with twinkling dew the flowery waste. "The frolic Moments, purple-pinion'd, dance Around, and scatter roses as they play: And the blithe Graces, hand in hand, advance, Where, with her lov'd compeers, she deigns to stray; "Mild Solitude, in veil of russet dye, Her sylvan spear with moss-grown ivy bound; And Indolence, with sweetly-languid eye, And zoneless robe that trails along the ground; "But chiefly Love--O thou, whose gentle mind Each soft indulgence Nature fram'd to share; Pomp, wealth, renown, dominion, all resign'd, O haste to Pleasure's bower, for Love is there! "Love, the desire of gods! the feast of Heaven: Yet to Earth's favour'd offspring not denied! Ah, let not thankless man the blessing given Enslave to Fame, or sacrifice to Pride! "Nor I from Virtue's call decoy thine ear; Friendly to Pleasure are her sacred laws. Let Temperance' smile the cup of gladness cheer; That cup is death, if he withhold applause. "Far from thy haunt be Envy's baneful sway, And Hate, that works the harass'd soul to storm: But woo Content to breathe her soothing lay, And charm from Fancy's view each angry form. "No savage joy th' harmonious hours profane! Whom Love refines, can barbarous tumult please? Shall rage of blood pollute the sylvan reign? Shall Leisure wanton in the spoils of Peace? "Free let the feathery race indulge the song, Inhale the liberal beam, and melt in love; Free let the fleet hind bound her hills along, And in pure streams the watery nations rove. "To joy in Nature's universal smile Well suits, O man, thy pleasurable sphere; But why should Virtue doom thy years to toil? Ah, why should Virtue's law be deem'd severe? "What meed, Beneficence, thy care repays? What, Sympathy, thy still returning pang? And why his generous arm should Justice raise, To dare the vengeance of a tyrant's fang? "From thankless spite no bounty can secure; Or froward wish of discontent fulfil, That knows not to regret thy bounded power, But blames with keen reproach thy partial will. "To check th' impetuous all-involving tide Of human woes, how impotent thy strife! High o'er thy mounds devouring surges ride, Nor reck thy baffled toils, or lavish'd life. "The bower of bliss, the smile of love be thine, Unlabour'd ease, and leisure's careless dream. Such be their joys, who bend at Venus' shrine, And own her charms beyond compare supreme." Warm'd as she spoke, all panting with delight, Her kindling beauties breathed triumphant bloom; And Cupids flutter'd round in circlets bright, And Flora pour'd from all her stores perfume. "Thine be the prize," exclaim'd th' enraptur'd youth, "Queen of unrivall'd charms, and matchless joy."-- O blind to fate, felicity, and truth!-- But such are they whom Pleasure's snares decoy. The Sun was sunk; the vision was no more: Night downward rush'd tempestuous, at the frown Of Jove's awaken'd wrath; deep thunders roar, The forests howl afar, and mountains groan, And sanguine meteors glare athwart the plain: With horror's scream the Ilian towers resound; Raves the hoarse storm along the bellowing main, And the strong earthquake rends the shuddering ground. This is agreeable to the theology of Homer, who often represents Peace, heaven-descended maid! whose powerful voice From ancient darkness call'd the morn; And hush'd of jarring elements the noise; When Chaos, from his old dominion torn, With all his bellowing throng, Far, far was hurl'd the void abyss along; And all the bright angelic choir Striking through all their ranks th' eternal lyre, Pour'd in loud symphony th' impetuous strain; And every fiery orb and planet sung, And wide, through night's dark solitary reign Rebounding long and deep the lays triumphant rung. Oh whither art thou fled, Saturnian age! Roll round again, majestic years! To break the sceptre of tyrannic rage, From Woe's wan cheek to wipe the bitter tears, Ye years, again roll round! Hark, from afar what desolating sound, While echoes load the sighing gales, With dire presage the throbbing heart assails! Murder deep-rous'd, with all the whirlwind's haste And roar of tempest, from her cavern springs, Her tangled serpents girds around her waist, Smiles ghastly-fierce, and shakes her gore-distilling wings. The shouts redoubling rise In thunder to the skies. The Nymphs disorder'd dart along, Sweet Powers of solitude and song, Stunn'd with the horrors of discordant sound; And all is listening trembling round. Torrents far heard amid the waste of night That oft have led the wanderer right, Are silent at the noise. The mighty ocean's more majestic voice Drown'd in superior din is heard no more; The surge in silence seems to sweep the foamy shore. The bloody banner streaming in the air Seen on yon sky-mix'd mountain's brow, The mingling multitudes, the madding car, Driven in confusion to the plain below, War's dreadful lord proclaim. Bursts out by frequent fits th' expansive flame. Snatch'd in tempestuous eddies flies The surging smoke o'er all the darken'd skies. The cheerful face of heaven no more is seen, The bloom of morning fades to deadly pale, The bat flits transient o'er the dusky green, And night's foul birds along the sullen twilight sail. Involv'd in fire-streak'd gloom the car comes on. The rushing steeds grim Terror guides. His forehead writh'd to a relentless frown, Aloft the angry Power of battles rides: Grasp'd in his mighty hand A mace tremendous desolates the land; The tower rolls headlong down the steep, The mountain shrinks before its wasteful sweep: Chill horror the dissolving limbs invades; Smit by the blasting lightning of his eyes, A deeper gloom invests the howling shades, Stript is the shatter'd grove, and every verdure dies. How startled Frenzy stares, Bristling her ragged hairs! Revenge the gory fragment gnaws; See, with her griping vulture claws Imprinted deep, she rends the mangled wound! Hate whirls her torch sulphureous round; The shrieks of agony, and clang of arms, Reecho to the hoarse alarms Her trump terrific blows. Disparting from behind, the clouds disclose Of kingly gesture a gigantic form, That with his scourge sublime rules the careering storm. Ambition, outside fair! within as foul As fiends of fiercest heart below, Who ride the hurricanes of fire that roll Their thundering vortex o'er the realms of woe. Yon naked waste survey; Where late was heard the flute's mellifluous lay; Where late the rosy-bosom'd hours In loose array danc'd lightly o'er the flowers; Where late the shepherd told his tender tale; And waken'd by the murmuring breeze of morn, The voice of cheerful Labour fill'd the dale; And dove-eyed Plenty smil'd, and wav'd her liberal horn. Yon ruins, sable from the wasting flame, But mark the once resplendent dome; The frequent corse obstructs the sullen stream, And ghosts glare horrid from the sylvan gloom. How sadly silent all! Save where, outstretch'd beneath yon hanging wall, Pale Famine moans with feeble breath, And Anguish yells, and grinds his bloody teeth-- Though vain the Muse, and every melting lay, To touch thy heart, unconscious of remorse! Know, monster, know, thy hour is on the way, I see, I see the years begin their mighty course. What scenes of glory rise Before my dazzled eyes! Young Zephyrs wave their wanton wings, And melody celestial rings: All blooming on the lawn the nymphs advance, And touch the lute, and range the dance; And the blithe shepherds on the mountain's-side, Array'd in all their rural pride, Exalt the festive note, Inviting Echo from her inmost grot-- But ah! the landscape glows with fainter light, It darkens, swims, and flies for ever from my sight. Illusions vain! Can sacred Peace reside Where sordid gold the breast alarms, Where Cruelty inflames the eye of Pride, And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure's arms? Ambition! these are thine: These from the soul erase the form divine; And quench the animating fire, That warms the bosom with sublime desire. Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel, And Hatred triumphs on th' o'erwhelming brow, And midnight Rancour grasps the cruel steel, Blaze the blue flames of death, and sound the shrieks of Woe. From Albion fled, thy once belov'd retreat, What region brightens in thy smile, Creative Peace, and underneath thy feet Sees sudden flowers adorn the rugged soil? In bleak Siberia blows, Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy rose? Wav'd over by thy magic wand Does life inform fell Lybia's burning sand? Or does some isle thy parting flight detain, Where roves the Indian through primeval shades, Haunts the pure pleasures of the sylvan reign, And led by reason's light the path of nature treads. On Cuba's utmost steep Far leaning o'er the deep The Goddess' pensive form was seen. Her robe of Nature's varied green Wav'd on the gale; grief dimm'd her radiant eyes, Her bosom heav'd with boding sighs: She ey'd the main; where, gaining on the view, Emerging from th' ethereal blue, Midst the dread pomp of war, Blaz'd the Iberian streamer from afar. She saw; and, on refulgent pinions borne, Slow wing'd her way sublime, and mingled with the morn. This alludes to the discovery of America by the Spaniards under Memory, be still! why throng upon the thought These scenes so deeply-stain'd with Sorrow's dye? Is there in all thy stores no cheerful draught, To brighten yet once more in Fancy's eye? Yes--from afar a landscape seems to rise, Embellish'd by the lavish hand of Spring; Thin gilded clouds float lightly o'er the skies, And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing. How blest the youth in yonder valley laid! What smiles in every conscious feature play! While to the murmurs of the breezy glade His merry pipe attunes the rural lay. Hail Innocence! whose bosom, all serene, Feels not as yet th' internal tempest roll! O ne'er may Care distract that placid mien! Ne'er may the shades of Doubt o'erwhelm thy soul! Vain wish! for lo, in gay attire conceal'd, Yonder she comes! the heart-inflaming fiend! (Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield?) Swift to her destin'd prey see Passion bend! O smile accurs'd, to hide the worst designs! Now with blithe eye she wooes him to be blest, While round her arm unseen a serpent twines-- And lo, she hurls it hissing at his breast! And, instant, lo, his dizzy eyeball swims Ghastly, and reddening darts a frantic glare; Pain with strong grasp distorts his writhing limbs, And Fear's cold hand erects his frozen hair! Is this, O life, is this thy boasted prime! And does thy spring no happier prospect yield? Why should the sunbeam paint thy glittering clime, When the keen mildew desolates the field? How memory pains! Let some gay theme beguile The musing mind, and soothe to soft delight. Ye images of woe, no more recoil; Be life's past scenes wrapt in oblivious night. Now when fierce Winter, arm'd with wasteful power, Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar, How sweet to sit in this sequester'd bower, To hear, and but to hear, the mingling war! Ambition here displays no gilded toy That tempts on desperate wing the soul to rise Nor Pleasure's paths to wilds of woe decoy, Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's proud disguise. Oft has Contentment cheer'd this lone abode With the mild languish of her smiling eye; Here Health in rosy bloom has often glow'd, While loose-robed Quiet stood enamour'd by. Even the storm lulls to more profound repose; The storm these humble walls assails in vain; The shrub is shelter'd when the whirlwind blows, While the oak's mighty ruin strows the plain. Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies, And toss'd th' infuriate surge, and vales lay waste: Nature thy temporary rage defies; To her relief the gentler Seasons haste. Thron'd in her emerald-car see Spring appear! (As Fancy wills, the landscape starts to view) Her emerald-car the youthful Zephyrs bear, Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue. Around the jocund Hours are fluttering seen; And lo, her rod the rose-lipp'd power extends! And lo, the lawns are deck'd in living green, And Beauty's bright-ey'd train from heaven descends! Haste, happy days, and make all nature glad-- But will all nature joy at your return? O, can ye cheer pale Sickness' gloomy bed, Or dry the tears that bathe th' untimely urn? Will ye one transient ray of gladness dart Where groans the dungeon to the captive's wail? To ease tir'd Disappointment's bleeding heart, Will all your stores of softening balm avail? When stern Oppression in his harpy-fangs From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears, Can ye allay the dying parent's pangs, Whose infant craves relief with fruitless tears? For ah! thy reign, Oppression, is not past. Who from the shivering limbs the vestment rends? Who lays the once-rejoicing village waste, Bursting the ties of lovers and of friends? But hope not, Muse, vainglorious as thou art, With the weak impulse of thy humble strain, Hope not to soften Pride's obdurate heart, When Errol's bright example shines in vain. Then cease the theme. Turn, Fancy, turn thine eye, Thy weeping eye, nor further urge thy flight; Thy haunts, alas! no gleams of joy supply, Or transient gleams, that flash, and sink in night. Yet fain the mind its anguish would forego-- Spread then, historic Muse, thy pictur'd scroll; Bid thy great scenes in all their splendour glow, And rouse to thought sublime th' exulting soul. What mingling pomps rush on th' enraptur'd gaze! Lo, where the gallant navy rides the deep! Here glittering towns their spiry turrets raise! There bulwarks overhang the shaggy steep! Bristling with spears, and bright with burnish'd shields, Th' embattled legions stretch their long array; Discord's red torch, as fierce she scours the fields, With bloody tincture stains the face of day. And now the hosts in silence wait the sign. Keen are their looks whom Liberty inspires. Quick as the Goddess darts along the line, Each breast impatient burns with noble fires. Her form how graceful! In her lofty mien The smiles of love stern wisdom's frown control; Her fearless eye, determin'd though serene, Speaks the great purpose, and th' unconquer'd soul. Mark, where Ambition leads the adverse band, Each feature fierce and haggard, as with pain! With menace loud he cries, while from his hand He vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain. Lo, at his call, impetuous as the storms, Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven; Hatred to madness wrought, each fine deforms, Mounts the black whirlwind, and involves the heaven. Now, Virtue, now thy powerful succour lend, Shield them for Liberty who dare to die-- Ah, Liberty! will none thy cause befriend! Are those thy sons, thy generous sons, that fly! Not Virtue's self, when Heaven its aid denies, Can brace the loosen'd nerves, or warm the heart; Not Virtue's self can still the burst of sighs, When festers in the soul Misfortune's dart. See, where by terror and despair dismay'd, The scattering legions pour along the plain! Ambition's car in bloody spoils array'd Hews its broad way, as Vengeance guides the rein. But who is he, that, by yon lonely brook With woods o'erhung and precipices rude, Lies all abandon'd, yet with dauntless look Sees streaming from his breast the purple flood? Ah, Brutus! ever thine be Virtue's tear! Lo, his dim eyes to Liberty he turns, As scarce-supported on her broken spear O'er her expiring son the Goddess mourns. Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies, From her dishevell'd locks she rends the plume; No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes, And on her tear-stain'd cheek no roses bloom. Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway, Fame's loudest trumpet labours with thy name, For thee the Muse awakes her sweetest lay, And Flattery bids for thee her altars flame. Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone, The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil, Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown, While Guilt's thrill'd bosom leaps at Pleasure's smile; Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell, Far, far remote amid the lowly plain, Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell. Such is man's doom, and Pity weeps in vain. Still grief recoils--How vainly have I strove Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand! Tir'd I submit; but yet, O yet remove, Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand! Yet for awhile let the bewilder'd soul Find in society relief from woe; O yield awhile to Friendship's soft control; Some, respite, Friendship, wilt thou not bestow! Come, then, Philander, whose exalted mind Looks down from far on all that charms the great; For thou canst bear, unshaken and resign'd, The brightest smiles, the blackest frowns of Fate: Come thou, whose love unlimited, sincere, Nor faction cools, nor injury destroys; Who lend'st to Misery's moan a pitying ear, And feel'st with ecstasy another's joys: Who know'st man's frailty; with a favouring eye, And melting heart, behold'st a brother's fall; Who, unenslav'd by Fashion's narrow tie, With manly freedom follow'st Nature's call. And bring thy Delia, sweetly-smiling fair, Whose spotless soul no rankling thoughts deform; Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care, And harmonize the thunder of the storm: Though blest with wisdom, and with wit refin'd, She courts no homage, nor desires to shine; In her each sentiment sublime is join'd To female softness, and a form divine. Come, and disperse th' involving shadows drear; Let chasten'd mirth the social hours employ; O catch the swift-wing'd moment while 'tis near, On swiftest wing the moment flies of joy. Even while the careless disencumber'd soul Sinks all dissolving into pleasure's dream, Even then to time's tremendous verge we roll With headlong haste along life's surgy stream. Can Gayety the vanish'd years restore, Or on the withering limbs fresh beauty shed, Or soothe the sad inevitable hour, Or cheer the dark, dark mansions of the dead? Still sounds the solemn knell in fancy's ear, That call'd Eliza to the silent tomb; To her how jocund roll'd the sprightly year! How shone the nymph in beauty's brightest bloom! Ah! Beauty's bloom avails not in the grave, Youth's lofty mien, nor age's awful grace; Moulder alike unknown the prince and slave, Whelm'd in th' enormous wreck of human race. The thought-fix'd portraiture, the breathing bust, The arch with proud memorials array'd, The long-liv'd pyramid shall sink in dust Fancy from joy still wanders far astray. Ah, Melancholy! how I feel thy power! Long have I labour'd to elude thy sway! But 'tis enough, for I resist no more. The traveller thus, that o'er the midnight-waste Through many a lonesome path is doom'd to roam, Wilder'd and weary sits him down at last; For long the night, and distant far his home. Such, according to Plutarch, was the scene of Brutus's death. Tir'd with the busy crowds, that all the day Impatient throng where Folly's altars flame, My languid powers dissolve with quick decay, 'Till genial Sleep repair the sinking frame. Hail, kind reviver! that canst lull the cares, And every weary sense compose to rest, Lighten th' oppressive load which anguish bears, And warm with hope the cold desponding breast. Touch'd by thy rod, from Power's majestic brow Drops the gay plume; he pines a lowly clown; And on the cold earth stretch'd the son of Woe Quaffs Pleasure's draught, and wears a fancied crown. When rous'd by thee, on boundless pinions borne Fancy to fairy scenes exults to rove, Now scales the cliff gay-gleaming on the morn, Now sad and silent treads the deepening grove; Or skims the main, and listens to the storms, Marks the long waves roll far remote away; Or mingling with ten thousand glittering forms, Floats on the gale, and basks in purest day. Haply, ere long, pierc'd by the howling blast, Through dark and pathless deserts I shall roam, Plunge down th' unfathom'd deep, or shrink aghast Where bursts the shrieking spectre from the tomb: Perhaps loose Luxury's enchanting smile Shall lure my steps to some romantic dale, Where Mirth's light freaks th' unheeded hours beguile, And airs of rapture warble in the gale. Instructive emblem of this mortal state! Where scenes as various every hour arise In swift succession, which the hand of Fate Presents, then snatches from our wondering eyes. Be taught, vain man, how fleeting all thy joys, Thy boasted grandeur, and thy glittering store; Death comes, and all thy fancied bliss destroys, Quick as a dream it fades, and is no more. And, sons of Sorrow! though the threatening storm Of angry Fortune overhang awhile, Let not her frowns your inward peace deform; Soon happier days in happier climes shall smile. Through Earth's throng'd visions while we toss forlorn, 'Tis tumult all, and rage, and restless strife; But these shall vanish like the dreams of morn, When Death awakes us to immortal life. Exults the fluttering heart, O Mortal-born, If Fame pronounce thee beautiful and wise, If pompous blazonry thy name adorn!---- Approach, with trembling awe, where **** lies; And pause; and know thy boasted honours vain. Vain all the gifts that fortune can bestow. Late shone around Her all the gorgeous train, But shine not round the mouldering dust below. Gaz'd at from far by Envy's lifted eye What then avails to deck th' exalted scene, If there the blasting storms of anguish fly, If Frailty there displays her withering mien? But Virtue (sacred plant!) no soil disdains; The plant that Frailty's fiercest frown defies. Retir'd it blooms amid the lowly plains; Or decks the mountain's brow that mates the skies, And there conspicuous forms the Pilgrim's bower, When Sorrow darts direct the feverish ray; And forms his shelter from the tempest's power In stern Oppression's desolating day. This, Grandeur, be thy praise; 'tis more than fame. This praise was Hers; yet not to this confin'd, Hers was th' indulgent soul untaught to blame, Hers all the graces of the mildest mind. Slight is your wound, who mourn a Guardian lost, Though grief's sharp sting now prompts the pious sigh; He lives the friend of man, the Muse's boast, And Bounty's hand shall wipe your streaming eye. But ah! what balm shall heal His bleeding heart, Who for the Friend, and for the Lover mourns! Of all the joys that friendship can impart, When love's divinest flame united burns, Possess'd so late! but now possess'd no more!-- Thus triumphs fate o'er all that charms below; Thus curbs the storm till joy's meridian hour, To wrap the smiling scene in darker woe. Sole object of a Mother's tender care, Could ought of song avail to ease thy pain; Or charm a Parent's, Sister's, Friend's despair; Fain would the Muse attempt some soothing strain. But what can soothe, when Hope denies her aid! Far in the silent depth of yonder gloom, Where the weak lamp wan wavers o'er the dead, She hides in sable dust her sparkling plume. T' enrage their smart, Remembrance wakes severe, And bids the vanish'd years again to roll; Again they seem that soothing voice to hear, Again those looks shoot transport to the soul. The vision flies, and leaves the mind to mourn, Saddening each scene that pleas'd while She was by; For ah! those vanish'd years no more return; Mute the soft voice, and clos'd the gentle eye. Come, Resignation, with uplifted brow, And eye of rapture smiling though in tears; Come, for thou lov'st the silent house of woe, When no fond friend the abandon'd mansion cheers. Come, for 'tis thine to soothe the Mourner's smart, The throbs of hopeless anguish to control, With healing balm to point Death's levell'd dart, And melt in heavenly dreams the parting soul. We mark'd Thy triumphs in that hour of dread; When from Her eyes, that look'd a last adieu, Each weeping friend seem'd vanishing in shade, And darkening slow the swimming scene withdrew. 'Twas then, Her pale cheek caught Thy rapturous smile, Thy cheering whispers calm'd her labouring breast, And hymns of quiring angels charm'd the while; Till the weak frame dissolv'd in endless rest. Laws, as we read in ancient sages, Have been like cobwebs in all ages. Cobwebs for little flies are spread, And laws for little folks are made; But if an insect of renown, Hornet or beetle, wasp or drone, Be caught in quest of sport or plunder, The flimsy fetter flies in sunder. Your simile perhaps may please one With whom wit holds the place of reason: But can you prove that this in fact is Agreeable to life and practice? Then hear, what in his simple way Old Esop told me t'other day. In days of yore, but (which is very odd) Our author mentions not the period, We mortal men, less given to speeches, Allow'd the beasts sometimes to teach us. But now we all are prattlers grown, And suffer no voice but our own: With us no beast has leave to speak, Although his honest heart should break. 'Tis true, your asses and your apes, And other brutes in human shapes, And that thing made of sound and show Which mortals have misnam'd a beau (But in the language of the sky Is call'd a two-legg'd butterfly), Will make your very heartstrings ache With loud and everlasting clack, And beat your auditory drum, But to our story we return: 'Twas early on a Summer morn, A Wolf forsook the mountain-den, And issued hungry on the plain. Full many a stream and lawn he pass'd, And reach'd a winding vale at last; Where from a hollow rock he spy'd The shepherds drest in flowery pride. Garlands were strow'd, and all was gay, To celebrate an holiday. The merry tabor's gamesome sound Provok'd the sprightly dance around. Hard by a rural board was rear'd, On which in fair array appear'd The peach, the apple, and the raisin, And all the fruitage of the season. But, more distinguish'd than the rest, Was seen a wether ready drest, That smoking, recent from the flame, Diffus'd a stomach-rousing steam. Our wolf could not endure the sight, Outrageous grew his appetite: His entrails groan'd with tenfold pain, He lick'd his lips, and lick'd again; At last, with lightning in his eyes, He bounces forth, and fiercely cries, "Shepherds, I am not given to scolding, But now my spleen I cannot hold in. By Jove, such scandalous oppression Would put an elephant in passion. You, who your flocks (as you pretend) By wholesome laws from harm defend, Which make it death for any beast, How much soe'er by hunger press'd, To seize a sheep by force or stealth, For sheep have right to life and health; Can you commit, uncheck'd by shame, What in a beast so much you blame? What is a law, if those who make it Become the forwardest to break it? The case is plain: you would reserve All to yourselves, while others starve. Such laws from base self-interest spring, Not from the reason of the thing--" He was proceeding, when a swain Burst out--"And dares a wolf arraign His betters, and condemn their measures, And contradict their wills and pleasures? We have establish'd laws, 'tis true, But laws are made for such as you. Know, sirrah, in its very nature A law can't reach the legislature. For laws, without a sanction join'd, As all men know, can never bind: But sanctions reach not us the makers, For who dares punish us though breakers? 'Tis therefore plain, beyond denial, That laws were ne'er design'd to tie all; But those, whom sanctions reach alone; We stand accountable to none. Besides, 'tis evident, that, seeing Laws from the great derive their being, They as in duty bound should love The great, in whom they live and move, And humbly yield to their desires: 'Tis just what gratitude requires. What suckling dangled on the lap Would tear away its mother's pap? But hold--Why deign I to dispute With such a scoundrel of a brute? Logic is lost upon a knave. Let action prove the law our slave." An angry nod his will declar'd To his gruff yeoman of the guard; The full-fed mongrels, train'd to ravage, Fly to devour the shaggy savage. The beast had now no time to lose In chopping logic with his foes; "This argument," quoth he, "has force, And swiftness is my sole resource." He said, and left the swains their prey, And to the mountains scour'd away. Bufo, begone! with Thee may Faction's fire, That hatch'd thy salamander-fame, expire. Fame, dirty idol of the brainless crowd, What half-made moon-calf can mistake for good! Since shar'd by knaves of high and low degree; By nature uninspir'd, untaught by art; With not one thought that breathes the feeling heart, With not one offering vow'd to Virtue's shrine, With not one pure unprostituted line; Alike debauch'd in body, soul, and lays;---- For pension'd censure, and for pension'd praise, For ribaldry, for libels, lewdness, lies, For blasphemy of all the Good and Wise; Coarse virulence in coarser doggerel writ, Which bawling blackguards spell'd, and took for wit; For conscience, honour, slighted, spurn'd, o'erthrown;-- Lo, Bufo shines the minion of renown! Is this the land that boasts a Milton's fire, And magic Spenser's wildly-warbling lyre? The land that owns th' omnipotence of song, When Shakspeare whirls the throbbing heart along? The land where Pope, with energy divine, In fine strong blaze bade wit and fancy shine; Whose verse, by Truth in Virtue's triumph borne, Gave knaves to infamy, and fools to scorn; Yet pure in manners, and in thought refin'd, Whose life and lays adorn'd and blest mankind? Is this the land where Gray's unlabour'd art Soothes, melts, alarms, and ravishes the heart; While the lone wanderer's sweet complainings flow In simple majesty of manly woe; Or while, sublime, on eagle-pinion driven, He soars Pindaric heights, and sails the waste of heaven? Is this the land, o'er Shenstone's recent urn Where all the Loves and gentler Graces mourn? And where, to crown the hoary bard of night, The Muses and the Virtues all unite? Is this the land where Akenside displays The bold yet temperate flame of ancient days? Like the rapt Sage, in genius as in theme, Whose hallow'd strain renown'd Ilissus' stream; Or him, th' indignant Bard, whose patriot ire, Sublime in vengeance, smote the dreadful lyre; For truth, for liberty, for virtue warm, Whose mighty song unnerv'd a tyrant's arm, Hush'd the rude roar of discord, rage, and lust, And spurn'd licentious demagogues to dust. Is this the queen of realms! the glorious isle, Britannia, blest in Heaven's indulgent smile! Guardian of truth, and patroness of art, Nurse of th' undaunted soul, and generous heart! Where, from a base unthankful world exil'd, Freedom exults to roam the careless wild; Where taste to science every charm supplies, And genius soars unbounded to the skies! And shall a Bufo's most polluted name Stain her bright tablet of untainted fame! Shall his disgraceful name with theirs be join'd, Who wish'd and wrought the welfare of their kind! His name accurst, who, leagued with * * * * * * and hell, Labour'd to rouse, with rude and murderous yell, Discord the fiend, to toss rebellion's brand, To whelm in rage and woe a guiltless land; To frustrate wisdom's, virtue's noblest plan, And triumph in the miseries of man. Drivelling and dull, when crawls the reptile Muse, Swoln from the sty, and rankling from the stews, With envy, spleen, and pestilence replete, And gorged with dust she lick'd from treason's feet; Who once, like Satan, rais'd to heaven her sight, But tuned abhorrent from the hated light:---- O'er such a Muse shall wreaths of glory bloom! No----shame and execration be her doom. Hard-fated Bufo! could not dulness save Thy soul from sin, from infamy thy grave! Blackmore and Quarles, those blockheads of renown, Lavish'd their ink, but never harm'd the town: Though this, thy brother in discordant song, Harass'd the ear, and cramp'd the labouring tongue; And that, like thee, taught staggering prose to stand, And limp on stilts of rhyme around the land. Harmless they doz'd a scribbling life away, And yawning nations own'd th' innoxious lay: But from thy graceless, rude, and beastly brain What fury breath'd th' incendiary strain? Did hate to vice exasperate thy style? No----Bufo match'd the vilest of the vile. Yet blazon'd was his verse with Virtue's name---- Thus prudes look down to hide their want of shame; Thus hypocrites to truth, and fools to sense, And fops to taste, have sometimes made pretence: Thus thieves and gamesters swear by honour's laws: Thus pension-hunters bawl _their Country's cause_: Thus furious Teague for moderation rav'd, And own'd his soul to liberty enslav'd. Nor yet, though thousand Cits admire thy rage, Though less of fool than felon marks thy page; Nor yet, though here and there one lonely spark Of wit half brightens through th' involving dark, To show the gloom more hideous for the foil, But not repay the drudging reader's toil; (For who for one poor pearl of clouded ray Through Alpine dunghills delves his desperate way?) Did genius to thy verse such bane impart? No. 'Twas the demon of thy venom'd heart, (Thy heart with rancour's quintessence endued) And the blind zeal of a misjudging crowd. Thus from rank soil a poison'd mushroom sprung, Nursling obscene of mildew and of dung; By heaven design'd on its own native spot Harmless t' enlarge its bloated bulk, and rot. But gluttony th' abortive nuisance saw; It rous'd his ravenous undiscerning maw: Gulp'd down the tasteless throat, the mess abhorr'd Shot fiery influence round the maddening board. O had thy verse been impotent as dull, Nor spoke the rancorous heart, but lumpish scull; Had mobs distinguish'd, they who howl'd thy fame, The icicle from the pure diamond's flame, From fancy's soul thy gross imbruted sense, From dauntless truth thy shameless insolence, From elegance confusion's monstrous mass, And from the lion's spoils the skulking ass, From rapture's strain the drawling doggerel line, From warbling seraphim the gruntling swine:---- With gluttons, dunces, rakes, thy name had slept, Nor o'er her sullied fame Britannia wept; Nor had the Muse, with honest zeal possess'd, T' avenge her country by thy name disgrac'd, Rais'd this bold strain for virtue, truth, mankind, And thy fell shade to infamy resign'd. When frailty leads astray the soul sincere, Let Mercy shed the soft and manly tear, When to the grave descends the sensual sot, Unnam'd, unnotic'd, let his carrion rot. When paltry rogues, by stealth, deceit, or force, Hazard their necks, ambitious of your purse; For such the hangman wreathes his trusty gin, And let the gallows expiate their sin. But when a Ruffian, whose portentous crimes Like plagues and earthquakes terrify the times, Triumphs through life, from legal judgment free, For hell may hatch what law could ne'er foresee; Sacred from vengeance shall his memory rest?---- Judas though dead, though damn'd, we still detest. Alceus. See Akenside's Ode on Lyric Poetry. Blow, blow, thou vernal gale! Thy balm will not avail To ease my aching breast; Though thou the billows smooth, Thy murmurs cannot soothe My weary soul to rest. Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream! Infuse the easy dream Into the peaceful soul; But thou canst not compose The tumult of my woes, Though soft thy waters roll. Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers! Beauties surpassing yours My Rosalind adorn; Nor is the winter's blast, That lays your glories waste, So killing as her scorn. Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays, That linger down the maze Of yonder winding grove; O let your soft control Bend her relenting soul To pity and to love. Fade, fade, ye flowerets fair! Gales, fan no more the air! Ye streams forget to glide! Be hush'd, each vernal strain; Since nought can soothe my pain, Nor mitigate her pride. O thou! whose steps in sacred reverence tread These lone dominions of the silent dead; On this sad stone a pious look bestow, Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe; And while the sigh of sorrow heaves thy breast, Let each rebellious murmur be supprest; Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us, how vain! Heaven's wise decrees, how impious, to arraign! Pure from the stains of a polluted age, In early bloom of life, they left the stage: Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath, One moment snatch'd them from the power of Death: They liv'd united, and united died; Happy the friends whom Death cannot divide! Escap'd the gloom of mortal life, a soul Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay, Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll, No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray. Like thee, I once have stemm'd the sea of life; Like thee, have languish'd after empty joys; Like thee, have labour'd in the stormy strife; Been griev'd for trifles, and amus'd with toys. Yet, for awhile, 'gainst Passion's threatful blast Let steady Reason urge the struggling oar; Shot through the dreary gloom, the morn at last Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore. Forget my frailties, thou art also frail; Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall; Nor read, unmov'd, my artless tender tale, I was a friend, O man! to thee, to all. ----"Si quis tamen haec quoque, si quis Captus amore leget." VIRGIL. "O thou! whose bosom inspiration fires! For whom the Muses string their favourite lyres! Though with superior genius blest, yet deign A kind reception to my humbler strain. "When florid youth impell'd, and fortune smil'd, The Vocal Art my languid hours beguil'd. Severer studies now my life engage, Researches dull, that quench poetic rage. "From morn to evening destin'd to explore The verbal critic, and the scholiast's lore, Alas! what beam of heavenly ardor shines In musty lexicons and school-divines! "Yet to the darling object of my heart A short but pleasing retrospect I dart; Revolve the labours of the tuneful choir, And what I cannot imitate admire. "O could my thoughts with all thy spirit glow, As thine melodious could my accents flow; Then thou approving might'st my song attend, Nor in a Blacklock blush to own a friend." Monstro quod ipse tibi possis dare; semita certe Tranquillae per virtutem patet unica vitae. JUVENAL, Sat. x. Hail to the Poet! whose spontaneous lays No pride restrains, nor venal flattery sways. Who nor from Critics, nor from Fashion's laws, Learns to adjust his tribute of applause; But bold to feel, and ardent to impart What nature whispers to the generous heart, Propitious to the Moral Song, commends, For Virtue's sake, the humblest of her friends. Peace to the grumblers of an envious age, Vapid in spleen, or brisk in frothy rage! Critics, who, ere they understand, defame; And friends demure, who only do not blame; And puppet-prattlers, whose unconscious throat Transmits what the pert witling prompts by rote. Pleas'd to their spite or scorn I yield the lays That boast the sanction of a Blacklock's praise. Let others court the blind and babbling crowd: Mine be the favour of the Wise and Good. O Thou, to censure, as to guile unknown! Indulgent to all merit but thy own! Whose soul, though darkness wrap thine earthly frame, Exults in Virtue's pure ethereal flame; Whose thoughts, congenial with the strains on high, The Muse adorns, but cannot dignify; As northern lights, in glittering legions driven, Embellish, not exalt, the starry Heaven: Say Thou, for well thou know'st the art divine To guide the fancy, and the soul refine, What heights of excellence must he ascend, Who longs to claim a Blacklock for his friend; Who longs to emulate thy tuneful art; But more thy meek simplicity of heart; But more thy virtue patient, undismay'd, At once though malice and mischance invade; And, nor by learn'd nor priestly pride confin'd, Thy zeal for truth, and love of human kind. Like thee, with sweet ineffable control, Teach me to rouse or soothe th' impassion'd soul, And breathe the luxury of social woes; Ah! ill-exchanged for all that mirth bestows. Ye slaves of mirth, renounce your boasted plan, For know, 'tis Sympathy exalts the man. But, midst the festive bower, or echoing hall, Can Riot listen to soft Pity's call? Rude he repels the soul-ennobling guest, And yields to selfish joy his harden'd breast. Teach me thine artless harmony of song, Sweet, as the vernal warblings borne along Arcadia's myrtle groves; ere art began, With critic glance malevolent, to scan Bold nature's generous charms, display'd profuse In each warm cheek, and each enraptur'd muse. Then had not Fraud impos'd, in Fashion's name, For freedom lifeless form, and pride for shame; And, for th' o'erflowings of a heart sincere, The feature fix'd, untarnish'd with a tear; The cautious, slow, and unenliven'd eye, And breast inur'd to check the tender sigh. Then love, unblam'd, indulg'd the guiltless smile; Deceit they fear'd not, for they knew not guile. The social sense unaw'd, that scorn'd to own The curb of law, save nature's law alone, To godlike aims, and godlike actions fir'd; And the full energy of thought inspir'd; And the full dignity of pleasure, given T' exalt desire, and yield a taste of heaven. Hail, redolent of heaven, delights sublime! Hail, blooming days, the days of nature's prime! How throbs the tir'd and harass'd heart, to prove Your scenes of pure tranquillity and love! But even to fancy fate that bliss denies; For lo, in endless night the vision dies! Ah, how unlike these scenes of rage and strife, Darkening to horror the bleak waste of life! Where, all inverted nature's kindly plan, Man domineers, the scourge and curse of man. Where, haply, bosom'd in tempestuous floods, Or dark untrodden maze of boundless woods, If yet some land inviolate remain, Nor dread th' oppressor's rod, nor tyrant's chain; Nor dread the more inglorious fetters, wrought By hireling sophistry t' enslave the thought: 'Tis there, 'tis only there, where boastful fame Ne'er stunn'd the tingling ear with Europe's name. Too long, O Europe, have thy oceans roll'd, To glut thy lust of power, and lust of gold; Too long, by glory's empty lure decoy'd, Thy haughty sons have triumph'd and destroy'd: Or led by reasoning pride afar to roam, Where truth's false mimic haunts the sheltering gloom, Have plunged in cheerless night the wilder'd mind, Th' abodes of peace for ever left behind. Unwise, unblest, your own, and nature's foes; O yet be still, and give the world repose! Say, is it fame to dare the deed of death? Is glory nought but flattery's purchas'd breath? True praise, can trembling slaves, can fools bestow? Can that be joy, which works another's woe? Can that be knowledge, which in doubt decays? Can truth reside in disappointment's maze?---- But quench thy kindling zeal, presumptuous strain; Thy zeal how impotent! thy plaint how vain! Hope not thy voice can tame the tempest's rage, Or check in prone career a headlong age. Far different themes must animate their song, Who pant to shine the favourites of a throng. Go, thou fond fool, thou slave to Nature's charms, Whose heart the cause of injur'd Truth alarms; Go, herd in Fashion's sleek and simpering train; And watch the workings of her pregnant brain, Prepar'd a sycophant's applause to pay, As each abortive monster crawls to day. Smit with the painted puppetshow of state, Go learn to gaze, and wonder at the great. Go learn with courtly reverence to admire A taste in toys, a genius in attire, Music of titles, dignity of show, The parrot-courtier, and the monkey-beau; And all the equipage of sticks, and strings, And clouts, and nicknames--merchandise of kings. Or, to amuse the loitering hour of peace, When slander, wit, and spleen from troubling cease, Warble th' unmeaning hymn in Folly's ear; Such hymns unthinking Folly loves to hear. Smooth flow thy lays, infusing as they roll A deep oblivious lethargy of soul: Let rill and gale glide liquidly along, While not one ruffling thought obstructs the song; So shall the gallant and the gay rehearse The gentle strain, and call it charming verse. But if an ampler field thine ardour claim, Even realms and empires to resound thy name; Strive not on Fancy's soaring wing to rise; The plodding rabble gaze not on the skies; Far humbler regions bound their grovelling view, And humbler tracts their minion must pursue. There are, who, grabbling in the putrid lake, The glittering ore from filth and darkness rake; Like spoils from Politics thou may'st derive: The theme is dirty, dark, and lucrative. Yet ah! even here the spoils are hard to win, For strong and subtle are thy foes within. The pangs of sentiment, the qualms of taste, And shame, dire inmate of the Scribbler's breast, The stings of conscience, and the throbs of pride, (Hard task) must all be vanquish'd or defy'd. Then go, whate'er thy wit, whate'er thy style, Defame the good, and deify the vile; Fearless and frontless flounce into renown, For mobs and prudes by impudence are won. Though Providence, still merciful and just, Who dooms the snake to wallow in the dust, Oft curb with grovelling impotence of mind The venal venom of the rancorous kind; Yet fear not; Faction's torch of sulphurous gleam Shall fire the heart that feels not Fancy's beam. Thus ... arose distinguish'd in the throng, Thus Bufo plied a profitable song. Proceed, Great Years, with steady glare to shine Where guilt and folly bend at Fashion's shrine; And ye, the vain and shameless of our days, Approach with songs, and worship in the blaze. For him, alas! who never learn'd the art To stifle conscience, and a throbbing heart; Who, though too proud to mingle in the fray Whence truth and virtue bear no palms away, Yet views with pity Folly's bustling scene, Th' ambitious sick with hope, the rich with spleen, The great exulting in a joyless prize, Yea pities even the fop he must despise;---- For him what then remains?--The humble shed, Th' ennobling converse of the awful Dead, Beauty's pure ray diffus'd from Nature's face, Fancy's sweet charm, and Truth's majestic grace. Truth, not of hard access, or threatening mien, As by the vain unfeeling wrangler seen; But bland and gentle as the early ray, That gilds the wilderness, and lights the way; The messenger of joy to man below, Friend of our frailty, solace of our woe. Thus by Heaven's bounty rich shall he repine, If others in the toys of Fortune shine? Needs he a title to exalt his race, Who from th' Eternal his descent can trace? Or fame's loud trump to stun him to repose, Whose soul resign'd no guilty tumult knows? To roam with toil, in restless uproar hurl'd, One little corner of a little world; Can this enlarge or dignify the soul, Whose wing unwearied darts from pole to pole? Can glowworms glitter on the car of morn, Or gold the progeny of heaven adorn? How long, enamour'd of fictitious joy, Shall false desire the lavish'd hour employ! How long with random steps shall mortals roam, Unknown their path, and more unknown their home! Ah! still delusive the vain pleasure flies, Or, grasp'd, insults our baffled hope, and dies. Meanwhile behind, with renovated force, Care and disgust pursue our slackening course, And shall o'ertake; even in the noon of age, Long ere the sting of Anguish cease to rage, And long ere Death, sole friend of the distrest, Dismiss the pilgrim to eternal rest. Thus, wayward hope still wandering from within, Lur'd by the phantoms of th' external scene; We scorn, what heaven our only bliss design'd The humble triumph of a tranquil mind; And that alone pursue which Fortune brings, Th' applause of multitudes, or smile of kings. But ah! can these, or those afford delight? Can man be happy in his Maker's spite? Vain thankless man, averse to Nature's sway, Feels every moment that he must obey. Close and more closely clasp the stubborn chains, And each new struggle rouses keener pains. Thus stung with appetite, with anguish torn, Urged by despair still more and more forlorn, Till each fantastic hope expire in woe, And the cold cheerless heart forget to glow, We perish, muttering this unrighteous strain, "Joy was not made for man, and life is vain." Sweet peace of heart, from false desire refin'd, That pour'st elysian sunshine on the mind, O come, bid each tumultuous wish be still, And bend to nature's law each froward will. Let Hope's wild wing ne'er stoop to Fortune's sphere; For terror, anguish, discontent are there; But soar with strong and steady flight sublime, Where disappointment never dar'd to climb. O come, serenely gay, and with thee bring The vital breath of heaven's eternal spring; Th' amusive dream of blameless fancy born, The calm oblivious night, and sprightly morn. Bring Resignation, undebas'd with fear; And Melancholy, serious, not severe; And Fortitude, by chance nor time controll'd, Meek with the gentle, with the haughty bold; Devotion deck'd in smiles of filial love; And Thought, conversing with the worlds above. So shall my days nor vain nor joyless roll, Nor with regret survey th' approaching goal; Too happy, if I gain that noblest prize, The well-earn'd favour of the Good and Wise. Why, lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow With the dread semblance of that warlike helm, That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That grac'd the chiefs of Scotia's ancient realm? Thou know'st that Virtue is of power the source, And all her magic to thy eyes is given; We own their empire, while we feel their force, Beaming with the benignity of heaven. The plumy helmet, and the martial mien, Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far th' Idalian queen-- Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms, Bathyllus, in yonder lone grove All carelessly let us recline: To shade us the branches above Their leaf-waving tendrils combine; While a streamlet inviting repose Soft murmuring wanders away, And gales warble wild through the boughs: Who there would not pass the sweet day? Mother of mighty Rome's imperial line, Delight of man, and of the powers divine, Venus all bounteous queen! whose genial power Diffuses beauty in unbounded store Through seas, and fertile plains, and all that lies Beneath the starr'd expansion of the skies. Prepar'd by thee, the embryo springs to day, And opes its eyelids on the golden ray. At thy approach the clouds tumultuous fly, And the hush'd storms in gentle breezes die; Flowers instantaneous spring; the billows sleep; A wavy radiance smiles along the deep; At thy approach, th' untroubled sky refines, And all serene Heaven's lofty concave shines. Soon as her blooming form the Spring reveals, And Zephyr breathes his warm prolific gales, The feather'd tribes first catch the genial flame, And to the groves thy glad return proclaim. Thence to the beasts the soft infection spreads; The raging cattle spurn the grassy meads, Burst o'er the plains, and frantic in their course Cleave the wild torrents with resistless force. Won by thy charms thy dictates all obey, And eager follow where thou lead'st the way. Whatever haunts the mountains, or the main, The rapid river, or the verdant plain, Or forms its leafy mansion in the shades, All, all thy universal power pervades, Each panting bosom melts to soft desires, And with the love of propagation fires. And since thy sovereign influence guides the reins Of nature, and the universe sustains; Since nought without thee bursts the bonds of night, To hail the happy realms of heavenly light; Since love, and joy, and harmony are thine, Guide me, O goddess, by thy power divine, And to my rising lays thy succour bring, While I the universe attempt to sing. O, may my verse deserv'd applause obtain Of him, for whom I try the daring strain, My Memmius, him, whom thou profusely kind Adorn'st with every excellence refin'd. And that immortal charms my song may grace, Let war, with all its cruel labours, cease; O hush the dismal din of arms once more, And calm the jarring world from shore to shore. By thee alone the race of man foregoes The rage of blood, and sinks in soft repose: For mighty Mars, the dreadful god of arms, Who wakes or stills the battle's dire alarms, In love's strong fetters by thy charms is bound, And languishes with an eternal wound. Oft from his bloody toil the god retires To quench in thy embrace his fierce desires, Soft on thy heaving bosom he reclines And round thy yielding neck transported twines; There fix'd in ecstasy intense surveys Thy kindling beauties with insatiate gaze, Grows to thy balmy mouth, and ardent sips Celestial sweets from thy ambrosial lips. O, while the god with fiercest raptures blest Lies all dissolving on thy sacred breast, O breathe thy melting whispers to his ear, And bid him still the loud alarms of war. In these tumultuous days, the Muse, in vain, Her steady tenour lost, pursues the strain, And Memmius' generous soul disdains to taste The calm delights of philosophic rest; Paternal fires his beating breast inflame To rescue Rome, and vindicate her name. Rectins vives, Licini---- Wouldst thou through life securely glide; Nor boundless o'er the ocean ride; Nor ply too near th' insidious shore, Scar'd at the tempest's threat'ning roar. The man, who follows Wisdom's voice, And makes the golden mean his choice, Nor plung'd in antique gloomy cells Midst hoary desolation dwells; Nor to allure the envious eye Rears his proud palace to the sky. The pine, that all the grove transcends, With every blast the tempest rends; Totters the tower with thund'rous sound, And spreads a mighty ruin round; Jove's bolt with desolating blow Strikes the ethereal mountain's brow. The man, whose steadfast soul can bear Fortune indulgent or severe, Hopes when she frowns, and when she smiles With cautious fear eludes her wiles. Jove with rude winter wastes the plain, Jove decks the rosy spring again. Life's former ills are overpast, Nor will the present always last. Now Phoebus wings his shafts, and now He lays aside th' unbended bow, Strikes into life the trembling string, And wakes the silent Muse to sing. With unabating courage, brave Adversity's tumultuous wave; When too propitious breezes rise, And the light vessel swiftly flies, With timid caution catch the gale, And shorten the distended sail. Blandusia! more than crystal clear! Whose soothing murmurs charm the ear! Whose margin soft with flowerets crown'd Invites the festive band around, Their careless limbs diffus'd supine, To quaff the soul-enlivening wine. To thee a tender kid I vow, That aims for fight his budding brow; In thought, the wrathful combat proves, Or wantons with his little loves: But vain are all his purpos'd schemes, Delusive all his flattering dreams, To-morrow shall his fervent blood Stain the pure silver of thy flood. When fiery Sirius blasts the plain, Untouch'd thy gelid streams remain. To thee the fainting flocks repair, To taste thy cool reviving air; To thee the ox with toil opprest, And lays his languid limbs to rest. As springs of old renown'd, thy name, Blest fountain! I devote to fame; Thus while I sing in deathless lays The verdant holm, whose waving sprays, Thy sweet retirement to defend, High o'er the moss-grown rock impend, Whence prattling in loquacious play Thy sprightly waters leap away. Non ita certandi cupidus, quam propter amorem Quod te imitari aveo---- LUCRET. lib. iii. Where the broad beech an ample shade displays, Your slender reed resounds the sylvan lays, O happy Tityrus! while we, forlorn, Driven from our lands, to distant climes are borne, Stretch'd careless in the peaceful shade you sing, And all the groves with Amaryllis ring. This peace to a propitious God I owe; None else, my friend, such blessings could bestow. Him will I celebrate with rites divine, And frequent lambs shall stain his sacred shrine. By him, these feeding herds in safety stray; By him, in peace I pipe the rural lay. I envy not, but wonder at your fate, That no alarms invade this blest retreat; While neighbouring fields the voice of woe resound, And desolation rages all around. Worn with fatigue I slowly onward bend, And scarce my feeble fainting goats attend. My hand this sickly dam can hardly bear, Whose young new-yean'd (ah once an hopeful pair!) Amid the tangling hazels as they lay, On the sharp flint were left to pine away. These ills I had foreseen, but that my mind To all portents and prodigies was blind. Oft have the blasted oaks foretold my woe; And often has the inauspicious crow, Perch'd on the wither'd holm, with fateful cries Scream'd in my ear her dismal prophecies. But say, O Tityrus, what god bestows This blissful life of undisturb'd repose? Imperial Rome, while yet to me unknown, I vainly liken'd to our country-town, Our little Mantua, at which is sold The yearly offspring of our fruitful fold: As in the whelp the father's shape appears, And as the kid its mother's semblance bears. Thus greater things my inexperienc'd mind Rated by others of inferior kind. But she, midst other cities, rears her head High, as the cypress overtops the reed. And why to visit Rome was you inclin'd? 'Twas there I hoped my liberty to find. And there my liberty I found at last, Though long with listless indolence opprest; Yet not till Time had silver'd o'er my hairs, And I had told a tedious length of years; Nor till the gentle Amaryllis charm'd, And Galatea's love no longer warm'd. For (to my friend I will confess the whole) While Galatea captive held my soul, Languid and lifeless all I dragg'd the chain, Neglected liberty, neglected gain. Though from my fold the frequent victim bled, Though my fat cheese th' ungrateful city fed, For this I ne'er perceiv'd my wealth increase: I lavish'd all her haughty heart to please. Why Amaryllis pin'd, and pass'd away, In lonely shades the melancholy day; Why to the gods she breath'd incessant vows; For whom her mellow apples press'd the boughs So late, I wonder'd--Tityrus was gone, And she (ah luckless maid!) was left alone. Your absence every warbling fountain mourn'd, And woods and wilds the wailing strains return'd. What could I do? to break th' enslaving chain All other efforts had (alas!) been vain; Nor durst my hopes presume, but there, to find The gods so condescending and so kind. 'Twas there these eyes the Heaven-born youth beheld, To whom our altars monthly incense yield: My suit he even prevented, while he spoke, "Manure your ancient farm, and feed your former flock." Happy old man! then shall your lands remain, Extent sufficient for th' industrious swain! Though bleak and bare yon ridgy rocks arise, And lost in lakes the neighbouring pasture lies. Your herds on wonted grounds shall safely range, And never feel the dire effects of change. No foreign flock shall spread infecting bane To hurt your pregnant dams, thrice happy swain! You by known streams and sacred fountains laid Shall taste the coolness of the fragrant shade. Beneath yon fence, where willow-boughs unite, And to their flowers the swarming bees invite, Oft shall the lulling hum persuade to rest, And balmy slumbers steal into your breast; While warbled from this rock the pruner's lay In deep repose dissolves your soul away; High on yon elm the turtle wails alone, And your lov'd ringdoves breathe a hoarser moan. The nimble harts shall graze in empty air, And seas retreating leave their fishes bare, The German dwell where rapid Tigris flows, The Parthian banish'd by invading foes Shall drink the Gallic Arar, from my breast Ere his majestic image be effac'd. But we must travel o'er a length of lands, O'er Scythian snows, or Afric's burning sands; Some wander where remote Oaexes laves The Cretan meadows with his rapid waves: In Britain some, from every comfort torn, From all the world remov'd, are doom'd to mourn. When long long years have tedious roll'd away, Ah! shall I yet at last, at last, survey My dear paternal lands, and dear abode, Where once I reign'd in walls of humble sod! These lands, these harvests must the soldier share! For rude barbarians lavish we our care! How are our fields become the spoil of wars! How are we ruin'd by intestine jars! Now, Meliboeus, now ingraff the pear, Now teach the vine its tender sprays to rear!-- Go, then, my goats!--go, once an happy store! Once happy!--happy now (alas!) no more! No more shall I, beneath the bowery shade In rural quiet indolently laid, Behold you from afar the cliffs ascend, And from the shrubby precipice depend; No more to music wake my melting flute, While on the thyme you feed, and willow's wholesome shoot. This night at least with me you may repose On the green foliage, and forget your woes. Apples and nuts mature our boughs afford, And curdled milk in plenty crowns my board. Now from yon hamlets clouds of smoke arise, And slowly roll along the evening skies; And see projected from the mountain's brow A lengthen'd shade obscures the plain below. The refinements of Taubmannus, De La Cerda, and others, who will Young Corydon for fair Alexis pin'd, But hope ne'er gladden'd his desponding mind; Nor vows nor tears the scornful boy could move, Distinguish'd by his wealthier master's love. Oft to the beech's deep embowering shade Pensive and sad this hapless shepherd stray'd; There told in artless verse his tender pain To echoing hills and groves, but all in vain. In vain the flute's complaining lays I try; But am I doom'd, unpitying boy, to die? Now to faint flocks the grove a shade supplies, And in the thorny brake the lizard lies; Now Thestylis with herbs of savoury taste Prepares the weary harvest-man's repast; And all is still, save where the buzzing sound Of chirping grasshoppers is heard around; While I expos'd to all the rage of heat Wander the wilds in search of thy retreat. Was it not easier to support the pain I felt from Amaryllis' fierce disdain? Easier Menalcas' cold neglect to bear, Black though he was, though thou art blooming fair? Yet be relenting, nor too much presume, O beauteous boy, on thy celestial bloom; The sable violet yields a precious dye, While useless on the field the withering lilies lie. Ah, cruel boy! my love is all in vain, No thoughts of thine regard thy wretched swain. How rich my flock thou carest not to know, Nor how my pails with generous milk o'erflow. With bleat of thousand lambs my hills resound, And all the year my milky stores abound. Not Amphion's lays were sweeter than my song, Those lays that led the listening herds along. And if the face be true I lately view'd, Where calm and clear th' uncurling ocean stood, I lack not beauty, nor could'st thou deny, That even with Daphnis I may dare to vie. O deign at last amid these lonely fields To taste the pleasures which the country yields; With me to dwell in cottages resign'd, To roam the woods, to shoot the bounding hind; With me the weanling kids from home to guide To the green mallows on the mountain side; With me in echoing groves the song to raise, And emulate even Pan's celestial lays. Pan taught the jointed reed its tuneful strain, Pan guards the tender flock, and shepherd swain. Nor grudge, Alexis, that the rural pipe So oft has stain'd the roses of thy lip: How did Amyntas strive thy skill to gain! How grieve at last to find his labour vain! Of seven unequal reeds a pipe I have, The precious gift which good Damoetas gave; "Take this," the dying shepherd said, "for none Inherits all my skill but thou alone." He said; Amyntas murmurs at my praise, And with an envious eye the gift surveys. Besides, as presents for my soul's delight, Two beauteous kids I keep bestreak'd with white, Nourish'd with care, nor purchas'd without pain; An ewe's full udder twice a day they drain. These to obtain oft Thestylis hath tried Each winning art, while I her suit denied; But I at last shall yield what she requests, Since thy relentless pride my gifts detests. Come, beauteous boy, and bless my rural bowers, For thee the nymphs collect the choicest flowers; Fair Nais culls amid the bloomy dale The drooping poppy, and the violet pale, To marygolds the hyacinth applies, Shading the glossy with the tawny dyes: Narcissus' flower with daffodil entwin'd, And cassia's breathing sweets to these are join'd. With every bloom that paints the vernal grove, And all to form a garland for my love. Myself with sweetest fruits will crown thy feast; The luscious peach shall gratify thy taste, And, chestnut brown (once high in my regard, For Amaryllis this to all preferr'd; But if the blushing plum thy choice thou make, The plum shall more be valued for thy sake.) The myrtle wreath'd with laurel shall exhale A blended fragrance to delight thy smell. Ah Corydon! thou rustic, simple swain! Thyself, thy prayers, thy offers all are vain. How few, compar'd with rich Iolas' store, Thy boasted gifts, and all thy wealth how poor! Wretch that I am! while thus I pine forlorn, And all the livelong day inactive mourn, The boars have laid my silver fountains waste, My flowers are fading in the southern blast.-- Fly'st thou, ah foolish boy, the lonesome grove? Yet gods for this have left the realms above. Paris with scorn the pomp of Troy survey'd, And sought th' Idaean bowers and peaceful shade, In her proud palaces let Pallas shine; The lowly woods, and rural life be mine. The lioness all dreadful in her course Pursues the wolf, and he with headlong force Flies at the wanton goat, that loves to climb The cliff's steep side, and crop the flowering thyme; Thee Corydon pursues, O beauteous boy: Thus each is drawn along by some peculiar joy. Now evening soft comes on; and homeward now From field the weary oxen bear the plough. The setting Sun now beams more mildly bright, The shadows lengthening with the level light. While with love's flame my restless bosom glows. For love no interval of ease allows. Ah Corydon! to weak complaints a prey! What madness thus to waste the fleeting day! Be rous'd at length; thy half-prun'd vines demand The needful culture of thy curbing hand. Haste, lingering swain, the flexile willows weave, And with thy wonted care thy wants relieve. Forget Alexis' unrelenting scorn, Another love thy passion will return. The chief excellency of this poem consists in its delicacy and simplicity. Corydon addresses his favourite in such a purity of sentiment as one would think might effectually discountenance the O tantum libeat libeat------ O deign at last amid these lonely fields, &c. It appears to have been no other than that friendship, which was To whom belongs this flock, Damoetas, pray: No; the other day The shepherd AEgon gave it me to keep. Ah still neglected, still unhappy sheep! He plies Neaera with assiduous love, And fears lest she my happier flame approve; Meanwhile this hireling wretch (disgrace to swains!) Defrauds his master, and purloins his gains, Milks twice an hour, and drains the famish'd dams, Whose empty dugs in vain attract the lambs. Forbear on men such language to bestow. Thee, stain of manhood! thee full well I know. I know, with whom--and where-- (their grove defil'd The nymphs reveng'd not, but indulgent smil'd) And how the goats beheld, then browsing near, The shameful sight with a lascivious leer. No doubt, when Mycon's tender trees I broke, And gash'd his young vines with a blunted hook. Or when conceal'd behind this ancient row Of beech, you broke young Daphnis' shafts and bow, With sharpest pangs of rancorous anguish stung To see the gift conferr'd on one so young; And had you not thus wreak'd your sordid spite, Of very envy you had died outright. Gods! what may masters dare, when such a pitch Of impudence their thievish hirelings reach: Did I not, wretch (deny it if you dare), Did I not see you Damon's goat ensnare? Lycisca bark'd; then I the felon spy'd, And "Whither slinks yon sneaking thief?" I cried. The thief discover'd straight his prey forsook, And skulk'd amid the sedges of the brook. That goat my pipe from Damon fairly gain'd; A match was set, and I the prize obtain'd. He own'd it due to my superior skill, And yet refus'd his bargain to fulfil. By your superior skill--the goat was won! Have you a jointed pipe, indecent clown! Whose whizzing straws with harshest discord jarr'd, As in the streets your wretched rhymes you marr'd. Boasts are but vain. I'm ready, when you will, To make a solemn trial of our skill. I stake this heifer, no ignoble prize; Two calves from her full udder she supplies, And twice a day her milk the pail o'erflows; What pledge of equal worth will you expose? Ought from the flock I dare not risk; I fear A cruel stepdame, and a sire severe, Who of their store so strict a reckoning keep, That twice a day they count the kids and sheep. But, since you purpose to be mad to-day, Two beechen cups I scruple not to lay, (Whose far superior worth yourself will own) The labour'd work of fam'd Alcimedon. Rais'd round the brims by the engraver's care The flaunting vine unfolds its foliage fair; Entwin'd the ivy's tendrils seem to grow, Half-hid in leaves its mimic berries glow; Two figures rise below, of curious frame, Conon, and--what's that other sage's name, Who with his rod describ'd the world's vast round, Taught when to reap, and when to till the ground? At home I have reserv'd them unprofan'd, No lip has e'er their glossy polish stain'd. Two cups for me that skilful artist made; Their handles with acanthus are array'd; Orpheus is in the midst, whose magic song Leads in tumultuous dance the lofty groves along. At home I have reserv'd them unprofan'd, No lip has e'er their glossy polish stain'd. But my pledg'd heifer if aright you prize, The cups so much extoll'd you will despise. These arts, proud boaster, all are lost on me; To any terms I readily agree. You shall not boast your victory to-day, Let him be judge who passes first this way: And see the good Palaemon! trust me, swain, You'll be more cautious how you brag again. Delays I brook not; if you dare, proceed; At singing no antagonist I dread. Palaemon, listen to th' important songs, To such debates attention strict belongs. Sing, then. A couch the flowery herbage yields; Now blossom all the trees, and all the fields; And all the woods their pomp of foliage wear, And Nature's fairest robe adorns the blooming year. Damoetas first th' alternate lay shall raise: Th' inspiring Muses love alternate lays. Jove first I sing; ye Muses, aid my lay; All Nature owns his energy and sway; The Earth and Heavens his sovereign bounty share, And to my verses he vouchsafes his care. With great Apollo I begin the strain, For I am great Apollo's favourite swain: For him the purple hyacinth I wear, And sacred bay to Phoebus ever dear. The sprightly Galatea at my head An apple flung, and to the willows fled; But as along the level lawn she flew, The wanton wish'd not to escape my view. I languish'd long for fair Amyntas' charms, But now he comes unbidden to my arms, And with my dogs is so familiar grown, That my own Delia is no better known. I lately mark'd where midst the verdant shade Two parent-doves had built their leafy bed; I from the nest the young will shortly take, And to my love an handsome present make. Ten ruddy wildings, from a lofty bough, That through the green leaves beam'd with yellow glow I brought away, and to Amyntas bore; To-morrow I shall send as many more. Ah the keen raptures! when my yielding fair Breath'd her kind whispers to my ravish'd ear! Waft, gentle gales, her accents to the skies, That gods themselves may hear with sweet surprise. What though I am not wretched by your scorn? Say, beauteous boy, say can I cease to mourn, If, while I hold the nets, the boar you face, And rashly brave the dangers of the chase. Send Phyllis home, Iolas, for to-day I celebrate my birth, and all is gay; When for my crop the victim I prepare, Iolas in our festival may share. Phyllis I love; she more than all can charm, And mutual fires her gentle bosom warm: Tears, when I leave her, bathe her beauteous eyes, "A long, a long adieu, my love!" she cries. The wolf is dreadful to the woolly train, Fatal to harvests is the crushing rain, To the green woods the winds destructive prove, To me the rage of mine offended love. The willow's grateful to the pregnant ewes, Showers to the corns, to kids the mountain-brows; More grateful far to me my lovely boy, In sweet Amyntas centres all my joy. Even Pollio deigns to hear my rural lays; And cheers the bashful Muse with generous praise; Ye sacred Nine, for your great patron feed A beauteous heifer of the noblest breed. Pollio, the art of heavenly song adorns; Then let a bull be bred with butting horns, And ample front, that bellowing spurns the ground, Tears up the turf, and throws the sands around. Him whom my Pollio loves may nought annoy. May he like Pollio every wish enjoy. O may his happy lands with honey flow, And on his thorns Assyrian roses blow! Who hates not foolish Bavius, let him love Thee, Maevius, and thy tasteless rhymes approve! Nor needs it thy admirer's reason shock To milk the he-goats, and the foxes yoke. Ye boys, on garlands who employ your care, And pull the creeping strawberries, beware, Fly for your lives, and leave that fatal place, A deadly snake lies lurking in the grass. Forbear, my flocks, and warily proceed, Nor on that faithless bank securely tread; The heedless ram late plung'd amid the pool, And in the sun now dries his reeking wool. Ho, Tityrus! lead back the browsing flock, And let them feed at distance from the brook; At bathing-time I to the shade will bring My goats, and wash them in the cooling spring. Haste, from the sultry lawn the flocks remove To the cool shelter of the shady grove; When burning noon the curdling udder dries, Th' ungrateful teats in vain the shepherd plies. How lean my bull in yonder mead appears, Though the fat soil the richest pasture bears; Ah Love! thou reign'st supreme in every heart, Both flocks and shepherds languish with thy dart. Love has not injur'd my consumptive flocks, Yet bare their bones, and faded are their looks: What envious eye hath squinted on my dams, And sent its poison to my tender lambs! Say in what distant land the eye descries But three short ells of all th' expanded skies; Tell this, and great Apollo be your name; Your skill is equal, equal be your fame. Say in what soil a wondrous flower is born, Whose leaves the sacred names of kings adorn: Tell this, and take my Phyllis to your arms, And reign the unrivall'd sovereign of her charms. 'Tis not for me these high disputes to end; Each to the heifer justly may pretend. Such be their fortune, who so well can sing, From love what painful joys, what pleasing torments spring. Now, boys, obstruct the course of yonder rill, The meadows have already drunk their fill. Throughout the whole of this altercation, notwithstanding the The abruptness and obscurity of the original is here imitated. Sicilian Muse, sublimer strains inspire, And warm my bosom with diviner fire! All take not pleasure in the rural scene, In lowly tamarisks, and forests green. If sylvan themes we sing, then let our lays Deserve a consul's ear, a consul's praise. The age comes on, that future age of gold In Cuma's mystic prophecies foretold. The years begin their mighty course again, The Virgin now returns, and the Saturnian reign. Now from the lofty mansions of the sky To Earth descends an heaven-born progeny. Thy Phoebus reigns, Lucina, lend thine aid, Nor be his birth, his glorious birth delay'd! An iron race shall then no longer rage, But all the world regain the golden age. This child, the joy of nations, shall be born Thy consulship, O Pollio, to adorn: Thy consulship these happy times shall prove, And see the mighty months begin to move: Then all our former guilt shall be forgiven, And man shall dread no more th' avenging doom of Heaven. The son with heroes and with gods shall shine, And lead, enroll'd with them, the life divine. He o'er the peaceful nations shall preside, And his sire's virtues shall his sceptre guide. To thee, auspicious babe, th' unbidden earth Shall bring the earliest of her flowery birth; Acanthus soft in smiling beauty gay, The blossom'd bean, and ivy's flaunting spray. Th' untended goats shall to their homes repair, And to the milker's hand the loaded udder bear. The mighty lion shall no more be fear'd, But graze innoxious with the friendly herd. Sprung from thy cradle fragrant flowers shall spread, And, fanning bland, shall wave around thy head. Then shall the serpent die, with all his race: No deadly herb the happy soil disgrace: Assyrian balm on every bush shall bloom, And breathe in every gale its rich perfume. But when thy father's deeds thy youth shall fire, And to great actions all thy soul inspire, When thou shalt read of heroes and of kings, And mark the glory that from virtue springs; Then boundless o'er the far-extended plain, Shall wave luxuriant crops of golden grain, With purple grapes the loaded thorn shall bend, And streaming honey from the oak descend: Nor yet old fraud shall wholly be effac'd; Navies for wealth shall roam the watery waste; Proud cities fenc'd with towery walls appear, And cruel shares shall earth's soft bosom tear: Another Tiphys o'er the swelling tide With steady skill the bounding ship shall guide: Another Argo with the flower of Greece From Colchos' shore shall waft the golden fleece; Again the world shall hear war's loud alarms, And great Achilles shine again in arms. When riper years thy strengthen'd nerves shall brace, And o'er thy limbs diffuse a manly grace, The mariner no more shall plough the deep, Nor load with foreign wares the trading ship, Each country shall abound in every store, Nor need the products of another shore. Henceforth no plough shall cleave the fertile ground, No pruning-hook the tender vine shall wound; The husbandman, with toil no longer broke, Shall loose his ox for ever from the yoke. No more the wool a foreign dye shall feign, But purple flocks shall graze the flowery plain, Glittering in native gold the ram shall tread, And scarlet lambs shall wanton on the mead. In concord join'd with fate's unalter'd law The Destinies these happy times foresaw, They bade the sacred spindle swiftly run, And hasten the auspicious ages on. O dear to all thy kindred gods above! O thou, the offspring of eternal Jove! Receive thy dignities, begin thy reign, And o'er the world extend thy wide domain. See nature's mighty frame exulting round Ocean, and earth, and heaven's immense profound! See nations yet unborn with joy behold Thy glad approach, and hail the age of gold! O would th' immortals lend a length of days, And give a soul sublime to sound thy praise; Would Heaven this breast, this labouring breast inflame With ardour equal to the mighty theme; Not Orpheus with diviner transports glow'd, When all her fire his mother-muse bestow'd; Nor loftier numbers flow'd from Linus' tongue, Although his sire Apollo gave the song; Even Pan, in presence of Arcadian swains Would vainly strive to emulate my strains. Repay a parent's care, O beauteous boy, And greet thy mother with a smile of joy: For thee, to loathing languors all resign'd, Ten slow-revolving months thy mother pin'd. If cruel fate thy parents bliss denies, If no fond joy sits smiling in thine eyes, No nymph of heavenly birth shall crown thy love, Nor shalt thou share th' immortal feasts above. This passage has perplexed all the critics. Out of a number of Since you with skill can touch the tuneful reed, Since few my verses or my voice exceed: In this refreshing shade shall we recline, Where hazels with the lofty elms combine? Your riper age a due respect requires, 'Tis mine to yield to what my friend desires; Whether you choose the zephyr's fanning breeze, That shakes the wavering shadows of the trees; Or the deep-shaded grotto's cool retreat:-- And see yon cave screen'd from the scorching heat, Where the wild vine its curling tendrils weaves, Whose grapes glow ruddy through the quivering leaves. Of all the swains that to our hills belong, Amyntas only vies with you in song. What, though with me that haughty shepherd vie, Who proudly dares Apollo's self defy? Begin: let Alcon's praise inspire your strains, Or Codrus' death, or Phyllis' amorous pains; Begin, whatever theme your Muse prefer. To feed the kids be, Tityrus, thy care. I rather will repeat that mournful song, Which late I carv'd the verdant beech along; (I carv'd and trill'd by turns the labour'd lay) And let Amyntas match me if he may. As slender willows where the olive grows, Or sordid shrubs when near the scarlet rose, Such (if the judgment I have form'd be true) Such is Amyntas when compar'd with you. No more, Menalcas; we delay too long, The grot's dim shade invites my promis'd song. When Daphnis fell by fate's remorseless blow, The weeping nymphs pour'd wild the plaint of woe; Witness, O hazel-grove, and winding stream, For all your echoes caught the mournful theme. In agony of grief his mother prest The clay cold carcass to her throbbing breast, Frantic with anguish wail'd his hapless fate, Rav'd at the stars, and Heaven's relentless hate. 'Twas then the swains in deep despair forsook Their pining flocks, nor led them to the brook; The pining flocks for him their pastures slight, Nor grassy plains, nor cooling streams invite. The doleful tidings reach'd the Libyan shores, And lions mourn'd in deep repeated roars. His cruel doom the woodlands wild bewail, And plaintive hills repeat the melancholy tale. 'Twas he, who first Armenia's tigers broke, And tam'd their stubborn natures to the yoke; He first with ivy wrapt the thyrsus round, And made the hills with Bacchus' rites resound. As vines adorn the trees which they entwine, As purple clusters beautify the vine, As bulls the herd, as corns the fertile plains, The godlike Daphnis dignified the swains. When Daphnis from our eager hopes was torn, Phoebus and Pales left the plains to mourn. Now weeds and wretched tares the crop subdue, Where store of generous wheat but lately grew. Narcissus' lovely flower no more is seen, No more the velvet violet decks the green; Thistles for these the blasted meadow yields, And thorns and frizzled burs deform the fields. Swains, shade the springs, and let the ground be drest With verdant leaves; 'Twas Daphnis' last request. Erect a tomb in honour to his name Mark'd with this verse to celebrate his fame. "The swains with Daphnis' name this tomb adorn, Whose high renown above the skies is borne; Fair was his flock, he fairest on the plain, The pride, the glory of the sylvan reign." Sweeter, O bard divine, thy numbers seem, Than to the scorched swain the cooling stream, Or soft on fragrant flowerets to recline, And the tir'd limbs to balmy sleep resign. Blest youth! whose voice and pipe demand the praise Due but to thine, and to thy master's lays. I in return the darling theme will choose, And Daphnis' praises shall inspire my Muse; He in my song shall high as Heaven ascend, High as the Heavens, for Daphnis was my friend. His virtues sure our noblest numbers claim; Nought can delight me more than such a theme, Which in your song new dignity obtains; Oft has our Stimichon extoll'd the strains. Now Daphnis shines, among the gods a god, Struck with the splendours of his new abode. Beneath his footstool far remote appear The clouds slow-sailing, and the starry sphere. Hence lawns and groves with gladsome raptures ring, The swains, the nymphs, and Pan in concert sing. The wolves to murder are no more inclin'd, No guileful nets ensnare the wandering hind, Deceit and violence and rapine cease, For Daphnis loves the gentle arts of peace. From savage mountains shouts of transport rise, Borne in triumphant echoes to the skies: The rocks and shrubs emit melodious sounds, Through nature's vast extent the god, the god rebounds. Be gracious still, still present to our prayer; Four altars, lo! we build with pious care. Two for th' inspiring god of song divine, And two, propitious Daphnis, shall be thine. Two bowls white-foaming with their milky store, Of generous oil two brimming goblets more, Each year we shall present before thy shrine, And cheer the feast with liberal draughts of wine; Before the fire when winter-storms invade, In summer's heat beneath the breezy shade: The hallow'd bowls with wine of Chios crown'd, Shall pour their sparkling nectar to the ground. Damoetas shall with Lyctian AEgon play, And celebrate with festive strains the day. Alphesiboeus to the sprightly song Shall like the dancing Satyrs trip along. These rites shall still be paid, so justly due, Both when the nymphs receive our annual vow, And when with solemn songs, and victims crown'd, Our lands in long procession we surround, While fishes love the streams and briny deep, And savage boars the mountain's rocky steep, While grasshoppers their dewy food delights, While balmy thyme the busy bee invites; So long shall last thine honours and thy fame, So long the shepherds shall resound thy name. Such rites to thee shall husbandmen ordain, As Ceres and the god of wine obtain. Thou to our prayers propitiously inclin'd Thy grateful suppliants to their vows shall bind. What boon, dear shepherd, can your song requite? For nought in nature yields so sweet delight. Not the soft sighing of the southern gale, That faintly breathes along the flowery vale; Nor, when light breezes curl the liquid plain, To tread the margin of the murmuring main; Nor melody of streams, that roll away Through rocky dales, delights me as your lay. No mean reward, my friend, your verses claim; Take then this flute that breath'd the plaintive theme Of Corydon; when proud Damoetas tried To match my skill, it dash'd his hasty pride. And let this sheepcrook by my friend be worn, Which brazen studs in beamy rows adorn; This fair Antigenes oft begg'd to gain, But all his beauty, all his prayers were vain. It is the most general and most probable conjecture, that Julius This can be applied only to Julius Caesar; for it was he who Lyctium was a city of Crete. See Pastoral second. See Pastoral third. My sportive Muse first sung Sicilian strains, Nor blush'd to dwell in woods and lowly plains. To sing of kings and wars when I aspire, Apollo checks my vainly-rising fire. "To swains the flock and sylvan pipe belong, Then choose some humbler theme, nor dare heroic song." The voice divine, O Varus I obey. And to my reed shall chant a rural lay; Since others long thy praises to rehearse, And sing thy battles in immortal verse. Yet if these songs, which Phoebus bids me write, Hereafter to the swains shall yield delight, Of thee the trees and humble shrubs shall sing, And all the vocal grove with Varus ring. The song inscrib'd to Varus' sacred name To Phoebus' favour has the justest claim. Come then, my Muse, a sylvan song repeat. 'Twas in his shady arbour's cool retreat Two youthful swains the god Silenus found, In drunkenness and sleep his senses bound, His turgid veins the late debauch betray; His garland on the ground neglected lay, Fallen from his head; and by the well-worn ear His cup of ample size depended near. Sudden the swains the sleeping god surprise, And with his garland bind him as he lies, (No better chain at hand) incens'd so long To be defrauded of their promis'd song. To aid their project, and remove their fears, AEgle, a beauteous fountain-nymph, appears; Who, while he hardly opes his heavy eyes, His stupid brow with bloody berries dyes. Then smiling at the fraud Silenus said, "And dare you thus a sleeping god invade? To see me was enough; but haste, unloose My bonds; the song no longer I refuse; Unloose me, youths; my song shall pay your pains; For this fair nymph another boon remains." He sung; responsive to the heavenly sound The stubborn oaks and forests dance around. Tripping the Satyrs and the Fauns advance, Wild beasts forget their rage, and join the general dance. Not so Parnassus' listening rocks rejoice, When Phoebus raises his celestial voice; Nor Thracia's echoing mountains so admire, When Orpheus strikes the loud-lamenting lyre. For first he sung of Nature's wondrous birth; How seeds of water, air, and flame, and earth, Down the vast void with casual impulse hurl'd, Clung into shapes, and form'd this fabric of the world. Then hardens by degrees the tender soil, And from the mighty mound the seas recoil. O'er the wide world new various forms arise; The infant Sun along the brighten'd skies Begins his course, while Earth with glad amaze The blazing wonder from below surveys. The clouds sublime their genial moisture shed, And the green grove lifts high its leafy head. The savage beasts o'er desert mountains roam, Yet few their numbers, and unknown their home. He next the blest Saturnian ages sung; How a new race of men from Pyrrha sprung; Prometheus' daring theft, and dreadful doom, Whose growing heart devouring birds consume. Then names the spring, renown'd for Hylas' fate, By the sad mariners bewail'd too late; They call on Hylas with repeated cries, And Hylas, Hylas, all the lonesome shore replies, Next he bewails Pasiphae (hapless dame!) Who for a bullock felt a brutal flame. What fury fires thy bosom, frantic queen! How happy thou, if herds had never been! The maids, whom Juno, to avenge her wrong, Like heifers doom'd to low the vales along, Ne'er felt the rage of thy detested fire, Ne'er were polluted with thy foul desire; Though oft for horns they felt their polish'd brow, And their soft necks oft fear'd the galling plough. Ah wretched queen! thou roam'st the mountain-waste, While, his white limbs on lilies laid to rest, The half-digested herb again he chews, Or some fair female of the herd pursues. "Beset, ye Cretan nymphs, beset the grove, And trace the wandering footsteps of my love. Yet let my longing eyes my love behold, Before some favourite beauty of the fold Entice him with Gortynian herds to stray, Where smile the vales in richer pasture gay." He sung how golden fruit's resistless grace Decoy'd the wary virgin from the race. Then wraps in bark the mourning sisters round, And rears the lofty alders from the ground. He sung, while Gallus by Permessus stray'd, A sister of the nine the hero led To the Aonian hill; the choir in haste Left their bright thrones, and hail'd the welcome guest. Linus arose, for sacred song renown'd, Whose brow a wreath of flowers and parsley bound; And "Take," he said, "this pipe, which heretofore The far-fam'd shepherd of Ascraea bore; Then heard the mountain-oaks its magic sound, Leap'd from their hills, and thronging danced around. On this thou shalt renew the tuneful lay, And grateful songs to thy Apollo pay, Whose fam'd Grynaean temple from thy strain Shall more exalted dignity obtain." Why should I sing unhappy Scylla's fate? Sad monument of jealous Circe's hate! Round her white breast what furious monsters roll, And to the dashing waves incessant howl: How from the ships that bore Ulysses' crew Her dogs the trembling sailors dragg'd, and slew. Of Philomela's feast why should I sing, And what dire chance befell the Thracian king? Changed to a lapwing by th' avenging god, He made the barren waste his lone abode, And oft on soaring pinions hover'd o'er The lofty palace then his own no more. The tuneful god renews each pleasing theme, Which Phoebus sung by blest Eurotas' stream; When bless'd Eurotas gently flow'd along, And bade his laurels learn the lofty song. Silenus sung; the vocal vales reply, And heavenly music charms the listening sky. But now their folds the number'd flocks invite, The star of evening sheds its trembling light, And the unwilling Heavens are wrapt in night. The cave of Silenus, which is the scene of this eclogue, is Their names were Lysippe, Ipponoe, and Cyrianassa. Juno, to be Gortyna was a city of Crete. See Ovid. Art. Am. Lib. I. Grynium was a maritime town of the Lesser Asia, where were an ancient temple and oracle of Apollo. See Virgil AEn. III. See Homer Odyss. Lib. XII. See Ovid's Metamorph. Lib. VI. Beneath an holm that murmur'd to the breeze The youthful Daphnis lean'd in rural ease: With him two gay Arcadian swains reclin'd, Who in the neighbouring vale their flocks had join'd, Thyrsis, whose care it was the goats to keep, And Corydon, who fed the fleecy sheep; Both in the flowery prime of youthful days, Both skill'd in single or responsive lays. While I with busy hand a shelter form To guard my myrtles from the future storm, The husband of my goats had chanced to stray; To find the vagrant out I take my way. Which Daphnis seeing cries, "Dismiss your fear, Your kids and goat are all in safety here; And, if no other care require your stay, Come, and with us unbend the toils of day In this cool shade; at hand your heifers feed, And of themselves will to the watering speed; Here fringed with reeds slow Mincius winds along, And round yon oak the bees soft-murmuring throng." What could I do? for I was left alone, My Phyllis and Alcippe both were gone, And none remain'd to feed my weanling lambs, And to restrain them from their bleating dams: Betwixt the swains a solemn match was set, To prove their skill, and end a long debate. Though serious matters claim'd my due regard, Their pastime to my business I preferr'd. To sing by turns the Muse inspir'd the swains, And Corydon began th' alternate strains. Ye nymphs of Helicon, my sole desire! O warm my breast with all my Codrus' fire. If none can equal Codrus' heavenly lays, For next to Phoebus he deserves the praise, No more I ply the tuneful art divine, My silent pipe shall hang on yonder pine. Arcadian swains, an ivy wreath bestow, With early honours crown your poet's brow; Codrus shall chafe, if you my songs commend, Till burning spite his tortur'd entrails rend; Or amulets, to bind my temples, frame, Lest his invidious praises blast my fame. A stag's tall horns, and stain'd with savage gore This bristled visage of a tusky boar, To thee, O virgin-goddess of the chase, Young Mycon offers for thy former grace. If like success his future labours crown, Thine, goddess, then shall be a nobler boon, In polish'd marble thou shalt shine complete, And purple sandals shall adorn thy feet. To thee, Priapus, each returning year, This bowl of milk, these hallow'd cakes we bear; Thy care our garden is but meanly stor'd, And mean oblations all we can afford. But if our flocks a numerous offspring yield, And our decaying fold again be fill'd, Though now in marble thou obscurely shine, For thee a golden statue we design. O Galatea, whiter than the swan, Loveliest of all thy sisters of the main, Sweeter than Hybla, more than lilies fair! If ought of Corydon employ thy care, When shades of night involve the silent sky, And slumbering in their stalls the oxen lie, Come to my longing arms and let me prove Th' immortal sweets of Galatea's love. As the vile sea-weed scatter'd by the storm, As he whose face Sardinian herbs deform, As burs and brambles that disgrace the plain, So nauseous, so detested be thy swain; If when thine absence I am doom'd to bear The day appears not longer than a year. Go home, my flocks, ye lengthen out the day, Ye mossy fountains, warbling as ye flow! And softer than the slumbers ye bestow, Ye grassy banks! ye trees with verdure crown'd, Whose leaves a glimmering shade diffuse around! Grant to my weary flocks a cool retreat, And screen them from the summer's raging heat! For now the year in brightest glory shines, Now reddening clusters deck the bending vines. Here's wood for fuel; here the fire displays To all around its animating blaze; Black with continual smoke our posts appear; Nor dread we more the rigour of the year, Than the fell wolf the fearful lambkins dreads, When he the helpless fold by night invades; Or swelling torrents, headlong as they roll, The weak resistance of the shatter'd mole. Now yellow harvests wave on every field, Now bending boughs the hoary chestnut yield, Now loaded trees resign their annual store, And on the ground the mellow fruitage pour; Jocund, the face of Nature smiles, and gay; But if the fair Alexis were away, Inclement drought the hardening soil would drain, And streams no longer murmur o'er the plain. A languid hue the thirsty fields assume, Parch'd to the root the flowers resign their bloom, The faded vines refuse their hills to shade, Their leafy verdure wither'd and decay'd: But if my Phyllis on these plains appear, Again the groves their gayest green shall wear, Again the clouds their copious moisture lend, And in the genial rain shall Jove descend. Alcides' brows the poplar-leaves surround, Apollo's beamy locks with bays are crown'd, The myrtle, lovely queen of smiles, is thine, And jolly Bacchus loves the curling vine; But while my Phyllis loves the hazel-spray, To hazel yield the myrtle and the bay. The fir, the hills; the ash adorns the woods; The pine, the gardens; and the poplar, floods. If thou, my Lycidas, wilt deign to come, And cheer thy shepherd's solitary home, The ash so fair in woods, and garden-pine Will own their beauty far excell'd by thine. So sung the swains, but Thyrsis strove in vain; Thus far I bear in mind th' alternate strain. Young Corydon acquir'd unrivall'd fame, And still we pay a deference to his name. This deity presided over gardens. Rehearse we, Pollio, the enchanting strains Alternate sung by two contending swains. Charm'd by their songs, the hungry heifers stood In deep amaze, unmindful of their food; The listening lynxes laid their rage aside, The streams were silent, and forgot to glide. O thou, where'er thou lead'st thy conquering host, Or by Timavus, or th' Illyrian coast! When shall my Muse, transported with the theme, In strains sublime my Pollio's deeds proclaim; And celebrate thy lays by all admir'd, Such as of old Sophocles' Muse inspir'd? To thee, the patron of my rural songs, To thee my first, my latest lay belongs. Then let this humble ivy-wreath enclose, Twin'd with triumphal bays, thy godlike brows. What time the chill sky brightens with the dawn, When cattle love to crop the dewy lawn, Thus Damon to the woodlands wild complain'd, As 'gainst an olive's lofty trunk he lean'd. Lead on the genial day, O star of morn! While wretched I, all hopeless and forlorn, With my last breath my fatal woes deplore, And call the gods by whom false Nisa swore; Though they, regardless of a lover's pain, Heard her repeated vows, and heard in vain. Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Blest Maenalus! that hears the pastoral song Still languishing its tuneful groves along! That hears th' Arcadian god's celestial lay, Who taught the idly-rustling reeds to play! That hears the singing pines! that hears the swain Of love's soft chains melodiously complain! Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Mopsus the willing Nisa now enjoys-- What may not lovers hope from such a choice! Now mares and griffins shall their hate resign, And the succeeding age shall see them join In friendship's tie; now mutual love shall bring The dog and doe to share the friendly spring. Scatter thy nuts, O Mopsus, and prepare The nuptial torch to light the wedded fair. Lo, Hesper hastens to the western main! And thine the night of bliss--thine, happy swain! Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Exult, O Nisa, in thy happy state! Supremely blest in such a worthy mate; While you my beard detest, and bushy brow, And think the gods forget the world below: While you my flock and rural pipe disdain, And treat with bitter scorn a faithful swain. Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. When first I saw you by your mother's side, To where our apples grew I was your guide: Twelve summers since my birth had roll'd around, And I could reach the branches from the ground. How did I gaze!--how perish!--ah how vain The fond bewitching hopes that sooth'd my pain! Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Too well I know thee, Love. From Scythian snows, Or Lybia's burning sands the mischief rose. Rocks adamantine nurs'd this foreign bane, This fell invader of the peaceful plain. Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Love taught the mother's murdering hand to kill, Her children's blood love bade the mother spill. Was love the cruel cause? Or did the deed From fierce unfeeling cruelty proceed? Both fill'd her brutal bosom with their bane; Both urg'd the deed, while Nature shrunk in vain. Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Now let the fearful lamb the wolf devour; Let alders blossom with Narcissus' flower; From barren shrubs let radiant amber flow; Let rugged oaks with golden fruitage glow; Let shrieking owls with swans melodious vie; Let Tityrus the Thracian numbers try, Outrival Orpheus in the sylvan reign, And emulate Arion on the main. Begin, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Let land no more the swelling waves divide; Earth, be thou whelm'd beneath the boundless tide; Headlong from yonder promontory's brow I plunge into the rolling deep below. Farewell, ye woods! farewell, thou flowery plain! Hear the last lay of a despairing swain. And cease, my pipe, the sweet Maenalian strain. Here Damon ceas'd. And now, ye tuneful Nine, Alphesiboeus' magic verse subjoin, To his responsive song your aid we call, Our power extends not equally to all. Bring living waters from the silver stream, With vervain and fat incense feed the flame: With this soft wreath the sacred altars bind, To move my cruel Daphnis to be kind, And with my phrensy to inflame his soul: Charms are but wanting to complete the whole. Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. By powerful charms what prodigies are done! Charms draw pale Cynthia from her silver throne; Charms burst the bloated snake, and Circe's guests By mighty magic charms were changed to beasts, Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. Three woollen wreaths, and each of triple dye, Three times about thy image I apply, Then thrice I bear it round the sacred shrine; Uneven numbers please the powers divine. Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. Haste, let three colours with three knots be join'd, And say, "Thy fetters, Venus, thus I bind." Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. As this soft clay is harden'd by the flame, And as this wax is soften'd by the same, My love that harden'd Daphnis to disdain, Shall soften his relenting heart again. Scatter the salted corn, and place the bays, And with fat brimstone light the sacred blaze. Daphnis my burning passion slights with scorn, And Daphnis in this blazing bay I burn. Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. As when, to find her love, an heifer roams Through trackless groves, and solitary glooms; Sick with desire, abandon'd to her woes, By some lone stream her languid limbs she throws; There in deep anguish wastes the tedious night, Nor thoughts of home her late return invite: Thus may he love, and thus indulge his pain, While I enhance his torments with disdain. Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. These robes beneath the threshold here I leave, These pledges of his love, O Earth, receive. Ye dear memorials of our mutual fire, Of you my faithless Daphnis I require. Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. These deadly poisons and these magic weeds, Selected from the store which Pontus breeds, Sage Moeris gave me; oft I saw him prove Their sovereign power; by these, along the grove A prowling wolf the dread magician roams; Now gliding ghosts from the profoundest tombs Inspired he calls; the rooted corn he wings And to strange fields the flying harvest brings. Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. These ashes from the altar take with speed, And treading backwards cast them o'er your head Into the running stream nor turn your eye. Yet this last spell, though hopeless, let me try. But nought can move the unrelenting swain, And spells, and magic verse, and gods are vain. Bring Daphnis home, bring Daphnis to my arms, O bring my long-lost love, my powerful charms. Lo, while I linger, with spontaneous fire The ashes redden, and the flames aspire! May this new prodigy auspicious prove! What fearful hopes my beating bosom move! Hark! does not Hylax bark--ye powers supreme Can it be real, or do lovers dream!-- He comes, my Daphnis comes! forbear my charms; My love, my Daphnis flies to bless my longing arms. A river in Italy. Go you to town, my friend? this beaten way Conducts us thither. Ah! the fatal day, The unexpected day at last is come, When a rude alien drives us from our home. Hence, hence, ye clowns, th' usurper thus commands, To me you must resign your ancient lands. Thus helpless and forlorn we yield to fate; And our rapacious lord to mitigate This brace of kids a present I design, Which load with curses, O ye powers divine! 'Twas said, Menalcas with his tuneful strains Had sav'd the grounds of all the neighbouring swains, From where the hill, that terminates the vale, In easy risings first begins to swell, Far as the blasted beech that mates the sky, And the clear stream that gently murmurs by. Such was the voice of fame; but music's charms, Amid the dreadful clang of warlike arms, Avail no more, than the Chaonian dove When down the sky descends the bird of Jove. And had not the prophetic raven spoke His dire presages from the hollow oak, And often warn'd me to avoid debate, And with a patient mind submit to fate, Ne'er had thy Moeris seen this fatal hour, And that melodious swain had been no more. What horrid breasts such impious thoughts could breed! What barbarous hand could make Menalcas bleed! Could every tender Muse in him destroy, And from the shepherds ravish all their joy! For who but he the lovely nymphs could sing, Or paint the valleys with the purple spring? Who shade the fountains from the glare of day? Who but Menalcas could compose the lay, Which, as we journey'd to my love's abode, I softly sung to cheer the lonely road? "Tityrus, while I am absent, feed the flock, And, having fed, conduct them to the brook, (The way is short, and I shall soon return) But shun the he-goat with the butting horn." Or who could finish the imperfect lays Sung by Menalcas to his Varus' praise? "If fortune yet shall spare the Mantuan swains, And save from plundering hands our peaceful plains, Nor doom us sad Cremona's fate to share, (For ah! a neighbour's woe excites our fear) Then high as Heaven our Varus' fame shall rise, The warbling swans shall bear it to the skies." Go on, dear swain, these pleasing songs pursue; So may thy bees avoid the bitter yew, So may rich herds thy fruitful fields adorn, So may thy cows with strutting dugs return. Even I with poets have obtain'd a name, The Muse inspires me with poetic flame Th' applauding shepherds to my songs attend, But I suspect my skill, though they commend. I dare not hope to please a Cinna's ear, Or sing what Varus might vouchsafe to hear. Harsh are the sweetest lays that I can bring, So screams a goose where swans melodious sing. This I am pondering, if I can rehearse The lofty numbers of that labour'd verse. "Come, Galatea, leave the rolling seas; Can rugged rocks and heaving surges please? Come, taste the pleasures of our sylvan bowers, Our balmy-breathing gales, and fragrant flowers. See, how our plains rejoice on every side, How crystal streams thro' blooming valleys glide: O'er the cool grot the whitening poplars bend, And clasping vines their grateful umbrage lend. Come, beauteous nymph, forsake the briny wave, Loud on the beach let the wild billows rave." Or what you sung one evening on the plain-- The air, but not the words, I yet retain. "Why, Daphnis, dost thou calculate the skies To know when ancient constellations rise? Lo, Caesar's star its radiant light displays, And on the nations sheds propitious rays. On the glad hills the reddening clusters glow, And smiling plenty decks the plains below. Now graff thy pears; the star of Caesar reigns, To thy remotest race the fruit remains." The rest I have forgot, for length of years Deadens the sense, and memory impairs. All things in time submit to sad decay; Oft have we sung whole summer suns away. These vanish'd joys must Moeris now deplore, His voice delights, his numbers charm no more; Him have the wolves beheld, bewitch'd his song, Bewitch'd to silence his melodious tongue. But your desire Menalcas can fulfil, All these, and more, he sings with matchless skill. These faint excuses which my Moeris frames But heighten my desire.--And now the streams In slumber-soothing murmurs softly flow; And now the sighing breeze hath ceas'd to blow. Half of our way is past, for I descry Bianor's tomb just rising to the eye. Here in this leafy harbour ease your toil, Lay down your kids, and let us sing the while: We soon shall reach the town; or, lest a storm Of sudden rain the evening-sky deform, Be yours to cheer the journey with a song, Eas'd of your load, which I shall bear along. No more, my friend; your kind entreaties spare, And let our journey be our present care; Let fate restore our absent friend again, Then gladly I resume the tuneful strain. This and the first eclogue seem to have been written on the same Bianor is said to have founded Mantua.--_Servius._ To my last labour lend thy sacred aid, O Arethusa: that the cruel maid With deep remorse may read the mournful song, For mournful lays to Gallus' love belong. (What Muse in sympathy will not bestow Some tender strains to soothe my Gallus' woe?) So may thy waters pure of briny stain Traverse the waves of the Sicilian main. Sing, mournful Muse, of Gallus' luckless love, While the goats browse along the cliffs above. Nor silent is the waste while we complain, The woods return the long-resounding strain. Whither, ye fountain-nymphs, were ye withdrawn, To what lone woodland, or what devious lawn, When Gallus' bosom languish'd with the fire Of hopeless love, and unallay'd desire? For neither by th' Aonian spring you stray'd, Nor roam'd Parnassus' heights, nor Pindus' hallow'd shade. The pines of Maenalus were heard to mourn, And sounds of woe along the groves were borne. And sympathetic tears the laurel shed, And humbler shrubs declin'd their drooping head. All wept his fate, when to despair resign'd Beneath a desert-cliff he lay reclin'd. Lyceus' rocks were hung with many a tear, And round the swain his flocks forlorn appear. Nor scorn, celestial bard, a poet's name; Renown'd Adonis by the lonely stream Tended his flock.--As thus he lay along, The swains and awkward neatherds round him throng. Wet from the winter-mast Menalcas came. All ask, what beauty rais'd the fatal flame. The god of verse vouchsafed to join the rest; He said, "What phrensy thus torments thy breast? While she, thy darling, thy Lycoris, scorns Thy proffer'd love, and for another burns, With whom o'er winter-wastes she wanders far, 'Midst camps, and clashing arms, and boisterous war." Sylvanus came with rural garlands crown'd, And wav'd the lilies long, and flowering fennel round. Next we beheld the gay Arcadian god; His smiling cheeks with bright vermilion glow'd. "For ever wilt thou heave the bursting sigh? Is love regardful of the weeping eye? Love is not cloy'd with tears; alas, no more Than bees luxurious with the balmy flow'r, Than goats with foliage, than the grassy plain With silver rills and soft refreshing rain." Pan spoke; and thus the youth with grief opprest; "Arcadians, hear, O hear my last request; O ye, to whom the sweetest lays belong, O let my sorrows on your hills be sung: If your soft flutes shall celebrate my woes, How will my bones in deepest peace repose! Ah had I been with you a country-swain, And prun'd the vine, and fed the bleating train; Had Phyllis, or some other rural fair, Or black Amyntas been my darling care; (Beauteous though black; what lovelier flower is seen Than the dark violet on the painted green?) These in the bower had yielded all their charms, And sunk with mutual raptures in my arms: Phyllis had crown'd my head with garlands gay, Amyntas sung the pleasing hours away. Here, O Lycoris, purls the limped spring, Bloom all the meads, and all the woodlands sing; Here let me press thee to my panting breast Till youth, and joy, and life itself be past. Banish'd by love o'er hostile lands I stray, And mingle in the battle's dread array; Whilst thou, relentless to my constant flame, (Ah could I disbelieve the voice of fame!) Far from thy home, unaided and forlorn, Far from thy love, thy faithful love, art borne, On the bleak Alps with chilling blast to pine, Or wander waste along the frozen Rhine. Ye icy paths, O spare her tender form! O spare those heavenly charms, thou wintry storm! "Hence let me hasten to some desert-grove, And soothe with songs my long unanswer'd love. I go, in some lone wilderness to suit Euboean lays to my Sicilian flute. Better with beasts of prey to make abode In the deep cavern, or the darksome wood; And carve on trees the story of my woe, Which with the growing bark shall ever grow, Meanwhile with woodland-nymphs, a lovely throng, The winding groves of Maenalus along I roam at large; or chase the foaming boar; Or with sagacious hounds the wilds explore, Careless of cold. And now methinks I bound O'er rocks and cliffs, and hear the woods resound; And now with beating heart I seem to wing The Cretan arrow from the Parthian string-- As if I thus my phrensy could forego, As if love's god could melt at human woe. Alas! nor nymphs nor heavenly songs delight-- Farewell, ye groves! the groves no more invite. No pains, no miseries of man can move The unrelenting deity of love. To quench your thirst in Hebrus' frozen flood, To make the Scythian snows your drear abode; Or feed your flock on Ethiopian plains, When Sirius' fiery constellation reigns, (When deep-imbrown'd the languid herbage lies, And in the elm the vivid verdure dies) Were all in vain. Love's unresisted sway Extends to all, and we must love obey." 'Tis done: ye Nine, here ends your poet's strain In pity sung to soothe his Gallus' pain. While leaning on a flowery bank I twine The flexile osiers, and the basket join. Celestial Nine, your sacred influence bring, And soothe my Gallus' sorrows while I sing: Gallus, my much belov'd! for whom I feel The flame of purest friendship rising still: So by a brook the verdant alders rise, When fostering zephyrs fan the vernal skies. Let us begone: at eve, the shade annoys With noxious damps, and hurts the singer's voice; The juniper breathes bitter vapours round, That kill the springing corn, and blast the ground. Homeward, my sated goats, now let us hie; Lo beamy Hesper gilds the western sky. Gallus was a Roman of very considerable rank, a poet of no small Alas, how empty all our worldly schemes; Vain are our wishes, our enjoyment dreams. A _debt_ to nature one and all must _pay_, Nor will the _creditor_ defer her _day_; Death comes a _messenger_, displays the _writ_, And to the fatal _summons_ all submit. An earthly _messenger_ I was of yore, The scourge of debtors then, but now--no more. Oft have I stood in all my pomp confess'd, The _blazon_ beaming dreadful at my breast; Oft have I wav'd on high th' _attractive rod_, And made the wretch obsequious to my nod. Pale shivering Poverty, that stalk'd behind, His greasy rags loose fluttering in the wind, And Terror, cudgel-arm'd, that strode before, Still to my _deeds_ unquestion'd _witness bore_. Dire execution, as I march'd, was spread; My threat'ning _horn_ they heard--they heard and fled. While thus destruction mark'd my headlong course, Nor mortals durst oppose my matchless force, A _deadly warrant_ from the _court_ of heaven To Death, the sovereign messenger, was given. Swift as the lightning's instantaneous flame, Arm'd with his dart, the _king of catchpoles_ came. My heart, unmov'd before, was seiz'd with fear, And sunk beneath his all-subduing spear; To heaven's high _bar_ the spirit wing'd its way, And left the carcass _forfeit_ to the clay. Reader! though every ill beset thee round, With patience bear, nor servilely despond; Though heaven awhile delay th' impending blow, Heaven sees the sorrows of the world below, And sets at last the suffering mourner free From famine, misery, pestilence, and ME. June 28th, 1759. Mont. Abd. Ford. O Ross, thou wale of hearty cocks, Sae crouse and canty with thy jokes! Thy hamely auldwarl'd muse provokes Me for awhile To ape our guid plain countra' folks In verse and stile. Sure never carle was haff sae gabby E're since the winsome days o' Habby: O mayst thou ne'er gang, clung, or shabby, Nor miss thy snaker! Or I'll ca' fortune nasty drabby, And say--pox take her! O may the roupe ne'er roust thy weason, May thirst thy thrapple never gizzen! But bottled ale in mony a dizzen, Aye lade thy gantry! And fouth o'vivres a' in season, Plenish thy pantry! Lang may thy stevin fill wi' glee The glens and mountains of Lochlee, Which were right gowsty but for thee, Whase sangs enamour Ilk lass, and teach wi' melody The rocks to yamour. Ye shak your head, but, o' my fegs, Ye've set old Scota on her legs, Lang had she lyen wi' beffs and flegs, Bumbaz'd and dizzie; Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, Waes me! poor hizzie! Since Allan's death naebody car'd For anes to speer how Scota far'd, Nor plack nor thristled turner war'd To quench her drouth; For frae the cottar to the laird The Southland chiels indeed hae mettle, And brawly at a sang can ettle, Yet we right couthily might settle O' this side Forth. The devil pay them wi' a pettle That slight the North. Our countra leed is far frae barren, It's even right pithy and aulfarren, Oursells are neiper-like, I warran, For sense and smergh; In kittle times when faes are yarring, We're no thought ergh. Oh! bonny are our greensward hows, Where through the birks the birny rows, And the bee bums, and the ox lows, And saft winds rusle; And shepherd lads on sunny knows Blaw the blythe fusle. It's true, we Norlans manna fa' To eat sae nice or gang sae bra', As they that come from far awa, Yet sma's our skaith; We've peace (and that's well worth it a') And meat and claith. Our fine newfangle sparks, I grant ye, Gie' poor auld Scotland mony a taunty; They're grown sae ugertfu' and vaunty, And capernoited, They guide her like a canker'd aunty That's deaf and doited. Sae comes of ignorance I trow, It's this that crooks their ill fa'r'd mou' Wi' jokes sae coarse, they gar fouk spue For downright skonner; For Scotland wants na sons enew To do her honour. I here might gie a skreed o' names, Dawties of Heliconian dames! The foremost place Gawin Douglas claims, That canty priest; And wha can match the fifth King James For sang or jest? Montgomery grave, and Ramsay gay, Than I can tell; for o' my fae, I maun break aff; 'Twould take a live lang simmer day To name the haff. The saucy chiels--I think they ca' them Criticks, the muckle sorrow claw them, (For mense nor manners ne'er could awe them Frae their presumption) They need nae try thy jokes to fathom; They want rumgumption. But ilka Mearns and Angus bearn, Thy tales and sangs by heart shall learn, And chiels shall come frae yont the Cairn-- --Amounth, right yousty, If Ross will be so kind as share in Their pint at Drousty. The name Ross gives to his muse. Author of the Vision--[It was written by Ramsay, under the name An alehouse in Lochlee. Late Publications OF LITTLE, BROWN AND CO. The size and style of the volumes are those of PICKERING'S ALDINE BUTLER 2 vols. CHURCHILL 3 vols. COLLINS 1 vol. COWPER 3 vols. DRYDEN 5 vols. GOLDSMITH 1 vol. GRAY 1 vol. MILTON 3 vols. PARNELL 1 vol. POPE 3 vols. PRIOR 2 vols. THOMSON 2 vols. SWIFT 3 vols. YOUNG 2 vols. "It Is by far the best edition of these poets that has ever been issued in this country; fully equal to the English, of which they "We cannot too warmly commend the series to our readers."--_South English Poets which combine so many excellences."--_Bibliotheca HUME'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. From the latest London trade-edition, reprinted on large type to correspond with the London edition of Macaulay's History. 6 vols. 8vo, cloth. $9. "These volumes are honorable to the taste, enterprise, and liberality of the publishers, and creditable to the *** This edition has undergone careful revision and extensive alterations, so as to accommodate it to the improved taste and advanced intelligence of the times. The editor has secured the co-operation of the most eminent living authors, who have contributed treatises in the various departments of Science, advancement of society. "Mr. Hoffman has succeeded in producing a volume of intense interest."--_English Review._ HEBER'S (BISHOP) POETICAL WORKS. Uniform with the Aldine Poets. Portrait. Fifth edition. Foolscap 8vo, cloth. $1.25. "The further this work proceeds, the more do we feel that it must

Dr. Dioscorides

Anno 2070 Een blik in de toekomst

Down came the Fish's lower jaw upon her light canoe, And he asked her if that ladder would answer for her shoe-; Then tripping up it lightly, she spied a splendid seat, With wampum it was covered---her lover's it would beat. At such a sight she fainted, yet still she did not fall, But straightway told her sorrows, she told him of them all. The Fish he wagged his little fin, and shook his pointed nose, And said, "My darling Maiden, into my mouth you goes!" This little Tale is founded upon the well-known tradition, sedimentary earth, at least two feet thick, which abounds in greater or less degree throughout the Valley, and which readily accounts for the wonderful fertility of the soil. LONG years ago, ere Spaniards lived on California soil, An Indian of the Digger tribe was resting from his toil; He lived beside an inland sea, or lake, so wondrous large No one could look from shore to shore--a day's sail for a barge. This Indian was a happy dog, of threescore years and eight, Of children he had half a score, also an aged mate; His youngest was Li-Lamboni, a petit laughing cit-- Who kept the Wigwam happy by her fund of ready wit. A blooming maid of twenty, perhaps of two years more, Her lovers might be counted at wholesale by the score; But there was one--a comely lad--a Chieftain's only son, This one alone of all the crowd her youthful love had won. So tall, so straight, so beautiful, an eye like diamonds bright, Not one could beat him in the chase, by night or broad daylight; And when upon the war-path with the braves he started out, The death-song of his enemies would plainly mark his route. But, ah, alas! the wampum to make him all her own. She did not have the needful, for she had poorly grown; And often on the placid Lake, within her log canoe. She pondered long and deeply on just what she should do. One day, when very sad indeed, a long way out from shore, And, balanc'd nicely on his tail, asked what she was about. At such a sight she fainted, yet still she did not fall, But straightway told her sorrows, she told him of them all, The Fish he wagged his little fin, and shook his pointed nose, And said, "My darling Maiden, into my mouth you goes!" Now, who would think a maiden of two and twenty years, Would step into a fish's mouth without the slightest fears! But so great was her desire her object to attain, That she treated anything like fear with feelings of disdain. Down came the Fish's lower jaw upon her light canoe, He asked her if that ladder would answer for her shoe; Then tripping up it lightly, she spied a splendid seat, With wampum it was cover'd--her lover's it would beat. Back came that self same lower jaw, without the slightest jar, No one could treat her better, not e'en her dear Papa; The Fish he told her plainly to his Mistress she must go, She was a lovely Fairy, and she lived right down below. He said that she was very kind, and beautiful, and great. And dwelt within her watery home in rich and royal state. That she wanted Li-Lamboni her dominions all to know. So she sent her dear Fish Monster, to bring her down below. Scarcely was she seated in the regal wampum chair. Thinking of the Fairy Queen, when she was almost there; And soon her fine Fish Monster drew down his under jaw A Sea-Lion from ocean deep held out his ugly paw. She tripped down quite gracefully and took the Lion's paw, But I really cannot tell you all the riches that she saw: On her right, there was a Grotto with gates of solid gold, Guarded by a Devil Fish--to meet him would be bold. On her left, a Fairy Palace, its walls of silver bright, Its windows set with diamonds, which shone both day and night; Its doors were made of jasper, its steps of onyx fine-- A worker up of cameo would think he'd found a mine. The Lion touched her lightly, and she took his shaggy arm. She felt while she was with him he'd shield her from all harm; They tripped nimbly up the steps--he touched a little slide, And almost in an instant the door was open'd wide. A Water-Lily met them and passed her through the hall,-- So rich I'd fain describe it, but can't do so at all;-- Then to the audience chamber, with all things bright and airy, There, right upon a golden throne, sat San Francisco Fairy. A lovely figure, tall and straight, in elegant attire, Looking for all the world like gold refined by fire; She greeted Li-Lamboni in an off-hand, easy style. Was tickled that she came, and would have her stay awhile. With a motion of her hand for Li-Lamboni to draw near, She spoke unto the Lily to bring for her a chair. When seated near the throne, what should the Fairy do But wave again her hand, and up through the floor they flew! Here was a room of wampum, the ceiling, walls, the floor And furniture were lined with it, as also was the door. Says the Fairy to Li-Lamboni, "This wampum's all your own; You see it's only lining, and you can easy take it down. You can pack it in a compass small, and show it to your Pa, Who never saw the like before, nor neither did your Ma; And also when your chosen Fish shall take you to the air, When stepping down the ladder you can take the wampum chair. You wonder why I do this? I'll make it all quite plain: Once, while running as a rabbit, you saved me from all harm; The coyotes and the wolves had nearly run me dead. When you threw them off the scent and took me to your bed. And since that time I've look'd for you that action to repay, But no good chance e'er offered till I heard you cry to-day. We shortly move away from here--this Lake is to be drained-- For out quite near the Farallones another home we've gained. The water will be drained away--a City here will rise, Here will be marts of commerce, and wealth which men do prize; Here'll be temples of the living God, and of Heathen idols, too, Showing how Christians worship, and what Barbarians do. This City great for me they'll name, the world will know it well, No London can to it compare, or Canton, I am sure, For while the World does stand this City will endure. And when at home you're settled and your Chieftain calls on you, Just lay these out quite nicely and give him a good view; If that don't melt his stony heart and bring him to his knees, Cast him quickly from your heart, and marry whom you please." Then at a word the wampum came quickly from the wall, And from the door and ceiling, and soon she had it all; No Indian maiden e'er so rich as Li-Lamboni that day, And she thought that with the Fairy she could no longer stay. Then the Fairy waved her little wand and they passed down below, When the Maiden, having kissed her, said that she must go; And through the hall the Lily was again her pleasant guide, And without the slightest effort the door swung open wide. And right beyond the portal stood her Lion, as before, Waiting very patiently her exit through the door; Then he bent his ugly paw with the manners of a beau, She put her hand within it, and down the steps did go. She found her old Fish Monster with everything all right, Down came his handy under jaw,--she mounted to the height; And scarcely was she seated in that splendid wampum chair. When they were on the water and she breathed the nice fresh air. Again came down that lower jaw upon her light canoe, With the chair upon her arm she bade the Fish adieu; And seizing quick the paddle, she drove the boat along, And she really felt so happy she burst into a song. Right to her father's Wigwam she quickly brought her prize. Who fitted up for her own use one of much larger size; The wampum used for lining--the chair in center stood, Her Chieftain soon did see it, and said 'twas very good. 'Twas amazing how his love increas'd while gazing on her wealth. For soon he quite forgot himself, and seized a kiss by stealth; And no one now more anxious the marriage to fulfil. Indeed so much excitement he really was quite ill. Her heart was warm--she pitied him, and soon became his wife, And they travel'd on together through this world of strife; The wealth she brought along with her unto her lord and master, Was greater in comparison than that of J. J. Astor. Their married life ran smoothly, and to them a babe was born. But Li-Lamboni oft wonder'd if her Fairy friend was gone. One day while at her Wigwam door, the baby in her arms, The earth began to tremble and it filled her with alarms. Anon it trembled more and more, and then a sudden shock, As she looked out towards the Ocean she saw the Elfin Rock, 'Twas lifted from its base, and was swinging towards the sea, And this immense lake of water from its bondage now was free. Then she saw her old Fish Monster swimming gracefully along, Although the water flowed with a tide both full and strong; He raised himself upon his tail, as he had done before, And dropping down his under jaw as one would drop a door. There sat the graceful Fairy, brought fully into view, And she waved her tiny finger to bid her friend adieu: "We're going to Farrallone Isles there to build a home, And if you need our help again you have out there to come." Then up again that lower jaw went snugly into place, And having cut a caper with the Sea-Lion ran a race, Who had the Lily on his back to take a pleasant ride, They moved along quite rapidly, both swimming with the tide. Li-Lamboni felt sad to bid her friend good-bye. She sank right down upon the floor and ended with a cry; But with them passed the waters, leaving only our fine Bay, On which rises San Francisco as we see it here to-day.

Moyle Sherer

The Broken Font, Vol. 1 (of 2) A Story of the Civil War

Use of the present Anthology in the Spanish classes at Harvard Errors of judgment in the selection of the poems were perhaps Id.: _Antología de poetas hispano-americanos_, Madrid, 1893. F. Wolf: _Floresta de rimas modernas castellanas_, Paris, 1837. The very best account of Spanish lyric poetry may be found in the The Italian manner is henceforth, and throughout the seventeenth The _siglo de oro_ was followed by a period of decline in things El l[eó]n, rey de los bosques poderoso, and Espronceda in a tetrasyllable, Y no hay playa C[aí]do del cielo al lodo que le afea. Synæresis is more frequent and less harsh here than in (3); cf. Que hab[ía] de ver con largo acabamiento. Los r[ío]s su curso natural reprimen. The chief cases are as follows: Synæresis readily takes place for vowels ordinarily in distinct (c) The combinations _ió_ and _iè_ are usually diphthongs in the El majestüoso río Sus claras ondas enluta, El árbol de victoria Que ciñe estrechamente Tu glorïosa frente. Los hér[oe]s que la fama Coronó de laureles, Cuando á un héròè quieras Coronar con el lauro. (3) Three contiguous vowels with the accent on the last. The (4) Combinations of more than three vowels may be decomposed in a The following general observations are necessary: (1) Mute _h_ is disregarded in the verse and does not prevent synaloepha. (2) An unaccented weak vowel between two other vowels prevents El orbe escucha atónito ó atento. Pues he de retratarme, dónde ó cómo Me pueda yo estar viendo [é i]mitando. Synaloepha is not wholly inadmissible. No su palanc[a á A]rquímedes le diera. (6) A pause due to a break in sense does not prevent synaloepha. Yo vi correr l[a a]soladora guerra Por l[a Eu]rop[a i]nfeliz. El od[io á u]n tiempo [y e]l amor unirse. Aunqu[e e]l negoc[io he i]gnorado. The synaloepha of five vowels is very rare. Se heló la risa y se torn[ó e]n gemido. Es sù àmo un caballero De mucho valor y brío. A èstos muerdas y á los otros ladres. ¡Oh gran naturaleza! ¡Cuán magníficà ères! Tal de lò àlto tempestad deshecha. L[a o]da sublime entusiasmada canta. increased by synaloepha in: Habl[a, ha]bla: ¿por qué callas? ¿qué recelas? while in Garcilaso's line (p. 72, l. 1) Casi los paso y cuent[o u]nò á ùno ¡Oh yà ìsla católica potente! ¿Qu[é á]spera condición de fiero pecho? Ser[á a]lma sin amor ni sentimiento. (1) the _pausa mayor_, or chief pause, ending the strophe; (3) the _pausa menor_, or slight pause, separating one verse from dissyllabic and accented on the first syllable, they are called trochaic: Dìme | puès, pas|tòr ga|rrìdo. ¿A dón|de vàs, | perdì|da? Sùban al|cèrco d[e O]limpo lu|ciènte. When trisyllabic and accented on the second syllable, they are amphibrachs; Mena: Con crìnes | tendìdos | ardèr los | comètas. De sus hì|jos la tòr|pe avutàr|da. A syllable may be lacking at the end of a verse (then called catalectic); trochaic: Yà los | càmpos | òrn[a A]|bril; in one of amphibrachs: Derràma | su páli|da lùz; dactylic: Hìnche los | àires ce|lèst[e a]rmo|nía; dactylic with two syllables lacking: S[è o]ye á lo | lèjos tre|mèndo fra|gòr. ¿A dón|de vàs | perdì|da? Suspì|r[a e]l blàn|do cé|firo. Sacudièn|do las sèl|vas el á|brego. Tiènde el | mànto | nòche | lóbre|ga. El nìdo | desièrto | de míse|ra tórto|la. Not all accents satisfy the rhythmical requirements in a verse. Insufficient accents are those of the prepositions that have one *Cæsura.*--In the longer verses, a necessary pause or break in a ¿Ves el furor | del animoso viento Embravecid[o | e]n la fragosa sierra? syllables: Ya tu familia gozòsa Se prepara, amado pàdre. Músicas lejànas; \ _Trochees._ De enlutado pàrche / Redòble monótono; \ _Amphibrachs._ Cercàno huracán. / A una mòna Muy taimàda Cièrta urràca. En cierta catedral | una campana había Que sólo se tocab[a | a]lgún solemne día. Con el más recio son, | con pausado compás, Cuatro golpes ó tres | solía dar no más. anapæstic metre, as in Iriarte: Que despàcio y muy rèc[io | e]l dichòso esquilón. No dè jamás mi dùlce pàtria La nòble frènte al yùgo vìl. Tú, manguito, en invierno sìrves, En verano vas á un rincón. But in songs the fourth syllable should also be stressed. Quiero cantar de Càdmo. The perfect type is seen in Villegas: Las cuèrdas mùd[o a]prìsa. Sólo cànta mi lìra. En esta romería | habemos un buen prado. El fruto de los árbores | era dulze sabrìdo. dactyls; e.g., Moratín: El que inocente La vìda pàsa No necesìta Morìsca lànza, Arcos ni aljàba Llèna de flèchas. Cièrta criàda la càsa barría. The dactylic octosyllable accents the first, fourth and seventh syllables: Vuèlve la pàz á los hòmbres. Tòd[o o]s adòr[a e]n silèncio. On the dactylic pentasyllable or adonic verse, see below. *Amphibrachs.*--Of a single foot are these verses of Espronceda: La lìra Que hirió En blàndo El cònd[e y] | los sùyos | tomàron | la tièrra Que estàb[a e]n|tre el àgua | [y e]l bòrde | del mùro. Entràndo tras él | por el àgua decían, Ni sàle la fúlica | de la marìna. This and the further fact that synaloepha may occur between the hemistichs; Mena: Con mùcha gran gènt[e | e]n la màr anegàdo, Ya puès, si se dèbe | en èste gran làgo Guiarse la flota. Mièntras morían | y mièntras matàban. Y luègo el estrépito crèce Confùso y cambiàdo en un sòn, _etc._ Ropàjes sutìles Adòrno le sòn, Y en èllos duplìca Sus lùces el sòl. Plumas, sombrerètes, Lunàres y rìzos Jamás en s[u a]dòrno Fueron admitìdos. Escondìdo en el trònco d[e u]n árbol. Yo también soy cautìvo; También yò, si tuvièra Tu piquìt[o a]gradàble, Te diría mis pènas. Cayó, [y e]l sòn tremènd[o a]l bòsque atruèna. Campos de soledàd, | mustio collàdo. Sube cual àura | d[e o]loròso inciènso. (2) an accent on the first syllable; (3) that the second and third syllables be short; (4) that the sixth, seventh and ninth syllables be short; (6) that there be no synaloepha at the cæsura; e.g., Villegas: Dùlce vecìno | de la vèrde sèlva. Vital aliènto | de la màdre Vènus. subjected to certain conditions. *Adonic verse.*--This is a five-syllabled (pentasyllabic) line of Céfiro blàndo. Dìle que muèro. It is really the first hemistich of a sapphic, and in strophic consonants and the vowels should agree exactly: _sabio_--_labio_, A word should not form consonantal rhyme with itself; although, at times, a simplex is found rhyming with a derivative El más seguro tema con recelo Perder lo que estuviere poseyendo. Salid fuera sin duelo, Salid sin duelo, lágrimas, corriendo. Ya sabes que el objeto deseado Suele hacer al cuidado sabio Apeles, Que con varios pinceles, con distinta Color, esmalta y pinta, _etc._ As has been said, *assonance* excludes the rhyme of consonants and requires that of vowels alone, from the accented vowel on: _clàro_--_mármol_, _blànco_--_amàron_. But in words accented on the third last syllable (_esdrújulos_) or any syllable farther removed from the end (_sobresdrújulos_), the syllables between the accented one and the last unaccented one are disregarded; so, ¡Que desgracia!--La mayor Que sucederme pudièra. Si me quieras despachar.-- ¿La pobre doña Vicènta, Cómo está?--¿Cómo ha de estar? Traspasada. Si quisièrais Despacharme...--Sí, al momento Iré, si me dais licència. These main rules are to be observed: Abierto tiene delante Aquel cajón singulàr Hábilmente preparado, Que, mitad cuna y mitàd Barco, condujo en su seno Al desdichado rapàz. (_esdrújulos_), or on any preceding syllable (_sobresdrújulos_). In the final unaccented syllable, as the result of an obscured The heroic _romance_ strophe is that consisting of iambic hendecasyllables; Rivas: Brilla la luz del apacible cielo, Tregua logrando breve de la cruda Estación invernal, y el aura mansa Celajes rotos al oriente empuja. Blanca y bella ninfa Huye los peligros Del hijo de Venus. The distinguishing features of the _romance_ are, then, (1) the Compositions in seven-syllabled quatrains, dealing with matter of ¡Ay! presuroso el tiempo Póstumo, se desliza: Ni á la piedad respetan La rugosa vejez, la muerte impía. The *seguidilla* is a stanza made up of lines of five and seven Pasando por un pueblo De la montaña, Dos caballeros mozos Buscan posada. De dos vecinos Reciben mil ofertas Los dos amigos. The *redondilla* stanza is a quatrain of eight-syllabled verses Our text also presents examples of certain old forms, originally (Thirteenth century) Qui triste tiene su coraçón Benga oyr esta razón; Odrá razón acabada, Feyta d'amor e bien rymada. Un escolar la rrimó Que siempre dueñas amó, Mas siempre ovo cryança Moró mucho en Lombardía Por aprender cortesía. En el mes d'abril, despues yantar, Estava so un olivar; Entre çimas d'un mançanar Un vaso de plata ví estar, Pleno era d'un claro vino Que era vermeio e fino, Cubierto era de tal mesura No lo tocas' la calentura. Una dueña lo y ovo puesto Que era señora del huerto, Que, quan su amigo viniesse, D'aquel vino á bever le diesse. Qui de tal vino oviesse En la mañana quan comiesse E d'ello oviesse cada día, Otro vaso ví estar, Pleno era d'un agua fryda Que en el mançanar se naçía. Beviera d'ela de grado, Mas ovi miedo que era encantado. Sobre un prado pus mi tiesta Que non fiziese mal la siesta; Partí de mí las vestiduras Que non fizies mal la calentura. Plegué á una fuente perenal, Nunca omne que viese tall: Tan grant virtud en si avía Que de la frydor que d'i yxía .C. pasadas á derredor Non sintrýades la calor. Todas yervas que bien olíen La fuent çerca sí las teníe. Y es la salvia, y sson las rrosas, Y el lirio e las violas; Otras tantas yervas i avía Que sol nombrar no las sabría, Mas ell olor que d'i yxía A omne muerto rressuçetarýa. Prys del agua un bocado E fuy todo esfryado; En mi mano prys una flor, Sabet non toda la peyor, E quis cantar de fin amor; Mas ví venir una doncela, Pues naçí non ví tan bella. Blanca era e bermeia, Cabelos cortos sobre ll'oreia, Naryz egual e dereyta, Nunca viestes tan bien feyta, Boca á rrazón e blancos dientes, Labros vermeios non muy delgados, Por verdat bien mesurados; Por la çentura delgada, Bien estante e mesurada. El manto e su brial De xamet era que non d'al; Un sombrero tien en la tiesta Que no fiziese mal la siesta; Unas luvas tien en la mano, Sabet no ielas dió vilano. De las flores viene tomando, En alta voz d'amor cantando, E deçia: «¡Ay, meu amigo, Si me veré yamás contigo! A oy et sempre amaré Quanto que biva seré. Porque eres escolar, Quisquiere te devría más amar. Nunqua odí de homne deçir Que tanta bona manera ovo en sí; Más amaría contigo estar Que toda España mandar; Mas d'una cosa so cuitada, He miedo de seder engañada, Que dizen que otra dueña, Cortesa e bela e bona, Te quiere tan gran bien, Por ti pierde su sen, Mas s'io te vies una vegada, A plan me querrýes por amada.» Quant la mía señor esto dizía, Sabet á mí non vidía; Pero sé que non me conoçía, Que de mí non foyrýa. Yo non fiz aquí como vilano; Levém e prisla por la mano. Junniemos amos em par E posamos so ell olivar, Dixle yo: «¿Dezit, la mía señor, Si supiestes nunca d'amor?» Diz ella: «A plan con grant amor ando, Mas non connozco mi amado; Pero dizem un su mesaiero Qu'es clerygo e non cavalero, Sabe muito de trobar, De leyer e de cantar; Dizem que es de buena yente, Mancebo barva punniente.» --«Por Dios, que digades, la mía señor, Que donas tenedes de la su amor?» --«Estas luvas y es capiello, Es coral y est aniello Enbió á mí es meu amigo, Que, por la su amor trayo conmigo.» Yo connocí luego las alfajas Que yo ielas avía embiadas. Ela connoció una mi çinta man á mano, Qu'ela la fiziera con la su mano. Toliós el manto de los ombros, Besóme la boca e por los oios, «Dios señor, seyas loado, Quant conozco meu amigo.» Una grant pieça alí estando, De nuestro amor ementando, Elam dixo: «El mío señor, Oram serýa de tornar, Si á vos non fuese en pesar.» Yol dix: «Yt, la mía señor, Pues que yr queredes, Mas de mi amor pensat, fe que devedes.» Elam dixo: «Bien seguro seyt de mi amor, No vos camiaré por un emperador.» La mía señor se va privado, Dexa á mí desconortado. Queque la ví fuera del uerto, Por poco non fuy muerto. Por verdat quisieram adormir, Mas una palomila ví, Tan blanca era como la nieve del puerto, Volando viene por medio del uerto. En la fuente quiso entrar, Mas cuando á mí vido estar, Entros en la del malgranar. Un vaso aví' alí dorado Tray al pie atado. En la fuent quiso entrar, Quando á mí vido estar en el malgranar. Quando en el vaso fué entrada, E fué toda bien esfryada, E la que quiso exir festino, Vertiós el agua sobrel vino. (Flourished in the first half of the thirteenth century) Eya velar, eya velar, eya velar. Velat aljama de los judios, Eya velar: Que non vos furten el Fijo de Dios, Eya velar. Ca furtárvoslo querrán, Eya velar: Eya velar. Non sabedes tanto descanto, Eya velar: Que salgades de so el canto, Eya velar. Todos son ladronçiellos, Eya velar: Que assechan por los pestiellos, Eya velar. Todos son omnes plegadizos, Eya velar: Rioaduchos mescladizos, Eya velar. Vuestra lengua sin recabdo, Eya velar: Por mal cabo vos ha echado, Eya velar. Non sabedes tanto de enganno, Eya velar: Que salgades ende este anno, Eya velar. Que salgades de la prision. Eya velar. Eya velar: De furtarlo han grant deseo, Eya velar. El disçipulo lo vendió, Eya velar: El Maestro non lo entendió, Eya velar. Eya velar: Por furtar buscan ayudas, Eya velar. Si lo quieren acometer, Eya velar: Oy es dia de paresçer, Eya velar. _Eya velar, eya velar, eya velar._ (Flourished in the first half of the fourteenth century) Quiero vos abreviar la predicaçion, Que siempre me pagué de pequenno sermon, E de duenna pequenna et de breve razon, Ca poco et bien dicho afincase el corazon. Del que mucho fabla, rien, quien mucho rie, es loco, Es en la duenna chica amor et non poco, Duennas hay muy grandes, que por chicas non troco, Mas las chicas e las grandes se repienden del troco. Dezirvos he de duennas chicas, que lo habredes por juego, Son frias como la nieve, e arden como el fuego, Son frias de fuera, con el amor ardientes, En la calle solaz, trevejo, plazenteras, rientes, En casa cuerdas, donosas, sosegadas, bien fazientes, Mucho al y fallaredes a do bien paredes mientes. En pequenna gergenza yaze grand resplandor, En azúcar muy poco yaze muche dulçor, En la duenna pequenna yaze muy grand amor, Pocas palabras cumplen al buen entendedor. Es pequenno el grano de la buena pimienta, Pero mas que la nuez conorta et calienta, Asi duenna pequenna, si todo amor consienta, Non ha plazer del mundo que en ella non sienta. Como en chica rosa está mucho color, En oro muy poco grand precio et grand valor, Como en poco blasmo yaze grand buen olor, Ansi en duenna chica yaze muy grand sabor. Como robí pequenno tiene mucha bondat, Color, virtud, e preçio, e noble claridad, Ansi duenna pequenna tiene mucha beldat, Fermosura, donayre, amor, et lealtad. Chica es la calandria, et chico el ruysennor, Pero mas dulçe canta, que otra ave mayor; La muger, que es chica, por eso es mejor, Con donneo es mas dulçe, que azúcar nin flor. Son aves pequennas papagayo e orior, Pero cualquier dellas es dulçe gritador, Adonada, fermosa, preçiada, cantador, Bien atal es la duenna pequenna con amor. De la muger pequenna non hay comparaçion, Mejor es en la prueba, que en la salutaçion. Sempre ques muger chica mas que grande nin mayor, Non es desaguisado del grand mal ser foidor, Del mal tomar lo menos dizelo el sabidor, Porende de las mugeres la mejor es la menor. Varones buenos honrados, Querednos ya ayudar, A estos çiegos lazrados La vuestra limosna dar. Somos pobres menguados, Habémoslo a demandar. De los bienes deste siglo Non tenemos nos pesar, Vivimos en grant periglo En vida mucho penada, Çiegos bien como vestiglo Del mundo non vemos nada. Tu le da la bendiçion Al que hoy en este dia Nos dier primero raçion, Dal al cuerpo alegria Et al alma salvaçion. Ruega a Dios verdadero De quien nos diere buena estrena De meaja o de dinero Aquien nos dió su meaja Por amor del Salvador, Sennor dal' tu gloria Tu graçia et tu amor: Guárdalo de la baraja Del pecado engannador. Ea tú bienaventurado Tú seas su abogado De aquella et de aquel Que de su pan nos ha dado, Quando las almas pesares, Estos ten con la tu diestra Que dan çenas e yantares A nos e a quien nos adiestra; Sus pecados et sus males Echalos a la siniestra. Sennor, merçet te clamamos Con nuestras manos amas, Las limosnas que te damos Que las tomes en tus palmas: A quien nos dió que comamos Da paraiso a sus almas. Sennor oy á pecadores Por los nuestros bien fechores. Tu resçibe esta cançion Et oy esta nuestra oraçion, Que nos pobres te rogamos Por quien nos dió que comamos, Et por el que darlo quiso. Dios que por nos muerte priso Vos dé santo paraiso. Amen. (Fl. end of the fifteenth century) ¡Ah lágrimas tristes, ah tristes cuydados! ¡Ah graves angustias, ah mortal dolor! Tú te apareja, discreto lector, Leyendo mis llantos tan amargurados. Mortales singultos, sospiros dobrados, Dad fin á my vyda, que es pena mayor, Y quiebren mis ojos, pues vieron quebrados Los vuestros, ah príncipe, nuestro señor. ¿Qué fué de la vuestra tan linda estatura, Que tanto excedía las otras del mundo, La frente serena del rrostro jocundo? ¿Qué fué de la vuestra ermosa fegura? ¿A dó hallaremos á la hermosura De los vuestros ojos tan mucho estremados? ¡Vayamos, seguidme, oh desventurados, Rrompamos, rrompamos la su sepultura! A ver si hallaremos sus muy lindas manos, Por muchas merçedes de todos besadas. ¡Oh fiyestas malditas, desaventuradas, Que luego tan presto vos avéys tornado En lloro el prazer, en xerga el brocado, Las danças en otras muy desatynadas! Sennor, si tu has dada Tu sentençia contra mí, Por merçed te pido aquí Que me sea reuocada. Tu, Sennor, tienes judgado por tu alta prouidençia, Que emendando el pecador se mude la tu sentençia. Por ende con penitençia e con voluntad quebrada, He mi vida ordenada, por conplir lo que fallí; Sennor, si tu has dada Tu sentençia contra mí, Por merçed te pido aquí Que me sea reuocada. Con tu ayuda, Sennor, e de la Sennora mia, Podré yo muy pecador emendarme toda via, E tu seruiçio será en cobrar, esta vegada, Vna oveja muy errada, que en el yermo me perdí. Sennor, si tu has dada {p. 15} Tu sentençia contra mí, Por merçed te pido aqui Que me sea reuocada. Non sea yo desechado de la tu merçed muy grande, E a sieruo tan errado con sanna non le demande, E con crueza non ande por juyzio la tu spada, E séame otorgada piedat sy fallesçí. Sennor, si tu has dada Tu sentençia contra mí, Por merçed te pido aqui Que me sea reuocada. Sennora estrella luziente Que a todo el mundo guia, Guia a este tu siruiente Que su alma en tí fía. A canela bien oliente Eres sennora conparada, De la tierra del oriente Es olor muy apreciada. A ti faz clamor la gente En sus cuytas todavía, Quien por pecador se siente Sennora, estrella luziente Que a todo el mundo guia, Guia a este tu siruiente Que su alma en tí fía. Al cedro en la altura Te compara Salomon, Palma fresca en verdura, Fermosa e de grant valia, Te llama, Sennora mia Sennora, estrella luziente Que a todo el mundo guia, Guia a este tu siruiente Que su alma en ti fía. De la mar eres estrella, Del çielo puerta lunbrosa, Despues del parto donzella, De Dios Padre fija, esposa. Tu amansaste la querella Que por Eua a nos uenia, E el alma que fizo ella Por ti ouo mejoria. Sennora, estrella luziente Que todo el mundo guia, Guia á este tu siruiente Que su alma en ti fía. (Fifteenth century or end of the fourteenth) Yo soy la muerte çierta a todas criaturas Que son y serán en el mundo durante, Demando y digo: o omne por qué curas De bida tan breue en punto pasante? Pues non ay tan fuerte nin rezio gigante Con esta mi frecha cruel traspasante. Qué locura es esta tan magnifiesta Que piensas tú, omne, que el otro morrá, E tú quedarás por ser bien compuesta La tu complisyon e que durará? Non eres çierto sy en punto berná Sobre ty a dessora alguna corrupçion, De landre o carbonco, o tal ynplisyon, Porque el tu vil cuerpo se dessatará. La plática muestra seer pura berdad Aquesto que digo syn otra fallençia, La sancta escriptura con çertenidad, Da sobre todo su firme sentencia, A todos diziendo: fazed penitençia, Que a morir abedes, non sabedes quando, Sy non bed el frayre que está pedricando, Mirad lo que dize de su grand sabiençia. Sennores honrrados, la sancta escriptura Demuestra e dize que todo omne nado Gostará la muerte maguer sea dura, Ca truxo al mundo vn solo bocado; Ca papa, o rey, o obispo sagrado, Cardenal, o duque e conde exçelente, O emperador con toda su gente Que son en el mundo de morir han forçado. _Bueno e sano Consejo:_ Sennores, punad en fazer buenas obras, Non vos fiedes en altos estados, Que non vos valdrán thesoros nin doblas A la muerte que tiene sus lazos parados. Sy queredes aver complido perdon De aquel que perdona los yerros pasados. Que ya la muerte encomiença a hordenar Vna dança esqiva de que non podedes Por cosa ninguna que sea escapar. A la qual dize que quere leuar A todos nosotros lançando sus redes, Abrid las orejas que agora oyredes De su charambela vn triste cantar. A la dança mortal venit los nasçidos Que en el mundo soes de qualquiera estado, El que non quisiere a fuerça e amidos Fazerle he venir muy toste parado. Pues que ya el frayre bos ha pedricado Que todos bayaes a fazer penitençia, El que non quisiere poner diligençia Por mi non puede ser mas esperado _Primeramente llama a su dança a dos Donzellas:_ Esta mi dança traye de presente Estas dos donzellas que bedes fermosas, Ellas vinieron de muy mala mente Oyr mis cançiones, que son dolorosas. Mas non les baldrán flores e rosas Nin las conposturas que poner solian, De mi sy pudiesen partir-se querrian, Mas non puede ser, que son mis esposas. A estas e a todos por las aposturas Daré fealdad la bida partida, E desnudedad por las bestiduras, Por syempre jamas muy triste aborrida; E por los manjares gusanos rroyentes. Que coman de dentro su carne podrida. E porque el santo padre es muy alto sennor Que en todo el mundo non ay su par, E desta mi dança será guiador, Desnude su capa, comiençe á sotar; Non es ya tiempo de perdones dar, Nin de celebrar en grande aparato, Que yo le daré en breue mal rrato: Ay de mi, triste, qué cosa tan fuerte, E yo que tractaua tan grand prelasia, Aber de pasar agora la muerte E non me baler lo que dar solia. Benefiçios, e honrras e grand sennoria, Toue en el mundo pensando beuir, Pues de ti, muerte, non puedo fuyr, Bal me Ihesucristo e la birgen Maria. Non bos enojedes, sennor padre santo, De andar en mi dança que tengo ordenada, Non vos baldrá el bermejo manto, De lo que fezistes abredes soldada. Non vos aprouecha echar la cruzada, Proueer de obispados nin dar benefiçios, Aqui moriredes syn fazer bolliçios: Dançad imperante con cara pagada. Qué cosa es esta que a tan syn pauor Me lleua a su dança a fuerça syn grado? Creo que es la muerte que non ha dolor Que della me pueda agora defender, Acorredme todos, mas non puede ser, Que ya tengo della el seso turbado. Enperador muy grande en el mundo potente, Non vos cuytedes, ea non es tiempo tal, Que librar vos pueda inperio nin gente, Oro nin plata, nin otro metal. Aqui perderedes el buestro cabdal, Que athesorastes con grand tyrania, Faziendo batallas de noche e de dia: Morid, non curedes, benga el cardenal. _Lo que dize la Muerte á los que non nombró:_ A todos los que aqui no he nombrado De cualquer ley e estado o condyçion, Les mando que bengan muy toste priado A entrar en mi dança sin escusaçion. Non rescibiré jamas exebçion, Nin otro libelo nin declinatoria, Los que bien fizieron abrán syempre gloria, Los quel contrario abrán dapnaçion. De nesçesidad syn otro remedio, Con pura conçiençia todos trabajemos En servir a Dios sin otro comedio. Ca él es principio, fyn e el medio Por do si le plaze abremos folgura, Avn que la muerte con dança muy dura Nos meta en su corro en cualquer comedio. _Comiença e dize asy:_ Despues de la prima la ora pasada, En el mes de enero la noche primera, En CCCC. e beynte durante la hera, Estando acostado allá en mi posada; Non pude dormir essa trasnochada, A la mannana un suenno me bino, Veredes, sennores, lo que me abino Mientra pasava el alumbrada. En un baile fondo, escuro, apartado, Espeso de xaras, sonné que andava Buscando salida e non la fallava, Topé con un omne que yazía fynado. Holía muy mal, ca estava fynchado, Los ojos quebrados, la faz denegrida, La boca abierta, la barba cayda, De gusanos e moscas muy acompannado. Abrí los mis ojos por mirar quien era, Ví una ave de blanca color. Dezía contra el cuerpo: hereje, traydor, Del mal que feziste, si eres repiso, Por tu bana-gloria e falso riso, Yo en el infierno bivo con dolor. _Dize el cuerpo:_ Essa ora el cuerpo fizo movimiento, Alçó la cabeça, començó á fablar, E dixo: sennora, ¿por qué tanto culpar Me queres agora syn meresçimiento? Que sy dixe ó fize fué por tu talento, Sy non mira agora qual es mi poder, Que estos gusanos non puedo toller, Que comen las carnes de mi criamiento. _Dize el ánima:_ O cuerpo maldito, vil, enconado, Leno de fedor e de grand calabrina, Metiéronte en foyo, cubriéronte ayna, Dexáronte dentro á mal de tu grado. Por ende tú piensas que as ya librado, Primero serás delante el derecho, Donde darás cuenta de todo tu fecho Que en el mundo feziste, do poco has durado. _Dize el cuerpo:_ ¿Por qué, sennora, más enojar Me queres agora en esta sazón? Que en quanto dexiste non tienes razón, Vete en buena ora, dexes-me estar. Más bien me paresces que eres çimiento, Pues por tus malos fechos has de penar. Ellos estando en esta porfía, Gesto espantable, de mala figura, Tynazas de fierro en las manos traýa. Dixo contra el ánima: tú serás mía, E conmigo yrás allá á mi posada, Adonde serás bien adverguada, Que allá fallarás asaz conpannía. El ángel de Dios que esto beýa, Fué contra el malo muy ayrado, E dixo: diablo sey ya pagado De quanto mal fazes de día en día. Pues te atreves con grande osadía, De mí tú yrás mal baratado, Aunque te pese á mal de tu grado, Aquesta ánima será toda mía. (Second half of the fourteenth century and early fifteenth) A aquel árbol, que mueve la foxa, Algo se le antoxa. Aquel árbol del bel mirar Façe de manyera flores quiere dar: Algo se le antoxa. Aquel árbol del bel veyer Façe de manyera quiere florecer: Algo se le antoxa. Algo se le antoxa. Façe de manyera quiere florecer: Ya se demuestra; salidlas á ver: Algo se le antoxa. Ya se demuestra; salidlas mirar: Vengan las damas las fructas cortar: Algo se le antoxa. Lynda syn conparaçion, Plazer é consolaçion, Briosa cibdat extraña, El mi coraçon se baña, En ver vestra maravilla, Muy poderosa Sevilla Guarnida d'alta compaña. Parayso terrenal Es el vestro nonbre puro; Sobre cimiento leal Es fundado vestro muro, Onde byve amor seguro Que será sienpre ensalçado: Sy esto me fuer negado De mal diçientes non curo. Desque de vos me party Fasta agora que vos veo, Bien vos juro que non vy Vestra egual en asseo: Resplendor nin luz de estrellas Non es tal, segunt yo creo. En el mundo non ha par Vestra lyndeza é folgura, Nin se podrian ffallar Dueñas de tal fermosura: Donzellas de grant mesura Que en vos fueron criadas, Estas deven ser loadas En España de apostura. (Early fifteenth century) Non fué por çierto mi carrera vana, Passando la puente de Guadalquivir, Atan buen encuentro que yo vi venir Rribera del rio, en medio Triana, A la muy fermosa Estrella Diana, Qual sale por mayo al alva del dia, Por los santos passos de la romeria: Muchos loores aya santa Ana. E por galardon demostrar me quiso La muy delicada flor de jazmin, Rossa novela de oliente jardin, E de verde prado gentil flor de lyso, El su graçioso é onesto rysso, Ssemblante amorosso é viso ssuave, Propio me paresçe al que dixo: _Ave_, Quando enviado fué del paraysso. E con ellos calle Ovidio _D'Amante_ E cuantos escripvieron loando señores, Que tal es aquesta entre las mejores, Commo el luçero entre las estrellas, Llama muy clara á par de centellas, E commo la rrosa entre las flores. Non se desdeñe la muy delicada Enfregymio griega, de las griegas flor, Nin de las troyanas la noble señor, Por ser aquesta atanto loada; Que en tierra llana é non muy labrada, Nasçe á las vezes muy oliente rrosa, Assy es aquesta gentil é fermosa, Que tan alto meresçe de ser comparada. (Early fifteenth century) Dizen los sabios: «Fortuna es mudable,» E non me paresçe que deve seer tal, Que antes la veo seer muy espantable A do una vegada comiença yr mal: Que fasta que acaba todo el cabdal, Nunca mudança faze la fortuna, Ca sienpre en el pobre la veo seer una Fasta destruyr el bien principal. Quando ella quiere tomar su vengança, Pone al pobre en mayor probeça, E nunca jamas faze mudança, Salvo con muerte, postrera crueza: La qual probedat es dolor é vileza, Por la qual pierde el noble su alteça. El pobre non tiene parientes ni amigos, Donayre nin seso, esfuerço é sentido, E por la proveza le son enemigos Los suyos mesmos por veer lo caydo: Todos lo tienen por desconoçido E non se les mienbra del tienpo pasado, Sy algunt benefiçio ovieron cobrado De aquellos de quien él ha descendido. Non tiene graçia virtud nin aseo, E por que á todos en pobreza ssobra Su dicho es tenido por grant devaneo: E tiene otra tacha peor que le veo Que dizen que es loco sy es esforçado, E dizen que es torpe sy es sosegado, Asy que su vida es sienpre en desseo. Quanto es de triste la gafa proveza, Mesquina, lazdrada é muy espantosa, Atanto es de noble la linpia rriqueza, Gentil é alegre, muy dulçe, sabrosa, Sabia, esforçada, fidalga, graçiosa, Ardid é polida, cortés, mesurada, Garrida é briosa, muy bien costunbrada, Onrrada é temida, sotil é donosa. Mas que pavon loçano é donosso, Ardid é muy bravo, é rrizio provado, E mas quel azero qu'es fuerte azerado Es la del rrico su grant fortaleza, Ca estas virtudes le ponen rriqueza, Las quales fallesçen en el pobre cuytado. Non siento en el rrico ningunt fallimiento, Nin creo que pueda en él ser fallado, Non siento en el pobre ningunt conplimiento Salvo de cuytas que bive abastado: Pero ay un rremedio que veo provado Que el pobre, el rrico, que todo fallesçe, E todo en el mundo por muerte pereçe, E todo se olvida desqu'es traspasado. (First half of the fifteenth century) Si Dios, nuestro Salvador, Ovier de tomar amiga, Fuera mi competidor. Aun se m'antoxa, senyor, Si esta tema tomáras, Que justas e quebrar varas Ficieras por su amor. Si fueras mantenedor, Contigo me las pegara, E non te alzara la vara, Por ser mi competidor. II {p. 29} Senyor Dios, pues me causaste Sin comparaçion amar, Tú me deves perdonar Si pasé lo que mandaste. Mandaste que ombre amasse A ti mas que a otra cosa, Et causaste que fallase Ombre amiga tan graçiosa, Generosa, mas fermosa De quantas, senyor, creaste, La qual yo amo sin par De amor tan singular, Que no ay seso que baste. Formaste la creatura A tu semblança, senyor, De la tu santidat pura Me feziste amador: Quien figura tal figura, Tal qual tú la figuraste, Es causa de dar lugar Para algun tiempo olvidar A ti que me la mostraste. El gentil niño Narçiso En una fuente engañado, De ssy mesmo enamorado, Muy esquiva muerte priso: Señora de noble rriso Non se atreva vuestro viso. Deseando vuestra vida Aun vos dó otro consejo, Que non se mire en espejo Vuestra faz clara é garrida: ¿Quien sabe sy la partida Vos será dende tan fuerte, Por que fuese en vos la muerte De Narciso repetida? Prados, rrosas é flores Otorgo que los miredes, E plaze me que escuchedes Dulçes cantigas de amores; Mas por sol nin por calores Tal codiçia non vos ciegue; Vuestra vista syenpre nyegue Las fuentes é sus dulçores. Con plazer é gozo é ryso Rruego á Dyos que rresplandezcan Vuestros bienes é florezcan Vuestra faz muy blanca, lisa, Jamas nunca syenta pena, A Dyos, flor de azuzena, Duela vos de 'sta pesquisa. Tanto anduvimos el cerco mirando A que nos hallamos con nuestro Macias, Y vimos que estaba llorando los dias En que de su vida tomó fin amando; Llegué mas acerca turbado yo, quando Ví ser un hombre de nuestra nacion, Y ví que decia tal triste cancion, En elegíaco verso cantando: «Amores me dieron corona de amores Porque mi nombre por mas bocas ande, Entonces no era mi mal menos grande, Quando me daban placer sus dolores; Vencen el seso sus dulces errores, Mas no duran siempre, segun luego aplacen, Pues me hicieron del mal que vos hacen, Sabed al amor desamar, amadores. «Huid un peligro tan apasionado, Sabed ser alegres, dexá de ser tristes, Sabed deservir á quien tanto servistes, A otro que amores dad vuestro cuidado; Los cuales si diesen por un igual grado Sus pocos placeres, segun su dolor, No se quexaria ningun amador, Ni desesperaria ningun desamado. «Bien como quando algun malhechor Al tiempo que hacen de otro justicia, Temor de la pena le pone codicia De allí en adelante vivir ya mejor; Así me volvieron á do desespero Amores, que quieren que muera amado.» Vista ciega, luz oscura, Gloria triste, vida muerta, Ventura de desventura, Lloro alegre, risa incierta: Hiel sabrosa, dulce agrura, Paz con ira y saña presta Es amor, con vestidura De gloria que pena cuesta. Ah Mingo Rebulgo, ahao, ¿Ques de tu sayo de blao? ¿Non lo vistes en domingo? ¿Ques de tu jubón bermejo? ¿Porqué traes tal sobreçejo? Andas esta trasnochada La cabeça desgreñada: ¿Non te llotras de buen rejo? III {p. 33} Sé que en fuerte ora allá echamos Quando á Candaulo cobramos Por pastor de nuestro hato. Ándase tras los zagales Por estos andurriales Todo el día enbeveçido, Holgazando syn sentido, Que non mira nuestros males. Yo soñé esta trasnochada, De que estoy estremuloso, Que nin roso nin velloso Quedará desta vegada. Échate, échate á dormir, Que en lo que puedo sentyr, Segund andan estas cosas, Asmo que las tres raviosas Lobas tyenen de venir. Tú conoçes la amarilla Que siempre anda carleando, Muerta, flaca, sospirando, Que á todos pone manzilla; Que aunque traga non se farta Nin los colmillos aparta De morder y mordiscar; Quel ganado non se esparta. XXIV {p. 34} La otra mala traydora, Cruel et muy enemiga, De todos males amiga, De sy mesma robadora, Que sabe bien los cortijos; Nin dexa madre nin fijos Yazer en sus albergadas, En los valles y majadas, Sabe los escondedijos. Y aun también la tredentuda Que come los rezentales; Y non dexa los añales, Quando un poco está sañuda; Meto que no olvidará De venir y aun tragará Atanbien su partezilla: Dime ¿aquesta tal quadrilla A quien non espantará? Oy ¿qué diré de ti, triste emispherio, O patria mia, que veo del todo Yr todas cosas ultra el recto modo, Donde se espera inmenso laçerio?... ¡Tu gloria é laude tornó vituperio E la tu clara fama en escureça!... ¿Dó la esperança?... Ca por cierto absentes Son de las tus regiones é partidas. ¿Dó es la justiçia, templança, egualdat, Prudençia é fortaleça?... ¿Son presentes?... Por çierto non: que léxos son fuydas. Quando yo só delante aquella donna, A cuyo mando me sojudgó Amor, Vieron la grand claror que se raçona, Ó quella sea fija de Latona, Segund su aspetto é grand resplandor: Asy que punto yo non hé vigor De mirar fixo su deal persona. El su grato fablar dulçe, amoroso, Es una maravilla çiertamente, É modo nuevo en humanidat: El andar suyo es con tal reposo, Hónesto é manso, é su continente, Que, libre, vivo en captividad. _Moça tan fermosa Non ví en la frontera, Como una vaquera Vençido del sueño Por tierra fragosa Perdí la carrera, Do ví la vaquera En un verde prado De rosas é flores. Guardando ganado Con otros pastores, Que fuesse vaquera Non creo las rosas De la primavera Sean tan fermosas Nin de tal manera, Fablando sin glosa, Si antes sopiera D'aquella vaquera Non tanto mirára Su mucha beldat, Porque me dexára En mi libertat. Mas dixe: «Donosa (Por saber quién era), ¿Dónde es la vaquera Bien como riendo, Dixo: «Bien vengades; Que ya bien entiendo Lo que demandades: Non es desseosa De amar, nin lo espera, Aquessa vaquera Por una gentil floresta De lindas flores é rosas Vide tres damas fermosas Que de amores han reqüesta. Yo con voluntat muy presta Me llegué á conosçellas: Començó la una dellas Esta cançion tan honesta: Nunca tales guardas ví. Por mirar su fermosura Destas tres gentiles damas, Yo cobríme con las ramas, Metíme só la verdura. La otra con grand tristura Començó de sospirar La niña que amores ha, Sola ¿como dormirá?... Por no les façer turbança Non quise yr mas adelante A las que con ordenança Cantavan tan consonante. La otra con buen semblante Dixo: Señoras de estado, Pues las dos aveis cantado, A mí conviene que cante: Dejatlo, el villano pene; Véngueme Dios d'elle. Desque ya ovieron cantado Estas señoras que digo, Yo salí desconsolado, Como ome sin abrigo. Ellas dixeron: Amigo, Non soys vos el que buscamos; Mas cantat, pues que cantamos: Sospirando yva la niña E non por mí, Que yo bien se lo entendí. (Early fifteenth century) ¡Oh triste partida mia, Causa de secretos males! ¡Oh cuidados desiguales, Que destruyen mi alegría! Porque en fin de mi partida Et mi vida fenescida, Non muriese cada dia! Mis males eran nasçidos Ante de mi nasçimiento; En los signos de sabidos Et planeta de perdidos Fué mi triste fundamiento; Et la rueda de fortuna, Con el signo más esquivo, Con la más menguante luna Me fadaron en la cuna Para ser vuestro captivo. (First half of the fifteenth century) Dezidle nuevas de mi, Et mirat si avrá pesar Por el placer que perdí. Contadle la mi fortuna Et la pena en que yo vivo, Et dezid que soy esquivo, Que non curo de ninguna. Que tan fermosa la vi, Que m'oviera de tornar Loco el dia que partí. (Fl. first half of fifteenth century) (Fl. as above) Lyndo fydalgo, en la luna menguante Leystes poetas, ssegunt que sofysmo: Por ende avissatnos por el inforismo Del alto poeta rectórico Dante, É luego veredes que andades errante Assý como anda estrella cometa, Quando recurssa al sol que ssometa Ssus rayos distintos por ser ygualante. Ca ssy concluyendo, gentil cavalgante, Ssostengo contrario de aquesta batalla, Que nunca se vençe por mucho otealla Ninguna fermossa syn ser demandante. De todas çiençias sseyendo distante, Ssegunt que sabedes mayor que yo mismo, Non ssé poetría, nin se algurismo, Deçiplo sso synple, pessado, ygnorante; Mas por que mi obra triunfe adelante, Catat que ssy abro my rica maleta, Por arte profunda, ssotyl é muy rreta, A vuestro argumento sseré reprobante. Que vista de amor es causa mediante Para qualquiera fermosa cobralla; É todo lo al es arte contralla, Segunt los actores Vergillo é Dante. (Middle of the fifteenth century) Pues mi vida es llanto ó pena, Syn fazer mudança alguna, Faré como la serena, Que canta con la fortuna Y en bonança sufre pena. Quando lloro, quando canto, Quando muero, porque vivo, Quando mis cuytas escribo; Pues fortuna asy lo ordena, Syguiendo voluntat una, Faré como la serena, Que canta con la fortuna Y en bonança sufre pena. ¡O tú, en amor hermano, Nascido para morir, Pues lo no puedes fuyr, Que vicios, bienes, honores Que procuras, Pasansse como frescuras De las flores! En esta mar alterada Por do todos nauegamos, Los deportes que pasamos, Si bien lo consideramos, No duran mas que roçiada. ¡O, pues, tú, ombre mortal, Mira, mira, La rueda quan presto gira Si desto quieres enxiemplos, Mira la grand Bauilonia, El grand pueblo de Sydonia, Cuyas murallas y tenplos Son en grandes valladares E sus trihunfos tornados En solares. El coraçon se me fué Donde vuestro vulto vi, E luego vos conosçi Al punto que vos miré; Que no pudo fazer tanto Que no vos reconosçiese. Que debaxo se mostraua Vuestra graçia y gentil ayre, Y el cubrir con buen donayre Todo lo magnifestaua; Asy que con mis enojos. E muy grande turbaçion Allá se fueron mis ojos Do tenia el coraçon. Vos cometistes traycion, Pues me heristes durmiendo D'una herida qu'entiendo Que será mayor passion El deseo d'otra tal Herida como me distes, Que no la llaga ni mal, Ni daño que me hezistes. Perdono la muerte mía, Mas con tales condiciones Que de tales trayciones Cometáys mil cada día, Pero todas contra mí, Porque d'aquesta manera No me plaze que otro muera, Pues que yo lo merescí. Más plazer es que pesar Herida c'otro mal sana; Quien durmiendo tanto gana Nunca debe despertar. Recuerde el alma dormida, Abive el seso y despierte Cómo se passa la vida, Cómo se viene la muerte Tan callando: Quán presto se va el plazer, Cómo despues de acordado Da dolor, Cómo á nuestro parecer Cualquiera tiempo passado Fué mejor. Y pues vemos lo presente Como en un punto es ydo Y acabado, Si juzgamos sabiamente, Daremos lo no venido Por passado. No se engañe nadie, no, Pensando que ha de durar Lo que espera Más que duró lo que vió, Porque todo ha de pasar Por tal manera. Nuestras vidas son los rios Que van á dar en la mar, Derechos á se acabar Y consumir; Allí los rios caudales, Allí los otros medianos Y más chicos, Allegados, son yguales, Los que biven por sus manos Y los ricos. Dexo las inuocaciones De los famosos poetas Y oradores; No curo de sus ficiones, Que traen yerva secreta Sus sabores. A aquél solo me encomiendo Aquél solo invoco yo De verdad, Que en este mundo biviendo, El mundo no conoció Su deidad. Este mundo es el camino Para el otro, qu'es morada Sin pesar; Mas cumple tener buen tino Para andar esta jornada Sin errar. Partimos quando nacemos, Andamos mientras bevimos, Y llegamos Al tiempo que fenecemos; Assi que, quando morimos, Como devemos, Porque, segun nuestra fe, Es para ganar aquel Que atendemos. Para subirnos al cielo, A nacer acá entre nos, Y bivir en este suelo Do murió. Ved de quán poco valor Son las cosas tras que andamos Y corremos; Que en este mundo traydor Aun primero que muramos Las perdemos: D'ellas deshaze la edad, D'ellas casos desastrados Que acaescen, D'ellas, por su calidad, En los más altos estados Dezidme: la hermosura, La gentil frescura y tez De la cara, La color y la blancura, Quando viene la vejez Quál se para? Las mañas y ligereza Y la fuerça corporal De juventud, Todo se torna graveza Pues la sangre de los Godos, El linaje y la nobleza Tan crecida, ¡Por quántas vías e modos Se pierde su gran alteza En esta vida! Unos por poco valer, ¡Por quán baxos y abatidos Que los tienen! Otros que por no tener, Con oficios no devidos Se mantienen. Los estados y riqueza Que nos dexan á desora ¿Quién lo duda? No les pidamos firmeza, Pues que son de una señora Que se muda. Que bienes son de fortuna Que rebuelve con su rueda La qual no puede ser una, Ni ser estable ni queda En una cosa. Pero digo que acompañen Y lleguen hasta la huessa Con su dueño; Por esso no nos engañen, Pues se va la vida apriessa Como sueño: Y los deleytes de acá Son en que nos deleytamos Que por ellos esperamos, Los plazeres y dulçores D'esta vida trabajada Que tenemos, ¿Qué son sino corredores, Y la muerte la celada En que caemos? No mirando á nuestro daño Corremos á rienda suelta Sin parar; Desque vemos el engaño Y queremos dar la buelta, No ay lugar. Si fuesse en nuestro poder Tornar la cara fermosa Como podemos hazer El alma tan gloriosa ¡Qué diligencia tan biva Tuviéramos cada hora, Y tan presta, En componer la cativa Dexándonos la señora Estos reyes poderosos Que vemos por escripturas Ya passadas, Con casos tristes, llorosos, Fueron sus buenas venturas Assí los trata la muerte Como á los pobres pastores De ganados. Que sus males no los vimos, Ni sus glorias; Aunque oymos y leymos Sus historias. No curemos de saber Lo de aquel siglo passado Qué fué d'ello; Vengamos á lo de ayer, Que tambien es olvidado Como aquello. ¿Qué se hizo el Rey Don Juan? ¿Qué se hizieron? ¿Qué fué de tanto galan, Qué fué de tanta invencion Como truxeron? Las justas e los torneos, Paramentos, bordaduras E cimeras, ¿Fueron sino devaneos? ¿Qué fueron sino verduras De las eras? ¿Qué se hizieron las damas, Sus tocados, sus vestidos, Sus olores? ¿Qué se hizieron las llamas ¿Qué se hizo aquel trobar, Las músicas acordadas Que tañían? ¿Qué se hizo aquel dançar Y aquellas ropas chapadas Que traían? Pues el otro su heredero, Don Enrrique; ¡qué poderes ¡Quán blando, quán alagüero El mundo con sus plazeres Se le dava! Mas verás cuán enemigo, Quán contrario, quán cruel Se le mostró; Aviendole sido amigo, ¡Quán poco duró con él Lo que le dió! Las dádivas desmedidas, Los edificios reales Llenos de oro, Las baxillas tan fabridas, Los enriques y reales Del tesoro; Los jaezes y cavallos De su gente y atavíos Tan sobrados, ¿Dónde yremos á buscallos? ¿Qué fueron sino rocíos De los prados? Pues su hermano el innocente, Que en su vida sucessor Tuvo y quánto gran señor Que le siguió! Mas como fuesse mortal, Metióli la muerte luego En su fragua, ¡O jüyzio divinal! Quando más ardía el fuego Echaste agua. Pues aquel gran Condestable, Maestre que conocimos Tan privado, No cumple que d'el se hable, Sino sólo que le vimos Sus infinitos tesoros, Sus villas y sus lugares, Su mandar, ¿Qué le fueron sino lloros? ¿Qué fueron sino pesares Al dexar? Pues los otros dos hermanos, Maestres tan prosperados Como reyes, Que á los grandes y medianos Traxeron tan sojuzgados A sus leyes; Aquella prosperidad Que tan alta fué subida Y ensalçada, ¿Qué fué sino claridad Que quando más encendida Fué amatada? Y barones Como vimos tan potentes, Di, Muerte, ¿dó los escondes Y los pones? Y sus muy claras hazañas Que hizieron en las guerras Y en las pazes? Quando tú, cruel, te ensañas, Con tu fuerça los atierras Y deshazes. Las huestes innumerables, Los pendones y estandartes Y vanderas, Los castillos impunables, Los muros e baluartes Y barreras, La cava honda chapada Ó cualquier otro reparo ¿Qué aprovecha? Quando tu vienes ayrada, Todo lo passas de claro Con tu flecha. Aquel de buenos abrigo, Amado por virtuoso De la gente, Manrique, tan famoso Y tan valiente, Sus grandes hechos y claros No cumple que los alabe, Pues los vieron, Ni los quiero hazer caros, ¡Qué amigo de sus amigos! ¡Qué señor para criados Y parientes! ¡Qué enemigo de enemigos! ¡Qué Maestre de esforçados Y valientes! ¡Qué seso para discretos! ¡Qué gracia para donosos! ¡Qué razón! ¡Quán benigno á los subjectos, Y á los bravos y dañosos Un leon! En ventura, Octaviano; Julio César en vencer Y batallar; En la virtud, Africano; Aníbal en el saber Y trabajar: En la bondad, un Trajano; Tito en liberalidad Con alegría; En su braço, un Archidano; Marco Tulio en la verdad Que prometía. Antonio Pío en clemencia; Marco Aurelio en ygualdad Del semblante: Adriano en eloquencia; Theodosio en humanidád Y buen talante: En disciplina y rigor Camilo en el gran amor De su tierra. No dexó grandes tesoros, Ni alcançó muchas riquezas Ni baxillas, Mas hizo guerra á los Moros, Ganando sus fortalezas Y sus villas; Y en las lides que venció, Cavalleros y cavallos Se prendieron, Y en este oficio ganó Las rentas e los vasallos Que le dieron. Pues por su honra y estado En otros tiempos passados ¿Cómo se uvo? Quedando desamparado, Con hermanos y criados Se sostuvo. Despues que hechos famosos Hizo en esta dicha guerra, ¿Que hazía? Hizo tratos tan honrosos, Que le dieron muy más tierra Que tenía. Estas sus viejas hystorias Que con su braço pintó En la juventud, Con otras nuevas victorias Agora las renovó En la senectud. Bien gastada Alcançó la dignidad De la gran cavallería E sus villas e sus tierras Ocupadas de tiranos Las halló, Mas por cercos e por guerras Y por fuerças de sus manos Las cobró. Pues nuestro Rey natural Si de las obras que obró Fué servido, Y en Castilla quien siguió Su partido. Despues de puesta la vida Tantas vezes por su ley Al tablero; Despues de tan bien servida La corona de su Rey Despues de tanta hazaña A que no puede bastar Cuenta cierta, En la su villa de Ocaña Vino la Muerte á llamar A su puerta. Diziendo: «Buen cavallero, Dexad el mundo engañoso Vuestro coraçon de azero En este trago; Y pues de vida y salud Hiziste tan poca cuenta Por la fama, Esfuércese la virtud Para sufrir esta afrenta Que os llama. «No se os haga tan amarga La batalla temerosa Que esperáys, Pues otra vida más larga De fama tan glorïosa Acá dexáys: Aunque esta vida de honor Tampoco no es eternal Ni verdadera, Mas con todo es muy mejor Que la otra temporal «El bivir que es perdurable No se gana con estados Ni con vida deleytable En que moran los pecados Mas los buenos religiosos Gánanlo con oraciones Y con lloros; Los cavalleros famosos Con trabajos y afliciones De paganos, Esperad el galardon Que en este mundo ganastes Por las manos; Y con esta confiança Y con la fe tan entera Que tenéys, Partid con buena esperança Que esta otra vida tercera «No gastemos tiempo ya En esta vida mezquina Por tal modo, Que mi voluntad está Conforme con la divina Para todo; Y consiento en mi morir Con voluntad plazentera, Clara, pura, Que querer hombre bevir Quando Dios quiere que muera, Es locura.» Tú que por nuestra maldad Tomaste forma cevil Y baxo nombre; Tú que en tu divinidad Juntaste cosa tan vil Como el hombre; Tú que tan grandes tormentos Sufriste sin resistencia Mas por tu sola clemencia Me perdona. Assi con tal entender, Todos sentidos humanos Cercado de su mujer, De hijos y de hermanos Y criados, Dió el alma á quien gela dió, (El qual la ponga en el cielo Y en su gloria), Y aunque la vida murió, Nos dexó harto consuelo Su memoria. (Fl. about middle of the fifteenth century) No sé para qué nasci, Pues en tal estremo esto Que el morir no quiere á mí, Y el vivir no quiero yo. Todo el tiempo que viviere Terné muy justa querella De la muerte, pues no quiere A mí, queriendo yo á ella. ¿Qué fin espero de aquí, Pues la muerte me negó, Pues que claramente vió, Que era vida para mí. (Fl. middle of the fifteenth century) Fuego del divino rayo, Dulce flama sin ardor, Esfuerzo contra desmayo, Remedio contra dolor, ¡Alumbra á tu servidor! La falsa gloria del mundo Y vana prosperidad Con pensamiento profundo El centro de su maldad Oiga quien es sabidor El planto de la Serena, La cual temiendo la pena De la tormenta mayor, Plañe en el tiempo mejor. (End of the fifteenth century) Imenso Dios, perdurable, Que el mundo todo criaste, Y con amor entrañable Por nosotros espiraste En el madero: Llévanos do está el ladron, Que salvaste por decir _Memento mei._ (End of fifteenth century) Ven, muerte, tan escondida, Que no te sienta conmigo, Porque el gozo de contigo No me torne á dar la vida. Ven como rayo que hiere, Que hasta que ha herido No se siente su ruido Por mejor herir do quiere: Así sea tu venida, Sino desde aquí te digo Que el gozo que habré contigo Me dará de nuevo vida. Que en ti só yo vivo, Sin ti só cativo; Si m'eres esquivo, Perdido seré. Si mal no me viene, Por ti se detiene. En ti me sostiene Tu gracia y tu fé. No espere ya nueva Que pena le dé. Que aquel que tú tienes Los males son bienes, A él vas y vienes, Muy cierto lo sé. Amor no me dejes, Que me moriré. Pues por besarte, Minguillo, Me riñe mi madre á mí, Vuélveme presto, carillo, Aquel beso que te dí. Vuelve el beso con buen pecho Porque no haya más reñir, A tal podremos decir Que hemos deshecho lo hecho. A ti será de provecho El beso volverlo á mí, Vuélveme presto, carillo, Aquel beso que te dí. Vuélveme el beso, por Dios, A madre tan importuno, Pensarás volverme uno Y vernás á tener dos. En bien avengámonos Que no me riñan á mí. Vuélveme presto, carillo, Aquel beso que te dí. Quien dice mal de mujeres Haya tal suerte e ventura, Que en dolores e tristura Se conviertan sus placeres: Todo el mundo le desame: De nadie sea querido: No se nombre ni se llame Sino infame, más que infame, Ni jamas sea creido. Siempre viva descontento, Fatigado e congojoso: Nunca se vea en reposo, Jamas le falte tormento: Jamas le falte cuidado, Pene más que pena fuerte, Viva tan apasionado Que de muy desesperado Haya por buena la muerte. Vea el gran bien que tenemos Por una Virgen doncella; E pues fué mujer, por ella Cuanta honra se les deba, Siempre en debda les quedamos; Pues que por mujer cobramos Lo que perdimos por Eva. Ellas son muy piadosas En todas nuestras fatigas; E las que más enemigas Son no ménos amorosas: E la de más crueldad Es de bien tan virtüoso, Que tiene de voluntad Más mancilla e pïedad Quel hombre más piadoso. Ellas nos dan ocasion Que nos hagamos discretos, Esmerados e perfetos E de mucha presuncion: Ellas nos hacen andar Las vestiduras polidas, Los pundonores guardar, E por honra procurar Tener en poco las vidas. Ellas nos hacen devotos, Corteses e bien criados; De medrosos, esforzados; Muy agudos de muy botos. Queramos lo que quisieren; De su querer no salgamos; Cuanto más pena nos dieren, Miremos lo que es razon; Si algunas culpadas hallan, Callemos, pues ellas callan, Que las culpas nuestras son. Callemos nuestra maldad, Nuestros engaños con arte, Pues ellas son en verdad Inclinadas á bondad, Todas por la mayor parte. No hay mujer, según su estado, La mayor ni la menor, Que no tenga algun primor Que merezca ser löado. Todas deben ser löadas, Todas son dignas de gloria, Todas sean acatadas, Todas de todos amadas, Pues amarlas es vitoria. En el plaziente verano, Dó son los dias mayores, Acabaron mis plazeres, Començaron mis dolores. Quando aves hazen nidos Y cantan los ruyseñores; Quando en la mar sosegada Entran los navegadores; Quando los lirios y rosas Nos dan los buenos olores; Y quando toda la gente Ocupados de calores, Van aliuiando la ropa Y buscando los frescores; Dó son las mejores oras Las noches y los albores, En este tiempo que digo Començaron mis amores De una dama que yo ví, Dama de tantos primores; De quantos es conoscida De tantos tiene loores. Su gracia por hermosura Tiene tantos servidores Quanto yo por desdichado Tengo penas y dolores; Donde se me otorga muerte Y se me niegan favores; Mas yo nunca olvidaré Estos amargos dulçores, Porque en la mucha firmeza Se muestran los amadores. Muy graciosa es la doncella: ¡Cómo es bella y hermosa! Digas tú, el marinero Que en las naves vivías, Si la nave ó la vela ó la estrella Es tan bella. Digas tú, el caballero Que las armas vestías, Si el caballo ó las armas ó la guerra Es tan bella. Digas tú, el pastorico Que el ganadico guardas, Si el ganado ó los valles ó la sierra Es tan bella. Quien dice que la ausencia causa olvido, Merece ser de todos olvidado: El verdadero y firme enamorado Está estando ausente más perdido. Aviva la memoria su sentido, La soledad levanta su cuidado; Hallarse de su bien tan apartado, Hace su desear más encendido. Si quedan en el alma confirmadas: Que si uno está con muchas cuchilladas, Porque huya de quien le acuchilló, No por eso serán mejor curadas. Si en mitad del dolor tener memoria Del pasado placer es gran tormento, Así también en el contentamiento Acordarse del mal pasado es gloria. Por do según el curso de esta historia No hay cosa que me venga al pensamiento Que toda no se vuelva en un momento En lustre y en favor de mi victoria. Como en la mar después de la tiniebla Pone alborozo el asomar del día, Y entonces fué placer la noche oscura, Así en mi corazón ida la niebla Levanta en mayor punto á la alegría El pasado dolor de la tristura. ¡Quanto se ha de estimar uno que quiera Siempre morir, por siempre contentaros! Y que en todo lugar, y con quien quiera, Nunca sepa jamás sino alabaros! Y que en vosotras viva y en sí muera, Y su vida y morir esté en amaros; Y sus placeres mude y sus enojos, A cada revolver de vuestros ojos! Y un sosegado y blando sentimiento Por mitad de las venas derramado! Y un no sé qué, que está en el pensamiento, Que al corazón descansa fatigado; Y un pensar si sentís una pisada Que alguna nueva os traen deseada! ¿Y no es placer que halléis muchas razones Para hallar deleyte en las tristezas? Y á hurto que escribáis con mil borrones, Y sea el escribir puras llanezas? Y que juntos estén dos corazones, Produciendo de amor grandes finezas? Y en quanto hacéis, pensáis y deseáis, Que el uno por el otro más valgáis? ¿Y no es gusto también así entenderos Que podáis siempre entrambos conformaros? Entrambos en un punto entristeceros, Y en otro punto entrambos alegraros? Y juntos sin razón embraveceros, Y sin razón también luego amansaros? Y que os hagan en fin vuestros amores Igualmente mudar de mil colores? ¡Qué deleyte, pues, es desaveniros, Si tras ello sucede concertaros! Y sin por qué, mil lástimas deciros, Y luego blandamente perdonaros! Y alguna vez con lágrimas reiros, Y entre la risa y el llorar quexaros! Y que pare el quexar en mil dulzuras, Y en mil enamoradas travesuras! Puédese bien contar por muerta aquella Que estos gustos de amor nunca ha alcanzado; Que ninguno recibe placer della, Y en nonada la veis vuelto su estado; Así es la dama que no siente amores, Que nunca da placeres ni dolores. Como al partir del sol la sombra crece, Y en cayendo su rayo se levanta La negra escuridad que el mundo cubre, De do viene el temor que nos espanta, Y la medrosa forma en que se ofrece Aquello que la noche nos encubre, Hasta que el sol descubre Su luz pura y hermosa; Tal es la tenebrosa Noche de tu partir, en que he quedado De sombra y de temor atormentado, Hasta que muerte el tiempo determine Que á ver el deseado Sol de tu clara vista me encamine. Cual suele el ruiseñor con triste canto Quejarse, entre las hojas escondido, Del duro labrador, que cautamente Le despojó su caro y dulce nido Y aquel dolor que siente Con diferencia tanta Por la dulce garganta Despide, y á su canto el aire suena, Y la callada noche no refrena Su lamentable oficio y sus querellas, Trayendo de su pena Al cielo por testigo y las estrellas: Desta manera suelto yo la rienda Á mi dolor, y así me quejo en vano De la dureza de la muerte airada. Ella en mi corazón metió la mano, Y de allí me llevó mi dulce prenda; Que aquel era su nido y su morada. ¡Ay, muerte arrebatada! Por ti me estoy quejando Al cielo y enojando Con importuno llanto al mundo todo; Tan desigual dolor no sufre modo. No me podrán quitar el dolorido Sentir, si ya del todo Primero no me quitan el sentido. Una parte guardé de tus cabellos, Elisa, envueltos en un blanco paño, Que nunca de mi seno se me apartan; Descójolos, y de un dolor tamaño Enternecerme siento, que sobre ellos Nunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan. Sin que de allí se partan, Con suspiros calientes, Más que la llama ardientes, Los enjugo del llanto, y de consuno Tras esto el importuno Dolor me deja descansar un rato. Escrito está en mi alma vuestro gesto, Y cuanto yo escribir de vos deseo, Vos sola lo escribisteis, yo lo leo Tan sólo, que aun de vos me guardo en esto. En esto estoy y estaré siempre puesto; Que aunque no cabe en mí cuanto en vos veo, De tanto bien lo que no entiendo creo, Tomando ya la fe por presupuesto. Yo no nací sino para quereros; Mi mal os ha cortado á su medida. Por hábito del alma misma os quiero. Cuanto tengo confieso yo deberos; Por vos nascí, por vos tengo la vida, Por vos he de morir, y por vos muero. Cuando era nuevo el mundo y producía Gentes, como salvajes, indiscretas, Y el cielo dió furor á los poetas Y el canto con que el vulgo los seguía Fingieron dios á ámor y que tenía Por armas fuego, red, arco y saetas, Porque las fieras gentes no sujetas Los que fueron más sabios y constantes Al amor figuraron niño y ciego, Para mostrar que de él y de estos nombres Les viene por herencia á los amantes Simpleza, ceguedad, desasosiego. Ojos claros serenos, Si de un dulce mirar sois alabados, ¿Por qué, si me miráis, miráis airados? Si cuanto más piadosos, Más bellos parecéis á aquel que os mira, ¿Por qué á mí solo me miráis con ira? Ojos claros, serenos, Ya que así me miráis, ¡miradme al menos! Cubrir los bellos ojos Con la mano que ya me tiene muerto, Cautela fué por cierto Con que doblar pensasteis mis enojos: Pero de tal cautela Harto mayor ha sido el bien que el daño, Que el resplandor estraño Del sol mejor se ve, mientras se cela. Así pues sucedió cuando intentasteis De los ojos cubrir la luz inmensa. Yo os perdono la ofensa, Pues cubiertos mejor verlos dejasteis. De los tormentos de amor, Que hacen desesperar, El que tengo por mayor Es no poderse quejar El hombre de su dolor. Cualquier mal es duro y fuerte, Y tiene su furor loco; Mas el mío es de tal suerte, Que consume poco á poco, Hasta llegar á la muerte. No hay mal que con publicallo No se acabe, aunque sea fiero; Mas yo, cuitado, que callo, ¿Cómo es posible pasallo, Si de entrambas cosas muero? ¡Oh, tiempo para llorarse, Donde se sufre y se espera, Y áun para desesperarse, Pues quieres que un triste muera Sin el gusto de quejarse! Y pues en todo recibo Agravio con daño cierto, Hagan bien á este cautivo, Que está, de medroso, muerto; De desesperado, vivo. Tiempo ví yo que amor puso un deseo Honesto en un honesto corazón; Tiempo ví yo, que ahora no lo veo, Que era gloria, y no pena, mi pasión. Tiempo ví yo que por una ocasión, Dura angustia y congoja, y si venía, Señora, en tu presencia la razón Me faltaba y la lengua enmudecía. Más que quisiera he visto, pues amor Quiere que llore el bien y sufra el daño, Mas por razón que no por accidente. Crece mi mal, y crece en lo peor, En arrepentimiento y desengaño, Pena del bien pasado y mal presente. Pues la santa Inquisición Suele ser tan diligente En castigar con razón Cualquier secta y opinión Levantada nuevamente, A corregir en España Una muy nueva y extraña, Como aquella de Lutero En las partes de Alemaña. Bien se pueden castigar A cuenta de Anabaptistas, Y se llaman Petrarquistas. Han renegado la fe De las trovas castellanas, Y tras las italianas Se pierden, diciendo que Son más ricas y galanas. El juicio de lo cual Yo lo dejo á quien más sabe; Pero juzgar nadie mal De su patria natural En gentileza no cabe; Y aquella cristiana musa Del famoso Juan de Mena, Sintiendo desto gran pena, Por infieles los acusa Y de aleves los condena. «Recuerde el alma dormida,» Y mostróse muy sentida De cosa tan atrevida, Porque más no se platique. Garci-Sánchez respondió: «¡Quién me otorgase, Señora, Vida y seso en esta hora Para entrar en campo yo Con gente tan pecadora!» «Si algún Dios de amor había, Dijo luego Cartagena, Muestre aquí su valentía Contra tan gran osadía, Venida de tierra ajena.» Torres Naharro replica: Y que nuestra España rica Se prive de sus derechos.» Dios dé su gloria á Boscán Y á Garcilaso, poeta, Que con no pequeño afán Y con estilo galán Sostuvieron esta seta, Y la dejaron acá Ya sembrada entre la gente; Por lo cual debidamente Les vino lo que dirá Este soneto siguiente: Garcilaso y Boscán, siendo llegados Al lugar donde están los trovadores Que en nuestra lengua y sus primores Fueron en este siglo señalados, Los unos á los otros alterados Se miran, demudadas las colores, Temiéndose que fuesen corredores Ó espías ó enemigos desmandados; Y juzgando primero por el traje, Pareciéronles ser, como debía, Gentiles españoles caballeros; Y oyéndoles hablar nuevo lenguaje, Mezclado de extranjera poesía, Con ojos los miraban de extranjeros. Musas italianas y latinas, Gente en estas partes tan extraña, ¿Cómo habéis venido á nuestra España, Tan nuevas y hermosas clavellinas? Ó ¿quién os ha traído á ser vecinas Del Tajo y de sus montes y campaña? Ó ¿quién es el que os guía ó acompaña De tierras tan ajenas peregrinas?-- Nos trujeron, y Boscán y Luis de Haro, Por orden y favor del dios Apolo, Los dos llevó la muerte paso á paso, El otro Solimán, y por amparo Solo queda don Diego, y basta solo. Unas coplas muy cansadas, Con muchos pies arrastrando, A lo toscano imitadas, Entró un amador cantando Enojosas y pesadas, Cada pie con dos corcovas, Y de peso doce arrobas, Trovadas al tiempo viejo. Dios perdone á Castillejo, Que bien habló de estas trovas. Dijo Amor: «¿Dónde se aprende Este metro tan prolijo, Algarabía de allende. El sujeto frío y duro, Y el estilo tan oscuro, Que la dama en quien se emplea Duda, por sabia que sea, Si es requiebro ó si es conjuro. «Ved si la invención es basta, Las plumas puestas por asta, Y con todo no le basta. Yo no alcanzo cuál engaño Te hizo, para tu daño, Con locura y desvarío Meter en mi señorío Moneda de reino extraño.» Con dueñas y con doncellas Dijo Venus: «¿Qué pretende Quien les dice sus querellas En lenguaje que no entiende Él ni yo, ni vos ni ella? Sentencio al que tal hiciere Que la dama por quien muere Lo tenga por cascabel, Y que haga burla de él Y de cuanto le escribiere.» No estés tan contenta, Juana, En verme penar por ti, _Que lo que hoy fuere de mí Podrá ser de ti mañana_. Que amor en una vegada De mil amos toma cuenta: Y aunque agora estés ufana De verme penar así, _Podrá bien ser que de ti Lo estuviere yo mañana_. No te muestres tan esquiva A quien te sirve, ¡traidora! Quel el que te hizo señora Te podrá hacer cautiva: Viendo amor que de tirana Me haces penar así, _Trocará mi suerte en ti Antes hoy que no mañana_. Guarte de flecha de amor Que sin remedios destruye, Y al que más se esconde y huye A aquél le acierta mejor: Agora que es tiempo, Juana, Entiende en mirar por ti, _Que aunque puedas hoy dar sí Quizás no podrás mañana_. Cabellos, ¡cuánta mudanza He visto después que os ví, Y cuán mal parece ahí Ese color de esperanza! Si os traía ó si os dejaba, Con otras mil niñerías! Y, ¡cuántas veces llorando (¡Ay, lágrimas engañosas!) Pedía celos de cosas De que yo estaba burlando! Los ojos que me mataban, Decid, dorados cabellos, ¿Qué culpa tuve en creellos, Pues ellos me aseguraban? ¿No visteis vos que algun día Mil lágrimas derramaba, Basta que yo le juraba Que sus palabras creía? Sobre el arena sentada De aquel río la ví yo, Do con el dedo escribió _Antes muerta que mudada_. Miren amor lo que ordena, Que un hombre llegue á creer Cosas dichas por mujer Y escritas en el arena. Irme quiero, madre, A aquella galera, Con el marinero A ser marinera. Madre, si me fuere No lo quiero yo; Que el amor lo quiere. Aquel niño fiero Hace que me muera, Por un marinero A ser marinera. Pues el alma va, Que el cuerpo se quede, Con él pues que muere Voy porque no muera, Que si es marinero Seré marinera. Es tirana ley, Del niño señor, Que por un amor Se deseche un rey Pues de esta manera Él quiere, irme quiero Por un marinero A ser marinera. Decid, ondas, ¿cuándo Visteis vos doncella Siendo tierna y bella Andar navegando? Mas ¿qué no se espera De aquel niño fiero? ¡Vea yo á quien quiero Y sea marinero! De dentro tengo mi mal, Que de fora no hay señal. Mi nueva y dulce querella Es invisible á la gente: El alma sola la siente, Que el cuerpo no es dino della. Como la viva centella Se encubre en el pedernal De dentro tengo mi mal. _Vivo sin vivir en mí, Y tan alta vida espero, Que muero porque no muero._ Aquesta divina unión, Del amor con que yo vivo, Hace á Dios ser mi cautivo, Ver á Dios mi prisionero, _Que muero porque no muero_. ¡Ay! ¡Qué larga es esta vida, Qué duros estos destierros, Esta cárcel y estos hierros En que el alma está metida! Sólo esperar la salida Me causa un dolor tan fiero, _Que muero porque no muero_. ¡Ay! ¡Qué vida tan amarga Do no se goza el Señor! Y si es dulce el amor No lo es la esperanza larga; Quíteme Dios esta carga, Más pesada que de acero, _Que muero porque no muero_. Sólo con la confianza Vivo de que he de morir; Porque muriendo, el vivir Me asegura mi esperanza: Muerte do el vivir se alcanza, _Que muero porque no muero_. Mira que el amor es fuerte; Vida no seas molesta, Mira que sólo te resta, Para ganarte, perderte; Venga ya la dulce muerte, Venga el morir muy ligero, _Que muero porque no muero_. Aquella vida de arriba Es la vida verdadera; Muerte, no seas esquiva; Vivo muriendo primero, _Que muero porque no muero_. Vida, ¿qué puedo yo darle A mi Dios, que vive en mí, Si no es perderte á ti, Para mejor á Él gozarle? Quiero muriendo alcanzarle, Pues á Él solo es el que quiero, _Que muero porque no muero_. Estando ausente de ti, ¿Qué vida puedo tener? Sino muerte padecer La mayor que nunca ví: Lástima tengo de mí, Por ser mi mal tan entero, _Que muero porque no muero_. El pez que del agua sale Aun de alivio no carece, A quien la muerte padece Al fin la muerte le vale: ¿Qué muerte habrá que se iguale A mi vivir lastimero, _Que muero porque no muero?_ Cuando me empiezo á aliviar Me hace más sentimiento El no poderte gozar: Todo es para más penar, Por no verte como quiero, _Que muero porque no muero_. Cuando me gozo, Señor, Se me dobla mi dolor. Viviendo en tanto pavor, Y esperando como espero, _Que muero porque no muero_. Sácame de aquesta muerte, Mi Dios, y dame la vida, No me tengas impedida En este lazo tan fuerte: Mira que muero por verte, Y vivir sin ti no puedo, _Que muero porque no muero_. Lloraré mi muerte ya, Y lamentaré mi vida, En tanto que detenida Por mis pecados está. ¡Oh mi Dios cuando será, Cuando yo diga de vero, _Que muero porque no muero_. Nada te turbe; Nada te espante; Todo se pasa; Dios no se muda, La paciencia todo lo alcanza. Quien á Dios tiene, Nada le falta. Solo Dios basta. Hondo Ponto, que bramas atronado Con tumulto y terror, del turbio seno Saca el rostro, de torpe miedo lleno; Mira tu campo arder ensangrentado, Y junto en este cerco y encontrado Todo el cristiano esfuerzo y sarraceno, Y cubierto de humo y fuego y trueno, Huir temblando el impío quebrantado. Con profundo murmurio la vitoria Mayor celebra que jamás vió el cielo, Y más dudosa y singular hazaña; Y di que solo mereció la gloria Que tanto nombre da á tu sacro suelo El joven de Austria y el valor de España. Reina del grande Océano dichosa, Sin quien á España falta la grandeza, A quien valor, ingenio y la nobleza Hacen más estimada y generosa, ¿Cuál diré que tú seas, luz hermosa De Europa? Tierra no, que tu riqueza Y gloria no se cierra en su estrecheza; Cielo sí, de virtud maravillosa. Oye y se espanta y no te cree el que mira Tu poder y abundancia; de tal modo Con la presencia ve menor la fama. Parte de España más mejor que el todo. Las alas perezosas blandamente Bates, de adormideras coronado, Por el puro, adormido y vago cielo, Ven á la última parte de occidente, Y de licor sagrado Baña mis ojos tristes; que cansado Y rendido al furor de mi tormento, No admito algún sosiego, Y el dolor desconhorta al sufrimiento. Ven á mi ruego humilde, ¡oh amor de aquella Que Juno te ofreció, tu ninfa bella! Divino sueño, gloria de mortales, Regalo dulce al mísero afligido; Sueño amoroso, ven á quien espera Cesar del ejercicio de sus males, Y al descanso volver todo el sentido. ¿Cómo sufres que muera Lejos de tu poder quien tuyo era? ¿No es dureza olvidar un solo pecho En veladora pena, Que sin gozar del bien que al mundo has hecho, De tu vigor se ajena? Ven, sueño alegre, sueño, ven, dichoso; Vuelve á mi alma ya, vuelve el reposo. Sienta yo en tal estrecho tu grandeza, Baja y esparce líquido el rocío, Huya el alba, que en torno resplandece; Y mi frente humedece; Que ya de fuegos juntos el sol crece. Torna, sabroso sueño, y tus hermosas Alas suenen ahora, Y huya con sus alas presurosas La desabrida aurora; Y lo que en mí faltó la noche fría Termine la cercana luz del día. Una corona, ¡oh sueño!, de tus flores Ofrezco; tú produce el blando efeto En los desiertos cercos de mis ojos; Que el aire, entrejido con olores, Halaga y ledo mueve en dulce afeto; Y de estos mis enojos Destierra, manso sueño, los despojos. Ven pues, amado sueño, ven, liviano; Que del rico oriente Despunta el tierno Febo el rayo cano. Ven ya, sueño clemente, Y acabará el dolor; así te vea En brazos de tu cara Pasitea. Cantemos al Señor, que en la llanura Venció del ancho mar al Trace fiero; Tú, Dios de las batallas, tú eres diestra, Salud y gloria nuestra. Tú rompiste las fuerzas y la dura Frente de Faraón, feroz guerrero; Sus escogidos príncipes cubrieron Los abismos del mar y descendieron, El soberbio tirano, confiado En el grande aparato de sus naves, Que de los nuestros la cerviz cautiva Y las manos aviva Al ministerio injusto de su estado, Derribó con los brazos suyos graves Los cedros más excelsos de la cima Y el árbol que más yerto se sublima, Bebiendo ajenas aguas y atrevido Pisando el bando nuestro y defendido. Temblaron los pequeños, confundidos Del impío furor suyo; alzó la frente Contra ti, Señor Dios, y con semblante Y con pecho arrogante, Y los armados brazos extendidos, Movió el airado cuello aquel potente; Cercó su corazón de ardiente saña Contra las dos Hesperias, que el mar baña, Porque en ti confiadas le resisten, Y de armas de tu fe y amor se visten. Dijo aquel insolente y desdeñoso: «¿No conocen mis iras estas tierras, Y de mis padres los ilustres hechos, Ó valieron sus pechos Contra ellos con el Húngaro medroso, Y de Dalmacia y Rodas en las guerras? ¿Quién las pudo librar? ¿Quién de sus manos Pudo salvar los de Austria y los Germanos? ¿Podrá su Dios, podrá por suerte ahora Guardallas de mi diestra vencedora? «Su Roma, temerosa y humillada, Los cánticos en lágrimas convierte; Francia está con discordia quebrantada, Y en España amenaza horrible muerte Quien honra de la luna las banderas; Y aquellas en la guerra gentes fieras Ocupadas están en su defensa, Y aunque no, ¿quién hacerme puede ofensa? Los poderosos pueblos me obedecen, Y el cuello con su daño al yugo inclinan, Y me dan por salvarse ya la mano. Y su valor es vano; Que sus luces cayendo se oscurecen. Sus fuertes á la muerte ya caminan, Sus vírgenes están en cautiverio, Su gloria ha vuelto al cetro de mi imperio. Del Nilo á Eufrates fértil y Istro frío, Cuanto el sol alto mira todo es mío.» Tú, Señor, que no sufres que tu gloria Usurpe quien su fuerza osado estima, Prevaleciendo en vanidad y en ira, Este soberbio mira, Que tus aras afea en su vitoria. No dejes que los tuyos así oprima, Y en sus cuerpos, cruel, las fieras cebe, Y en su esparcida sangre el odio pruebe; Que hechos ya su oprobrio, dice: «¿Dónde El Dios de éstos está? ¿De quién se asconde?» Por la debida gloria de tu nombre, Por la justa venganza de tu gente, Por aquel de los míseros gemido, Vuelve el brazo tendido Contra éste, que aborrece ya ser hombre; Y las honras que celas tú consiente, Y la injuria á tu nombre cometida Sea el hierro contrario de su vida. Levantó la cabeza el poderoso Que tanto odio te tiene; en nuestro estrago Juntó el consejo, y contra nos pensaron Los que en él se hallaron. «Venid,» dijeron, «y en el mar ondoso Hagamos de su sangre un grande lago; Deshagamos á éstos de la gente, Y el nombre de su Cristo juntamente, Y dividiendo de ellos los despojos, Hártense en muerte suya nuestros ojos.» Vinieron de Asia y portentosa Egito Los Árabes y leves Africanos, Y los que Grecia junta mal con ellos Con los erguidos cuellos, Con gran poder y número infinito, Y prometer osaron con sus manos Encender nuestros fines y dar muerte A nuestra juventud con hierro fuerte, Nuestros niños prender y las doncellas, Y la gloria manchar y la luz dellas. Ocuparon del piélago los senos, Puesta en silencio y en temor la tierra, Y cesaron los nuestros valerosos, Y callaron dudosos, Hasta que al fiero ardor de Sarracenos El Señor eligiendo nueva guerra, Se opuso el joven de Austria generoso Con el claro Español y belicoso; Que Dios no sufre ya en Babel cautiva Que su Sión querida siempre viva. A los que tú, Señor, eras escudo; Que el corazón desnudo De pavor, y de fe y amor vestido, Con celestial aliento confiaban. Sus manos á la guerra compusiste, Y sus brazos fortísimos pusiste Como el arco acerado, y con la espada Vibraste en su favor la diestra armada. Turbáronse los grandes, los robustos Rindiéronse temblando y desmayaron; Y tú entregaste, Dios, como la rueda, Como la arista queda Al ímpetu del viento, á estos injustos, Que mil huyendo de uno se pasmaron. Cual fuego abrasa selvas, cuya llama En las espesas cumbres se derrama, Tal en tu ira y tempestad seguiste, Y su faz de ignominia convertiste. Quebrantaste al cruel dragón, cortando Las alas de su cuerpo temerosas Y sus brazos terribles no vencidos; Que con hondos gemidos Se retira á su cueva, do silbando Tiembla con sus culebras venenosas, Lleno de miedo torpe sus entrañas, De tu león temiendo las hazañas; Que, saliendo de España, dió un rugido Que lo dejó asombrado y aturdido. Hoy se vieron los ojos humillados Del sublime varón y su grandeza, Y tú solo, Señor, fuiste exaltado, Que tu día es llegado, Sobre derechos cedros y extendidos, Sobre empinados montes y crecidos, Sobre torres y muros, y las naves De Tiro, que á los tuyos fueron graves. Babilonia y Egito amedrentada Temerá el fuego y la asta violenta, Y el humo subirá á la luz del cielo, Y faltos de consuelo, Con rostro oscuro y soledad turbada Tus enemigos llorarán su afrenta. Mas tú, Grecia, concorde á la esperanza Egicia y gloria de su confianza, Triste que á ella pareces, no temiendo A Dios y á tu remedio no atendiendo, ¿Por qué, ingrata, tus hijas adornaste En adulterio infame á una impía gente, Que deseaba profanar tus frutos, Y con ojos enjutos Sus odiosos pasos imitaste, Su aborrecida vida y mal presente? Dios vengará sus iras en tu muerte; Que llega á tu cerviz con diestra fuerte La aguda espada suya; ¿quién, cuitada, Reprimirá su mano desatada? Mas tú, fuerza del mar, tú, excelsa Tiro, Que en tus naves estabas gloriosa, Y el término espantabas de la tierra, Y si hacías guerra, De temor la cubrías con suspiro, ¿Cómo acabaste, fiera y orgullosa? ¿Quién pensó á tu cabeza daño tanto? Dios, para convertir tu gloria en llanto Llorad, naves del mar; que es destruida Vuestra vana soberbia y pensamiento. ¿Quién ya tendrá de ti lástima alguna, Tú, que sigues la luna, Asia adúltera, en vicios sumergida? ¿Quién mostrará un liviano sentimiento? ¿Quién rogará por ti? Que á Dios enciende Tu ira y la arrogancia que te ofende, Y tus viejos delitos y mudanza Han vuelto contra ti á pedir venganza. Los que vieron tus brazos quebrantados, Y de tus pinos ir el mar desnudo, Que sus ondas turbaron y llanura, Viendo tu muerte oscura, Dirán, de tus estragos espantados: ¿Quién contra la espantosa tanto pudo? El Señor, que mostró su fuerte mano Por la fe de su príncipe cristiano Y por el nombre santo de su gloria, A su España concede esta vitoria. Bendita, Señor, sea tu grandeza; Que después de los daños padecidos, Después de nuestras culpas y castigo, Rompiste al enemigo De la antigua soberbia la dureza. Adórente, Señor, tus escogidos, Confiese cuanto cerca el ancho cielo Tu nombre ¡oh nuestro Dios, nuestro consuelo! Y la cerviz rebelde, condenada, Perezca en bravas llamas abrasada. ¡Qué descansada vida La del que huye el mundanal ruido, Y sigue la escondida Senda por donde han ido Los pocos sabios que en el mundo han sido! Que no le enturbia el pecho De los soberbios grandes el estado, Ni del dorado techo Se admira, fabricado Del sabio moro, en jaspes sustentado. No cura si la fama Canta con voz su nombre pregonera, Ni cura si encarama La lengua lisonjera Lo que condena la verdad sincera. ¿Qué presta á mí contento, Si soy del vano dedo señalado, Si en busca de este viento Ando desalentado Con ansias vivas, con mortal cuidado? ¡Oh monte, oh fuente, oh río, Oh secreto seguro, deleitoso! Roto casi el navío, A vuestro almo reposo Huyo de aqueste mar tempestuoso. Un no rompido sueño, Un día puro, alegre, libre quiero; No quiero ver el ceño Despiértenme las aves Con su cantar sabroso no aprendido, No los cuidados graves De que es siempre seguido El que al ajeno arbitrio está atenido. Vivir quiero conmigo, Gozar quiero del bien que debo al cielo, A solos, sin testigo, Libre de amor, de celo, De odio, de esperanzas, de recelo. Del monte en la ladera Por mi mano plantado tengo un huerto, Que con la primavera, De bella flor cubierto, Ya muestra en esperanza el fruto cierto. Y como codiciosa, Por ver y acrecentar su hermosura, Desde la cumbre airosa Una fontana pura Hasta llegar corriendo se apresura; Y luégo, sosegada, El paso entre los árboles torciendo, El suelo de pasada De verdura vistiendo, Y con diversas flores va esparciendo. El aire el huerto orea, Y ofrece mil olores al sentido, Los árboles menea Con un manso ruido, Que del oro y del cetro pone olvido. Ténganse su tesoro Los que de un falso leño se confían; Cuando el cierzo y el ábrego porfían. La combatida antena Cruje, y en ciega noche el claro día Se torna, al cielo suena Confusa vocería, Y la mar enriquecen á porfía. A mí una pobrecilla Mesa, de amable paz bien abastada Me basta; y la vajilla De fino oro labrada Sea de quien la mar no teme airada. Y mientras miserable- Mente se están los otros abrasando Con sed insaciable Del peligroso mando, Tendido yo á la sombra esté cantando; A la sombra tendido De hiedra y lauro eterno coronado, Puesto el atento oído Al son dulce, acordado, Del plectro sabiamente meneado. ¿Y dejas, Pastor Santo, Tu grey en este valle hondo, oscuro, Con soledad y llanto, Y tú, rompiendo el puro Aire, te vas al inmortal seguro? Los antes bienhadados, Y los agora tristes y afligidos, A tus pechos criados, ¿Qué mirarán los ojos Que vieron de tu rostro la hermosura, Que no les sea enojoso? Quien oyó tu dulzura, ¿Qué no tendrá por sordo y desventura? A aqueste mar turbado, ¿Quién le pondrá ya freno? ¿quién concierto Al viento fiero, airado, Estando tú cubierto? ¿Qué norte guiará la nave al puerto? ¡Ay! nube envidiosa Aun deste breve gozo, ¿qué te quejas? ¿Dó vuelas presurosa? ¡Cuán rica tú te alejas! ¡Cuán pobres y cuan ciegos ¡ay! nos dejas! á que pueda, Libre de esta prisión, volar al cielo, Felipe, y en la rueda Que huye más del suelo Contemplar la verdad pura, sin duelo? Allí, á mi vida junto, En luz resplandeciente convertido, Veré distinto y junto Lo que es y lo que ha sido, Y su principio propio y escondido. Entonces veré cómo La soberana mano echó el cimiento Tan á nivel y á plomo Veré las inmortales Colunas do la tierra está fundada, Las lindes y señales Con que á la mar hinchada La Providencia tiene aprisionada; Por qué tiembla la tierra, Por qué las hondas mares se embravecen; Dó sale á mover guerra El cierzo, y por qué crecen Las aguas del Océano y descrecen; De dó manan las fuentes, Quién ceba y quién bastece de los ríos Las perpetuas corrientes; De los helados fríos Veré las causas y de los estíos; Las soberanas aguas Del aire en la región quién las sostiene; De los rayos las fraguas; Dó los tesoros tiene De nieve Dios, y el trueno dónde viene. ¿No ves cuando acontece Turbarse el aire todo en el verano? El día se ennegrece, Sopla el Gallego insano, Y sube hasta el cielo el polvo vano. Y entre las nubes mueve Su carro Dios, ligero y reluciente; Horrible son conmueve, Relumbra fuego ardiente, Treme la tierra, humíllase la gente. La lluvia baña el techo, Envían largos ríos los collados; Miran los labradores espantados. Y de allí levantado, Veré los movimientos celestiales, Ansí el arrebatado, Como los naturales, Las causas de los hados, las señales. Quién rige las estrellas Veré, y quién las enciende con hermosas Y eficaces centellas; Por qué están las dos osas De bañarse en el mar siempre medrosas. Veré este fuego eterno, Fuente de vida y luz, dó se mantiene, Y por qué en el invierno Tan presuroso viene; Quién en las noches largas le detiene. Veré sin movimiento En la más alta esfera las moradas Del gozo y del contento, De oro y de luz labradas, De espíritus dichosos habitadas. Con la hermosa Cava en la ribera Del Tajo, sin testigo; El río sacó fuera El pecho, y le habló desta manera: «En mal punto te goces, Injusto forzador; que ya el sonido De Marte, y de furor y ardor ceñido. «¡Ay! Esa tu alegría Qué llantos acarrea! y esa hermosa (Que vió el sol en mal día), A España ¡ay! cuán llorosa Y al cetro de los Godos cuán costosa! «Llamas, dolores, guerras, Muertes, asolamiento, fieros males Entre tus brazos cierras, Trabajos inmortales, A ti y á tus vasallos naturales, Rompen el fértil suelo, á los que baña El Ebro, á la vecina A toda la espaciosa y triste España. «Y dende Cádiz llama El injuriado Conde, á la venganza Atento y no á la fama, La bárbara pujanza, «Oye que al cielo toca Con temeroso son la trompa fiera; Que en África convoca El Moro á la bandera, Que al aire desplegada va ligera. «La lanza ya blandea El Árabe cruel, y hiere el viento Llamando á la pelea; Innumerable cuento De escuadras juntas veo en un momento. «Cubre la gente el suelo, Confusa y varia crece, El polvo roba el día y le escurece. «¡Ay, que ya presurosos Suben las largas naves! ¡Ay, que tienden Los brazos vigorosos A los remos, y encienden Las mares espumosas por do hienden! «El Eolo derecho Hinche la vela en popa, y larga entrada Por el hercúleo estrecho Con la punta acerada El gran padre Neptuno da á la armada. «¡Ay triste! ¿Y aun te tiene El mal dulce regazo, ni llamado, Al mal que sobreviene No acorres? ¿Ocupado No ves ya el puerto á Hercules sagrado? «Acude, corre, vuela, Traspasa el alta sierra, ocupa el llano, No perdones la espuela, No des paz á la mano, Menea fulminante el hierro insano. «¡Ay, cuánto te fatiga! ¡Ay, cuánto de sudor está presente Al que viste loriga, Al infante valiente, A hombres y á caballos juntamente. «Y tú, Betis divino, De sangre ajena y tuya amancillado, ¡Darás al mar vecino Cuánto yelmo quebrado, Cuánto cuerpo de nobles destrozado! Igual á cada parte; La sexta ¡ay! te condena, Oh cara patria, á bárbara cadena.» Cuando contemplo el cielo De innumerables luces adornado, Y miro hacia el suelo De noche rodeado, En sueño y en olvido sepultado: El amor y la pena Despiertan en mi pecho un ansia ardiente, Despiden larga vena Los ojos hechos fuente, La lengua dice al fin con voz doliente: Morada de grandeza, Templo de claridad y hermosura, El alma que á tu alteza Nació, ¿qué desventura La tiene en esta cárcel baja, oscura? ¿Qué mortal desatino De la verdad aleja así el sentido, Que de tu bien divino Olvidado, perdido Sigue la vana sombra, el bien fingido? El hombre está entregado Al sueño, de su suerte no cuidando, Y con paso callado El cielo vueltas dando, Las horas del vivir le va hurtando. ¡Oh! ¡despertad mortales! Hechas á bien tamaño, ¿Podrán vivir de sombras y de engaño? ¡Ay! levantad los ojos A aquesta celestial eterna esfera! Burlaréis los antojos De aquesa lisonjera Vida, con cuanto teme y cuanto espera. ¿Es más que un breve punto El bajo y torpe suelo comparado Con ese gran trasunto, Do vive mejorado Lo que es, lo que será, lo que ha pasado? ¿Quién mira el gran concierto De aquestos resplandores eternales, Su movimiento cierto, Sus pasos desiguales, Y en proporción concorde tan iguales, La luna cómo mueve La plateada rueda, y va en pos della La luz do el saber llueve, Y la graciosa estrella De amor la sigue reluciente y bella; Y cómo otro camino Prosigue el sanguinoso Marte airado, Y el Júpiter benigno De bienes mil cercado Serena el cielo con su rayo amado; Rodéase en la cumbre Saturno padre de los siglos de oro, Del reluciente coro Su luz va repartiendo y su tesoro; Y no gime y suspira, Y rompe lo que encierra El alma, y destos bienes la destierra? Aquí vive el contento Aquí reina la paz, aquí asentado En rico y alto asiento Está el amor sagrado, De glorias y deleites rodeado. Inmensa hermosura Aquí se muestra toda, y resplandece Clarísima luz pura, Que jamás anochece, Eterna primavera aquí florece. ¡O campos verdaderos! ¡O prados con verdad frescos y amenos! ¡Riquísimos mineros! ¡O deleitosos senos, Repuestos valles de mil bienes llenos! En una noche oscura, Con ansias en amores inflamada, ¡Oh dichosa ventura! Salí sin ser notada, Estando ya mi casa sosegada: A oscuras y segura, Por la secreta escala, disfrazada, ¡Oh dichosa ventura! En la noche dichosa, En secreto, que nadie me veía, Ni yo miraba cosa, Sin otra luz ni guía, Sino la que en el corazón ardía. Aquésta me guiaba Más cierto que la luz de mediodía, Adonde me esperaba Quien yo bien me sabía, En parte donde nadie parecía. ¡Oh noche, que guiaste, Oh noche amable más que el alborada! ¡Oh noche, que juntaste Amado con amada, Amada en el amado trasformada! En mi pecho florido, Que entero para él solo se guardaba, Allí quedó dormido: Y yo le regalaba, Y el ventalle de cedros aire daba. El aire del almena, Cuando ya sus cabellos esparcía, Con su mano serena En mi cuello hería, Y todos mis sentidos suspendía. Quedéme y olvidéme, El rostro recliné sobre el Amado, Cesó todo, y déjeme, Dejando mi cuidado Entre las azucenas olvidado. Óyeme, dulce Esposo, Vida del alma que en la tuya vive, Y alienta el congojoso Pecho, do se recibe La pena que el amor en l'alma escribe. Perdíte yo, ¡ay perdida! Perdí mi corazón junto contigo; Pues di, bien de mi vida, No estando acá conmigo, ¿Cómo podré vivir si no te sigo? Vuélveme, dulce Amado, El alma, que me llevas con la tuya, Ó lleva el cuerpo helado Con ella, pues es tuya, Ó haz que tu presencia no me huya. ¿Por qué, mi bien, te escondes? Vuelve á mí que te llamo y te deseo; Mas ¡ay! que no respondes, Y como no te veo, El día me es escuro y el sol feo. ¡Oh luz serena y pura! ¡Oh sol de resplandor que alegra el cielo! ¡Oh fuente de hermosura! Si pisas nuestro suelo, Véate, y de mis ojos quita el velo. Pero si las estrellas Con inmortales pies mides agora, Atiende á mis querellas; Y á mi cuerpo cansado Cerca de tu sepulcro da reposo, Pues si no está á tu lado, El cielo más hermoso Le será escuro, triste y congojoso. Aquel si viene ó no viene, Aquel si sale ó no sale, En los amores no tiene Contento que se le iguale. Aquel pensar que es amado El amante y venturoso Y tenerse por dudoso De verse bien empleado: Y si con esto se mantiene Y que el seso no resbale, En los amores no tiene Contento que se le iguale. Aquel mirarse de día, Ella á él y él á ella, Y esperar la noche vella Y hablarle como solía: Aquel cuando se detiene Aguardando quien le vale, En los amores no tiene Contento que se le iguale. Si llegó la hora y postura Que se había constituido: Si en esperanza se aviene Y el amor con esto sale, Todito el mundo no tiene Contento que se le iguale Aquellas señas que espere Que le señala la dama, Aquel ce con que le llama, Aquel decir que le quiere, Aquel sí cuando conviene En cosa que poco vale, En los amores no tiene Contento que se le iguale. Fiero dolor, que del profundo pecho De este tu propio antiguo usado nido Sacas tan abundante y larga vena, Afloja un poco ¡oh dolor fiero! afloja Fiero dolor un poco, y de las lágrimas Que en mis ojos cuajados hacen turbia Mi débil vista, alguna parte enjuga, Porque con este hierro que algún día Ha de dar fin á mi cansada vida, En ese tronco escriba mi querella; Do por ventura la engañosa Dafne, Tornando de la caza calurosa Ó si esto no, será piadoso ejemplo A amorosos pastores... Dafne ingrata, Que mientras vas con el sol nuevo y alegre Del espacioso mar las bravas ondas, Que crecen con mis lágrimas, mirando, Ó en jardín deleitoso, al manso viento, De cuidados de amor libre paseas; Tu Tirsi ¡ay Dios! tu Tirsi, un tiempo yace Solo con su dolor en esta selva: Que ya ni el verde prado ó fresca sombra, Ni olor suave de diversas flores, Ni dulce murmurar de clara fuente Le es dulce ó caro sino el llanto mío. ¿Son estos lazos de oro los cabellos Que, ya en madeja, ya volando al viento, Ya en red cogidos, fueron cárcel ellos Gloriosa, do el amor vivió contento? Son estos soles los divinos, bellos Y alegres ojos, do mi pensamiento Mil veces se abrasó? Y ¿es esta nieve Y grana el rostro que mis glorias llueve? Y ¿son estos rubíes y estos granos De blancas perlas, labios, dientes, boca Do los venenos dulces soberanos Gusté, por quien mi pena ha sido poca? Y hiere. Deslizóse el sueño, y luego Al vivo de mi vista quedé ciego. No me mueve, mi Dios, para quererte El cielo que me tienes prometido, Ni me mueve el infierno tan temido Para dejar por eso de ofenderte. Tú me mueves, mi Dios; muéveme el verte Clavado en esa cruz y escarnecido; Muéveme ver tu cuerpo tan herido; Muévenme las angustias de tu muerte; Muéveme, en fin, tu amor de tal manera Que, aunque no hubiera cielo, yo te amara, Y aunque no hubiera infierno, te temiera. No me tienes que dar por qué te quiera; Porque, si cuanto espero no esperara, Lo mismo que te quiero te quisiera. Quien las graves congojas huir desea, De que está nuestra vida siempre llena, Ame la soledad quieta y amena, Donde las ocasiones nunca vea. Y de memoria del morir, que es buena Para defensa de cualquier pelea. Mas el que está de amor apasionado, No piense estando solo remediarse, Ni con paciencia ni acordar de muerte; Porque la causa trae de su cuidado Dentro en sí, y mientras más quiere alejarse, La fuerza de amor siente más fuerte. Las huestes de don Rodrigo Desmayaban y huían, Cuando en la octava batalla Sus enemigos vencían. Rodrigo deja sus tiendas Y del real se salía: Solo va el desventurado Que no lleva compañía. El caballo de cansado Ya mudar no se podía: Camina por donde quiere, Que no le estorba la vía. El rey va tan desmayado Que sentido no tenía: Muerto va de sed y hambre Que de velle era mancilla; Iba tan tinto de sangre, Que una brasa parecía. La espada lleva hecha sierra De los golpes que tenía; El almete abollado En la cabeza se le hundía; La cara lleva hinchada Del trabajo que sufría. Subióse encima de un cerro El más alto que veía: Dende allí mira su gente Cómo iba de vencida. De allí mira sus banderas, Y estandartes que tenía, Cómo están todos pisados Que la tierra los cubría. Mira por los capitanes Que ninguno parescía; Mira el campo tinto en sangre, La cual arroyos corría. El triste de ver aquesto Gran mancilla en sí tenía: Llorando de los sus ojos De esta manera decía: Hoy no lo soy de una villa; Ayer villas y castillos, Hoy ninguno poseía; Ayer tenía criados, Hoy ninguno me servía, Hoy no tengo una almena Que pueda decir que es mía. ¡Desdichada fué la hora, Desdichado fué aquel día Pues lo había de perder Todo junto y en un día! ¡Oh muerte! ¿por qué no vienes Y llevas esta alma mía De aqueste cuerpo mezquino, Pues te se agradecería?» Hincadas ambas rodillas, En medio de un templo santo. Acompáñanle parientes, Caballeros é hijosdalgo; Por amistad ó por deudo Todos están enlutados. Vienen á hacer las obsequias Del muerto conde Don Sancho, Vertiendo lágrimas tiernas Del fuerte pecho acerado. Cubierto de triste luto, Y el corazón enlutado; Pero tan fuerte y robusto Como cuando sale armado. Un rato entre dientes habla, Y otro rato habla claro, Formando quejas al cielo --«Si el rey falta á su palabra,» Dice, «¿qué hará un villano? Con tal sinrazón, Alfonso, ¡Buen nombre á tu hermana has dado! ¡Buen título á tu sobrino! ¡Y buen pago á tu criado! Pero no pende mi honra De ti, ni de aqueste agravio, Que este brazo y esta espada Me harán temido y honrado.»-- Y volviendo al padre muerto El valeroso Bernardo, Con varoniles suspiros, Colérico y demudado, Hasta la punta de abajo, Sin advertir que le escuchan, Ni que está en lugar sagrado, Con una mano en la barba Y en la espada la otra mano, Dice furioso, impaciente, Con su rey y padre hablando: --«Seguro puedes ir de la venganza, Amado padre, al espacioso cielo, Que el acerado hierro de mi lanza, Que de sangre francesa tiñó el suelo, Y levantó de Alfonso la esperanza Hasta el celeste y estrellado velo, Ha de mostrar que no hay seguro estado, Siendo Bernardo vivo y tú agraviado. Uno soy solo, Alfonso, y castellano, Uno soy solo, y el que puede tanto, Esta es la misma vencedora mano Que á ti te dió victoria, al mundo espanto; Y esta misma te hará, padre, vengado, Que Bernardo está vivo y tú agraviado.» A cazar va don Rodrigo, Con la gran siesta que hace Arrimádose ha á una haya, Hijo de la renegada, Que si á las manos le hubiese, Que le sacaría el alma. El señor estando en esto, Mudarrillo que asomaba: --«Dios te salve, caballero, Debajo la verde haya.»-- --«Así haga á ti, escudero, Buena sea tu llegada.» --«Dígasme tú, el caballero, ¿Cómo era la tu gracia?» --«A mí dicen don Rodrigo, Hermano de doña Sancha; Por sobrinos me los hube Los siete infantes de Salas; Espero aquí á Mudarrillo, Yo le sacaría el alma.» --«Si á ti dicen don Rodrigo, Hijo de la renegada, De Gonzalo Gustos hijo, Y alnado de doña Sancha; Por hermanos me los hube Los siete infantes de Salas: Tú los vendiste, traidor, Mas si Dios á mí me ayuda Aquí dejarás el alma.» Iré á tomar las mis armas.» --«El espera que tú diste A los infantes de Lara: '_Aquí morirás, traidor, Enemigo de doña Sancha._'»-- A su palacio de Burgos, Como buen padrino honrado, Llevaba el Rey á yantar A sus nobles afijados. Salen juntos de la iglesia Con el gentío del pueblo Que les iba acompañando. En un arco muy polido Más de treinta y cuatro cuartos. En las ventanas alfombras, En el suelo juncia y ramos, Y de trecho á trecho había Mil trovas al desposado. Salió Pelayo hecho toro Con un paño colorado, Y otros que le van siguiendo, Y una danza de lacayos. También Antolín salió A la gineta en un asno, Y Pelaez con vejigas Fuyendo de los mochachos. Diez y seis maravedis Mandó el Rey dar á un lacayo Porque espantaba á las fembras Con un vestido de diablo. Más atrás viene Jimena Trabándole el Rey la mano, Con la Reina su madrina, Y con la gente de manto. Por las rejas y ventanas Arrojaban trigo tanto, Que el Rey llevaba en la gorra, Como era ancha, un gran puñado, Y á la homildosa Jimena Se le metían mil granos, Por la marquesota, al cuello, Y el Rey se los va sacando. Envidioso dijo Suero, Que lo oyera el Rey, en alto: Mandóle por el requiebro El Rey un rico penacho, Y á Jimena le rogó Que en casa le dé un abrazo. Mas siempre le fabla en vano, Que non dirá discreción Como la que faz callando. Llegó á la puerta el gentío Y partiéndose á dos lados, Quedóse el Rey á comer Y los que eran convidados. Celebradas ya las bodas, A do la corte yacía, A quien tanto el Rey quería, El Cid pide al Rey licencia Para ir en romería Al apóstol Santiago, Porque así lo prometía. El Rey túvolo por bien, Muchos dones le daría; Rogóle volviese presto Que es cosa que le cumplía. A su madre la daría, Llevaba veinte fidalgos, Que van en su compañía: Dando va muchas limosnas, Y allá en medio del camino, Un gafo le aparecía, Metido en un tremedal, Que salir dél no podía. Grandes voces está dando; Por amor de Dios pedía Que le sacasen de allí, Pues d'ello se serviría. Cuando lo oyera Rodrigo Del caballo descendía; Ayudólo á levantar Y consigo lo subía. Lleváralo á su posada, Consigo cenado había; Ficiérales una cama, En la cual ambos dormían. Hacia allá á la media noche, Ya que Rodrigo dormía, Un soplo por las espaldas El gafo dado le había, Tan recio, que por los pechos A don Rodrigo salía. Despertó muy espantado, Al gafo buscado había; No le hallaba en la cama. A voces lumbre pedía: Traídole habían lumbre, Y el gafo no parecía. De lo que le aconteciera, Mas un hombre á él venía Vestido de blancos paños, Desta manera decía. --«No duermo, le respondía; Pero, dime tú ¿quién eres, Que tanto resplandecías?» --«San Lázaro soy, Rodrigo, Que yo á fablarte venía. Yo soy el gafo á que tú Por Dios tanto bien hacías. Rodrigo, Dios bien te quiere, Y otorgado te tenía, Que lo que tú comenzares En lides ó en otra vía, Lo cumplirás á tu honra Y crecerás cada día: De todos serás temido, Y que los tus enemigos Empecer no te podrían. Morirás tú muerte honrada, Tu persona no vencida: Tú serás el vencedor, Dios su bendición te envía.»-- En diciendo estas palabras, Luego desaparecía. Y de hinojos se ponía: Dió gracias á Dios del cielo, Partióse para Santiago, Su romería cumplía; De allí se fué á Calahorra, A donde el buen Rey yacía. Recibiéralo muy bien, Holgóse de su venida; En el campo le vencía. No os me mostréis triste vos, Que si me casé dos veces Hícelo por vuestra pro, Y por hacer menosprecio A doña Blanca de Borbón: A Medina-Sidonia envío A que me labre un pendón: Será el color de su sangre, De lágrimas la labor, Tal pendón, doña María, Le haré hacer por vos.»-- y llamara á Íñigo Ortiz, Un excelente varon: Díjole fuese á Medina A dar fin á tal labor. --«Aqueso no faré yo, Que quien mata á su señora A su cámara se entró, Y á un ballestero de maza El rey entregar mandó. Aqueste vino á la reina Y hallóla en oración. Cuando vido al ballestero La su triste muerte vió. Aquél le dijo:--«Señora, El rey acá me envió A que ordenéis vuestra alma Con aquel que la crío, Que vuestra hora es llegada, No puedo alargalla yo.» --«Amigo,» dijo la reina, «Mi muerte os perdono yo: Si el rey mi señor lo manda, Hágaselo que ordenó. Confesión no se me niegue, Sino pido á Dios perdón.»-- Sus lágrimas y gemidos, Al macero enterneció, Con la voz flaca, temblando, Esto á decir comenzó: --«¡Oh Francia, mi noble tierra! ¡Oh mi sangre de Borbón! Hoy cumplo decisiete años, En los deciocho voy: El rey no me ha conocido, Con las vírgenes me voy. Castilla, di ¿qué te hice? No te hice traición. Las coronas que me diste Que será de más valor.»-- Y dichas estas palabras El macero la hirió: Los sesos de su cabeza Por la sala les sembró. Paseábase el rey moro Por la ciudad de Granada Desde la puerta de Elvira Cartas le fueron venidas Que Alhama era ganada: Las cartas echó en el fuego, Y al mensajero matara. Descabalga de una mula, Y en un caballo cabalga; Por el Zacatín arriba Subido se había al Alhambra. Como en el Alhambra estuvo, Al mismo punto mandaba Que se toquen sus trompetas, Sus añafiles de plata. Y que las cajas de guerra Apriesa toquen al arma, Los Moros que el son oyeron Que al sangriento Marte llama, Uno á uno y dos á dos Juntado se ha gran batalla. Allí habló un Moro viejo, De esta manera hablara: --¿Para qué nos llamas, Rey, Para qué es esta llamada?-- --Habéis de saber, amigos, Una nueva desdichada: Que Cristianos de braveza Ya nos han ganado Alhama.-- Allí habló un Alfaquí De barba cruda y cana: --¡Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, Buen Rey, bien se te empleara! Que eran la flor de Granada; Cogiste los tornadizos. De Córdoba la nombrada. Por eso mereces, Rey, Una pena muy doblada; Que te pierdas tú y el reino, Y aquí se pierda Granada.-- En París está doña Alda, La esposa de don Roldán, Trescientas damas con ella Para la acompañar: Todas visten un vestido, Todas calzan un calzar, Todas comen á una mesa, Todas comían de un pan, Si no era sola doña Alda, Que era la mayoral. Las ciento hilaban oro, Las ciento tejen cendal, Las ciento instrumentos tañen Para doña Alda holgar. Al son de los instrumentos Doña Alda adormido se ha: Ensoñado había un sueño, Un sueño de gran pesar. Recordó despavorida Y con un pavor muy grande; Los gritos daba tan grandes Que se oían en la ciudad. Allí hablaron sus doncellas, Bien oiréis lo que dirán: --«¿Qué es aquesto, mi señora? ¿Quién es el que os hizo mal?» --«Un sueño soñé, doncellas, Que me ha dado gran pesar; Que me veía en un monte En un desierto lugar: Tras dél viene un aguililla Que lo afincaba muy mal. El azor con grande cuita Metióse so mi brial; El aguililla con grande ira De allí lo iba á sacar; Con las uñas lo despluma Con el pico lo deshace.»-- Allí habló su camarera, Bien oiréis lo que dirá: --«Aquese sueño, señora, Bien os lo entiendo soltar: El azor es vuestro esposo, Que viene de allende el mar; El águila sedes vos, Con la cual ha de casar, Y aquel monte es la iglesia Donde os han de velar.» --«Si así es, mi camarera, Bien te lo entiendo pagar.»-- Otro día de mañana Cartas de fuera le traen; Tintas venían de dentro, De fuera escritas con sangre, Que su Roldán era muerto En la caza de Roncesvalles. Mis arreos son las armas, Mi descanso es pelear, Mi cama las duras peñas, Mi dormir siempre velar. Las manidas son escuras, Los caminos por usar, El cielo con sus mudanzas Ha por bien de me dañar, Andando de sierra en sierra Por orillas de la mar, Por probar si en mi ventura Hay lugar donde avadar. Pero por vos, mi señora, Todo se ha de comportar. «Rosa fresca, rosa fresca, Tan garrida y con amor, Cuando vos tuve en mis brazos, No vos supe servir, no; Y agora que os serviría No vos puedo haber, no.» --«Vuestra fué la culpa, amigo, Vuestra fué, que mía no; Enviástesme una carta Con un vuestro servidor, Y en lugar de recaudar Allá en tierras de León: Que tenéis mujer hermosa Y hijos como una flor.» --«Quien os lo dijo, señora, No vos dijo verdad, no; Que yo nunca entré en Castilla Ni allá en tierras de León, Sino cuando era pequeño, Que no sabía de amor.» Fonte-frida, fonte-frida, Fonte-frida y con amor, Do todas las avecicas Van tomar consolación, Sino es la tortolica Que está viuda y con dolor. Por allí fuera á pasar El traidor de ruiseñor: Las palabras que le dice Llenas son de traición: --«Si tú quisieses, señora, Yo sería tu servidor.» --«Vete de ahí, enemigo, Malo, falso, engañador, Que ni poso en ramo verde, Ni en prado que tenga flor; Que si el agua hallo claro, Turbia la bebía yo; Que no quiero haber marido, Ni menos consolación. ¡Déjame, triste enemigo, Mal, falso, mal traidor, Que no quiero ser tu amiga Ni casar contigo, no! Mientras duerme mi niña, Céfiro alegre, _Sopla más quedito, No la recuerdes_. Sopla manso viento Al sueño suave, Que enseña á ser grave Con su movimiento; Dale el dulce aliento Que entre perlas finas A gozar caminas Y ufano vuelves; _Sopla más quedito, No la recuerdes_. Mira no despierte Del sueño en que duerme, Que temo que el verme Causará mi muerte. ¡Dichosa tal suerte! ¡Venturosa estrella! Si á niña tan bella Alentar mereces. _Sopla más quedito, No la recuerdes_. No es el sueño cierto lance, Sus caprichos tiene el sueño, Y lo alcanza presto el dueño, Ya no puede dalle alcance. Este tan vario accidente Suele á veces dar disgusto, Yo le corrijo y ajusto Con el aviso siguiente Cuando el sueño se detiene, Rezo para reposar, Y en comenzando á rezar En el mismo punto viene. Si carga más que debía, Pienso en las sumas que debo, Y el sueño huye de nuevo Como la sombra del día. Ved el áspero y cruel Cuán manso sigue mi indicio, Y con cuán poco artificio Hago lo que quiero de él: Con tanta puntualidad Que como galán y dama, Tenemos á mesa y cama Perpetua conformidad Revelóme este secreto Una vieja de Antequera, Y desde la vez primera Hizo verdadero efeto. Que con rezar y deber Se repara esta dolencia. Quisiera la pena mía Contártela, Juana, en verso; Pero temo el fin diverso De cómo yo lo querría; Porque si en verso refiero Mis cosas más importantes, Me fuerzan los consonantes A decir lo que no quiero. Ejemplo: Inés me provoca A decir mil bienes della, Si en verso la llamo bella, Dice el consonante _loca_; Y así, vengo á descubrir Con término descompuesto Que es una loca y no es esto Lo que yo quiero decir. Y si la alabo de aguda Y más ardiente que fuego, A la aguda dice luego La consonante _picuda_; Y así la llamo en sustancia Picuda quizá sin sello, A lo menos sin querello Por sólo la consonancia. El verso en todo me impide, Y podrán hacerme cargo Que en la relación me alargo Más de lo que el cuento pide; Pues si miento en lo que escrivo, Por los consonantes miento. ¿Quién menoscaba mis bienes? ¿Y quién aumenta mis duelos? ¡Los celos! ¿Y quién prueba mi paciencia? De este modo en mi dolencia Ningún remedio se alcanza, Pues me matan la esperanza, Desdenes, celos y ausencia. ¿Quién me causa este dolor? ¿Y quién mi gloria repuna? ¿Y quién consiente mi duelo? ¡El cielo! De este modo yo recelo Morir deste mal extraño, Pues se aunan en mi daño Amor, fortuna y el cielo. ¿Quién mejorará mi suerte? ¡La muerte! Y sus males ¿quién los cura? De ese modo no es cordura Querer curar la pasión, Cuando los remedios son Muerte, mudanza y locura. Marinero soy de amor, Y en su piélago profundo Navego sin esperanza De llegar á puerto alguno. Siguiendo voy á una estrella, Que desde lejos descubro; Más bella y resplandeciente Que cuantas vió Palinuro. Y no sé adonde me guía, Y así navego confuso, El alma á mirarla atenta, Cuidadosa y con descuido. Recatos impertinentes, Honestidad contra el uso, Son nubes que me la encubren, Cuando más verla procuro. ¡O clara y luciente estrella, En cuya lumbre me apuro! Al punto que te me encubras Será de mi muerte el punto. Almas dichosas, que del mortal velo Libres y exentas por el bien que obrastes, Desde la baja tierra os levantastes A lo más alto y lo mejor del cielo. Y ardiendo en ira y en honroso celo, De los cuerpos la fuerza ejercitastes, Que en propia y sangre agena colorastes El mar vecino, y arenoso suelo. Primero que el valor faltó la vida En los cansados brazos, que muriendo Con ser vencidos llevan la victoria: Y esta vuestra mortal triste caída Entre el muro y el hierro os va adquiriendo Fama que el mundo os da, y el cielo gloria. Si mi _fué_ tornase á _es_ Sin esperar más _será_, Ó viniese el tiempo ya De lo que _será después_. Al fin, como todo pasa, Se pasó el bien que me dió Fortuna, un tiempo no escasa, Y nunca me le volvió, Ni abundante, ni por tasa. Siglos ha ya que me ves, Fortuna, puesto á tus pies; Vuélveme á ser venturoso, Que será mi ser dichoso, _Si mi fué tornase á es_. No quiero otro gusto ó gloria, Otra palma ó vencimiento, Que es pesar en mi memoria. Si tú me vuelves allá, Fortuna, templado está Todo el rigor de mi fuego, Y más si este bien es luego _Sin esperar más será_. Cosas imposibles pido, Pues volver el tiempo á ser, Después que una vez ha sido, No hay en la tierra poder Que á tanto se haya extendido. Corre el tiempo, vuela y va Ligero, y no volverá, Y erraría el que pidiese, Ó que el tiempo ya se fuese, _Ó viniese el tiempo ya_. Vivir en perpleja vida, Ya esperando, ya temiendo, Es muerte muy conocida, Y es mucho mejor muriendo Buscar al dolor salida. A mí me fuera interés Pues con discurso mejor Me da la vida el temor _De lo que será después_. Ojalá suyo así llamar pudiera Gala cuanto hay, desde la frente al cuello, Como puede con causa á su cabello, Que suyo es, pues compró la cabellera, Que para nuestros ojos mejor fuera Ver un rostro comprado blanco y bello, Y ojalá (para echar á todo el sello) Que pudiera comprarse toda entera. Que entonces fuera buena y fuera suya, Como cuando se ahorra algún esclavo Con el propio trabajo de sus manos. Y así, contra el cabello nadie arguya, Porque es en ella lo que solo alabo; Lo demás, mate el hambre á los alanos. Dichoso el que, apartado De negocios, imita A la primera gente de la tierra, Y en el campo, heredado De su padre, ejercita Sus bueyes, y la usura no le encierra, Ni le despierta la espantosa guerra, Ni el mar con son horrendo le amenaza; Huye la curial plaza Y las soberbias puertas de los vanos, Ricos y poderosos ciudadanos. Y en el valle remoto huelga, viendo Sus vacas esparcidas. El ramo inútil poda, Mejor en su lugar otro ingiriendo, Ó en cántaros la miel pura exprimiendo; Sus ovejas trasquila, y cuando empieza A mostrar su cabeza Coronada el otoño, coge ufano La pera engerta de su propria mano. Y el maduro racimo Que competir parece Con la púrpura misma, juntamente, Como despojo opimo, A ti, Priapo, ofrece, Y á Silvano, en los campos presidente; Y mientras su cuidado le consiente Bajo la antigua encina hacer su cama De tenaz verde grama, Al sueño le convida los suaves Mormurios de las aguas y las aves. O cuando nos fatiga En el invierno helado Júpiter con las lluvias y con nieve, Con sus perros obliga Al jabalí acosado A que sus redes y asechanzas pruebe, Y que su mismo engaño al tordo cebe; Que la cobarde liebre en lazos muera, Ó la grulla extranjera; ¿Quién con esto no olvida los cuidados Que son del fiero amor solicitados? Pues si alivia el cuidado Ó cual la del cansado Pullés, que al sol se abrasa, Y antes que venga su marido, presta (La seca leña al sacro fuego puesta, Las mansas ovejuelas ordeñadas Y en setos encerradas), Viandas no compradas apareja, Sacando el vino de la pipa añeja. No las ostras lucrinas, El rombo ni otros peces, De los que con los hielos nos envían Las borrascas marinas Del Carpacio á las veces, Ó las aves que en África se crían, A mi vientre mejor descenderían, Que de los ramos fértiles algunas Maduras aceitunas, Que la malva ó de lápato la yerba, Que al cuerpo da salud y lo conserva: Ó la muerta cordera En las fiestas sagradas, Ó el cabrito que el lobo vió en sus dientes; Y ver desta manera A casa, repastadas, Volver las ovejuelas diligentes, Ó los cansados bueyes, con las frentes Bajas, traer la esteva del arado, Y el hogar rodeado De esclavos, que al enjambre se parecen, En quien las casas ricas resplandecen. Mientras Alfio, usurero, Estas cosas relata, Mas luego á las calendas Lo vuelve á dar á usura sobre prendas. «Dime, Padre común, pues eres justo, ¿Por qué ha de permitir tu providencia Que, arrastrando prisiones la inocencia, Sube la fraude á tribunal augusto? «¿Quién da fuerzas al brazo que robusto Hace á tus leyes firme resistencia, Y que el celo, que más la reverencia, Jima á los pies del vencedor injusto? «Vemos que vibran vitoriosas palmas Manos inicuas, la virtud gimiendo Del triunfo en el injusto regocijo.» Esto decía yo, cuando riendo Celestial ninfa apareció, y me dijo: «¡Ciego! ¿es la tierra el centro de las almas?» Cloe la sétima vez Las exequias celebró. Siete maridos lloró; No hay tan honrada viudez. ¿Pudo con más sencillez Toda la verdad decir? Y dijo la verdad pura, Porque los hizo morir. La más bella niña De nuestro lugar, Hoy viuda y sola Y ayer por casar, Viendo que sus ojos A la guerra van, A su madre dice Que escucha su mal: _Dejadme llorar Orillas del mar._ Pues me distes, madre, En tan tierna edad Tan corto el placer, Tan largo el pesar, Y me cautivastes De quien hoy se va Y lleva las llaves De mi libertad, _Dejadme llorar_, etc. En llorar conviertan Mis ojos de hoy más El sabroso oficio Del dulce mirar, Pues que no se pueden Mejor ocupar, Yéndose á la guerra Quien era mi paz. _Dejadme llorar_, etc. No me pongáis freno Ni queráis culpar; Que lo uno es justo, Lo otro por demás. Si me queréis bien No me hagáis mal; Harto peor fué Morir y callar. _Dejadme llorar_, etc. Dulce madre mía, ¿Quién no llorará, Aunque tenga el pecho Como un pedernal, Y no dará voces Viendo marchitar Los más verdes años De mi mocedad? _Dejadme morir_, etc. Váyanse las noches, Váyanse, y no vean Tanta soledad Después que en mi lecho Sobra la mitad. _Dejadme llorar Orillas del mar._ _Caído se le ha un clavel Hoy á la Aurora del seno: ¡Qué glorioso que está el heno Porque ha caído sobre él!_ Cuando el silencio tenía Todas las cosas del suelo, Y coronado de hielo Reinaba la noche fría, En medio la monarquía De tiniebla tan cruel ¡Caído se le ha un clavel! De un solo clavel ceñida La Virgen, aurora bella, Al mundo le dió y ella Quedó cual antes florida: A la púrpura caída Siempre fué el heno fiel: ¡Caído se le ha un clavel! El heno pues que fué dino A pesar de tantas nieves De ver en sus brazos leves Este rosicler divino, Para su lecho fué lino, Oro para su dosel; ¡Caído se le ha un clavel! Era del año la estación florida En que el mentido robador de Europa (Media luna las armas de su frente, Y el sol todos los rayos de su pelo,) Luciente honor del cielo En campos de záfiro pace estrellas, Cuando el que ministrar podía la copa A Júpiter mejor que el garzón de Ida, Náufrago y desdeñado, sobre ausente, Lagrimosas de amor dulces querellas Da al mar, que condolido Fué á las ondas, fué al viento, El mísero gemido, Segundo de Arión dulce instrumento, Del siempre en la montaña opuesto pino Al enemigo noto, Piadoso miembro roto, Brava tabla, delfín no fué pequeño Al inconsiderado peregrino Que á una Libia de ondas su camino Fió, y su vida á un leño; Del Océano pues antes sorbido, Y luego vomitado No lejos de un escollo coronado De secos juncos, de calientes plumas, Algo todo y espumas, Halló hospitalidad donde halló nido De Júpiter el ave. Con poca luz y menos disciplina Al voto de un muy crítico y muy lego Salió en Madrid la _Soledad_, y luego A palacio con lento pie camina. Las puertas le cerró de la Latina Quien duerme en español y sueña en griego, Pedante gofo, que de pasión ciego, La suya reza, y calla la divina. Del viento es el pendón pompa ligera, No hay paso concedido á mayor gloria, Ni voz que no la acusen de extranjera. Gastando pues en tanto la memoria Ajena invidia más que propia cera, Por el Carmen la lleva á la vitoria. El que fuere dichoso será amado, Y yo en amar no quiero ser dichoso, Teniendo mi desvelo generoso A dicha ser por vos tan desdichado. Sólo es servir, servir sin ser premiado; Cerca está de grosero el venturoso; Seguir el bien á todos es forzoso, Yo solo sigo el bien sin ser forzado. No he menester ventura por amaros; Amo de vos lo que de vos entiendo, No lo que espero, porque nada espero. De vos no quiero más que lo que os quiero. _Al marqués de Malpica_ Cuando el marqués de Malpica, Caballero de la llave, Con su silencio replica, Dice todo cuanto sabe. Jura España por su vida Que nunca cenó en su casa, Y que sin cenar se pasa Cuando nadie le convida. Aquí yace Calderón. Pasajero, el paso ten; Que en hurtar y morir bien Se parece al buen ladrón. _Pedir celos no es cordura En el que de veras ama, Porque es despertar la dama De lo que estaba segura._ Y así nos fuera el temor A tener celos del viento: Mas pedirlos es locura Aunque mas arda la llama, Porque es despertar la dama De lo que estaba segura. Muchos celosos se quedan Privados de sus placeres, Porque siempre las mujeres Se van tras lo que les vedan. Mejor es darles anchura, Que mirarán por su fama, Y no despertar la dama De lo que estaba segura. Más vale por complacellas Dejarlas á su sabor Que ellas miran por su honor Más que nosotros por ellas. Y la que es más casta y pura Cuando á su galán más ama, Si con celos la disfama, No la tendrá muy segura. Contentamientos pasados, ¿Que queréis? ¡Dejadme, no me canséis! Contentos cuya memoria A cruel muerte condena, Idos de mí enhorabuena, Y pues que no me dais gloria, No vengáis á darme pena. No me deis ya más cuidados, Que son para más tormento Contentamientos pasados. No me os mostréis lisonjeros, Que no habéis de ser creídos, Ni me amenacéis con fieros Porque el temor de perderos Le perdió en siendo perdidos, Y si acaso pretendéis Cumplir vuestra voluntad Con mi muerte, bien podréis Matarme; y si no, mirad, ¿Que queréis? Si dar disgusto y desdén Es vuestro propio caudal, Sabed que he quedado tal Que aun no me ha dejado el bien De suerte que sienta el mal: Mas con todo pues me habéis Dejado y estoy sin vos, ¡Paso! ¡no me atormentéis! Contentos, idos con Dios, Dejadme, no me canséis. Pues andáis en las palmas, Ángeles santos, Que se duerme mi niño, Tened los ramos. Los furiosos vientos, Que suenan tanto, No le hagáis ruido, Corred más paso; Que se duerme mi niño, Tened los ramos. El niño divino, Que está cansado De llorar en la tierra, Por su descanso Sosegar quiere un poco Del tierno llanto; Que se duerme mi niño, Tened los ramos. Rigurosos hielos Le están cercando, Ya veis que no tengo Con que guardarlo: Ángeles divinos, Que vais volando, Que se duerme mi niño, Tened los ramos. A mis soledades voy, De mis soledades vengo, Porque para andar conmigo Me bastan mis pensamientos. ¡No sé qué tiene la aldea Donde vivo y donde muero, Que con venir de mí mismo No puedo venir más lejos! Que un hombre que todo es alma Está cautivo en su cuerpo. Entiendo lo que me basta, Y solamente no entiendo Cómo se sufre á sí mismo Un ignorante soberbio. De cuantas cosas me cansan, Fácilmente me defiendo; Pero no puedo guardarme De los peligros de un necio. Él dirá que yo lo soy, Pero con falso argumento; Que humildad y necedad No caben en un sujeto. La diferencia conozco, Porque en él y en mí contemplo, Su locura en su arrogancia, Mi humildad en su desprecio. Ó sabe naturaleza Más que supo en otro tiempo, Ó tantos que nacen sabios Es porque lo dicen ellos. Sólo sé que no sé nada, Dijo un filósofo, haciendo La cuenta con su humildad, Adonde lo más es menos. Oigo tañer las campanas, Y no me espanto, aunque puedo, Que en lugar de tantas cruces Haya tantos hombres muertos. Están diciendo sin lengua, Que no lo fueron sus dueños. ¡Oh bien haya quien los hizo, Porque solamente en ellos De los poderosos grandes Se vengaron los pequeños! Fea pintan á la envidia; Yo confieso que la tengo De unos hombres que no saben Quién vive pared en medio, Sin libros y sin papeles, Sin tratos, cuentas ni cuentos: Cuando quieren escribir Piden prestado el tintero. Sin ser pobres ni ser ricos Tienen chimenea y huerto; No los despiertan cuidados, Ni pretensiones, ni pleitos, Ni murmuraron del grande, Ni ofendieron al pequeño; Nunca, como yo, firmaron Parabién, ni pascua dieron. Con esta invidia que digo, Y lo que paso en silencio, A mis soledades voy, De mis soledades vengo. Oh, nunca fueras, África desierta, En medio de los trópicos fundada, Ni por el fértil Nilo coronada Te viera el alba cuando el sol despierta; Nunca tu arena inculta descubierta Se viera de cristiana planta honrada, Ni abriera en ti la portuguesa espada A tantos males tan sangrienta puerta. Perdióse en ti de la mayor nobleza De Lusitania una florida parte, Perdióse su corona y su riqueza; Pues tú, que no mirabas su estandarte, Sobre él los piés, levantas la cabeza, Ceñida en torno del laurel de Marte. Daba sustento á un pajarillo un día Lucinda, y por los hierros del portillo Fuésele de la jaula el pajarillo Al libre viento en que vivir solía. Tendió la mano y no pudiendo asillo Dijo y de las mejillas amarillo Volvió el clavel que entre su nieve ardía: «¿A dónde vas, por despreciar el nido Al peligro de ligas y de balas, Y el dueño huyes que tu pico adora?» Oyóla el pajarillo enternecido Y á la antigua prisión volvió las alas. ¡Qué tanto puede una mujer que llora! III {p. 152} ¿Qué tengo yo, que mi amistad procuras? ¿Qué interés se te sigue, Jesús mío, Que á mi puerta, cubierto de rocío, Pasas las noches del invierno escuras? ¡Oh cuánto fueron mis entrañas duras, Pues no te abrí! ¡Qué extraño desvarío, Si de mi ingratitud el hielo frío Secó las llagas de tus plantas puras! ¡Cuántas veces el ángel me decía: «Alma, asómate agora á la ventana; Verás con cuánto amor llamar porfía!» Y ¡cuántas, hermosura soberana, «Mañana le abriremos,» respondía! Para lo mismo responder mañana. Pastor, que con tus silbos amorosos Me despertaste del profundo sueño; Tú, que hiciste cayado dese leño En que tiendes los brazos poderosos; Vuelve los ojos á mi fe piadosos, Pues te confieso por mi amor y dueño, Y la palabra de seguirte empeño, Tus dulces silbos y tus pies hermosos. Oye, Pastor, que por amores mueres, No te espante el rigor de mis pecados, Pues tan amigo de rendidos eres; Espera pues, y escucha mis cuidados; Pero ¿cómo te digo que me esperes, Si estás para esperar los pies clavados? V {p. 153} --Llamad desde la posta, Garcilaso. --¿Quién es?--Dos caballeros del Parnaso. --No hay donde nocturnar palestra armada. --No entiendo lo que dice la criada. Madona, ¿qué decís?--Que afecten paso, Que ostenta limbos el mentido ocaso, Y el sol depinge la porción rosada. --¿Estás en ti, mujer?--Negóse al tino El ambulante huésped.--¡Que en tan poco Tiempo tal lengua entre Cristianos haya! Boscán, perdido habemos el camino; Preguntad por Castilla, que estoy loco, Ó no habemos salido de Vizcaya. Un soneto me manda hacer Violante, Que en mi vida me he visto en tal aprieto, Catorce versos dicen que es soneto, Burla burlando van los tres delante. Yo pensé que no hallara consonante, Y estoy á la mitad de otro cuarteto, Mas si me veo en el primer terceto No hay cosa en los cuartetos que me espante. Por el primer terceto voy entrando, Y aun parece que entré con pie derecho, Pues fin con este verso le voy dando. Ya estoy en el segundo, y aun sospecho, Que estoy los trece versos acabando: Contad si son catorce, y está hecho. Alma, herido me tenéis, Y en dejarme me matáis; Mirad que si me dejáis, Que sin Dios os quedaréis. Mirad, alma, que soy Dios, Y en amor quien siempre fuí, Y que cuando huyáis de mí, Que me tengo de ir tras vos. Decid: ¿á quién buscaréis Si destos brazos os vais? Mirad que si me dejáis, Que sin Dios os quedaréis. No hallaréis, alma, jamás Quien como yo por vos muera; Hallaréis quien bien os quiera, Mas no quien os quiera más. Bien es que en casa os estéis; Y ¡ay de vos si della os vais! Mirad que si me dejáis, Que sin Dios os quedaréis, Mirad que si os vais, los dos Nos quedaremos en calma; Si os ausentáis, yo sin alma; Si me quedo, vos sin Dios. Pues mi Pan comido habéis, No lo desagradezcáis; Mirad que si me dejáis, Que sin Dios os quedaréis. Vestida está mi margen de espadaña, Y de viciosos apios y mastranto, El agua, clara como el ámbar, baña Troncos de mirtos y de lauro santo: No hay en mi margen silbadora caña, Ni adelfa; mas violetas y amaranto, De donde llevan flores en las faldas Para hacer las Hénides guirnaldas. Hay blancos lirios, verdes mirabeles, Y azules guarnecidos alelíes, Y allí las clavellinas y claveles Parecen sementera de rubíes; Hay ricas alcatifas y alquiceles Rojos, blancos, gualdados y turquíes, Y derraman las auras con su aliento Ámbares y azahares por el viento. Yo cuando salgo de mis grutas hondas Estoy de frescos palios cobijado, Y entre nácares crespos de redondas Perlas, mi margen veo estar honrado; El sol no entibia mis cerúleas ondas, Ni las enturbia el balador ganado; Ni á las napeas que en mi orilla cantan Los pintados lagartos las espantan. Estas purpúreas rosas que á la Aurora Se le cayeron hoy del blanco seno, Y un vaso de pintadas flores lleno, ¡Oh dulces auras! os ofrezco agora, Si defendéis de mi divina Flora Con vuestras alas el color moreno, Del sol, que ardiente y de piedad ajeno Su rostro ofende por que el campo dora. ¡Oh hijas de la tierra peregrinas! Mirad si tiene Mayo en su guirnalda Más frescas rosas, más bizarras flores. Llorando les dió el alba perlas finas, El sol colores, mi afición la falda De mi hermosa Flora y ella olores. Estos, Fabio, ¡ay dolor! que ves ahora Campos de soledad, mustio collado, Fueron un tiempo Itálica famosa. Aquí de Cipión la vencedora Colonia fué; por tierra derribado Yace el temido honor de la espantosa Muralla, y lastimosa Reliquia es solamente De su invencible gente. Solo quedan memorias funerales Donde erraron ya sombras de alto ejemplo; Este llano fué plaza, allí fué templo; De todo apenas quedan las señales. Las torres que desprecio al aire fueron Este despedazado anfiteatro, Impío honor de los dioses, cuya afrenta Publica el amarillo jaramago, Ya reducido á trágico teatro, ¡Oh fábula del tiempo! representa Cuánta fué su grandeza y es su estrago. ¿Cómo en el cerco vago De su desierta arena El gran pueblo no suena? ¿Dónde, pues, fieras, ¡ay! está el desnudo Luchador? ¿Dónde está el atleta fuerte? Todo desapareció, cambió la suerte Voces alegres en silencio mudo; Mas aun el tiempo da en estos despojos Espectáculos fieros á los ojos, Y miran tan confusos lo presente, Que voces de dolor el alma siente. En la espesura de un alegre soto, Que el Betis baña, y de su fértil curso Cobran verdor los sauces acopados, Donde el ocioso juvenil concurso, Aquí prestar alivio á mis cuidados Pensé yo triste un día, Porque la ninfa mía Ví que, emboscada y de recelo ajena, Ya el cinto desceñido, Sus miembros despojaba del vestido. Dejóle al fin compuesto en el arena, Manifestando al cielo De su desnuda forma la belleza. Luego á las puras ondas con presteza La ví correr, do el cuerpo delicado Sintió del agua de repente el hielo, Y suspendió su brío, Viéndose en la carrera salteado Con líquidos aljófares del río; Mas reclinóse al fin sabrosamente, Cubriendo de los húmedos cristales Toda su forma de la planta al cuello; Tal vez la hermosa frente Sola mostraba de su rostro bello; Tal con ligeros saltos paseaba La orilla, y en sus frescos arenales Sus tiernos miembros liberal mostraba. Yo, en tan alegre vista embebecido, Y en los tejidos ramos escondido, Al cielo con el alma agradecía Mi desigual ventura, Y el recatado labio no movía. ¡Ay, si mis ojos con igual cordura Celar pudieran sus ocultas llamas! Y no que, ansiosos de mirar cercano Aquel hermoso bulto soberano, Hirió á la bella ninfa el pronto oído, Cuando su vista y rostro honesto Le descubrió mi hurto manifiesto. Y como la corcilla descuidada Mientra las hojas tiernas y menudas Despunta de la yerba rociada, Que al más leve rumor el cuello enhiesta, Y vuelve las agudas Orejas y la frente pavorosa A la vecina selva ó la floresta, Do con alada planta voladora Se embosca, y deja al cazador burlado; Tal su ligero curso amedrentado Siguió mi amada ninfa al mismo instante Que me miró delante. Poderoso caballero Madre, yo al oro me humillo, Él es mi amante y mi amado, Pues de puro enamorado De continuo anda amarillo; Que pues doblón ó sencillo, Hace todo cuanto quiero, Poderoso caballero Viene á morir en España, Y es en Génova enterrado: Y pues quien le trae al lado Es hermoso, aunque sea fiero, Poderoso caballero Es galán y es como un oro, Tiene quebrado el color, Persona de gran valor, Tan Cristiano como Moro; Pues que da y quita el decoro, Y quebranta cualquier fuero, Poderoso caballero Son sus padres principales, Y es de nobles descendiente, Porque en las venas de Oriente Todas las sangres son reales: Y pues es quien hace iguales Al duque y al ganadero, Poderoso caballero ¿Mas á quien no maravilla, Ver en su gloria sin tasa Que es lo menos de su casa Pero pues da al bajo silla Y al cobarde hace guerrero, Poderoso caballero Sus escudos de armas nobles Son siempre tan principales, Y pues á los mismos robles Da codicia su minero, Poderoso caballero Por importar en los tratos, Y dar tan buenos consejos, En las casas de los viejos Hatos le guardan de gatos: Y pues él rompe recatos, Y ablanda el juez más severo, Poderoso caballero Y es tanta su majestad (Aunque son sus duelos hartos) Que con haberle hecho cuartos, No pierde su autoridad; Pero pues da calidad Al noble y al pordiosero, Poderoso caballero Nunca ví damas ingratas A su gusto y afición, Que á las caras de un doblón Hacen sus caras baratas: Y pues las hace bravatas Desde una bolsa de cuero, Poderoso caballero Más valen en cualquier tierra, (Mirad si es harto sagaz) Sus escudos en la paz Que rodelas en la guerra; Poderoso caballero Érase un hombre á una nariz pegado, Érase una nariz superlativa, Érase una nariz sayón y escriba, Érase un peje espada muy barbado. Era un reloj de sol mal encarado, Érase una alquitara pensativa, Érase un elefante boca arriba, Era Ovidio Nasón más narizado. Érase un espolón de una galera, Érase una pirámide de Egito, Las doce tribus de narices era. Érase un naricismo infinito, Muchísima nariz, nariz tan fiera Que en la cara de Anás fuera delito. Ví con pródiga vena De parlero cristal un arroyuelo Jugando con la arena Y enamorando de su risa el cielo. A la margen amena Una vez murmurando, otra corriendo Estaba entreteniendo Espejo guarnecido de esmeralda; Me pareció al miralle Del prado la guirnalda. Mas abrióse en el valle Y sepultó recién nacida fuente Cuya corriente breve restauraron Ojos que de piadosos la lloraron. No he de callar por más que con el dedo, Ya tocando la boca, ó ya la frente, Silencio avises, ó amenaces miedo. ¿No ha de haber un espíritu valiente? ¿Siempre se ha de sentir lo que se dice? ¿Nunca se ha de decir lo que se siente? Hoy, sin miedo que libre escandalice, Puede hablar el ingenio, asegurado De que mayor poder le atemorice. En otros siglos pudo ser pecado Severo estudio, y la verdad desnuda, Y romper el silencio el bien hablado. Pues sepa, quien lo niega, y quien lo duda, Que es lengua la verdad de Dios severo, Y la lengua de Dios nunca fué muda. Son la verdad y Dios Dios verdadero: Ni eternidad divina los separa, Ni de los dos alguno fué primero. La justicia de Dios es verdadera Y la misericordia, y todo cuanto Es Dios, todo ha de ser verdad entera. Señor excelentísimo, mi llanto Ya no consiente márgenes ni orillas, Inundación será la de mi canto. Sobre las aras de las dos Castillas. Yace aquella virtud desaliñada, Que fué, si rica menos, más temida, En vanidad y en sueño sepultada. Y aquella libertad esclarecida, Que en donde supo hallar honrada muerte, Nunca quiso tener más larga vida. Y pródiga del alma, nación fuerte, Contaba por afrenta de los años Envejecer en brazos de la suerte. Del tiempo el ocio torpe, y los engaños Del paso de las horas y del día, Reputaban los nuestros por estraños. Nadie contaba cuanta edad vivía, Sino de que manera, ni aun un hora Lograba sin afán y valentía. La robusta virtud era señora, Y sola dominaba al pueblo rudo; ¡Edad, si mal hablada, vencedora! Un Godo, que una cueva en la montaña Guardó, pudo cobrar las dos Castillas: Del Betis y Genil las dos orillas, Los heredores de tan gran hazaña. Con que á Sicilia y Nápoles humillas, A quien Milán espléndida acompaña. Muerte infeliz en Portugal arbola Tus castillos. Colón pasó los Godos Al ignorado cerco de esta bola. Y es más fácil ¡oh España! en muchos modos Que lo que á todos les quitaste sola, Te puedan á ti sola quitar todos. Tórtola solitaria que llorando Tu bien pasado y tu dolor presente, Ensordeces la selva con gemidos: Cuyo ánimo doliente Se mitiga penando Bienes asegurados y perdidos: Si inclinas los oídos A las piadosas y dolientes quejas De un espíritu amargo, (Breve consuelo de un dolor tan largo Con quien, amarga soledad, me aquejas) Yo con tu compañía Y acaso á ti te aliviará la mía. La rigurosa mano que me aparta Como á ti de tu bien, á mí del mío, Cargada va de triunfos y victorias: Sábelo el monte y río, Que está cansada y harta De marchitar en flor mis dulces glorias: No viera yo cubierto De turbias nubes cielo que ví abierto En la fuerza mayor de mi fortuna: Que acabado con ellas Acabaran mis llantos y querellas. Parece que me escuchas, y parece Que te cuento tu mal, que roncamente Lloras tu compañía desdichada: El ánimo doliente Que el dolor apetece Por un alivio de su suerte airada, La más apasionada Más agradable le parece, en tanto Que el alma dolorosa, Llorando tu desdicha rigurosa, Baña los ojos con eterno llanto; Cuya pasión afloja La vida al cuerpo, al alma la congoja. ¿No regalaste con tus quejas tiernas, Por solitarios y desiertos prados, Hombres y fieras, cielos y elementos? ¿Lloraste tus cuidados Con lágrimas eternas Duras y encomendadas á los vientos? ¿No son tus sentimientos De tanta compasión y tan dolientes, Que enternecen los pechos A rigurosas sinrazones hechos, Que los haces crueles de clementes? ¿En qué ofendiste tanto, Cuitada, que te sigue miedo y llanto? Quien te ve por los montes solitarios Sola y desamparada A los fieros contrarios, Que le tienen en vida padeciendo, Señal de agüero horrendo Mostrarían tus ojos añublados Con las cerradas nieblas Que levantó la muerte, y las tinieblas De tus bienes supremos y pasados: ¡Llora, cuitada, llora Al venir de la noche y de la aurora! Fuentecillas que reis, Y con la arena jugáis, ¿Dónde vais? Pues de las flores huis Y los peñascos buscáis, Si reposáis Donde con calma dormís, ¿Por qué corréis y os cansáis? Pajarillo que cantas Cuando con tristes quejas Al dispertar el día te levantas, Y enternecida dejas _Que es agravio y desdicha del que llora Sentir sus quejas y reir la aurora_. Canta la noche fría En las dormidas ramas, De tu dolor funesta compañía; Descansa, cuando llamas Al sol hermoso que los campos viste, Logra su ausencia triste; _Que es agravio y desdicha del que llora Sentir sus quejas y reir la aurora_. En este verde soto Escucharán tus males Del más vecino al sauce más remoto, Y el agua en sus umbrales De verde yerba, de doradas flores, Prenderán tus amores; _Que es agravio y desdicha del que llora Sentir sus quejas y reir la aurora_. No quieras más aliento Que en tus tristes congojas La piadosa atención del manso viento, Y que duerman las hojas Al dulce son de tus querellas graves, Envidia de otras aves; _Que es agravio y desdicha del que llora Sentir sus quejas y reir la aurora_. Si alegres y risueñas Corren las claras fuentes Entre perlas lucientes, Imitan más la gracia de tu risa. No ríe la mañana, Que soñolienta y fría Sale á hospedar el día, Vestida de oro y grana, Si primera no ríes, Y dejas qué copiar en tus rubíes. También quiere imitarle, Cuando el sol reverbera, La dulce primavera; Y cuando Abril se parte, Hace el primer ensayo Al paso de tu risa el suave Mayo. Pensaban, engañados, Que las selvas reían Los mismos que creían La risa de los prados. Todos, Silvia, mintieron; Que sin verte reir, jamás rieron. Los más fieros tiranos, Que menos se recatan, No ríen cuando matan; Y aunque muere á sus manos Con piedad el aurora, La dulce muerte de la noche llora. Tu risa son enojos, Porque matas riendo, Y lloran (desmintiendo A tu boca) mis ojos; Y es lo que precian tanto, Risa en tus labios, y en mis ojos llanto. Pura, encendida rosa, Émula de la llama Que sale con el día, ¿Cómo naces tan llena de alegría, Si sabes que la edad que te da el cielo Es apenas un breve y veloz vuelo? Y no valdrán las puntas de tu rama Ni tu púrpura hermosa A detener un punto La ejecución del hado presurosa. El mismo cerco alado, Que estoy viendo riente, Ya temo amortiguado, Presto despojo de la llama ardiente. Para las hojas de tu crespo seno Te dió Amor de sus alas blandas plumas, Y oro de su cabello dió á tu frente. ¡Oh fiel imagen suya peregrina! Bañóte en su color sangre divina De la deidad que dieron las espumas; Y esto, purpúrea flor, y esto ¿no pudo Hacer menos violento el rayo agudo? Róbate en una hora, Róbate licencioso su ardimiento El color y el aliento; Tiendes aun no las alas abrasadas, Y ya vuelan al suelo desmayadas, Tan cerca, tan unida Mustia tu nacimiento ó muerte llora. Desde el infausto día Que visité con lágrimas primeras Me tienes ¡oh pobreza! compañía; Aunque tan buena como dicen fueras, Por ser tanto de mí comunicada, Me vinieras á ser menos preciada. Diré tus males, sin que mucho ahonde En ellos; que es muy raro Lo que por glorias tuyas contar puedes. Tal vez el que en su casa un monte asconde En aras y paredes, Cuando entre el blando lino se rodea, Puesto de los cuidados en el fuego, Sin conocerte alaba tu sosiego, Y nunca, aunque lo alaba, lo desea. Llegas á ser de alguno al fin loada; Mas de ninguno apenas deseada. Si eres tú de los males El que nos trata con mayor crueza, ¿Cómo podrá ninguno codiciarte? Después que nació el oro, Y con él la grandeza, Murió tu ser, murío tu igual decoro, En otra edad divino; Sí, por eso, pobreza, en toda parte Con enfermo color andas contino. Con preciosos metales ¿Qué ciudad populosa Se sabe que por ti se haya fundado? ¿Qué fuerza inexpugnable y espantosa Por ti se ha fabricado? El suave color, la hermosura, Sólo en tu ausencia con su lustre dura. Píntame la belleza Mayor que imaginares, Compuesta de jazmines y de grana, Si con vestido tuyo la adornares, Su lustre pierde y gracia soberana, Pues cuando el agro invierno, Hijo tuyo sin duda, Que como tú también, siempre desnudo, Roba al bosque el verdor, y lo despoja, Pobre por ti su frente, Ni su sombra codicia ya la gente Ni sus ramas las aves Y si yo vanamente no discierno, ¿Cuándo armarse pudieron vastas naves Donde se vió tu sombra? ¿Cuando ejércitos gruesos? El número infinito de sucesos Que por ti han avenido ¿á quién no asombra? Hablen los nunca sepultados huesos Que en las playas blanquean, De tantos que por falta de sustento Al mar rindieron el vital aliento. ¿Cuántos has escondido En los anchos desiertos Para que al mal seguro caminante Asalten encubiertos No hay voz, aunque de hierro, que bastante Sea á decir los males que acarrean Duras necesidades. Los que pobres habitan las ciudades, ¿Qué afrenta no padecen? Los que por sus ingenios merecieron, ¡Oh pobreza! por ti lo desmerecen. ¿Qué vale ¡oh pobres! levantaros tanto? Mirad que es necio error, necia costumbre Soltar á la soberbia así la rienda; Que yo apenas, humilde y sin contienda, Puedo contar en paz algunas horas De las que paso en el silencio obscuro, Olvidado en pobreza y no seguro. ¡Oh mal seguro bien, oh cuidadosa Riqueza, y cómo á sombra de alegría Y de sosiego engañas! El que vela en tu alcance y se desvía Del pobre estado y la quietud dichosa, Ocio y seguridad pretende en vano, Pues tras el luengo errar de agua y montañas, Cuando el metal precioso coja á mano, No ha de ver sin cuidado abrir el día. No sin causa los dioses te escondieron En las entrañas de la tierra dura; Mas ¿qué halló difícil y encubierto La sedienta codicia? El abeto y el pino, Y trájolos al puerto, Y por campos de mar les dió camino. Abrióse el mar y abrióse Altamente la tierra, Y saliste del centro al aire claro, Hija de la avaricia, A hacer á los hombres cruda guerra. Saliste tú, y perdióse La piedad, que no habita en pecho avaro. Tantos daños, riqueza, Han venido contigo á los mortales, Que aun cuando nos pagamos á la muerte, No cesan nuestros males, Pues el cadáver que acompaña el oro Ó el costoso vestido, Sólo por opulento es perseguido; Y el último descanso y el reposo Que tuviera en pobreza le es negado, Siendo de su sepulcro conmovido. ¡A cuántos armó el oro de crueza, Y á cuántos ha dejado En el último trance ó dura suerte! Al menos animoso, Para que te posea, Das, riqueza, ardimiento licencioso. Por ti tan abastado y poderoso, Que carezca de miedo. ¿Qué cosa habrá de males tan cercada, Pues ora pretendida, ora alcanzada, Pero cánsome en vano, decir puedo; Que si sombras de bien en ti se vieran, Los inmortales dioses te tuvieran. ¡Oh cuanto es á la tuya parecida Esta mi triste vida! Tú preso estás, yo preso; Tú cantas, y yo canto, Tú simple, yo sin seso, Yo en eterna inquietud y tú travieso. Música das á quien tu vuelo enfrena; Música doy, aunque á compás de llanto, A quien me tiene en áspera cadena. En lo que es diferente Nuestro estado presente Es en que tú, jilguero, Vives cantando y yo cantando muero. Yo ví sobre un tomillo Quejarse un pajarillo, Viendo su nido amado, De quien era caudillo, Por tal atrevimiento Dar mil quejas al viento, Para que al cielo santo Lleve su tierno llanto, Lleve su triste acento. Ya con triste armonía, Esforzando el intento, Mil quejas repetía; Ya cansado callaba, Y al nuevo sentimiento Ya sonoro volvía. Ya circular volaba, Ya rastrero corría, Ya pues de rama en rama Al rústico seguía; Y saltando en la grama, Parece que decía: «Dame, rústico fiero, Mi dulce compañía;» Y que le respondía El rústico: «No quiero.» Aquellos dos verdugos De las flores y pechos, El amor y la abeja, A un rosal concurrieron. Lleva armado el muchacho De saetas el cuello, Y la bestia su pico De aguijones de hierro. Y él criando mil risas Y cantando mil versos; Pero dieron venganza Luego á flores y pechos, Ella muerta quedando Y él herido volviendo. Dulce vecino de la verde selva, Huésped eterno del Abril florido, Vital aliento de la madre Venus, Céfiro blando, Si de mis ansias el amor supiste, Tú, que las quejas de mi voz llevaste, Oye, no temas, y á mi ninfa dile, Dile que muero. Filis un tiempo mi dolor sabía, Filis un tiempo mi dolor lloraba; Quísome un tiempo, mas agora temo, Temo sus iras. Así los dioses, con amor paterno, Así los cielos, con amor benigno, Niegan al tiempo que feliz volares Nieve á la tierra. Jamás el peso de la nube parda, Cuando amenace la elevada cumbre, Toque tus hombros, ni su mal granizo Hiera tus alas. Cantar de Apolo y Dafne los amores, Sin más ni más, me vino al pensamiento. Con licencio de ustedes, va de cuento. ¡Vaya de historia pues, y hablemos culto! Pero ¡cómo los versos dificulto! ¡Cómo la vena mía se resiste! ¡Qué linda bobería! Pues á fe que si invoco mi Talía, Que no le dé ventaja al mas pintado. Ya con ella encontré, mi Dios loado. Señora doña Musa, mi señora, Sópleme usted muy bien ahora; Que su favor invoco Para hacer esta copla; Y mire vuesarced cómo me sopla. Érase una muchacha con mil sales, Con una cara de á cien mil reales, Como así me la quiero, Más peinada y pulida que un barbero; En esto que llamamos garabato La gente de buen trato Tenía la mozuela gran donaire; Pudiera ser poeta por el aire. Aquí es obligación, señora Musa, Si ya lo que se usa no se excusa, El pintar de la ninfa las facciones, Y pienso comenzar por los talones, Aunque parezca mal al que leyere; Que yo puedo empezar por do quisiere. Que á nadie dé congojas Que yo empiece la ninfa por las hojas, Supuesto que son míos Estos calientes versos ó estos fríos; Que el poeta mas payo De sus versos bien puede hacer un sayo. Era el pie (yo le ví) de tal manera... ¡Vive Chipre, que miento; que no era! Porque por lo sutil y recogido, Nunca ha sido este pie visto ni oído. Era, en efecto, blanco y era breve... ¡Oh, qué linda ocasión de decir _nieve_, Si yo fuera poeta principiante! Llevando nuestros cuentos adelante, Y haciendo del villano, Me pretendo pasar del pie á la mano, Cuyos hermosos dedos (Esta vez los jazmines se estén quedos, Y pongámosles fines, Enmendémonos todos de jazmines, Y el que así no lo hiciere, Y ser poeta del Abril quisiere, Probará de las gentes los rigores; A fé que allá se lo dirán de flores); Era, en fin, de cristal belleza tanta... Mas, al contrario, su boquilla es poca... (Vamos con tiento en esto de la boca; Que hay notables peligros carmesíes, Y podré tropezar en los rubíes, Epítetos crueles); ¡Qué cosquillas me hacen los claveles! Y en los labios de antaño No hay claveles ogaño; Pero, para deciros su alabanza, Conceptillo mejor mi ingenio alcanza, Y tanto, que con otro no se mide: Es tan linda su boca, que no pide. Ruiseñor que volando vas, Cantando finezas, cantando favores, ¡Oh cuánta pena y envidia me das! Pero no; que si hoy cantas amores, Tú tendrás celos y tú llorarás. ¡Qué alegre y desvanecido Cantas, dulce ruiseñor, Las venturas de tu amor, Olvidado de tu olvido! En ti, de ti entretenido Al ver cuán ufano estás, ¡Oh cuanta pena me das Publicando tus favores! Pero no, que si hoy cantas amores, Tú tendrás celos y tú llorarás. Aunque la persecución De la envidia tema el sabio, No reciba della agravio; Que es de serlo aprobación. Los que más presumen, son, Lope, á los que envidia das, Y en su presunción verás Lo que tus glorias merecen; Pues los que más te engrandecen, Son los que te envidian más. (Una voz) _¿Cuál es la gloria mayor Desta vida?_ (Una voz) _No hay sujeto en que no imprima El fuego de amor su llama, Pues vive más donde ama El hombre, que donde anima. Amor solamente estima Cuanto tener vida sabe, El tronco, la flor y el ave: Luego es la gloria mayor Pesada imaginación, Al parecer lisonjera, Aflijas mi corazón? ¿Cuál es la causa, en rigor, Deste fuego, deste ardor, Que en mí por instantes crece? ¿Qué dolor el que padece Mi sentido? Aquel ruiseñor amante Es quien respuesta me da, Enamorando constante A su consorte, que está Un ramo más adelante. Calla, ruiseñor; no aquí Imaginar me hagas ya, Por las quejas que te oí, Cómo un hombre sentirá, Si siente un pájaro así. Mas no: una vid fué lasciva, Que buscando fugitiva Va el tronco donde se enlace, Siendo el verdor con que abrace El peso con que derriba. No así con verdes abrazos Me hagas pensar en quien amas, Vid; que dudaré en tus lazos, Si así abrazan unas ramas, Cómo enraman unos brazos. Y si no es la vid, será Aquel girasol, que está Viendo cara á cara al sol, No sigas, no, tus enojos, Flor, con marchitos despojos, Que pensarán mis congojas, Si así lloran unas hojas, Cómo lloran unos ojos. Cesa, amante ruiseñor, Desúnete, vid frondosa, Párate, inconstante flor, Ó decid, ¿qué venenosa Fuerza usáis? Por la gracia de Dios, Juan, Eres de linaje limpio Más que el sol, pero villano: Lo uno y lo otro te digo, Aquello, porque no humilles Tanto tu orgullo y tu brío, Que dejes, desconfiado, De aspirar con cuerdo arbitrio A ser más; lo otro, porqué No vengas, desvanecido, A ser menos: igualmente Usa de entrambos designios Con humildad; porque siendo Humilde, con recto juicio Acordarás lo mejor; Y como tal, en olvido ¡Cuántos, teniendo en el mundo Algún defecto consigo, Le han borrado por humildes! Y ¡á cuántos, que no han tenido Defecto, se le han hallado, Por estar ellos mal vistos! Sé cortés sobremanera, Sé liberal y esparcido; Que el sombrero y el dinero Son los que hacen los amigos; Y no vale tanto el oro Que el sol engendra en el indio Suelo y que conduce el mar, Como ser uno bienquisto. No hables mal de las mujeres: La más humilde, te digo Que es digna de estimación, Porque, al fin, dellas nacimos. ¡O cuánto el nacer, O cuánto, Al morir es parecido! Pues si nacimos llorando, Llorando también morimos ¡O dulce Jesús mío, No entres, Señor, con vuestro siervo en juicio! Un gemido la primera Salva fué que al mundo hicimos, ¡O dulce Jesús mío, No entres, Señor, con vuestro siervo en juicio! Iluminados del color del cielo Los párpados hermosos de unos ojos, Raudales de zafir, que sin enojos Los sentidos anegan por consuelo, Piratas son del sol, que sin desvelo Las luces roban á sus rayos rojos, Que validos blasonan por despojos Sombra á sus luces, y á sus rayos hielo. Del alma más esquiva las potencias El sitio azul, en cercos y clausura, Sitiadas rinde sin acción violenta; Que es imposible en tantas influencias Resistir al imán de su hermosura Por centro de la vida que la alienta. Hombres necios, que acusáis A la mujer sin razón, Sin ver que sois la ocasión De lo mismo que culpáis; ¿Por qué queréis que obren bien Si las incitáis al mal? Combatís su resistencia, Y luego con gravedad Decís que fué liviandad Lo que hizo la diligencia. Queréis con presunción necia Hallar á la que buscáis, Para pretendida Lais Y en la posesión Lucrecia. ¿Qué humor puede ser más raro Que el que, falto de consejo, Él mismo empaña el espejo Y siente que no esté claro? Con el favor y el desdén Tenéis condición igual, Quejándoos si os tratan mal, Burlándoos si os quieren bien. Opinión ninguna gana, Pues la que más se recata, Si no os admite, es ingrata, Y si os admite, es liviana. Siempre tan necios andáis, Que con desigual nivel A una culpáis por cruel, De fácil á otra culpáis. Pues ¿como ha de estar templada La que vuestro amor pretende, Si la que es ingrata ofende, Y la que es fácil enfada? Mas entre el enfado y pena Que vuestro gusto refiere, Dan vuestras amantes penas A sus libertades alas; Y después de hacerlas malas, Las queréis hallar muy buenas. ¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido En una pasión errada? ¿La que cae de rogada Ó el que ruega de caído? Ó ¿cuál es más de culpar, Aunque cualquiera mal haga, La que peca por la paga Ó el que paga por pecar? Pues ¿para qué os espantáis De la culpa que tenéis? Queredlas cual las hacéis, Ó hacedlas cual las buscáis. Dejad de solicitar, Y después, con más razón, Acusaréis la afición De la que os fuere á rogar. Bien con muchas armas fundo Que lidia vuestra arrogancia, Pues en promesa é instancia, Juntáis diablo, carne y mundo. Al que ingrato me deja, busco amante; Al que amante me sigue, dejo ingrata; Constante adoro á quien mi amor maltrata; Maltrato á quien mi amor busca constante. Triunfante quiero ver al que me mata, Y mato al que me quiere ver triunfante. Si á éste pago, padece mi deseo; Si ruego á aquel, mi pundonor enojo; De entrambos modos infeliz me veo. Pero yo por mejor partido escojo, De quien no quiero ser violento empleo, Que de quien no me quiere vil despojo. Ya vuelve el triste invierno, Desde el confín del Sármata aterido, A turbar nuestros claros horizontes Con el ceñudo aspecto y faz rugosa, Con que, á influjos de la Osa, Manda intratable en los rifeos montes Y en la Zembla polar, donde temido Señor de eterna nieve y hielo eterno, Con tirano gobierno, La entrada niega á todo trato humano; El piloto holandés se atreve en vano, Ávido pescador del Ceto inmenso, A surcar codicioso El piélago glacial; el frío intenso Pára su rumbo, y deja riguroso En remota región, lejos del puerto, La quilla inmoble, el navegante yerto. La hermosa primavera Desterrará al invierno, coronada La bella frente de jazmín y rosa, Cual iris que en las nubes aparece; Recrea los sentidos, recobrada La lozanía y juventud primera. Poco antes prisionera La fuentecilla de enemigo hielo, Ya entonces libre fertiliza el suelo, Y nuevas yerbas alimenta y cría; Robles, hayas y pinos Vuelven á hacer la selva más umbría; En tanto al aire mil suaves trinos Esparcen las canoras avecillas, Más agradables cuanto más sencillas. Antes al cielo faltarán estrellas, Al mar peligros, pájaros al viento, Al sol su resplandor y movimiento, Y al fuego abrasador vivas centellas; Antes al campo producciones bellas, Al monte horror, al llano esparcimiento, Torpes envidias al merecimiento, Y al no admitido amor tristes querellas; Antes sus flores á la primavera, Ardores inclementes al estío, Al otoño abundancia lisonjera Y al aterido invierno hielo y frío, Que ceda un punto de su fe primera, Cuanto menos que falte, el amor mío. No más, no más callar, ya es imposible: ¡Allá voy! no me tengan: ¡fuera! digo, Que se desata mi maldita horrible. No censures mi intento, ¡o Lelio amigo!, Pues sabes cuánto tiempo he contrastado El fatal movimiento, que ahora sigo. Ya toda mi cordura se ha acabado: Ya llegó la paciencia al postrer punto, Y la atacada mina se ha volado. Protesto que, pues hablo en el asunto, Ha de ir lo de antaño y lo de ogaño, Y he de echar el repollo todo junto. Las piedras, que mil días há que apaño, He de tirar sin miedo, aunque con tiento, Por vengar el común y el propio daño. Baste ya de un indigno sufrimiento, Que reprimió con débiles reparos La justa saña del conocimiento. He de seguir la senda de los raros: Que mendigar sufragios de la Plebe Acarrea perjuicios harto caros. Y ya que otro no chista, ni se mueve, Quiero yo ser satírico Quijote Contra todo escritor follón y aleve. Guerra declaro á todo Monigote; Y pues sobran justísimos pretextos, Palo habrá de los pies hasta el cogote. No me amedrentes, Lelio, con tus gestos, En vano intentas con severo modo Serenar el furor que me arrebata, Ni á tus pánicos miedos me acomodo. Un título pomposo y halagueño, Impreso en un papel azafranado, Da del libro magnífico diseño. Atiza la gaceta por su lado; Y es gran gusto comprar por pocos reales Un librejo amarillo y jaspeado. Caen en la tentación los animales, Y aun los que no lo son, porque desean Ver a sus compatriotas racionales. Pero, ¡oh dolor! mis ojos no lo vean: Al leer del frontis el renglón postrero, La esperanza y el gusto ya flaquean. Marín, Sanz ó Muñoz son mal agüero, Pues engendran sus necias oficinas Todo libro civil y chapucero. Crecen á cada paso las mohinas, Viendo brotar por planas y renglones Mil sandeces insulsas y mezquinas. Toda Dedicatoria es clausulones, Y voces de pie y medio, que al Mecenas Le dan, en vez de inciensos, coscorrones. Todo Prólogo entona cantilenas, En que el autor se dice gran supuesto, No menos arrogante é inmodesto Pondera su proyecto abominable, Y ofrece de otras obras dar un cesto. Yo lo fío, copiante perdurable, Y hurgando en albañales corrompidos De una y otra asquerosa Poliantea, Nos apestas el alma y los sentidos. El estilo y la frase inculta y fea Ocupa la primera y postrer llana, Que leo enteras, sin saber que lea. No halla la inteligencia, siempre vana, Sentido en que emplearse, y en las voces _Derelinques_ la frase castellana. ¿Por qué nos das tormentos tan atroces? Habla bribón, con menos retornelos, A paso llano, y sin vocales coces. Habla como han hablado tus abuelos, Sin hacer profesión de boquilobo, Y en tono que te entienda Cienpozuelos. Perdona, Lelio, el descortés arrobo, Que en llegando á este punto no soy mío, Y estoy con tales cosas hecho un bobo. Déjame lamentar el desvarío, De que nuestra gran lengua esté abatida, Siendo de la elocuencia el mayor río. La vista de un mal libro me es terrible; Y en mi mano no está, que en este caso Me deje dominar de la irascible. Días há que con ceño nada escaso Hubiera desahogado el entresijo De las fatigas tétricas que paso, Si tú, en tus cobardías siempre fijo, No hubieras conseguido reportarme; Tengo que hablar, y caiga el que cayere, En vano es detenerme y predicarme. Y si acaso tú ú otro me dijere Que soy semipagano, y corta pala, Y que este empeño más persona quiere, Sabe, Lelio, que en esta cata y cala La furia que me impele, y que me ciega, Es la que el desempeño me señala; Que aunque es mi Musa principiante y lega, Para escribir contra hombres tan perversos, Si la naturaleza me lo niega, La misma indignación me hará hacer versos. Madrid, castillo famoso Que al rey moro alivia el miedo, Arde en fiestas en su coso Por ser el natal dichoso Su bravo alcaide Aliatar, De la hermosa Zaida amante, Las ordena celebrar, Por si la puede ablandar El corazón de diamante. Pasó, vencida á sus ruegos, Hubo pandorgas y fuegos, Y en adargas y colores, En las cifras y libreas, Mostraron los amadores, Y en pendones y preseas, La dicha de sus amores. Vinieron las moras bellas De toda la cercanía, Y de lejos muchas de ellas: Las más apuestas doncellas Que España entonces tenía. Aja de Jetafe vino, En cuyo obsequio muy fino Corrió de un vuelo el camino El moraicel de Alcabón. Que de la Alcarria en que habita Llevó á asombrar á Madrid Su amante Audalla, adalid Del castillo de Zorita. De Adamuz y la famosa Meco llegaron allí Dos, cada cual más hermosa, Y Fatima la preciosa, Hija de Alí el alcadí. El ancho circo se llena De multitud clamorosa, Que atiende á ver en su arena La sangrienta lid dudosa, Y todo en torno resuena. La bella Zaida ocupó Sus dorados miradores Y damascos adornó. Añafiles y atabales, Con militar armonía, Hicieron salva y señales De mostrar su valentía Los moros principales. No en las vegas de Jarama Pacieron la verde grama Nunca animales tan fieros Junto al puente que se llama, Por sus peces, de Viveros, Como los que el vulgo vió Ser lidiadores aquel día; Y en la fiesta que gozó, La popular alegría Muchas heridas costó. Salió un toro del toril, Y á Tarfe tiró por tierra, Y luego á Benalguacil; Después con Hamete cierra, El temerón de Conil. Traía un ancho listón Con uno y otro matiz Hecho un lazo por airón, Sobre la enhiesta cerviz Clavado con un arpón. Todo galán pretendía Ofrecerle vencedor A la dama que servía: Por eso perdió Almanzor El potro que más quería. El alcaide muy zambrero Y desde un caballo overo El moro de Horche cayó. Todos miran á Aliatar, Que aunque tres toros ha muerto No se quiere aventurar; Porque en lance tan incierto El caudillo no ha de entrar. Mas viendo se culparía, Va á ponerse delante: La fiera le acometía, Y sin que el rejón le plante Le mató una yegua pía. Otra monta acelerado: Le embiste el toro de un vuelo. Cogiéndole entablerado; Rodó el bonete encarnado Con las plumas por el suelo. Dió vuelta hiriendo y matando A los de pie que encontrara, El circo desocupando; Y emplazándose, se para, Con la vista amenazando. Nadie se atreve á salir: La plebe grita indignada, Las damas se quieren ir, Porque la fiesta empezada No puede ya proseguir. Ninguno al riesgo se entrega Y está en medio el toro fijo; Cuando un portero que llega De la puerta de la Vega Hincó la rodilla y dijo: Demanda licencia urbano Para alancear á un toro Un caballero cristiano.» Mucho le pesa á Aliatar; Pero Zaida dió respuesta Diciendo que puede entrar; Porque en tan solemne fiesta Nada se debe negar. Suspenso el concurso entero Entre dudas se embaraza, Cuando en un potro ligero Vieron entrar por la plaza Un bizarro caballero; Sonrosado, albo color, Belfo labio, juveniles Alientos, inquieto ardor, En el florido verdor De sus lozanos abriles. Cuelga la rubia guedeja Por donde el almete sube, Cual mirarse tal vez deja Del sol la ardiente madeja Entre cenicienta nube. Gorguera de anchos follajes, De una cristiana primores, En el yelmo los plumajes, Por los visos y celajes Vergel de diversas flores. En la cuja gruesa lanza, Con recamado pendón, Y una cifra á ver se alcanza En el arzón de la silla Ancho escudo reverbera Con blasones de Castilla, Y el mote dice á la orilla: _Nunca mi espada venciera._ Era el caballo galán, El bruto más generoso, De más gallardo ademán; Muy tostado y alazán. Larga cola recogida En las piernas descarnadas, Cabeza pequeña, erguida, Las narices dilatadas, Vista feroz y encendida. Nunca en el ancho rodeo Que da Betis con tal fruto Pudo fingir el deseo Más bella estampa de bruto, Ni más hermoso paseo. Dió la vuelta al rededor: Los ojos que le veían Lleva prendados de amor. ¡Alah te salve! decían, ¡Déte el Profeta favor! Causaba lástima y grima Su tierna edad floreciente: Todos quieren que se exima Del riesgo, y él solamente Ni recela ni se estima. Las doncellas, al pasar, Hacen de ámbar y alcanfor De jazmines y azahar. Mas cuando en medio se para, Y de más cerca le mira La cristiana esclava Aldara, Con su señora se encara, Y así le dice, y suspira: «Señora, sueños no son; Así los cielos vencidos De mi ruego y aflicción, Acerquen á mis oídos Las campanas de León, «Como ese doncel que ufano Tanto asombro viene á dar A todo el pueblo africano, El soberbio Castellano.» Sin descubrirle quién es, La Zaida desde una almena Le habló una noche cortés Por donde se abrió después El cubo de la Almudera; Y supo que fugitivo De la corte de Fernando, El Cristiano, apenas vivo, Está á Jimena adorando Y en su memoria cautivo. Tal vez á Madrid se acerca Con frecuentes correrías, Y todo en torno la cerca, Observa sus saetías, Arroyadas y ancha alberca. Por eso le ha conocido: Delante de sus balcones Y la saluda rendido. La Mora se puso en pie, Y sus doncellas detrás: El alcaide que lo ve, Enfurecido además, Muestra cuán celoso esté. Suena un rumor placentero Entre el vulgo de Madrid: No habrá mejor caballero, Dicen, en el mundo entero; Y algunos le llaman Cid. Crece la algazara, y él Torciendo las riendas de oro, Marcha al combate crüel: Alza el galope y al toro Busca en sonoro tropel. El bruto se le ha encarado Desde que le vió llegar, De tanta gala asombrado; Y al rededor le ha observado Sin moverse de un lugar. Cual flecha se disparó Despedida de la cuerda, De tal suerte le embistió; Detrás de la oreja izquierda La aguda lanza le hirió. Brama la fiera burlada; Segunda vez acomete, De espuma y sudor bañada; Y segunda vez le mete Sutil la punta acerada. El pueblo mudo y atento; Se engalla el toro y altera, Y finge acometimiento. La arena escarba ofendido, Sobre la espalda la arroja Con el hueso retorcido; El suelo huele y le moja En ardiente resoplido. La cola inquieto menea, La diestra oreja mosquea, Vase retirando atrás, Para que la fuerza sea Mayor, y el ímpetu más. El que en esta ocasión viera De Zaida el rostro alterado Claramente conociera Cuánto le cuesta cuidado El que tanto riesgo espera. Más ¡ay! que le embiste horrendo El animal espantoso. Jamás peñasco tremendo Del Cáucaso cavernoso Se desgaja, estrago haciendo, Ni llama así fulminante, Cruza en negra oscuridad, Con relámpagos delante, Al estrépito tonante De sonora tempestad, Como el bruto se abalanza En terrible ligereza; Mas rota con gran pujanza La confusa vocería Que en tal instante se oyó Fué tanta, que parecía Que honda mina reventó, Ó el monte y valle se hundía. A caballo como estaba, Rodrigo el lazo alcanzó Con que el toro se adornaba: En su lanza le clavó Y á los balcones llegaba. Y alzándose en los estribos, Le alarga á Zaida, diciendo: «Sultana, aunque bien entiendo Ser favores excesivos, Mi corto don admitiendo, «Si no os dignáredes ser Con él benigna, advertid Que á mí me basta saber Que no le debo ofrecer A otra persona en Madrid.» Ella, el rostro placentero, Dijo, y turbada: «señor, Yo le admito y le venero, Por conservar el favor De tan gentil caballero.» Y besando el rico don, Para agradar al doncel Le prende con afición Al lado del corazón, Por brinquiño y por joyel. Pero Aliatar el caudillo De envidia ardiendo se ve: Lozaneándose fué. Y en ronca voz, «Castellano,»-- Le dice,--«con más decoros Suelo yo dar de mi mano, Si no penachos de toros, Las cabezas de Cristiano. «Y si vinieras de guerra Cual vienes de fiesta y gala, Vieras que en toda la tierra, Al valor que dentro encierra Madrid, ninguno se iguala.» «Respondo,» y la lanza en ristre Pone, y espera á Aliatar; Mas sin que nadie administre Orden, tocaron á armar. Y fiero bando con gritos Su muerte ó prisión pedía, Cuando se oyó en los distritos Del monte de Leganitos Del Cid la trompetería. Tercio escogido emboscó, Se acercó, oyó el alboroto, Y al muro se abalanzó. Y si no vieran salir Por la puerta á su señor Y Zaida á le despedir, Iban la fuerza á embestir: Tal era ya su furor. El alcaide, recelando Y por el parque florido Salió con él razonando. Y es fama, que á la bajada Juró por la cruz el Cid De su vencedora espada, De no quitar la celada Hasta que gane á Madrid. Llegóse á mí con el semblante adusto, Con estirada ceja y cuello erguido (Capaz de dar un peligroso susto Al tierno pecho del rapaz Cupido), Un animal de los que llaman sabios, Y de este modo abrió sus secos labios: «No cantes más de amor. Desde este día Has de olvidar hasta su necio nombre; Aplícate á la gran filosofía; Sea tu libro el corazón del hombre.» Fuése, dejando mi alma sorprendida De la llegada, arenga y despedida. ¡Adiós, Filis, adiós! No más amores, No más requiebros, gustos y dulzuras, No más decirte halagos, darte flores, No más mezclar los celos con ternuras, No más cantar por monte, selva ó prado Tu dulce nombre al eco enamorado; Ni leche de mis vacas más queridas, Ni pedirte ni darte ya más celos, Ni más jurarte mi constancia pura, Por Venus, por mi fe, por tu hermosura. No más pedirte que tu blanca diestra En mi sombrero ponga el fino lazo, Que en sus colores tu firmeza muestra, Que allí le colocó tu airoso brazo; No más entre los dos un albedrío; Tuyo mi corazón, el tuyo mío. Filósofo he de ser, y tú, que oíste Mis versos amorosos algún día, Oye sentencias con estilo triste Ó lúgubres acentos, Filis mía, Y di si aquel que requebrarte sabe, Sabe también hablar en tono grave. A las armas, valientes Astures, Empuñadlas con nuevo vigor; Que otra vez el tirano de Europa El solar de Pelayo insultó. Ved que fieros sus viles esclavos Se adelantan del Sella al Nalón, Y otra vez sus pendones tremolan Corred, corred briosos, Corred á la victoria, Cuando altiva al dominio del mundo La señora del Tibre aspiró, Y la España en dos siglos de lucha Puso freno á su loca ambición; Ante Asturias sus águilas sólo Detuvieron el vuelo veloz, Y el feliz Octaviano á su vista Desmayado y enfermo tembló. Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ Inundaban el suelo español; Cuando atónita España rendía La cerviz á su yugo feroz; Cuando audaz Leovigildo, y triunfante De Toledo corría á León; Vuestros padres, alzados en Arvas, Refrenaron su insano furor. Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ Desde el Lete hasta el Piles Tarique Con sus lunas triunfando llegó, Y con robos, incendios y muertes Las Españas llenó de terror; Pero opuso Pelayo á su furia El antiguo asturiano valor; Y sus huestes el cielo indignado Desplomando, el Auseva oprimió. Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ En Asturias Pelayo alzó el trono Que Ildefonso afirmó vencedor; La victoria ensanchó sus confines, La victoria su fama extendió. Trece reyes su imperio rigieron, Dieron gloria á Castilla y León. Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ Y hoy que viene un villano enemigo Libertad á robaros y honor, ¿En olvido pondréis tantas glorias? ¿Sufriréis tan indigno baldón? Menos fuerte que el fuerte Romano, Más que el Godo y el Árabe atroz, ¿Sufriréis que esclavice la patria, Que el valor de Pelayo libró? Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ No creáis invencibles ni bravos En la lid á esos bárbaros, no; Sólo en artes malignas son fuertes, Sólo fuertes en dolo y traición. Si en Bailén de sus águilas vieron Humillado el mentido esplendor, De Valencia escaparon medrosos, Zaragoza su fama infamó. Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ Alcañiz arrastró sus banderas, El Alberche su sangre bebió, Ante el Tormes cayeron batidos, Y Aranjuez los llenó de pavor. Fué la heroica Gerona su oprobio, Llobregat reprimió su furor, Y las ondas y muros de Gades Su sepulcro serán y baldón. Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ Y vosotros de Lena y Miranda ¿No los visteis huir con terror? Pues ¿quién hoy vuestra furia detiene? Pues ¿quién pudo apagar vuestro ardor? Los que ayer eran flacos, cobardes, ¿Serán fuertes, serán bravos hoy? Corred, corred briosos, _etc._ Cuando os pide el amor sacrificios, Cuando os pide venganza el honor, ¿Cómo no arde la ira en los pechos? ¿Quién los brazos nerviosos ató? A las armas, valientes Astures, Empuñadlas con nuevo vigor; Que otra vez con sus huestes el Corso El solar de Pelayo manchó. Corred, corred briosos, Corred á la victoria, Y á nueva eterna gloria Subid vuestro valor. ¡Con qué alegres cantares Oh ruiseñor, celebras Tu dicha, y de tu amada El tierno afán recreas! Ella del blando nido Te responde halagueña Con piadas süaves, Y se angustia si cesas. Con voz aduladora Repite por la selva; Mientras el cefirillo, De invidioso, te inquieta, Las hojas agitando Con ala más traviesa. Tú cesas y te turbas: Atento adonde suena Te vuelves, y cobarde De ramo en ramo vuelas. Mas luego ya seguro, Los silbos le remedas, El triunfo solemnizas, Y tornas á tus quejas. Así la noche engañas, Y el sol, cuando despierta, Aun goza la armonía De tu amorosa vela. ¡Oh avecilla felice! ¡Oh! ¡qué bien la fineza De tu pecho encareces Con tu voz lisonjera! Ya pías cariñoso, Ya más alto gorjeas, Ya al ardor que te agita, Tu garganta enajenas. ¡Oh! no ceses, no ceses En tan dulce tarea, Que en delicias de oirte Mi espíritu se anega. Así el cielo tu nido De asechanzas defienda, Yo también soy cautivo: También yo, si tuviera Tu piquito agradable, Te diría mis penas; Y en sencillos coloquios Alternando las letras, Tú cantaras tus glorias, Y yo mi fe sincera; Que los malignos hombres Burlan de la inocencia, Y expónese á su risa Quien su dicha les cuenta. Bien venida ¡oh lluvia! seas A refrescar nuestros valles, Y á traernos la abundancia Con tu rocío agradable. Bien vengas á dar la vida A las flores, que fragantes, Para mejor recibirte, Rompen ya su tierno cáliz; Do á sus galanos colores, En primoroso contraste, Tus perlas, del sol heridas, Brillan cual ricos diamantes. Bien vengáis, alegres aguas, Fausto alivio del cobarde Labrador, que ya temía Malogrados sus afanes. Bajad, bajad; que la tierra Su agostado seno os abre, Bajad, y del mustio prado Vuestro humor la sed apague, Y su lánguida verdura Reanimada se levante; Tejiendo un muelle tapete, Cuyo hermoso verde manchen Los más vistosos matices Como en agraciado esmalte. Bajad, bajad en las alas Del vago viento; empapadle En frescura deleitosa, Y el pecho lo aspire fácil. Bajad; ¡oh, cómo al oído Encanta el ruido süave Que entre las trémulas hojas, Cayendo, las gotas hacen! _Tus lindos ojuelos Me matan de amor._ Ora vagos giren, Ó párense atentos, Ó miren exentos, Ó lánguidos miren, Ó injustos se aïren Culpando mi ardor, _Tus lindos ojuelos Me matan de amor._ Si al fanal del día Emulando ardientes, Alientan clementes La esperanza mía, Y en su halago fía Mi crédulo error, _Tus lindos ojuelos Me matan de amor._ Si evitan, arteros, Encontrar los míos, Sus falsos desvíos Me son lisonjeros. _Tus lindos ojuelos Me matan de amor._ Los cierras burlando, Y ya no hay amores, Sus flechas y ardores Tu juego apagando: Yo entonces, temblando, Clamo en tanto horror: _Tus lindos ojuelos Me matan de amor._ Los abres riente, Y el amor renace, Y en gozar se place De su nuevo oriente; Cantando demente Yo al ver su fulgor: _Tus lindos ojuelos Me matan de amor._ Tórnalos, te ruego, Niña, hacia otro lado, Que casi he cegado De mirar su fuego ¡Ay! tórnales luego; No con más rigor _Tus lindos ojuelos Me matan de amor._ ¡Cuán grande y admirable, Oh Señor, en quien nuestro bien se encierra, Es tu nombre adorable En todo cuanto cierra La redondez inmensa de la tierra! Pues la magnificencia Que en tus excelsas obras se ha mostrado, En poderío y ciencia Así ha sobrepujado, Que más que el alto cielo se ha elevado. Sacaste tú alabanza De infantil boca, que aun enjuga el pecho; La enemiga alianza Que si los cielos miro, Esmero de tu mano omnipotente, Y el desvelado giro De la luna luciente, Y de estrellas el coro refulgente, Luego digo, admirando: ¿Qué es el hombre, que tanto le encareces Tu amor, ó el engendrado Del hombre, que mil veces Con tu visitación le favoreces? Poco menos le hiciste Que el ángel, y de honor le coronaste Y gloria, y le pusiste, Luego que le formaste, Sobre todas las cosas que criaste. Y todo sometido Lo dejaste á sus pies y á su mandado; El rebaño vestido De lana, el buey pausado, Y cuanto pace yerba en monte ó prado; Y las ligeras aves, Que alzan el vuelo á la región vacía. Y los pescados graves, Que cruzan á porfía Las sendas de la mar salada y fría. ¡Cuán grande y admirable, Oh Señor, en quien nuestro bien se encierra, Es tu nombre adorable En todo cuanto cierra La redondez inmensa de la tierra! Al Padre poderoso, Al Hijo sin fin sabio, y al supremo Ahora y siempre y por siglo sempiterno. Estaba Mirta bella Cierta noche formando en su aposento, Con gracioso talento, Una tierna canción, y porque en ella Satisfacer á Delio meditaba, Que de su fe dudaba, Con vehemente expresión le encarecía El fuego que en su casto pecho ardía. Y estando divertida, Un murciélago fiero, ¡suerte insana! Entró por la ventana; Mirta dejó la pluma, sorprendida, Temió, gimió, dió voces, vino gente; Y al querer diligente Ocultar la canción, los versos bellos De borrones llenó, por recogellos. Y Delio, noticioso Del caso que en su daño había pasado, Justamente enojado Con el fiero murciélago alevoso, Que había la canción interrumpido, Y á su Mirta afligido, En cólera y furor se consumía, Y así á la ave funesta maldecía: «Oh monstruo de ave y bruto, Que cifras lo peor de bruto y ave, Visión nocturna grave, Nuevo horror de las sombras, nuevo luto, De la tiniebla y de la noche fría, ¿Qué tienes tú que hacer donde está el día? «Tus obras y figura Maldigan de común las otras aves, Que cánticos suaves Tributan cada día á la alba pura; Y porque mi ventura interrumpiste, Y á su autor afligiste, Todo el mal y desastre te suceda Que á un murciélago vil suceder pueda. «La lluvia repetida, Que viene de lo alto arrebatada, Tan sólo reservada A las noches, se oponga á tu salida; Ó el relámpago pronto reluciente Te ciegue y amedrente; Ó soplando del Norte recio el viento, No permita un mosquito á tu alimento. «La dueña melindrosa, Tras el tapiz do tienes tu manida, Te juzgue, inadvertida, Por telaraña sucia y asquerosa, Y con la escoba al suelo te derribe; Y al ver que bulle y vive, Tan fiera y tan ridícula figura, Suelte la escoba y huya con presura. «Y luego sobrevenga, El juguetón gatillo bullicioso, Y primero medroso Al verte, se retire y se contenga, Y bufe y se espeluce horrorizado, Y alce el rabo esponjado, «Mas luego recobrado, Y del primer horror convalecido, El pecho al suelo unido, Traiga el rabo del uno al otro lado, Y cosido en la tierra, observe atento; Y cada movimiento Que en ti llegue á notar su perspicacia, Le provoque al asalto y le dé audacia. «En fin sobre ti venga, Te acometa y ultraje sin recelo, Te arrastre por el suelo, Y á costa de tu daño se entretenga; Y por caso las uñas afiladas En tus alas clavadas, Por echarte de sí con sobresalto, Te arroje muchas veces á lo alto. «Y acuda á tus chillidos El muchacho, y convoque á sus iguales, Que con los animales Suelen ser comúnmente desabridos; Que á todos nos dotó naturaleza De entrañas de fiereza, Hasta que ya la edad ó la cultura Nos dan humanidad y más cordura. «Entre con algazara La pueril tropa, al daño prevenida, Y lazada oprimida Te echen al cuello con fiereza rara; Y al oirte chillar alcen el grito Y te llamen maldito; Y creyéndote al fin del diablo imagen, Te abominen, te escupan y te ultrajen. Y se burlen contigo, Y al hocico te apliquen candelillas, Y se rían con duros corazones De tus gestos y acciones, Y á tus tristes querellas ponderadas Correspondan con fiesta y carcajadas. «Y todos bien armados De piedras, de navajas,de aguijones, De clavos, de punzones, De palos por los cabos afilados (De diversión y fiesta ya rendidos), Te embistan atrevidos, Y te quiten la vida con presteza, Consumando en el modo su fiereza. «Te puncen y te sajen, Te tundan, te golpeen, te martillen, Te piquen, te acribillen, Te dividan, te corten y te rajen, Te desmiembren, te partan, te degüellen, Te hiendan, te desuellen, Te estrujen, te aporreen, te magullen, Te deshagan, confundan y aturrullen. «Y las supersticiones De las viejas creyendo realidades, Por ver curiosidades, En tu sangre humedezcan algodones; Para encenderlos en la noche oscura, Creyendo sin cordura Que verán en el aire culebrinas Y otras tristes visiones peregrinas. «Muerto ya, te dispongan El entierro, te lleven arrastrando, Y otras, fingiendo voces lastimeras, Sigan de plañideras, Y dirijan entierro tan gracioso Al muladar más sucio y asqueroso; «Y en aquella basura Un hoyo hondo y capaz te faciliten, Y en él te depositen, Y allí te den debida sepultura; Y para hacer eterna tu memoria, Compendiada tu historia Pongan en una losa duradera, Cuya letra dirá de esta manera. «Aquí yace el murciélago alevoso, Que al sol horrorizó y ahuyentó el día, De pueril saña triunfo lastimoso, Con cruel muerte pagó su alevosía: No sigas, caminante, presuroso, Hasta decir sobre esta losa fría: Acontezca tal fin y tal estrella A aquel que mal hiciere á Mirta bella.» Zagalas del valle Que al prado venís A tejer guirnaldas De rosa y jazmín, Parad en buen hora, Y al lado de mí Mirad más florida _La rosa de Abril_. Excede á la aurora Que empieza á reir, Y más si en sus ojos, Sus perlas asoma _La rosa de Abril_. Veis allí la fuente, Veis el prado aquí Do la vez primera Sus luceros ví; Y aunque de sus ojos Yo el cautivo fuí, Su dueño me llama _La rosa de Abril_. Díjome ella: _Sí_; Y porque lo crea, Me dió abrazos mil; El Amor, de envidia, Cayó muerto allí, Viendo cuál me amaba _La rosa de Abril_. De mi rabel dulce El eco sutil Un tiempo escucharon Londra y colorín; Que nadie más que ellos Me oyera entendí, Y oyéndome estaba _La rosa de Abril_. En mi blanda lira Me puse á esculpir Su hermoso retrato De nieve y carmín; Pero ella me dijo: «Mira el tuyo aquí»; Y el pecho mostróme _La rosa de Abril_. El rosado aliento Que yo á percibir Llegué de sus labios, Me saca de mí: Y olor de jazmín Excede en fragancia _La rosa de Abril_. El grato mirar, El dulce reir, Con que ella dos almas Ha sabido unir, No el hijo de Venus Lo sabe decir, Sino aquel que goza _La rosa de Abril_. ¡Oh, salve, salve, soledad querida, Do en los halagos del Abril hermoso Vine á cantar en medio á los amores Mi eterno desamor! ¡ Salve, oh florida, Oh calma vega! A tu feliz reposo Torno otra vez, y entre tus nuevas flores Enjugando el sudor que á Sirio ardiente Pagó en tributo lánguida mi frente, Veré al otoño levantarse ufano Sobre la árida tumba del verano. Sí, le veré; que la balanza justa Las sombras y la luz igual partiendo, En sus frescos palacios aprisiona Voluble al sol, que de su sien augusta La diadema inflamada desciñendo, De rayos más benignos se corona. «Otoño,» clama de su carro de oro; Y otoño al punto, entre el favonio coro, Que Agosto adormeció, la faz alzando, El florido frescor vuela soplando. A su dulce volar ¡cuál reverdece La tierra, enriqueciendo su ancho manto De opulento verdor! La tuberosa Del albo cáliz en su honor florece, Y la piramidal, y tú, oh amaranto, De más largo vivir. Tu flor pomposa, Que adornaba de Mayo los amores, Hoy halla frutos donde vió las flores; Tú le viste brillante y florecido A este rico peral, que ora, agobiado Del largo enjambre de su prole hermosa, La frente inclina. Céfiro atrevido, De una poma tal vez enamorado, Bate rápido el ala sonorosa, Y la besa, y la deja, y torna amante, Y mece las hojitas, é inconstante Huye y torna á mecer, y cae su amada, Y toca el polvo con la faz rosada. ¡Otoño, otoño! ¿le miráis que llega De colina en colina vacilante Resaltando? ¡ Evohé! salid, oh hermosas, A recibir al monte y á la vega, Suspendiendo á los hombros el vacante Hondo mimbre. Corred, y en pampanosas Guirnaldas coronad mi temulenta Sien. Dadme yedras, que ardo en violenta Sed báquica. ¡Evohé! cortad; que opimos Entre el pámpano caigan los racimos. Rosal, rosal, ¿dó está el tiempo Que me oyó tu sombra amiga Jurar un amor eterno Al que el suyo me ofrecía? Cuando en ti fijaba La risueña vista, ¡Con qué amor tus rosas Su prisión cerrada abrían! Del pajizo trono Para siempre caen marchitas. ¡Cuántas veces ¡ay! tu tronco Nos vió en amantes caricias Darle en cristalinas aguas Su frescor y hermosa vida! ¡Árbol infelice, Mi recreo un día, Ya tu solo riego Serán las lágrimas mías. Muerte son tus galas: Pluguiese á mi dicha Que, al caer, tus hojas Cubriesen mi tumba fría! Un señor León andaba, como un perro, Del valle al monte, de la selva al cerro, A caza, sin hallar pelo ni lana, Perdiendo la paciencia y la mañana. Por un risco escarpado Ve trepar una Cabra á lo encumbrado, De modo que parece que se empeña En hacer creer al León que se despeña. El pretender seguirla fuera en vano; El cazador entonces cortesano La dice: «Baja, baja, mi querida; No busques precipicios á tu vida: ¿Desde cuándo, señor, la real persona Cuida con tanto amor de la barbona? Esos halagos tiernos No son por bien, apostaré los cuernos.» Así le respondió la astuta Cabra; Y el Léon se fué sin replicar palabra. _Lo paga la infeliz con el pellejo, Si toma sin examen el consejo._ Sus horribles colmillos aguzaba Un Jabalí en el tronco de una encina. La Zorra, que vecina Del animal cerdoso se miraba, Le dice: «Extraño el verte, Siendo tú en paz señor de la bellota, Cuando ningún contrario te alborota, Que tus armas afiles de esa suerte.» La fiera respondió: «Tenga entendido Que en la paz se prepara el buen guerrero, Así como en la calma el marinero, _Y que vale por dos el prevenido._» Un Oso, con que la vida La no muy bien aprendida Danza ensayaba en dos pies. Era perita la Mona, Y respondióle: «Muy mal.» «Yo creo,» replicó el Oso, «Que me haces poco favor. ¡Pues qué! ¿Mi aire no es garboso? ¿No hago el paso con primor?» Estaba el Cerdo presente, Y dijo: «Bravo, ¡bien va! Bailarín más excelente No se ha visto ni verá.» Echó el Oso, al oir esto, Sus cuentas allá entre sí, Y con ademán modesto Hubo de exclamar así: «Cuando me desaprobaba La Mona, llegué á dudar; Mas ya que el Cerdo me alaba, Muy mal debo de bailar.» Guarde para su regalo Esta sentencia un autor; Si el sabio no aprueba, ¡malo! Si el necio aplaude, ¡peor! ¿Un soneto á tus ojos, Laura mía? ¿No hay más que hacer sonetos, y á tus ojos? --Serán los versos duros, serán flojos; Pero á Laura mi afecto los envía. ¿Con que, ha de ser soneto? ¡Hay tal porfía! Que lo quiero dejar para otro día. --Respondes, Laura, que no importa un pito Que no sea el soneto muy discreto, Como hable de tus ojos infinito. --¿Sí?--Pues luego escribirle te prometo, Allá voy... ¿Para qué, si ya está escrito, Laura mía, á tus ojos el soneto? ¡No es completa desgracia, Que por ser hoy mis días, He de verme sitiado De incómodas visitas! Cierra la puerta, mozo, Que sube la vecina, Su cuñada y sus yernos Por la escalera arriba. Pero ¡qué!... No la cierres; Si es menester abrirla; Si ya vienen chillando Doña Tecla y sus hijas. El coche que ha parado, Según lo que rechina, ¡Oh! ya está aquí don Lucas Haciendo cortesías, Y doña Basilisa; Con una lechigada De niños y de niñas. ¡Qué necios cumplimientos! ¡Qué frases repetidas! Al monte de Torozos Me fuera por no oirlas. Ya todos se preparan (Y no bastan las sillas) A engullirme bizcochos, Y dulces y bebidas. ¡Demonios! Yo que paso La solitaria vida, En virginal ayuno Abstinente eremita; Yo, que del matrimonio Renuncié las delicias, Por no verme comido De tales sabandijas, ¿He de sufrir ahora Esta algazara y trisca? Vamos, que mi paciencia No ha de ser infinita. Váyanse enhoramala; Salgan todos aprisa, Recojan abanicos, Sombreros y basquiñas. Gracias por el obsequio Y la cordial visita, Y pues ya merendaron, Que es á lo que venían, Si quieren baile, vayan Al soto de la Villa. (_Oda dedicada á la memoria de Juan de Padilla_) Sal del sepulcro, deja tu mancilla, Revístete de luz y de grandeza, O sombra glorïosa de Padilla, Que grata España á venerar empieza, La España, que á un patíbulo afrentoso (¡Gime, oh patria!) la vida vió entregada Del ciudadano fiero y generoso Por quien Castilla fuera reengendrada. Vuela al cadalso el águila insolente, De su triunfo ufanándose inhumano, Y la corona arranca de la frente Del héroe más ilustre castellano. Murió tu libertad, oh patria mía; La Austria altiva te ciñe las cadenas; Vengad, cielos, vengad su tiranía; Oh vencedor, tú á muerte te condenas. Tiembla, tirano; á tu pesar, del cielo Baja al suplicio la virtud llorosa, Y al héroe moribundo rasga el velo En que se encubre edad más venturosa. Llegando España hasta el postrer momento, La vuelva á su primera valentía. «¿No ves dó quiebra la ira poderosa El Atlántico mar, una luz grata Que crece poco á poco, y victoriosa Por los dos hemisferios se dilata? «Ya las columnas de Hércules altares Son de la libertad; allí la España Une, á pesar de los inmensos mares, Sus hijos, que gozosa en llanto baña; «Y á su seno estrechándolos piadosa, Sus manos lleva á la sagrada pira, Que á la de Mucio emula, y orgullosa Odio eterno á tiranos les inspira. «¿Juráis, les dice, libres y atrevidos Lavar la mancha que imprimió en mi frente La austriaca tiranía, y sometidos Nunca veros á déspota insolente? «¿Juráis que á ese tirano, cuyo imperio Medrosos reinos con infamia humilla, No sufriréis que en torpe cautiverio Incline vuestra madre la rodilla? «--Juramos,» claman: agitado el viento Lleva en vuelo los gritos hasta el Sena; Y del libre Español el noble intento Del esclavo francés es mengua y pena.» Así gozoso el inmortal Padilla Miró las glorias de su patria amada, Al tiempo que la bárbara cuchilla Sobre su cuello descendiera airada. Mas de su espada, que aun gloriosa vive, Ármate, España, y al tirano aterra; Así Roma triunfó cuando su asiento El Janículo daba al Rey de Etruria; Así cuando del galo fraudulento Quiso con oro redimir la injuria. Dada la gloria que á Camilo sea A ti ley sacrosanta, por ti España No otro laurel ni triunfo ya desea Que eternizar en paz tan alta hazaña. ¿Qué era, decidme, la nación que un día Reina del mundo proclamó el destino, La que á todas las zonas extendía Su cetro de oro y su blasón divino? Volábase á occidente, Y el vasto mar Atlántico sembrado Se hallaba de su gloria y su fortuna. Do quiera España: en el preciado seno De América, en el Asia, en los confines Del África, allí España. El soberano Vuelo de la atrevida fantasía Para abarcarla se cansaba en vano; La tierra sus mineros le rendía, Sus perlas y coral el Oceano, Y donde quier que revolver sus olas Él intentase, á quebrantar su furia Siempre encontraba costas españolas. Ora en el cieno del oprobio hundida, Abandonada á la insolencia ajena, Como esclava en mercado, ya aguardaba La ruda argolla y la servil cadena. ¡Qué de plagas! ¡oh Dios! Su aliento impuro, La pestilente fiebre respirando, Tendió sus brazos lívidos, ahogando Cuanto el contagio perdonó; tres veces De Jano el templo abrimos, Y á la trompa de Marte aliento dimos; Tres veces ¡ay! los dioses tutelares Su escudo nos negaron, y nos vimos Rotos en tierra y rotos en los mares. ¿Qué en tanto tiempo viste Por tus inmensos términos, oh Iberia? ¿Qué viste ya sino funesto luto, Honda tristeza, sin igual miseria, Así rota la vela, abierto el lado, Pobre bajel á naufragar camina, De tormenta en tormenta despeñado, Por los yermos del mar; ya ni en su popa Las guirnaldas se ven que antes le ornaban, Ni en señal de esperanza y de contento La flámula riendo al aire ondea. Cesó en su dulce canto el pasajero, Ahogó su vocería El ronco marinero, Terror de muerte en torno le rodea, Terror de muerte silencioso y frío; Y él va á estrellarse al áspero bajío. Llega el momento, en fin; tiende su mano El tirano del mundo al occidente, Y fiero exclama: «El occidente es mío.» Bárbaro gozo en su ceñuda frente Resplandeció, como en el seno oscuro De nube tormentosa en el estío Relámpago fugaz brilla un momento Con gritos de soberbia el viento llenan; Gimen los yunques, los martillos suenan, Arden las forjas. ¡Oh vergüenza! ¿Acaso Pensáis que espadas son para el combate Las que mueven sus manos codiciosas? No en tanto os estiméis: grillos, esposas, Cadenas son que en vergonzosos lazos Por siempre amarren tan inertes brazos. Del indigno rumor que cerca oía, Y al grande impulso de su justa saña Rompió el volcán que en su interior hervía. Sus déspotas antiguos Consternados y pálidos se esconden; Resuena el eco de venganza en torno, Y del Tajo las márgenes responden: «¡Venganza!» ¿Dónde están, sagrado río, Los colosos de oprobio y de vergüenza Que nuestro bien en su insolencia ahogaban? Su gloria fué, nuestro esplendor comienza; Y tú, orgulloso y fiero, Viendo que aun hay Castilla y castellanos, Precipitas al mar tus rubias ondas, Diciendo: «Ya acabaron los tiranos.» ¡Oh triunfo! ¡Oh gloria! ¡Oh celestial momento! ¿Con que puede ya dar el labio mío El nombre augusto de la patria al viento? Yo le daré; mas no en el arpa de oro Que mi cantar sonoro Acompañó hasta aquí; no aprisionado En estrecho recinto, en que se apoca El numen en el pecho Y el aire abierto á la radiante lumbre Del sol; en la alta cumbre Del riscoso y pinífero Fuenfría, Allí volaré yo, y allí cantando Con voz que atruene en rededor la sierra, Lanzaré por los campos castellanos Los ecos de la gloria y de la guerra. ¡Guerra, nombre tremendo, ahora sublime, Único asilo y sacrosancto escudo Al ímpetu sañudo Del fiero Atila que á occidente oprime! ¡Guerra, guerra, españoles! En el Betis Ved del Tercer Fernando alzarse airada La augusta sombra; su divina frente Mostrar Gonzalo en la imperial Granada; Blandir el Cid su centelleante espada, Y allá sobre los altos Pirineos, Del hijo de Jimena Animarse los miembros giganteos. En torbo ceño y desdeñosa pena Ved cómo cruzan por los aires vanos; Y el valor exhalando que se encierra Dentro del hueco de sus tumbas frías, En fiera y ronca voz pronuncian: «¡Guerra! ¡Pues qué! ¿Con faz serena Vierais los campos devastar opimos, Eterno objeto de ambición ajena, Herencia inmensa que afanando os dimos? Despertad, raza de héroes: el momento Llegó ya de arrojarse á la victoria; Que vuestro nombre eclipse nuestro nombre, Que vuestra gloria humille nuestra gloria. Por vuestra mano fuerte. Juradlo, ella os lo manda: _¡Antes la muerte Que consentir jamás ningún tirano!_» Sí, yo lo juro, venerables sombras; Yo lo juro también, y en este instante Ya me siento mayor. Dadme una lanza, Ceñidme el casco fiero y refulgente; Volemos al combate, á la venganza; Y el que niegue su pecho á la esperanza, Hunda en el polvo la cobarde frente. Tal vez el gran torrente De la devastación en su carrera Me llevará. ¿Qué importa? ¿Por ventura No se muere una vez? ¿No iré, espirando, A encontrar nuestros ínclitos mayores? «¡Salud, oh padres de la patria mía, Yo les diré, salud! La heroica España De entre el estrago universal y horrores Levanta la cabeza ensangrentada, Y vencedora de su mal destino, Vuelve á dar á la tierra amedrentada Su cetro de oro y su blasón divino.» Ya con lira sonora Himnos dí á la beldad, hija del cielo, Y á amor canté que sin cesar la adora; Más ¿cómo al fin mi generoso anhelo Podrá exaltarse de la hermosa fama Hasta el templo inmortal? Ella me llama, Y ya en mi pecho hierve El grande objeto que ensalzar desean. ¿Cantara yo las haces españolas En Pirene temblando al eco horrendo Con que Mavorte en rededor rugía? ¿O á las naves británicas huyendo Nuestra mísera escuadra entre las olas, Amedrentadas ya con su osadía? No, España, patria mía; No son eternas, no, las torpes huellas Que de tu noble frente Empañan el honor; tú en otros días, Con victorioso patriotismo bellos, De gloria ornada y esplendor te vías. ¡Ah! ¿por qué yo infeliz no nací en ellos? Entonces los Alfonsos esforzados, El hijo de Jimena y gran Rodrigo, Rayos horribles de la gente mora, Con sus nervudos brazos no cansados Desolación del bárbaro enemigo Eran siempre en la lid espantadora. ¿Quién diera á mi deseo Tantos lauros contar? Cada llanura Fué campo de batalla, Cada colina vencedor trofeo; Los sitios mismos que el baldón miraron, Miraron la venganza, y las afrentas En torrentes de sangre se lavaron. «Venid, venid, el Árabe decía, Volad, hijos de Agar; ya los esclavos El yugo intentan sacudir que un día En su arrollado cuello Vuestro valor indómito cargara. La Europa y Libia dividió salvemos. Venid, venid; que nuestra fiera saña Sientra otra vez; acometed, y abiertas De Calpe y de Tarifa os son las puertas.» Mas no las puertas de Tarifa entonces Al pérfido Julián obedecían; El valor y el honor las defendían; El honor y el valor que siempre fueron Escudo impenetrable el más seguro. ¿Qué sin ellos valer el alto muro Ni el grueso torreón jamás pudieron? El hombre es solo quien guarnece al hombre. ¡Oh pueblo numantino! ¡Oh sagrada ciudad de alto renombre! ¿Quién sino tu constancia te ceñía Cuando las olas del poder romano Sobre ti vanamente se estrellaban, Y sus feroces águilas temblaban? Tal Guzmán impertérrito defiende La fortaleza en donde Quebrada el Moro su pujanza vía; Que ataca en vano, y de furor se enciende, Y truena, al fin, con la espantable saña De nube que se rompe Con estruendo fragoso en la montaña. «¿Así será que la esperanza mía Un hombre solo á contrastar se atreva? Oye, Guzmán: las leyes del destino Esta prenda infeliz de tus amores A mi venganza dieron: Hijo es tuyo, ¿le ves? Si en el momento Tú, que le diste el ser, tú le das muerte.» Así la iniquidad habla á la tierra, Cuando, de orgullo y de poder henchida, Mueve á los hombres espantosa guerra. ¡Oh! ¡no tembléis! Magnánimo á su encuentro La virtud generosa se levanta, Y sus soberbios ímpetus quebranta. Ella elevó á Guzmán; de ella inspirado, «Conóceme, tirano, respondía; Y si es que espada en tu cobarde mano Falta á la atrocidad, ahí va la mía; Que yo consagro mi inocente hijo Sobre las aras de mi patria amada.» Esto sereno dijo, Y arroja al campo la fulmínea espada. Y estremécese el campo, y da un gemido Al vacilar la víctima, do esconde Su punta aguda el inclemente acero. Calpe con gritos de dolor responde Al grito universal, y del guerrero También la faz valiente Brotando riega involuntario el llanto. ¡Ah! tú padre de España eres primero; Mira cuál ella la segura frente Alza y su numen tutelar te aclama; Mira á tu gloria despertar la fama, Que, sus doradas alas desplegando Y sonando la trompa refulgente, Los grandes ecos de tu nombre envía Del norte al mediodía, Del templo de la aurora al occidente. Y esta soberbia aclamación oyendo, Entre sollozos trémulos diciendo: «Huyamos ¡ay! á nuestra ardiente arena. ¿Cómo arrancar la tímida paloma Podrá su presa al águila valiente Del aire vago en la región serena? Quiébrase el cetro á la africana gente, Su trono se hunde, y la cruel venganza Del Godo vencedor, estrago y ruina Contra el ceño de África fulmina.» Así temblando el Musulmán huía Del Español guerrero, Que sobre él centellando revolvía. Bien como cuando su valor primero, Sorprendido, el león pierde, y se amansa, Y en sí el oprobio de servir consiente. ¿Cómo á tan vergonzoso vituperio La generosa frente Pudo ya doblegar? ¿Do fue el espanto Que dio á la selva atónita su imperio? ¿Nació quizá para vivir esclavo? No, que llega su vez, y ardiendo en ira, Rompe, y se libra, y con feroz semblante Del vil ultraje á la venganza aspira, Bañando en sangre las atroces manos; Y ruge, y amedrenta á sus tiranos. Noche, lóbrega noche, eterno asilo Del miserable que, esquivando el sueño, En tu silencio pavoroso gime: No desdeñes mi voz; letal beleño Presta á mis sienes, y en tu horror sublime Empapada la ardiente fantasía, Da á mi pincel fatídicos colores Con que el tremendo día Trace al furor de vengadora tea, Y el odio irrite de la patria mía, Y escándalo y terror al orbe sea. ¡Día de execración! La destructora Mano del tiempo le arrojó al averno; Mas ¿quién el sempiterno Clamor con que los ecos importuna La madre España en enlutado arreo Podrá atajar? Junto al sepulcro frío, Al pálido lucir de opaca luna, Entre cipreses fúnebres la veo: Trémula, yerta, desceñido el manto, Los ojos moribundos Al cielo vuelve, que le oculta el llanto; Roto y sin brillo el cetro de dos mundos Yace entre el polvo, y el león guerrero Lanza á sus pies rugido lastimero. ¡Ay, que cual débil planta Que agota en su furor hórrido viento, De víctimas sin cuento Lloró la destrucción Mantua afligida! ¿Mas qué su generoso Esfuerzo pudo? El pérfido caudillo En quien su honor y su defensa fía, La condenó al cuchillo. ¿Quién ¡ay! la alevosía, La horrible asolación habrá que cuente, Que, hollando de amistad los santos fueros, Hizo furioso en la indefensa gente Ese tropel de tigres carniceros? Por las henchidas calles Gritando se despeña La infame turba que abrigó en su seno, Rueda allá rechinando la cureña, Acá retumba el espantoso trueno, Allí el joven lozano, El mendigo infeliz, el venerable Sacerdote pacífico, el anciano Que con su arada faz respeto imprime, Juntos amarra su dogal tirano. En balde, en balde gime, De los duros satélites en torno, La triste madre, la afligida esposa. Con doliente clamor; la pavorosa Fatal descarga suena, Que á luto y llanto eterno la condena. ¡Cuánta escena de muerte! ¡cuánto estrago! ¡Cuántos ayes doquier! Despavorido Mirad ese infelice Quejarse al adalid empedernido De otra cuadrilla atroz: «¡Ah! ¿Qué te hice?» Exclama el triste en lágrimas deshecho: «Mi pan y mi mansión partí contigo, ¿Y ahora pagar podrás nuestro hospedaje Sincero, franco, sin doblez ni engaño, Con dura muerte y con indigno ultraje?» ¡Perdido suplicar! ¡inútil ruego! El monstruo infame á sus ministros mira, Y con tremenda voz gritando: «¡fuego!» Tinto en su sangre el desgraciado espira. Y en tanto ¿dó se esconden? ¿Dó están ¡oh cara patria! tus soldados, Que á tu clamor de muerte no responden? Presos, encarcelados, Por jefes sin honor, que, haciendo alarde De su perfidia y dolo, A merced de los vándalos te dejan, Como entre hierros el león, forcejean Con inútil afán. Vosotros sólo, Fuerte Daoiz, intrépido Velarde, Que osando resistir al gran torrente Dar supisteis en flor la dulce vida Con firme pecho y con serena frente; Si de mi libre musa Jamás el eco adormeció á tiranos, Ni vil lisonja emponzoñó su aliento, Allá del alto asiento Al que la acción magnánima os eleva, El himno oid que á vuestro nombre entona, Mientras la fama alígera le lleva Del mar de hielo á la abrasada zona. Mas ¡ay! que en tanto sus funestas alas, Por la opresa metrópoli tendiendo La yerma asolación sus plazas cubre, Y al áspero silbar de ardientes balas, ¿Oís cómo, rompiendo De moradores tímidos las puertas, Caen estallando de los fuertes gonces? ¡Con qué espantoso estruendo Los dueños buscan, que medrosos huyen! Cuanto encuentran destruyen, Bramando, los atroces forajidos, Que el robo infame y la matanza ciegan. ¿No veis cuál se despliegan, Penetrando en los hondos aposentos, De sangre y oro y lágrimas sedientos? Rompen, talan, destrozan Cuanto se ofrece á su sangrienta espada. Aquí, matando al dueño, se alborozan, Hieren allí su esposa acongojada; La familia asolada Yace espirando, y con feroz sonrisa Sorben voraces el fatal tesoro. Suelta, á otro lado, la madeja de oro, Mustio el dulce carmín de su mejilla, Y en su frente marchita la azucena, Con voz turbada y anhelante lloro, De su verdugo ante los pies se humilla Tímida virgen, de amargura llena; Mas con furor de hiena, Alzando el corvo alfanje damasquino, Hiende su cuello el bárbaro asesino ¡Horrible atrocidad!... Treguas ¡oh musa! Que ya la voz rehusa Embargada en suspiros mi garganta. Y en ignominia tanta, ¿Será que rinda el español bizarro De Palas fiera el sanguinoso carro, Y el látigo estallante Los caballos flamígeros hostiga. Ya el duro peto y el arnés brillante Visten los fuertes hijos de Pelayo. Fuego arrojó su ruginoso acero: «¡Venganza y guerra!» resonó en su tumba; «¡Venganza y guerra!» repitió Moncayo; Y al grito heroico que en los aires zumba, «¡Venganza y guerra!» claman Turia y Duero. Guadalquivir guerrero Alza al bélico son la regia frente, Y del Patrón valiente Blandiendo altivo la nudosa lanza, Corre gritando al mar: «¡Guerra y venganza!» ¡Oh sombras infelices De los que aleve y bárbara cuchilla Robó á los dulces lares! ¡Sombras inultas que en fugaz gemido Cruzáis los anchos campos de Castilla! La heroica España, en tanto que al bandido Que á fuego y sangre, de insolencia ciego, Brindó felicidad, á sangre y fuego Le retribuye el don, sabrá piadosa Daros solemne y noble monumento. Allí en padrón cruento De oprobio y mengua, que perpetuo dure, La vil traición del déspota se lea, Y altar eterno sea Donde todo Español al monstruo jure Rencor de muerte que en sus venas cunda, Y á cien generaciones se difunda. ¡Qué rápido torrente, Qué proceloso mar de agitaciones Pasa de gente en gente Dentro de los humanos corazones! ¡Quién que verlo pudiera Furioso, desfrenado, ilimitable, En el mundo creyera Que hubiese nada fijo, nada estable? Mas se enfurece en vano Contra la roca inmoble del destino, Que con certera mano Supo contraponerle el Sér divino. ¡Sús! reyes de la tierra, El oro omnipotente y el acero Acumulad, que encierra En su oculto tesoro el orbe entero. Llamad de sus hogares Cuantos cultivan el fecundo suelo, Y mueran á millares O suplicando ó maldiciendo al cielo. Truene el estrepitoso Cañón por tierra y mar; alce el trofeo Su ceño sanguinoso Desde el indo Himalaya al Pirineo. Silbando cual serpientes Engendradas del mar, vuelen las naves, Que de hálitos ardientes Animadas, superan á las aves. Y á este nuevo elemento Cuantas fuerzas se opongan sean rendidas. Parezca que entredicho Ha puesto á la verdad la fuerza ciega, Y que contra el capricho Toda la raza humana en vano briega. Bien pronto la tormenta Que suscitó el querer de un hombre vano, Creciendo, lo amedrenta Y paraliza su atrevida mano. No así el que sometido A la suprema voluntad, procura El bien apetecido Sin enojado ardor y sin presura. ¡Deseo silencioso, Fuera del corazón nunca expresado! Tú eres más poderoso Que el que aparece de violencia armado. Cual incienso süave Tú subes invisible al sacro trono, Sin que tus alas grave La necia terquedad ni el ciego encono. Del escondido ruego, Por el querer divino limitado, No perturba el sosiego Ni temor del azar ni horror del hado. ¿Y eres tú el que velando La excelsa majestad en nube ardiente Fulminaste en Siná? y el impío bando Que eleva contra ti la osada frente, ¿Es el que oyó medroso De tu rayo el estruendo fragoroso? Mas hora abandonado, ¡Ay! pendes sobre el Gólgota, y al cielo Alzas gimiendo el rostro lastimado: Cubre tus bellos ojos mortal velo, Y su luz extinguida, En amargo suspiro das la vida. Así el amor lo ordena, Amor, más poderoso que la muerte: Por él de la maldad sufre la pena El Dios de las virtudes; y león fuerte, Se ofrece al golpe fiero Bajo el vellón de cándido cordero. ¡O víctima preciosa, Aun no ahuyentó la noche pavorosa Por vez primera el alba nacarada, Y hostia del amor tierno Moriste en los decretos del Eterno. ¿Oyes, oyes cuál clama: «Padre de amor, por qué me abandonaste?» Señor, extingue la funesta llama, Que en tu furor al mundo derramaste: ¿No veis cómo se apaga El rayo entre las manos del Potente? Ya de la muerte la tiniebla vaga Por el semblante de Jesús doliente: Y su triste gemido Oye el Dios de las iras complacido. Ven, ángel de la muerte: Esgrime, esgrime la fulmínea espada, Y el último suspiro del Dios fuerte, Que la humana maldad deja espiada, Suba al solio sagrado, Do vuelva en padre tierno al indignado. Rasga tu seno, ó tierra: Rompe, ó templo, tu velo. Moribundo Yace el Criador; mas la maldad aterra, Y un grito de furor lanza el profundo: Muere... Gemid, humanos: Todos en él pusisteis vuestras manos. Tronó la alzada cumbre de Pirene, Y sobre el suelo hispano Lanzó horrorosa nube de asesinos; Y las madres de Iberia al triste pecho Los hijos estrecharon Y piedad y venganza reclamaron. Pasa el dorado Tajo y las vertientes Del Mariano monte La caterva sin ley. Nuevas matanzas Viene y nuevos destrozos meditando; Y en su furor sañoso Dijo entonces el bárbaro orgulloso: Nuestros sedientos pechos. Sús, varones: ¿No sois los invencibles que llevaron Muerte, luto y ruina Del Rin á la remota Palestina?» Españoles, volad: hijos de Marte, Que el Ganges y el ocaso Hicisteis resonar con vuestro nombre, Volad; arrebatad á esos perjuros Sus laureles odiosos, A la mísera Europa tan costosos. Castaños inmortal, nombre de triunfo, Dulce alumno de Palas, Y querido de Marte, á ti encomienda Su justa causa España; la victoria Tus estandartes guía, Y su temido rayo te confía. ¿Quién sube por el Betis? ¿quién terrible El defendido paso Rompe ya de Mengíbar? ¿Quién asciende A las alturas de Bailén y al campo, Do humea todavía Del sarraceno infiel la sangre impía? Y ¿qué, Dupont, vacilas? La alta sierra Te niega sus gargantas, Por sus audaces hijos defendidas. ¡Mísero! ¿donde irás? Tienes delante Cabe el Betis undoso Al fuerte Ibero de tu sangre ansioso. Huye infelice, huye: negra noche, Escudo de malvados, Nuevo escuadrón valiente Que _rendirte_ ó _morir_ sólo consiente. Mas ¡oh! cede el impío: la fiereza Y el orgullo altanero Postra al valor del inmortal Castaños: Yace abatida el águila rapante, Terror de las naciones, Al pié de nuestros fuertes escuadrones. Vive glorioso vengador: tu nombre Tiembla el galo vencido, Y venera la Europa belicosa: Vandalia, madre antigua de guerreros, Su claro honor te llama, Y España libre tu valor aclama. ¡España, España! ¡amada patria mía! ¡Patria de los valientes Que el largo oprobio de tu faz borraron! Cuando tu afecto de mi pecho salga, Mi cantar abatido Sepúltese en el polvo del olvido: Ni en las umbrosas faldas de Helicona Honor tenga mi lira, Y mustio de mi frente envilecida Caiga el laurel sagrado de los vates, Cuando á tu excelsa gloria El cántico no entone de victoria. _Vivir en cadenas, ¡Cuán triste vivir! Morir por la patria, ¡Qué bello morir!_ Partamos al campo, Que es gloria el partir; La trompa guerrera Nos llama á la lid: La patria oprimida, Con ayes sin fin Convoca á sus hijos, Sus ecos oíd. ¿Quién es el cobarde, De sangre tan vil, Que en rabia no siente Sus venas hervir? ¿Quién rinde sus sienes A un yugo servil Viviendo entre esclavos, Odioso vivir? Placeres, halagos, Quedaos á servir A pechos indignos De honor varonil; Que el hierro es quien solo Sabrá redimir De afrenta al que libre Juró ya vivir. Adiós, dulce lecho De esposa gentil: Los brazos, que en llanto Bañáis al partir, Sangrientos, con honra, Veréislos venir; Mas tiemble el tirano Si un astro á los buenos Protege feliz. Si el hado es adverso, Sabremos morir... Y eternos vivir. Sabrá el suelo patrio De rosas cubrir Los huesos del fuerte Que espire en la lid: Mil ecos gloriosos Dirán: «Yace aquí Quien fué su divisa Triunfar ó morir.» _Vivir en cadenas, ¡Cuán triste vivir! Morir por la patria, ¡Qué bello morir!_ ¡Desde las tristes márgenes del Sena, Cubierto el cielo de apiñadas nubes, De nieve el suelo, y de tristeza el alma, Salud te envía tu infeliz amigo, A ti más infeliz! Y ni le arredra El temor de tocar la cruda llaga, Que aún brota sangre, y de mirar tus ojos Bañarse en nuevas lágrimas. ¿Qué fuera Si no llorara el hombre? Yo mil veces He bendecido á Dios, que nos dió el llanto Para aliviar el corazón, cual vemos Calmar la lluvia al mar tempestuoso. Llora, pues, llora; otros amigos fieles, De más saber y de mayor ventura, De la estoica virtud en tus oídos Harán sonar la voz; yo que en el mundo Del cáliz de amargura una vez y otra Apuré hasta las heces, no hallé nunca Más alivio al dolor que el dolor mismo; Hasta que ya cansada, sin aliento, Luchando el alma, y reluchando en vano, Bajo el inmenso peso se rendía. ¿Lo creerás, caro amigo? Llega un tiempo En que gastados del dolor los filos, Ese afán, esa angustia, esa congoja, Truécanse al fin en plácida tristeza; Y en ella absorta, embebecida el alma, Tú dudas que así sea; y yo otras veces Lo dudé como tú; juzgaba eterna Mi profunda aflicción, y grave insulto Anunciarme que un tiempo fin tendría... Y le tuvo: de Dios á los mortales Es esta otra merced; que así tan sólo, Entre tantas desdichas y miserias, Sufrir pudieran la cansada vida. Espera, pues; da crédito á mis voces, Y fíate de mí. ¿Quién en el mundo Compró tan caro el triste privilegio De hablar de la desdicha? En tantos años, ¿Viste un día siquiera, un solo día, En que no me mirases vil juguete De un destino fatal, cual débil rama Que el huracán arranca, y por los aires La remonta un instante, y contra el suelo La arroja luego, y la revuelca impío? Ángel de Saavedra, duque de Rivas «Hola, hidalgos y escuderos De mi alcurnia y mi blasón, Mirad como bien nacidos De mi sangre y casa en pro. «Esas puertas se defiendan, Que no ha de entrar, vive Dios, «No profane mi palacio Un fementido traidor, Que contra su rey combate Y que á su patria vendió. «Pues si él es de reyes primo, Primo de reyes soy yo; Y conde de Benavente, Si él es duque de Borbón; «Llevándole de ventaja, Que nunca jamás manchó La traición mi noble sangre, Y haber nacido español.» Así atronaba la calle Una ya cascada voz, Que de un palacio salía, Cuya puerta se cerró; Y á la que estaba á caballo Siendo en su escudo las lises, Más bien que timbre, baldón; Y de pajes y escuderos Llevando un tropel en pos, Cubiertos de ricas galas, El gran duque de Borbón; El que lidiando en Pavía, Más que valiente, feroz, Gozóse en ver prisionero A su natural señor, Y que á Toledo ha venido, Ufano de su traición, Para recibir mercedes II {p. 260} En una anchurosa cuadra Del alcázar de Toledo, Cuyas paredes adornan Ricos tapices flamencos, Al lado de una gran mesa Que cubre de terciopelo Napolitano tapete Con borlones de oro y flecos; Ante un sillón de respaldo, Que entre bordado arabesco Los timbres de España ostenta Y el águila del imperio, De pie estaba Carlos Quinto, Con gallardo y noble talle, Con noble y tranquilo aspecto. Con el condestable insigne, Apaciguador del reino, De los pasados disturbios Acaso está discurriendo; O del trato que dispone Con el rey de Francia preso, Ó de asuntos de Alemania, Cuando un tropel de caballos Oye venir á lo lejos, Y ante el alcázar pararse, Quedando todo en silencio. En la antecámara suena Rumor impensado luego; Álzase en fin la mampara Y entra el de Borbón soberbio. Bramando de ira y de rabia Que enfrena mal el respeto, Y con balbuciente lengua Y con mal borrado ceño, Un desagravio pidiendo. Del español Condestable Latió con orgullo el pecho, Ufano de la entereza De su esclarecido deudo. Y aunque advertido procura Disimular cual discreto, Á su noble rostro asoman La aprobación y el contento. El Emperador un punto Quedó indeciso y suspenso, Sin saber qué responderle Al Francés de enojo ciego. Y aunque en su interior se goza Con el proceder violento Del conde de Benavente, De altas esperanzas lleno Por tener tales vasallos, De noble lealtad modelos, Y con los que el ancho mundo Goza á sus glorias estrecho; Mucho al de Borbón le debe, Y es fuerza satisfacerlo, Le ofrece para calmarlo Un desagravio completo; Y, llamando á un gentilhombre, Con el semblante severo Sostenido por sus pajes Desciende de la litera Del alcázar á la puerta. Era un viejo respetable, Cuerpo enjuto, cara seca, Con dos ojos como chispas, Cargados de largas cejas; Y con semblante muy noble, Mas de gravedad tan seria, Que veneración de lejos Y miedo causa de cerca. Sube por las escaleras, Y al verle, las alabardas Un golpe dan en la tierra: Golpe de honor y de aviso De que en el alcázar entra Un grande, á quien se le debe Todo honor y reverencia. Al llegar á la antesala, Los pajes que están en ella Con respeto le saludan Abriendo las anchas puertas. Con grave paso entra el Conde, Sin que otro aviso preceda, Salones atravesando, Hasta la cámara regia. Pensativo está el Monarca Discurriendo cómo pueda Mucho al Borbón le debe Aún mucho más de él espera, Y al de Benavente mucho Considerar le interesa. Dilación no admite el caso, No hay quien dar consejo pueda, A un tiempo se le recuerdan. En el sillón asentado, Y el codo sobre la mesa, Al personaje recibe, Que comedido se acerca. Grave el Conde lo saluda Con una rodilla en tierra, Mas, como grande del reino, Sin descubrir la cabeza. El Emperador, benigno, Que alce del suelo le ordena, Y la plática difícil Con sagacidad empieza. Y entre sereno y afable Al cabo le manifiesta, Que es el que á Borbón aloje Voluntad suya resuelta. Con respeto muy profundo, Pero con la voz entera, Destocando la cabeza: «Soy, señor, vuestro vasallo, Vos sois mi rey en la tierra; A vos ordenar os cumple De mi vida y de mi hacienda. Pero no toquéis mi honra Y respetad mi conciencia. «Mi casa Borbón ocupe Puesto que es voluntad vuestra, Contamine sus paredes, Sus blasones envilezca; «Que á mí me sobra en Toledo, Donde vivir, sin que tenga Que rozarme con traidores Cuyo solo aliento infesta. «Y en cuanto él deje mi casa Antes de tornar yo á ella, Purificaré con fuego Sus paredes y sus puertas.» Dijo el Conde, la real mano Besó, cubrió su cabeza, Y retiróse bajando A do estaba su litera. Y á casa de un su pariente mandó que lo condujeran, Abandonando la suya Con cuanto dentro se encierra. Quedó absorto Carlos Quinto De ver tan noble firmeza, Más que la imperial diadema. Muy pocos días el Duque Hizo mansión en Toledo, Del noble Conde ocupando Los honrados aposentos. Con su séquito y sus pajes Orgulloso y satisfecho, Turbó la apacible luna Un vapor blanco y espeso, Que de las altas techumbres Se iba elevando y creciendo. A poco rato tornóse En humo confuso y denso, Que en nubarrones oscuros Ofuscaba el claro cielo; Después en ardientes chispas, Y en un resplandor horrendo Que iluminaba las calles Dando en el Tajo reflejos, Y al fin su furor mostrando En embravecido incendio Que devoraba altas torres Y derrumbaba altos techos. Resonaron las campanas, Conmovióse todo el pueblo, De Benavente el palacio Presa de las llamas viendo. El Emperador, confuso, Corre á procurar remedio, En atajar tanto daño Mostrando tenaz empeño. En vano todo; tragóse Tantas riquezas el fuego, A la lealtad castellana Levantando un monumento. Aun hoy unos viejos muros En la famosa Toledo. Envuelve al mundo extenso triste noche, Ronco huracán y borrascosas nubes Confunden y tinieblas impalpables El cielo, el mar, la tierra; Y tú invisible te alzas, en tu frente Ostentando de fuego una corona, Cual rey del caos, que refleja y arde Con luz de paz y vida. En vano ronco el mar alza sus montes, Y revienta á tus pies, do rebramante, Creciendo en blanca espuma, esconde y borra El abrigo del puerto: Tú con lengua de fuego _aquí está_ dices, Sin voz hablando al tímido piloto, Que como á numen bienhechor te adora, Y en ti los ojos clava. Tiende apacible noche el manto rico, Que céfiro amoroso desenrolla, Con recamos de estrellas y luceros, Por él rueda la luna; Y entonces tú, de niebla vaporosa Vestido, dejas ver en formas vagas Tu cuerpo colosal, y tu diadema Arde á par de los astros. Duerme tranquilo el mar, pérfido esconde Rocas aleves, áridos escollos Falso señuelo son, lejanas lumbres Engañan á las naves; El trono de un monarca, eres su norte, Les adviertes su engaño. Así de la razón arde la antorcha, En medio del furor de las pasiones, Ó de aleves halagos de Fortuna, A los ojos del alma. Desque refugio de la airada suerte En esta escasa tierra que presides, Y grato albergue el cielo bondadoso Me concedió propicio, Ni una vez sola á mis pesares busco Dulce olvido del sueño entre los brazos, Sin saludarte, y sin tornar los ojos A tu espléndida frente. ¡Cuántos, ay, desde el seno de los mares Al par los tornarán!... Tras larga ausencia Unos, que vuelven á su patria amada, A sus hijos y esposa: Otros, prófugos, pobres, perseguidos, Que asilo buscan, cual busqué, lejano, Y á quienes, que lo hallaron, tu luz dice, Hospitalaria estrella. Arde, y sirve de norte á los bajeles, Me traen nuevas amargas, y renglones Con lágrimas escritos. Cuando la vez primera deslumbraste Mis afligidos ojos, ¡cuál mi pecho, Destrozado y hundido en amargura, Palpitó venturoso! Del Lacio moribundo las riberas Huyendo inhospitables, contrastado Viéronla como yo los marineros, Y olvidando los votos y plegarias Que en las sordas tinieblas se perdían, Y fuiste á nuestros ojos la aureola Que orna la frente de la santa imagen, En quien busca afanoso peregrino La salud y el consuelo. Jamás te olvidaré, jamás... Tan sólo Trocara tu esplendor, sin olvidarlo, Rey de la noche, y de tu excelsa cumbre La benéfica llama, Por la llama y los fulgidos destellos, Que lanza, reflejando al sol naciente, El arcángel dorado, que corona De Córdoba la torre. Ya el sole esconde sus rayos, El mundo en sombras se vela, El ave á su nido vuela, Busca asilo el trovador. Todo calla: en pobre cama Duerme el pastor venturoso: En su lecho suntüoso Se agita insomne el señor. Se agita; mas ¡ay! reposa Al fin en su patrio suelo Los campos ve que á su infancia Horas dieron de contento, Su oído halaga el acento Del país donde nació. No gime ilustre cautivo Entre doradas cadenas, Que si bien de encanto llenas, Al cabo cadenas son. Si acaso triste lamenta, En torno ve á sus amigos, Que, de su pena testigos, Consuelan su corazón. La arrogante erguida palma Que en el desierto florece, Al viajero sombra ofrece Descanso y grato manjar: Y, aunque sola, allí es querida Del Árabe errante y fiero, Que siempre va placentero A su sombra á reposar. Mas ¡ay triste! yo cautiva, Huérfana y sola suspiro, En clima extraño respiro, Y amo á un extraño también. No hallan mis ojos mi patria; Humo han sido mis amores; Nadie calma mis dolores, Y en celos me siento arder. Ni ceder á mi tristura, Ni consuelo en mi amargura Podré jamás encontrar. Despreciada, aborrecida, ¿No sabré también odiar? ¡Adiós, patria! ¡adiós, amores! La infeliz Zoraida ahora Solo venganzas implora, Ya condenada á morir. No soy ya del castellano La sumisa enamorada: Soy la cautiva cansada Ya de dejarse oprimir. Fresca, lozana, pura y olorosa, Gala y adorno del pensil florido, Gallarda puesta sobre el ramo erguido, Fragancia esparce la naciente rosa; Mas si el ardiente sol lumbre enojosa Vibra del can en llamas encendido, El dulce aroma y el color perdido, Sus hojas lleva el aura presurosa. Así brilló un momento mi ventura En alas del amor, y hermosa nube Fingí tal vez de gloria y de alegría; Mas ¡ay! que el bien trocóse en amargura Y deshojada por los aires sube La dulce flor de la esperanza mía. ¿Por qué volvéis á la memoria mía, Tristes recuerdos del placer perdido, A aumentar la ansiedad y la agonía De este desierto corazón herido? Y el llanto que al dolor los ojos niegan, Lágrimas son de hiel que el alma anegan. ¿Dónde volaron ¡ay! aquellas horas De juventud, de amor y de ventura, Regaladas de músicas sonoras, Adornadas de luz y de hermosura? Imágenes de oro bullidoras, Sus alas de carmín y nieve pura, Al sol de mi esperanza desplegando, Pasaban ¡ay! á mi alredor cantando. Gorjeaban los dulces ruiseñores, El sol iluminaba mi alegría, El aura susurraba entre las flores, El bosque mansamente respondía, Las fuentes murmuraban sus amores... ¡Ilusiones que llora el alma mía! ¡Oh! ¡cuán süave resonó en mi oído El bullicio del mundo y su ruido! Mi vida entonces cual guerrera nave Que el puerto deja por la vez primera, Y al soplo de los céfiros süave, Orgullosa desplega su bandera, Y al mar dejando que á sus pies alabe Su triunfo en roncos cantos, va velera, Una ola tras otra bramadora Hollando y dividiendo vencedora; ¡Ay! en el mar del mundo, en ansia ardiente De amor volaba, el sol de la mañana Llevaba yo sobre mi tersa frente, Y el alma pura de su dicha ufana: Dentro de ella el amor cual rica fuente, Que entre frescura y arboledas mana, Yo amaba todo: un noble sentimiento Exaltaba mi ánimo, y sentía En mi pecho un secreto movimiento, De grandes hechos generosa guía: La libertad con su inmortal aliento, Santa diosa mi espíritu encendía, Contino imaginando en mi fe pura Sueños de gloria al mundo y de ventura. El puñal de Catón, la adusta frente Del noble Bruto, la constancia fiera Y el arrojo de Scévola valiente, La doctrina de Sócrates severa, La voz atronadora y elocuente Del orador de Atenas, la bandera Contra el tirano macedonio alzando, Y al espantado pueblo arrebatando. El valor y la fe del caballero, Del trovador el arpa y los cantares, Del gótico castillo el altanero Antiguo torreón, do sus pesares Cantó tal vez con eco lastimero, ¡Ay! arrancada de sus patrios lares, Joven cautiva, al rayo de la luna, Lamentando su ausencia y su fortuna: El dulce anhelo del amor que aguarda Tal vez inquieto y con mortal recelo, La forma bella que cruzó gallarda, Allá en la noche, entre el medroso velo; Al impaciente y amoroso anhelo, La mujer y la voz de su dulzura, Que inspira al alma celestial ternura; Cual las olas que azota con violenta Cólera, impetuoso torbellino: Soñaba al héroe ya, la plebe atenta En mi voz escuchaba su destino; Ya al caballero, al trovador soñaba, Y de gloria y de amores suspiraba. Hay una voz secreta, un dulce canto, Que el alma sólo recogida entiende, Un sentimiento misterioso y santo, Que del barro al espíritu desprende: Agreste, vago y solitario encanto, Que en inefable amor el alma enciende, Volando tras la imagen peregrina El corazón de su ilusión divina. Yo desterrado en extranjera playa, Con los ojos extático seguía La nave audaz que en argentada raya Volaba al puerto de la patria mía Yo cuando en Occidente el sol desmaya, Solo y perdido en la arboleda umbría, Oir pensaba el armonioso acento De una mujer, al suspirar del viento. ¡Una mujer! En el templado rayo De la mágica luna se colora, Del sol poniente al lánguido desmayo, Lejos entre las nubes se evapora: Sobre las cumbres que florece Mayo Brilla fugaz al despuntar la aurora, Cruza tal vez por entre el bosque umbrío, Juega en las aguas del sereno río. ¡Una mujer! Deslízase en el cielo Allá en la noche desprendida estrella: Blanca es la nube que en callado vuelo Cruza la esfera, y que su planta huella, De plata y de zafir, donde se mece. Mujer que amor en su ilusión figura, Mujer que nada dice á los sentidos, Ensueño de suavísima ternura, Eco que regaló nuestros oídos; De amor la llama generosa y pura, Los goces dulces del placer cumplidos, Que engalana la rica fantasía, Goces que avaro el corazón ansía: ¡Ay! aquella mujer, tan sólo aquella Tanto delirio á realizar alcanza, Y esa mujer tan cándida y tan bella, Es mentida ilusión de la esperanza: Es el alma que vívida destella Su luz al mundo cuando en él se lanza, Y el mundo con su magia y galanura Es espejo no más de su hermosura: Es el amor que al mismo amor adora, El que creó las Sílfides y Ondinas, La sacra ninfa que bordando mora Debajo de las aguas cristalinas: Es el amor que recordando llora Las arboledas del Edén divinas, Amor de allí arrancado, allí nacido, Que busca en vano aquí su bien perdido. ¡Oh llama santa! ¡celestial anhelo! ¡Sentimiento purísimo! ¡memoria Acaso triste de un perdido cielo, Quizá esperanza de futura gloria! Tan pura, tan feliz, tan placentera, Brindó el amor á mi ilusión primera... ¡Oh Teresa! ¡Oh dolor! Lágrimas mías ¡Ah! ¿dónde estáis que no corréis á mares? ¿Por qué, por qué como en mejores días No consoláis vosotras mis pesares? ¡Oh! los que no sabéis las agonías De un corazón, que penas á millares ¡Ay! desgarraron, y que ya no llora, ¡Piedad tened de mi tormento ahora! Con diez cañones por banda, Viento en popa á toda vela No corta el mar, sino vuela Un velero bergantín: Bajel pirata que llaman Por su bravura el _Temido_, En todo mar conocido Del uno al otro confín. La luna en el mar rïela, En la lona gime el viento, Y alza en blando movimiento Olas de plata y azul; Y ve el capitán pirata, Cantando alegre en la popa, Asia á un lado, al otro Europa, Y allá á su frente Stambul. Que ni enemigo navío, Ni tormenta, ni bonanza Tu rumbo á torcer alcanza, Ni á sujetar tu valor. «Veinte presos Hemos hecho A despecho Y han rendido Sus pendones Cien naciones A mis pies. «Que es mi barco mi tesoro, Que es mi Dios la libertad, Mi ley la fuerza y el viento, Mi única patria la mar. «Allá muevan feroz guerra Ciegos reyes Por un palmo más de tierra: Que yo tengo aquí por mío Cuanto abarca el mar bravío, A quien nadie impuso leyes. «Y no hay playa, Sea cual quiera, Ni bandera De esplendor, Que no sienta Al valor. «Que es mi barco mi tesoro... «A la voz de «¡barco viene!» Es de ver Como vira y se previene A todo trapo á escapar: Que yo soy el rey del mar, Y mi furia es de temer. «En las presas Yo divido Lo cogido Por igual: Solo quiero Por riqueza La belleza Sin rival. «Que es mi barco mi tesoro... «¡Sentenciado estoy á muerte! Yo me río: No me abandone la suerte, Y al mismo que me condena Colgaré de alguna entena, Quizá en su propio navío. «Y si caigo, ¿Qué es la vida? Por perdida Ya la dí. Como un bravo, «Que es mi barco mi tesoro... «Son mi música mejor El estrépito y temblor De los cables sacudidos, Y el rugir de mis cañones. «Y del trueno Al son violento, Y del viento Al rebramar, Yo me duermo Por el mar. «Que es mi barco mi tesoro, Que es mi Dios la libertad, Mi ley la fuerza y el viento, Mi única patria la mar.» Como una casta ruborosa vírgen Se alza mi Musa, y tímida las cuerdas Pulsando de su harpa solitaria, Suelta la voz del canto. Léjos ¡profanas gentes! No su acento Del placer muelle corruptor del alma En ritmo cadencioso hará süave La funesta ponzoña. Léjos ¡esclavos! léjos: no sus gracias Cual vuestro honor trafícanse y se venden; No sangri-salpicados techos de oro Resonarán sus versos. En pobre independencia, ni las iras De los verdugos del pensar la espantan De sierva á fuer; ni, meretriz impura, Vil metal la corrompe. Fiera como los montes de su patria, Galas desecha que maldad cobijan: Las cumbres vaga en desnudez honesta; Mas ¡guay de quien la ultraje! Sobre sus cantos la expresión del alma Vuela sin arte: números sonoros Desdeña y rima acorde; son sus versos Cual su espíritu libres. Duros son; mas son fuertes, son hidalgos Cual la espada del bueno: y nunca, nunca Tu noble faz con el rubor de oprobio Cubrirán, madre España, De su opresor con el infame elogio Sus cuitas acreciendo. ¡Bello es vivir, la vida es la armonía! Luz, peñascos, torrentes y cascadas, Un sol de fuego iluminando el día, Aire de aromas, flores apiñadas: Y en medio de la noche majestuosa Esa luna de plata, esas estrellas, Lámparas de la tierra perezosa, Que se ha dormido en paz debajo de ellas. ¡Bello es vivir! Se ve en el horizonte Asomar el crepúsculo que nace; Y la neblina que corona el monte En el aire flotando se deshace; Y el inmenso tapiz del firmamento Cambia su azul en franjas de colores; Y susurran las hojas en el viento, Y desatan su voz los ruiseñores. Si hay huracanes y aquilón que brama, Si hay un invierno de humedad vestido, Hay una hoguera á cuya roja llama Se alza un festín con su discorde ruido. Que cubre de verdor la ancha pradera Donde brotan arroyos saltadores. ¡Bello es vivir, la vida es la armonía! Luz, peñascos, torrentes y cascadas, Un sol de fuego iluminando el día, Aire de aromas, flores apiñadas. Arranca, arranca, Dios mío, De la mente del poeta Este pensamiento impío Que en un delirio creó; Sin un instante de calma, En su olvido y amargura, No puede soñar su alma Placeres que no gozó. ¡Ay del poeta! su llanto Fué la inspiración sublime Con que arrebató su canto Hasta los cielos tal vez; Solitaria flor que el viento Con impuro soplo azota, Él arrastra su tormento Escrito sobre la tez. Porque tú, ¡oh Dios! le robaste Cuanto los hombres adoran; Tú en el mundo le arrojaste Para que muriera en él; Tú le dijiste que el hombre Era en la tierra su _hermano_; Mas él no encuentra ese nombre En sus recuerdos de hiel. Una hermosa compañera Con quien partir su dolor; Mas ¡ay! que la busca en vano; Porque es para el ser que ama Como un inmundo gusano Sobre el tallo de una flor. Canta la luz y las flores, Y el amor en las mujeres, Y el placer en los amores, Y la calma en el placer: Y sin esperanza adora Una belleza escondida, Y hoy en sus cantares llora Lo que alegre cantó ayer. Él con los siglos rodando Canta su afán á los siglos, Y los siglos van pasando Sin curarse de su afán. ¡Maldito el nombre de gloria Que en tu cólera le diste! Sentados en su memoria Recuerdos de hierro están. El día alumbra su pena, La noche alarga su duelo, La aurora escribe en el cielo Su sentencia de vivir: Fábulas son los placeres, No hay placeres en su alma, No hay amor en las mujeres, Hay sol que alumbra, mas quema: Hay flores que se marchitan, Si tiene una voz que canta, Al arrancarla del pecho Deja fuego en la garganta, Vacío en el corazón. ¡Bello es vivir! Sobre gigante roca Se mira el mundo á nuestros pies tendido, La frente altiva con las nubes toca... Todo creado para el hombre ha sido. ¡Bello es vivir! Que el hombre descuidado En los bordes se duerme de la vida, Y de locura y sueños embriagado En un festín el porvenir olvida. ¡Bello es vivir! Vivamos y cantemos: El tiempo entre sus pliegos roedores Ha de llevar el bien que no gocemos, Y ha de apagar placeres y dolores. Cantemos de nosotros olvidados, Hasta que el son de la fatal campana Toque á morir.--Cantemos descuidados, Que el sol de ayer no alumbrará mañana. Huye la fuente al manantial ingrata El verde musgo en derredor lamiendo, Y el agua limpia en su cristal retrata Cuanto va viendo. El césped mece y las arenas moja Do mil caprichos al pasar dibuja, Y ola tras ola murmurando arroja, Riza y empuja. Cañas y juncos retirada calle, Sombra y reposo. Brota en la altura la fecunda fuente; ¿Y á qué su empeño, si al bajar la cuesta Halla del río en el raudal rugiente Tumba funesta? Ese vago clamor que rasga el viento Es la voz funeral de una campana; Vano remedo del postrer lamento De un cadáver sombrío y macilento Que en sucio polvo dormirá mañana. Acabó su misión sobre la tierra, Y dejó su existencia carcomida, Como una virgen al placer perdida Cuelga el profano velo en el altar. Miró en el tiempo el porvenir vacío, Vacío ya de ensueños y de gloria, Y se entregó á ese sueño sin memoria Que nos lleva á otro mundo á despertar. Era una flor que marchitó el estío, Era una fuente que agotó el verano; Ya no se siente su murmullo vano, Ya está quemado el tallo de la flor, Todavía su aroma se percibe, Y ese verde color de la llanura, Ese manto de hierba y de frescura, Hijos son del arroyo creador. Que el poeta en su misión, {p. 285} Sobre la tierra que habita Es una planta maldita Con frutos de bendición. Duerme en paz en la tumba solitaria, Donde no llegue á tu cegado oído Más que la triste y funeral plegaria Que otro poeta cantará por ti. Ésta será una ofrenda de cariño, Más grata, sí, que la oración de un hombre, Pura como la lágrima de un niño, Memoria del poeta que perdí. Si existe un remoto cielo, De los poetas mansión, Y sólo le queda al suelo Ese retrato de hielo, Fetidez y corrupción, ¡Digno presente, por cierto, Se deja á la amarga vida! ¡Abandonar un desierto Y darle á la despedida La fea prenda de un muerto! Poeta: si en el _no ser_ Hay un recuerdo de ayer, Una vida como aquí Detrás de ese firmamento... Conságrame un pensamiento Como el que tengo de ti. Ya no hay cañas ni torneos, Ni moriscas cantilenas, Ni entre las negras almenas Moros ocultos están; Hoy se ven sin celosías Miradores y ventanas; No hay danzas ya de sultanas En el jardín del Sultán. Ya no hay dorados salones En alcázares reales, Gabinetes orientales Consagrados al placer; Ya no hay mujeres morenas En lechos de terciopelo, Prometidas en un cielo Que los Moros no han de ver. Ya no hay pájaros de Oriente Presos en redes de oro, Cuyo cántico sonoro Cuyo pintado color Presten al aire armonía, Mientras en baño de olores Dormita, soñando amores, El opulento señor. No hay una edad de placeres Como fué la edad moruna; Igual á aquélla ninguna, Porque no puede haber dos; Pero hay, en gótica torre De parda iglesia cristiana, Hay un templo sostenido En cien góticos pilares, Y cruces en los altares, Y una santa religión. Y hay un pueblo prosternado Que eleva á Dios su plegaria A la llama solitaria De la fe del corazón. Hay un Dios cuyo nombre guarda el viento En los pliegues del ronco torbellino; A cuya voz vacila el firmamento Y el hondo porvenir rasga el destino. La cifra de ese nombre vive escrita En el impuro corazón del hombre, Y él adora en un árabe mezquita La misteriosa cifra de ese nombre. Tú que en acento de desdén profundo Dijiste al ver la pequeñez humana: «Sombra es la vida, como el sueño vana, Fantástica existencia la del mundo»; Cuando brillabas luminar fecundo, Sol refulgente de la escena hispana, ¿Pudo tener tu mente soberana Por ilusión tu ingenio sin segundo? Universal admiración y altares; Y eterna de tu nombre la memoria, Ella te enseña que decir debiste: «Sueño todo será, menos mi gloria.» Bueno es ser comedido, mas no tanto Que raye la modestia en tontería. Fábula al canto. Ya no podía continuar su ruta, Con la mochila y el fusil cargado, Pobre recluta. Viéndole un carretero muy bizarro En tal angustia, «¡Militar!», le dijo, «Sube á mi carro.» «De perlas me vendría, que voy muerto; Mas si á pagar el porte se me obliga...» «¡Eh! no por cierto.» «Gracias. Bendigo al cielo, que me trajo Tan buen padrino,» le responde, y monta No sin trabajo. «Ahora, bueno será dar un refuerzo Al estómago,» dijo el trajinante. «No: yo no almuerzo.» «¡Eh! nada de melindres y pamplinas. La bota tengo llena, y en la alforja Pan y sardinas.» Toma un bocado. Ya durmiendo, ya hablando al camarada, Dejado había atrás el carretero Media jornada; Y todavía el mílite (¡da grima!) No se había quitado la engorrosa Mole de encima. Ríe el otro y le dice: «El sol escalda, ¡Y aun la ruda mochila, majadero, Veo en tu espalda!» «Ya que me ahorro de pisar hormigas, No es justo dar á la cansada mula Nuevas fatigas.» «¿Y alivias por ventura su molestia? De ti y del carro y todo el cargamento Tira la bestia. No es tu propia carrera el castrense.-- «Pues ¿cuál?»--«Hazte, ya que eres tan pacato, Fraile mostense.» Huracán, huracán, venir te siento, Y en tu soplo abrasado Respiro entusiasmado Del Señor de los aires el aliento. En las alas del viento suspendido Vedle rodar por el espacio inmenso, Siniestra, misteriosa, Contempla con pavor su faz terrible. ¿Al toro no miráis? El suelo escarban De insoportable ardor sus pies heridos; La frente poderosa levantando, Y en la hinchada nariz fuego aspirando, Llama la tempestad con sus bramidos. ¡Qué nubes! ¡qué furor! El sol temblando Vela en triste vapor su faz gloriosa, Y su disco nublado sólo vierte Luz fúnebre y sombría, Que no es noche ni día. ¡Pavoroso color, velo de muerte! Los pajarillos tiemblan y se esconden Al acercarse el huracán bramando, Y en los lejanos montes retumbando Le oyen los bosques y á su voz responden. Llega ya... ¿No le veis? ¡Cual desenvuelve Su manto aterrador y majestuoso! ¡Gigante de los aires, te saludo! En fiera confusión el viento agita Las orlas de su parda vestidura. ¡Ved, en el horizonte Los brazos rapidísimos enarca, Y con ellos abarca Cuanto alcanzo á mirar de monte á monte! ¡Oscuridad universal! ¡Su soplo Levanta en torbellinos El polvo de los campos agitado! En las nubes retumba despeñado El carro del Señor, y de sus ruedas Brota el rayo veloz, se precipita, ¡Qué rumor! ¡Es la lluvia! Desatada Cae á torrentes, oscurece el mundo, Y todo es confusión, horror profundo. Cielo, nubes, colinas, caro bosque, ¿Dó estáis? Os busco en vano: Desparecisteis... La tormenta umbría En los aires revuelve un Oceano Que todo lo sepulta. Al fin, mundo fatal, nos separamos: El huracán y yo solos estamos. ¡Sublime tempestad! ¡Cómo en tu seno, De tu solemne inspiración henchido, Al mundo vil y miserable olvido, Y alzo la frente de delicias lleno! ¿Dó está el alma cobarde Que teme tu rugir? Yo en ti me elevo Al trono del Señor: oigo en las nubes El eco de su voz; siento á la tierra Escucharte y temblar. Ferviente lloro Desciende por mis pálidas mejillas, Y su alta majestad trémulo adoro. Dadme mi lira, dádmela: que siento En mi alma estremecida y agitada Arder la inspiración. ¡Oh! ¡cuánto tiempo En tinieblas pasó, sin que mi frente Brillase con su luz!... Niágara undoso, Sola tu faz sublime ya podría Tornarme el don divino, que ensañada Me robó del dolor la mano impía. Las tinieblas que en torno te circundan, Y déjame mirar tu faz serena, Y de entusiasmo ardiente mi alma llena. Yo digno soy de contemplarte; siempre Lo común y mezquino desdeñando, Ansié por lo terrífico y sublime. Al despeñarse el huracán furioso, Al retumbar sobre mi frente el rayo, Palpitando gocé: ví al Oceano Azotado del austro proceloso, Combatir mi bajel, y ante mis plantas Sus abismos abrir, y amé el peligro, Y sus iras amé: mas su fiereza En mi alma no dejara La profunda impresión que tu grandeza. Corres sereno y majestuoso, y luego En ásperos peñascos quebrantado, Te abalanzas violento, arrebatado, Como el destino irresistible y ciego. ¿Qué voz humana describir podría De la sirte rugiente La aterradora faz? El alma mía En vagos pensamientos se confunde, Al contemplar la férvida corriente, Que en vano quiere la turbada vista En su vuelo seguir al borde obscuro Del precipicio altísimo: mil olas, Cual pensamiento rapidas pasando, Chocan, y se enfurecen, Y otras mil y otras mil ya las alcanzan, Y entre espuma y fragor desaparecen. Mas llegan... saltan... El abismo horrendo Vuelven los bosques el fragor tremendo. Al golpe violentísimo en las peñas Rómpese el agua, y salta, y una nube De revueltos vapores Cubre el abismo en remolinos, sube, Gira en torno, y al cielo Cual pirámide inmensa se levanta, Y por sobre los bosques que le cercan Al solitario cazador espanta. ¡Sér de inmensa bondad! ¡Dios poderoso! A vos acudo en mi dolor vehemente. Extended vuestro brazo omnipotente, Rasgad de la calumnia el velo odioso, Y arrancad este sello ignominioso Con que el mundo manchar quiere mi frente! ¡Rey de los reyes! ¡Dios de mis abuelos! Vos solo sois mi defensor, ¡Dios mío! Todo lo puede quien al mar sombrío Olas y peces dió, luz á los cielos, Fuego al sol, giro al aire, al Norte hielos, Vida á las plantas, movimiento al río. Todo lo podéis Vos, todo fenece Ó se reanima á vuestra voz sagrada; Fuera de Vos, Señor, el todo es nada Pues de ella fué la humanidad creada. Yo no Os puedo engañar, Dios de clemencia; Y pues vuestra eternal sabiduría Ve al través de mi cuerpo el alma mía Cual del aire á la clara transparencia, Estorbad que, humillada la inocencia, Bata sus palmas la calumnia impía. Estorbadlo, Señor, por la preciosa Sangre vertida, que la culpa sella Del pecado de Adán, ó por aquella Madre cándida, dulce y amorosa, Cuando envuelta en pesar, mustia y llorosa, Siguió tu muerte como heliaca estrella. Mas si cuadra á tu suma omnipotencia Que yo perezca cual malvado impío, Y que los hombres mi cadáver frío Ultrajen con maligna complacencia, Suene tu voz y acabe mi existencia, ¡Cúmplase en mí tu voluntad, Dios mío! ¿Cómo te llamaré para que entiendas Que me dirijo á ti, ¡dulce amor mío! Cuando lleguen al mundo las ofrendas Que desde oculta soledad te envío? A ti, sin nombre para mí en la tierra, ¿Cómo te llamaré con aquel nombre ¿Cómo sabrás que enamorado vivo Siempre de ti, que me lamento sola Del Gévora que pasa fugitivo Mirando relucir ola tras ola? Aquí estoy aguardando en una peña A que venga el que adora el alma mía; ¿Por qué no ha de venir, si es tan risueña La gruta que formé por si venía. Pero ¡te llamo yo, dulce amor mío, Como si fueras tú mortal viviente! Cuando sólo eres luz, eres ambiente, Eres aroma, eres vapor del río. Eres la sombra de la nube errante, Eres el son del árbol que se mueve; Y aunque á adorarte el corazón se atreve, Tú sólo en la ilusión eres mi amante. Mi amor, el tierno amor por el que lloro, Eres tan sólo tú, Señor, Dios mío; Si te busco y te llamo, es desvarío De lo mucho que sufro y que te adoro. Yo nunca te veré, porque no tienes Ser humano, ni forma, ni presencia; Yo siempre te amaré, porque en esencia Al alma mía como amante vienes. Nunca en tu frente sellará mi boca El beso que al ambiente le regalo; Siempre el suspiro que á tu amor exhalo Vendrá á quebrarse en la insensible roca. Pero cansada de penar la vida, Cuando se apague el fuego del sentido, ¡Y entonces, al ceñir la eterna palma Que ciñen tus esposas en el cielo, El beso celestial que darte anhelo Llena de gloria te dará mi alma. No en lo pasado á tu virtud modelo, Ni copia al porvenir dará la historia, Ni otra igual en grandeza á tu memoria Difundirán los siglos en su vuelo. Miró la Europa ensangrentar su suelo Al genio de la guerra y la victoria, Pero le cupo á América la gloria De que al genio del bien le diera el cielo. Que audaz conquistador goce en su ciencia, Mientras al mundo en páramo convierte Y se envanezca cuando á siervos mande; ¡Mas los pueblos sabrán en su conciencia Que el que los rige libres sólo es fuerte; Que el que los hace grandes sólo es grande. Cesa, cesa, ¡Vate alado! Que ha sonado Ya el reloj La hora grave Que da al sueño Su beleño De profunda Dulce paz, De la mente Deja el fuego Con sosiego Ni ¿qué aguardas De este ambiente, ¡Oh hijo ardiente De la luz! Tú, que mides Con tus vuelos De los cielos El azul? ¿Qué pretendes Con tu canto, Si su encanto Sin igual Las tinieblas No comprenden, Ni suspenden Tu afanar? ¡Ay! ¿quién sabe Si emboscado Lazo indigno Te prepara, De tu amor? De asechanzas Tales horas Suelen ser, Y ese canto Te delata En la ingrata Deja, deja De horror lleno, Nuestro cieno Por las cumbres Donde aspiras Y respiras Cuando á vastos Te remontes Tu sublime Dale al día, Dale al sol; ¡Pero cese, Cese ahora Tu canora Bella voz, Y que grato Vierta el sueño Su beleño (_Traducción libre de Victor Hugo_) --¿Qué haces tú, preciada flor, Del llanto que el alba hermosa Vierte en tu cáliz de amor?-- Y la Rosa le responde: --¿Qué haces, di, Tumba sombría, De lo que tu seno esconde Y devora cada día? Yo perfumes doy al suelo Con el llanto matinal. --¡Y yo un alma mando al cielo, De cada cuerpo mortal! ¡Ved! Cual la escarcha fría Por siempre yace la inspirada frente, Que de Byron el lauro refulgente Recibir merecía. ¿Cómo calla la voz cuya armonía El ángel de los cantos envidiara? ¿Qué se hizo la luz clara, Reveladora de alta inteligencia, Que fulguraba en sus brillantes ojos? ¿Será eterna la ausencia De la vida, ¡gran Dios! y esos despojos --Que va á tragarse el sempiterno olvido-- Se llevarán al pensamiento helado, Como un astro apagado Por espacios incógnitos perdido? ¿La nada invocaré con torpe acento Del genio ante la tumba? ¿Quién la bondad suprema Podrá ultrajar con tan odiosa duda? ¿Quién su justicia dejará en problema Ante el estrago de la muerte muda? A ti--que viertes en el triste lecho Del humano que espira Bálsamo dulce de consuelo y calma-- ¡Oh esperanza final! á ti saluda Con rudos sones mi enlutada lira; A ti se acoge en su dolor el alma. Rindióse el cuerpo deleznable al peso Del espíritu inmenso que oprimía, Y ya el ilustre preso, Que rota deja la coyunda impía, Con libre vuelo sube Al foco de la eterna Inteligencia, Donde su centro y su reposo obtiene. Tal de las flores la exquisita esencia Se alza y se extiende en invisible nube, Cuando rompe el cristal que la contiene. ¡Ay de aquel genio las fulgentes alas Se lastimaban con el roce duro De la materia frágil y grosera, Que lo encerraba, cual estrecho muro. Asaz sufriste ¡oh mísero! no era La tierra tu morada. La profunda Sed de goces y amor, que desdeñaba Mezquinas fuentes de la tierra inmunda; El inmenso vacío Te envenenaba heridas sin remedio. ¡Todo á su fin llegó! ¡todo ha cesado! ¡Dame, Señor, la firme voluntad, Compañera y sostén de la virtud; La que sabe en el golfo hallar quietud Y en medio de las sombras claridad: La que trueca en tesón la veleidad Y el ocio en perenal solicitud, Y las ásperas fiebres en salud, Y los torpes engaños en verdad! Y así conseguirá mi corazón Que los favores que á tu amor debí, Te ofrezcan algún fruto en galardón... Y aun tú, Señor, conseguirás así Que no llegue á romper mi confusión La imagen tuya que pusiste en mí. Por las flores proclamado Rey de una hermosa pradera, Un clavel afortunado Dió principio á su reinado Al nacer la primavera. El regio manto de grana, Y sobre la frente ufana La corona de rocío. Su comitiva de honor Mandaba, por ser costumbre, El céfiro volador, Yerbas y malvas de olor. Su voluntad poderosa, Porque también era uso, Quiso una flor para esposa; Y regiamente dispuso Elegir la más hermosa. Como era costumbre y ley, Y porque causa delicia En la numerosa grey, Pronto corrió la noticia Por los estados del rey. Y en revuelta actividad Cada flor abre el arcano De su fecunda beldad, Por prender la voluntad Del hermoso soberano. Y hasta las menos apuestas Engalanarse se vían Con harta envidia, dispuestas A ver las solemnes fiestas Que celebrarse debían. Lujosa la Corte brilla: El rey, admirado, duda, Cuando ocultarse sencilla Y por si el regio esplendor De su corona le inquieta, Pregúntale con amor: Dijo temblando la flor. --«¿Y te ocultas cuidadosa Y no luces tus colores, Violeta dulce y medrosa, Hoy que entre todas las flores Va el rey á elegir esposa?» Siempre temblando la flor, Aunque llena de placer, Suspiró y dijo:--«Señor, Yo no puede merecer Tan distinguido favor.» El rey, suspenso, la mira Y se inclina dulcemente; Tanta modestia le admira; Su blanda esencia respira, Y dice alzando la frente: «Me depara mi ventura Esposa noble y apuesta; Sepa, si alguno murmura, Que la mejor hermosura Es la hermosura modesta.» Dijo, y el aura afanosa Publicó en forma de ley, Con voz dulce y melodiosa, Que la violeta es la esposa Elegida por el rey. Pruebas de amor manifiestas, Y en aquel reinado fueron Todas las flores modestas. Saeta que voladora Cruza, arrojada al azar, Sin adivinarse dónde Temblando se clavará; Hoja que del árbol seca Arrebata el vendaval, Sin que nadie acierte el surco Donde á caer volverá; Gigante ola que el viento Riza y empuja en el mar, Y rueda y pasa, y no sabe Qué playa buscando va; Luz que en cercos temblorosos Brilla, próxima á expirar, Ignorándose cual de ellos El último brillará; Eso soy yo, que al acaso Cruzo el mundo, sin pensar De dónde vengo, ni adónde Mis pasos me llevarán. VII {p. 304} Del salón en el ángulo obscuro, De su dueño tal vez olvidada, Silenciosa y cubierta de polvo Veíase el arpa. ¡Cuánta nota dormía en sus cuerdas, Como el pájaro duerme en las ramas, Esperando la mano de nieve Que sabe arrancarla! ¡Ay! pensé; ¡cuántas veces el genio Así duerme en el fondo del alma, Una voz, como Lázaro, espera Que le diga: «Levántate y anda!» Cuando miro el azul horizonte Perderse á lo lejos, Al través de una gasa de polvo Dorado é inquieto, Me parece posible arrancarme Del mísero suelo, Y flotar con la niebla dorada En átomos leves Cual ella deshecho. Cuando miro de noche en el fondo Obscuro del cielo Las estrellas temblar, como ardientes Pupilas de fuego, Me parece posible á do brillan Subir en un vuelo, Y anegarme en su luz, y con ellas En lumbre encendido Fundirme en un beso. ¡Sin embargo, estas ansias me dicen Que yo llevo algo Divino aquí dentro! ¿Qué es poesía? dices mientras clavas En mi pupila tu pupila azul; ¿Qué es poesía? Y tú me lo preguntas? Poesía... eres tú. Este armazón de huesos y pellejo, De pasear una cabeza loca Cansado se halla al fin, y no lo extraño; Pues, aunque es la verdad que no soy viejo, De la parte de vida que me toca En la vida del mundo, por mi daño He hecho un uso tal, que juraría Que he condensado un siglo en cada día. Así, aunque ahora muriera, No podría decir que no he vivido; Que el sayo, al parecer nuevo por fuera, Conozco que por dentro ha envejecido. Ha envejecido, sí; ¡pese á mi estrella! Harto lo dice ya mi afán doliente; Que hay dolor que al pasar, su horrible huella Graba en el corazón, si no en la frente. Cerraron sus ojos Que aun tenía abiertos; Taparon su cara Con un blanco lienzo; Y unos sollozando, Otros en silencio, De la triste alcoba Todos se salieron. Al muro arrojaba La sombra del lecho; Y entre aquella sombra Veíase á intervalos, Dibujarse rígida La forma del cuerpo. Despertaba el día, Y á su albor primero Con sus mil ruidos Despertaba el pueblo. Ante aquel contraste De vida y misterios, De luz y tinieblas, Medité un momento: «_¡Dios mío, qué solos Se quedan los muertos!_» De la casa en hombros Lleváronla al templo, Y en una capilla Dejaron el féretro. Allí rodearon Sus pálidos restos De amarillas velas Al dar de las ánimas El toque postrero, Acabó una vieja Sus últimos rezos; Cruzó la ancha nave, Las puertas gimieron, Y el santo recinto Quedóse desierto. De un reloj se oía Compasado el péndulo, Y de algunos cirios El chisporroteo. Tan medroso y triste, Tan obscuro y yerto Todo se encontraba... Que pensé un momento: «_¡Dios mío, qué solos Se quedan los muertos!_» De la alta campana La lengua de hierro, Le dió, volteando, Su adiós lastimero. El luto en las ropas, Amigos y deudos Cruzaron en fila, Formando el cortejo. Del último asilo, Obscuro y estrecho, Abrió la piqueta El nicho á un extremo. Allí la acostaron, Tapiáronle luego, Y con un saludo Despidióse el duelo. La piqueta al hombro, El sepulturero Cantando entre dientes Se perdió á lo lejos. La noche se entraba, Reinaba el silencio; Perdido en las sombras, Medité un momento: En las largas noches Del helado invierno, Cuando las maderas Crujir hace el viento Y azota los vidrios El fuerte aguacero, De la pobre niña A solas me acuerdo. Allí cae la lluvia Con un son eterno; Allí la combate El soplo del cierzo. Del húmedo muro Tendida en el hueco, Acaso de frío Se hielan sus huesos!... ¿Vuelve el polvo al polvo? ¿Vuela el alma al cielo? ¿Todo es vil materia ¡No sé; pero hay algo Que explicar no puedo Que al par nos infunde Repugnancia y duelo, Al dejar tan tristes, Tan solos los muertos! La luna se levanta Tras las lejanas cúspides, Y cual conciencia santa Serena está la atmósfera, Sereno el mar indómito, Sereno el cielo azul... ¡Señor! cuando en la calma Solemne del crepúsculo Te busca ansiosa el alma De los mortales míseros, ¡Qué desdichados fuéramos Si no existieras tú! Tengo yo un pajarillo Que el día pasa Cantando entre las flores De mi ventana; Y un canto alegre A todo pasajero Dedica siempre. Tiene mi pajarillo Siempre armonías Para alegrar el alma Del que camina... ¡Oh cielo santo, Por qué no harán los hombres Lo que los pájaros! Cuando mi pajarillo Cantos entona, Pasajeros ingratos Cantos le arrojan: Mas no por eso Niega sus armonías Al pasajero. Tiende las leves alas, Cruza las nubes Y canta junto al cielo Con voz más dulce: «Paz á los hombres Y gloria al que en la altura Rige los orbes!» Y yo sigo el ejemplo Del ave mansa Que canta entre las flores Que poetas y pájaros Somos lo mismo. Arboledas seculares, Mansos ríos, claras fuentes, Auras puras, montes altos, Vallecitos siempre verdes, Casas blancas, torres negras, Mares agitados siempre, Paz y alegría en las almas, Santo sudor en las frentes... Esto inspira mis cantares Y esto mi Cantabria tiene. Si me pierdo, que me busquen ¡Ay, no vuelvas, Señor, tu rostro airado A un pecador contrito! Ya abandoné, de lágrimas bañado, La senda del delito. Y en ti, humilde, oh mi Dios, la vista clavo Y me aterra tu ceño, Como fija sus ojos el esclavo En la diestra del dueño. Que en dudas engolfado, hasta tu esfera Junto al ardiente fuego. Si en profano laúd lanzó mi boca Torpes himnos al viento, Yo estrellaré, Señor, contra una roca El impuro instrumento. ¡Levántate del polvo, arpa sagrada, Henchida de armonía! Y tú, por el perdón purificada, Levántate, alma mía! Y yo también al despuntar la aurora, Y por el ancho mundo, Cantaré de la diestra vengadora El poder sin segundo. Va á rezar, hija mía. Ya es la hora De la conciencia y del pensar profundo. Cesó el trabajo afanador, y al mundo La sombra va á colgar su pabellón. Sacude el polvo el árbol del camino Al soplo de la noche, y en el suelto Manto de la sutil neblina envuelto Se ve temblar el viejo torreón. ¡Mira! Su ruedo de cambiante nácar El Occidente más y más angosta; Para la pobre cena aderezado Vuelta del labrador la esposa aguarda Con su tierna familia en el umbral. Brota del seno de la azul esfera Uno tras otro fúlgido diamante; Y ya apenas de un carro vacilante Se oye á distancia el desigual rumor. Todo se hunde en la sombra: el monte, el valle, Y la iglesia, y la choza, y la alquería; Y á los destellos últimos del día Se orienta en el desierto el viajador. Naturaleza toda gime; el viento En la arboleda, el pájaro en el nido, Y la oveja en su trémulo balido, Y el arroyuelo en su correr fugaz. El día es para el mal y los afanes: ¡Hé aquí la noche plácida y serena! El hombre tras la cuita y la faena Quiere descanso y oración y paz. Sonó en la torre la señal: los niños Conversan con espíritus alados; Y los ojos al cielo levantados Invocan de rodillas al Señor. Las manos juntas y los pies desnudos, Fe en el pecho, alegría en el semblante, Con una misma voz, á un mismo instante, Al Padre Universal piden amor. Y luego dormirán; y en leda tropa Sobre la cuna volarán ensueños, Ensueños de oro, diáfanos, risueños. Visiones que imitar no osó el pincel, Rosas, como lo chupan las abejas A la fresca azucena y al clavel. Como para dormirse, bajo el ala Esconde su cabeza la avecilla, Tal la niñez en su oración sencilla Adormece su mente virginal. ¡Oh dulce devoción, que reza y ríe! ¡De natural piedad primer aviso! ¡Fragancia de la flor del paraíso! ¡Preludio del concierto celestial! Si á mis sollozos les pregunto adónde La dura causa está de su aflicción, De un ¡ay! que ya pasó, la voz responde: «De mi antiguo dolor _recuerdos_ son.» Y alguna vez, cual otras infelice, Que sollozo postrado en la inacción! De otro ¡ay! que aun no llegó, la voz me dice: «De mi dolor _presentimientos_ son.» ¡Ruda inquietud de la existencia impía! ¿Dónde calma ha de hallar el corazón, Si hasta sollozos que la _inercia_ cría, _Presentimientos ó memorias_ son? Fué el Dante al infierno á dar, Su conciencia, hija de Dios, Dejó á la puerta al entrar. Después que á salir volvió, Su conciencia el Dante hallando, Con ella otra vez cargó, Mas dijo así suspirando: Del infierno en lo profundo, No ví tan atroz sentencia Como es la de ir por el mundo Cargado con la conciencia. --Escribidme una carta, señor cura. --Ya sé para quién es. --¿Sabéis quién es, porque una noche obscura Nos visteis juntos?--Pues. --Perdonad, mas...--No extraño ese tropiezo. La noche... la ocasión... Dadme pluma y papel. Gracias. Empiezo: _Mi querido Ramón:_ --¿Querido?... Pero, en fin, ya lo habéis puesto... --_¡Qué triste estoy!_ ¿No es eso?--Por supuesto. --_Qué triste estoy sin ti!_ --Para un viejo, una niña siempre tiene El pecho de cristal. _¿Qué es sin ti el mundo? Un valle de amargura. ¿Y contigo? Un edén._ --Haced la letra clara, señor cura, Que lo entienda eso bien. --_El beso aquel que de marchar á punto --Cuando se va y se viene y se está junto, Siempre... no os afrentéis. _Y si volver tu afecto no procura Tanto me harás sufrir_... --¿Sufrir y nada más? No, señor cura, ¡Que me voy á morir! --¿Morir? ¿Sabéis que es ofender al cielo?... --Yo no pongo _morir_.--¡Qué hombre de hielo! ¡Quién supiera escribir! ¡Señor Rector, señor Rector! En vano Me queréis complacer, Si no encarnan los signos de la mano Todo el sér de mi sér. Escribidle, por Dios, que el alma mía Ya en mí no quiere estar; Que la pena no me ahoga cada día... Porque puedo llorar. Que olvidan de la risa el movimiento A fuerza de sentir. Que mis ojos, que él tiene por tan bellos, Cargados con mi afán, Como no tienen quien se mire en ellos, Cerrados siempre están. Que es, de cuantos tormentos he sufrido, La ausencia el más atroz; Que es un perpetuo sueño de mi oído El eco de su voz. Que siendo por su causa, ¡el alma mía Goza tanto en sufrir!... Dios mío, ¡cuantas cosas le diría Si supiera escribir!... --Pues señor, ¡bravo amor! Copio y concluyo: Que es inútil saber para esto arguyo Ni el griego ni el latín.-- (_A S.M. la Reina Doña Isabel II_) Más que la luz de la razón humana, Amo la oscuridad de mi deseo, Y más que la verdad de cuanto veo, Quiero el error de mi esperanza vana. Si hoy, comparado á mí, todo es ateo, Tal vez de todo dudaré mañana. Entre creer y dudar, mi alma indecisa, Mientras pasa esta vida de quebranto, Que es eterna en dar fin, yendo de prisa, El dudar y creer confunde tanto, Que unas veces mi llanto acaba en risa, Y otras veces mi risa acaba en llanto. ¡Genio infeliz! en su primer momento A su amiga la muerte le decía: --«Dame la nada, esa región vacía En que no hay ni placer ni sufrimiento. Donde se halla la vida está el tormento. Dame paz en la nada--repetía,-- Y mata con el cuerpo el alma mía, Esta amarga raíz del pensamiento.» Al oirle implorar de esta manera Consolando al filósofo afligido, La muerte le responde:--«Espera, espera; Que en paga de lo bien que me has querido, Mañana te daré la muerte entera Y volverás al sér del que no ha sido.» Uno altivo, otro sin ley, Así dos hablando están: --Yo soy Alejandro el rey. --Y yo Diógenes el can. ¿Qué quieres de mí?--Yo, nada; Que no me quites el sol. Pero á mí nada me asombra. --Yo puedo hacerte dichoso. --Lo sé, no haciéndome sombra. --Tendrás riquezas sin tasa, Un palacio y un dosel. --¿Y para qué quiero casa Más grande que este tonel? --Mantos reales gastarás De oro y seda.--¡Nada, nada! ¿No ves que me abriga más Esta capa remendada? --Ricos manjares devoro. --Yo con pan duro me allano. --Bebo el Chipre en copas de oro. --Yo bebo el agua en la mano. --Mandaré cuanto tú mandes. --¡Vanidad de cosas vanas! ¿Y á unas miserias tan grandes Las llamáis dichas humanas? --Mi poder á cuantos gimen, Va con gloria á socorrer. --¡La gloria, capa del crimen; Crimen sin capa ¡el poder! --¿Y eres el dueño del mundo, No siendo dueño de ti? --Yo sé que, del orbe dueño, Seré del mundo el dichoso. --Yo sé que tu último sueño Será tu primer reposo. --Yo impongo á mi arbitrio leyes. --¿Tanto de injusto blasonas? --Llevo vencidos cien reyes. --¡Buen bandido de coronas! --Vivir podré aborrecido, Mas no moriré olvidado. --Viviré desconocido, Mas nunca moriré odiado. --¡Adiós! pues romper no puedo De tu cinismo el crisol. --¡Adiós! ¡Cuán dichoso quedo, Pues no me quitas el sol!-- Y al partir con mutuo agravio, Uno altivo, otro implacable, --¡Miserable! dice el sabio; Y el Rey dice:--¡Miserable! «¡Cuán honda, oh cielos, será!,» Dije, mi tumba mirando, Que va tragando, tragando, Cuanto nació y nacerá. Los ojos metí espantado Dentro de mi corazón. Mas cuando dentro miré, Mis ojos en él no hallaron Ni un sér de los que me amaron, Ni un sér de los que yo amé. Si no hallo aquí una ilusión, Y allí sólo hallo el vacío, ¿Cuál es más hondo, Dios mío, Mi tumba, ó mi corazón?... Sobre la ciudad sus alas, En el silencio sus galas Muestra la noche gentil; Abren su seno las flores Al rocío transparente, Y se respira el ambiente Perfumado del abril. En Nápoles, en las noches De primaveras serenas, Vierte por todas sus venas Naturaleza su amor; Y es el silencio armonía, Bálsamo el aire, las flores Ninfas, las sombras colores, Y los claros resplandor. Y melancolía infunde Tan süave al corazón, Que en la atmósfera mecido De sus sueños se recrea, Gira y corre distraído De ilusión en ilusión. No va el silfo más ligero En un rayo de la luna; Ya acaricia lisonjero Con sus besos una flor; Ya en la límpida laguna Forma un rïel de topacio, Ya perdido en el espacio Se disipa cual vapor. De la inclinada fuente En copioso raudal brotaste pura, Alma luz refulgente; Entonces con ternura Latió fecundo el seno de natura. Tú eres la luz, la vida, La inteligencia, el fuego, el movimiento; Tú la llama escondida Que da al sol alimento, Y armonioso vigor al firmamento. Con vivífico aliento Virtud prestaste á la materia inerte, Al sacarlos del seno de la muerte. Y la forma elevada Misteriosa del hombre creaste luego; A su mente sagrada Diste noble sosiego, A sus ojos el brillo de tu fuego. Levantaste su frente, Hermoso asiento de tu lumbre viva, Hacia el cielo eminente, Do á su mirada altiva Ni de tu sér la oscuridad se esquiva. Cuanto existe en la tierra, De oro y fango, de bálsamo y veneno, Cuanta virtud encierra En su fecundo seno El éter infinito, de astros lleno, Diste con armonía, Breve mundo, del hombre á la existencia; Como en oriente el día Brotó la inteligencia, De su completo ser oculta esencia. La pompa de los mundos, Todo sér, toda vida en ella vive; Los ámbitos profundos Del cielo en sí recibe, Y de su inmensidad los circunscribe. Cuanto aborrece y ama, Todo deleite y pena Está en el alma, y los espacios llena. Su luz el astro envía, No acaba su porfía, No hiere el mortal velo, Mas en el alma está como en el cielo. Al sér amante en la creación entera? ¿De qué beldad se paga Si por alta manera Todo en el alma está como en su esfera? ¿A qué este amor intenso? ¿Qué ignoto sér la voluntad adora? ¿Dónde el objeto inmenso, La fuerza vencedora Que domina al amor que le devora? El alma es consonancia De todo lo creado, y sus amores Son la luz, la fragancia De estrellas y de flores, ¿Quién detiene perfumes y fulgores? La bien templada lira De cada cuerda exhala melodiosa Dando el conjunto música armoniosa. Enemigas y fieras Potencias une al mismo fin el hado; Así de las esferas El giro arrebatado Da un concierto sublime y alternado. ¿Por qué los corazones miserables, Por qué las almas viles, En los fieros combates de la vida Ni luchan ni resisten? El espíritu humano es más constante Cuanto más se levanta: Diós puso el fango en la llanura, y puso La roca en la montaña. La blanca nieve que en los hondos valles Derrítese ligera, En las altivas cumbres permanece Inmutable y eterna. Roto el respeto, la obediencia rota, De Dios y de la ley perdido el freno, Vas marchando entre lágrimas y cieno, Y aire de tempestad tu rostro azota. Ni causa oculta, ni razón ignota Busques al mal que te devora el seno; Tu iniquidad, como sutil veneno, Las fuerzas de tus músculos agota. No esperes en revuelta sacudida Alcanzar el remedio por tu mano ¡Oh sociedad rebelde y corrompida! Perseguirás la libertad en vano, Que cuando un pueblo la virtud olvida, Lleva en sus propios vicios su tirano. Es de noche: el monasterio Que alzó Felipe Segundo Para admiración del mundo Y ostentación de su imperio, Yace envuelto en el misterio Y en las tinieblas sumido. De nuestro poder, ya hundido, Último resto glorioso, Parece que está el coloso Al pie del monte, rendido. El viento del Guadarrama Deja sus antros obscuros, Y estrellándose en los muros Del templo, se agita y brama. Fugaz y rojiza llama Surca el ancho firmamento, Con que llama á la oración La campana del convento. La iglesia, triste y sombría, En honda calma reposa, Tan helada y silenciosa Como una tumba vacía. Colgada lámpara envía Su incierta luz á lo lejos, Y á sus trémulos reflejos Llegan, huyen, se levantan Esas mil sombras que espantan A los niños y á los viejos. De pronto, claro y distinto, La regia cripta conmueve Ruido extraño, que aunque leve, Llena el mortuorio recinto. Con mano firme y segura Entreabre su sepultura, Y haciendo una horrible mueca, Su faz carcomida y seca Asoma por la hendidura. Golpea su descarnada Frente con tenaz empeño, Como quien sale de un sueño Sin acordarse de nada. Recorre con su mirada Aquel lugar solitario, Alza el mármol funerario, Y arrebatado y resuelto Salta del sepulcro, envuelto En su andrajoso sudario. Que oyó en el siglo, sumisa Y amedrentada la tierra. «¡Volcad la losa que os cierra! Vástagos de imperial rama, Varones que honráis la fama, Antiguas y excelsas glorias, De vuestras urnas mortuorias Salid, que el César os llama.» Contestando á estos conjuros, Un clamor confuso y hondo Parece brotar del fondo, De aquellos mármoles duros. Surgen vapores impuros De los sepulcros ya abiertos: La serie de reyes muertos Después á salir empieza, Y es de notar la tristeza, El gesto despavorido De los que han envilecido La corona en su cabeza. Grave, solemne, pausado, Se alza Felipe Segundo, En su lucha con el mundo Vencido, mas no domado. Su hijo se despierta al lado, Y destrás del rey devoto, Aquel que humillado y roto Vió desmoronarse á España, Cual granítica montaña A impulsos del terremoto. Luego el monarca enfermizo, De infausta y negra memoria, Bajo el poder de su hechizo Se estremece todavía. ¡Ay, qué terrible armonía, Qué obscuro enlace se nota Y su exhausta monarquía! Con terrífica sorpresa Y en silencioso concierto, Todos los reyes que han muerto Van saliendo de su huesa. La ya apagada pavesa Cobra los vitales bríos, Y se aglomeran sombríos Aquellos yertos despojos, Aquellas cuencas sin ojos, Aquellos cráneos vacíos. De los monarcas en pos, Respondiendo al llamamiento, Cual si llegara el momento Del santo juicio de Dios, Por claustros y corredores, Príncipes, grandes señores, Prelados, frailes, guerreros, Favoritos, consejeros, Teólogos é inquisidores. Por mandato soberano De Carlos, que el cetro ostenta, Llega al órgano y se sienta Un viejo esqueleto humano. Y la música sublime, Que á inmensos raudales brota, Parece que en cada nota Reza y llora, canta y gime. Uniendo al acorde santo Su voz, los muertos despojos Caen ante el ara de hinojos Y á Dios elevan su canto. Honda expresión del quebranto, Aquel eco de la tumba Crece, se dilata, zumba, Y al paso que va creciendo, Resuena con el estruendo De un mundo que se derrumba: «Fuimos las ondas de un río Caudaloso y desbordado. Hoy la fuente se ha secado, Hoy el cauce está vacío. Ya ¡oh Dios! nuestro poderío Se extingue, se apaga y muere. «¡Maldito, maldito sea Aquel portentoso invento Que dió vida al pensamiento Y alas de luz á la idea! El verbo animado ondea Y como el rayo nos hiere. «¡Maldito el hilo fecundo Que á los pueblos eslabona, Y busca, y cuenta, y pregona Las pulsaciones del mundo! «Ya no vive cada raza En solitario destierro, Ya con vínculo de hierro La humana especie se enlaza. Ya el aislamiento rechaza: Ya la libertad prefiere. «Rígido y brutal azote Con desacordado empuje Sobre las espaldas cruje Del rey y del sacerdote. Ya nada existe que embote El golpe ¡oh Dios! que nos hiere. «Mas ¡ay! que en su audacia loca, También el orgullo humano Pone en los cielos su mano Y á ti, Señor, te provoca. Mientras blasfeme su boca Ni paz ni ventura espere. «No en la tormenta enemiga: No en el insondable abismo: El mundo lleva en sí mismo El rayo que le castiga. Sin compasión ni fatiga Hoy nos mata; pero muere. «Grande y caudaloso río, Que corres precipitado, Ve que el nuestro se ha secado Ni la iniquidad prospere! Súbito, con sordo ruido Cruje el Órgano y estalla, La luz se amortigua y calla El concurso dolorido. Al disiparse el sonido Del grave y solemne canto Llega á su colmo el espanto De las mudas calaveras, Y de sus órbitas hueras Desciende abundoso llanto. A medida que decrece La luz misteriosa y vaga, Todo murmullo se apaga Y el cuadro se desvanece. Con el alba que aparece La procesión se evapora, Y mientras la blanca aurora Esparce su lumbre escasa, A lo lejos silba y pasa La rauda locomotora. ¡Y nada respetó la edad avara... Ni regio pueblo, ni sagradas leyes!... En paz yacieron extranjeras greyes Do la voz del tribuno resonara. Ni de Clitumno los hermosos bueyes En la pompa triunfal marchan al ara. Como nubes, cual sombras, como naves, Pasaron ley, ejércitos, grandeza... Sólo una cruz se alzó sobre tal ruina. Dime tú, ¡oh cruz! que sus destinos sabes: ¿Será de Roma la futura alteza Humana gloria ó majestad divina? ¿Por qué dicen, señora, Que es el dolor la tierra conquistada Por el moderno reflexivo numen? ¿No hay lágrimas de ardiente poësía Hasta en el polvo más menudo y leve De los sagrados mármoles de Atenas? Hoy mismo, ¿quién podría Llenar las soledades de tu alma, Con voz más empapada de consuelos, Que la solemne voz medio cristiana, Présaga del dolor de otras edades, Con que Menandro repitió en la escena: «Joven sucumbe el que los dioses aman»? Le amaron... sucumbió... ¡Triste destino, Nunca cual hoy profundo y lastimero! No sé qué vaga nube, De futura tormenta anunciadora, Cubrió mi frente, al encontrar perdida, De un escoliasta en las insulsas hojas, Esa eterna razón de lo que muere Antes de tiempo y sin razón cortado. En el campo purísimo y sombrío Del amador toscano de la nada, Que en versos no entendidos Del vulgo vil, y á espíritus gentiles, Como el tuyo, señora, reservados, La secreta hermandad te descubría Del _amor_ y la _muerte_. Y quizá soñarías Aplausos, y victorias, y loores, Y el tronco de su estirpe, Por él con nuevas y pujantes ramas De perenne verdor engalanado... ¡Alégrate, señora, Que aun fué mejor su venturosa suerte! Intacto lleva á Dios su pensamiento; No deja tras de sí recuerdo impuro, Y ni la envidia misma Puede clavar en él la torpe lengua. Blanco de ciega saña Nunca se vió, ni de traición aleve, Ni, rota el ara del amor primero, Halló trivial lo que juzgó divino... Acá le llorarán; allá en el cielo Árbol será firmísimo y lozano Lo que era germen en la ingrata tierra. Yo le envidio más bien. ¡Qué hermosa muerte! ¡Qué serena agonía, Cual sintiendo posarse Los labios del arcángel en sus labios! Y sobre el mar, que ronco festejaba El vuelo triunfador del alma regia Subiendo libre al inmortal seguro! ¡Morir entre los besos de su madre, En paz con Dios y en paz con los humanos, Mientras tronaba desde rota nube La bendición de Dios sobre los mares! *abedes*, habéis. *abino*, aconteció, sucedió. *absentes*, ausentes. *abtores*, autores. *actores*, autores. *adormir*, adormecer. *adverguada*, albergada. *afíncase*, desea con ahínco. *aflicion*, aflicción. *al*, otro, otra cosa. *alaguëro*, halagüeño. *alfajas*, alhajas. *algurismo*, argumentación, raciocinio. *amargurados*, amargados. *amidos*, de mala gana, por fuerza. *andades*, andáis. *aniello*, anillo. *anparar*, amparar. *antoxa*, antoja. *ardid*, osado, valeroso. *asmar*, pensar, juzgar. *aspetto*, aspecto. *assechan*, acechan. *athesorastes*, atesorasteis. *avía*, había, tenía. *aviendo*, habiendo. *avissatnos*, avisadnos. *avrá*, habrá, tendrá. *baraja*, pelea, contienda, confusión. *(baratado)*, ir mal baratado, hacer mal negocio. *barva punniente*, barbiponiente. *baxillas*, vajillas. *bayaes*, vayáis. *blasmo*, bálsamo. *bolliçio*, bullicio. *brial*, vestido de seda. *cabdal*, caudal. *cabelos*, cabellos. *cabo*, fin, término. *calabrina*, hedor. *calentura*, calor. *callando*, callado, callandico. *camiaré*, cambiaré. *capiello*, sombrero. *captivo*, cautivo. *carbonco*, carbunco, carbunclo. *(caro), hacer caro*, encarecer. *cativo*, cautivo, mísero. *cavalero*, caballero. *cavalgante*, caballero. *çentura*, cintura. *çerca*, cerca de. *çertenidad*, certeza. *cevil*, civil, bajo, humilde. *comedio*, medio, remedio. *complido*, cumplido, entero. *complisyon*, complexión. *connoçer*, conocer. *conorta*, consuela. *conparado*, comparado. *conplimiento*, cumplimiento, perfección. *conplir*, cumplir. *contrallo*, contrario. *coral*, corales. *(costunbrado), bien c.*, bien criado, de buenos modales. *criamiento*, crianza. *crueza*, crudeza, crueldad. *cualquer*, cualquier. *curedes*, curéis, os inquietéis. *curar de*, interesarse en. *cuytedes*, acuitéis. *charambela*, instrumento músico. *dapnaçion*, damnación, condenación. *deçiplo*, discípulo. *dellas*, de ellas. *demandades*, demandáis, buscáis. *dende*, de allí. *denegrido*, ennegrecido. *dereyta*, derecha. *descanto*, disonancia. *desconortado*, desconhortado, desconsolado. *desora*, deshora. *después*, después de. *desque*, desde que. *deste*, de este. *desto*, de esto. *devría*, debería. *dobrado*, doblado. *donas*, dones, regalos. *doncela*, doncella. *donneo*, donaire. *egual*, igual, par, perfilado. *eguala*, iguala, compara. *egualdat*, igualdad. *embiados*, enviados. *ementando*, recordando. *encomiença*, comienza. *ende*, de allí; *por ende*, por eso. *enojedes*, enojéis. *entros*, entróse. *enxiemplo*, ejemplo. *ermoso*, hermoso. *escondedijo*, escondidijo, escondrijo. *escuchedes*, escuchéis. *escureça*, obscuridad. *escuro*, oscuro. *esfryado*, resfriado, refrescado. *esparta*, disperse, esparza. *estremuloso*, trémulo. *exebçion*, excepción. *fablar*, hablar. *fabrido*, fabricado, labrado. *fadar*, decir los hados, destinar, indicar. *fallaredes*, hallaréis. *fallençia*, falencia. *fallesçer*, fallecer, faltar. *fallimiento*, falta. *fazientes*, hacientes. *fediente*, hediondo. *fegura*, figura. *festino*, presto, pronto. *feziste*, hiciste. *ffallar*, hallar. *fiyestas*, fiestas. *fizies*, hiciese. *foidor*, huidor, el que huye. *folgura*, holgura, comodidad. *foyría*, huiría. *frayre*, fraile. *frecha*, flecha. *fructas*, frutas. *frydor*, frío, frialdad. *furtar*, hurtar. *gergenza*, una piedra preciosa. *gostará*, gustará. *habredes*, habréis. *hacerio*, azar, desgracia. *hezistes*, hicisteis. *hordenar*, ordenar. *imenso*, inmenso. *imperante*, emperador. *impunable*, inexpugnable. *inforismo*, aforismo, sentencia. *junniemos*, juntámonos. *laçerio*, trabajo, desgracia. *ladronçiellos*, ladroncillos. *laude*, alabanza, elogio. *lazrados*, lacerados, míseros. *levém*, levantéme. *leystes*, leisteis. *libelo*, escrito forense. *lumbroso*, luminoso, resplandeciente. *luvas*, guantes. *magnifestava*, manifestaba. *magnifiesto*, manifiesto. *maguer*, aunque. *malgranar*, huerto de granados. *man á mano*, en seguida. *manyera*, manera. *manzilla*, piedad, compasión. *meaja*, meaja, miaja, migaja. *mesaiero*, mensajero. *mescladizos*, mezclados. *mesmos*, mismos. *mesura*, medida, manera. *mesurado*, medido. *Micer*, mi señor, título antiguo aragonés. *ningund*, ningún, ninguno. *ningunt*, ningún. *nonbre*, nombre. *ovier*, hubiera. *oviera*, hubiera. *ovieron*, hubieron. *oviesse*, hubiese, tuviese. *oyredes*, oiréis. *(par) em par*, uno con otro. *paredes*, paréis. *paresçer*, parecer. *pedricado*, predicado. *pedricador*, predicador. *pedricando*, predicando. *perderedes*, perderéis. *perenal*, perenne. *periglo*, peligro. *perlado*, prelado. *pestiellos*, pestillos. *(plan), a plan*, llanamente, seguramente. *plática*, práctica. *plegadizos*, allegadizos, arrimadizos. *plegué*, llegué. *podades*, podáis. *podedes*, podéis. *poetría*, poesía. *polido*, pulido. *porende*, por eso. *prazer*, placer. *prelasía*, prelacía. *prender*, tomar. *priado*, pronto. *privado*, presto. *probeça*, pobreza. *probedat*, pobreza. *proveza*, pobreza. *pues*, después que, desde que. *punad*, pugnad, procurad. *(punniente), barva punniente*, barbiponiente. *quant*, cuando, pues. *quánto*, cuánto; *quanto que*, mientras que. *quella*, que ella. *queque*, desde que, así que. *queredes*, queréis. *queres*, quieres. *querrýes*, querrías. *quisieram*, quisiera me. *quisquiere*, quienquiera, todo el mundo. *raçion*, limosna. *recabdo*, recaudo, recato. *recurssa*, recurre. *repienden*, arrepienten. *repiso*, arrepentido. *replicaçion*, réplica. *reqüesta*, ruego, demanda, petición. *resçibe*, recibe. *rioaduchos*, advenedizos, allegadizos. *rressuçetarýa*, resucitaría. *rridientes*, rientes. *rroyente*, roedor. *sabedes*, sabéis. *sabiençia*, sapiencia. *salgades*, salgáis. *sempre*, siempre; *sempre que*, siempre que. *sen*, sentido, seso. *señor*, señor, señora. *serena*, sirena. *so*, debajo, debajo de. *sobrel*, sobre el. *sofysmo*, infiero, concluyo. *sojudgar*, sojuzgar. *sopiera*, supiera. *sospirando*, suspirando. *sospiro*, suspiro. *sotar*, saltar, bailar. *sseyendo*, siendo. *supiestes*, supisteis. *synple*, simple. *syntrýades*, sentiríais. *tenedes*, tenéis. *tiesta*, cabeza. *toliós*, quitóse. *toller*, quitar. *traspasar*, pasarse. *traxeron*, trajeron. *tredentudo*, tridente, de tres dientes. *trevejo*, burla, chanza, juego. *trihunfo*, triunfo. *truxeron*, trajeron. *turbança*, turbación, molestia. *tynazas*, tenazas. *ultra*, más allá de, fuera de. *vengades*, vengáis. *verdat*, verdad. *veredes*, veréis. *vernás*, vendrás. *vertiós*, vertióse. *vestro*, vuestro. *viestes*, visteis. *vilano*, villano. *xamet*, jamete, tela de seda. *ynplision*, infección. irregularities may be scribal only. impersonal construction. l. 17. *la calor*: a number of abstracts in _-or_ were treated as ll. 31-32. The rhyme is imperfect or shows dialectal influence. adjective _senior_, was in Latin. l. 17. *un su mesaiero*, _a messenger of his_. Cf. l. 27, *es meu ll. 21-22. The MS. has *buenas yentes* and *punnientes*. *Page 7.*--l. 3. This line is an emendation of Morel-Fatio's. _Biblioteca de autores españoles_. *Page 8.*--l. 1. *velar*, the infinitive with imperative force. méridionale_, 1e série, tome VI). *Page 9.*--l. 22. There is a metrical translation of this poem by l. 8. In this song the author abandons the _cuaderna vía_ for the l. 28. *De quien*, equivalent to *por quien*. attributed to Don Juan Manuel in the _Cancionero General_, the *Page 14.*--l. 9. *dada*. Occasionally the Old Spanish participle identified by the exegetists. variously estimated. Baist (Gröber's _Grundriss der romanischen *çiençia gaya*, _art of poetry_; a term of Provençal origin. Castilian, and most of his poems, which are in the conventional l. 20. *santa Ana*: a church and a square of Seville. l. 27. *al que dixo*: *Ave*, i.e., to the Archangel Gabriel. l. 28. *paraysso*: the doubled _s_ here and in *rysso*, v. 25, is l. 30. *ryso*: *risa* is needed for the rhyme. l. 12. *nin roso nin velloso*, _nothing at all_. l. 12. *que se raçona*, _which is related_. l. 15. *punto*: strengthens the negation, _not at all_. l. 23. This is the most celebrated of all Santillana's poems. l. 34. *conosçellas*: i.e., *conocerlas*. The assimilation of the _Cancionero de Stúñiga_--caused it to be called by his name. Cf. MANUEL DE LANDO was one of these poets and a reputed disciple of l. 13. *tan privado*, _so great a favorite_. l. 28. *en ygualdad*, etc.: i.e., _in placidity of countenance_. MOSSÉN JUAN TALLANTE. The title of this personage may indicate an _Cancionero General_. A verse translation of this one is given by Petrarch, and the _cinque cento_ poets of Italy. Among his more l. 25. *De desesperado*, _through despair_. literature. Cf. _Biblioteca de autores españoles_, vol. 32. *Page 76.*--l. 3. *Petrarquistas*: imitators of the Italian poet GREGORIO DE SILVESTRE. A Portuguese, organist of the cathedral at _Biblioteca de autores españoles_, vol. 32. triumphed and Mohammedan inroads into the Occident were checked. Cervantes was crippled in this battle.--*Ponto*, _ocean_, _sea_. l. 14. *El joven de Austria*, i.e., Don John. l. 23. *Pasitea*: one of the three Graces. ll. 27-28. Allusions to the campaigns of the Turks in Hungary and publishing a Spanish translation of the _Song of Solomon_, he was Menéndez y Pelayo, _De la poesía mística_ (_Estudios de crítica l. 17. *Sansueña*: the Spanish kingdom of Sansueña figures in the l. 19. *dende*: equivalent to the modern *desde*. l. 19. *el puerto ... sagrado*: the port of Tarifa. JUAN DE TIMONEDA. A Valencian bookseller and one of the earliest _Biblioteca de autores españoles_. expósito_) by the Duke of Rivas (cf. p. 258). Cf. Lockhart's l. 27. *Laín Calvo*: the Cid's father. l. 31. *marquesota*, _a high collar of linen_. heroico-popular_, pp. 219 ff., and see Lockhart's version. l. 14. *d'ello se serviría*, i.e., _he would requite it_. *Page 122.*--l. 9. *Martín González*: the champion of the king of l. 33. Byron adds stanzas from another ballad. l. 4. *Para la acompañar*: the older order of pronouns. See the translations of these ballads by J. Y. Gibson, _The Cid l. 27. *Al punto que*: equivalent to *El punto á que*. l. 15. *Carpacio*, _the Carpathian mountains_. CONDE DE VILLAMEDIANA. A noble of the court of Philip IV., and a l. 12. *habemos*: older and fuller form of *hemos*. l. 14. *Vizcaya*: where, of course, Basque and not Spanish is the JOSÉ DE VALDIVIELSO (or VALDIVIESO). The author of some _autos bibliófilos andaluces_. l. 22. This sonnet contains a prophecy which recent events have l. 5. *Muerte infeliz*: upon the death of Dom Sebastian, king of _Fuentecillas que reís_ is translated. l. 28. An attraction of the verb by the predicate. published by Barrera for the _Sociedad de bibliófilos españoles_, *Page 177.*--l. 9. A good example of Sapphic verse in Spanish. SOR JUANA INÉS DE LA CRUZ. A Mexican nun who has left us secular abandon_. l. 16. *boquilobo*: cf. *boca de lobo*, _dense darkness_. l. 17. *Cienpozuelos*: i.e., any plain individual. l. 26. *la irascible*: supply lengua. l. 27. *alcadí*: i.e., *cadí* with the Arabic article prefixed. *Page 198.*--l. 9. *Jarama*: a river flowing into the Tagus near barrier_. Gibraltar. As a writer, he belonged to the French school, for his l. 18. *Arvas* (or *Arbas*): a village of Oviedo. l. 31. *Ildefonso*: San Ildefonso, bishop of Toledo (d. 667). l. 20. *Valencia*: the French evacuated this city July 5, 1813. l. 23. *Alcañiz*: a city of Teruel. The French General Suchet was l. 24. *Alberche*: river of Toledo, flowing into the Tagus. l. 25. *Tormes*: a tributary of the Duero. l. 28. *Llobregat*: a river of the province of Barcelona. l. 29. *Gades*: i.e., Cadiz. In 1812, the year after the death of JUAN MELÉNDEZ VALDÉS. Appointed a Professor at the University of españoles_, vol. 63; the _Life_ by Quintana in the edition of the *Page 218.*--l. 7. Note that *suave* is generally trisyllabic. JOSÉ IGLESIAS DE LA CASA. A cleric and a member of the Salamancan l. 25. *la piramidal*: a kind of campanula or bell-flower. himself_. l. 25. Cf. the whimsical sonnet of Lope de Vega on p. 153. l. 29. *¡Hay tal porfía!* _Did you ever see such obstinacy!_ *Page 239.*--l. 25. An ode in praise of Alonso Pérez de Guzmán l. 17. *Alfonsos*: Alfonso VI. of Castile and his successors. l. 18. *Rodrigo*: i.e., Rodrigo de Bivar, the Cid. l. 31. *Agar*: Hagar, regarded as ancestress of the Saracens. l. 10. *Moncayo*: a mountain of Saragossa. l. 12. *Turia*: the river Guadalaviar. l. 21. *Mengíbar*: a town near Bailén. FRANCISCO MARTÍNEZ DE LA ROSA. The stateman and dramatist. As a dramatist he marks the transition from Frenchified classicism to ÁNGEL DE SAAVEDRA, DUQUE DE RIVAS. Romanticism triumphed in Spain conventional--emanates from his own inner nature. Cf. his _Obras l. 28. *Stambul*: the Turkish name of Constantinople. MANUEL DE CABANYES. A Catalonian who wrote in Spanish. A pupil of regularly applied to poets in Spanish. remarkable for pure lyrism than for his epico-lyric or narrative JUAN EUGENIO HARTZENBUSCH. A romantic dramatist--author of the sentimental _Amantes de Teruel_---and a lyric poet of modest hispano-americanos_, vol. II, pp. 15 ff. (poems), pp. xiv ff. (an *Page 294.*--l. 15. *tu*: note the combination of the possessive *Page 295.*--l. 5. *Gévora*: a river flowing through Portugal and original, Bécquer is one of the most attractive figures in modern consonantal rhyme entirely, and made use of the simplest imagery revolucionario estaba más vivo en la opinión." All the poems here MARCELINO MENÉNDEZ Y PELAYO. One of the most illustrious literary

Roy J. (Roy Judson) Snell

The Arrow of Fire A Mystery Story for Boys

1878

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by in the Clerk's Office of A Letter from Santa Claus, The School-Teacher's Song, Letter from the West, Scraps about Dogs, A Letter from a little Girl to a Sick School-mate, A Story told under the Great Elm Tree, Scraps from a Journal, picked up in a gale of Wind, A Parody on the Mower's Song, Letter from a Little Girl to an Absent School-mate, Sketches from a Fireside Journal, As I have always been in the habit of meeting with you on this occupations, but so it is. This scholar will have an increase of memory, and thus avoid the "There is a young girl sitting by a window, looking at her Canary beautiful saved her from contamination." affection, and to her proper rank in society." No cat ever disturbed little mousey's retreat, but alas, one cold Come away girls, to labor, Brightly glows the young day; Come away, every young neighbor, To the school-room away. The clear echo ringing, Is heard on the lawn, While the school-girl is singing Her joys in the morn. In the bright glancing school-room, From tree and from stream, O'er each rose-tinted cheek-bloom, How plays the Sun's beam. Come away, &c. Come, each happy young maiden, Your lesson prepare, With heads freely laden With Learning's sweet fare. Come away, &c. Then the blithe ones come bounding, Aroused by the call, And their voices resounding Good lessons from all. Come away, &c. Hark! the scholars now wending, The street-side along, Are cheerily blending Their shouts and their song. Come away, &c. My dear Coz: Ever Yours, with kisses from all here, I remain, revolutions. In winter it imparts its generous warmth to roast On its walls hang various maps, drawings, and pictures, one in "There's not a leaf within the bower, There's not a bird upon the tree, There's not a dew drop on the flower, But bears the impress, Lord of Thee! God, thou art good! Each perfumed flower, The smiling fields, the dark green wood, The insect fluttering for an hour; All things proclaim that _God is good_." Talking of dogs, it may not be amiss to mention one or two other My dear Annie: A Happy New Year to you. Yours ever, neighbours, though I am sure I know very few of them." "I hardly think this determination is a Christian one, though I acknowledge it is very difficult to bear with such disagreeable There was a little puppy once, With silken hair and bright black face, Who, that he might not be a dunce, Was sent to school to learn apace. A pint of milk and crust of bread, Was every day his usual food; And for his rest a basket bed, Was made up warm, and nice, and good. He gambolled, frisked, and frolicked round, So full of fun the livelong day, That often did the room resound With laughter at his tricks and play. And when he had learned all he could, To keep him safe from every harm, They took him from all those he loved, And now he's living on a farm. Now large he's grown, and now he's seen, With fringing tail and drooping ears; With piercing eye and scent so keen, "Hunter's" a dog above his peers. And now for game the field he scours, Following the huntsman with his gun; But I know he thinks those school-day hours, His greatest glee, his grandest fun. Just before he left, he showed them a new book which he had been inhabitants of the "Bird's Nest." My dear Daughter: Above all, be pleasant and affectionate in your bearing to your recreation. The mother just entering, Sarah asks her permission to attend the _Mother._ "Where is to be, my dear?" _Sarah._ "Oh, mother, say, can I go?" _Mother._ "Well, you may, my dear. Good-by, Georgia." following little occurrence took place. Distinguished guests were invited, and partook of the ample refreshments. With a kiss, I remain When early morning's ruddy light Bids man to labor go, We haste, with faces fresh and bright, Our early walk to go. And then at school we next appear, To pass the hours away, And all is lively, sprightly here, Like merry, merry May. The scholars come in gladsome train, And skip along the way, Rejoiced to con their books again, As flies the happy day. With jokes, and jests, and lively din, We eat our recess cheer; While in the healthful game we join, With nought to make us fear. When evening's shades begin to fall, In study's busy hum, We willing list to learning's call, And think of days to come. We'll fill our heads with ample store, Our hearts with love are stirred; And thus, before youth's days are o'er, For age our armor gird. And when life's harvest all is done, We'll give our souls the wing, And happy spirits all as one, Make Heaven with music ring. We scholars--dal de ral dey, We'll study and then we will play; Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, play! Hey-day! yes play--hey-day; We'll study and then we will play. There was a brown squirrel on a tree, Hopping about so merrily; And spying below some children near, Said, "I wonder what they're doing here?" Busy they brought both stones and sticks, And ovens and fires they tried to fix, Grand parlors too, sprang up beside, Their greatest work, their greatest pride! And there were Emma, and Willy, and Molly, All so bright, and merry, and jolly; With Charley too, and roguish Dan, Named for the great New Hampshire man. Says Bunny, "I'll try if I can see Anything there, will do for me;" So slyly he peeped from his high seat, As they were munching their luncheon treat. Says Molly to Willy and rosy Ju, "Here's a piece of cake for both of you;" And in the sunshine they cosily sat, Eating and talking childish chat. But pretty soon their play was o'er, And each went in at the school-room door; Then down came Bunny and ate their crumbs, And then sat coolly wiping his thumbs. "With your singing, Pleasure bringing, Come sweet lovely bird again; Winter sighing Off is hieing, Joy again with you shall reign. Fruits and berries, Plums and cherries, Now shall be your welcome meat; Come to cheer us, Do not fear us, Glad indeed your songs we'll greet. None shall harm you, None alarm you, Sacred be your dear retreat; Love shall guard you, Love reward you, For your music pure and sweet. Oh how hateful, How ungrateful, He who would disturb your rest! No dear treasure, Wake your measure, Softly may you cheer my breast." irrepressible ebullition of their glee, they each played a tune A nap and the duties of the toilet followed this delightful The deepest sympathy prevailed among all her class-mates and school-companions, during her illness, and many were the pleasant She was about eleven years old, and had already made considerable "Sweet flowers upon the Bier, Bedewed with Nature's tears! No more her Child, reposing here, Within her fane appears. The silent bending skies, Will weeping vigils keep; While myriad glistening starry eyes, Attend her peaceful sleep. Far, far beyond those skies, Where dwell the immortal throng, Strains of a new-born spirit rise,-- Swells the celestial song. The tides of rapture roll, The Heaven's eternal rounds, As if a _union_ there of _souls_ Were mingling in the sounds. O let us weep; away From that blest land of peace, We shall not always lingering stay; Soon will our yearning cease." There he saw great Turkey-gobblers, white Geese, China Fowls, and sufferings, and final sad death away from their country. Said the duck in sad plight! Oh! carry me back, To my sweet country home; Where there is no lack Of fresh air and light, Where I'm not on the rack, For want of a little room. Take me from this clack, Or, struck with a blight, I shall die, alack! And that will seal my doom. _A Duck's Lament._ dominions. agreeable. Great was the desire to see the beautiful stranger, and vast the disobeying their parents, kind and polite to each other, and with "'Tis a lesson you should heed, Try, try again; If at first you don't succeed, Try, try again; Then your courage should appear; For if you will persevere, You will conquer, never fear,-- Try, try again. If you find your task is hard, Try, try again; Time will bring you your reward, Try, try again; All that other folks can do, Why, with patience, may not you? Only keep this rule in view, Try, try again."

Mary Frances Outram

Tarnished Silver

They watch us leaving harbour for the greatest game of all, And wonder if we're coming back across the greedy sea; They never know the fighting thrill or high adventure's call-- I rather think the women folk are better men than we. But I suspect they say of us as out to sea we go, In all our panoply of pride from Orkney to the Nore: "It keeps them quiet, we suppose--they like the work, we know-- And soon perhaps they'll tire and play some safer game than War." He went to sea on the long patrol, Away to the East from the Corton Shoal, But now he's overdue. He signalled me as he bore away (A flickering lamp through leaping spray, And darkness then till judgment day), "So long! Good luck to you!" He's waiting out on the long patrol, Till the names are called at the muster-roll Of seamen overdue. Far above him, in wind and rain, Another is on patrol again-- The gap is closed in the Naval Chain Where all the links are new. Over his head the seas are white, And the wind is blowing a gale to-night, As if the Storm-King knew, And roared a ballad of sleet and snow To the man that lies on the sand below, A trumpet-song for the winds to blow To seamen overdue. Was it sudden or slow--the death that came? Roaring water or sheets of flame? The end with none to view? No man can tell us the way he died, But over the clouds Valkyries ride To open the gates and hold them wide For seamen overdue. But whether the end was swift or slow, By the Hand of God, or a German blow, My messmate overdue-- You went to Death--and the whisper ran As over the Gates the horns began, _Splendour of God! We have found a man_-- Good-bye! Good luck to you! Faint against the twilight, dim against the evening, Fading into darkness against the lapping sea, She sailed away from harbour, from safety into danger, The ship that took him from me--my sailor boy from me. He went away to join her, from me that loved and bore him, Loved him ere I bore him, that was all the world to me. "No time for leave, mother, must be back this evening, Time for our patrol again, across the winter sea." Six times over, since he went to join her, Came he to see me, to run back again. "Four hours' leave, mother--still got the steam up, Going on patrol to-night--the old East lane." "Seven times lucky, and perhaps we'll have a battle, Then I'll bring a medal back and give it you to keep." And his name is in the paper, with close upon a hundred, Who lie there beside him, many fathom deep. And beside him in the paper, somebody is writing, --God! but how I hate him--a liar and a fool,-- "Where is the British Navy--is it staying in the harbours? Has the Nelson spirit in the Fleet begun to cool?" But thank your God you've helped to win the noblest War of all. Away to the East in Flanders' mud, through Dante's dream of Hell, Yes--thank your God your kin are there--the finest troops of all. You may be stripped of all you have--it may be all you say, got to earn. _The last resort of Kings are we, but the voice of peoples too_-- When the Russian guns were roaring death and the Guard was charging through. _Ultima Ratio Regis, we--but he who has may hold,_ Se curantes Dei curant, Hear the gunners that strain and pant, As when before the rising gale the Great Armada rolled. _Guns of fifty--sixty tons that roared at Jutland fight_, Clatter and clang of hoisting shell; See the flame where the salvo fell Amidst the flash of German guns against the wall of white. _The sons of English carronade or Spanish culverin_-- The Danish windows shivered and broke When over the sea the children spoke, And groaning turrets rocked again as we went out and in. _We have no passions to call our own, we work for serf or lord,_ Load us well and sponge us clean-- Be your woman a slave or queen-- And we will clear the road for you who hold us by the sword. _We come into our own again and wake to life anew_-- Put your paper and pens away, For the whole of the world is ours to-day, And we shall do the talking now to smooth the way for you. _Howitzer gun or Seventy-five, the game is ours to play,_ And hills may quiver and mountains shake, But the line in front shall bend or break. We'll see the lights of England shine, Flashing again on the steaming line, As out of the dark the long grey hulls come rolling in from sea. Showing a road we used to guess, From the Shetland Isles to Dover cliffs--the shaded lane of war. Tompions back in the guns to-night-- For English lights are meeting French across the Soldiers' Way. Lizard along to the Isle of Wight, Every lamp was burning bright, Northern Lights or Trinity House--we had the news from you! AS we were running the Channel along, with a rising wind abeam, Steering home from an escort trip as fast as she could steam, I'd just come up, relieving Bill, to look for Fritz again, The Skipper 'e puts 'is glasses down, an' smilin' says to me, "We needn't be pointin' guns at 'im--'e's one o' the R.F.C. We don't expect to meet the Boche, or any o' his machines, From here to France an' back again--except for submarines." An' 'e looks again at the 'plane above, an' says, "I do believe An' jolly good luck, says I, says I, To you that's overhead; An' may you never go dry, go dry, Or want for a decent bed. With yer gaudy patch, says I, says I, Oh, may the bullets go by, go by, An' not be findin' you. Astonishing luck, says I, says I, To you an' yer aeroplane; An' if it's yer joss to die, to die, When you go back again-- May the enemy say as you drop below, An' you start your final dive: "Three of us left to see him go, An' it must be nice for him to know, That wasn't afraid o' five." When the breaking wavelets pass all sparkling to the sky, When beyond their crests we see the slender masts go by, When the glimpses alternate in bubbles white and green, And funnels grey against the sky show clear and fair between, When the word is passed along--"Stern and beam and bow"-- "Action stations fore and aft--all torpedoes now!" When the hissing tubes are still, as if with bated breath They waited for the word to loose the silver bolts of death, When the Watch beneath the Sea shall crown the great Desire, And hear the coughing rush of air that greets the word to fire, We'll ask for no advantage, Lord--but only we would pray That they may meet this boat of ours upon their outward way. The moment we have waited long Is closing on us fast, When, cutting short the turret-gong, We'll hear the Cordite's Battle-song That hails the Day at last. The clashing rams come driving forth To meet the waiting shell, And far away to East and North Our targets steam to meet Thy Wrath, And dare the Gates of Hell. We do not ask Thee, Lord, to-day To stay the sinking sun-- But hear Thy steel-clad servants pray, And keep, O Lord, Thy mists away Until Thy work is done. Through the dark night And the fury of battle Pass the destroyers in showers of spray. As the Wolf-pack to the flank of the cattle, We shall close in on them--shadows of grey. In from ahead, Through shell-flashes red, We shall come down to them, after the Day. Whistle and crash Of salvo and volley Round us and into us while we attack. Light on our target they'll flash in their folly, Splitting our ears with the shrapnel-crack. Fire as they will, We'll come to them still, Roar as they may at us--Back--Go Back! White though the sea To the shell-flashes foaming, We shall be there at the death of the Hun. Only we pray for a star in the gloaming (Light for torpedoes and none for a gun). Lord--of Thy Grace Make it a race, Over the sea with the night to run. A tale is told of a captain bold Of E-boat Seventy-two; As E-boat captains do. And off the mouth of the German Bight, With Borkum on the bow, (For enemy ships are hard to find-- You have to take them quick; So copy the Eastern vulture's rule, that waits for days for an Army mule-- Always ready to click.) Out to the west from Helgoland The big grey cruiser steered, And the glinting rays of a rising sun flashed on funnel and mast and gun, And--Admiral Schultz's beard. Down the wind the E-boat came And passed the searching screen; Nobody guessed the boat was there, till they heard the wallop and Where the pride of the fleet had been. 'Twixt white and green of dancing waves The racing tracks were seen, And Poulson watching them get there, cried--_Hold the crockery-- Starboard side!_ _For the kick of a magazine!_ The escort ran and the cruisers ran At the thought of an English snare; Scattered and spread to left and right, to the friendly arms of And left the ocean bare. Then the coffee was spilt, the E-boat rolled To a deuce of a shaking bang; And Poulson swinging the eye-piece round, Lifted eyebrows high, For far aloft, when the smoke had cleared, he saw the flash of a golden beard Against the empty sky. "Admiral over! _Surface_, lads! He's flying a belted sword; Pipe the side or stern or bow, stand to attention smartly now-- Wherever he comes aboard." The Admiral landed Cabre-wise And high the fountains burst-- They piped the side, and still they stood To watch him struggle and heave, Without the Admiral's leave). They took him below, and sat him down On the edge of the Captain's bed,-- Treatment vile for a foemen caught, they gave him a bottle of Fiery, dark, and red. They landed him at a Naval Base, With S. two-twenty D. And there he paced the carpet up, And paced the carpet down, "Alte Himmel!"--the prisoners cried--"Some one's trod on the German pride, And dared the Hansa frown!" The Admiral called for a fountain pen And Reference Sheets galore, "_Can I believe your Lordships mean To stand so idly by-- _Never shall I believe it true That I should have to fall Their Lordships read--and bells were heard That woke the echoing past; Beneath the wireless mast. My Lords in solemn conclave drew Behind a bolted door, At four o'clock in the afternoon, With tea-cups clattering past, And I have the word of a lady fair "_We find the Enemy Admiral's Note Is based on Service Law-- _But he erred unknowing--so we shall mask His breach of Service pomp,-- We'll make him an Admiral, D.S.B.--Acting--payless--biscuit free, _We'll rate him at once as an A.I.O. And now when Poulson sails to war In E-boat Seventy-two, The boatswains pipe and the bugles blare, "_Stand to attention-- forward there_! _The Admiral's passing you!_" That is the tale as told to me By a friend from Beatty's Fleet, A letter-form which enables the sender to address his Seniors more abruptly than he would dare to do without its assistance. K.R.A.I. = King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions. The Council of Democracy around the table drew (The table was a beauty--it was polished--it was new, Twenty feet from side to side and half a mile in length, Built of rosewood and mahogany of double extra strength. The C in C had gone to jail to answer to the charge Of saying what he thought about Democracy at large. So the Council of Democracy had taken on the job, After voting the removal of his Autocratic nob. And the table was erected in a calm secluded spot, Well away from any trenches, lest a voter should be shot). And the Chairman raised a hammer and he hit the board a whack, No one paid the least attention, so he put the hammer back. Then he read the lengthy minutes of the gathering before, To the ever-growing murmur of the Democratic snore. And he put before the meeting all the questions of the day, Such as "Shorter hours for Delegates, and seven times the pay." With a minor matter for the end--"What shall the Council do About this fellow Mackensen? they say he's coming through With a hundred thousand hirelings of the Hohenzollern Line, And breaking all the Union Rules by working after nine." At this a group of Delegates departed for the door, To consult with their constituents the conduct of the War. The remainder started voting on the Delegation Pay, And agreed with unanimity to seven quid a day. They decided that unless the Germans travelled very fast, His opinion--he departed for the Country of the Blest, (Both in body and in spirit to the heavens he departed, And the Council looked dispirited, though hardly broken-hearted). One arose to ask a question--Bang!!--he went to Kingdom Come. "Mr Chairman," cried a Delegate. "A point of order! I Don't believe the Huns are coming--it's an Autocratic lie. I shall move the Army question do be left upon the Table, And I'm going home to England just as fast as I am able." Then he gathered up his papers, and was pushing back his chair, When a heavy high explosive sent him sailing in the air. The Chairman beat his hammer on the table all the while, Yelling oaths and calling "Order" in a Democratic style. But the Delegates were started on the question of the War, (So as not to waste the speeches that they'd written out before). Let the Germans have it hearty from its Democratic lungs. And in groups of ten and twenty they were blasted into space By the disrespectful cannon of an Autocratic race, Till the gathering had dwindled to an incoherent few, Who were still explaining volubly what England ought to do, When the cannon ceased abruptly and they heard the Germans cheer, Vorwaerts, Carl der Kindermoerder--use your bayonet, Saxon ass!" Faithful to the last, the Chairman, spying strangers all around, Maimed and crippled are we to-day, but free from curse or blow-- We drift away to the homes we left a thousand years ago, The broken men that the War has left to shun the gaze of all. Is it nothing to you that pass us by--hurrying on your way, Whispering low of peace and rest to the tune of a German song? Only but for the Grace of God you might be where we lay-- With festering wounds in a truck for beasts, the butt of a laughing throng. Peace and Rest? The peace will come when God shall stay His hand, We are broken and down in the fight of the world for an end to heathen lust, to rust, The curse of the captive men be yours--the day when you forget--! (Written after reading the story of that name in 'A Diversity Back and away from Tyrian hate with us to Rome again." Out on the wharf he walked from those--that wailed and wept to see him go; And hand in his she walked with him--her royal head on high. Of all the women of Rome to-night, no pride shall equal mine. A God, the man that leaves me now--but ah! a lover that thought me worth-- The whispered word of a husband true--I thank the Gods that I hold from you The right that fair Eurydice knew--the love of a man Divine." The wind that whispered softly over Kiel across the Bay, Died away as the dark closed down, Till the Dockyard glare showed the ending of the day In the silence of the night as the big ships swung To the buoys as the flood-tide made, Came a clamour from the wind like a shield that is rung By a foemen's blade. Far above the masts where the wireless showed, Traced out against a star-lit sky, A voice called down from the Whist-hound's road Where the clouds went by-- Listen down below--In the High Sea Fleet, For a signal that was shouted up to me By the sailors that I left on the old, old beat, Far out in the cold North Sea. They shouted up to me as the glass went down, And they ducked to the North-West spray, "Will you take a message to the Fortress-Town, And the Fleet that is lying in the Bay? "Say that we are waiting in the waters of the North, And we'll wait till the seas run dry-- Or the High Sea Fleet from the Bight comes forth, And the twelve-inch shells go by. "We have waited very long, but we haven't any doubt They are longing for the day we'll meet. But tell 'em as you pass that the sooner they are out, All the better for the English Fleet. "For when we see 'em sinking--(they'll be fighting to the last, And for those that are lost we'll grieve,) We will cheer for a signal at the Flagship's mast-- On arrival at the Base--Long Leave!" "The German Fleet is coming," The Sunday papers say, "And the shell will soon be humming When they fix upon the Day." All the Sunday experts write, Working very late at night-- "They are coming--they'll be on you any day." Though it's very cheery reading, And we hear it ev'ry week; Yet the Hun is still unheeding, And is just as far to seek. And it seems so unavailing They should write and tell us so-- If the Hun is shortly sailing, Couldn't _some one_ let him know? We are ready, and we're waiting, And we know they're going to fight; And we're just as good at hating As the Brainy Ones that write. But they talk of Information They have gathered unbeknown-- That "the mighty German Nation Is a mass of skin and bone." And they take their affidavy That a fight is due at sea: _Dammit--tell the German Navy_, What's the use of telling me? All our fighting brothers are away across the foam, Here's a chance for Englishmen living safe at home, Make a lot of money while you can! We are fighting for the Right and the Honour of the Race With the Bulldog Grip they know; Who's the silly novice there putting on the pace? You'll be taken for a Yank--Go slow! All the Nations know us as the finest of the Earth; Three cheers for the lads in blue! An' we're drawing extra wages that are more than we are worth-- But a half-day's work will do. The shades of England's fighting men are watching us with pride As we live for England's fame; To save us for posterity was why they went and died-- Oh! The War is a real fine game! Let the War go rolling on alone for awhile, Let the line stand fast in the West; Let 'em learn to use the bayonet in the grand old style, While the Bulldog Boys have a rest. What's the good of hurrying? British pluck'll win; We can stand to the strain all right. What about another rise? Send the notice in-- Just to show how the Bulldogs fight. Chorus! all together--We're the finest race of all, So beware of the English Blade; Now the fighting men are gone--why, however many fall, All the more for the lads that stayed. Too proud to fight? I'm not so sure--our skipper now and then Has lectured to us on patrol on foreign ships and men, And other nation's submarines, when cruising round the Bight; And 'seems to me--when they begin--the Yankee chaps can fight. Why, if I was in the army (which I ain't--and no regrets) And had my pick of Generals--from London's latest pets, To Hannibal and Wellington--to follow whom I chose, I wouldn't think about it long--I'd give the job to those Who fought across a continent for three long years and more (I bet the neutral papers didn't say in 'sixty-four Of Jackson, Sherman, Lee and Grant--"The Yanks can only shout"-- That lot was somewhere near the front when pluck was handed out); Successful submarine attack before this war begun, And it wasn't on a liner on the easy German plan, But on a well-found man-of-war, and Dixon was the man Who showed us how to do the trick, a tip for me and you, And I'd like to keep the standard up of Dixon and his crew, For they hadn't got a submarine that cost a hundred thou', But a leaky little biscuit-box, and stuck upon her bow A spar torpedo like a mine, and they and Dixon knew That if they sank the enemy they'd sink the _David_ too. She'd drowned a crew or two before--they dredged her up again, And manned and pushed her off to sea.--My oath, it's pretty plain In a craft they knew was rather more a coffin than a ship; And they carried out a good attack, and did it very well. As a model for the future, why, it beats the books to Hell, A tradition for the U.S.A., and, yes--for England too; For they were men with English names, and kin to me and you, And I'd like to claim an ancestor with Dixon when he died At the bottom of the river at the _Housatonic's_ side." And the Blue Ridge called to the Shenandoah stream, As the Massanutton hills grew black-- "Look your last, Shenandoah--where the bayonets gleam, On your man who is never coming back. "Ah! Manassas, look again on the glimmer of the steel That you lit with the red fires' glow, When the Grey men roared at an all-night meal, Look again as the Grey men go. "He is looking back at us with a hand across his eyes, Look your last, Shenandoah, as he rides To a death beyond the Gap where the dust-clouds rise, O'er the road that the greenwood hides. "He will send a message back as the dark clouds lower, And you'll hear it in the sighing of the breeze, _Let us pass across the river (can you hear me, Shenandoah?) To a rest in the shadow of the trees_." "... And will remain on your Patrol till the 8th The North-East Wind came armed and shod from the ice-locked Baltic shore, Over the Bight to the open sea the great wind sang as he sheered: Taking it every lurch and roll in tons of icy green Came out to her two-year-old patrol--an English submarine. The voice of the wind rose up and howled through squalls of driving white: Over the crest of a lifting sea in bursting shells of spray, She showed the flash of her rounded side as over to port she lay, "_I serve the Lord of the Seven Seas. Ha! Splendour of God-- Twenty feet of her bow came out, dripping and smooth it sprang, Over the valley of green below as her stamping engines rang; (Rank upon rank the seas swept on and broke to let her through, your teeth I'll fling, I am your master--Overlord, and--Dog of the English King!_" In the Diving-room, where the O.O.D. his weary vigil keeps, With bristling fur as she dreams anew of many a noble fray. Swift in the onslaught As the great eagle Stoops to the victim; Dreadful--prolific, Mother of hundreds, Messenger-biter. Hail to the guard of the _Maidstone's_ Gangway--Skoal! Sing of the day the air was full of words like "Alabaster," Turning the dogs back-- Yelping and howling. Biting her masters-- Corporals--any one Fiercely domestic, Easily queen of-- Pugnacious obstetrics-- Hail to the terror and pride of the _Maidstone_--Skoal!! Sing of the day she won the fray with a new "Pandora" dog, And the Quartermaster shone with pride as he entered in the log: "At 10 P.M. we dowsed our pipes and drew the _Nettle's_ fires, At 10.15 six births aboard--_that blinkin' cat of ours_!" O.O.D.--Officer of the day. Our brothers of the landward side Are bound by Church and stall, By Councils OEcumenical, By Gothic arches tall; But we who know the cold grey sea, The salt and flying spray, We praise the Lord in our fathers' way, In the simple faith of the sea we pray, To the God that the winds and waves obey Who sailed on Galilee. We pray as the Flag-Lieutenant prayed, At St Vincent's cabin door (Twenty sail of the line in view-- South-West by South they bore): "O Lord of Hosts, I praise Thee now, And bow before Thy might, Who has given us fingers and hands to fight, And twenty ships of the line in sight; Thou knewest, O Lord, and placed them right-- To leeward, on the bow." That far-off day when Peace is signed (and all the papers say-- "A most important by-election starts at Kew to-day; We urge our readers one and all to loyally support Will change a lot of little things--perhaps we'll get some leave, The salvage ships will hurry out, two thousand wrecks to find, The monuments to Kultur that the Huns have left behind. We'll watch the sweepers put to sea ten million mines to seek, And--Patrol Flotilla Exercise will start within a week; Will receive a little notice headed "Maintenance of Boilers," "To economise in fuel while the ships are out at sea Each pound of steam will count as two, and every knot as three." We'll have the old manoeuvre Rules to show us what to do. "I rose within two thousand yards and have torpedoed you," "My counter-claim is obvious--to port you must retire," "I sank you with a Maxim gun just as you rose to fire." Ships will carry navigation lights--"Precautionary Measure," Not been held since nineteen--("half a minute, surely you've Hush, you'll get me into trouble ("it was eighteen months ago-- To meet in sixty-twenty North and have a morning fight. No ship should cross a line between the Jahde and Amrum Bank, But should a German flag be seen (unless of junior rank),_ _No captain can do very wrong who indicates by guns-- We won't have our manoeuvres spoilt by interfering Huns._ Perhaps the wording isn't right, perhaps it isn't true, For all the "Truths about the War," by "One who has no fear," And all the "Contract Scandals," by "A Clerk behind the Door," The book I want to see in print is "Humours of the War," Though I fear the other Censor (Morals, Cinemas, and Vice) Would expurgate the best of them as being hardly nice; Still, even with the cream suppressed a volume could be filled With the epigrams of killing and the jokes of being killed, With a preface by the officer we rescued from the wave, When a cloud of steam and lyddite smoke lay o'er the "Bluecher's" grave, Who, as the bowmen fished him out and passed him aft to dry, Read the name upon their ribbons with a twinkle in his eye, And said: "A Westo ship, I think--I guess my luck is in, I'm sick of German substitutes--now for some Plymouth gin." And a picture of the sailor in a certain submarine, And broke the silence following the last appalling thud With "Good old ruddy Kaiser! there's another bloomin' dud!" There's a story too of Jutland, or perhaps another show, When the cruisers and destroyers had a meeting with the foe; And as the range was closing, and they waited for the word, From a sailor at an after-gun the following was heard: "It isn't _that_ that turns me up--'e's not the only one"-- But then the roar of ranging guns--the action had begun-- And for twenty awful minutes there was undiluted hell, With flame and steam and cordite smoke and high-explosive shell. Then as the bugle-call rang out, the savage fire to check, The loading numbers wiped their brows and looked around the deck: I think 'e should 've married 'er--if 'e'd bin 'alf a man." _We sailed from the sand-isles, War-ready all of us. Soon came the sea-mist, Soft was the wind then, Lay there the long-ships, Lifting and falling. Then cried the Captain: "Cold is the sea-fog, Weary is waiting-time, Wet are the byrnies; Burnish the breastplates, Broadswords and axes! Hand we the horns round, Our gentle pirate ancestors from off the Frisian Isles Kept station where we now patrol so many weary miles: There were no International Laws of Hall or Halleck then, They only knew the simple rule of "Death to beaten men." And what they judged a lawful prize was any sail they saw From Scarboro' to the sandy isles along the Saxon shore. We differ from our ancestors' conception of a prize, And we cruise about like Agag 'neath Sir Samuel Evans' eyes; But on one eternal subject we would certainly agree: It's seldom you can see a mile across the Northern sea, For as the misty clouds came down and settled wet and cold, The prize of all the prizes must be passing out of sight; And drearily they waited while metheglin in a skin Was passed along the benches, and the oars came sliding in; Then scramasax and battleaxe were polished up anew, And they waited for the fog to lift, the same as me and you; Though we're waiting on the bottom at the twenty fathom line, We are burnishing torpedoes to a Sunday morning shine. The sailor pauses as he quaffs his tot of Navy rum, And listens to a noise that drowns the circulator's hum: Two o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow, But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon, out of tune-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on! You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow, The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past, And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mast Stand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next Look-out, you fool. Hang on! In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew-- diving through"-- Look-out, you fool. Hang on! Look-out, you fool. Hang on! I wish that I could be a Hun, to dive about the sea-- I wouldn't go for merchantmen, a man-of-war for me; There are lots of proper targets for attacking, little Fritz, But you seem to like the merchantmen, and blowing them to bits. I suppose it must be easy fruit to get an Iron Cross By strafing sail and cargo ships--but don't you feel the loss Of the wonderful excitement when you face a man-of-war, And tearing past you overhead the big propellers roar? Although perhaps you can't be blamed--your motives may be pure-- You're rather new to submarines--in fact, an amateur; But we'd like to take your job awhile and show you how it's done, You wouldn't like the job, my lad--the motors turning slow, You wouldn't like the winter-time--storm and wind and snow; You'd find it weary waiting, Fritz--unless your faith is strong-- "Give us a ten-knot breeze, O Lord, with a clear and blazing sky, _Land of sorrow--war and weeping, Granite rock and falling snow, Where Romance is never sleeping, Where the fires of freedom glow._ Where the spark has never died, be the cause however lost, Be the breath however humble that would fan it to a flame; From the shieling, from the castle, did they ever count the cost Ere they went to meet a rebel's death and perished for a name? While England learnt the Roman tongue and paid her tax to Gaul, The Caledonian tribute clashed along the Roman wall-- From East to West the sentinels looked out towards the North-- "_Amboglanna has sent for aid, For the heather is bright with targe and blade Away to the silvery Forth._" When the Scottish host looked down and scorned to charge the foe That filed around the fatal hill and crossed the stream below, When the flowers of the forest fell and withered in the fight-- "_Shoulder to shoulder around the King, Hear the Claymore whistle and sing Our funeral song to-night._" The English knew it at Prestonpans--the wall against their backs, "Steady the volleys, the leading rank!" The fires were blazing then._ The prayer of Anglo-Saxon priests a thousand years ago-- "From the fury of the Northern men, deliver us, O Lord." They called across to Peter at the changing of the Guard, At the red-gold Doors that the Angels keep,-- "Send us help to the Portal, for they press upon us hard, They are straining at the Gate, many deep." Then Peter rose and went to the wicket by the Wall, Where the Starlight flashed upon the crowd; And he saw a mighty wave from the Greatest Gale of all Break beneath him with a roar, swelling loud-- "_Let us in! Let us in! We have left a load of sin On the battlefield that flashes far below. From the trenches or the sea there's a pass for such as we, For we died with our faces to the foe. "We haven't any creed, for we never felt the need, And our morals are as ragged as can be; But we finished in a way that has cleared us of the clay, And we're coming to you clean, as you can see."_ Then Peter looked below him with a smile upon his lips, And he answered, "Ye are fighters, as I know By your badges of the air, of the trenches, and the ships, And the wounds that on your bodies glisten so." And he looked upon the wounds, that were many and were grim, And his glance was all-embracing--unafraid; And he looked to meet the eyes that were smiling up to him, All a-level as a new-forged blade. "Ye are savage men and rough--from the fo'c'sle and the tent; Ye have put High Heaven to alarm; But I see it written clear by the road ye went, That ye held by the Fifteenth Psalm." And they shouted in return, "_'Tis a thing we've never read, But you passed our friends inside That won to the end of the road we tread Long ago when the Mons Men died._" "_Let us in! Let us in! We have fallen for the Right, And the Crown that we listed to win, That we earned by the Somme or the waters of the Bight; You're a fighting man yourself--Let us in!_" Then Peter gave a sign and the Gates flung wide To the sound of a bugle-call: "Pass the fighting men to the ranks inside, Who came from the earth or the cold grey tide, With their heads held high and a soldiers stride, Rusty side and dingy paintwork, stripped for war and cleared for battle-- Saw the harbour-tugs around us--smelt the English fields again,-- Out again as fell the evening, down the harbour in the gloaming With the sailors on the fo'c'sle looking wistfully a-lee-- Just another year of waiting--just another year of roaming For the Majesty of England--for the Freedom of the Sea. When the galleys of Phoenicia, through the gates of Hercules, Steered South and West along the coast to seek the Tropic Seas, When they rounded Cape Agulhas, putting out from Table Bay, They started trading North again, as steamers do to-day. They dealt in gold and ivory and ostrich feathers too, With a little private trading by the officers and crew, Till rounding Guardafui, steering up for Aden town, The tall Phoenician Captain called the First Lieutenant down. "By all the Tyrian purple robes that you will never wear, By the Temples of Zimbabwe, by King Solomon I swear, The ship is like a stable, like a Carthaginian sty. I am Captain here--confound you!--or I'll know the reason why. Every sailor in the galley has a monkey or a goat; There are parrots in the eyes of her and serpents in the boat. By the roaring fire of Baal, I'll not have it any more: Heave them over by the sunset, or I'll hang you at the fore!" "What is that, sir? _Not_ as cargo? _Not_ a bit of private trade? Standing there and looking silly: _leave the animals alone_." (Sailors with a tropic liver always have a brutal tone.) "By the crescent of Astarte, I am not religious--yet-- I would sooner spill the table salt than kill a sailor's pet." You wrote a pretty hymn of Hate, That won the Kaiser's praise, Which showed your nasty mental state, And made us laugh for days. I can't compete with such as you In doggerel of mine, But this is certain--_and_ it's true, You bloody-handed swine-- We do not mouth a song of hate, or talk about you--much, We do not mention things like you--it wouldn't be polite; One doesn't talk in drawing-rooms of Prussian dirt and such, We only want to kill you off--so roll along and fight. For men like you with filthy minds, you leave a nasty taste, We can't forget your triumphs with the girls you met in France. By your standards of morality, gorillas would be chaste, And you consummate your triumphs with the bayonet and the lance. You give us mental pictures of your officers at play, With naked girls a-dancing on the table as you dine, With their mothers cut to pieces, in the knightly German way, In the corners of the guard-room in a pool of blood and wine. You had better stay in Germany, and never go abroad, For wherever you may wander you will find your fame has gone, For you are outcasts from the lists, with rust upon your sword-- The blood of many innocents--of children newly born. You are bestial men and beastly, and we would not ask you home To meet our wives and daughters, for we doubt that you are clean; You--who love to hear the screaming of a girl beneath the knife, In the midst of your companions, with their craning, eager necks; You are not exactly gentlemen towards the gentle sex. With your rapings in the market-place and slaughter of the weak, You show surprise at our disgust, and say you're not to blame. We don't want any whinings, and we'd sooner wait for peace Till you realise your position, and you know you whine in vain; And you stand within a circle of the Cleaner World's Police, And we goad you into charging--and we clean the world again. For you should know that never shall you meet us as before, That none will take you by the hand or greet you as a friend; So stay with it, and finish it--who brought about the War-- The way of a ship at racing speed In a bit of a rising gale, The way of a horse of the only breed At a Droxford post-and-rail, The way of a brand-new aeroplane On a frosty winter dawn. You'll come back to those again; Wheel or cloche or slender rein Will keep you young and clean and sane, And glad that you were born. The power and drive beneath me now are above the power of kings, It's mine the word that lets her loose and in my ear she sings-- "Mark now the way I sport and play with the rising hunted sea, Across my grain in cold disdain their ranks are hurled at me; But down my wake is a foam-white lake, the remnant of their line, An artist's vision in steel and bronze for gods and men to serve. It ought to be you--my racing girl--as the Amazon song you sing. Down the valley and up the slope we run from scent to view. "Steady, you villain--you know too much--I'm not so wild as you; You'll get me cursed if you catch him first--there's at least a mile to go, things to see; Your easy gallop and bending neck are signals flying to me. You wouldn't refuse if it was wire with calthrops down in front, And there we are with a foot to spare--you best of all the Hunt!" of floating tail, A fine old Irish gentleman, and a Hampshire post-and-rail. The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the grass That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pass. The early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below As up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels I go,-- Nothing to do but let her alone--she's flying herself to-day; Unless I chuck her about a bit--there isn't a bump or sway. So _there's_ a bank at ninety-five--and here's a spin and a spiral dive, And here we are again. And I and the aeroplane And now we're rolling back. And _this_ is the way we climb and stall and sit up and beg on nothing at all, The wires and strainers slack. And now we'll try and be good some more, and open the throttle and hear her roar And steer for London Town. For there never a pilot yet was born who flew a machine on a frosty morn But started stunting soon, To feel if his wires were really there, or whether he flew on ice or air, Or whether his hands were gloved or bare, Or he sat in a free balloon. Back from battle, torn and rent, Listing bridge and stanchions bent By the angry sea. By Thy guiding mercy sent, Fruitful was the road we went-- Back from battle we. If Thou hadst not been, O Lord, behind our feeble arm, If Thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home, When against us men arose and sought to work us harm, We had gone to death, O Lord, in spouting rings of foam. Heaving sea and cloudy sky Saw the battle flashing by As Thy foemen ran. By Thy grace, that made them fly, We have seen two hundred die Since the fight began. If our cause had not been Thine, for Thy eternal Right, If the foe in place of us had fought for Thee, O Lord! If Thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight, Through the iron rain they fled, Bearing home the tale of dead, Flying from Thy sword. After-hatch to fo'c'sle head, We have turned their decks to red, By Thy help, O Lord! It was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown, When down the line the guns began, and sang Thy praise aloud. Sixty miles of running fight, Finished at the dawning light, Thou that helped throughout the night Weary hand and aching sight, We are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine, And the word has gone before us to the towns upon the Rhine; As the rising of the tide On the Old-World side, We are coming to the battle, to the Line. From the valleys of Virginia, from the Rockies in the North, We are coming by battalions, for the word was carried forth: "We have put the pen away, And the sword is out to-day, For the Lord has loosed the Vintages of Wrath." We are singing in the ships as they carry us to fight, As our fathers sang before us by the camp-fires' light; In the wharf-light glare They can hear us Over There, When the ships come steaming through the night. Right across the deep Atlantic where the _Lusitania_ passed, With the battle-flag of Yankeeland a-floating at the mast, We are coming all the while, Over twenty hundred mile, And were staying to the finish, to the last. We are many--we are one--and we're in it overhead, We are coming as an Army that has seen its women dead, Will be loud above the shell When we cross the top together, seeing red. should say, When you know your arms are only wax, your hands of useless lead, And through your brain the whisper comes, "Give in, you've done your best,"-- Why, stiffen your knees and brace your back, and take my word as true-- _If the man in front has got you weak, he's just as tired as you_. He can't attack through a gruelling fight and finish as he began; He's done more work than you to-day--you're just as fine a man. So call your last reserve of pluck--he's careless with his chin-- You'll put it across him every time--Go in--Go in--_Go in_! I must hold her bow to windward now till I'm relieved again-- To the pipe and wail of a tearing gale, And I stoop to look at the compass-card as closes in the night, For it's hard to see by the shaded glow of half a candle-light; Foggy and thick and a windy trick, Heave and sway or dive and roll can never disturb me now; Though seas may sweep in rivers of foam across the straining bow, In Davy's realm, still at the helm, They called us up from England at the breaking of the day, And the wireless whisper caught us from a hundred leagues away-- All that hold the countersign, Listen in the North Sea--news for you to-day." All across the waters, at the paling of the morn, The wireless whispered softly ere the summer day was born-- "Be you near or ranging far, By the Varne or Weser bar, The Fleet is out and steaming to the Eastward and the dawn." Far and away to the North and West, in the dancing glare of the sunlit ocean, world in motion, sun-track held, And we looked back to the West again, and saw the English Fleet. Over the curve of the rounded sea, in ordered lines as the ranks of Rome, Miles of racing lines of steel that flattened the sea to a field of foam, Rolling deep to the wash they made, We saw, to the threat of a German blade, The Shield of England come. The sentries at the Castle Gate, We hold the outer wall, That echoes to the roar of hate And savage bugle-call-- Of those that seek to enter in with steel and eager flame, To leave you with but eyes to weep the day the Germans came. Though we may catch from out the Keep A whining voice of fear, Of one who whispers "Rest and sleep, And lay aside the spear," We pay no heed to such as he, as soft as we are hard; We take our word from men alone--the men that rule the guard. We hear behind us now and then The voices of the grooms, And bickerings of serving-men Come faintly from the rooms; But let them squabble as they please, we will not turn aside, But--curse to think it was for them that fighting men have died. Whatever they may say or try, We shall not pay them heed; And though they wail and talk and lie, We hold our simple Creed-- No matter what the cravens say, however loud the din, Our Watch is on the Castle Gate, and none shall enter in. When the battle-worn Horatius, 'midst the cheering Roman throng-- Reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home, He felt himself an Emperor--the bravest man of Rome. The people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew, Then drifted back along the road to look for something new. Then Horatius sobered down a bit--as you would do to-day-- And straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way. He hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry, And set a parting in his hair--the same as you and I. His lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down, And gently disengaged his arm to spare her snowy gown. "You _are_ a real disgrace, you know, the worst I've ever seen; Now go and put your sword away, I _know_ it isn't clean. hitting low." Then she hustled lots of water, turning back her pretty sleeves, And she set him on the sofa (having taken off his greaves). And bold Horatius purred aloud, the stern Horatius smiled, And didn't seem to mind that he was treated like a child. Though she didn't call him Emperor, or cling to him and cry, Yet I rather think he liked it--just the same as you and I. I'm the donkey-man of a dingy tramp They launched in 'Eighty-one, An' she an' meself are off to sea From out o' the breaker's hands, An' we laugh to find such an altered game, for devil a thing we found the same When we came off the land. We used to carry a freight of trash That younger ships would scorn, We used to sneak an' smouch along Wi' rusty side an' rails, We sometimes met--an' took their wash-- The 'aughty ships o' war, An' we dips to them--an' they to us--an' on they went in a tearin' fuss, But now they count us more. For now we're "England's Hope and Pride"-- "Bring us the goods and food we lack, because we're hungry, (As often I have been). "You're the man to save us now, We look to you to win; An' here we are in the danger zone, Wi' escorts all around, Destroyers a-racing to and fro--"We will show you the way to go, An' guide you safe an' sound." "An' did you cross in a comfy way, Or did you have to run? An' is the patch on your hull we see the mark of a bump in 'Ninety-three, Or the work of a German gun?" "We'll lead you now, and keep beside, An' call to all the Fleet, Yes, we're the hope of England now, And rank wi' the Navy too; "Be polite to Merchant Jack, Who brings you in the meat, For if he went on a striking lay, you'd have to go on your knees and pray, With never a bone to eat." But you can lay your papers down An' set your fears aside, For we will keep the ocean free--we o' the clean an' open sea-- To break the German pride. We won't go canny or strike for pay, Or say we need a rest; But you get on wi' the blinkin' War--an' not so much o' your strikes ashore, Or givin' the German best. When the foe is pressing and the shells come down In a stream like maxim fire, When the long grey ranks seem to thicken all the while, And they stamp on the last of the wire, When all along the line comes a whisper on the wind That you hear through the drumming of the guns: "They are through over there and the right is in the air, And there isn't any end to the Huns,"-- Then keep along a-shooting till you can't shoot more, And hit 'em with a shovel on the head. Don't forget a lot of folk have beaten them before, And a Hun'll never hurt you if he's dead. If you're in a hole and your hopes begin to fail, If you're in a losing fight, Think a bit of Jonah in the belly of the whale, When the Spartan heroes tried To hold the broken gate, When--roaring like the rising tide-- The Persian horsemen charged and died In foaming waves of hate. When with armour hacked and torn They gripped their shields of brass, And hailed the gods that light the morn With battle-cry of hope forlorn, "We shall not let them pass." While they combed their hair for death Before the Persian line, They spoke awhile with easy breath, "What think ye the Athenian saith In Athens as they dine?" "Doth he repent that we alone Are here to hold the way, That he must reap what he hath sown-- That only valour may atone The fault of yesterday? "Is he content that thou and I-- Three hundred men in line-- Should show him thus how man may try To stay the foemen passing by To Athens, where they dine? "Ah! now the clashing cymbal rings, The mighty host is nigh; Let Athens talk of passing things-- But here, three hundred Spartan kings Shall greet the fame the Persian brings To men about to die." There's a whistle of the wind in the rigging overhead, And the tune is as plain as can be. "Hey! down below there--d'you know it's going to blow there, All across the cold North Sea?" And along comes the gale from the locker in the North By the Storm-King's hand set free, And the wind and the snow and the sleet come forth, Let loose to the cold North Sea. Tumble out the oilskins, the seas are running white, There's a wet watch due for me, For we're heading to the east, and a long wet night As we drive at the cold North Sea. See the water foaming as the waves go by Like the tide on the sands of Dee; Hear the gale a-piping in the halliards high To the tune of the cold North Sea. See how she's meeting them, plunging all the while, Till I'm wet to the sea-boot knee; See how she's beating them--twenty to the mile-- The waves of the cold North Sea. Right across from Helgoland to meet the English coast, Lie better than the likes of we,-- Men that lived in many ways, but went to join the host That are buried by the cold North Sea. Rig along the life-lines, double-stay the rails, Lest the Storm-King call for a fee; For if any man should slip, through the rolling of the ship, He'd be lost in the cold North Sea. We are heading to the gale, and the driving of the sleet, And we're far to the east of Three. Hey! you German sailormen, here's the British Fleet Waiting in the cold North Sea. A long low ship from the Orkneys' sailed, With a full gale driving her along, Three score sailormen singing as they baled To the tune of a Viking song-- _We have a luck-charm Carved on the tiller, Cut in the fore-room See we Thor's Hammer; Gods will protect us Under a shield-burgh, Carved in the mast we-- But the Earl called down from the kicking tiller-head, "Six hands lay along to me! Tumble out the hawsers there, Skallagrim the Red! For a battle with a Berserk sea; Sing a song of work, of a well-stayed mast, Of clinch and rivet and pine, Of a bull's-hide sail we can carry to the last Of a well-built ship like mine. Never mind the Runes on the bending tree Or the charms on the tiller that I hold, Trust to your hands and the Makers of the Sea, To the gods of the Viking bold! We are not thralls here --Men of the sea; We are not idle, Fight we as seamen, Worthy your aid then In the evening--in the sunset--when the long day dies, Out across the broad Atlantic, where the great seas go, When the Golden Gates are open and the sunlight flies, The fairy Islands drift and fade against the crimson glow. In the evening, when the fiery sun was sinking in the West, St Brandan and the chosen few went sailing out to sea,-- To the Westward--to the sunset--to the Golden Isle of rest, The haven of the weary men, the land of Fairie. Is it only in the sunset we may find the Golden Fleece? Is it only to the Westward that the Fairyland is found? And those who went away from us and passed from war to peace-- Are they looking still for Fairyland the wide world round? Then as I gazed across the dark the morning answer came-- To Eastward stretched the golden sea for many a golden mile; The far horizon joined the sky in dancing lines of flame-- And drifting on the seas of dawn, I saw St Brandan's Isle.

Unknown

The Comic English Grammar A New and Facetious Introduction to the English Tongue

Summer's Passing Summer's Passing WITH dream-blocks I can build A castle to the sky. No one can shake it down, Though he may try and try, Except myself, and then, I make another one, And shape it as I please. This castle-building fun Nobody takes away, And what I like the best-- The dream-blocks change each day. THERE is a shining thread To-day in my rose-bed-- A magic net the fairies have outspread To catch the dewy sweet--and yet you said It was a cobweb there instead! TO-DAY when I played anagrams, I spelled a long word out-- A word named _sorrow_--then I tried To change it all about To make it spell another word. My mother said, "There is a way To make the sorrow-word spell peace." I've tried and tried, almost all day; I've turned the letters round and round, This way and that, to find out how, And yet I can not find the way, And supper time is coming now. I TAKE my broom and sweep my step, To make it smooth and brown; Then I sit down and wait with Jep Until the sun goes down. I think some day that I may see A little brownie elf Peep out of there, and speak to me, When I am by myself. I like my roses at the side, Much better than the flower-row Along your path where people ride. I leave my roses just to grow. I like the place that's broken, too, With splintered edges all around, And grasses growing right up through, That smell so fresh like dew and ground. Your steps are nice, but then my own Seem nicer somehow, just for me; Pine steps are more like home than stone, For once they lived and were a tree. OUR Big Clock goes so slow, When I am waiting on the stairs, With nice, clean clothes on, dressed to go Out with Aunt Beth to see the bears And funny possums at the Zoo! But oh, at night how fast Our Big Clock goes! It's very rude To company, and when time's past When I must always go to bed, The hands just fly in wicked glee. It strikes out long ahead And makes them all look round at me. I HAVE a very pretty dress, It's made of pink and white, And there are ribbons on it, too, Which make it bright. And yet I think I like it less Than this dear other one-- The worn-out, patched-up blue I wear when I have fun. It clings to me as if it loved To have me wear it every day. The pink stands out so straight and stiff It's in my way. How can I get to know it well, When it's so _Sunday_-clean? Perhaps when it is old and stained With dust and grass, it will not seem So strange and dignified as now. But then I think I never _could_ make mud pies right If I had on my pink. I WONDER, when I die, If some one there will see, And hold me close, And take good care of me, As when I came on earth to be A little child? SOME day when I've had lots to eat, Then I should like to be A ragged beggar child, A little while, to see WHEN they are tall and all grown up, I wonder where the children go? I wonder how one finds the place-- My mother says she doesn't know. The little boy that's I, must go To this strange meeting-place some day, When I outgrow my starchy kilts, And nursery things are put away. Must I go there quite by myself? How shall I find the proper door, That hides so close and shuts away The little children gone before? I HEARD a violin one day-- It sounded like the Spring; Like woolly lambs at play, Like baby birds that sing In snatches, when they're learning how. I know the one who played Could see pink blossoms on a bough, Where children came beneath its shade To make white clover in a crown. Then while they laughed there in the grass, Soft petals fluttered down; They hushed and saw some angels pass, With friendly eyes that smile-- The kind that I have often seen When mother sings awhile, Just as I go to sleep and dream. I held my breath and then there rose The last sweet note so high. I felt as when the sunshine goes-- I could not help but cry. WHEN I have done a Something Wrong, I feel ashamed to kneel and pray. But then the dark-time lasts so long, And God seems--oh, so far away!-- That when the lights are out awhile, I clamber out of bed once more And pour my pennies in a pile. ... I listen at the door, And then I get upon my knees, And whisper just for God to hear, To ask him, oh, just once more, _please_, Will he forgive and come back near, If I will make a promise _quick_ To give my pennies to the sick? WHEN I woke up and saw the rain In blurs upon the window-pane, I said I hated such a day, Because I couldn't run and play, Out in the sunshine and the grass. It's queer how such a day can pass So soon, before you know it 'most, And while I eat my milk and toast, Before I go to bed, I think I've never had a day so _pink_. Without the sun to make the shine, This whole day long has been just mine And Mother's, in the fireplace glow.-- Because it rained, it made it so. I WISH the clever men who made The whirly things with patents on, The telephone and phonograph, The watch that tells how far you've gone, Would just invent some bottled sleep That we could take at night, And then again when it grows light. It might keep little boys awake When there is company. All I should have to do, would be To pour a glass of sleep to take. The things I leave undone, Because I haven't time enough, The things I've only half begun-- My castle-house, my doll-queen's ruff-- I'd get quite finished in a day. I'd have some time left over, too. I'd have the chance to do new things. And first of all, I'd learn to play The games the flowers frolic through, Each afternoon, and I'd find who Has charge of yesterday. I think that made-to-order dreams Of rainbow-folk and orange-creams Would be much nicer than the kind Which on dark nights I always find. THERE'S something that is calling me-- Far off from Here-- It calls for me to come and see, Away from Near. Sometimes it tinkles like a bell. Then echo songs above the blue, And sometimes silver whistles tell About a shining dream come true. This call sings low of wonder-worlds. It tells in runs and soft-blown trills Of hidden places near that line Where distance smooths the little hills. The call is begging me to come. It makes me dance and sing Along the meadow road, Far past the street's dust-ring. There's something waiting just for me, And I must go--_must go_, Away from houses here, to see, Where lights begin to glow. TO-DAY I met a rabbit in the path Who stopped and looked at me, While I was laughing at a frog Hop sidewise from a bee. The little rabbit's eyes laughed too. He would have like to stay; And if my clothes had been like his, He might have come to play. I wish I had a rabbit dress, A furry one, from head to toe, Then I could go away with him From streets in line, all set just so. I think my clothes are stupid things To rob me of my friends, But then, the kind of playmate clothes I want, nobody lends! I LAUGHED in woods down where a brook Ran off with little leaps, An answer came from some fern-nook, And then another made me look Off in the dark tree-deeps. I ran to all the nooks to see If I could find the one Who heard me first, and answered me-- Each place was still as it could be, As far as I could run. Nurse said, "There's no one to be caught. It's just the echo's glee." But then I know that it was _not_! The little wood-elves all forgot, And laughed out loud with me. THIS rose I picked, began to die, And so, I've brought it back again To where it used to live. I'll try To make it as it was--and then, I'll whisper to it how I care. Why _can't_ it grow now any more, A rose with other roses there, Upon the rosebush by the door? JUST since the night, the wind has won The last pink bud to open bloom. The long path whitens in the sun; All grown folks hunt a darkened room. Cool sweet of morning time is gone From all the leaves and grass. Here in this place the shade falls on, I wait for butterflies to pass. I LOVE the gold-brown flutter-bird You caught for me; But from its song is gone a note I heard When it was free. And when I bring the lace-ferns home I can not bring The wood-charm too--the spell of that wee gnome Which makes birds sing. The trees you painted with your brush Are like the real, But that still harking of the soft leaf-hush You could not steal. It is the spirit of the wold--the same That's part of me,-- The gipsy wild of me without a name, Unhoused and free. I KNOW when little buds come out, And spread their colors all about, They make soft music--Yet it's true Most people never hear. Do you? There is the faintest, tinkly sound. Birds fly to listen all around, Then all the leaves stand just as still, And sunshine dances on the hill. THE dainty frills upon my frocks Make me all twinkly smiles inside. I want to take my sweets around,-- A something in me says "Divide." I run to give my mother dear My nicest, clean-face kiss. I feed the sparrows on the steps, And think what others miss. I put some water on my fern; To every one I want to say Nice _velvet_ things. It is so queer That we can dress our moods away! ONE day a little boy, With a poor broken toy, And ragged clothes, went by. He looked as if he'd like to cry, To see my soldiers fine, In scarlet coats, so straight in line. Would he have liked to play with me, Here beneath my shady tree? I wonder, but I did not call him back again. I thought he'd come next day the same, And I would ask him in to play, And when he had to go away Give him my nicest toys-- The drum that makes the loudest noise, My whistle, and perhaps my sword, Or even my soldier hat with braids and cord. But though I watch here by the gate Until it grows quite dark and late, I never hear his footsteps there, The little boy is gone somewhere. IF I could choose a dream to-night, I'd choose a splendid dream About big soldiers in a fight,-- So real that it would seem A truly one not in a book, With flags and banners waving high And horses with a prancing look And powder smoke that filled the sky, And lots of swords to flash. Perhaps this dream would frighten me, More than a noisy game, If too much blood should splash, And any soldiers die. And yet I think I'd choose it just the same And then wake up and cry. YOU think my home is up the street In that big house with lots of steps, All worn in places by our feet-- With tracks that look like mine and Jep's. You think it's where I always eat, Where I can find my spoon and bowl, My napkin folded clean and neat, And milk, and sometimes jelly-roll. You think it's where I always sleep, Where I get in my puffy bed, And fall right in a comfy heap, Some nights before my prayers are said. But that's not home--just roof and walls, A place that anybody buys, With shiny floors and stairs and halls.-- _My_ home is in my mother's eyes. THERE are no sounds of feet Or wagons in the street, So still, so beautiful, With air so fresh and cool. I love the dawn to come-- But oh, I know that some Are not so glad as I,-- For they must wake to cry. A SOLEMN, dressed-up City Tree, As stiff and straight as it can be, All cut and trimmed and kept just so, Is trying very hard to grow Correctly, with its top so queer, In front of my big window here. It is not like my Country Tree, Good friend of every bird and bee, Who keep it merry company And always sing and talk to me. My Country Tree laughs all day long. Its fresh leaves whisper in a song Their secrets just for me to hear. Its branches lean so very near The ground, that grasses stretch and try To meet the boughs not swung too high. There is the place, the very best In all the world, to play and rest. The City Tree stands all alone Above the clean-swept pavement stone. No little children ever stay Beneath its trimmed-off shade to play-- They aren't brave enough to dare, Because it is so proper there. There are no lady-birds about; No crickets frolic in and out. The City Tree is very proud, It hasn't even looked or bowed. We're not at all acquainted yet-- It's just as if we'd never met. The days seem long--I wonder when I'll see my country tree again? DEAR God, may I _not_ dream The Dragon-dream to-night,-- And please do not forget To make it light On time again THEY make me laugh and clap my hands When they run out in wide striped clothes Of white, with red and yellow bands, With pointed caps and pointed toes,-- The "funny men" at circus shows. I wish I knew just how a clown Can make his mouth up in a smile, And wrinkle in a crinkly frown His forehead all the while, In that queer circus style. One day when I had cried and cried Because I lost the picture book Which I had made, and mother tried To comfort me, we went and took A walk, to see how clown men look. I soon forgot my book, and though I loved it just the same, I couldn't cry and miss it so, And think about each picture's name When all the clown men came. I think we ought to say our thanks, To each of them who makes and sells Such fun and jokes, such jigs and pranks,-- How dull we'd be without the spells They make with cap and bells! MY mother says that Summer's gone away. It seems so queer I didn't see her go, Or know till now; she didn't say good-bye-- And oh, I loved her so! Now that I know, I miss her all the time. To-day I found this piece torn from her gown. It fluttered softly down the path to me. Perhaps my nurse would call it thistledown, But grown folks often make such strange mistakes. Nobody knows such wonder-things as I. On fresh, dew mornings, when I used to play, Out where the friendly rose-hedge grows so high, The pinks and four-o'clocks would lean to me And tell me secrets of my Summer dear. It's lonesome now, and sad as it can be, Since Summer is no longer here. The Dark comes down so soon, and it is cold. I wait and watch the sunset track, But Mother says I'll be a year more old Before my Summer will come back. DO you know that when you wait To tell the truth, and fear-- Until it grows _almost_ too late-- God leans to hear? SOME days my doll-child is so bad, I have to whip her very hard. I put her in the corner there, And take away her picture-card. She's put to bed without a kiss. She doesn't have her way one bit, But then, _I_ am the one it hurts, And so what is the use of it? I'VE found a bird that's hurt. It flutters so and cries, Then looks its pain at me With such bright frightened eyes. Its feathers are so soft! How quiet it is now! I want to make it well-- I wish my hands knew how! I DO not like to say good-night,-- I hate to shut my eyes, When fringe-beams of the stars and moon Make day-things play surprise. The night is such a wonder-world, I love it more than day. The Dark comes close and calls. That's why My prayers are hard to say. IT is the hover-time That comes between the light and dark. The little squirrels climb Into their nests in trees and hark To rustly leaves about. Far off, I hear new insect cries-- From things which never dare call out In daytime: they're afraid of _Eyes_. Out from the purply wood The first bat circles on the fly. Far things draw on a hood And shadows hide the place where sky And earth make dim their line. The trees change shape, and soon the gray Blurs into black; and that's the hour When dark comes down to stay. UPON the brook, for treasure-craft, I sail some petals, red and white; They always go away from me-- They float much faster in their flight, Than I can run along the bank. My precious wee bit things bear freight; Which very soon falls overboard, And sinks where miser-folk await To snatch my sparkling treasure-store. Perhaps the waters dash too high For such a little fleet of ships, And that may be the reason why My crafts do not return again. Still, I expect them any day. I've lost some things I love the best,-- My flower-chains and ribbons gay-- But, though I miss these pretty things, I love much more the sailing-fun, And launch new ships when morning sings, And rainbow mist floats in the sun. IF I could walk along the path The moonlight makes upon the sea, I know that I should find the one Who sings the Silver Song to me. I HAVE a little charm To keep me safe from harm, So ugly things can't see When I am all alone. It keeps the 'Fraid all out When trees cry so, and moan, And throw their leaves about. It keeps away the Woops that creep About my bed when I'm asleep. And even by day my charm keeps anything From hurting me, and that is why More than the ones I buy. And said some words so strange I knew that they must be Some fairy charm to change The sad things into gay, And keep me safe and well. I wear it every day, For that's to keep the spell. Each morning when I wake, I kiss and turn my ring Three times for sake of luck These wishes bring.

Kyösti Wilkuna

Erämaan lapset: Historiallisia kertomuksia V

1879

"Where rolls the Oregon, And hears no sound save its own dashing." woods, camps by night, great wood fires in circles, tents in the centre like Caesar's battle-camps, painted men that passed like We who toil and earn our bread Still have our masters...." I have been true to my West. She has been my only love. I have deserts and plains for great men a quarter of a century ago. A Man in middle Aridzone Stood by the desert's edge alone, And long he look'd, and lean'd. He peer'd, Above his twirl'd and twisted beard, Beneath his black and slouchy hat ... Nay, nay, the tale is not of that. A skin-clad trapper, toe-a-tip, Stood on a mountain top, and he Look'd long and still and eagerly. "It looks so like some lonesome ship That sails this ghostly lonely sea,-- This dried-up desert sea," said he, "These tawny sands of Arazit" ... Avaunt! the tale is not of it. A chief from out the desert's rim Rode swift as twilight swallows swim, Or eagle blown from eyrie nest. His trim-limb'd steed was black as night, His long black hair had blossom'd white, With feathers from the koko's crest; His iron face was flush'd and red, His eyes flash'd fire as he fled, For he had seen unsightly things; Had felt the flapping of their wings. A wild and wiry man was he, This tawny chief of Shoshonee; And O his supple steed was fleet! About his breast flapp'd panther skins, About his eager flying feet Flapp'd beaded, braided moccasins: He rode as rides the hurricane; He seem'd to swallow up the plain; He rode as never man did ride, He rode, for ghosts rode at his side, And on his right a grizzled grim-- No, no, this tale is not of him. An Indian warrior lost his way While prowling on this desert's edge In fragrant sage and prickly hedge, When suddenly he saw a sight, And turn'd his steed in eager flight. He rode right through the edge of day, He rode into the rolling night. He lean'd, he reach'd an eager face, His black wolf skin flapp'd out and in, And tiger claws on tiger skin Held seat and saddle to its place; But that gray ghost that clutch'd thereat ... Arrete! the tale is not of that. A chieftain touch'd the desert's rim One autumn eve: he rode alone And still as moon-made shadows swim. He stopp'd, he stood as still as stone, He lean'd, he look'd, there glisten'd bright From out the yellow yielding sand He lean'd him low, he reach'd a hand, He caught it up, he gallop'd on, He turn'd his head, he saw a sight ... His panther skins flew to the wind, The dark, the desert lay behind; The tawny Ishmaelite was gone; But something sombre as death is ... Tut, tut! the tale is not of this. A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown, From farthest desert touched the town, And, striding through the crowd, held up He put two fingers to his lip, He whisper'd wild, he stood a-tip, And lean'd the while with lifted hand, And said, "A ship lies yonder dead," And said, "Doubloons lie sown in sand In yon far desert dead and brown, Beyond where wave-wash'd walls look down, As thick as stars set overhead. That three shipmasts uplift like trees" ... Away! the tale is not of these. An Indian hunter held a plate Of gold above his lifted head, Around which kings had sat in state ... "'Tis from that desert ship," they said, "That sails with neither sail nor breeze, Or galleon, that sank below Of old, in olden dried-up seas, Ere yet the red men drew the bow." But wrinkled women wagg'd the head, And walls of warriors sat that night In black, nor streak of battle red, Around against the red camp light, And told such wondrous tales as these Of wealth within their dried-up seas. And one, girt well in tiger's skin, Who stood, like Saul, above the rest, With dangling claws about his breast, A belt without, a blade within, A warrior with a painted face, And lines that shadow'd stern and grim, Stood pointing east from his high place, And hurling thought like cannon shot, Stood high with visage flush'd and hot ... But, stay! this tale is not of him. By Arizona's sea of sand Some bearded miners, gray and old, And resolute in search of gold, Sat down to tap the savage land. They tented in a cannon's mouth That gaped against the warm wide south, And underneath a wave-wash'd wall, Where now nor rains nor winds may fall, They delved the level salt-white sands For gold, with bold and horned hands. A miner stood beside his mine, He pull'd his beard, then look'd away Across the level sea of sand, Beneath his broad and hairy hand, A hand as hard as knots of pine. "It looks so like a sea," said he. He pull'd his beard, and he did say, "It looks just like a dried-up sea." Again he pull'd that beard of his, But said no other thing than this. A stalwart miner dealt a stroke, And struck a buried beam of oak. An old ship's beam the shaft appear'd, With storm-worn faded figure-head. The miner twisted, twirled his beard, Lean'd on his pick-axe as he spoke: "'Tis from some long-lost ship," he said, "Some laden ship of Solomon That sail'd these lonesome seas upon In search of Ophir's mine, ah me! That sail'd this dried-up desert sea." ... Nay, nay, 'tis not a tale of gold, But ghostly land storm-slain and old. But this the tale. Along a wide And sounding stream some silent braves, That stole along the farther side Through sweeping wood that swept the waves Like long arms reach'd across the tide, Kept watch and ward and still defied.... A low black boat that hugg'd the shores, An ugly boat, an ugly crew, Thick-lipp'd and woolly-headed slaves, That bow'd, that bent the white-ash oars, That cleft the murky waters through, That climb'd the swift Missouri's waves,-- The surly, woolly-headed slaves. A grand old Neptune in the prow, Gray-hair'd, and white with touch of time, Yet strong as in his middle prime; A grizzled king, I see him now, With beard as blown by wind of seas, And wild and white as white sea-storm, Stand up, turn suddenly, look back Along the low boat's wrinkled track, Then fold his mantle round a form Broad-built as any Hercules, And so sit silently. The grim old sea-king sits his bride, A sun-land blossom, rudely torn From tropic forests to be worn Above as stern a breast as e'er Stood king at sea or anywhere.... Another boat with other crew Came swift and silent in her track, And now shot shoreward, now shot back, And now sat rocking fro and to, But never once lost sight of her. Tall, sunburnt, southern men were these From isles of blue Caribbean seas, And one, that woman's worshipper, Who looked on her, and loved but her. And one, that one, was wild as seas That wash the far dark Oregon, And ever leaning, urging on, And standing up in restless ease, He seem'd as lithe and free and tall And restless as the boughs that stir Perpetual topt poplar trees. And one, that one, had eyes to teach The art of love, and tongue to preach Life's hard and sober homilies; And yet his eager hands, his speech, All spoke the bold adventurer; While zoned about the belt of each There swung a girt of steel, till all Did seem a walking arsenal. Pursuer and pursued. And who Are these that make the sable crew; These mighty Titans, black and nude, And hairy-breasted, bronzed and broad Of chest as any demi-god, That dare this peopled solitude? And who is he that leads them here, And breaks the hush of wave and wood? Comes he for evil or for good? Brave Jesuit or bold buccaneer? Nay, these be idle themes. Let pass. These be but men. We may forget The wild sea-king, the tawny brave, The frowning wold, the woody shore, The tall-built, sunburnt men of Mars.... But what and who was she, the fair? The fairest face that ever yet Look'd in a wave as in a glass; That look'd as look the still, far stars, So woman-like, into the wave To contemplate their beauty there, Yet look as looking anywhere? And who of all the world was she? A bride, or not a bride? A thing To love? A prison'd bird to sing? You shall not know. That shall not be Brought from the future's great profound This side the happy hunting-ground. I only saw her, heard the sound Of murky waters gurgling round In counter-currents from the shore, But heard the long, strong stroke of oar Against the waters gray and vast. I only saw her as she pass'd-- A great, sad beauty, in whose eyes Lay all the loves of Paradise.... You shall not know her--she who sat Unconscious in my heart all time I dreamed and wove this wayward rhyme, And loved and did not blush thereat. The sunlight of a sunlit land, A land of fruit, of flowers, and A land of love and calm delight; A land where night is not like night, And noon is but a name for rest, And love for love is reckoned best. Where conversations of the eyes Are all enough; where beauty thrills The heart like hues of harvest-home; Where rage lies down, where passion dies, Where peace hath her abiding place.... A face that lifted up; sweet face That was so like a life begun, That rose for me a rising sun Above the bended seven hills Of dead and risen old new Rome. Not that I deem'd she loved me. Nay, I dared not even dream of that. I only say I knew her; say She ever sat before me, sat All still and voiceless as love is, And ever look'd so fair, divine, Her hush'd, vehement soul fill'd mine, And overflowed with Runic bliss, And made itself a part of this. O you had loved her sitting there, Half hidden in her loosen'd hair: Why, you had loved her for her eyes, Their large and melancholy look Of tenderness, and well mistook Their love for light of Paradise. Yea, loved her for her large dark eyes; Yea, loved her for her brow's soft brown; Her hand as light as heaven's bars; Yea, loved her for her mouth. Her mouth Was roses gather'd from the south, The warm south side of Paradise, And breathed upon and handed down, By angels on a stair of stars. Push'd out and pouting full and bold With simple beauty where she sat. Why, you had said, on seeing her, This creature comes from out the dim Far centuries, beyond the rim Of time's remotest reach or stir. And he who wrought Semiramis And shaped the Sibyls, seeing this, Had bow'd and made a shrine thereat, And all his life had worshipp'd her, Devout as north-Nile worshipper. I dared not dream she loved me. Nay, Her love was proud; and pride is loth To look with favor, own it fond Of one the world loves not to-day.... No matter if she loved or no, God knows I loved enough for both, And knew her as you shall not know Till you have known sweet death, and you Have cross'd the dark; gone over to The great majority beyond. The black men bow'd, the long oars bent, They struck as if for sweet life's sake, And one look'd back, but no man spake, And all wills bent to one intent. On through the golden fringe of day Into the deep, dark night, away And up the wave 'mid walls of wood They cleft, they climb'd, they bowed, they bent, But one stood tall, and restless stood, And one sat still all night, all day, And gazed in helpless wonderment. Her hair pour'd down like darkling wine, The black men lean'd, a sullen line, The bent oars kept a steady song, And all the beams of bright sunshine That touch'd the waters wild and strong, Fell drifting down and out of sight Like fallen leaves, and it was night. And night and day, and many days They climb'd the sudden, dark gray tide, And she sat silent at his side, And he sat turning many ways: Sat watching for his wily foe; At last he baffled him. And yet His brow gloom'd dark, his lips were set; He lean'd, he peer'd through boughs, as though From heart of forests deep and dim Grim shapes could come confronting him. A grand, uncommon man was he, Broad-shoulder'd, and of Gothic form, Strong-built, and hoary like a sea; A high sea broken up by storm. His face was brown and overwrought By seams and shadows born of thought, Not over gentle. And his eyes, Bold, restless, resolute, and deep, Too deep to flow like shallow fount Of common men where waters mount And men bend down their heads and weep-- Fierce, lumin'd eyes, where flames might rise Instead of flood, and flash and sweep-- Strange eyes, that look'd unsatisfied With all things fair or otherwise; As if his inmost soul had cried All time for something yet unseen, Some long-desired thing denied. A man whose soul was mightier far Than his great self, and surged and fell About himself as heaving seas Lift up and lash, and boom, and swell Above some solitary bar That bursts through blown Samoa's sea, And wreck and toss eternally. Below the overhanging boughs The oars laid idle at the last. Yet long he look'd for hostile prows From out the wood and down the stream. They came not, and he came to dream Pursuit abandon'd, danger past. He fell'd the oak, he built a home Of new-hewn wood with busy hand, And said, "My wanderings are told." And said, "No more by sea, by land, Shall I break rest, or drift, or roam, For I am worn, and I grow old." And there, beside that surging tide, Where gray waves meet, and wheel, and strike, The man sat down as satisfied To sit and rest unto the end; As if the strong man here had found A sort of brother in this sea,-- This surging, sounding majesty Of troubled water, so profound, So sullen, strong, and lion-like, So sinuous and foamy bound. Hast seen Missouri cleave the wood In sounding whirlpools to the sea? What soul hath known such majesty? What man stood by and understood? By pleasant Omaha I stood, Beneath a fringe of mailed wood, And watch'd the mighty waters heave, And surge, and strike, and wind, and weave And make strange sounds and mutterings, As if of dark unutter'd things. By pleasant high-built Omaha I stand. The waves beneath me run All stain'd and yellow, dark and dun, And deep as death's sweet mystery,-- A thousand Tibers roll'd in one. I count on other years. I draw The curtain from the scenes to be. I see another Rome. I see A Caesar tower in the land, And take her in his iron hand. I see a throne, a king, a crown, A high-built capital thrown down. I see my river rise ... The world's cold commerce of to-day Demands some idle flippant theme; And I, your minstrel, must sit by, And harp along the edge of morn, And sing and celebrate to please The multitude, the mob, and these They know not pearls from yellow corn. Yea, idly sing or silent dream; My harp, my hand is yours, but I-- My soul moves down that sounding stream. Adieu, dun, mighty stream, adieu! Adown thine wooded walls, inwrought With rose of Cherokee and vine, Was never heard a minstrel's note, And none would heed a song of mine. I find expression for my thought In other themes.... List! I have seen A grizzly sporting on the green Of west sierras with a goat, And finding pastime all day through.... O sounding, swift Missouri, born Of Rocky Mountains, and begot On bed of snow at birth of morn, Of thunder-storms and elements That reign where puny man comes not, With fountain-head in fields of gold, And wide arms twining wood and wold, And everlasting snowy tents,-- I hail you from the Orients. Shall I return to you once more? Shall take occasion by the throat And thrill with wild AEolian note? Shall sit and sing by your deep shore? Shall shape a reed and pipe of yore And wake old melodies made new, And thrill thine leaf-land through and through? Then long the long oars idle lay. The cabin's smoke came forth and curl'd Right lazily from river brake, And Time went by the other way. And who was she, the strong man's pride? This one fair woman of the world. A captive? Bride, or not a bride? Her eyes, men say, grew sad and dim With watching from the river's rim, As waiting for some face denied. And yet she never wept or spake, Or breath'd his name for her love's sake. Yea, who was she?--none ever knew. The great strong river swept around, The cabins nestled in its bend, But kept its secrets. Wild birds flew In bevies by. The black men found Diversion in the chase: and wide Old Morgan ranged the wood, nor friend, Nor foeman ever at his side Or shared his forests deep and dim, Or cross'd his path or question'd him. He stood as one who found and named The middle world. What visions flamed Athwart the west! What prophecies Were his, the gray old man, that day Who stood alone and look'd away,-- Awest from out the waving trees, Against the utter sundown seas. Alone oft-time beside the stream He stood and gazed as in a dream, As if he knew a life unknown To those who knew him thus alone. His eyes were gray and overborne By shaggy brows, his strength was shorn, Yet still he ever gazed awest, As one who would not, could not rest. And whence came he? and when, and why? Men question'd men, but nought was known Save that he roam'd the woods alone, And lived alone beneath the stir Of leaves, and letting life go by, Did look on her and only her. And had he fled with bloody hand? Or had he loved some Helen fair, And battling lost both land and town? Say, did he see his walls go down, Then choose from all his treasures there This love, and seek some other land? And yet the current of his life Mostlike had flow'd like oil; had been A monk's, for aught that all men knew. Mostlike the sad man's only sin, A cruel one, for thought is strife, Had been the curse of thought all through. Mayhap his splendid soul had spurn'd Insipid, sweet society, That stinks in nostrils of all men High-born and fearless-souled and free;-- That tasting to satiety Her hollow sweets he proudly turn'd, And did rebel and curse her then; And then did stoop and from the sod Pluck this one flower for his breast, Then turn to solitude for rest, And turn from man in search of God. And as to that, I reckon it But right, but Christian-like and just, And closer after Christ's own plan, To take men as you find your man, To take a soul from God on trust, A fit man, or yourself unfit: To take man free from the control Of man's opinion: take a soul In its own troubled world, all fair As you behold it then and there, Set naked in your sight, alone, Unnamed, unheralded, unknown: Yea, take him bravely from the hand That reach'd him forth from nothingness, That took his tired soul to keep All night, then reach'd him out from sleep And sat him equal in the land; Sent out from where the angels are, A soul new-born, without one whit Of bought or borrow'd character. Ah, bless us! if we only could As ready spin and willing weave Sweet tales of charity and good; Could we as willing clip the wings Of cruel tales as pleasant things, How sweet 'twould then be to believe, How good 'twould then be to be good. The squirrels chatter'd in the leaves, The turkeys call'd from pawpaw wood, The deer with lifted nostrils stood, And humming-birds did wind and weave, Swim round about, dart in and out, Through fragrant forest edge made red, Made many-colour'd overhead By climbing blossoms sweet with bee And yellow rose of Cherokee. Then frosts came by and touch'd the leaves, Then time hung ices on the eaves, Then cushion snows possess'd the ground, And so the seasons kept their round; Yet still old Morgan went and came From cabin door to forest dim, Through wold of snows, through wood of flame, Through golden Indian-summer days, Hung round in soft September haze, And no man cross'd or question'd him. Nay, there was that in his stern air That held e'en these rude men aloof: None came to share the broad-built roof That rose so fortress-like beside The angry, rushing, sullen tide, And only black men gather'd there, The old man's slaves, in dull content, Black, silent, and obedient. Then men push'd westward through his wood, His wild beasts fled, and now he stood Confronting men. He had endear'd No man, but still he went and came Apart, and shook his beard and strode His ways alone, and bore his load, If load it were, apart, alone. Then men grew busy with a name That no man loved, that many fear'd, And cowards stoop'd, and cast a stone, As at some statue overthrown. Some said a pirate blown by night From isles of calm Caribbean land, Who left his comrades; that he fled With many prices on his head, And that he bore in his hot flight The gather'd treasure of his band, In bloody and unholy hand. Then some did say a privateer, Then others, that he fled from fear, And climb'd the mad Missouri far, To where the friendly forests are; And that his illy-gotten gold Lay sunken in his black boat's hold. Then others, watching his fair bride, Said, "There is something more beside." Some said, a stolen bride was she, And that his strong arm in the strife Was red with her own brother's life, And that her lover from the sea Lay waiting for his chosen wife, And that a day of reckoning Lay waiting for this grizzled king. O sweet child-face, that ever gazed From out the wood and down the wave! O eyes, that never once were raised! O mouth, that never murmur gave! O dark-eyed Ina! All the years Brought her but solitude and tears. Lo! ever looking out she stood Adown the wave, adown the wood, Adown the strong stream to the south, Sad-faced, and sorrowful. Her mouth Push'd out so pitiful. Her eyes Fill'd full of sorrow and surprise. Men say that looking from her place A love would sometimes light her face, As if sweet recollections stirr'd Her heart and broke its loneliness, Like far sweet songs that come to us, So soft, so sweet, they are not heard, So far, so faint, they fill the air, A fragrance filling anywhere. And wasting all her summer years That utter'd only through her tears, The seasons went, and still she stood For ever watching down the wood. Yet in her heart there held a strife With all this wasting of sweet life That none who have not lived and died, Held up the two hands crucified Between the ways on either hand, Can look upon or understand. The blackest rain-clouds muffle fire: Between a duty and desire There lies no middle way or land: Take thou the right or the left hand, And so pursue, nor hesitate To boldly give your hand to fate. In helpless indecisions lie The rocks on which we strike and die. 'Twere better far to choose the worst Of all life's ways than to be cursed With indecision. Turn and choose Your way, then all the world refuse. And men who saw her still do say That never once her lips were heard, By gloaming dusk or shining day, To utter or pronounce one word. Men went and came, and still she stood In silence watching down the wood. Yea, still she stood and look'd away, By tawny night, by fair-fac'd day, Adown the wood beyond the land, Her hollow face upon her hand, Her black, abundant hair all down About her loose, ungather'd gown. And what her thought? her life unsaid? Was it of love? of hate? of him, The tall, dark Southerner? Her head Bow'd down. The day fell dim Upon her eyes. She bow'd, she slept. She waken'd then, and waking wept. She dream'd, perchance, of island home, A land of palms ring'd round with foam, Where summer on her shelly shore Sits down and rests for evermore. And one who watch'd her wasted youth Did guess, mayhap with much of truth, Her heart was with that band that came Against her isle with sword and flame: And this the tale he told of her And her fierce, silent follower: A Spaniard and adventurer, A man who saw her, loved, and fell Upon his knees and worshipp'd her; And with that fervor and mad zeal That only sunborn bosoms feel, Did vow to love, to follow her Unto the altar ... or to hell: That then her gray-hair'd father bore The beauteous maiden hurriedly From out her fair isle of the sea To sombre wold and woody shore And far away, and kept her well, As from a habitant of hell, And vow'd she should not meet him more: That fearing still the buccaneer, He silent kept his forests here. The while men came, and still she stood For ever watching from the wood. The black-eyed bushy squirrels ran Like shadows shatter'd through the boughs; The gallant robin chirp'd his vows, The far-off pheasant thrumm'd his fan, A thousand blackbirds were a-wing In walnut-top, and it was spring. Old Morgan left his cabin door, And one sat watching as of yore; But why turned Morgan's face as white As his white beard? A bird aflight, A squirrel peering through the trees, Saw some one silent steal away Like darkness from the face of day, Saw two black eyes look back, and these Saw her hand beckon through the trees. He knew him, though he had not seen That form or face for a decade, Though time had shorn his locks, had made His form another's, flow'd between Their lives like some uncompass'd sea, Yet still he knew him as before. He pursed his lips, and silently He turn'd and sought his cabin's door. Ay! they have come, the sun-brown'd men, To beard old Morgan in his den. It matters little who they are, These silent men from isles afar, And truly no one cares or knows What be their merit or demand; It is enough for this rude land-- At least, it is enough for those, The loud of tongue and rude of hand-- To know that they are Morgan's foes. Proud Morgan! More than tongue can tell He loved that woman watching there, That stood in her dark stream of hair, That stood and dream'd as in a spell, And look'd so fix'd and far away. And who, that loveth woman well, Is wholly bad? be who he may. Ay! we have seen these Southern men, These sun-brown'd men from island shore, In this same land, and long before. They do not seem so lithe as then, They do not look so tall, and they Seem not so many as of old. But that same resolute and bold Expression of unbridled will, That even Time must half obey, Is with them and is of them still. They do not counsel the decree Of court or council, where they drew Their breath, nor law nor order knew, Save but the strong hand of the strong; Where each stood up, avenged his wrong, Or sought his death all silently. They watch along the wave and wood, They heed, but haste not. Their estate, Whate'er it be, can bide and wait, Be it open ill or hidden good. No law for them! For they have stood With steel, and writ their rights in blood; And now, whatever 'tis they seek, Whatever be their dark demand, Why, they will make it, hand to hand, Take time and patience: Greek to Greek. Like blown and snowy wintry pine, Old Morgan stoop'd his head and pass'd Within his cabin door. He cast A great arm out to men, made sign, Then turned to Ina; stood beside A time, then turn'd and strode the floor, Stopp'd short, breathed sharp, threw wide the door, Then gazed beyond the murky tide, Toward where the forky peaks divide. He took his beard in his hard hand, Then slowly shook his grizzled head And trembled, but no word he said. His thought was something more than pain; Upon the seas, upon the land He knew he should not rest again. He turn'd to her; but then once more Quick turn'd, and through the oaken door He sudden pointed to the west. His eye resumed its old command, The conversation of his hand, It was enough: she knew the rest. He turn'd, he stoop'd, and smoothed her hair, As if to smooth away the care From his great heart, with his left hand. His right hand hitch'd the pistol round That dangled at his belt ... The sound Of steel to him was melody More sweet than any song of sea. He touch'd his pistol, press'd his lips, Then tapp'd it with his finger-tips, And toy'd with it as harper's hand Seeks out the chords when he is sad And purposeless. At last he had Resolved. In haste he touch'd her hair, Made sign she should arise--prepare For some long journey, then again He look'd awest toward the plain: Toward the land of dreams and space, The land of Silences, the land Of shoreless deserts sown with sand, Where desolation's dwelling is: The land where, wondering, you say, What dried-up shoreless sea is this? Where, wandering, from day to day You say, To-morrow sure we come To rest in some cool resting-place, And yet you journey on through space With marvel at the distances. Yea, he would go. Go utterly Away, and from all living kind, Pierce through the distances, and find New lands. He had outlived his race. He stood like some eternal tree That tops remote Yosemite, And cannot fall. He turn'd his face Again and contemplated space. And then he raised his hand to vex His beard, stood still, and there fell down Great drops from some unfrequent spring, And streak'd his channell'd cheeks sun-brown, And ran uncheck'd, as one who recks Nor joy, nor tears, nor any thing. And then, his broad breast heaving deep, Like some dark sea in troubled sleep, Blown round with groaning ships and wrecks, He sudden roused himself, and stood With all the strength of his stern mood, Then call'd his men, and bade them go And bring black steeds with banner'd necks, And strong like burly buffalo. The sassafras took leaf, and men Push'd west in hosts. The black men drew Their black-maned horses silent through The solemn woods. One midnight when The curl'd moon tipp'd her horn, and threw A black oak's shadow slant across A low mound hid in leaves and moss, Old Morgan cautious came and drew From out the ground, as from a grave, A great box, iron-bound and old, And fill'd, men say, with pirates' gold, And then they, silent as a dream, In long black shadows cross'd the stream. Lo! here the smoke of cabins curl'd, The borders of the middle world; And mighty, hairy, half-wild men Sat down in silence, held at bay By mailed forests. Far away The red men's boundless borders lay, And lodges stood in legions then, Strip'd pyramids of painted men. What strong uncommon men were these, These settlers hewing to the seas! Great horny-handed men and tan; Men blown from any border land; Men desperate and red of hand, And men in love and men in debt, And men who lived but to forget, And men whose very hearts had died, Who only sought these woods to hide Their wretchedness, held in the van; Yet every man among them stood Alone, along that sounding wood, And every man somehow a man. A race of unnamed giants these, That moved like gods among the trees, So stern, so stubborn-brow'd and slow, With strength of black-maned buffalo, And each man notable and tall, A kingly and unconscious Saul, A sort of sullen Hercules. A star stood large and white awest, Then Time uprose and testified; They push'd the mailed wood aside, They toss'd the forest like a toy, That great forgotten race of men, The boldest band that yet has been Together since the siege of Troy, And followed it ... and found their rest. What strength! what strife! what rude unrest! What shocks! what half-shaped armies met! A mighty nation moving west, With all its steely sinews set Against the living forests. Hear The shouts, the shots of pioneer! The rended forests, rolling wheels, As if some half-check'd army reels, Recoils, redoubles, comes again, Loud sounding like a hurricane. O bearded, stalwart, westmost men, So tower-like, so Gothic-built! A kingdom won without the guilt Of studied battle; that hath been Your blood's inheritance.... Your heirs Know not your tombs. The great ploughshares Cleave softly through the mellow loam Where you have made eternal home And set no sign. Your epitaphs Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs While through the green ways wandering Beside her love, slow gathering White starry-hearted May-time blooms Above your lowly levell'd tombs; And then below the spotted sky She stops, she leans, she wonders why The ground is heaved and broken so, And why the grasses darker grow And droop and trail like wounded wing. Yea, Time, the grand old harvester, Has gather'd you from wood and plain. We call to you again, again; The rush and rumble of the car Comes back in answer. Deep and wide The wheels of progress have pass'd on; The silent pioneer is gone. His ghost is moving down the trees, And now we push the memories Of bluff, bold men who dared and died In foremost battle, quite aside. O perfect Eden of the earth, In poppies sown, in harvest set! O sires, mothers of my West! How shall we count your proud bequest? But yesterday ye gave us birth; We eat your hard-earn'd bread to-day, Nor toil nor spin nor make regret, But praise our petty selves and say How great we are, and all forget The still endurance of the rude Unpolish'd sons of solitude. And one was glad at morn, but one, The tall old sea-king, grim and gray, Look'd back to where his cabins lay And seem'd to hesitate. He rose At last, as from his dream's repose, From rest that counterfeited rest, And set his blown beard to the west, And drove against the setting sun, Along the levels vast and dun. His steeds were steady, strong, and fleet, The best in all the wide west land, Their manes were in the air, their feet Seem'd scarce to touch the flying sand; The reins were in the reaching hand. They rode like men gone mad, they fled, All day and many days they ran, And in the rear a gray old man Kept watch, and ever turn'd his head, Half eager and half angry, back Along their dusty desert track. And one look'd back, but no man spoke, They rode, they swallow'd up the plain; The sun sank low, he look'd again, With lifted hand and shaded eyes. Then far arear he saw uprise, As if from giant's stride or stroke, Dun dust-like puffs of battle-smoke. He turn'd, his left hand clutch'd the rein, He struck awest his high right hand, His arms were like the limbs of oak, They knew too well the man's command, They mounted, plunged ahead again, And one look'd back, but no man spoke, Of all that sullen iron band, That reached along that barren land. O weary days of weary blue, Without one changing breath, without One single cloud-ship sailing through The blue seas bending round about In one unbroken blotless hue. Yet on they fled, and one look'd back For ever down their distant track. The tent is pitch'd, the blanket spread, The earth receives the weary head, The night rolls west, the east is gray, The tent is struck, they mount, away; They ride for life the livelong day, They sweep the long grass in their track, And one leads on, and one looks back. What scenes they pass'd, what camps at morn, What weary columns kept the road; What herds of troubled cattle low'd, And trumpeted like lifted horn; And everywhere, or road or rest, All things were pointing to the west; A weary, long, and lonesome track, And all led on, but one look'd back. They climb'd the rock-built breasts of earth, The Titan-fronted, blowy steeps That cradled Time.... Where Freedom keeps Her flag of white blown stars unfurl'd, They turn'd about, they saw the birth Of sudden dawn upon the world; Again they gazed; they saw the face Of God, and named it boundless space. And they descended and did roam Through levell'd distances set round By room. They saw the Silences Move by and beckon: saw the forms, The very beards, of burly storms, And heard them talk like sounding seas. On unnamed heights bleak-blown and brown, And torn like battlements of Mars, They saw the darknesses come down, Like curtains loosen'd from the dome Of God's cathedral, built of stars. They pitch'd the tent, where rivers run As if to drown the falling sun. They saw the snowy mountains roll'd, And heaved along the nameless lands Like mighty billows; saw the gold Of awful sunsets; saw the blush Of sudden dawn, and felt the hush Of heaven when the day sat down, And hid his face in dusky hands. The long and lonesome nights! the tent That nestled soft in sweep of grass, The hills against the firmament Where scarce the moving moon could pass; The cautious camp, the smother'd light, The silent sentinel at night! The wild beasts howling from the hill; The troubled cattle bellowing; The savage prowling by the spring, Then sudden passing swift and still, And bended as a bow is bent. The arrow sent; the arrow spent And buried in its bloody place, The dead man lying on his face! The clouds of dust, their cloud by day; Their pillar of unfailing fire The far North star. And high, and higher.... They climb'd so high it seem'd eftsoon That they must face the falling moon, That like some flame-lit ruin lay Thrown down before their weary way. They learn'd to read the sign of storms, The moon's wide circles, sunset bars, And storm-provoking blood and flame; And, like the Chaldean shepherds, came At night to name the moving stars. In heaven's face they pictured forms Of beasts, of fishes of the sea. They mark'd the Great Bear wearily Rise up and drag his clinking chain Of stars around the starry main. What lines of yoked and patient steers! What weary thousands pushing west! What restless pilgrims seeking rest, As if from out the edge of years! What great yoked brutes with briskets low, With wrinkled necks like buffalo, With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, That turn'd so slow and sad to you, That shone like love's eyes soft with tears, That seem'd to plead, and make replies The while they bow'd their necks and drew The creaking load; and look'd at you. Their sable briskets swept the ground, Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. Two sullen bullocks led the line, Their great eyes shining bright like wine; Two sullen captive kings were they, That had in time held herds at bay, And even now they crush'd the sod With stolid sense of majesty, And stately stepp'd and stately trod, As if 'twas something still to be Kings even in captivity. And why did these same sunburnt men Let Morgan gain the plain, and then Pursue him to the utter sea? You ask me here impatiently. And I as pertly must reply, My task is but to tell a tale, To give a wide sail to the gale, To paint the boundless plain, the sky; To rhyme, nor give a reason why. Mostlike they sought his gold alone, And fear'd to make their quarrel known Lest it should keep its secret bed; Mostlike they thought to best prevail And conquer with united hands Alone upon the lonesome sands; Mostlike they had as much to dread; Mostlike--but I must tell my tale. And Morgan, ever looking back, Push'd on, push'd up his mountain track, Past camp, past train, past caravan, Past flying beast, past failing man, Past brave men battling with a foe That circled them with lance and bow And feather'd arrows all a-wing; Till months unmeasured came and ran The calendar with him, as though Old Time had lost all reckoning; Then passed for aye the creaking trains, And pioneers that named the plains. Those brave old bricks of Forty-nine! What lives they lived! what deaths they died! A thousand canons, darkling wide Below Sierra's slopes of pine, Receive them now. And they who died Along the far, dim, desert route. Their ghosts are many. Let them keep Their vast possessions. The tawny warrior, will dispute No boundary with these. And I, Who saw them live, who felt them die, Say, let their unploughed ashes sleep, Untouched by man, by plain or steep. The bearded, sunbrown'd men who bore The burthen of that frightful year, Who toil'd, but did not gather store, They shall not be forgotten. And white, the plains of Shoshonee Shall point us to that farther shore, And long white shining lines of bones, Make needless sign or white mile-stones. The wild man's yell, the groaning wheel; The train that moved like drifting barge; The dust that rose up like a cloud, Like smoke of distant battle! Loud The great whips rang like shot, and steel Of antique fashion, crude and large, Flash'd back as in some battle charge. They sought, yea, they did find their rest Along that long and lonesome way, These brave men buffeting the West With lifted faces. Full were they Of great endeavor. Brave and true As stern Crusader clad in steel, They died a-field as it was fit. Made strong with hope, they dared to do Achievement that a host to-day Would stagger at, stand back and reel, Defeated at the thought of it. What brave endeavor to endure! What patient hope, when hope was past! What still surrender at the last, A thousand leagues from hope! how pure They lived, how proud they died! How generous with life! The wide And gloried age of chivalry Hath not one page like this to me. Let all these golden days go by, In sunny summer weather. I But think upon my buried brave, And breathe beneath another sky. Let beauty glide in gilded car, And find my sundown seas afar, Forgetful that 'tis but one grave From eastmost to the westmost wave. Yea, I remember! The still tears That o'er uncoffin'd faces fell! The final, silent, sad farewell! God! these are with me all the years! They shall be with me ever. I Shall not forget. I hold a trust. They are a part of my existence. Adown the shining iron track You sweep, and fields of corn flash back, And herds of lowing steers move by, And men laugh loud, in mute distrust, I turn to other days, to men Who made a pathway with their dust. At last he pass'd all men or sign Of man. Yet still his long black line Was push'd and pointed for the west; The sea, the utmost sea, and rest. He climbed, descended, climbed again, Until he stood at last as lone, As solitary and unknown, As some lost ship upon the main. O there was grandeur in his air, An old-time splendor in his eye, When he had climb'd the bleak, the high, The rock-built bastions of the plain, And thrown a-back his blown white hair, And halting turn'd to look again. And long, from out his lofty place, He look'd far down the fading plain For his pursuers, but in vain. Yea, he was glad. Across his face A careless smile was seen to play, The first for many a stormy day. He turn'd to Ina, dark and fair As some sad twilight; touch'd her hair, Stoop'd low, and kiss'd her silently, Then silent held her to his breast. Then waved command to his black men, Look'd east, then mounted slow, and then Led leisurely against the west. And why should he, who dared to die, Who more than once with hissing breath Had set his teeth and pray'd for death, Have fled these men, or wherefore fly Before them now? why not defy? His midnight men were strong and true, And not unused to strife, and knew The masonry of steel right well, And all its signs that lead to hell. It might have been his youth had wrought Some wrong his years would now repair That made him fly and still forbear; It might have been he only sought To lead them to some fatal snare And let them die by piece-meal there. It might have been that his own blood, A brother, son, pursued with curse. It might have been this woman fair Was this man's child, an only thing To love in all the universe, And that the old man's iron will Kept pirate's child from pirate still. These rovers had a world their own, Had laws, lived lives, went ways unknown. I trow it was not shame or fear Of any man or any thing That death in any shape might bring. It might have been some lofty sense Of his own truth and innocence, And virtues lofty and severe-- Nay, nay! what need of reasons here? They touch'd a fringe of tossing trees That bound a mountain's brow like bay, And through the fragrant boughs a breeze Blew salt-flood freshness. Far away, From mountain brow to desert base Lay chaos, space, unbounded space, In one vast belt of purple bound. The black men cried, "The sea!" They bow'd Their black heads in their hard black hands. They wept for joy. They laugh'd, and broke The silence of an age, and spoke Of rest at last; and, group'd in bands, They threw their long black arms about Each other's necks, and laugh'd aloud, Then wept again with laugh and shout. Yet Morgan spake no word, but led His band with oft-averted head Right through the cooling trees, till he Stood out upon the lofty brow And mighty mountain wall. And now The men who shouted, "Lo, the sea!" Rode in the sun; but silently: Stood in the sun, then look'd below. They look'd but once, then look'd away, Then look'd each other in the face. They could not lift their brows, nor say, But held their heads, nor spake, for lo! Nor sea, nor voice of sea, nor breath Of sea, but only sand and death, And one eternity of space Confronted them with fiery face. 'Twas vastness even as a sea, So still it sang in symphonies; But yet without the sense of seas, Save depth, and space, and distances. 'Twas all so shoreless, so profound, It seem'd it were earth's utter bound. 'Twas like the dim edge of death is, 'Twas hades, hell, eternity! Then Morgan hesitating stood, Look'd down the deep and steep descent With wilder'd brow and wonderment, Then gazed against the cooling wood. And she beside him gazed at this, Then turn'd her great, sad eyes to his; He shook his head and look'd away, Then sadly smiled, and still did say, "To-morrow, child, another day." O thou to-morrow! Mystery! O day that ever runs before! What has thine hidden hand in store For mine, to-morrow, and for me? O thou to-morrow! what hast thou In store to make me bear the now? O day in which we shall forget The tangled troubles of to-day! O day that laughs at duns, at debt! O day of promises to pay! O shelter from all present storm! O day in which we shall reform! O day of all days for reform! Convenient day of promises! Hold back the shadow of the storm. O bless'd to-morrow! Chiefest friend, Let not thy mystery be less, But lead us blindfold to the end. Old Morgan eyed his men, look'd back Against the groves of tamarack, Then tapp'd his stirrup-foot, and stray'd His hard left hand along the mane Of his strong steed, and careless play'd His fingers through the silken skein, And seemed a time to touch the rein. And then he spurr'd him to her side, And reach'd his hand and, leaning wide, He smiling push'd her falling hair Back from her brow, and kiss'd her there. Yea, touch'd her softly, as if she Had been some priceless, tender flower, Yet touch'd her as one taking leave Of his one love in lofty tower Before descending to the sea Of battle on his battle eve. A distant shout! quick oaths! alarms! The black men start up suddenly, Stand in the stirrup, clutch their arms, And bare bright arms all instantly. But he, he slowly turns, and he Looks all his full soul in her face. He does not shout, he does not say, But sits serenely in his place A time, then slowly turns, looks back Between the trim-bough'd tamarack, And up the winding mountain way, To where the long strong grasses lay. He raised his glass in his two hands, Then in his left hand let it fall, Then seem'd to count his fingers o'er, Then reach'd his glass, waved cold commands, Then tapp'd his stirrup as before, Stood in the stirrup stern and tall, Then ran his hand along the mane Half nervous-like, and that was all. His head half settled on his breast, His face a-beard like bird a-nest, And then he roused himself, he spoke, He reach'd an arm like arm of oak, He struck a-west his great broad hand, And seem'd to hurl his hot command. He clutch'd his rein, struck sharp his heel, Look'd at his men, and smiled half sad, Half desperate, then hitch'd his steel, And all his stormy presence had, As if he kept once more his keel On listless seas where breakers reel. He toss'd again his iron hand Above the deep, steep desert space, Above the burning seas of sand, And look'd his black men in the face. They spake not, nor look'd back again, They struck the heel, they clutch'd the rein, And down the darkling plunging steep They dropped toward the dried-up deep. Below! It seem'd a league below, The black men rode, and she rode well, Against the gleaming sheening haze That shone like some vast sea ablaze, That seem'd to gleam, to glint, to glow As if it mark'd the shores of hell. Then Morgan stood alone, look'd back From off the fierce wall where he stood, And watch'd his dusk approaching foe. He saw him creep along his track, Saw him descending from the wood, And smiled to see how worn and slow. Then when his foemen hounding came In pistol-shot of where he stood, He wound his hand in his steed's mane, And plunging to the desert plain, Threw back his white beard like a cloud, And looking back did shout aloud Defiance like a stormy flood, And shouted, "Vasques!" called his name, And dared him to the desert flame. A cloud of dust adown the steep, Where scarce a whirling hawk would sweep, The cloud his foes had follow'd fast, And Morgan like a cloud had pass'd, Yet passed like some proud king of old; And now mad Vasques could not hold Control of his one wild desire To meet old Morgan, in his ire. He cursed aloud, he shook his rein Above the desert darkling deep, And urged his steed toward the steep, But urged his weary steed in vain. Old Morgan heard his oath and shout, And Morgan turn'd his head once more, And wheel'd his stout steed short about, Then seem'd to count their numbers o'er. And then his right hand touch'd his steel, And then he tapp'd his iron heel And seem'd to fight with thought. At last, As if the final die was cast, And cast as carelessly as one Would toss a white coin in the sun, He touch'd his rein once more, and then His pistol laid with idle heed Prone down the toss'd mane of his steed, And he rode down the rugged way Tow'rd where the wide, white desert lay, By broken gorge and cavern'd den, And join'd his band of midnight men. Some say the gray old man had crazed From mountain fruits that he had pluck'd While winding through the wooded ways Above the steep. But others say That he had turn'd aside and suck'd Sweet poison from the honey dews That lie like manna all the day On dewy leaves so crystal fair And temptingly that none refuse; That thus made mad the man did dare Confront the desert and despair. Then other mountain men explain, That when one looks upon this sea Of glowing sand, he looks again, Again, through gossamers that run In scintillations of the sun Along this white eternity, And looks until the brain is dazed, Bewilder'd, and the man is crazed. Then one, a grizzled mountaineer, A thin and sinewy old man, With face all wrinkle-wrought, and tan, And presence silent and austere, Does tell a tale, with reaching face And bated breath, of this weird place, Of many a stalwart mountaineer And Piute tall who perish'd here. He tells a tale with whisper'd breath Of skin-clad men who track'd this shore, Once populous with sea-set town, And saw a woman wondrous fair, And, wooing, follow'd her far down Through burning sands to certain death; And then he catches short his breath. He tells: Nay, this is all too long; Enough. The old man shakes his hair When he is done, and shuts his eyes, So satisfied and so self-wise, As if to say, "'Tis nothing rare, This following the luring fair To death, and bound in thorny thong; 'Twas ever thus; the old, old song." Go ye and look upon that land, That far vast land that few behold, And none beholding understand,-- That old, old land which men call new, That land as old as time is old;-- Go journey with the seasons through Its wastes, and learn how limitless, How shoreless lie the distances, Before you come to question this Or dare to dream what grandeur is. The solemn silence of that plain, Where unmanned tempests ride and reign, It awes and it possesses you. 'Tis, oh! so eloquent. The blue And bended skies seem built for it, With rounded roof all fashioned fit, And frescoed clouds, quaint-wrought and true; While all else seems so far, so vain, An idle tale but illy told, Before this land so lone and old. Its story is of God alone, For man has lived and gone away, And left but little heaps of stone, And all seems some long yesterday. Lo! here you learn how more than fit And dignified is silence, when You hear the petty jeers of men Who point, and show their pointless wit. The vastness of that voiceless plain, Its awful solitudes remain Thenceforth for aye a part of you, And you are of the favored few, For you have learn'd your littleness, And heed not names that name you less. Some silent red men cross your track; Some sun-tann'd trappers come and go; Some rolling seas of buffalo Break thunder-like and far away Against the foot-hills, breaking back Like breakers of some troubled bay; But not a voice the long, lone day. Some white-tail'd antelope blow by So airy-like; some foxes shy And shadow-like shoot to and fro Like weavers' shuttles, as you pass; And now and then from out the grass You hear some lone bird cluck, and call A sharp keen call for her lost brood, That only makes the solitude, That mantles like some sombre pall, Seem deeper still, and that is all. A wide domain of mysteries And signs that men misunderstand! A land of space and dreams; a land Of sea-salt lakes and dried-up seas! A land of caves and caravans, And lonely wells and pools; A land That hath its purposes and plans, That seems so like dead Palestine, Save that its wastes have no confine Till push'd against the levell'd skies; A land from out whose depths shall rise The new-time prophets. Yea, the land From out whose awful depths shall come, All clad in skins, with dusty feet, A man fresh from his Maker's hand, A singer singing oversweet, A charmer charming very wise; "Take heed, for I prepare the way For weary feet." Lo! from this land Of Jordan streams and sea-wash'd sand, The Christ shall come when next the race Of man shall look upon his face. Pursuer and pursued! who knows The why he left the breezy pine, The fragrant tamarack and vine, Red rose and precious yellow rose! Nay, Vasques held the vantage ground Above him by the wooded steep, And right nor left no passage lay, And there was left him but that way,-- The way through blood, or to the deep And lonesome deserts far profound, That know not sight of man, or sound. Hot Vasques stood upon the rim, High, bold, and fierce with crag and spire. He saw a far gray eagle swim, He saw a black hawk wheel, retire, And shun that desert wide a-wing, But saw no other living thing. High in the full sun's gold and flame He halting and half waiting came And stood below the belt of wood, Then moved along the broken hill And looked below. And long he stood With lips set firm and brow a-frown, And warring with his iron will. He mark'd the black line winding down As if into the doors of death. And as he gazed a breath arose As from his far-retreating foes, So hot it almost took his breath. His black eye flashed an angry fire, He stood upon the mountain brow, With lifted arm like oaken bough; The hot pursuer halting stood Irresolute, in nettled ire; Then look'd against the cooling wood, Then strode he sullen to and fro, Then turned and long he gazed below. The sands flash'd back like fields of snow, Like far blown seas that flood and flow. The while the rounded sky rose higher, And cleaving through the upper space, The flush'd sun settled to his place, Like some far hemisphere of fire. And yet again he gazed. And now, Far off and faint, he saw or guess'd He saw, beyond the sands a-west, A dim and distant lifting beach That daring men might dare and reach: Dim shapes of toppled peaks with pine, And water'd foot-hills dark like wine, And fruits on many a bended bough. The leader turn'd and shook his head. "And shall we turn aside," he said, "Or dare this hell?" The men stood still As leaning on his sterner will. And then he stopp'd and turn'd again, And held his broad hand to his brow, And looked intent and eagerly. The far white levels of the plain Flash'd back like billows. He saw rise up remote, 'mid sea, 'Mid space, 'mid wastes, 'mid nothingness, A ship becalm'd as in distress. The dim sign pass'd as suddenly, A gossamer of golden tress, Thrown over some still middle sea, And then his eager eyes grew dazed,-- He brought his two hands to his face. Again he raised his head, and gazed With flashing eyes and visage fierce Far out, and resolute to pierce The far, far, faint receding reach Of space and touch its farther beach. He saw but space, unbounded space; Eternal space and nothingness. Then all wax'd anger'd as they gazed Far out upon the shoreless land, And clench'd their doubled hands and raised Their long bare arms, but utter'd not. At last one started from the band, His bosom heaved as billows heave, Great heaving bosom, broad and brown: He raised his arm, push'd up his sleeve, Push'd bare his arm, strode up and down, With hat pushed back, and flushed and hot, And shot sharp oaths like cannon shot. Again the man stood still, again He strode the height like hoary storm, Then shook his fists, and then his form Did writhe as if it writhed with pain. And yet again his face was raised, And yet again he gazed and gazed, Above his fading, failing foe, With gather'd brow and visage fierce, As if his soul would part or pierce The awful depths that lay below. He had as well look'd on that sea That keeps Samoa's coral isles Amid ten thousand watery miles, Bound round by one eternity; Bound round by realms of nothingness, In love with their own loneliness. He saw but space, unbounded space, And brought his brown hands to his face. There roll'd away to left, to right, Unbroken walls as black as night, And back of these there distant rose Steep cones of everlasting snows. At last he was resolved, his form Seem'd like a pine blown rampt with storm. He mounted, clutch'd his reins, and then Turn'd sharp and savage to his men; And silent then led down the way To night that knows not night nor day. Like some great serpent black and still, Old Morgan's men stole down the hill. Far down the steep they wound and wound Until the black line touched that land Of gleaming white and silver sand That knows not human sight or sound. How broken plunged the steep descent; How barren! Desolate, and rent By earthquake's shock, the land lay dead, With dust and ashes on its head. 'Twas as some old world overthrown, Where Theseus fought and Sappho dreamed In eons ere they touched this land, And found their proud souls foot and hand Bound to the flesh and stung with pain. An ugly skeleton it seem'd Of its own self. The fiery rain Of red volcanoes here had sown The death of cities of the plain. The very devastation gleamed. All burnt and black, and rent and seam'd, Ay, vanquished quite and overthrown, And torn with thunder-stroke, and strown With cinders, lo! the dead earth lay As waiting for the judgment day. Why, tamer men had turn'd and said, On seeing this, with start and dread, And whisper'd each with gather'd breath, "We come on the confines of death." They wound below a savage bluff That lifted, from its sea-mark'd base, Great walls with characters cut rough And deep by some long-perish'd race; And lo! strange beasts unnamed, unknown, Stood hewn and limn'd upon the stone. The iron hoofs sank here and there, Plough'd deep in ashes, broke anew Old broken idols, and laid bare Old bits of vessels that had grown, As countless ages cycled through, Imbedded with the common stone. A mournful land as land can be Beneath their feet in ashes lay, Beside that dread and dried-up sea; A city older than that gray And grass-grown tower builded when Confusion cursed the tongues of men. Beneath, before, a city lay That in her majesty had shamed The wolf-nursed conqueror of old; Below, before, and far away There reach'd the white arm of a bay, A broad bay shrunk to sand and stone, Where ships had rode and breakers roll'd When Babylon was yet unnamed, And Nimrod's hunting-fields unknown. Some serpents slid from out the grass That grew in tufts by shatter'd stone, Then hid beneath some broken mass That Time had eaten as a bone Is eaten by some savage beast; An everlasting palace feast. A dull-eyed rattlesnake that lay All loathsome, yellow-skinn'd, and slept, Coil'd tight as pine-knot, in the sun, With flat head through the centre run, Struck blindly back, then rattling crept Flat-bellied down the dusty way ... 'Twas all the dead land had to say. Two pink-eyed hawks, wide-wing'd and gray, Scream'd savagely, and, circling high, And screaming still in mad dismay, Grew dim and died against the sky ... 'Twas all the heavens had to say. The grasses fail'd, and then a mass Of brown, burnt cactus ruled the land, And topt the hillocks of hot sand, Where scarce the horned toad could pass. Then stunted sage on either hand, All loud with odors, spread the land. The sun rose right above, and fell As falling molten as they pass'd. Some low-built junipers at last, The last that o'er the desert look'd, Thick-bough'd, and black as shapes of hell Beneath their wings awaiting night, Rose up, then faded from the sight: Then not another living thing Crept on the sand or kept the wing. Vast sepulchre of buried sea! What dim ghosts hover on thy rim, What stately-manner'd shadows swim Along thy gleaming waste of sands And shoreless limits of dead lands? White place of ghosts, give up thy dead: Give back to Time thy buried hosts! The new world's tawny Ishmaelite, The roving tent-born Shoshonee, Who shuns thy shores as death, at night, Because thou art so white, so dread, Because thou art so ghostly white, Because thou hast thy buried hosts, Has named thy shores "the place of ghosts." Thy white uncertain sands are white With bones of thy unburied dead That will not perish from the sight. They drown but perish not,--ah me! What dread unsightly sights are spread Along this lonesome dried-up sea. White Azteckee, give up to me Of all thy prison'd dead but one, That now lies bleaching in the sun, To tell what strange allurements lie Within this dried-up oldest sea, To tempt men to its heart and die. Old, hoar, and dried-up sea! so old! So strewn with wealth, so sown with gold! Yea, thou art old and hoary white With time, and ruin of all things; And on thy lonesome borders night Sits brooding as with wounded wings. The winds that toss'd thy waves and blew Across thy breast the blowing sail, And cheer'd the hearts of cheering crew From farther seas, no more prevail. Thy white-wall'd cities all lie prone, With but a pyramid, a stone, Set head and foot in sands to tell The tired stranger where they fell. The patient ox that bended low His neck, and drew slow up and down Thy thousand freights through rock-built town Is now the free-born buffalo. No longer of the timid fold, The mountain sheep leaps free and bold His high-built summit and looks down From battlements of buried town. Thine ancient steeds know not the rein; They lord the land; they come, they go At will; they laugh at man; they blow A cloud of black steeds o'er the plain. Thy monuments lie buried now, The ashes whiten on thy brow, The winds, the waves, have drawn away, The very wild man dreads to stay. O! thou art very old. I lay, Beneath a palm before my tent, With idle and discouraged hands, Not many days agone, on sands Of awful, silent Africa. Long gazing on her mighty shades, I did recall a semblance there Of thee. I mused where story fades From her dark brow and found her fair. A slave, and old, within her veins There runs that warm, forbidden blood That no man dares to dignify In elevated song. The chains That held her race but yesterday Hold still the hands of men. Forbid The turbid flood Of prejudice lies stagnant still, And all the world is tainted. Will And wit lie broken as a lance Against the brazen mailed face Of old opinion. None advance Steel-clad and glad to the attack, With trumpet and with song. Look back! Beneath yon pyramids lie hid The histories of her great race. Old Nilus rolls right sullen by, With all his secrets. Who shall say: My father rear'd a pyramid; My brother clipp'd the dragon's wings; My mother was Semiramis? Yea, harps strike idly out of place; Men sing of savage Saxon kings New-born and known but yesterday, And Norman blood presumes to say.... Nay, ye who boast ancestral name And vaunt deeds dignified by time Must not despise her. Who hath worn Since time began a face that is So all-enduring, old like this-- A face like Africa's? The Sphinx is Africa. The bond Of silence is upon her. And white with tombs, and rent and shorn; With raiment wet with tears, and torn, And trampled on, yet all untamed; All naked now, yet not ashamed,-- The mistress of the young world's prime, Whose obelisks still laugh at Time, And lift to heaven her fair name, Sleeps satisfied upon her fame. Beyond the Sphinx, and still beyond, Beyond the tawny desert-tomb Of Time; beyond tradition, loom And lift ghostlike from out the gloom Her thousand cities, battle-torn And gray with story and with time. Her very ruins are sublime, Her thrones with mosses overborne Make velvets for the feet of Time. She points a hand and cries: "Go read The letter'd obelisks that lord Old Rome, and know my name and deed. My archives these, and plunder'd when I had grown weary of all men." We turn to these; we cry: "Abhorr'd Old Sphinx, behold, we cannot read!" And yet my dried-up desert sea Was populous with blowing sail, And set with city, white-wall'd town, All mann'd with armies bright with mail, Ere yet that awful Sphinx sat down To gaze into eternity, Or Africa had name or power. Away upon the sandy seas, The gleaming, burning, boundless plain. How solemn-like, how still, as when The mighty-minded Genoese Drew three tall ships and led his men From land they might not meet again. The black men rode in front by two, The fair one follow'd close, and kept Her face held down as if she wept; But Morgan kept the rear, and threw His flowing, swaying beard aback Anon along their lonesome track. They rode against the level sun, And spake not he or any one. The weary day fell down to rest, A star upon his mantled breast, Ere scarce the sun fell out of space, And Venus glimmer'd in his place. Yea, all the stars shone just as fair, And constellations kept their round, And look'd from out the great profound, And marched, and countermarch'd, and shone Upon that desolation there, Why just the same as if proud man Strode up and down array'd in gold And purple as in days of old, And reckon'd all of his own plan, Or made at least for man alone And man's dominion from a throne. Yet on push'd Morgan silently, And straight as strong ship on a sea; And ever as he rode there lay To right, to left, and in his way, Strange objects looming in the dark, Some like a mast, or ark, or bark. And things half hidden in the sand Lay down before them where they pass'd,-- A broken beam, half-buried mast, A spar or bar, such as might be Blown crosswise, tumbled on the strand Of some sail-crowded stormy sea. All night by moon, by morning star, The still, black men still kept their way; All night till morn, till burning day, Hot Vasques follow'd fast and far. The sun shot arrows instantly; And men turn'd east against the sun, And men did look and cry, "The sea!" And Morgan look'd, nay, every one Did look, and lift his hand, and shade His brow and look, and look dismay'd. Lo! looming up before the sun, Before their eyes, yet far away, A ship with many a tall mast lay,-- Lay resting, as if she had run Some splendid race through seas, and won The right to rest in salt flood bay,-- And lay until the level sun Uprose, and then she fell away, As mists melt in the full of day. Old Morgan lifts his bony hand, He does not speak or make command,-- Short time for wonder, doubt, delay; Dark objects sudden heave in sight As if blown out or born of night. It is enough, they turn; away! The sun is high, the sands are hot To touch, and all the tawny plain, That glistens white with salt sea sand, Sinks white and open as they tread And trudge, with half-averted head, As if to swallow them amain. They look, as men look back to land When standing out to stormy sea, But still keep face and murmur not; Keep stern and still as destiny, Or iron king of Germany. It was a sight! A slim dog slid White-mouth'd and still along the sand, The pleading picture of distress. He stopp'd, leap'd up to lick a hand, A hard black hand that sudden chid Him back and check'd his tenderness; But when the black man turn'd his head His poor mute friend had fallen dead. The very air hung white with heat, And white, and fair, and far away A lifted, shining snow-shaft lay As if to mock their mad retreat. The white, salt sands beneath their feet Did make the black men loom as grand, From out the lifting, heaving heat, As they rode sternly on and on, As any bronze men in the land That sit their statue steeds upon. The men were silent as men dead. The sun hung centred overhead, Nor seem'd to move. It molten hung Like some great central burner swung From lofty beams with golden bars In sacristy set round with stars. Why, flame could hardly be more hot; Yet on the mad pursuer came, Across the gleaming yielding ground, Right on, as if he fed on flame, Right on until the mid-day found The man within a pistol-shot. He hail'd, but Morgan answer'd not, He hail'd, then came a feeble shot, And strangely, in that vastness there, It seem'd to scarcely fret the air, But fell down harmless anywhere. He fiercely hail'd; and then there fell A horse. And then a man fell down, And in the sea-sand seem'd to drown. Then Vasques cursed, but scarce could tell The sound of his own voice, and all In mad confusion seem'd to fall. Yet on push'd Morgan, silent on, And as he rode he lean'd and drew, From his catenas, gold, and threw The bright coins in the glaring sun. But Vasques did not heed a whit, He scarcely deign'd to scowl at it. Again lean'd Morgan! He uprose, And held a high hand to his foes, And held two goblets up, and one Did shine as if itself a sun. Then leaning backward from his place, He hurl'd them in his foemen's face, Then drew again, and so kept on, Till goblets, gold, and all were gone. Yea, strew'd them out upon the sands As men upon a frosty morn, In Mississippi's fertile lands, Hurl out great, yellow ears of corn To hungry swine with hurried hands. Lo! still hot Vasques urges on, With flashing eye and flushing cheek. What would he have? what does he seek? He does not heed the gold a whit, He does not deign to look at it; But now his gleaming steel is drawn, And now he leans, would hail again,-- He opes his swollen lips in vain. But look you! See! A lifted hand, And Vasques beckons his command. He cannot speak, he leans, and he Bends low upon his saddle-bow. And now his blade drops to his knee, And now he falters, now comes on, And now his head is bended low; And now his rein, his steel, is gone; Now faint as any child is he, And now his steed sinks to the knee. The sun hung molten in mid space, Like some great star fix'd in its place. From out the gleaming spaces rose A sheen of gossamer and danced, As Morgan slow and still advanced Before his far-receding foes. Right on and on the still black line Drove straight through gleaming sand and shine, By spar and beam and mast and stray, And waif of sea and cast-away. The far peaks faded from their sight, The mountain walls fell down like night, And nothing now was to be seen Save but the dim sun hung in sheen Of fairy garments all blood-red,-- The hell beneath, the hell o'erhead. A black man tumbled from his steed. He clutch'd in death the moving sands. He caught the round earth in his hands, He gripp'd it, held it hard and grim.... The great sad mother did not heed His hold, but pass'd right on from him, And ere he died grew far and dim. The sun seem'd broken loose at last, And settled slowly to the west, Half hidden as he fell a-rest, Yet, like the flying Parthian, cast His keenest arrows as he pass'd. On, on, the black men slowly drew Their length, like some great serpent through The sands, and left a hollow'd groove: They march'd, they scarcely seem'd to move. How patient in their muffled tread! How like the dead march of the dead! At last the slow black line was check'd, An instant only; now again It moved, it falter'd now, and now It settled in its sandy bed, And steeds stood rooted to the plain. Then all stood still, and men somehow Look'd down and with averted head; Look'd down, nor dared look up, nor reck'd Of any thing, of ill or good, But bowed and stricken still they stood. Like some brave band that dared the fierce And bristled steel of gather'd host, These daring men had dared to pierce This awful vastness, dead and gray. And now at last brought well at bay They stood,--but each stood to his post; Each man an unencompassed host. Then one dismounted, waved a hand, 'Twas Morgan's stern and still command. There fell a clash, like loosen'd chain, And men dismounting loosed the rein. Then every steed stood loosed and free; And some stepp'd slow and mute aside, And some sank to the sands and died, And some stood still as shadows be, And men stood gazing silently. Old Morgan turn'd and raised his hand, And laid it level with his eyes, And look'd far back along the land. He saw a dark dust still uprise, Still surely tend to where he lay. He did not curse, he did not say, He did not even look surprise, But silent turned to her his eyes. Nay, he was over-gentle now, He wiped a time his Titan brow, Then sought dark Ina in her place, Put out his arms, put down his face And look'd in hers. She reach'd her hands, She lean'd, she fell upon his breast; He reach'd his arms around; she lay As lies a bird in leafy nest. And he look'd out across the sands, And then his face fell down, he smiled, And softly said, "My child, my child!" Then bent his head and strode away. And as he strode he turn'd his head, He sidewise cast his brief commands; He led right on across the sands. They rose and follow'd where he led. 'Twas so like night, the sun was dim, Some black men settled down to rest, But none made murmur or request. The dead were dead, and that were best; The living leaning follow'd him, In huddled heaps, half nude, and grim. The day through high mid-heaven rode Across the sky, the dim red day; Awest the warlike day-god strode With shoulder'd shield away, away. The savage, warlike day bent low, As reapers bend in gathering grain, As archer bending bends yew bow, And flush'd and fretted as in pain. Then down his shoulder slid his shield, So huge, so awful, so blood-red And batter'd as from battle-field: It settled, sunk to his left hand, Sunk down and down, it touch'd the sand, Then day along the land lay dead, Without one candle at his head. And now the moon wheel'd white and vast, A round, unbroken, marbled moon, And touch'd the far bright buttes of snow, Then climb'd their shoulders over soon; And there she seem'd to sit at last, To hang, to hover there, to grow, Grow vaster than vast peaks of snow. Grow whiter than the snow's own breast, Grow softer than September's noon, Until the snow-peaks seem'd at best But one wide, shining, shatter'd moon. She sat the battlements of time; She shone in mail of frost and rime, A time, and then rose up and stood In heaven in sad widowhood. The faded moon fell wearily, And then the sun right suddenly Rose up full arm'd, and rushing came Across the land like flood of flame. The sun roll'd on. Lo! hills uprose As push'd against the arching skies,-- As if to meet the timid sun-- Rose sharp from out the sultry dun, Set well with wood, and brier, and rose, And seem'd to hold the free repose Of lands where rocky summits rise, Or unfenced fields of Paradise. The black men look'd up from the sands Against the dim, uncertain skies, As men that disbelieved their eyes, And would have laugh'd; they wept instead, With shoulders heaved, with bowing head Hid down between their two black hands. They stood and gazed. Lo! like the call Of spring-time promises, the trees Lean'd from their lifted mountain wall, And stood clear cut against the skies As if they grew in pistol-shot. Yet all the mountains answer'd not, And yet there came no cooling breeze, Nor soothing sense of windy trees. At last old Morgan, looking through His shaded fingers, let them go, And let his load fall down as dead. He groan'd, he clutch'd his beard of snow As was his wont, then bowing low, Took up his life, and moaning said, "Lord Christ! 'tis the mirage, and we Stand blinded in a burning sea." O sweet deceit when minds despair! O mad deceit of man betray'd! O mother Nature, thou art fair, But thou art false as man or maid. Yea, many lessons, mother Earth, Have we thy children learn'd of thee In sweet deceit.... The sudden birth Of hope that dies mocks destiny. O mother Earth, thy promises Are fallen leaves; they lie forgot! Such lessons! How could we learn less? We are but children, blame us not. Again they move, but where or how It recks them little, nothing now. Yet Morgan leads them as before, But totters now; he bends, and he Is like a broken ship a-sea,-- A ship that knows not any shore, And knows it shall not anchor more. Some leaning shadows crooning crept Through desolation, crown'd in dust. And had the mad pursuer kept His path, and cherished his pursuit? There lay no choice. Advance he must: Advance, and eat his ashen fruit. Yet on and on old Morgan led. His black men totter'd to and fro, A leaning, huddled heap of woe; Then one fell down, then two fell dead; Yet not one moaning word was said. They made no sign, they said no word, Nor lifted once black, helpless hands; And all the time no sound was heard Save but the dull, dead, muffled tread Of shuffled feet in shining sands. Again the still moon rose and stood Above the dim, dark belt of wood, Above the buttes, above the snow, And bent a sad, sweet face below. She reach'd along the level plain Her long, white fingers. Then again She reach'd, she touch'd the snowy sands, Then reach'd far out until she touch'd A heap that lay with doubled hands, Reach'd from its sable self, and clutch'd With death. O tenderly That black, that dead and hollow face Was kiss'd at midnight.... The long, white moonbeams reaching there, Caressing idle hands of clay, And resting on the wrinkled hair And great lips push'd in sullen pout, Were God's own fingers reaching out From heaven to that lonesome place? By waif and stray and cast-away, Such as are seen in seas withdrawn, Old Morgan led in silence on, And sometime lifting up his head To guide his footsteps as he led, He deem'd he saw a great ship lay Her keel along the sea-wash'd sand, As with her captain's old command. The stars were seal'd; and then a haze Of gossamer fill'd all the west, So like in Indian summer days, And veil'd all things. And then the moon Grew pale, and faint, and far. She died, And now nor star nor any sign Fell out of heaven. Some black men fell. Then at their side Some one sat down to watch, to rest ... To rest, to watch, or what you will, The man sits resting, watching still. The day glared through the eastern rim Of rocky peaks, as prison bars; With light as dim as distant stars The sultry sunbeams filter'd down Through misty phantoms weird and dim, Through shifting shapes bat-wing'd brown. Like some vast ruin wrapp'd in flame The sun fell down before them now. Behind them wheel'd white peaks of snow, As they proceeded. Gray and grim And awful objects went and came Before them then. They pierced at last The desert's middle depths, and lo! There loom'd from out the desert vast A lonely ship, well-built and trim, And perfect all in hull and mast. No storm had stain'd it any whit, No seasons set their teeth in it. Her masts were white as ghosts, and tall; Her decks were as of yesterday. The rains, the elements, and all The moving things that bring decay By fair green lands or fairer seas, Had touch'd not here for centuries. Lo! date had lost all reckoning, And Time had long forgotten all In this lost land, and no new thing Or old could anywise befall, Or morrows, or a yesterday, For Time went by the other way. The ages have not any course Across this untrack'd waste. The sky Wears here one blue, unbending hue, The heavens one unchanging mood. The far still stars they filter through The heavens, falling bright and bold Against the sands as beams of gold. The wide, white moon forgets her force; The very sun rides round and high, As if to shun this solitude. What dreams of gold or conquest drew The oak-built sea-king to these seas, Ere Earth, old Earth, unsatisfied, Rose up and shook man in disgust From off her wearied breast, and threw And smote his cities down, and dried These measured, town-set seas to dust? Who trod these decks? What captain knew The straits that led to lands like these? Blew south-sea breeze or north-sea breeze? What spiced winds whistled through this sail? What banners stream'd above these seas? And what strange seaman answer'd back To other sea-king's beck and hail, That blew across his foamy track! Sought Jason here the golden fleece? Came Trojan ship or ships of Greece? Came decks dark-mann'd from sultry Ind, Woo'd here by spacious wooing wind? So like a grand, sweet woman, when A great love moves her soul to men? Came here strong ships of Solomon In quest of Ophir by Cathay?... Sit down and dream of seas withdrawn, And every sea-breath drawn away.... Sit down, sit down! What is the good That we go on still fashioning Great iron ships or walls of wood, High masts of oak, or any thing? Lo! all things moving must go by. The sea lies dead. Behold, this land Sits desolate in dust beside His snow-white, seamless shroud of sand; The very clouds have wept and died, And only God is in the sky. The sands lay heaved, as heaved by waves, As fashion'd in a thousand graves: And wrecks of storm blown here and there, And dead men scatter'd everywhere; And strangely clad they seem'd to be Just as they sank in that old sea. The mermaid with her splendid hair Had clung about a wreck's beam there; And sung her song of sweet despair, The time she saw the seas withdrawn And all her home and glory gone: Had sung her melancholy dirge, Above the last receding surge, And, looking down the rippled tide, Had sung, and with her song had died. The monsters of the sea lay bound In strange contortions. Coil'd around A mast half heaved above the sand, The great sea-serpent's folds were found, As solid as ship's iron band. And basking in the burning sun There rose the great whale's skeleton. A thousand sea things stretch'd across Their weary and bewilder'd way: Great unnamed monsters wrinkled lay With sunken eyes and shrunken form. The strong sea-horse that rode the storm With mane as light and white as floss, Lay tangled in his mane of moss. And anchor, hull, and cast-away, And all things that the miser deep Doth in his darkling locker keep, To right and left around them lay. Yea, coins lay there on either hand, Lay shining in the silver sand; As plenty in the wide sands lay As stars along the Milky Way. And golden coin, and golden cup, And golden cruse, and golden plate, And all that great seas swallow up, Right in their dreadful pathway lay.... The hungry and insatiate Old sea, made hoary white with time, And wrinkled cross with many a crime, With all his treasured thefts was there, His sins, his very soul laid bare, As if it were the Judgment Day. And now the tawny night fell soon, And there was neither star nor moon; And yet it seem'd it was not night. There fell a phosphorescent light, There rose from white sands and dead men A soft light, white and fair as when The Spirit of Jehovah moved Upon the water's conscious face, And made it His abiding-place. O mighty waters unreproved! Thou deep! where the Jehovah moved Ere soul of man was called to be! O seas! that were created not As man, as earth, as light, as aught That is. O sea! thou art to me A terror, death, eternity. I do recall some sad days spent, By borders of the Orient, Days sweet as sad to memory ... 'Twould make a tale. It matters not ... I sought the loneliest seas; I sought The solitude of ruins, and forgot Mine own lone life and littleness Before this fair land's mute distress, That sat within this changeful sea. Slow sailing through the reedy isles, By unknown banks, through unknown bays, Some sunny, summer yesterdays, Where Nature's beauty still beguiles, I saw the storied yellow sail And lifted prow of steely mail. 'Tis all that's left Torcello now,-- A pirate's yellow sail, a prow. Below the far, faint peaks of snow, And grass-grown causeways well below, I touched Torcello. Once a-land, I took a sea-shell in my hand, And blew like any trumpeter. I felt the fig-leaves lift and stir On trees that reached from ruined wall Above my head, but that was all. Back from the farther island shore Came echoes trooping; nothing more. Lo! here stood Adria once, and here Attila came with sword and flame, And set his throne of hollowed stone In her high mart. And it remains Still lord o'er all. Where once the tears Of mute petition fell, the rains Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone There lifts this massive empty throne! The sea has changed his meed, his mood, And made this sedgy solitude. By cattle paths grass-grown and worn, Through marbled streets all stain'd and torn By time and battle, there I walked. A bent old beggar, white as one For better fruitage blossoming, Came on. And as he came he talked Unto himself; for there are none In all his island, old and dim, To answer back or question him. I turned, retraced my steps once more. The hot miasma steamed and rose In deadly vapor from the reeds That grew from out the shallow shore, Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds, And Neptune shapes his horn and blows. I climb'd and sat that throne of stone To contemplate, to dream, to reign; Ay, reign above myself; to call The people of the past again Before me as I sat alone In all my kingdom. There were kine That browsed along the reedy brine, And now and then a tusky boar Would shake the high reeds of the shore, A bird blow by,--but that was all. I watched the lonesome sea-gull pass. I did remember and forget; The past rolled by; I stood alone. I sat the shapely chiselled stone That stands in tall sweet grasses set; Ay, girdle deep in long strong grass, And green Alfalfa. Very fair The heavens were, and still and blue, For Nature knows no changes there. The Alps of Venice, far away Like some half-risen half moon lay. How sweet the grasses at my feet! The smell of clover over sweet. I heard the hum of bees. The bloom Of clover-tops and cherry-trees Were being rifled by the bees, And these were building in a tomb. The fair Alfalfa; such as has Usurped the Occident, and grows With all the sweetness of the rose On Sacramento's sundown hills, Is there, and that mid island fills With fragrance. Yet the smell of death Comes riding in on every breath. Lo! death that is not death, but rest: To step aside, to watch and wait Beside the wave, outside the gate, With all life's pulses in your breast: To absolutely rest, to pray In some lone mountain while you may. That sad sweet fragrance. It had sense, And sound, and voice. It was a part Of that which had possessed my heart, And would not of my will go hence. 'Twas Autumn's breath; 'twas dear as kiss Of any worshipped woman is. Some snails have climb'd the throne and writ Their silver monograms on it In unknown tongues. I sat thereon, I dreamed until the day was gone; I blew again my pearly shell,-- Blew long and strong, and loud and well; I puffed my cheeks, I blew, as when Horn'd satyrs danced the delight of men. Some mouse-brown cows that fed within Looked up. A cowherd rose hard by, My single subject, clad in skin, Nor yet half clad. I caught his eye, He stared at me, then turned and fled. He frightened fled, and as he ran, Like wild beast from the face of man, Across his shoulder threw his head. He gathered up his skin of goat About his breast and hairy throat. He stopped, and then this subject true, Mine only one in lands like these Made desolate by changeful seas, Came back and asked me for a _sou_. And yet again through the watery miles Of reeds I rowed till the desolate isles Of the black bead-makers of Venice are not. I touched where a single sharp tower is shot To heaven, and torn by thunder and rent As if it had been Time's battlement. A city lies dead, and this great gravestone Stands at its head like a ghost alone. Some cherry-trees grow here, and here An old church, simple and severe In ancient aspect, stands alone Amid the ruin and decay, all grown In moss and grasses. Old and quaint, With antique cuts of martyr'd saint, The gray church stands with stooping knees, Defying the decay of seas. Her pictured Hell, with flames blown high, In bright mosaics wrought and set When man first knew the Nubian art, Her bearded saints, as black as jet; Her quaint Madonna, dim with rain And touch of pious lips of pain, So touched my lonesome soul, that I Gazed long, then came and gazed again, And loved, and took her to my heart. Nor monk in black, nor Capuchin, Nor priest of any creed was seen. A sun-browned woman, old and tall, And still as any shadow is, Stole forth from out the mossy wall With massive keys to show me this: Came slowly forth, and following, Three birds--and all with drooping wing. Three mute brown babes of hers; and they-- O, they were beautiful as sleep, Or death, below the troubled deep. And on the pouting lips of these Red corals of the silent seas, Sweet birds, the everlasting seal Of silence that the God has set On this dead island, sits for aye. I would forget, yet not forget Their helpless eloquence. They creep Somehow into my heart, and keep They steal my better self away To them, as little birds that day Stole fruits from out the cherry-trees. So helpless and so wholly still, So sad, so wrapt in mute surprise, That I did love, despite my will. One little maid of ten,--such eyes, So large and lonely, so divine,-- Such pouting lips, such peachy cheek,-- Did lift her perfect eyes to mine, Until our souls did touch and speak; Stood by me all that perfect day, Yet not one sweet word could she say. She turned her melancholy eyes So constant to my own, that I Forgot the going clouds, the sky, Found fellowship, took bread and wine, And so her little soul and mine Stood very near together there. And O, I found her very fair. Yet not one soft word could she say: What did she think of all that day? The sometime song of gondolier Is heard afar. The fishermen Betimes draw net by ruined shore, In full spring time when east winds fall; Then traders row with muffled oar, Tedesca or the turban'd Turk, The pirate, at some midnight work By watery wall,--but that is all. Remote, around the lonesome ship, Old Morgan moved, but knew it not, For neither star nor moon fell down ... I trow that was a lonesome spot He found, where boat and ship did dip In sands like some half-sunken town, And all things rose bat-winged and brown. At last before the leader lay A form that in the night did seem A slain Goliath. As in a dream, He drew aside in his slow pace, And look'd. He saw a sable face, A friend that fell that very day, Thrown straight across his wearied way. He falter'd now. His iron heart, That never yet refused its part, Began to fail him; and his strength Shook at his knees, as shakes the wind A shatter'd ship. His scatter'd mind Ranged up and down the land. At length He turn'd, as ships turn, tempest toss'd, For now he knew that he was lost, And sought in vain the moon, the stars, In vain the battle-star of Mars. Again he moved. And now again He paused, he peer'd along the plain, Another form before him lay. He stood, and statue-white he stood, He trembled like a stormy wood,-- It was a foeman brown and gray. He lifted up his head again, Again he search'd the great profound For moon, for star, but sought in vain. He kept his circle round and round; The great ship lifting from the sand And pointing heavenward like a hand. And still he crept along the plain, Yet where his foeman dead again Lay in his way he moved around, And soft as if on sacred ground, And did not touch him anywhere. It might have been he had a dread, In his half-crazed and fever'd brain, His mortal foe might wake again If he should dare to touch him there. He circled round the lonesome ship Like some wild beast within a wall, That keeps his paces round and round. The very stillness had a sound; He saw strange somethings rise and dip; He felt the weirdness like a pall Come down and cover him. It seem'd To take a form, take many forms, To talk to him, to reach out arms; Yet on he kept, and silent kept, And as he led he lean'd and slept, And as he slept he talk'd and dream'd. Then shadows follow'd, stopp'd, and stood Bewildered, wandered back again, Came on and then fell to the sand And sinking died. Then other men Did wag their woolly heads and laugh, Then bend their necks and seem to quaff Of cooling waves that careless flow Where woods and long strong grasses grow. Yet on wound Morgan, leaning low, With head upon his breast, and slow As hand upon a dial plate. He did not turn his course or quail, He did not falter, did not fail, Turn right or left or hesitate. Some far-off sounds had lost their way, And seem'd to call to him and pray For help, as if they were affright. It was not day, it seem'd not night, But that dim land that lies between The mournful, faithful face of night And loud and gold-bedazzled day; A night that was not felt but seen. There seem'd not then the ghost of sound. He stepp'd as soft as step the dead; Yet on he led in solemn tread, Bewilder'd, blinded, round and round, About the great black ship that rose Tall-masted as that ship that blows Her ghost below lost Panama,-- The tallest mast man ever saw. Two leaning shadows follow'd him, Their eyes were red, their teeth shone white, Their limbs did lift as shadows swim. Then one went left and one went right, And in the night pass'd out of night; Pass'd through the portals black, unknown, And Morgan totter'd on alone. And why he still survived the rest, Why still he had the strength to stir, Why still he stood like gnarled oak That buffets storm and tempest stroke, One cannot say, save but for her, That helpless being on his breast; At rest; that would not let him rest. She did not speak, she did not stir; In rippled currents over her Her black, abundant hair pour'd down Like mantle or some sable gown. That sad, sweet dreamer; she who knew Not any thing of earth at all, Nor cared to know its bane or bliss; That dove that did not touch the land, That knew, yet did not understand. And this may be because she drew Her all of life right from the hand Of God, and did not choose to learn The things that make up earth's concern. Ah! there be souls none understand; Like clouds, they cannot touch the land, Drive as they may by field or town. Then we look wise at this and frown, And we cry, "Fool," and cry, "Take hold Of earth, and fashion gods of gold." ... Unanchor'd ships, they blow and blow, Sail to and fro, and then go down In unknown seas that none shall know, Without one ripple of renown. Poor drifting dreamers sailing by, They seem to only live to die. Call these not fools; the test of worth Is not the hold you have of earth. Lo! there be gentlest souls sea-blown That know not any harbor known. Now it may be the reason is They touch on fairer shores than this. And dark-eyed Ina? Nestled there, Half-hidden in her glorious hair, The while its midnight folds fell down From out his great arms nude and brown, She lay against his hairy breast, All motionless as death, below His great white beard like shroud, or snow, As if in everlasting rest. He totter'd side to side to keep Erect and keep his steady tread; He lean'd, he bent to her his head ... "She sleeps uncommon sound," he said, "As if in that eternal sleep, Where cool and watered willows sweep." At last he touch'd a fallen group, Dead fellows tumbled in the sands, Dead foemen, gather'd to the dead. And eager now the man did stoop, Lay down his load and reach his hands, And stretch his form and look steadfast And frightful, and as one aghast And ghostly from his hollow eyes. He lean'd and then he raised his head, And look'd for Vasques, but in vain; He laid his two great arms crosswise, Took breath a time with trembling main, Then peered again along the plain. Lo! from the sands another face, The last that follow'd through the deep, Comes on from out the lonesome place. And Vasques, too, survives! But where? His last bold follower lies there, Thrown straight across old Morgan's track, As if to check him, bid him back. He stands, he does not dare to stir, He watches by his child asleep, He fears, for her: but only her. The man who ever mock'd at death, He hardly dares to draw his breath. Beyond, and still as black despair, A man rose up, stood dark and tall, Stretch'd out his neck, reach'd forth, let fall Dark oaths, and Death stood waiting there. He drew his blade, came straight as death Right up before the follower, The last of Morgan's sable men, While Morgan watched aside by her, And saw his foeman wag his beard And fiercest visage ever seen. The while that dead man lay between. I think no man there drew a breath, I know that no man quail'd or fear'd. The tawny dead man stretch'd between, And Vasques set his foot thereon. The stars were seal'd, the moon was gone, The very darkness cast a shade. The scene was rather heard than seen, The rattle of a single blade.... A right foot rested on the dead, A black hand reach'd and clutch'd a beard, Then neither prayed, nor dreamed of hope ... A fierce face reach'd, a fierce face peer'd ... No bat went whirling overhead, No star fell out of Ethiope.... The dead man lay between them there, The two men glared as tigers glare, The black man held him by the beard. He wound his hand, he held him fast, And tighter held, as if he fear'd The man might 'scape him at the last. Whiles Morgan did not speak or stir, But stood in silent watch by her. Not long.... A light blade lifted, thrust, A blade that leapt and swept about, So wizard-like, like wand in spell, So like a serpent's tongue thrust out ... Thrust twice, thrust thrice, thrust as he fell, Thrust through until it touch'd the dust. Yet ever as he thrust and smote, The black hand like an iron band Did tighten to the gasping throat. He fell, but did not loose his hand; The two fell dead upon the sand. Lo! up and from the fallen forms Two ghosts came forth like cloud of storms. Two tall ghosts stood, and looking back, With hands all bloody, and hands clutch'd, Strode on together, till they touch'd, Along the lonesome, chartless track, Where dim Plutonian darkness fell, Then touch'd the outer rim of hell, And looking back their great despair Sat sadly down as resting there. Perchance there was a strength in death; The scene it seem'd to nerve the man To superhuman strength. He rose, Held up his head, began to scan The heavens and to take his breath Right strong and lustily. He now Resumed his load, and with his eye Fixed on a star that filtered through The farther west, pushed bare his brow, And kept his course with head held high, As if he strode his deck and drew His keel below some lifted light That watched the rocky reef at night. How lone he was, how patient she, Upon that lonesome sandy sea! It were a sad, unpleasant sight To follow them through all the night, Until the time they lifted hand, And touched at last a watered land. The turkeys walked the tangled grass, And scarcely turned to let them pass. There was no sign of man, or sign Of savage beast. 'Twas so divine, It seem'd as if the bended skies Were rounded for this Paradise. The large-eyed antelope came down From off their windy hills, and blew Their whistles as they wandered through The open groves of watered wood; Then came as light as if a-wing, And reached their noses wet and brown, And stamped their little feet, and stood Close up before them wondering. What if this were the Eden true, They found in far heart of the new And unnamed westmost world I sing, Where date and history had birth, And man first 'gan his wandering To go the girdles of the earth! It lies a little isle mid land, An island in a sea of sand; With reedy waters and the balm Of an eternal summer air. Some blowy pines toss tall and fair; And there are grasses long and strong, And tropic fruits that never fail: The Manzinetta pulp, the palm, The prickly pear, with all the song Of summer birds. And there the quail Makes nest, and you may hear her call All day from out the chaparral. A land where white man never trod, And Morgan seems some demi-god, That haunts the red man's spirit land. A land where never red man's hand Is lifted up in strife at all. He holds it sacred unto those Who bravely fell before their foes, And rarely dares its desert wall. Here breaks nor sound of strife or sign; Rare times a red man comes this way, Alone, and battle-scarred and gray, And then he bends devout before The maid who keeps the cabin door, And deems her sacred and divine. Within the island's heart, 'tis said, Tall trees are bending down with bread, And that a fountain pure as truth, And deep and mossy bound and fair, Is bubbling from the forest there,-- Perchance the fabled fount of youth! An isle where never cares betide; Where solitude comes not, and where The soul is ever satisfied. An isle where skies are ever fair, Where men keep never date nor day, Where Time has thrown his glass away. This isle is all their own. No more The flight by day, the watch by night. Dark Ina twines about the door The scarlet blooms, the blossoms white, And winds red berries in her hair, And never knows the name of care. She has a thousand birds; they blow In rainbow clouds, in clouds of snow; The birds take berries from her hand; They come and go at her command. She has a thousand pretty birds, That sing her summer songs all day; Small black-hoofed antelope in herds, And squirrels bushy-tail'd and gray, With round and sparkling eyes of pink, And cunning-faced as you can think. She has a thousand busy birds; And is she happy in her isle, With all her feathered friends and herds? For when has Morgan seen her smile? She has a thousand cunning birds, They would build nestings in her hair; She has brown antelope in herds; She never knows the name of care; Why then is she not happy there? All patiently she bears her part; She has a thousand birdlings there, These birds they would build in her hair; But not one bird builds in her heart. She has a thousand birds; yet she Would give ten thousand cheerfully, All bright of plume and loud of tongue, And sweet as ever trilled or sung, For one small fluttered bird to come She has a thousand birds; yet one Is lost, and, lo! she is undone. She sighs sometimes. She looks away, And yet she does not weep or say. She has a thousand birds. The skies Are fashioned for her paradise; A very queen of fairy land, With all earth's fruitage at command, And yet she does not lift her eyes. She sits upon the water's brink As mournful soul'd as you can think. She has a thousand birds; and yet She will look downward, nor forget The fluttered white-winged turtle dove, The changeful-throated birdling, love, That came, that sang through tropic trees, Then flew for aye across the seas. The waters kiss her feet; above Her head the trees are blossoming, And fragrant with eternal spring. Her birds, her antelope are there, Her birds they would build in her hair; She only waits her birdling, love. She turns, she looks along the plain, Imploring love to come again.

Paul Féval

Les belles-de-nuit, tome I ou les anges de la famille

1817

_All rights reserved_ _Fain had I given precious things and sweet, But having neither frankincense nor gem, Only sad flowers--last year's fading yield Gathered about that bitter harvest field-- I made a sorry garland out of them, And laid it where immortelles had been meet._ Frigga. (Up to date) Wind-pedlars "What shall be done with all these tears of ours?" Epitaph on a Child left Buried Abroad We were bereft ere we were well aware Of all our precious fears, and had instead A hopeless safety, a secure despair. We know that fate dealt kindly with our dead, Tenderer to that fair face we held so dear Than unto many another's best beloved. Whate'er befall, we know him far removed From all the weary labours of last year, And even in paying this most bitter price We know the cause worthy the sacrifice. Now he is safe from any further ill, Nor toils in peril while at ease we sit, Yet bides our loss in thinking of him still,-- Of sombre eyes, by sudden laughter lit, Darkened till all the eternal stars shall wane; And lost the incommunicable lore Of cunning fingers ne'er to limn again And restless hands at rest for ever more. "Courage, invention, mirth we ill can spare Lie lost with him, the greatest loss of all, We grudge to well-won rest His swiftness to devise and dare That never failed the call." Thus they all spoke together of the dead Who was their comrade many a dark hour through, As one whose work was ended quite, But he that held him dearest said Nothing, for well he knew His friend forsook them not in dying. --Often above the din he seemed to hear His well known voice beloved, Often in mud and darkness lying, Felt he was working near, By star-shell light oft with that commonplace Familiar kindness knowing not surprise Just as in other nights now lost, Suddenly glimpsed his face, Unchanged the same sleep-burdened eyes, Whimsical brows and laughter-lifted lip; And turned again to labours lighter grown, Glad of that unforgetful soul's Imperishable fellowship That left him not to serve alone. Too well they saw the road where they must tread Was shrouded in a misty winding sheet, Among whose strangling coils their souls might meet Death, and delaying not to go, they said Farewell to hope, to dear tasks left undone, To well-loved faces and to length of days.-- So came they to the parting of the ways, A year agone, and saw no way but one. Others, and they were many, watched them go But turned not from the pleasant path of ease, With hedges full of flowers, and fields of sheep. Their hearts waxed gross, battening on braver woe And their eyes heavy.--God, for such as these No trump avails but Thine to break their sleep! All night, from the quiet street Comes the sound, without pause or break Of the marching legions' feet To listeners lying awake. Their faces may none descry; Night folds them close like a pall; But the feet of them passing by Tramp on the hearts of all. What comforting makes them strong? What trust and what fears have they That march without music or song To death at the end of the way? What faith in our victory? What hopes that beguile and bless? What heaven-sent hilarity? What mirth and what weariness? What valour from vanished years In the heart of youth confined? What wellsprings of unshed tears For the loves they leave behind? No sleep, my soul to befriend; No voice, neither answering light! But darkness that knows no end And feet going by in the night. The misty night broods o'er this peopled place, Chimneys and trees stand black against the sky, One goes belated by with echoing pace And careless whistle, shrilling loud and high. And ere his steps into the stillness merge Some labouring giant of our later day Passes with hollow roar of distant surge And clouds of steam as white as ocean spray. In turn the lighted windows, twinkling fair, Darken, till all these earthborn stars are down; Stained dusky red by the great city's glare The waning moon hangs low o'er London Town. E'en now that moon in her own silver guise Looks down on some stretched on a stricken plain, Yet she shows red unto their blood-dimmed eyes That never shall behold the sun again. We, weary of the idle watch we keep, Turn from the window to our sure repose And pass into the pleasant realms of sleep, Or snug and drowsy muse upon their woes. And whether we that sleep or they that wake,-- We that have laboured light and slumber well Or they that bled and battled for our sake-- Have the best portion scarce seems hard to tell. Soon shall the sun behold them, where they lie, Yet his fierce rays may never warm them more; No further need have they to strive or cry, They have found rest that laboured long and sore; While we take up again in street and mart The burden and the business of the day: And which of these two is the better part God only knows, whose face is turned away. A month ago they marched to fight Away 'twixt the woodland and the sown, I walked that lonely road to-night And yet I could not feel alone. The voice of the wind called shrill and high Like a bugle band of ghosts, And the restless leaves that shuffled by Seemed the tread of the phantom hosts. Mayhap when the shadows gather round And the low skies lower with rain, The dead that rot upon outland ground March down the road again. For fifteen hundred valiant men and tried, These waters were as Lethe's, dark and deep And bitter as the bitterest tears we weep; Their high hearts rose above the swollen tide, Fain of the foe upon the further side, Though in death's draught their lips they needs must steep. Since their own lives their valour might not keep, Our tall young men drank of that cup and died. Now are their faces hidden from the sky, Under the trampled turf where last they trod; Yet unforsaken sleeps that sad array; The living hearts of all their mothers lie Buried with them, and beat below the sod, As their poor pulse could stir the senseless clay. Before the throne the spirits of the slain With a loud voice importunately cried, "Oh, Lord of Hosts, whose name be glorified, Scarce may the line one onslaught more sustain Wanting our help. Let it not be in vain, Not all in vain, Oh God, that we have died." And smiling on them our good Lord replied, "Begone then, foolish ones, and fight again." Our eyes were holden, that we saw them not; Disheartened foes beheld--our prisoners said-- Behind us massed, a mighty host indeed, Where no host was. On comrades unforgot We thought, and knew that all those valiant dead Forwent their rest to save us at our need. He hung upon a wayside Calvary, From whence no more the carven Christ looks down With wide, blank eyes beneath the thorny crown, On the devout and careless, passing by. The Cross had shaken with his agony, His blood had stained the dancing grasses brown, But when we found him, though the weary frown, That waited on death's long delayed mercy, Still bent his brow, yet he was dead and cold, With drooping head and patient eyes astare, That would not shut. As we stood turned to ice The sun remembered Golgotha of old, And made a halo of his yellow hair In mockery of that fruitless sacrifice. When the night watches slowly downwards creep, And heavy darkness lays her leaden wings On aged eyes that ache but cannot weep, For burning time hath dried the water-springs-- Yearneth the watcher then with sleepless pain For eager hearts that in the grave lie cold, For all the toil and pride of years made vain, And grieveth sore to be alive, and old. Without, the lost wind desolately crying Scatters poor spring's frail children rent and torn, And when the moon looks, wearily a-dying, A moment 'thwart her shroud, faint and forlorn, Gleams ghostly through the trees her fickle light On barren blossoms, strewn upon the night. Young and great hearted, went he forth to dare Death on the field of honour; all he sought, Was leave to lay life down a thing of naught And spill its hopes and promise on the air. Then lest vile foes should vaunt a spoil so rare The sun that loved him gave a kiss death-fraught Quenching the heaven-enkindled fire that wrought Fair fancies, bodied forth in words more fair, And lit the dreaming beauty of his face With tender mirth and strength-begetting trust,-- Impotent strength, and mirth that might not save. Therefore we mourn, counting each vanished grace. Ne'er was so much, since dust returned to dust, Cribbed in the compass of a narrow grave. Round a bright isle, set in a sea of gloom, We sat together, dining, And spoke and laughed even as in better times Though each one knew no other might misdoubt The doom that marched moment by moment nigher, Whose couriers knocked on every heart like death, And changed all things familiar to our sight Into strange shapes and grieving ghosts that wept. The crimson-shaded light Shed in the garden roses of red fire That burned and bloomed on the decorous limes. The hungry night that lay in wait without Made blind, blue eyes against the silver's shining And waked the affrighted candles with its breath Out of their steady sleep, while round the room The shadows crouched and crept. Among the legions of beleaguering fears, Still we sat on and kept them still at bay, A little while, a little longer yet, And wooed the hurrying moments to forget What we remembered well, --Till the hour struck--then desperately we sought And found no further respite--only tears We would not shed, and words we might not say. We needs must know that now the time was come Yet still against the strangling foe we fought, And some of us were brave and some Borrowed a bubble courage nigh to breaking, And he that went, perforce went speedily And stayed not for leave-taking. But even in going, as he would dispel The bitterness of incomplete good-byes, He paused within the circle of dim light, And turned to us a face, lit seemingly Less by the lamp than by his shining eyes. So, in the radiance of his mastered fate, A moment stood our soldier by the gate And laughed his long farewell-- Then passed into the silence and the night. She read the words of him that was her own: The dauntless brow that grief itself had steeled Quickened with listening ever, not in vain Amid brave stories of the stricken field, For strange, sad echoes from a child's heart grown Untimely old, that scarce will dance again This side the grave, but nathless keeps a leaven Of mirth most bitter sweet. So changed her face, 'twixt pride and sorrowing, As stirs and shadows sun-bleached wheat With winds that walk the stair of heaven And high clouds hovering. For the last time I kissed The lips of my dearest son, For the last time looked in his face-- My brave, my beautiful one. Reaching up to his breast, But lately as low as my knee, I felt with my hands in his heart A shadow I might not see. Scarce could I bid him farewell, Scarce to bless him find breath, For I felt the shape of the shade And knew 'twas the shadow of death. The limbs she bore and cherished tenderly, And rocked against her heart, with loving fears, Through helpless infancy that all endears, Unto the verge of manhood's empery, Were fostered for this cruel end, and she Kneeling beside him, looks through blinding tears Down the long vista of the lonely years, Void of all light, drear as eternity. But her young son, who knows not that he dies, Gives good-night lightly, on the utmost brink, And, anguish overmastered for her sake, Says smiling with stiff lips and death-dimmed eyes, "Why, Mother, if you kiss me so, I'll think You'll not be here to-morrow, when I wake." Dear is young morning's tender-hued attire: To us and ours, 'stead of that promise, came A brief and burning sunset, blood and flame, And, looking on the end of our desire, Yet said we, "What if fealty to a name Have built our hearts' beloved a funeral pyre? Their death hath kindled a fair beacon fire To lighten all this world of fear and shame, And none shall quench it." As the words were said, Darkened and failed the strange, unearthly light, And faded all the surging sea of gold, And nought was left of the fierce glories fled But ashen skies slow deepening into night, Lit by pale memory's stars that shake for cold. Oh faint and feeble hearted, comfort ye! Nor shame those dead whose death was great indeed, Greater than life in death. It doth not need, Since we seek strength where healing may not be, Faith in fair fables of eternal rest, Nor seer's eyes to look beyond the grave. That they endured and dared for us shall save Our souls alive:--they met, our tenderest, Pain without plaint and death without dismay, Bore and beheld sorrows unspeakable, Yet shrank not from that double-edged distress, But, eyes set steadfastly where ends the way, They through all perils laughed and laboured well, Nor ceased from mercy on the merciless. If with his fathers he had fallen asleep, Far different would have been this drear lyke-wake. Lonely and lampless lies he, for whose sake Many might well a night-long vigil keep, And, though we have not time nor heart to weep, Yet fain would we some slight observance make, E'er sad to-morrow's earliest dawn shall break When he must lie yet darker and more deep. Therefore we've laid him 'neath a chestnut tree, That bears a myriad candles all alight, And faintly glimmering through the starry gloom-- No dimmer than a holy vault might be-- It sheds abroad upon the quiet night A gentle radiance and a faint perfume. _Wind-pedlars_ Purple and grey the vacant moor lies spread And all the storms of heaven sweep and cry Among the barrows of forgotten dead, Who died as we shall die. There dwelt of yore, upon such desert land, Strange merchants of a stranger merchandise, Who stole the Winds from out God's hollowed hand And loosed them, at a price. Thither mayhap the reiving marchman rode And bought a gale to ruffle the red cock That he would set upon his foe's abode, And leave no standing stock. And thither, with hearts tossing to and fro On stormy seas, came foolish maids and fain, And chaffered for a favouring wind to blow Their lovers home again. Oh were such mighty witches living still, Those whistle tempests and light airs obeyed, We have more need the wind should do our will Than e'er had love-sick maid. At body's peril and in soul's despite We would give all we had of gold and gem For a west wind, where our beloved fight, To blow the reek from them. But these wind-pedlars with their hard-earned fee Mocked and forsaken of the fiend their sire 'Spite of all powers of spell and gramarye Passed long ago in fire. So to High God let humble prayers be said, From bursting hearts that wait in vain, and He In His good time, when all your dears are dead, May stoop to answer ye. We buried of our dead the dearest one-- Said each to other, "Here then let him lie, And they may find the place, when all is done, From the old may tree standing guard near by." Strong limbs whereon the wasted life blood dries, And soft cheeks that a girl might wish her own, A scholar's brow, o'ershadowing valiant eyes, Henceforth shall pleasure charnel-worms alone. For we, that loved him, covered up his face, And laid him in the sodden earth away, And left him lying in that lonely place To rot and moulder with the mouldering clay. The hawthorn that above his grave head grew Like an old crone toward the raw earth bowed, Wept softly over him, the whole night through, And made him of her tears a glimmering shroud. Oh Lord of Hosts, no hallowed prayer we bring, Here for Thy grace is no importuning, No room for those that will not strive nor cry When loving kindness with our dead lies slain: Give us our fathers' heathen hearts again, Valour to dare, and fortitude to die. In a strange burial ground Searching strange graves above, By a sure sign I found Where lay my love. Bluer than summer skies, Than summer seas more blue, Looked from the dust his eyes Whose death I rue. Sweet eyes of my sweet slain Lost all these weary hours, Lo, I beheld again Turned into flowers. Of all the spectres feared and then forgot That haunt us sleeping, this is dreadfullest-- Still to seek help and find it not Through those dim lands that sleep and know not rest; Followed for ever by a formless fear That drawing near and nearer hungrily Lowers against our dearest dear, And nought can shield them from that jeopardy; To see the unknown horror rearing slow, Hang high above them like a craning wave, And in that endless moment know Intolerable impotence to save. Yet 'whelmed the dream-doom never one dear head, Our own hearts woke us with their passionate beat: Straightway we found all peril fled And lay, awaiting dawn's deliverance sweet. Now growing with the strengthening daylight strong Doth that ill dream, the sleep-world's confines breaking, Walk at our elbow all day long To leave us only at a worse awaking. _"What shall be done with all these tears of ours?"_ The poor proud mother in the sad old tale, That wept her lovely children's loss in vain Grew one with her own tears' most bitter rain; The immortal Gods that spared not for her wail Then made from out her grief's eternal flow A never-failing fountain, at whose brink Wayfaring men oft stooped them down to drink And blessed those Gods, whose envy wrought her woe. So may these bitter springs with years grow sweet, And welling ever upward full and strong, As when from many a broken heart they burst, Stay not for frost nor fail for summer heat, But make fair pools life's desert way along Where unborn generations slake their thirst. While the noonday prayers were said, For the warriors in our War, And many bowed the head With heavy hearts and sore, Each with his voiceless dread, Each with his hidden pain, Each thinking on his own, The living and the dead,-- Then on the pillared stone Behind the altar, fell A cross-shaped stain, A shadow strong and dark That all may mark, And know it well, That doth dear won salvation spell. Awhile the sad sign stayed, And the shadow-shape, concealed In the hearts of them that prayed, Stood for a space revealed. A wilderness were better than this place Where foregone seasons set a gentle spell Decking it with such fair and tender grace An angel might be pleased here to dwell; Now all its gay delights are dismal grown In the full glory of the summer time, As from the horror of some evil thing Its every grace had flown,-- Laid under penance for an unknown crime The garden close lies sick and sorrowing. Pale in the sultry splendour of the day Each shoot a finger, stiffened wearily, The harsh-leaved rosemary stands stark and grey Pointing at that which none may ever see, And darker grows the pansy's brooding face With dark foreboding; and the lily's cup Turns loathsome, festering sourly in the sun; In the cypress's embrace The valiant scented bay is swallowed up. The roses all have withered, one by one. Beyond the close, smothering the wholesome corn, A flight of scarlet locusts fallen to earth Baleful, and blighting all that they adorn, The burnished heralds of a bitterer dearth, Coral and flame and blood among the gold, Like Eastern armies gorgeously dight And raised by gramarye from English sod With banners brave unrolled Each silken tent enclosing dusky night, Drowsy dream-laden poppies beck and nod. Brighter than stains of that imperial hue Spilled from the vats of sea-enthroned Tyre, Their flaunting ranks grow dull and blow anew From smouldering rubies to fierce coals of fire, As through the thunder-burdened air of noon The slow clouds slowly drift and pass Casting soft shifting shadows on the field. Alas, and all too soon The wearied eye 'gins ache for shaded grass Though the charmed sense would to the glamour yield. Now that love's rose has crumbled into dust, And nought is left but sharp envenomed thorns, Burning remorse with many a cruel thrust, Bitter regret that unavailing mourns, Now thought is fear and memory is pain And hope a sickly pulse that will not cease, And fame a gaping grave whereby we weep, Nowhere now doth remain A place of refuge for us, or release, Save in the shadowy wastes of idle sleep. Therefore, scorn not these flowers of phantasy That blow about the ivory gate of dreams, For though they have not truth or constancy Yet very fair their idle semblance seems. Though short the blest relief they bring to woe, And wakening the worm 'gins gnaw again, Yet comely truth is grown a grim death's head. Fly the unconquerable foe; Go, in an empty dream lost joys regain And down among the poppies meet your dead. Warm and golden and dear In custom and kindness set, We builded against our fear A place wherein to forget Darkness that rings us near. Here our hearts we deceive And will not understand. Whether we laugh or grieve We dwell in a lamp-lit land-- A land of make-believe Not too high for our pride Whereto we are ever bond Nor for our souls too wide-- And all is night beyond Where monstrous things abide. Still without ceasing we Watch on our stronghold keep, Lest lamps burn flickeringly, And, while we slumber and sleep, Outcast eternity Break in a moment through Our soul-built barriers slight, Look in on us with blue Lustreless eyes, whose light Life everlasting slew. Heavy with endless days, With endless wisdom sad, Should those eyes behold our days And our loves wherein we are glad, We might not abide their gaze. Our sorrows flee fast away Like shadows before the morn, In the light of eternal day Pale all our joys forlorn, Elf-gold that will not stay; Find we, looking again, For all our cherished treasures And all our labours vain, Weariness all our pleasures And worthless all our pain. Our vanities kissed and curled, Ere the swift vision is gone, Into the void are hurled; But we ourselves live on, Waifs in a blasted world, Where light and laughter and love Lie dead in the dark together And we brood their dust above, Knowing not surely whether 'Tis life at our hearts doth move. Lost without remedy, We sit under pitiless skies Mourning the moment we Looked with our finite eyes _On a Child left Buried Abroad_ Father, forget not, now that we must go, A little one in alien earth low laid; Send some kind angel when thy trumpets blow Lest he should wake alone, and be afraid. She lifted up her eyes and looked at me;-- Straightway, methought that I was gazing down Through lacy lattices of meadow grass, Into the face of that low, little flower, That holds all fathomless eternity, Inscrutable, immeasurable dusk's Heart-breaking blue, and night's first timid star, Prisoned and mirrored in a shallow cup, So small a single dewdrop would o'erflow it, So frail no vagrant bee could rest thereon. But unaware of its own loveliness This symbol of all mysteries sad and sweet Fixes on heaven the wide unwinking stare Of blind, bright eyes, coloured and glorified, By light and hues, it apprehendeth not.-- Even so, lovely, senseless and aloof, Round-eyed Veronica looked up at me. Even as walk on middle earth The shades of the unquiet dead That loathe the graves allotted them from birth And wander without end, uncomforted; So the dead moon, poor restless rover That died by fire, long, long ago, Wanders forlorn the steeps of heaven over; With death's despair and life's outwearied woe She journeys, a reluctant lustre giving To this world's throbbing life and strong, And, being dead, envieth all things living, And sheds a passing death her beams along. To that weird corpse-light worse than dark, All fair things for a little die; The spell-bound earth lies, colourless and stark, Beneath the wan ghost witch's jealous eye. So fair a dream last night my heart had kissed, I sought some token of it, but 'twould give Nothing, save formless fancies fugitive, That slipped from words' encirclement away-- As, when hell's shades 'gan quicken with the day, His lost beloved fled the lutanist. While the wind low o'er the green pool creeps Spoiling with kisses the wood's mirrored beauty, Kneel we close down by the margin preparing To launch the frail craft on those perilous deeps. Swift the wind takes them, we lean to see Over the water gallantly faring Forth our fantastical argosy. Silver-white galleons beating to seaward, Freighted with fancies lighter than foam, Bound for far havens and tall towns enchanted-- Stir, sleepy breezes, and bring them safe home. Cabot sailing for ever and ever To the unknown where the wild ducks nest; Morgan mooring to rape the treasure Hid in a lily's unsullied breast; Nearer, in shore among lowering leaf-bergs Franklin, crushed on his fatal quest. So I behold in your eyes re-awaken Brave sad tales that the sea wind sings, Tales of old mariners, daring hid dangers, Ghosts of forgotten adventurings. Heart of my heart, in your manhood's hereafter, When you've grown taller, and harder to please, Will you turn sometimes your wandering wishes Back to the hours when with eyes full of laughter You watched where the day-dreaming willow trees Dipped their long fingers to catch at the fishes, Mock sails flying on mimic seas? Two lovers walked in a green garden way 'Neath towering poplar pillars all arow; The still June midnight close about them lay: They whispered soft and low. Though they could feel no wind, they heard it creep High in the poplars, whispering secret schemes; The tall trees stood as sentinels asleep, And listening through their dreams. The full moon's white fire lamp hung round and fair Above the highest poplar's shivering crest, The lazy fountain's waters stirred the air And softly sank to rest. Unseen the honeysuckle trailed that fills The dim air with its heavy sweet perfume, But the wan fire-eyed wraiths of daffodils Stared spectral through the gloom. They felt no footsteps fall beside their own, But long their like had loved the garden well; And never two may walk this walk alone: Their presence wakes a spell. When here live lovers loiter to and fro With tender words and lips of kisses fain, Then those dead men that walked here long ago Meet their lost loves again. The grey dew keeps no traces of their feet, Their speech is lighter than the bat's shrill cry, They hover where of yore they used to meet Like shadows passing by. Though many wander where the moonlight lies Yet are they lonely as in life they were, For each ghost looks into his own love's eyes And sees no other there. And when the living lips their farewells frame And the live feet turn to the garden door, The shades depart in darkness as they came And are not any more. Did those two guess who loved that night in June That others trod the grass as well as they, And won from them a passing moment's boon To love as in life's day? Or did they think in that still haunted place, As those poor phantoms were they soon must be And pluck at other unknown lovers' grace The joys that once were free? Perchance their glad hearts thrust such thoughts away; Of that night's tryst no more than this they own: That they two, in a grassy garden way Once walked an hour alone. _Sidgwick & Jackson's List of Poetry_

comte de Honoré-Gabriel de Riqueti Mirabeau

Erotika Biblion

1749

A palace he built him in the west, A palace of vermeil fringed with gold; And fain would he lie him down to rest In the palace he built him in the west Which every heavenly hue had dressed With halcyon harmonies untold: That palace, the sun built in the west, A palace of vermeil fringed with gold. Wake, love; Aurora's breath has tinged the sky, Mounting in faintly flushing shafts on high To tell the world that Phoebus is at hand; And all the hours in a glittering band Cluster around in sweeping, circling flight Like angels bathing in celestial light. See, now with one great shaft of molten gold, No longer vaporous haze around him rolled, The King of Day mounts the ethereal height, Scattering the last dim streamers of the night. Bow down, ye Persians, on your altared hills; Worship the Sun-god who gives life, and fills Your horn with plenteous blessings from on high. Wake! Wake! before the dawning sunbeams die! Fling incense on your temple's dying flame; Sing chants and chorals in his mighty name, For as a weary traveler from afar, Or as a sailor on the harbor bar After long absence spies his native town, So, with benignant brilliance smiles he down; Or, like a good king ruling o'er his land, He sprinkles blessings with a bounteous hand. And thou, O my beloved, wake! arise! Has not the sun illumined night's dull skies? Come, Phoebus' breath has tinged the summer morn. Come, see the light shafts waver 'mong the corn. Come, see the early lily's opening bloom. Come, see the wavering light expel the gloom From yon dark vale still sunk in misty night. Oh, watch the circling skylark's heavenward flight, As, wrapped in hazy waves of shimmering light, In one grand Jubilate to the sun, He floods the sky with song of day begun. But golden morn is never truly fair Unless with day, thou com'st to weave my hair With perfumed flowers gathered in the dell Where sylphs sing sweetly 'bout the bubbling well. Oh, fill my cup of pleasure with new wine Which sparkles only where thy soft eyes shine! O my beloved, haste thee to arise Before the light has scorched the noonday skies! The fleeting hours haste the falling sun; And soon the hour-glass of life is run. Over thy balcony leaning, Thy languorous glance floats below Whence arise thousand odours a-streaming, Thine incense, O goddess of woe! A star from the infinite whirling, Taking flight through the dimness of night, In an ark through the ether is curling; And touches thy hair with its light. O lady of sadness and sorrow, Mine anguish, my hope, my despair, Will the bright-dawning day of to-morrow Find thee still in that balcony there? Near thy casement, an ancient vine groweth, A ladder that leads thee below; Were it not for that vine, ah, who knoweth Thou wert not an _angel_ of woe? Come down from thy cloud-bosomed chamber; Not yet has the moon lit the sky; On the vine-trellis, carefully, clamber-- (Is it thou or the wind that doth sigh?) Among the copse hedges then darting Like a ghost at the dawn of the day; Then, far in the distance departing, In triumph, I'll bear thee away. List, O list to the song I sing To the varying note of the sighing breeze Blowing in cool, refreshing waves From the endless realm of the seven seas: Waste not life in pursuit of war, Holding the nations for one short day, For the death of the king destroys the realm Which vanishes like the great Mongol's sway. Nor hoard up silver in thy vaults, For the silver once spent, the pleasure is passed, Or before it is spent, we will mourn thy death: In the world, neither conquest nor silver last. Seek, O seek but an hour's joy; Pleasure and love though they may not endure Will soothe life's sorrow and bitterness-- The present alone of all time is sure! Live in the circle of mine arms; Live in the light of the love in mine eye; Live in the music of my song; And, as the music of my song--die! Night in purple fringed with the faintest crimson Conquered the slowly paling glow of sunset; Softly the western light expired; and yet Came there no stars forth-- O'er the tow'ring cliffs and the vales and waters, O'er the whisp'ring woodland of swaying hemlocks, O'er the streamlets trickling down on the crag-rocks, Came there no moon forth. Rose in distance, a dim and fearful spectre; Rose, accompanied by the forest's singing, An omen of evil, certainty bringing Of the divine wroth-- Far from northern forests descends some army; Far in the heavens, their fires are reflected; Waver the lights in an archway collected, Sign of divine wroth-- Shines the arch in a flick'ring wavy brilliance; Lighting earth from its quivering span of silver; Shines the Aurora soft o'er lake and river, Shines from the far north. Over the moorland, over the moor, Sibilant sounds the rain-storm's sneer, Sneeringly sounds, yet with a lure Like the lure of the mermaids of the mere, Calling the fishermen into their snare-- Through watery veils, my dim eyes peer, Where can a light or a path be, where? Lost on the moor, the moorland drear-- Lost, and the storm-lion's out of his lair, Raging rampant with mighty roar; And the glistening lightning flashes its glare; And the torrents descend with a wind-driven pour. Only the lightning to show by its fire The tears of Heaven flooding Earth's floor; And, above the sound of the storm-lion's ire, Shriek the rain-sheets over the tor, Shriek in a quavering, tuneless choir. What's that in the distance shining afar? See it flickering higher and higher, Light in a broadening, lengthening bar-- Who is abroad at this lonely hour? Or is it a cottage high on the scar? Or does it shine in My Lady's tower To guide her Lord from lands afar? Nearer and nearer, I haste--Oh, for power To reach that light--Oh, to be sure, My Lady would welcome me in her bower-- I fall; I sink; it was the marsh's lure-- Weariness, weariness, unending weariness, cease-- Break thou the heart thou canst not heal! Bitterness, bitterness, undying bitterness, peace-- On shore bring to rest my barge's keel, On that shadowy shore, we seek at life's release; For thy soul, beloved, bears Death's seal. Restlessness, restlessness, wandering restlessness haunts me; Lacking thy smile, all life's brooklets congeal Into one image emotional, fearful which daunts me-- Life's frozen image without an ideal. Ceaselessly, ceaselessly, ceaselessly, mocking, life taunts me; Gone all my former purpose and zeal. Thou wert the pattern that ordered my hopes, my existence; All that life meant to me, thou didst reveal-- And now thou art gone, all my nature is lacking subsistence-- Oh, let this soul from the body steal! Then to the spectres, Plutonian, silent, ethereal, Will my sad spirit for thine appeal, Wandering onward, and onward through realms immaterial Till at thy feet shall it joyously kneel-- Then must my weariness, weariness, weariness, cease; Mended the heart, life could not heal-- Bitterness, bitterness, ended all bitterness, peace-- When on the shore grates my barge's keel. Shelley, thy spirit is set among the stars; Exalted from the earth, thy soul sprang high From these drab pavements to the star-lit sky; In one grand ecstasy, frail mortal bars Gave 'way; thy soul purged pure of earthly scars-- No more to languish here with lingering sigh-- Rose from the foaming gulf where thou didst lie, Rose from the ragged sail and splintered spars, Rose to Elysium's fairest bowers serene; There thine Ideal is ever at thy side; And soft Apollo's hand doth strike the strings; And Philomel, behind a bowery screen, Pours forth Anacreon's blessings on thy bride Who to thine ear unceasing rapture sings. Through life he strove to reach his longed-for goal, Living secluded in a forest dell; It was his wish to learn himself so well As to command the secrets of the soul; He studied, wrote, and fashioned out life's scroll Until the spirit's instincts could he spell; And then at last diapason swell, Burst forth his writings, 'round the world to roll! As organ music sighs through cloistered aisle, As mighty calms upon the waters steal, As raging, shrieking tempest-blasts assail; So doth his magic word our minds beguile Until, swept onward by each peal on peal, Our souls are lured beyond this mortal veil. Upon my breast there weighed ten thousand waves Of black, unthinkable despair; I floated In atmosphere of leaden density, In atmosphere that burned with heat, yet glowed not-- Then scintillating stars with vivid flashes, Like sparks from steel struck in a mine's thick blackness, Tortured my eyes with dazzling glare; and then Arose a rumbling as of crashing tombs When the dead waken. Gone my will, my power. I could nor feel, nor move, nor cry. Creation Seemed rending downward through eternal space. The thundering ceased, there shot a wail of pain, A wail more anguished than arose from Troy When Hector fell. Fainter, it grew, receding Through the spheres. The meteors flashed no more. I floated upward on invisible wings; The distance purpled in the glow of dawn; Funereal clouds melted to shimmering gray; And far away the notes of music sounded, Echoing onward to Infinity-- Music celestial of that choir of Heaven Which sings unendingly about His throne. Distant, it floated, yet how pure, and clearer Than clear, rebounding Alpine notes. A present Foretaste of the sublime beatitudes; And o'er my visual sky moved forms of beings, Dark forms in solemn, slow-ascending flight Toward that rich, purple glow. The vision changed: So pure the light that darkness sealed my eyelids! So grand the symphony, I could not hear! The whole cathedral-vault of Heaven rang In awful majesty of perfect tone; And 'past my mortal vision, in endless tide, Flowing, and flowing upward toward the Light, Angels innumerable, many-hued, Winged on, majestic, to the music's time, Winged on and sang a ceaseless Hallelujah-- Rush on, rush on, humanity, and fill Your hours with toil-wrought pain. Rush on, rush on Upon your prizeless race. Where is your gain In luxury, or seas of swimming gold, Or starry ether chained to conquerdom? You do but add new wheels, new chains to man's Machine to govern man. You build a tower More high than Babel's, hoping for earthly heaven Upon this structure formed of luxuries, And squander here stored-up celestial bliss Which your poor Wills would mortgage before gained. Your little lives were never made for racks And fettered strainings of this new-wrought world That quivers your nerves with life-intensity. Death marks your race upon his hour-glass; And Madness moves upon your city streets. Your fevered minds reel downward to the gulf Where knowledge fails, and luxuries lose charm, Where passion flickers out, and haste seems slow. Rush on, rush on, destruction marks your goal. Rush on, rush on, till Death has breathless felled The last of all your human progeny; And leaves him lying there alone--alone, Like him who first had shape of man--unburied, Lost in a race with no competitor, And nothing as the goal--unburied, staring At the passing clouds, his only winding-sheet. And then the Great Intelligence--if such There be--will see his moment's pastime o'er, And turn his arts to other constellations, Until in rolling aeons e'en his mind May lose the memory of Man which _was_-- Rush on, rush on, humanity, and fill Your hours with toil-wrought pain, rush on, rush on! Death is your hope, your pilot, and your goal, And Nothingness your only consolation-- O Guenever, O Guenever once mine, God may assoil thy failing, but can I Whose quivering soul is blasted, and whose sky Is tempest-rent in agony?--Ah, thine, Thine might have been the fire that should refine My table round to silver chastity, Lofty ensample to mine Hall. Oh, why Should thy soft light no longer purely shine For my parched soul to bathe in? Guenever, My Guenever, yet thou wert only mortal-- So too am I; and shall thy every tear Of anguish well, and I not mark? O hear, And help me, God, to open wide the portal Of pardon in my heart for Guenever-- A gutted wick, still flutteringly aflame Upon a roughened bench--bare walls, bare floor, And glimmering gray of sunrise--yes, and more-- Ah, brother, for I call thee by that name-- Mine eyes tear-blinded to thy figure came, Thy figure fallen like a flower when hoar Frosts blight. Thy soul wont like the lark to soar The light-flushed dawn, now takes a loftier aim. Thy funeral chant, the slow-entoning wind; Thy churched tomb, the pillared vault of morn; Thy requiem, the birds: Thus art thou dead, Pale, spectred want, thy tribute from thy kind; But God, himself, thy dirges shall adorn With sighing psalms of every wind that's sped. The air is vibrant with a sensuous charm; The grasses nod, and drowse beneath the sun; Dim, swelling tones upon the breezes run. In soft security from dread alarm, The doves are cooing; and the wind with warm Caress, bears the arbutus' missive, one Love-wrought line of scented rapture, none Subtler to woo the honey-hunting swarm. Let me sigh out my soul in ecstasy, And breathe forth all the fragrance of my being Upon the slowly-stirring summer air; Let me no longer merely scent, hear, see; But _one_ with Nature, in that Law agreeing-- That God-willed Law that tincts the Beauty there-- Night wove her web across the sun that died In crimson colors; velvet-falling gloom Hung curtain-wise, and, like some rich perfume, Formed the soft essence of each wind that sighed. Out of my casement through the dark, I spied The moon afloat in tide of golden spume Like some fair flower opening into bloom; The earth lay dim; the Heavens starry-eyed; And breezes softer than a maiden's breath Hushed all the air. O night, how sweet thy charm! Yet not thy moon, nor stars, nor wind, each one Of these shall pass when we are changed by death-- But rather sleep, thou death-in-life, more warm Yet not so sweet as sweet oblivion. What wouldst thou be? A cloud upon the air Of summer skies afloat in sunlit charm, And drinking azure bliss, all free from care, And nestling near the sun's breast rich and warm? What wouldst thou be? A comet, trailing eyes Of thousand terrors through the throbbing night, And filling earth with fear and vague surprise To gaze upon thy bright, liquescent light? What wouldst thou be? A sullen, stalwart cliff Immovable upon a grassy plain, Kissed by no clouds, and cold, and stark, and stiff, Unmelted by the gentle tears of rain? I ask nor to be gay, nor great nor strong-- Make me a thought incarnate in some song. "The prophecy is overthrown at last! Thy hopes, my fury-tempered steel shall blast. Mine, mine, thou art; David, thou shalt not rule. This curse upon my seed is overpassed; And he who made it was some dream-crazed fool Whose soul was such poor stuff as could not mast Futurity's wide ocean. David shall be All fetter-bound, my captive prisoned fast!" Before his tent, King Saul in triumph strode; About Prince David circled his array. E'er the new sun had sipped the dew, would he Close on the fugitive.--"Brain-crazing thirst Of jealousy that drives me on my way Of torment, drain this cup; and satiate be. Thy hope, O line of David, fadeth fast Like pallid starlight into morning cast." Saul triumphed to the stars; he gasped for air As one might gasp upon a mountain's height. Revenge and hate swept storm-like through the lair Where lurked his soul shrinking before the blast; "Mine, mine, by high-enthroned Jehovah's might!" The words upon his lips were hot and fast.-- Thine, thine, thou say'st? Him shalt thou never gain! Thou dream'st a dream, O King; it is in vain. Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane. Thine, thine, thou say'st? It is in vain, in vain.-- Was it the echo tortured into shape Of his own words? Still stood the King aghast. Did all this prisoning world leave no escape From evil prophecy to his sworn vow? He clapped his hands. (How the two sounds contrast!) A servant came who cringed before his brow. "Whence came that sighing voice? Let no one go About my tent." The man was silent. "Now, My Lord?" he quavered. "All has been quite still." Saul's forehead frowned: "Return to rest--Or no, Order my men to muster; 'tis my will To seize the enemy at once, before The light of morn. Soon shall I hold my foe; And when he's bolted safe by gates thick-brassed, Then may my fury gorge its dread repast." Again he smiled. Footsteps approached in sore, Short-tempered strides as one who comes from far. Still paused the servant for Saul's nod to go-- And Saul was smiling to the moon's curved bar. "My Lord, my Lord, these tidings brook no pause!" As if unwillingly, the King turned slow. "Philistines plunder thy rich-garnered grain, And flood thy fenced towns with waves of fire! The land is overswept with bloody rain; Thy towered throne is tottering to the mire!" Saul's fingers clenched until the blood was near; He turned away; the moon was hid from sight. Only upon Prince David's men one gleam Pierced through the gloomy, cypress-shaded night. "Lost, lost--so near, and yet in vain, in vain--" His enemy who should displace his son, Would still live on while he must go and fight To save the realm--save, for this hated one? He spoke; his voice was tense: "Awake my men; We must be marching far." A lightening beam Of anguish flashed and re-flashed through his brain; And back there floated in his oral ken: "Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane; Thine, thine, thou say'st? Him shalt thou never gain!" Encamped Philistines lay upon the plain While Israel held the barren hillock's rise. Like palm trees in the waste, their gay tents shone; And many camp-fires vied with sunset skies, Yet fewer on the hills than blazed below Down in the darkening valley where had grown As many flickering lights as flakes of snow That fall on wintry Lebanus. Before his tent, strode Saul; his head was bowed As bows a palm tree to the tempest blast. Was this deep thought? Or was the spirit cowed By some high-topping terror? Then at last Tensely he spoke as to the blackening cloud That hung above the sunset: "I, so strong, Yet cannot banish thee, ill-omened shroud, That round my writhing soul wraps as a pall Of mute foreboding?--He and Philistine join In lowering hate against me on the plain-- God, God, my soul has sought Thy soul; wherein But Thine Omnipotence can triumph lie? Yet Thou art wordless.--Shall the King still call The clouds were scudding fast As if breathed through the Heavens by God's sigh. There turned his eyes; then o'er the valley cast. "Yet will I win," he cried. "Fate cannot last. The days are all at odds; the powers conspire To crush my mortal Will. Oh, I will cast, And trample dim foreboding in the mire! Let Fate come on; I'll meet him half the way; And win----" Ceased in the air his words. The sky grew dark; a frail gust stirred the fire, Filling the air with monotone of woe: "Thou dream'st a dream; it is in vain, in vain; Him never shalt thou gain----" The sound was flown. With features fury-tortured, hands clenched fast, Up leaped he, straining arms stretched forth. "My foe I'll rend, rend, rend; hear me ye breeze's blast! My royal root shall bloom; and David--lost. Jehovah's evil Providence, I'll cast Into a sea embalmed in endless frost!" A witch dwelt high upon stern Endor's cliff. The place was dark: for night had drawn the veiling Between the mountain peaks that stand still, stiff, The frozen sentinels of Time; and sailing Aloft upon the evening air, the smoke Of hostile camp-fires blackened e'en the night. Here dwelt this hag to horrid witchcraft given, A withered, fangless thing whose mutterings spoke Of all the secrets of Hell's shadow-light. The wind was coldly wailing. Near her fire, She crouched. Behind her, through a passage riven By some swift thunderbolt of wrath divine, Appeared a man in closely wrapped attire. Like some lithe snake she turned and cringed In fear and yet in anger: "By what sign, And wherefore come you here?" her lips half snarled. The man unwrapped his mantle deeply fringed; He threw a purse before her. "For this cost, Let thine unseen familiar call from rest The one I name to thee"--She rose all gnarled; And thus she spake: "Seek not to hide thy mien; My spirit tells me that thou art--" Her lean Hand grasped the splintered rock--"Thou art the King! And whom wouldst thou, my Lord, seek in this fane Of Chaldee calculations, law and ring?" "Serve me but well to-night; and be thou wise-- Charm as I bid; and gratitude shall last All time from me to thee--fulfill this quest--" He paused his speech and glanced to either side-- "Summon me Samuel. Let his spirit rise Upon the night in wreathed, hazy guise." The fire-embers faded red, and died; King Saul sat staring into sable space; The witch was mumbling by the fire-side Whence curled up wisps of smoke. His heart beat fast. Within the gray appeared a dim-lit face. In silent terror gazed the King. At last, Was audible a voice upon the wind: "What would'st thou, Saul? What would'st thou learn from me?" "Samuel, 'tis thou--" and then, as in a gust The storm sweeps down upon the plain, words burst In hot-lipped passion uncontrolled and fast-- "Aid me; O, aid me; for I yearn, I thirst To drink this David's blood. The frenzied lust Of unfulfilled ambition desert-dry Burns in my throat. Is my seed barren cast On earth? Am I condemned to plod, a beast For any burden? Spectre, tell me why Should I be King of men, and yet the least Who cannot even hold or give mine own?" "The princely David shalt thou never gain; Thou dream'st a dream, O King, it is in vain-- Once fixed, the star of forecast cannot wane-- The star of forecast cannot wane--wane--wane--" The spectre's voice swept on upon the wind; The spectre faded into argent gloom. Down shot a nacreous moonbeam dim-outlined. The King's eyes fell upon the armied plain. There rose a shout again, and yet again-- Below was movement, battling of armed men, And shrieking clash of arms. How fiercely shines That flaring light! His camp was sheathed in flame! In flame that wrote upon his soul the lines: "Once fixed the star of forecast cannot wane; Thine all has been in vain, in vain, in vain--" Pale night upon its swift, aerial loom Wove the soft, vaporous substance of the gloom. The story-sculptured Gothic porch lay dim And silent in drab haze with which the spring Covers its carpentry of summer bloom. A maiden stood within the porch's pale. "It is the night," she sighed, "Saint Marcus' night When ghosts of all foredoomed to sickness wing Into the church to pray; so runs the tale. Those who make no return shall feel the grim, Fell scythe of Death within the year. The light Must flicker up each face as past they sail. But Gascon, O my Gascon, shalt thou die? Year after year, I wait--Thy strong-wrought mail Surely is sword-proof--" And a hovering sigh Passed through her lips more still than silence, frail. The lowering mist grew darker. From the womb Of day, young night was born. The paling light Was flecked with haze-clouds flickering in the gloom; And to and fro in stately pageantry, Strange shadow-shapes like liquid-silver spume Charmed into lightness, formed an imagery Of things half-human. Still the maiden pale Waited and hung upon each shadowy trail Of lingering vapors fainting to and fro. They took the shape of flitting forms in mail Or monkish cowl. A Merlin-magic spell Seemed laid upon her. "And art _thou_ to go?" She whispered as some well-known face amid The rest swept by her through that portal fell. And some, not marked for Death, returned again; And some returned not. O'er the porch's rail, Leant her light body as she scanned each form, And tensely looked with terror anxious-eyed. Why does she shrink with all-consuming pain, And seek to gaze again? A blinding storm Of anguish breaks upon her. "O what doom Is this for thee and me? Why doest thou glide Into this silent, terror-freighted tomb?" Pale Gascon's figure fled along the tide-- Some forms not marked for Death returned again; But his returned not. Ever anguish-eyed, She paused and waited--waited in the gloom. At last the flying cloud flakes ceased to come; And stilly night arose. "My God, to whom May I turn now? My richest Self is rent!" Down from the carven doorway stumbling slow, The maiden passed, silent with languishment. She gazed in careless stupor such as woe Stamps on the soul. "My Lady, may I dare--" He paused, and gazed, bowed sweepingly and low, Then spoke again. She stood there sad and fair, Quivering like a heat-cloud in the air. "Lady, a traveler asks the way to where He may find rest and lodgement." One brief while, She stayed herself in stupor; 'tis but meet, A soul come slowly from behind the veil. "Come--come," she said, upon her face a smile Of sorrow blent with some strange joyance pale. They passed along the quaintly cobbled street, And then turned through a lane where high up-reared, The gloomy oaks and hawthorne hedges greet The eye on either hand. A cottage stood With banks of sleepy flowers at its feet; And all around, the giant, hoary wood Frowned down its shadows on the garden's bloom, Frowned down, a fateful harbinger of gloom. Within the cottage, all was warmth and cheer. There stayed the mother waiting the return Of her sweet child. They entered. She did greet Both with an all-inclusive smile, and clear, Unchanging peace and kindliness that burn Before a pure soul's shrine. "Whom have we here, Marie?--Some houseless stranger gone astray?" He doffed his feathered cap and bowed full low. "After long twilight wanderings in despair Of any hermitage for night, not far From here, I prayed your daughter's guidance ere The dark should leave me but a chance faint star By which to fare." Beside the oaken board, They sat and ate the rustic dishes there, While young Sir Guy poured forth a glittering hoard Of warriored stories gathered far away: How one brave knight pierced twenty paynim through; And how another fled from the affray To be enslaved by Sarazain corsair. The maiden hungered for each word. How frail Be warriors' lives! Upon the thought, she knew A bitter memory of forecast's gloom. Oh, she must fly. Oh, something must avail To give her refuge from this festering sting. She tried to turn her mind from sorrow's trail, And gave her thoughts to the narrator's tale. Now he was speaking of a lord who strove To win his lady; but the Christian war Called him to battle for his Faith. He clove Damascus steel and clinking casques; but e'er He could return--Sir Guy then ceased; for here Arose a warning on the mother's brow. She wished no bitter recollections. Fear For Marie's plausance was her only care. Soon all the cottage slept 'mid the garden's bloom; And fatefully the forest frowned its gloom. The summer blossomed, faded, and then died; And still as if enchanted, stayed he there. They took long walks o'er lonely hill and dale, And went across the fields with flowers pied. At times their voices rang upon the air; But ever when they came upon that vale Where, in its flowery charm, the cottage stood, Their talk would fail within the vasty wood. Thus bathed their souls in summer's sultry tide Like flashing moths upon the wind that ride. And hectic autumn came and brought its charm Of leafy brilliance heralding its death. Beside the evening blaze, full many a tale He told of knights in chivalrous career; But never raised the fluttering alarm Of the maiden's mother by the faintest breath Of the warrior lord and his loved one dear. Then hoary, chilling winter shrouded pale, Came, and passed by: thus wandered on, the year. The spring was coldly wrapped in sullen haze; Even the mounting sun seemed scarce as warm As during winter. Slowly passed the days Until the Eve of blest Saint Marcus came. Among the misty-shadowed forest ways, Sir Guy did bring the maiden arm in arm. How oft the times that they had done the same-- "I've lived a life, careless and debonair, And know nor fettering bonds nor fear; Yet would I leave it all without a care--" She upward glanced and then glanced down as pale As any flowing haze-wreath in the gloom. "Oh, what is that?" she cried. The misty veil Parted and showed a glimpse of rock-built wall. "'Tis but the village kirk," he said. A pall Of haze enwrapped them like the Will of Doom. She stood and faced him, quivering as a sail That blows uncertain in a varying wind. "Marie, Marie," he faltered. Then a flare Of passion burnt his soul out in his eyes. Downward she glances seeming unaware; But in her heart beneath the outward guise, Warring emotions make her spirit quail. Gascon's loved image into vision flies; And yet her rising love, she cannot quell For brave Sir Guy; and then, as when the flail Lashes the chaff, dim mist before her flies Into the church in Gascon's image pale. The year is out. What then, should _he_ avail? "Marie--" Sir Guy is breathing on the air; She reads the rest within his flaming eyes. "O despair, despair! I have no hope; you fell into the snare!" His eyes dilated with mad light, he cries. "I, I am Gascon whose memory you dare To flout for any knight who stays a year Within your sight! I am undone. My doom Is set. These fateful forests be my bier! Your lover is a wreath of shadowy air-- Go, search him in the western tempest's lair! For me, I hasten from this mortal gloom, Sound mine own knell, and say mine own last doom!" She shrinks away, with inward tumult pale. His voice is still. She hears a something fall. With anguish in her eyes, she turns. There, all Stretched out upon the ground, he lies. A well Of ruby richness pulses with his frail, Departing breath. In Merlin-magic spell Of agony, she stares into the gloom. Pale figures, children of the mist-waves' womb In through the church's doorway seem to sail; Spectral, they vanish in their destined tomb. She moves; she starts; she cries, as one to whom Has come the horrid messenger of doom: "Is that _my_ figure floating in the gloom? Shall my life fail; is this its funeral knell?" Pale night upon his swift, aerial loom, Wove the soft, vaporous substance of her doom. Into my wildly whispering heart, His song the warm sirocco sings, Whirring, whirring-- And all the artifice of mine art Comes on the wind by the wind to part, Part from my whirring strings-- Sometimes I sing a wild, weird tale That like a wandering phantom wings Whirring, whirring-- And sometimes only a lonely wail Wells as an echo all wildly frail, Frail as my whirring sings-- My notes are like the willow-wands That lightly wave before, behind.-- Whirring, whirring-- Each whispering harp-string ever responds, Slave of the breeze in his servile bonds, Slave of the whirring wind-- Soft the sirocco sighs his tune, And a waning, funeral chant it wings-- Whirring, whirring-- The song shall die as joys die--soon, Whelming its melody into a swoon, Swoon of the whirring strings-- I lie upon my couch by night, And dream, and dream-- Until the quavering shadow-light Her portraiture doth seem-- Until the breeze's moaning saith In limpid-lapping stream, The same denial she answereth. I lie upon my couch by night, And yearn, and yearn-- Until the flickering breeze's flight Bring kisses that would burn-- Until my soul could moan with pain-- Oh, wherefore should she spurn My love again, and yet again? I toss upon my couch by night; I yearn; I yearn-- Until I see the glimmering light Upon the east return-- Until with passion-pulsing breath, I pray my lady stern: "Oh, let me win thee, sweetest Death--" I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified; I bathed in bliss-exhaling balm. I sailed through boundless ether Tyrian-dyed, And breathed the luscious calm. Tense were my heart-strings tuned; And, madly quavering as I sighed, Their music sadly waxed and wailed--then swooned, And floated feebly down in ebbing tide. I gave my soul to battle. I defied All the unlovable in life; I could have bartered Heavenly bliss and died Willingly in the strife! To elevate mankind, Mine inward power, I strove to guide; I harnessed the puissance of the mind, And toward that end all be magnified! I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified Till sated pleasure sank to pain. I gave my soul to battle. I defied The sordid; but in vain-- Still, still, my spirit wept; Its goal was hopeless, deified. Oh, would this saddened soul had ever slept Unborn; for slumber is a painless guide. It lay within a glass of green, A sinuous glass of subtle green. It sparkled with a slimy sheen. A languorous fascination gleamed With glint of lapis lazuli; And from its silken surface streamed The scent of musk from Araby. Ah--was that music only dreamed That tinct the drowsy scene? And was my fancy false, or seemed The glass to lure me with its limpid green? My fingers fluttered to the stem, To kiss the fluted, serpent stem, As pious Persians kiss the hem, Enwove with many a wanton trick, Of Persia's deified Sofi. I could not see; the light seemed thick As perfume from the balsam-tree, Or incense in a basalic When sounds a requiem. I drank the draught; my sense was sick; My quivering fingers crushed the curling stem. I dropped the cup of crystal-green; I scattered fragments emerald-green-- False emeralds with a glassy sheen. Upon the pavement, how they gleamed! I flung the bits of serpent-stem Upon the table beryl-seamed. I swept them with my garment's hem-- Some say I laughed--That night, I dreamed Of Araby--a scene Of sleepy charm whence fragrance streamed; And in mirage, the desert blossomed green. A soul was once incarnate in a man; And this unseen, incarnate thing was mine; And, as my body grew, the soul began To sip more fondly of the scented wine And sugared blisses life can give at call. It languished amid luxuries divine Showering richly like the leaves that fall Upon the sensuous-silent autumn air. Pale, fleeting Pleasure took my thoughtless all; For love, unselfish, passion-fervid, rare, Vibrated through the discords of dull time, Blending them into harmony; for where Life jangled harsh, a mother's care would chime More blissful chords than can be told in rime. The gentle harmonies of love declined, And swooned into a dull, funereal moan, And faintly floated onward with the wind. The symphony was gone; I stayed alone In all-enshrouding, opiate sadness bound. I did not scream; I did not weep nor groan. My soul was locked in stupor whence it found Only barred gates across dim vaults; and jangling, Discordant chaos stung me like a wound. I could not think; I could not hope; the wrangling Of jarring sounds oppressed me till my brain Was lost within a labyrinth, all-entangling-- But this I learned although my powers did wane; That Love through Death transmutes itself to pain. I sank my soul upon a sea of dreams; I floated through aerial heights divine Where saffron clouds a-glint with amber beams Shimmering strangely, stretched in shining line. I winged my way to Heaven's very dome, And on Hell's portal read the horrid sign; I danced upon the wavelet's crested foam, And swept tempestuous on the stormy wind. On earth like some vague terror, did I roam While moaning misery pursued behind. Whene'er I sang, my song had one refrain With anxious care and artifice refined, Until my soul's accompaniment would wane And wax to one _motiv_: unending pain. I broke my dungeon-sepulchre of dreams; I climbed the winding stair to palace halls Where all the air was soothed by incense-streams; And every sight within those magic walls Was bright with radiant, opalescent sheen While lulling on the ear, light music falls Of such a melody as ne'er has been Unless by fays on fairy lyres played. There Pleasure gowned in iridescent green, Reclines upon her couch with gems inlaid, And gently beckons with a sinuous arm-- But all the sumptuous excesses fade; The walls seem dim; the music has no charm, For Pleasure's Palace is a place of harm. I plunged through rooms of deepest Tyrian dye; I tore the veils from mysteries aside; But grinning pleasure ever met mine eye. In anguished ecstasy of bliss, I cried; And through the halls, I heard the echo wane Until the last, most distant answer sighed: "The spirit of the world is pain, pain, pain--" Then from the drowsy distance, there did well A voice as of a witch before her fane, Soft-muttering, some Heaven-blasting spell: "The world is all in vain, the merest tool Of accident, an anteroom to Hell, A counterfeit but fairly glinting pool-- Snatch all the joy thou canst, thou human fool!" And then I searched within myself to find The _how_ and _why_ of all I heard and saw. I found but silent Nothing. Wearied, blind, I strove to learn the omnipresent Law On whose foundation all these chambers lean. I found within the artifice no flaw; And not the slightest secret could I glean. I searched the winding, labyrinthine halls, And scanned colossal colonnades between Whose rows unending space is seen that palls The straining sight, yet thither lures the eye With fairy sheen. Through all the outer walls, No doorway pierced to water, earth or sky: Is there an answer to the _how_ and _why_? And yet I am condemned to live, to be. What horrid Fate decreed it? Life is blind, And cannot see the Truth. Oh, but for me To know, to solve this riddle of the mind! And yet no whisper through the age's gloom Has taught the latent answer that I pined; And finally in a sombre-tinted room, I sank in languor on the marble floor, And faintly wondered at my destined doom. Upon my weary spirit, came once more A faint remembrance of a former time, A faint remembrance, I had known before, That clung about me like an ancient rime: Death is to the soul but a change of clime. Then from the body tear this soul away! Let me seek death; I'll force the hand of Fate! I will not suffer more. The game I play Is held against Creation, and the weight Of all the ages hangs with Fate. Serene, Stands Death in sable gossamer bedight, And with maternal arms would intervene, And seeks to press me silent to her breast. Quick, let me free my soul from pain! The scene Is fair--Oh, let this weariness be blest! But hold--I still may keep this bitter strain Of self-tormenting torment e'en in rest-- Death summons up the things of life again; And pain of life transmutes all death to pain. Oh, but to float away upon the night, To lose my soul upon her silent dark, To feel myself a Nothing, a frail, light, Aerial Emptiness, a fleeing spark Of sunshine seeking on the endless void, Some rest, some painless silence as its mark. Like an oblivion-destined asteroid, So would I that my soul should haste away From all the ordinary, earthly, cloyed, From all the tawdriness of living day; But still I know I cannot cease to be, Though I condemn my body back to clay-- O thrice accursed immortality That dooms me life through all Eternity! O maddening horror in a smiling guise! Alive or dead, I am a slave to life. The later torment with the former vies To wring my still-undying soul with strife. I have a debt; the creditor is Time: "My bond, my bond," he cries, and holds the knife To wound yet never kill. But what my crime? I fled those pleasure-haunted halls where vile, Sweet-scented blisses soothed to pain. A clime More active came within my ken. The dial Of hours hurried round. The rich, new wine Of busy life, I found. A steady file Swept past of mortal things with souls like mine-- Yet what the purpose of their streaming line? With nervous yearning, haste they on their way: A few direct and rule the work of all; But most are bringing mortar, stone and clay-- (And some there are that rise, and others fall; And they are seen no more--we know not why.) But all are working on the palace wall; And some invent designs to please the eye; And some would fain extend the rooms to win New-fashioned blisses. A soft-moaning cry Is vibrant in the air. High-pitched and thin, It quavers dimly, then descends again, And echoes aimless through the busy din: Mankind would add to pleasure, but in vain-- For Pleasure's Palace is a house of pain. They strive; they strive, heap luxury on bliss, And worship Pleasure as their goddess-queen. Ah, take who will the subtle harlot's kiss! Yes, seize thy moment's sweetness--then, I ween, A pageantry of pain, such throbbing throes As rive the soul, and cut the quick with keen, Imprisoned edges till the life-blood flows. Man little knows it; but two aims has he: By present anguish, store up future woes, By present anguish, pain posterity. The quest for pleasure is a quest in vain; Men rather act than think, for thought is pain, And action is the opiate of the brain. Shall I play Roman, face and fight these ills, Pretend that I _can_ fight and still may win? A child his dozen mimic soldiers drills, And six with six, the battle they begin. Some victors, and some vanquished; some he slays-- But then the soldiers are mere toys of tin-- And carelessly upon the ground, he lays Vanquished and victors on one common plane; And takes some other toy and laughs and plays-- Yes, like that soldier, may I fight, and gain Great victories. Oh, I may stare my Fate Between the eyes, and drink whole draughts of pain; With Stoic-strength, may struggle, and may hate; But where's the payment that I vainly wait? I dare not ponder on humanity; Myself, I dare not ponder, nor my goal. Oh, would that I were lost upon that sea Into whose silence, Lethe's currents roll. Upon its bosom, would that I pressed mine, Then might some kindly power transform this soul Into forgetfulness. Or would some wine Were brewed with musk or attar of the rose And colored with a tint incarnadine, And so compounded that a dreamless doze Would come from one red, richly-scented draught. Or would that some unmoving glacier froze My soul within its crystal mine.--No craft Can save me from this cup of pain unquaffed. Oh, every soul is only pain embalmed; And every torment is but bliss's sting. Humanity lies gasping and becalmed Upon a torrid ocean; and no wing Of albatross is seen--nor e'er was seen-- Our worldly hope is dead--yet rules as king. Dust, ashes, ashes, dust, upon these lean All of the upward struggle of mankind; And pain, unending pain, is all they glean. Goddess of pain, O mistress of the mind, Art thou the Soul of life? Or hast thou palmed Thyself on men once happy? Have we pined Forever? Can our spirits e'er be calmed; Or _is_ the spirit only pain embalmed? But what of art? Can art no solace hold, No soothing spikenard, soporose drug or wine To woo the wounded soul? Must men grow old In agony? Or has some thought divine Slipped down upon us, cool, compassionate? But what of art? Can art's frail power refine Our souls into that Oversoul, and mate The each with All in one, sublime design? Art is the vision of that Truth innate In man. A soul, prismatic, crystalline, May show each glow of being with each strife At once reflected and becalmed, and twine Then into some new, inward world all rife With spirit blisses of a spirit life. Eternal art can triumph over pain; And once we breathe the lotus-fragrance deep, The world may scream with iron tongue in vain, For all the argosy is soothed to sleep. The ships may rot forever on the sand; And far off Greece may wait and faintly weep. More rare than spice from silken Samarkand, More sorrow-sweet than young Francesca's tears, More fair than yearning night upon the strand, And more majestic than Anchises' years: Beauty's the image, not the thing. 'Tis shod With rainbow lightnings of the hopes and fears, And knows each step humanity may plod. Art is the Beauty of the face of God. But still I live within this place of pain; And still I seek for an eternal aim, For, after death, mere Beauty is in vain. What is there deeper flowing from this same Unceasing spring? Quick, let me tear the veil! There sat a statue on an ebon frame-- A statue in that house of pain. So pale The brow and still the nostrils, Death it seemed; But in the face, I read that holy tale That lay on the Madonna's face where gleamed The Heavenly light from the young Christ's aureole. Through all the halls of pain, the brilliance beamed; And every discord out of chaos stole To swell the throbbing organ's thunderous roll. Faith is the master-spirit of the mind. All else is vanity, the preacher saith; And worldly knowledge painful is and blind. Oh, be thyself, and trust thyself. The breath Of God is breathed on thee. Believe, and will; And all that thou wouldst have in life, in death, Is thine. I heard a rustling like a rill Upon its leafy bed--just such a sound As tincts the shadow of a song with skill More intricate than arabesques, and bound With tender, faintly-flowing melodies-- But whence the choir sang, I never found. Mayhap at last, myself may learn the ties Wherewith are bound those lingering harmonies. And when the soul has torn the fleshly veil, And moves majestic to that monotone, When echo-like upon the air I sail Whither the winged skylark, Faith, has flown, And borne me fainting upward; then my soul May seek the God of art which silent, lone, Broods on a crystal-argent sea, the goal Of all humanity. Incarnate pain Is calmed to everlasting peace. There roll No waves upon the sea. Charmed has it lain Through incommensurate time; charmed will it lie Through all eternity; and there again Upon my soul in silence wrapped, shall sigh, Most beautiful--a mother's lullaby.

Thomas James Walker

The Depot for Prisoners of War at Norman Cross Huntingdonshire 1796 to 1816

Author of "Women of the Classics" etc. Mr Masefield and "John Presland"; Mr John Lane for the work of Mr Wilt thou not come again, thou godly sword, Into the Spirit's hands? Against our ugly wickedness, Against our wanton dealing of distress, The forced defilement of humanity, And shall there be no end to life's expense In mills and yards and factories, With no more recompense Than sleep in warrens and low styes, And undelighted food? Shall still our ravenous and unhandsome mood Make men poor and keep them poor?-- It's sorry I am for that perverted tramp, As having gone from being the earth's friend, Whom she would have at all her private treats. Now with the foolery called possession he Has dirtied his own freedom, cozen'd all His hearing with the lies of ownership. The earth may call to him in vain henceforth, He's got a step-dame now, his Goods.... O but my heart is dying in me, waiting: For us, with lives so hazardous, to love Is like a poor girl's game of being a queen. ... there's something sacred about lovers. For there is wondrous more than the joy of life In lovers; there's in them God Himself Taking great joy to love the life He made: We are God's desires more than our own, we lovers, You dare not injure God! Why was I like a man sworn to a thing Working to have my wains in every curve, Ay, every tenon, right and as they should be? Not for myself, not even for those wains: But to keep in me living at its best The skill that must go forward and shape the world, Helping it on to make some masterpiece. Words: they are messengers from out God's heart, Intimate with him; through his deed they go, This passion of him called the world, approving All of fierce gladness in it, bidding leap To a yet higher rapture ere it sink. Who hold words made of thought. But as stars slide Through air, so words, bright aliens, slide through thought, Leaving a kindled way. The fact sends us back to the contrast with the Victorians. The consciousness. Thus there arises a duality, and a sense of conflict, which would God, when all the multitudinous flow Of Being sets backward to Him; God, when He Is only glory.... Now, Thomas, know thy sin. It was not fear; Easily may a man crouch down for fear, And yet rise up on firmer knees, and face The hailing storm of the world with graver courage. But prudence, prudence is the deadly sin, And one that groweth deep into a life, With hardening roots that clutch about the breast. For this refuses faith in the unknown powers Within man's nature; shrewdly bringeth all Their inspiration of strange eagerness To a judgment bought by safe experience; Narrows desire into the scope of thought. But it is written in the heart of man, Thou shalt no larger be than thy desire. Thou must not therefore stoop thy spirit's sight To pore only within the candle-gleam Of conscious wit and reasonable brain; But send desire often forth to scan The immense night which is thy greater soul; Knowing the possible, see thou try beyond it Into impossible things, unlikely ends; And thou shalt find thy knowledgeable desire Grow large as all the regions of thy soul, Whose firmament doth cover the whole of Being, And of created purpose reach the ends. characteristic. ... like a wing's shelter bending down. I've often thought, if I were tall enough And reacht my hand up, I should touch the soft Spread feathers of the resting flight of him Who covers us with night, so near he seems Stooping and holding shadow over us, Roofing the air with wings. It's plain to feel Some large thing's near, and being good to us. together and made them friends before they had any knowledge of SON. What are words? TRAMP. God's love! Here's a man after my own heart; We must be brothers, lad. And didst thou think this present sensible world It is a name, ... The name Lord God chooses to go by, made In languages of stars and heavens and life. SEEKER. Then thou art God? WITHIN. Ay, many call me so. And yet, though words were never large enough To take me made, I have a better name. SEEKER. Then truly, who art thou? WITHIN. I am Thy Self. revelation of perhaps a fraction of a minute: I was exalted above surety And out of time did fall. As from a slander that did long distress, A sudden justice vindicated me From the customary wrong of Great and Small. I stood outside the burning rims of place, Outside that corner, consciousness. Then was I not in the midst of thee Desire of infinite things, desire of finite. ... 'tis the wrestle of the twain makes man. --As two young winds, schooled 'mong the slopes and caves Of rival hills that each to other look Across a sunken tarn, on a still day Run forth from their sundered nurseries, and meet In the middle air.... And when they close, their struggle is called Man, Distressing with his strife and flurry the bland Pool of existence, that lay quiet before Holding the calm watch of Eternity. Thou wilt miss the wonder I have made for thee Of this dear world with my fashioning senses, The blue, the fragrance, the singing, and the green. Great spaces of grassy land, and all the air One quiet, the sun taking golden ease Upon an afternoon: Tall hills that stand in weather-blinded trances As if they heard, drawn upward and held there, Some god's eternal tune; Golden within me the whole fate of man: That every flesh and soul belongs to one Continual joyward ravishment ... That life hath highest gone which hath most joy. For like great wings forcefully smiting air And driving it along in rushing rivers, Desire of joy beats mightily pulsing forward The world's one nature.... ... so we are driven Onward and upward in a wind of beauty, Until man's race be wielded by its joy Into some high incomparable day, Where perfectly delight may know itself,-- No longer need a strife to know itself, Only by its prevailing over pain. Life, the mother who lets her children play So seriously busy, trade and craft,-- Life with her skill of a million years' perfection To make her heart's delighted glorying Of sunlight, and of clouds about the moon, Spring lighting her daffodils, and corn Ripening gold to ruddy, and giant seas, And mountains sitting in their purple clothes-- O life I am thinking of, life the wonder, All blotcht out by a brutal thrust of fire Like a midge that a clumsy thumb squashes and smears. We have already seen that spiritual vision is here united with Life, the mother who lets her children play So seriously busy, trade and craft-- rejuvenated England, seem to the same hopeful eye a complete Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality. Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage. Out of the nothingness of sleep, The slow dreams of Eternity, There was a thunder on the deep: I came, because you called to me. I broke the Night's primeval bars, I dared the old abysmal curse, And flashed through ranks of frightened stars Suddenly on the universe! I'll break and forge the stars anew, Shatter the heavens with a song; Immortal in my love for you, Because I love you, very strong. But on the opposite page, the sonnet called "Dawn" swings to the unfortunate Teutons. One of them wakes, and spits, and sleeps again. The darkness shivers. A wan light through the rain Strikes on our faces, drawn and white. Somewhere A new day sprawls; and, inside, the foul air Is chill, and damp, and fouler than before.... Opposite me two Germans sweat and snore. It is not long, however, before we find that the two elements are Lo! from quiet skies In through the window my Lord the Sun! And my eyes Were dazzled and drunk with the misty gold, And a full tumultuous murmur of wings Grew through the hall; And I knew the white undying Fire, And, through open portals, Gyre on gyre, Archangels and angels, adoring, bowing, And a Face unshaded ... Till the light faded; And they were but fools again, fools unknowing, Still scribbling, blear-eyed and stolid immortals. In a cool curving world he lies And ripples with dark ecstasies. The kind luxurious lapse and steal Shapes all his universe to feel And know and be; the clinging stream Closes his memory, glooms his dream, Who lips the roots o' the shore, and glides Superb on unreturning tides. But there the night is close, and there Darkness is cold and strange and bare; And the secret deeps are whisperless; And rhythm is all deliciousness; And joy is in the throbbing tide, Whose intricate fingers beat and glide In felt bewildering harmonies Of trembling touch; and music is The exquisite knocking of the blood. Space is no more, under the mud; His bliss is older than the sun. Silent and straight the waters run. The lights, the cries, the willows dim, And the dark tide are one with him. When you were there, and you, and you, Happiness crowned the night; I too, Laughing and looking, one of all, I watched the quivering lamplight fall Flung all the dancing moments by With jest and glitter.... Till suddenly, and otherwhence, I looked upon your innocence. For lifted clear and still and strange From the dark woven flow of change Under a vast and starless sky I saw the immortal moment lie. One instant I, an instant, knew As God knows all. And it and you I, above Time, oh, blind! could see In witless immortality. Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass; Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still, When we are old, are old...." "And when we die All's over that is ours; and life burns on Through other lovers, other lips," said I, --"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!" "We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here. Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said; "We shall go down with unreluctant tread Rose-crowned into the darkness!" ... Proud we were, And laughed, that had such brave true things to say. --And then you suddenly cried, and turned away. Perception so keen and fearless, piercing readily through the Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond? This life cannot be All, they swear, For how unpleasant, if it were! One may not doubt that, somehow, Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And, sure, the reverent eye must see We darkly know, by Faith we cry, The future is not Wholly Dry. Mud unto Mud!--Death eddies near-- Not here the appointed End, not here! But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, Is wetter water, slimier slime! And in that Heaven of all their wish, There shall be no more land, say fish. Of such is "The Old Vicarage, Grantchester," in which the poet is Are soft beneath a morn of gold. Here tulips bloom as they are told; Unkempt about those hedges blows An English unofficial rose; And there the unregulated sun Slopes down to rest when day is done, And wakes a vague unpunctual star, A slippered Hesper; and there are Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton Where _das Betreten's_ not _verboten_. =eithe genoimen= ... would I were sentimentality: better risk rough weather, it seems to say, than Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand Still guardians of that holy land? The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream, The yet unacademic stream? Is dawn a secret shy and cold Anadyomene, silver-gold? And sunset still a golden sea And after, ere the night is born, Do hares come out about the corn? Oh, is the water sweet and cool, Gentle and brown, above the pool? And laughs the immortal river still Under the mill, under the mill? Say, is there Beauty yet to find? And Certainty? and Quiet kind? Deep meadows yet, for to forget The lies, and truths, and pain?... oh! yet Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea? century. It has, however, inherent interest apart from this aesthetic joy, If I were gusty April now, How I would blow at laughing Rose; I'd make her ribbons slip their knots, And all her hair come loose. If I were merry April now, How I would pelt her cheeks with showers; I'd make carnations rich and warm, Of her vermilion flowers. Since she will laugh in April's face, No matter how he rains or blows-- Then O that I wild April were, To play with laughing Rose. curiously impressive, for its art. magnificence. Ye saints, that sing in rooms above, Do ye want souls to consecrate? I am a jolly tramp: I whine to you, Then whistles till I meet another fool. I call the labourer sir, the boy young man, The maid young lady, and the mother I Will flatter through the youngest child that walks. There came a man to sell his shirt, A drunken man, in life low down; When Riley, who was sitting near, Made use of these strange words to Brown. "Yon fallen man, that's just gone past, I knew in better days than these; Three shillings he could make a day, As an adept at picking peas." "You'd scarcely credit it, I knew A man in this same house, low down, Who owns a fish-shop now--believe Me, or believe me not," said Brown. "He was a civil sort of cove, But did queer things, for one low down: Oft have I watched him clean his teeth-- As true as Heaven's above!" cried Brown. This humorous quality is the most marked form of an attitude of We're in the garden, where are bees And flowers, and birds, and butterflies; There is one greedy fledgling cries For all the food his parent sees! I see them all: flowers of all kind, The sheep and cattle on the leas; The houses up the hills, and trees-- Since Jesus came with mercy and love, 'Tis nineteen hundred years and five: They made that dying man break stones, In faith that Christ is still alive. A hideous scrap of notoriety for A.D. 1905!--and proof enough to Had they no dreamer who might have remained To sing for them these desolated scenes? One who might on a starved body take Strong flights beyond the fiery larks in song, With awful music, passionate with hate? He who loves Nature truly, hath His wealth in her kind hands; and it Is in safe trust until his death, Increasing as he uses it. Or a passage from "Music," invoking the memory of childhood: O happy days of childhood, when We taught shy Echo in the glen Words she had never used before-- Ere Age lost heart to summon her. Life's river, with its early rush, Falls into a mysterious hush When nearing the eternal sea: Yet we would not forgetful be, In these deep, silent days so wise, Of shallows making mighty noise When we were young, when we were gay, And never thought Death lived--that day. But are these pleasant days to keep? Where shall I be when Summer comes? When, with a bee's mouth closed, she hums Sounds not to wake, but soft and deep, To make her pretty charges sleep? For Lord, how merry now am I! Tickling with straw the butterfly, Where she doth in her clean, white dress, Sit on a green leaf, motionless, To hear Bees hum away the hours. Or again, from "Leisure," in _Songs of Joy_: What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. And a "Greeting," from the volume called _Foliage_: Good morning, Life--and all Things glad and beautiful. My pockets nothing hold, But he that owns the gold, The Sun, is my great friend-- His spending has no end. Hail to the morning sky, Which bright clouds measure high; Hail to you birds whose throats Would number leaves by notes; Hail to you shady bowers, And you green fields of flowers. delightful effect. One could hardly call it by so big a name as It was a day of rest in heaven, which seemed A blue grass field thick dotted with white tents Which Life slept late in, though 'twere holiday. It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep. Or a fancy about the sound of rain from _Nature Poems_: I hear leaves drinking rain; I hear rich leaves on top Giving the poor beneath Drop after drop; 'Tis a sweet noise to hear Those green leaves drinking near. I thought my true love slept; Behind her chair I crept And pulled out a long pin; The golden flood came out, She shook it all about, With both our faces in. Ah! little wren I know Your mossy, small nest now A windy, cold place is: No eye can see my face, Howe'er it watch the place Where I half drown in bliss. There was a battle in her face, My Love would have the Lily win And I the Lily lose. I saw with joy that strife, first one, And then the other uppermost; Until the Rose roused all its blood, And then the Lily lost. When she's alone, the Lily rules, By her consent, without mistake: But when I come that red Rose leaps To battle for my sake. Mary and Maud have met at the door, Oh, now for a din; I told you so: They're laughing at once with sweet, round mouths, Laughing for what? does anyone know? Is it known to the bird in the cage, That shrieketh for joy his high top notes, After a silence so long and grave-- What started at once those two sweet throats? Is it known to the Wind that takes Advantage at once and comes right in? Is it known to the cock in the yard, That crows--the cause of that merry din? Is it known to the babe that he shouts? Is it known to the old, purring cat? Is it known to the dog, that he barks For joy--what Mary and Maud laugh at? Is it known to themselves? It is not, But beware of their great shining eyes; For Mary and Maud will soon, I swear, Find cause to make far merrier cries. Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ... Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard. Teasle and tansy, meadowsweet, Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit; Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells; Clover, burnet, and thyme.... violence to one or both of the poets compared; and even when used romance. Like a dream you dream in the night, Fairies and gnomes stole out In the leaf-green light. And her beauty far away Would fade, as her voice ran on, Till hazel and summer sun And all were gone:-- All fordone and forgot; And like clouds in the height of the sky, Our hearts stood still in the hush Of an age gone by. And out the dead came stumbling, From every rift and crack, Silent as moss, and plundered The gaping pack. They wish them, three times over, Away they skip full soon: Under the rising moon. They take their shapes and creep, Silent as churchyard lichen, While she squats asleep. Names may be writ; and mounds rise; Purporting, Here be bones: But empty is that churchyard Of all save stones. Haunt and call in the twilight, Where she slept, poor soul. ... only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- 'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,' he said. Can death haunt silence with a silver sound? Can death, that hushes all music to a close, Pluck one sweet wire scarce-audible that trembles, As if a little child, called Purity, Sang heedlessly on of his dear Imogen? Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the briar's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose. Very old are we men; Our dreams are tales By Eve's nightingales; We walk and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie. inexplicable charm as the romantic work of Coleridge. Now his day is done, And all his children Far away are gone. He sits beneath his jasmined porch, His stick between his knees, His eyes fixed vacant On his moss-grown trees. But as in pale high autumn skies The swallows float and play, His restless thoughts pass to and fro, But nowhere stay. Soft, on the morrow, they are gone; His garden then will be Denser and shadier and greener, Greener the moss-grown tree. I can't abear a Butcher, I can't abide his meat, The ugliest shop of all is his, The ugliest in the street; Bakers' are warm, cobblers' dark, Chemists' burn watery lights; But oh, the sawdust butcher's shop, That ugliest of sights! Wonder I very much do, Tom Noddy, If ever, when you are a-roam, An Ogre from space will stoop a lean face, And lug you home: Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy, Of thorn-stocks nine yards high, With your bent knees strung round his old iron gun And your head dan-dangling by: And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy, From a stone-cold pantry shelf, Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare, Till you are cooked yourself! But a wonderful gumption was under his skin, And a clear calm light in his eye, And once in a while: he'd smile:-- Seem to be smiling at me, he would, From his bush in the corner, of may,-- Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, Knobble-kneed, lonely and grey; And over the grass would seem to pass 'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, Something much better than words between me I sang of lovers, and she praised my song, The while the King looked on her with cold eyes, And 'twixt them on the throne sat mailed wrong. I sang of Launcelot and Guenevere, While in her face I saw old sorrows rise, And throned between them cowered naked Fear. I sang of Tristram and La Belle Isoud, And how they fled the anger of King Mark To live and love, deep sheltered in a wood. Then bending low, she spake sad voiced and sweet, The while grey terror crouched between them stark, Give me the lamps along the Old Kent Road; And I'm content to leave the stars to you. They're well enough; but hung a trifle high For walking with clean boots. Now a lamp or so.... How is it you came to leave it? But I was scared: the loneliness and all; The quietness, and the queer creepy noises; And something that I couldn't put a name to, A kind of feeling in my marrow-bones, As though the great black hills against the sky Had come alive about me in the night, And they were watching me; as though I stood Naked, in a big room, with blind men sitting, Unseen, all round me, in the quiet darkness, That was not dark to them. And all the stars Were eyeing me; and whisperings in the heather Were like cold water trickling down my spine: contemporary thought, quickened in him too. As one, at midnight, wakened by the call Of golden-plovers in their seaward flight, Who lies and listens, as the clear notes fall Through tingling silence of the frosty night-- Who lies and listens, till the last note fails, And then, in fancy, faring with the flock Far over slumbering hills and dreaming dales, Soon hears the surges break on reef and rock; And, hearkening, till all sense of self is drowned Within the mightier music of the deep, No more remembers the sweet piping sound That startled him from dull, undreaming sleep: So I, first waking from oblivion, heard, With heart that kindled to the call of song, The voice of young life, fluting like a bird, And echoed that light lilting; till, ere long, Lured onward by that happy, singing-flight, I caught the stormy summons of the sea, And dared the restless deeps that, day and night, Surge with the life-song of humanity. With folded arms, against his staff he stands, Sun-soaking, rapt, within the August blaze The while his sheep with moving rustle graze The lean, parched undergrowth of stubble lands. Indifferent 'neath the low blue-laden sky He gazes fearless in the eyes of noon; And earth, because he craves of her no boon, Yields him deep-breasted, sun-steeped destiny. Spring comes no more for me: though young March blow To flame the larches, and from tree to tree The green fire leap, till all the woodland, glow-- Though every runnel, filled to overflow, Bear sea-ward, loud and brown with melted snow, Spring comes no more for me! Spring comes no more for me: though May will shake White flame of hawthorn over all the lea, Till every thick-set hedge and tangled brake Puts on fresh flower of beauty for her sake; Though all the world from winter-sleep awake, Spring comes no more for me! We are no lovers, pale with dreams, Who languish by Lethean streams. Upon our bodies warm day gleams; And love that tingles warm and red From sole of foot to crown of head Is lord of all pale lovers dead! With her alone is immortality; For still men reverently Adore within her shrine: The sole immortal time has not cast down, She wields a power yet more divine Than when of old she rose from out the sea Of night, with starry crown. Though all things perish, Beauty never dies. Yet, are we friends: the gods have granted this. Withholding wine, they brimmed for us the cup With cool, sweet waters, ever welling up, That we might drink, and, drinking, dream of bliss. O gods, in your cold mercy, merciless, Heed lest time raze your thrones; and at the sign, The cool, sweet-welling waters turn to wine; The spark to day, and dearth to bounteousness. Helen has fallen: she for whom Troy fell Has fallen, even as the fallen towers. O wanderers in dim fields of asphodel, Who spilt for her the wine of earthly hours, With you for evermore By Lethe's darkling shore Your souls' desire shall dwell. But we who sojourn yet in earthly ways; How shall we sing, now Helen lieth dead? Break every lyre and burn the withered bays, For song's sweet solace is with Helen fled. Let sorrow's silence be The only threnody O'er beauty's fallen head. I want naught with their money. I want my husband, And my children's father. Let them pitch all their money in the furnace I wouldn't touch a penny; 'Twould burn my fingers. For him! Viewed steadily thus, by a poetic genius which has subdued the Fine morning, mate and mistress! Might you be looking for a job, my lad? Well ... there's a heap of stones to break, down yonder. I was just on my way ... But I am old; And, maybe, a bit idle; And you look young, And not afraid of work, Or I'm an ill judge of a workman's hands. And when the job's done, lad, There'll be a shilling. Nay, but there's naught to thank me for. And I've no wife and children, And so, don't need the shilling. Well, the heap's down yonder-- There, at the turning. Ah, the bonnie babe! We had no children, mistress. And what can any old man do with shillings, With no one but himself to spend them on-- An idle, good-for-nothing, lone old man? The curious structure of the verse is apparent at a glance--the Nay! There's naught to screen. 'Twas I that ... Nay! And, if he's hot, at times, You know he's much to try him; The racket that he works in, all day long, Would wear the best of tempers. Why, mother, who should know as well as you How soon a riveter is done? The hammers break a man, before his time; And father was a shattered man at forty; And Philip's thirty-five; And if he's failed a bit ... And, sometimes, over-hasty, Well, I am hasty, too; You know my temper; no one knows it better. Next night, as I went in, I caught A strange, fresh smell. The postman had just brought A precious box from Cornwall, and the shop Was lit with primroses, that lay atop A Cornish pasty, and a pot of cream: And as, with gentle hands, the father lifted The flowers his little son had plucked for him, He stood a moment in a far-off dream, As though in glad remembrances he drifted On Western seas: and, as his eyes grew dim, He stooped, and buried them in deep, sweet bloom: Till, hearing, once again, the poor child's cough, He served her hurriedly, and sent her off, Quite happily, with thin hands filled with flowers. And, as I followed to the street, the gloom Was starred with primroses; and many hours The strange, shy flickering surprise Of that child's keen, enchanted eyes Lit up my heart, and brightened my dull room. satisfying. I saw with open eyes Singing birds sweet Sold in the shops For the people to eat, Sold in the shops of I saw in vision The worm in the wheat, And in the shops nothing For people to eat; Nothing for sale in He came and took me by the hand Up to a red rose tree, He kept His meaning to Himself But gave a rose to me. I did not pray Him to lay bare The mystery to me, Enough the rose was Heaven to smell, And His own face to see. Here we touch the main feature of this poet's gift--his power to Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein-- Only a moment, And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Picking a dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, or presents her, when the serpent is softly calling her name, as Wondering, listening, Listening, wondering, Eve with a berry Half-way to her lips. Now to get even and Humble proud heaven and Now was the moment or Never at all. How the birds rated him, How they all hated him! How they all pitied Poor motherless Eve! Cranes and gaudy parrots go Up and down the burning sky; Tree-top cats purr drowsily In the dim-day green below; And troops of monkeys, nutting, some, All disputing, go and come; And a dotted serpent curled Round and round and round a tree, Yellowing its greenery, Keeps a watch on all the world, All the world and this old bull In the forest beautiful. I climbed a hill as light fell short, And rooks came home in scramble sort, And filled the trees and flapped and fought And sang themselves to sleep; I heard no more of bird or bell, The mastiff in a slumber fell, I stared into the sky, As wondering men have always done Since beauty and the stars were one, Though none so hard as I. It seemed, so still the valleys were, As if the whole world knelt at prayer, Save me and me alone; I heard the universal choir, The Sons of Light exalt their Sire With universal song, Earth's lowliest and loudest notes, Her million times ten million throats Exalt Him loud and long, The everlasting pipe and flute Of wind and sea and bird and brute, And lips deaf men imagine mute In wood and stone and clay, The music of a lion strong That shakes a hill a whole night long, A hill as loud as he, The twitter of a mouse among Melodious greenery, The ruby's and the rainbow's song, The nightingale's--all three, The song of life that wells and flows From every leopard, lark and rose And everything that gleams or goes Lack-lustre in the sea. I heard the hymn of being sound From every well of honour found In human sense and soul: The song of poets when they write The testament of Beautysprite Upon a flying scroll, The song of painters when they take A burning brush for Beauty's sake And limn her features whole-- The song of beggars when they throw The crust of pity all men owe To hungry sparrows in the snow, Old beggars hungry too-- The song of kings of kingdoms when They rise above their fortune men, And crown themselves anew,-- impatient at recurrent signs of a romantic temperament. With slanting eyes you would say were blind-- In a dead white face. She should have been dead nine thousand year.... consciousness, fades even out of hearing-- ... I lost them At the word "Sandusky." A landscape crossed them; A scene no more nor less than a vision, All clear and grey in the rue de la Paix. And suddenly we saw a beach-- A grey old beach and some old grey mounds That seemed to silence the steamer's sounds; So still and old and grey and ragged. For there they lay, the tumuli, barrows, The Indian graves.... And good to better you say we go._" (There's an owl overhead.) "_You say that's so?_" My American friend of the rue de la Paix? "_Grow better and better from day to day._" Well, well I had a friend that's not a friend to-day; Well, well, I had a love who's resting in the clay Of a suburban cemetery. And so beside the woodland in the sheen And shimmer of the dewlight, crescent moon And dew wet leaves I heard the cry "Your lips! Your lips! Your lips." It shook me where I sat, It shook me like a trembling, fearful reed, The call of the dead. A multitudinous And shadowy host glimmered and gleamed, Face to face, eye to eye, heads thrown back, and lips Drinking, drinking from lips, drinking from bosoms The coldness of the dew--and all a gleam Translucent, moonstruck as of moving glasses, Gleams on dead hair, gleams on the white dead shoulders Upon the backgrounds of black purple woods.... She sits upon a tombstone in the shade; Being life amid piled up remembrances Of the tranquil dead. ... So she sits and waits. And she rejoices us who pass her by, And she rejoices those who here lie still, And she makes glad the little wandering airs, And doth make glad the shaken beams of light That fall upon her forehead: all the world Moves round her, sitting on forgotten tombs And lighting in to-morrow. "Have still the best to come." But you Bowed down your brooding, silent head, Patient and sad and still.... What would I give to climb our down, Where the wind hisses in each stalk And, from the high brown crest to see, Beyond the ancient, sea-grey town, The sky-line of our foam-flecked sea; And, looking out to sea, to hear, Ah! Dear, once more your pleasant talk; And to go home as twilight falls Along the old sea-walls! The best to come! The best! The best! One says the wildest things at times, Merely for comfort. But--_The best!_ Small brother, flit in here, since all around The frost hath gripped the ground; And oh! I would not like to have you die. We's help each other, Little Brother Beady-eye. Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. Doubtless we owe this air of newness largely to the rebirth of supposed that the rival _ollamh_ would remain silent under the Now Edward Carson MacIntyre Was old, his eyes were dim, But when he heard the crackling sound, New life returned to him. "Some tax-collector's skull," he swore, "We used to crack them by the score." "Why did you crack them, grandpapa?" "It surely was a wicked thing These hapless men to slay." "The cause I have forgot," said Mac, "All I remember is the crack." "And some men said the Government Were very much to blame; And I myself," says MacIntyre, "Got my own share of fame. I don't know why we fought," says he, "But 'twas the devil of a spree." especially in "Hail and Farewell": the delightful garrulity, the I haven't tried potato cake or Irish stew as yet; I've lived on eggs and bacon, and striven to forget A naughty past of ortolan and frothy omelette. But W. B. was the boy for me--he of the dim, wan clothes; And--don't let on I said it--not above a bit of pose; And they call his writing literature, as everybody knows. If you like a stir, or want a stage, or would admired be, Prepare with care a naughty past, and then repent like me. My past, alas! was blameless, but this the world won't see. I can't love Plato any more Because a man called Sophocles, Who lived in distant Attica, Wrote a great drama _Oedipus_, About a Greek who killed his da. I know now Plato was a sham, And Socrates I brush aside, For Phidias I don't care a damn, For every Greek's a parricide. Lord of our proud Ascendancy, Soon there'll be none of us extant, We want a few plain words with thee. Thou know'st our hearts are always set On what we get, on what we get. We are a pleasant people, the laugh upon our lip Gives answer back to your laugh in gay good fellowship; We dance unto your piping, we weep when you want tears; Wear a clown's dress to please you, and to your friendly jeers Turn up a broad fool's face and wave a flag of green-- But the naked heart of Ireland, who, who has ever seen? The treasury of Irish romance has been eagerly drawn upon by the magnificently paying the penalty of death. But, as upon the breathless hour of eve, The gentle moon, smiling amid the wreck And splendid remnant of the flaming feast Wherewith Day's lord had sated half the world, Sets a cool hand on the tumultuous waves, And soothes them into peace, and takes the throne, And beams white love that wakens soft desire In waiting hearts; so in that throbbing pause Came Niav, daughter of the King whose name May not be named till First and Last are one. ... And He who stood Unseen, apart, marked how about Her form, Clothed white as foam, Her sea-green girdle hung Like mermaid weed, and how within her wake There came the sound and odour of the sea, The swift and silent stroke of unseen wings, And little happy cries of mating birds; --the King whose name May not be named till First and Last are one. Thus, too, we find the frequent use of simile of an involved and He ceased, and all the faces of the crowd Shone with the light that kindles when the boon Of speech has eased the heart; as when a cloud Falls from the labouring shoulder of the moon, And all the world stands smiling silver-browed. "She shall be found in some most quiet place Where Beauty sits all day beside her knee And looks with happy envy on her face; Where Virtue blushes, her own guilt to see, And Grace learns new, sweet meanings from her grace; Where all that ever was or will be wise Pales at the burning wisdom of her eyes." There by the sea, Etain his destined bride Sat unabashed, unwitting of the sight Of him who gazed upon her gleaming side, Fair as the snowfall of a single night; Her arms like foam upon the flowing tide; Her curd-white limbs in all their beauty bare, Straight as the rule of Dagda's carpenter. Somewhere the snipe now taps his tiny drum; The moth goes fluttering upward from the heath; And where no lightest foot unmarked may come, The rabbit, tiptoe, plies his shiny teeth On luscious herbage; and with strident hum The yellow bees, blustering from flower to flower, Scatter from dew-filled cups a sparkling shower. The meadowsweet shakes out its feathery mass; And rumorous winds, that stir the silent eaves, Bearing abroad faint perfumes as they pass, Thrill with some wondrous tale the fluttering leaves, And whisper secretly along the grass Where gossamers, for day's triumphal march, Hang out from blade to blade their diamond arch. extravagance that lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart." And to And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed; And my soul is blown about by the wild winds of her will, For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill. As I came down the valley after dark, The little golden dagger at my breast Flashed into fire lit by a sudden spark; I saw the lights flame on the haunted hill, My soul was blown about by a strange wind. Though the green fir trees rose up stark and still Against the sky, yet in my haunted mind They bent and swayed before a magic storm: A wave of darkness thundered through the sky, And drowned the world.... I bring you all my dreams, O golden Maeve, There are no dreams in all the world like these The dreams of Spring, the golden fronds that wave In faery land beneath dark forest-trees,-- I bring you all my dreams. I bring you all my dreams, Fionavar, From that dim land where every dream is sweet, I have brought you a little shining star, I strew my primroses beneath your feet, I bring you all my dreams. "Brian, my brother," said the King, in a tone of scornful wonder, Tell us the count of thy prey of deer, and what cattleherds thou hast harried." "I have hunted no deer since yester year, I have harried no neighbour's cattle, And I come from the desert-lands alone, since none are alive to follow. Some were slain on the plundered plain, and some in the midnight marching; And some by hunger and some by thirst, and all are dead; but they Their tenfold more of their foemen." "I want no cattle from out your herds, no share of your shining treasure; "A hundred more of the clan Dal Cas, to follow me over plain and pass: To die, as fitteth the brave Dal Cas, at war with the Outland starling: I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum; For spring at last has come, And on my parapet Of chestnut, gummy-wet, Where bees begin to hum, I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum. "Spring goes," you say, "suns set." So be it! Why be glum? Enough, the spring has come; And without fear or fret I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum. High on my hedge of bush and tree A blackbird sings his song to me, And far above my lined book I hear the voice of wren and rook. From the bush-top, in garb of grey, The cuckoo calls the hours of day. Right well do I--God send me good!-- Set down my thoughts within the wood. Oh, what to us your little slights and scorns, You who dethrone us with a careless breath. God made us awful queens of birth and death, And set upon our brows His crown of thorns. The princess in her world-old tower pined A prisoner, brazen-caged, without a gleam Of sunlight, or a windowful of wind; She lived but in a long lamp-lighted dream. They brought her forth at last when she was old; The sunlight on her blanched hair was shed Too late to turn its silver into gold. "Ah, shield me from this brazen glare!" she said. Who sets her shoulder to the Cross of Christ, Lo! she shall wear sharp scorn upon her brow; And she whose hand is put to Freedom's plough May not with sleek Expediency make tryst: O fateful heralds, charged with Time's decree, Whose feet with doom have compassed Error's wall; Whose lips have blown the trump of Destiny Till ancient thrones are shaking toward their fall; Shout! for the Lord hath given to you the free New age that comes with great new hope to all. moreover, it is incomplete. No room is found for the wanderers in conventional terminology, begins to create a new kind of poetry. I am the mountainy singer-- The voice of the peasant's dream, The cry of the wind on the wooded hill, The leap of the fish in the stream. Quiet and love I sing-- The carn on the mountain crest, The cailin in her lover's arms, The child at its mother's breast. Sorrow and death I sing-- The canker come on the corn, The fisher lost in the mountain loch, The cry at the mouth of morn. No other life I sing, For I am sprung of the stock That broke the hilly land for bread, And built the nest in the rock! I will go with my father a-ploughing To the green field by the sea, And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls Will come flocking after me. I will sing to the patient horses With the lark in the white of the air, And my father will sing the plough-song That blesses the cleaving share. My little dark love is a wineberry, As swarth and as sweet, I hold; But as the dew on the wineberry Her heart is a-cold. As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an aged face. As the spent radiance Of the winter sun, So is a woman When her travail done. Her brood gone from her, And her thoughts as still As the waters Under a ruined mill. I met a walking-man; His head was old and grey. I gave him what I had To crutch him on his way. The man was Mary's Son, I'll swear; A glory trembled in his hair! And since that blessed day I've never known the pinch: I plough a broad townland, And dig a river-inch; And on my hearth the fire is bright For all that walk by day or night. O, men from the fields! Come softly within. Tread softly, softly, O! men coming in. Mavourneen is going From me and from you, Whose mantle is blue! From reek of the smoke And cold of the floor, And the peering of things Across the half-door. O, men from the fields! Soft, softly come thro'. Mary puts round him Her mantle of blue. Once I loved a maiden fair, _Over the hills and far away_. Lands she had and lovers to spare, _Over the hills and far away_. And I was stooped and troubled sore, And my face was pale, and the coat I wore Was thin as my supper the night before. _Over the hills and far away_. To-morrow, Mavourneen a sleeveen weds, _Over the hills and far away_; With corn in haggard and cattle in shed, _Over the hills and far away_. And I who have lost her--the dear, the rare, Well, I got me this ballad to sing at the fair, 'Twill bring enough money to drown my care, _Over the hills and far away_. blissful quietude which are familiar in Irish poetry. Now Day's worn out, and Dusk has claimed a share Of earth and sky and all the things that be, I lay my tired head against your knee, And feel your fingers smooth my tangled hair. I loved you once, when I had heart to dare, And sought you over many a land and sea; Yet all the while you waited here for me In a sweet stillness shut away from care. I have no longing now, no dreams of bliss. But drowsed in peace through the soft gloom I wait Until the stars be kindled by God's breath; For then you'll bend above me with the kiss Earth's children long for when the hour grows late, The sky is silver-pale with just one star, One lonely wanderer from the shining host Of Night's companions. Through the drowsy woods The shadows creep and touch with quietness The curling fern-heads and the ancient trees. The sea is all a-glimmer with faint lights That change and move as if the unseen prow Of Niamh's galley cleft its waveless floor, And Niamh stood there with the magic token, The apple-branch with silver singing leaves. The wind has stolen away as though it feared To stir the fringes of her faery mantle Dream-woven in the Land of Heart's Desire, And all the world is hushed as though she called Ossian again, and no one answered her. To Ara of Connacht's isles, As I went sailing o'er the sea, The wind's word, the brook's word, The wave's word, was plain to me---- "_As we are, though she is not As we are, shall Banba be---- There is no King can rule the wind There is no fetter for the sea._" Fallen in Erin are all those leafy forests; The oaks lie buried under bogland mould; Only in legends dim are they remembered, Only in ancient books their fame is told. But seers, who dream of times to come, have promised Forests shall rise again where perished these; And of this desolate land it shall be spoken, "In Tir-Conal of the territories there are trees." Sunset and silence! A man: around him earth savage, earth broken; Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn-man there in the Dear, they are praising your beauty, The grass and the sky: The sky in a silence of wonder, The grass in a sigh. I too would sing for your praising, Speech as the whispering grass, Or the silent sky. These have an art for the praising Beauty so high. Sweet, you are praised in a silence, Sung in a sigh. Bundle the gods away: Richer than Danaan gold, The whisper of leaves in the rain, The secrets the wet hills hold. A Piper in the streets to-day Set up, and tuned, and started to play, And away, away, away on the tide Of his music we started; on every side Doors and windows were opened wide, And men left down their work and came, And women with petticoats coloured like flame And little bare feet that were blue with cold, Went dancing back to the age of gold, And all the world went gay, went gay, For half an hour in the street to-day. Draw nigh, O foolish worshippers who mock With pious woe of sainted imagery The kingly-human presence of your God. Draw near, and with new reverence gaze on her. See you, these hands have toiled, these feet have trod In all a woman's business; bend the knee. For this of very certainty is she Ordained of heavenly hierarchies to rock The cradle of the infant carpenter. ... From a sleep I emerge. I am clothed again with this woven vesture of laws; But I am not, and never again shall be the man that I was. At the zenith of life I am born again, I begin. Know ye, I am awake, outside and within. I have heard, I have seen, I have known; I feel the bite of this shackle of place and name, And nothing can be the same. I have sent three shouts of freedom along the wind. I am awake. I shall never sleep again. One is compelled, however, though one may a little regret the ... muffled speech Of a world of folk. Only through a crack in the door's blind face He would reach a thieving hand, To draw some clue to his own strange place From the other land. But his closed hand came back emptily, As a dream drops from him who wakes; And naught might he know but how a muffled sea In whispers breaks. On either side of a gray barrier The two blind countries lie; But he knew not which held him prisoner, Nor yet know I. The pleasant ditch is a milky way, So alight with stars it is, And over it breaks, like pale sea-spray, The laughing cataract of the may In luminous harmonies. (Cloak with a flower-wrought veil The face of the dream-country. The fields of the moon are kind, are pale, And quiet is she.) I will weave, of the clear clean shapes of things, A curtain to shelter me; I will paint it with kingcups and sunrisings, And glints of blue for the swallow's wings, And green for the apple-tree. (Oh, a whisper has pierced the veil Out of the dream-country, As a wind moans in the straining sail Of a ship lost at sea.) assurance of it in the clarity and precision of her thought. But The jolly donkeys that love me well Nuzzle with thistly lips; The harebell is song made visible, The dandelion's lamp a miracle, When the day's lamp dips and dips. supernatural a mere shadow. In "Cards" the scene is a 'dim But, like swords clashing, my love on their hate Struck sharp, and drove, and pushed.... Grimly round you Fought we that fight, they pressing passionate Into the lit circle which called and drew Shadows and moths of night.... I held the gate. You said, "Our game," more truly than you knew. I laughed at her over the sticky larch fence, And said, "Who's down-hearted, Dolly?" And Dolly sobbed at me, "They saw you, too!" (And so the liars said they had, Though I've not wasted paper nor rhymes telling you), "But since you and me must die within the year, What if we went together To make cowslip balls in the fields, and hear The blackbirds whistling to the weather?" So in the water-fields till blue mists rose We loitered, Dolly and I, And pulled wet kingcups where the cold brook goes, And when we've done living, we'll die. In the long grass and tall nettles I lay abed, With hawthorn and bryony Tangled o'erhead. And I was alone with Hobson, Two centuries dead. Hidden by sprawling brambles The Nine Waters were; From a chalky bed they bubbled up, Clean, green, and fair. And I was alone with Hobson, Whose ghost walks there. And something yawned, and from the grass A head upreared; And I was not alone with Hobson, For at me leered A great, gaunt, greasy tramp With a golden beard. He had a beard like a dandelion, And I had none; He had tea in a beer-bottle, Warm with the sun; He had pie in a paper bag, Not yet begun. He stood at the world's secret heart In the haze-wrapt mystery; And fat pears, mellow on the lip, He supped like a honey-bee; But the apples he crunched with sharp white teeth Were pungent, like the sea. Probably it is in work like this, where both blind countries find Cambridge town is a beleaguered city; For south and north, like a sea, There beat on its gates, without haste or pity, The downs and the fen country. Cambridge towers, so old, so wise, They were builded but yesterday, Watched by sleepy gray secret eyes That smiled as at children's play. And the fens were not. (For fens are dreams Dreamt by a race long dead; And the earth is naught, and the sun but seems: And so those who know have said.) So veil beyond veil illimitably lifted: And I saw the world's naked face, Before, reeling and baffled and blind, I drifted Back within the bounds of space. Now I know that there are cultured persons to whom this fact of complaint; an impertinent grumble that Mr Masefield happens to be So hey for the road, the west road, by mill and forge and fold, Scent of the fern and song of the lark by brook, and field, and wold; Or again, in "Tewkesbury Road," And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds. sailor-men and strange harbourages, its breath of romance sharply And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, buoyant-- Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song, Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong. Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man. Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind, For we go seeking a city that we shall never find. There is no solace on earth for us--for such as we-- Who search for a hidden city that we shall never see. perception of the meaning of life. The Dauber, with that precious The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies, Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries, The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout, The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout, There the poet is responding consciously to the time-spirit: the But, putting aside the prejudice which has been fostered by a conventional poetic language, this realistic method does seem to conflict with certain other characteristics of the work--with the I opened window wide and leaned Out of that pigstye of the fiend And felt a cool wind go like grace About the sleeping market-place. The clock struck three, and sweetly, slowly, The bells chimed Holy, Holy, Holy; And summat made me think of things. How long those ticking clocks had gone From church and chapel, on and on, Ticking the time out, ticking slow To men and girls who'd come and go, And how a change had come. And then I thought, "You tick to different men." What with the fight and what with drinking And being awake alone there thinking, My mind began to carp and tetter, "If this life's all, the beasts are better." The men who don't know to the root The joy of being swift of foot, Have never known divine and fresh The glory of the gift of flesh, Nor felt the feet exult, nor gone Along a dim road, on and on, Knowing again the bursting glows, The mating hare in April knows, Who tingles to the pads with mirth At being the swiftest thing on earth. O, if you want to know delight, Run naked in an autumn night, And laugh, as I laughed then.... The sensuous ecstasy of that is as strongly contrasted with the Chaucer. At first, reflection made the transition seem abrupt to Xristus, thy sone, that in this world alighte, Up-on the cros to suffre his passioun, And eek, that Longius his herte pighte, And made his herte blood to renne adoun; And al was this for my salvacioun; And I to him am fals and eek unkinde, And yit he wol not my dampnacioun-- This thanke I you, socour of al mankinde. O Christ who holds the open gate, O Christ who drives the furrow straight, O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter Of holy white birds flying after, Lo, all my heart's field red and torn, And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, The young green corn divinely springing, The young green corn for ever singing; And when the field is fresh and fair Thy blessed feet shall glitter there. And we will walk the weeded field, And tell the golden harvest's yield, The corn that makes the holy bread By which the soul of man is fed, The holy bread, the food unpriced, Thy everlasting mercy, Christ. The root of the matter lies in a stanza of "Dauber." The young ... a thought occurred Within the painter's brain like a bright bird: That this, and so much like it, of man's toil, Compassed by naked manhood in strange places, Was all heroic, but outside the coil Within which modern art gleams or grimaces; That if he drew that line of sailors' faces Sweating the sail, their passionate play and change, It would be new, and wonderful, and strange. That that was what his work meant; it would be A training in new vision.... One might almost accept that as Mr Masefield's own confession of He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow. ... all was an icy blast. Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice, Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage, An utter bridle given to utter vice, Limitless power mad with endless rage Withering the soul; "This is the end," he muttered, "come at last! I've got to go aloft, facing this cold. I can't. I can't. I'll never keep my hold. ... I'm a failure. All My life has been a failure. They were right. I'll never paint. Best let it end to-night. I'll slip over the side. I've tried and failed." He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line, And then came peace, and gentle beauty came, Turning his spirit's water into wine, Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame: And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind, And staggered out to muster, beating back The coward frozen self of him that whined. She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong, Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song. Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood. To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing. She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong, Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song. To what God Shall we chant Our songs of Battle? Hefty barbarians, Roaring for war, Are breaking upon us; Clouds of their cavalry, Waves of their infantry, Mountains of guns. Winged they are coming, Plated and mailed, Snorting their jargon. Oh to whom shall a song of battle be chanted? Not to our lord of the hosts on his ancient throne, Drowsing the ages out in Heaven alone. The celestial choirs are mute, the angels have fled: Word is gone forth abroad that our lord is dead. To what God Shall we chant Our songs of Battle? analogous to the technical connexion that we have already noted. ... God is a spirit, not a creed; He is an inner outward-moving power: He is that one Desire, that life, that breath, That Soul which, with infinity of pain, Passes through revelation and through death Onward and upward to itself again. Out of the lives of heroes and their deeds, Out of the miracle of human thought, Out of the songs of singers, God proceeds; And of the soul of them his Soul is wrought. replies-- God? God! There is no GOD. Oh, I, with light and airy change, Across the azure sky shall range, When I am dead. I shall be one Of all the misty, fresh and healing powers. Dew I shall be, and fragrance of the morn, And quietly shall lie dreaming all the noon, Or oft shall sparkle underneath the moon, A million times shall die and be reborn, Because the sun again and yet again Shall snatch me softly from the earth away: I shall be rain; I shall be spray; At night shall oft among the misty shades Pass dreamily across the open lea; And I shall live in the loud cascades, Pouring their waters into the sea. ... Nought can die: All belongs to the living Soul, Makes, and partakes, and is the whole, All--and therefore, I. So much then for the poet's cosmic theory, presented more or less Light, light your fires, That they may purify your own desires! They will not injure me. This fire of mine Was kindled from the torch that will outshine Proud, you disclaim That fair desire from which all came; Unworthy of your lofty human birth, Despise the earth. O crowd funereal, Lifting your anxious brows because of sin, There is no Heaven such as you would win, Nor any other Paradise at all, Save in fulfilling some superb desire With all the spirit's fire. Suddenly came Running along to him naked, with curly hair, That rogue of the lovely world, That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare. The holy boy Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know. Impudent Cupid stood Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow. (Will you not play? Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy. Is he not holy, like you? Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?) Marvellous dream! Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try; He has offered his bow for the game. But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why. immediately preceding. When I returned at sunset, The serving-maid was singing softly Under the dark stairs, and in the house Twilight had entered like a moonray. Time was so dead I could not understand The meaning of midday or of midnight, But like falling waters, falling, hissing, falling, Silence seemed an everlasting sound. I want nothing but your fireside now. Your book has dropped unnoticed: you have read So long you cannot send your brain to bed. The low quiet room and all its things are caught And linger in the meshes of your thought. (Some people think they know time cannot pause.) Your eyes are closing now though not because Of sleep. You are searching something with your brain; You have let the old dog's paw drop down again ... Now suddenly you hum a little catch, And pick up the book. The wind rattles the latch; There's a patter of light cool rain and the curtain shakes; The silly dog growls, moves, and almost wakes. The kettle near the fire one moment hums. Then a long peace upon the whole room comes. So the sweet evening will draw to its bedtime end. I want nothing now but your fireside, friend. Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. Give them me. Give them me. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them. Goblin, why do you love them so? They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring. Hush I stole them out of the moon. Give me your beads, I desire them. I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them. It is plain now what you are. Your head has dropped Into a furrow. And the lovely curve Of your strong leg has wasted and is propped Against a ridge of the ploughed land's watery swerve. You are fuel for a coming spring if they leave you here; The crop that will rise from your bones is healthy bread. You died--we know you--without a word of fear, And as they loved you living I love you dead. No girl would kiss you. But then No girls would ever kiss the earth In the manner they hug the lips of men: You are not known to them in this, your second birth. Hush, I hear the guns. Are you still asleep? Surely I saw you a little heave to reply. I can hardly think you will not turn over and creep Along the furrows trenchward as if to die. Both of these poets are lyrists born; both come of an old and contemplative, remaining oriental therefore to that degree; and permitting a doubt of the _Quarterly_ reviewer's dictum that "Gitanjali" is a synthesis of western and oriental elements. The What care I for the world's loud weariness, Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless With delicate sheaves of mellow silences? We hear of birth and childhood in Hyderabad; of early scientific For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice, But mine own soul thou'st ta'en for sacrifice. Tarry a while, till I am satisfied Of love and grief, of earth and altering sky; Till all my human hungers are fulfilled, O Death, I cannot die! Nought shall conquer or control The heavenward hunger of our soul. Alike in his ear sound the temple bells and the cry of the Shatter her shining bracelets, break the string Threading the mystic marriage-beads that cling Loth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet, Unbind the golden anklets on her feet, Divest her of her azure veils and cloud Her living beauty in a living shroud. There is all the hemisphere between these lyrics and those of The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings, And happy and simple and sorrowful things. Sweet, shut your eyes, The wild fire-flies Dance through the fairy _neem_; From the poppy-bole, For you I stole A little, lovely dream. Or golden lamps for a fairy shrine, Or golden pitchers for fairy wine. Perchance you are, O frail and sweet! Bright anklet-bells from the wild spring's feet, Or the gleaming tears that some fair bride shed Remembering her lost maidenhead. employed and the subject of the poem-- And exquisite, subtle and slow are the tinkle and tread of their rhythmical, slumber-soft feet. Shelter my soul, O my love! My soul is bent low with the pain And the burden of love, like the grace Of a flower that is smitten with rain: O shelter my soul from thy face! When twinkling twilight o'er the gay bazaars, Unfurls a sudden canopy of stars, When lutes are strung and fragrant torches lit On white roof-terraces where lovers sit Drinking together of life's poignant sweet, _Buy flowers, buy flowers_, floats down the singing street. Weavers, weaving at break of day, Why do you weave a garment so gay?... Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child. Weavers, weaving solemn and still, Why do you weave in the moonlight chill?... White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud. Hearken to your dead heroes, Italy; Hearken to those who made your history A bright and splendid thing ... ... What Mazzini said Have you so soon forgotten? You, who bled With Garibaldi, and the thousand more? He spoke, and your young men to battle bore His gospel with them, of men's brotherhood, Of Justice, that before the tyrant, stood Accusing, and of truth and charity. His dust to-day lies with you, Italy; Where lie his words? That sword is in your hand To seize unrighteously another's land-- Your fleet in foreign waters. By what right Dare you act so, save arrogance of might, Such cruel force as ground the Austrian heel Upon your Lombard cities, ringed with steel Unhappy Naples and despairing Rome, That exiled Garibaldi from his home, That served itself with sycophants and knaves, That filled the prisons and the nameless graves, Till, like a sunrise o'er a stormy sea, Flashed out the spirit of free Italy? ... so near eternity The evil dwindles, good alone remains, And good triumphant--God is merciful. There will be other days as fair as these Which I shall never see; for other eyes The lyric loveliness of cherry trees Shall bloom milk-white against the windy skies And I not praise them; where upon the stream The faery tracery of willows lies I shall not see the sunlight's flying gleam, Nor watch the swallows sudden dip and rise. Most mutable the forms of beauty are, Yet Beauty most eternal and unchanged, Perfect for us, and for posterity Still perfect; yearly is the pageant ranged. And dare we wish that our poor dust should mar The wonder of such immortality? The wistfulness of that wins by its grace where a more strenuous There are fair flowers that never came to fruit; Cut by sharp winds, or eaten by late frost, Barrenly in forgetfulness, they're lost To little-heedful Nature; so, in suit, Beneath the footsteps of calamity Young lives and lovely innocently come To total up old evil's deadly sum-- Do the gods pity dead Antigone? We look too close, we look too close on earth At good and evil; blind are Nature's laws That kill, or make alive, and so are done. Not in the circle of this death and birth May we perceive a justifying cause, Beyond, perhaps, for God and good are one. To-night I hear the soft Spring rain that falls Across the gardens, in the falling dusk, The Spring dusk, very slow; And that clear, single-noted bird that calls Insistently, from somewhere in the gloom Of one tall pear-tree. On, on, on, they go, Those single, sweet, reiterated sounds, Having no passion, similarly free Of laughter, and of memory, and of tears, Poignantly sweet, across the falling rain, They fall upon my ears. Do you dare face the wind now? Such a wind, Bending the hardy cliff-grass all one way, Hurling the breakers in huge battle-play On these old rocks, whose age leaves Time behind, --The whorls and rockets of the fiery mass Ere earth was earth--shoots over them the spray In furious beauty, then is twisted, wreathed, Dispersed, flung inland, beaten in our face, Until we pant as if we hardly breathed The common air. See how the billows race Landward in white-maned squadrons that are shot With sparks of sunshine. Where they leap in sight First, on the clear horizon, they fleck white The blue profundity; then, as clouds shift, Are grey, and umber, and pale amethyst; Then, great green ramparts in the bay uplift, Perfect a moment, ere they break and fall In fierce white smother on the rocky wall. outraged pride in his eyes. Speech leapt from out the King, as leaps A sword-blade, dazzling in the sun From out its scabbard; as there leaps Fire from the mountain, ere it run Destruction-dealing, far and wide. "Rather as Satan damned, I say, Falling through pride, yet keeping pride, Than buy salvation at this price...." Through the door The King has hurled the dagger, holds His son against his breast, and pain Contorts him, like a smitten oak; Then sets the child upon the floor, And rises, and undoes the clasp Of his great mantle (like a stain Of blood it lies about his feet). Next from his head he takes the crown, Holds it arm's-length, and drops it down Suddenly, from his loosened grasp, And for the third time goes he forth, Bare-footed as a penitent, Humble, and excommunicate, To stand all day in falling snow Outside Canossa's guarded gate, Till Hildebrand shall mercy show. distinction. conception of the theme which stresses the element of spiritual Again, in _Joan of Arc_, one may see how the poet uses the human elements of a story to make the stirring scenes through which the incomparable beauty of her character is revealed. I do declare to you That I, no other,--neither duke, nor prince, Nor captain,--no, nor learned gentlemen, But I alone, a girl of Domremy,-- Am sent to save you. JOAN. Sire, it was in the spring; one afternoon When I was in a meadow all alone, Lying among the grasses (over head The scurrying clouds were like a flock of sheep, Chased by a sheep-dog); then, all suddenly, I heard a voice--nay, heard I cannot say, There _was_ a voice took hold upon my sense, As if it swallowed up all other sounds In all the world; the birds, the sheep, the bees, The sound of children calling far away, The rustling of the rushes in the stream, Were only like the cloth, whereon appears The gold embroidery, the voice of God. ARCHBISHOP. Did you see aught? JOAN. Yea, see! Our earthly words Cannot express divinity, but like Small vessels over-filled with generous wine, They leave the surplus wasted. If I say, I saw, or heard, that seems to leave untouched The other senses; but indeed, my lords, All of my body seemed transformed to soul. So I should say I _saw_ the voice of God, And _heard_ the light effulgent all around, Nay, heard, and saw, and felt through all of me The radiance of the message of the Lord. ... Here, beneath my hand, Are laid the hidden hearts of many men. What shall I read therein? Ingratitude, Lies, envy, spite, the barbed and venomous word Of those that called me Emperor, I called friend; ... Break the seal, and read Which of our subjects, of our intimates, Our friends of many years, are netted here. How thickly fall the shadows in the tent! Almost I fancied, with my tired eyes, I saw Faustina there ... Faustina, you! If I should find _Her_ name among the friends of Cassius? Ah no, Faustina, not such perfidy! The gods must blush at it! Am I grown grey And learnt no wisdom? Though it should be so-- Though yet it cannot be--what's that to me? Am _I_ wronged by it? Yet it cannot be, With that frank brow. I've loved you faithfully; It could not be so.... ... I will not know More than I must of unprofitable things, Lest they should, in the garden of my soul, Nourish rank weeds of hate and bitterness; I will not hate that which I cannot change. (_He drops the papers into a tripod._) Burn! Go into oblivion! The gods Permit themselves to pity good and bad, Giving to each the sunshine and sweet rain, And hiding all things in the mist of years. May I not do as gods do? Burn away, Consume all hate and evil into smoke! I will not know of them; assuredly For me such ills exist not---- (_The body of Faustina is brought in._) deferred, that it must ultimately come. Manin replies: I shall not see it. I shall be blind beneath my coffin lid There in a foreign land; I shall not see The glory and the splendour of St. Mark's When our Italian flag salutes the sun; I shall be deaf, and never hear the peal Of our triumphant bells, and volleying guns; And never say "My people, for this hour I saved you when I sacrificed you most." The second passage burns with the fire of triumph, tragical but Of this one thing be sure. A little time, A little hour, in the span of years That history devours, we submit To bow before the flail of tyranny; Ay, it may strike us down, and we may die With Europe passive round our Calvary; Yet that for which we stand, for liberty, For equal justice, and the right of laws Purely administered, can never die, Being of the nature of eternity; Nor all the blood that Austria has shed Mar the indelibility of truth; Nor all the graves that Austria has dug Bury it deep enough; nor all the lies That coward hearts have bandied to and fro, And coward hearts received to trick themselves, Smother the face of it. ... look you there On these good gentlemen, all friends of ours, The earls of Morton, Ruthven, and Argyll: For friends they are--upon their countenance We see it written. She turns to the English ambassador: ... Here's Sir Nicholas. What news of our dear cousin? Has she come At last to give that virgin heart away Into another's keeping, that brave Archduke, Who'd bite your hand, they say, as soon as kiss it-- Such manners are in Austria--or Charles, My dear French brother, who is well enough, And only fourteen years her junior? Not yet the happy moment? Patience, then, Another day you'll have that news for us. By my beard! MARY. No! No! Not by your beard, dear Henry, or your oath Is emptier than a prince's promises-- Some princes we have heard of, we would say, Though cannot think it truth. Nay, let me hear What is it that my sister Princess wills Out of the largeness of her heart for me? MARY. ... On my life, I'll not be pitied: pity is a chafe On open wounds of pride. To pity me Makes me a beggar--dare you pity me? BEATON. Sweet lady, I would not, but must perforce! MARY. Nay, would you have me weep? What thing am I That three soft words should drive the tear drops forth Like floods in winter? Nay, nay, good my girl, This is my body's weakness, not my soul's. MARY. Nay, swear not; nay, I know you what you are-- Hotter than flame in your desires; false-- Falser than water. BOTHWELL (_embracing her_). Be a salamander, To live for ever in the midst of fire. MARY. Oh, Bothwell! Oh, my love! I am bewitched To love you so. You are a deadly poison That's crept through all my veins; you are the North, And I the needle; I must turn to you From every quarter of the hemispheres. ... I am yours Utterly, wholly; when I walk abroad, Can see me naked, and, from head to foot, Branded in red-hot letters with your name. BOTHWELL. This is indeed love! MARY. You may call it so! It is not that which most men mean by love-- A moment's idle fancy. No, this love Is like a dragon, laying waste the land Of all my life; it is a deadly sickness, Of which we both shall die; it is a sin, Of which we both are damned, the saints of God Not finding mercy; there's no pleasure in it, But dust in the mouth and saltness in the eyes. MARY. I am yours, Bothwell. BOTHWELL. Will you go with me? MARY. Ay, to the world's end, in my petticoat. BOTHWELL. Let go her hands, my lord. MORTON. Ay, let them go, And let _her_ go, for naught can save her now. Not ours the fault. MARY. Not yours, nor his, nor mine. 'Tis not the fault of floods to drown, nor fire To burn and shrivel--no, nor beasts to bite, Nor frosts to kill the flowers--not the fault, Only the property. There's something here That's stronger than our wishes and our wills. There is no going back; our course is laid, And we must keep it, though it lead to death. Good-bye, my lords. My husband, let us go. unfortunate companions have vanished before so much exuberance. ... You are more sweetly new Than a May moon: you are my store, My secret and my treasure and the pulse Of my heart's core. You'll go--then listen, you are just a pig, A little wrinkled pig out of a sty; Your legs are crooked and your nose is big, You've got no calves, you have a silly eye, I don't know why I stopped to talk to you, I hope you'll die. Scraping old moons and twisting heels and head A chuckle in the void.... His beard swung on a wind far out of sight Behind the world's curve, and there was light Most fearful from His forehead ... He lifted up His hand-- I say He heaved a dreadful hand Over the spinning Earth, then I said "Stay, You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way; And I will never move from where I stand." He said "Dear child, I feared that you were dead," And stayed His hand. Gabriel without a frown, Uriel without a spear, Raphael came singing down Welcoming their ancient peer, And they seated him beside One who had been crucified. impertinent gaze fixed for the moment on the changing form of the So Eden was deserted, and at eve Into the quiet place God came to grieve. His face was sad, His hands hung slackly down Along his robe ... ... All the birds had gone Out to the world, and singing was not one To cheer the lonely God out of His grief-- Chaste and remote, so tiny and so shy, So new withal, so lost to any eye, So pac't of memories all innocent.... ... Many days I sped Hard to the west, a thousand years I fled Eastwards in fury, but I could not find The fringes of the Infinite.... --till at last Dizzied with distance, thrilling to a pain Unnameable, I turned to Heaven again. And there My angels were prepared to fling The cloudy incense, there prepared to sing My praise and glory--O, in fury I Then roared them senseless, then threw down the sky And stamped upon it, buffeted a star With My great fist, and flung the sun afar: Shouted My anger till the mighty sound Rung to the width, frighting the furthest bound And scope of hearing: tumult vaster still, Thronging the echo, dinned my ears, until I fled in silence, seeking out a place To hide Me from the very thought of Space. Let ye be still, ye tortured ones, nor strive Where striving's futile. Ye can ne'er attain To lay your burdens down. God help the horse and the driver too, And the people and beasts who have never a friend, For the driver easily might have been you, And the horse be me by a different end. O, I can tell and I can know What the wind rehearses: "A poet loved a lady so, Loved her well, and let her go While he wrote his verses." That's the tale the winds relate Soon as night is shady. If it's true, I'll simply state A poet is a fool to rate His art above his lady. The best to him who wants the best." Everything that I can spy Through the circle of my eye, Everything that I can see Has been woven out of me; I have sown the stars, and threw Clouds of morning and of eve Up into the vacant blue; Everything that I perceive, Sun and sea and mountain high, All are moulded by my eye: Closing it, what shall I find? --Darkness, and a little wind. inexplicable changes that marriage has wrought for her--on her I am separate still, I am I and not you: And my mind and my will, As in secret they grew, Still are secret, unreached and untouched and not subject to you. Thus, too, "The Rebel" finds an answer to an importunate lover-- You sob you love me--What, Must I desert my soul Because you wish to kiss my lips, I must be I, not you, That says the thing in brief. I grew to this without your aid, Can face the future unafraid, Nor pine away with grief Because I'm lonely.... delighted liberty lives in it. But we cannot apply our little Reach up my wings! Now broaden into space and carry me Beyond where any lark that sings Can get: Into the utmost sharp tenuity, The breathing-point, the start, the scarcely-stirred High slenderness where never any bird Has winged to yet! The moon peace and the star peace and the peace Of chilly sunlight: to the void of space, The emptiness, the giant curve, the great Wide-stretching arms wherein the gods embrace And stars are born and suns.... There the flower springs, Therein does grow The bud of hope, the miracle to come And joyless: Garden of Delight That God has sowed! In thee the flower of flowers, The apple of our tree, The banner of our towers, The recompense for every misery, The angel-man, the purity, the light Whom we are working to has his abode; Until our back and forth, our life and death And life again, our going and return Prepare the way: until our latest breath, Deep-drawn and agonized, for him shall burn A path: for him prepare Laughter and love and singing everywhere; A morning and a sunrise and a day! Swarthy and handsome and broad of face 'Twixt the banded brown of her glossy hair. In her ears are shining silver rings, Her head and massive throat are bare, She needs good length in her apron strings And has a jolly voice and loud To cry her wares and draw the crowd. --Fine Coker-nuts! My lads, we're giving Clean away! Who wants to win 'em? Fresh Coker-nuts! The milk's yet in 'em. Come boys! Only a penny a shot, Three nuts if you hit and the fun if not. FIRST OLD MAN. It bean't for j'y I taak the road. But, Mester, I be getten awld. Do seem as though in all the e'th There bean't no plaace, No room on e'th for awld volk. SECOND OLD MAN. The e'th do lie Yonder, so wide as Heaven a'most, And God as made un Made room, I warr'nt, for all Christian souls. To the forgotten dead, Come, let us drink in silence ere we part. To every fervent yet resolved heart That brought its tameless passion and its tears, Renunciation and laborious years, To lay the deep foundations of our race, To rear its mighty ramparts overhead And light its pinnacles with golden grace. To the unhonoured dead. To the forgotten dead, Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein Of Fate and hurl into the void again Her thunder-hoofed horses, rushing blind Earthward along the courses of the wind. Among the stars along the wind in vain Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed, And nothing, nothing of them doth remain. To the thrice-perished dead. Unconcerned I sat and heard Little things, Ivy tendrils, a bird's wings, A frightened bird-- Or faint hands at the window-pane? And now he will never come again, The little soul. He is quite lost. Because if I did not remember him, My little child--Ah! what should we have, He and I? Not even a grave With a name of his own by the river's brim. Because if among the poppies gay On the hill-side, now my eyes are dim, I could not fancy a child at play, And if I should pass by the pool in the quarry And never see him, a darling ghost, Sailing a boat there, I should be sorry-- If in the firelit, lone December I never heard him come scampering post Haste down the stair--if the soul that is lost Came back, and I did not remember. When the stars are muffled and under them all the earth Is a fiery fog and the sinister roar of London, They lament for the toil of their hands, their souls' travail-- "Ah, the beautiful work!" It was set to shine in the sun, to companion the stars To endure as the hills, the ancient hills, endure, Lo, like a brand It lies, a brand consumed and blackened of fire, In the fierce heart of London. Fain would my spirit, My living soul beat up the wind of death To the inaccessible shore and with warm voice Deep-resonant of the earth, salute the dead: I also would bring To the old unheeded spirits news of Earth; Of England, their own country, choose to tell them, And how above St. Edward's bones the Minister Gloriously stands, how it no more beholds The silver Thames broadening among green meadows And gardens green, nor sudden shimmer of streams And the clear mild blue hills. Rather so high it stands the whole earth under Spreads boundless and the illimitable sea. Over what dust the atom footfall passes! Out of what distant lands, by what adventures Superbly gathered To lie so still in the unquiet heart of London! Is not the balm of Africa yet clinging About the bones of Livingstone? Consider The long life-wandering, the strange last journey Of this, the heroic lion-branded corpse, Still urging to the sea! And here the eventual far-off deep repose. Then suddenly the earth was white With faces turned towards his light. The nations' pale expectancy Sobbed far beneath him like the sea, But men exulted in their dread, And drunken with an awful glee Beat at the portals of the dead. I saw this monstrous grave the earth Shake with a spasm as though of birth, And shudder with a sullen sound, As though the dead stirred in the ground. And that great angel girt with flame Cried till the heavens were rent around, "Come forth ye dead!"--Yet no man came. With thoughts too lovely to be true, With thousand, thousand dreams I strew The path that you must come. And you Will find but dew. I break my heart here, love, to dower With all its inmost sweet your bower. What scent will greet you in an hour? The gorse in flower. "Then help me out, devil, O help me, good devil!" "A price must be paid to a spirit of evil. Will you pay me the price?" said the spirit from Hell. "The price shall be paid, the bargain is made." Boom! boom! boom! From the tower in the silence there sounds the great bell. "I am fixing the price," said the devil from Hell. The angels are fled, and the sexton is sleeping, And I am a devil, a devil from Hell. GWYLLIM. ... Come on. Why don't you come on? I'm making no defence. SHONNIN. Mother? GWYLLIM. Leave her alone. Strike me, boy. I bid you do it. SHONNIN. Then I will; with all my might, and may God increase it! OWAIN. There is no God. In the third scene the plan of wild justice is formulated. It had But then I have done nothing to deserve To be made a parricide. ... Down slips the moon. NELTO. Broken and tarnished too? Now she hangs motionless As 'twere amazed, in a silver strait of sky Between the long black cloud and the long black sea; The sea crawls like a snake. All's fallen from me now But naked motherhood. What! Shall a hare Turn on the red-jawed dogs, being a mother, The unpitying lioness suckle her whelps Smeared with her heart's blood, this one law be stamped For ever on the imperishable stuff Of our mortality, and I, I only, Forbidden to obey it? MRS. GWYLLIM. Ellen, you are too young; You should be innocent-- NELTO. Never again After this night. Come, mother, I am yours; Make me a wanton or an avenger. That set my spirit to swing on such a thread Over mere blackness, teach me now to guide it! NELTO. Mother, the moon dips. MRS. GWYLLIM. Go, my daughter, go! And let these hands, these miserable hands, Too weak to avenge my children, let them be Yet strong enough to pull upon my head God's everlasting judgment! All that weight Fall on me only! We see what follows in the closing scenes as a fulfilment of that MRS. GWYLLIM. Where are my children, if they are not there? They cannot both be--Owain, where are they? OWAIN _[Makes a gesture towards the sea]_. Mother, May God have mercy on us! MRS. GWYLLIM. No, not both, Not both! She's somewhere in the house. Come, Ellen! She is afraid to come. Come, Nelto, Nelto! Shonnin, my heart's adored, Shonnin, my love, Do not be angry with me, answer, Shonnin, Shonnin! Not dead--not dead! OWAIN. O hush--hush--hush! intensity and gloomy grandeur of this play. I am not sure that it suits _The Princess of Hanover_ quite so LEONORA. Weeping, dear lady, Will balm our misery better than laughter. PRINCESS. Misery? I am mad with all the joy Of all my years, my youth-consuming years' Hoarded, unspent delight. Where are my wings? Do they not shoot up radiant, A splendour of snowy vans, swimming the air Just ere the rush of rapture? PRINCESS. The night is almost over, Soon will the topmost towers discern the day. The day! The day! O last of all the days I have spent in extreme penury of joy, In garish misery, unhelped wrong, And in unpardonable dishonour.... Up lingering dawn! Why dost thou creep so pale, like one afraid? I want the sun! I want to-morrow! There was a hand on the door. What can these builders Be doing here at this hour? PRINCESS. Why, they're building. What does it matter? Let them build all night, I warrant they'll not build a wall so high Love cannot overleap it. Contributions to _New Numbers_. (See ABERCROMBIE.) _The Soul's Destroyer._ Alston Rivers. 1906. _Urlyn the Harper_ and _The Queen's Vigil_. Elkin Mathews (Vigo _All the above re-issued by_ The Poetry Bookshop. _Songs from the Clay._ Macmillan. 1915.

John Stoughton

Congregationalism in the Court Suburb

_Six years ago, I wrote this story down,_ _While yet the light of Eastern skies_ _Was in my eyes,_ _And still my heart, aglow with memories_ _Of sun-enraptured seas,_ _And that old sea-girt town._ _Where, down dark alleys of enchanted night,_ _We stole, until we came_ _To where the great dome glimmered white._ _And every minaret,_ _A shaft of pearly flame,_ _Beneath the cloudy moon..._ _Six years ago!_ _Our tale, too, will be told:_ _And yet, and yet,_ _From this old Eastern tale we know,_ _Love's story never can grow old,_ _Till Love, himself, forget._ He thought to see me tremble And totter as an oar-snapt reed, When he spake death to me-- My courage, toppled in the dust, Even as the head of cactus The camel-keeper slashes That his beasts may browse, unscathed, The succulent, wounded green. He thought to have me, broken, And grovelling at his feet; Mouthing and mumbling to his sandal-ties, In stammering dread of death-- Aye! even as a king, Who, having from death's hand, Received his crown and kingdom, For ever treads in terror of the hour When death shall jog his elbow, Twitch the purple from his shoulders, And claim again the borrowed crown. But, little need have I to fear The crouching, lean camp-follower, Unto whose ever-gaping maw, Day after day, I flung The spoils of bow and arrow, Ere I was taken captive-- I, who have often, at my mother's breast, Awakened in the night-time, To see death leering on me from the cave-mouth, A gaunt and slinking shape That snuffed the dying embers, Blotting out the friendly stars-- I, who, a scarce-weaned boy, Have toddled, gay and fearless, Down the narrow jungle-track, Through bodeful forest-darkness, panther-eyed; And have felt cold snakes uncoiling And gliding 'neath my naked sole, From clammy slumber startled; While, with sharp snap and crackle, Beast-trodden branches strained behind me, My father's hand scarce snatching me Before the spring of crouching death! But, naught of this the King could know, He only knew that, on that far-off morning, When first I came before him, captive, Among my captive brothers, And, as he lightly held, in idle fingers, Above my unbowed head, In equal poise Death's freedom Or the servitude of life, I clutched at life: And cared but little that his lips Should curl, to see me, broken, A slave among his slaves. Yet, never slave of his was I; Nor did I take my new life from his nod-- I ... I who could have torn The proud life out of him, Before his guards could stay me... Had she not sat beside him, on her throne. And he, who knew not then, Nor ever, till to-day, Has known me aught but slave, Remembering that time, Spake doom of death to me, Idly, as to a slave: And I await the end of night, And dawn of death, Even as a slave awaits... Nay! as the unvanquished veteran Awaits the hour of victory. In silence, wheels the night, Star-marshalled, over dreaming Babylon; And none in all the sleeping city stirs, Save the cloaked sentries on the outer walls Who tread out patience 'twixt the gates of brass, Numb with scarce-baffled slumber, Or, maybe, some unsleeping priest of Bel, A lonely warder of eternity, Who watches on the temple's seventh stage, With the unslumbering gods. Yet, may not she, the Queen, Whose beauty, slaying my body, Brings my soul to immortal birth, Although she does not know Of my last vigil on the peak of life-- Yet, may not she awaken, troubled By strange, bewildering dreams, With heart a little fearful of the dawn Of day, yet unrevealed? There is no sound at all, Save only the cool plashing Of fountains in the courtyard Without my lonely cell: For fate has granted to me This last, least consolation of sweet sound Though in the plains I perish, I shall hear the noise of waters, The noise of running waters, As I die. My earliest lullaby shall sing My heart again to slumber. And, even now, I hear Stream-voices, long-forgotten, calling me Back to the hills of home; And, dreaming, I remember The little yellow brooks That ever, day and night, Gush down the mountains singing, Singing by the caves: And hearkening unto them, Once more a tiny baby, A wee brown fist I dabble In the foaming cool, Frothing round my wrist, Spurting up my arm, Spraying my warm face; And then again I chuckle, As I see an empty gourd, Fallen in the swirling waters, Bobbing on the tawny eddies, Swiftly out of sight. And yet most clearly to remembrance comes That far-off night, in early Spring, When, loud with melted snow from Northern peaks, The torrent roared and fretted; While, couched within the cavern, The clamour kept me wakeful; And, even when I slept, Tumbled, tumultuous, through my dreams, And seemed to surge about me, As the brawl of armed men. And once I sprang from slumber, Hot and startled, Dreaming that I felt A warm breath on my cheek, As if a jackal nuzzled me; Or some dread, slinking foe Made certain of my sleeping Before he plunged the steel. But nothing stirred within the glimmering cavern, Where, all around me, lay my sleeping kindred; And, when I stole without, with noiseless footsteps, To rouse the smouldering watchfire into flame, And cast fresh, crackling brushwood on the blaze, I caught no glint of arms betwixt the branches, Nor any sound or rumour, save The choral noise of cold hill-waters, Cold hill-waters singing, Singing to the stars. And so I turned me from the brooding night; And, couched again upon the leopard-skins, I slept, till dawn, in dream-untroubled sleep. I woke to see the cold sky kindling red, Beyond the mounded ash of the spent fire; And lay, a moment, watching The pearly light, caught, trembling, In dewy-beaded spiders' webs About the cave-mouth woven. Then I arose; And left my kindred, slumbering-- My mother, by my father, And, at her breast, her youngest babe, With dimpled fingers clutching at her bosom; And, all around them, lying Their sons and daughters, beautiful in sleep, With parted lips, And easy limbs outstretched Along the tumbled bedskins: And while they slumbered yet in shades of night, I sprang out naked Into eager dawn. The sun had not yet scaled the eastern ridge: And still the vales were hidden from my eyes By snowy wreaths of swathing mist: But, high upon a scar That jutted sheer and stark, In cold grey light, There stood an antelope, With lifted muzzle snuffing the fresh day; When scenting me afar, He plunged into the mist With one quick, startled bound: And, from the smoking vapour, Arose a gentle pattering, As, down the rocky trail, The unseen herd went trotting Upon their leader's heels. And from the clear horizon The exultant sun sprang god-like: And on a little mound I stood, With eager arms outstretched, That, over my cold body, The first warm golden beams Of his life-giving light might fall. And thus, awhile, I stood. In radiant adoration tranced, Until I caught the call of waters; And, running downwards to the stream, That plunged into a darkling pool, Where, in the rock was scooped a wide, deep basin; Upon the glassy brink, A moment, I hung, shivering, And gazing down through deeps of lucent shadow; And then I leapt headlong, And felt the cloven waters Closing, icy-cold, above me, And, again, with sobbing breath, Battled to the light and air: And I ran into the sunshine, Shaking from my tingling limbs Showers of scintillating drops Over radiant, dewy beds Of the snowy cyclamen, And dark-red anemone, Till my tawny body glowed With warm, ruddy, pulsing life. And then again I sought the stream, And plunged; and now, more boldly, I crossed the pool, with easy stroke; And climbed the further crag; And, turning, plunged again. And so, I dived and swam, Till pangs of hunger pricked My idle fancy homeward: And eagerly I climbed the hill; When, not a sling's throw from the cavern, Stooping to pluck a red anemone, To prank the wet, black tangle of my hair, I heard a shout; And looking up, I saw strange men With lifted spears Bear down on me: And as I turned, A javelin sang Above my shrinking shoulder, And bit the ground before me. But, swift as light I sped, Until I reached the pool, And leapt therein: And he who pressed most hotly on my heels, Fell stumbling after. Still I never slackened, Although I heard a floundering splash, And then the laughter of his comrades: And, as I swam for life, Betwixt my thrusting heels, Another spear that clove the crystal waters Glanced underneath my body, And in the stream-bed quivered bolt upright, Caught in a cleft of rock. With frantic arm I struck Straight as a snake across the pool, And climbed the further bank; And plunging through deep brake, Ran wildly onward, Startling as I went A browsing herd of antelope, That, bounding, fled before me down the valley And after them I raced, As though the hunter, Not the hunted, Until the chase sang in my blood, And braced my straining thews. I knew not if men followed, Yet, on I sped, impetuously, As speeds the fleet-foot onaga, That breasts the windy morning, With lifted head, and nostrils wide, Exultant in his youth. So, on and ever on, Scarce knowing why I ran-- Enough for me to feel Earth beaten back behind my heels, And hear the loud air singing The blood-song in my ears: Till, stumbling headlong over An unseen, fallen branch, I rolled in a deep bed of withered leaves; And lay, full-length in shuddering ecstasy Of hot, tumultuous blood that rioted Through every throbbing vein. But when again, I breathed more easily, And my wild, fluttering heart kept slower beat, Hot-foot, my thoughts ran, wondering, backward: And I arose and followed them With swift and stealthy pace, Until I reached the stream. Along the bank I stole with wary step, Until I came to where the waters Narrowed, raging through a gorge, Nigh the threshold of my home: And across the thunderous flood, From crag to crag I leapt: And then I climbed a cedar, From whose close ambush I could watch Who came or went about the cavern-mouth. I lay along a level branch: And, through the thick, dark screen, I peered with eager eyes: But no one crossed my sight. The whole land lay before me, drowsing In deepest noonday slumber: No twig stirred in the breathless blaze; And underneath the boughs no serpent rustled: And, in the earth and air, Naught waked, save one lone eagle, nigh the sun, With wings, unbaffled, beating Up the blue, unclouded heavens. A dreamless, suave security Seemed brooding o'er the valley's golden slumber, Whence rang or flashed no hint of lurking peril. I dropped to earth, And crouching low, I stole yet nearer Through the brake: Till, drawing nigh the cavern-mouth, I heard the sound of half-hushed sobbing: And then I saw, within the gloom, My mother and my sisters clustering round My father's body, lying stark and dead, A spear-wound in his breast. And as I crept to them, they did not hear me, Nor ever lift their heads; But, shuddering, crouched together, With drooping breasts half-hid in falling hair, By that familiar form In such strange slumber bound. Only the baby, on her shoulder slung, Saw me, and crowed me greeting, As I stooped down to touch my weeping mother, Who, turning suddenly, With wild tear-fevered eyes; Arose with whispered warning; But, even then, too late. Already, from behind, Around my throat An arm was flung; And heavily I fell: Yet, with a desperate wrench, I slipped the clutch of my assailant: And picking up a slingstone that lay handy, I crashed it through his helm; And dead he dropped. And now upon me all his fellows thronged, Like hounds about an antelope; And gripped my naked limbs, And dragged me down, A struggling beast, among them: And desperately I fought, As fights the boar at bay, When all the yelling pack, With lathered lips, and white teeth gnashing, Is closing in upon him; And in his quivering flank, and gasping throat, He feels the fangs of death: Till, overcome at last, They bound me hand and foot, With knotted, leathern thongs; And dragged me out to where, beneath the trees, Trussed in like manner, with defiant eyes, My brothers lay, already, side by side. They laid me in the shade; And flicked my wincing spirit With laughter and light words: "Now is the roe-buck taken!" Then another, On whose dark, sullen face there burned a livid weal "A buck in flight's a panther brought to bay!" And then his fellow: "True enough! and yet, For such young thews they give good gold-- They give good gold in Babylon!" And, laughing thus, they left us, To lie through hours of aching silence, Until, at length, the cool of evening fell; When they returned from slumber; And loosed the ankle-cords that we might stand; And bade our mother feed us; And she, with tender fingers, held The milk-bowl to our parching lips; And thrust dried dates betwixt our teeth; And wept, to see us standing there, With helpless hands, before her. Then, bringing out their mules, they saddled them; And tied us to the girths on either hand. They drove my weeping sisters from the cavern; And sought to tear my mother from her home; But she escaped them; And they let her bide Amid the ruins of her life, Whose light had dropped, so suddenly, From out the highest heavens: And, when I turned to look on her, And win from her a last farewell, I saw her, sitting desolate betwixt Her silent husband and her wailing babe, With still, strange eyes, That stared upon the dead, unseeing, While her own children went from her, Scarce knowing that they left her, nevermore To look upon her face. Thus, we set out, as over The darkening, Southern crags The new moon's keen, curved blade was thrust: My sisters trooping on before us, Like a drove of young gazelles, Which, in the dead of night, With pards in leash, and torches flaring, The hunters have encompassed. They moved with timid steps, And little runs; Stumbling, with stifled cries; And starting, panic-shot, From every lurking shadow-- Behind them, terror's lifted lash: Before them, ever crouching, The horror of the unknown night-- While, as they moved before us, The moonlight shivered off their shrinking shoulders And naked, glancing limbs, In shimmering, strange beauty. And closely on their heels, I, with my brothers, foremost in the file, Marched, tethered 'twixt the plodding beasts, Whose stolid riders sat, Each with his javelin on the pummel couched, In watchful silence, with dark eyes alert. By the tugging of the thongs, I sprang into the air, As down a rocky steep we scrambled; And strove to burst the galling bonds, Or hurl my guards on one another; But, all too sure of foot, the beasts, And too securely girths and cords Held me, and I stumbled. Instantly a thong Struck my wincing shoulders, Blow on thudding blow. I bit my lips; and strode on silently; Nor fought again for freedom. So on we journeyed through the night, And down familiar mountain-tracks, Through deep, dark forest, Ever down and down; Fording the streams, whose moon-bright waters flowed, In eddies of delicious, aching cool, About our weary thighs. And, once, when in mid-torrent, That swirled, girth-high about the plunging beasts, A startled otter, glancing Before their very hoofs, Affrighted them; and, rearing, With blind and desperate floundering, They nearly dragged us down to death: And, ere we righted, With a fearful cry, My eldest sister from the bevy broke; And struck down-stream With wild arm lashing desperately, Until the current caught her; And she sank, to rise no more. And on again we travelled, Down through the darkling woodlands: And once I saw green, burning eyes, Where, on a low-hung bough, A night-black panther crouched, As though to pounce upon my sisters; But, the sudden crack of whips, Startling him, he snarled; And turned with lashing tail, Crashing through dense brushwood. When, once, again we came unto a clearing, The night was near its noon: And all the vales that lay before us Were filled with moving, moonlit mists, That seemed phantasmal waters Of that enchanted world, Where we, in dreams, sail over still lagoons, Throughout eternal night, And under unknown stars. Still, on we fared, unresting, Until the low moon paled; When, halting on a mountain-spur, We first looked down on Babylon, Far in the dreaming West, A cluster of dim towers, Scarce visible to wearied eyes. We camped within a sheltering cedar-grove; And all the day, beneath the level boughs, Upon the agelong-bedded needles lay, Half-slumbering, with fleeting, fretful dreams That could not quite forget the chafing cords, That held our arms in aching numbness: But, ere the noon, in sounder sleep I sank, Dreaming I floated on a still, deep pool, Beneath dark, overhanging branches; And seemed to feel upon my cheek The cool caress of waters; While, far above me, through the night of trees, Noon glimmered faintly as the glint of stars. As thus I lay, in indolent ecstasy, O'er me, suddenly, the waters Curved, and I was dragged, Down and down, Through gurgling deeps Of swirling, drowning darkness... When I awoke in terror; And strove to sit upright; But, tautly, with a jerk, The thongs that held me to my brothers, Dragged me back to earth. Awhile I lay, with staring eyes, awake, Watching a big, grey spider, crouched overhead, In ambush 'neath a twig, beside her web, Oft sallying out, to bind yet more securely, The half-entangled flies. And then, once more, I slumbered; And dreamed a face leant over me, More fair than any face My waking eyes had ever looked upon. Its beauty burned above me, Not dusky like my sisters' faces, But pale as the wan moon, Reflected in a flood Of darkly flowing waters, Or as the creaming froth, That, born amid the thunder of the fall, Floats on the river's bosom in the sunshine, Bubble after bubble, Perishing in air. So, a moment, over me, With frail and fleeting glimmer Of strange elusive, evanescent light, The holy vision hovered. And yet, whenever, with a fervent longing, I sought to look into the darkling eyes, The face would fade from me, As foam caught in an eddy: Until, at last, I wakened, And, wondering, saw a pale star gleaming Betwixt the cedar-branches. And soon our captors stirred: And we arose, to see The walls and towers of Babylon, dark Against the clear rose of the afterglow, Already in the surge of shadows caught, As night, beneath us, slowly Westward swept, Flooding the dreaming plain that lay before us, Vast, limitless, bewildering, And strange to mountain-eyes. As down the slope we went, And when, at last, we left behind The hills and singing waters, A vague, oppressive fear Of those dim, silent leagues of level land, Fell on me; and I almost seemed To bear upon my shoulders The vaster dome of overwhelming night; And, trembling like a child, I looked askance at my two captors, As they rode on in heedless silence, Their swarthy faces sharp Against the lucent sky. And then, once more, The old, familiar watchfires of the stars Brought courage to my bosom; And the young moon's brilliant horn Was exalted in the sky: And soon, the glooming wilderness Awoke with glittering waters, As a friendly wind sang unto me Among the swaying reeds: While, cloud on cloud, The snowy flocks of pelican Before our coming rose; And, as they swerved to Southward, The moonlight shivered off their flashing pinions. So, on we marched, till dawn, across the plain; Beneath the waxing moon, Each night we travelled Westward; Until, at last, we halted By the broad dull-gleaming flood Of mighty, roaring Tigris; And aroused from midnight slumber The surly, grumbling ferrymen, And crossed the swollen waters Upon the great, skin rafts: Then on again we fared, Until the far, dim towers soared in the dawnlight And we encamped beside a stream, Beneath dry, rustling palms. And heavily I slumbered: And only wakened once, at noon, When, lifting up my head, I saw the towers of Babylon, burning blue, Far off, in the blind heat: And slept again, till sunset, When we took our Westward course Along the low bank of a broad canal, That glimmered wanly 'neath a moonless sky. Higher, and higher still, As we drew slowly nearer, Arose the vasty walls and serried towers, That seemed to thrust among the stars, And on embattled summits bear the night, Unbowed beneath their burden, As easily as, with unruffled brows, And limber, upright bodies, The village-daughters carry At eve the brimming pitchers, Poised upon their heads. And when, above us, the wide-looming walls Shut out the Western stars; Beneath their shade, at midnight, we encamped, To await till dawn should open The city gates for us. That night we did not sleep, But, crouched upon the ground, We watched the moon rise over Babylon, Till, far behind us, o'er the glittering waste, Was flung the wall's huge shadow, And the moving shades of sentries, Who, unseen above our heads, Paced through the night incessantly. Thus long we sat, hushed with awed expectation, And gazing o'er the plain that we had travelled, As, gradually, the climbing moon, Escaping from the clustering towers, Revealed far-gleaming waters, And the sharp, shrill cry of owls, Sweeping by on noiseless plumes, Assailed the vasty silence, Shivering off like darts From some impenetrable shield. And, as we waited, Sometimes, fearfully, I gazed up those stupendous, soaring walls Of that great, slumbering city, wondering What doom behind the bastioned ramparts slept, What destiny, beneath the brooding night, Awaited me beyond the brazen gates. But, naught the blind, indifferent stars revealed, Though towards the long night's ending, Half-dazed with gazing up that aching height, A drowsiness fell over me, And in a restless waking-trance I lay, Dreaming that Life and Death before me stood. And, as each thrust towards me a shrouded cup, Implacable silence bade me choose and drink. But, as I stretched a blind, uncertain hand To take the cup of death, I wakened, and dawn trembled, At last, beyond the Eastern hills, And, star by star, night failed; And eagerly the sun leapt up the sky, And, as his flashing rays Smote kindling towers and flaming gates of brass, Across the reedy moat A clattering drawbridge fell, And wide the glittering portals slowly swung: And there came streaming out in slow procession A sleepy caravan of slouching camels, Groaning and grumbling as they strode along Beneath their mountainous burdens, Upon whose swaying summits, Impassively, the blue-robed merchants sat. They passed us slowly by, And then we took the bridge, And, while our captors parleyed with the guards, Who stood, on either hand, With naked swords, I turned my head, And saw for the last time, far Eastward, The cold, snow-brilliant peaks, Beyond my dim, blue, native hills. And, as I looked, my thoughts flew homeward, And I, one dreaming moment, Stood by my mourning mother in the cavern Of desolation, looking on the dead. And then, between the brazen gate-posts, And underneath the brazen lintel, At last we entered Babylon. Before us, yet another wall arose, And, turning sharply Down a narrow way, The living breath of heaven seemed shut from us As though beneath the beetling crags Of some deep mountain-gorge-- By cliffs of wall, on either hand, That soared up to the narrow sky, Which with dim lustre lit The shimmering surface of enamelled brick, Whereon, through giant groves, Blue-coated hunters chased the boar, Or 'loosed red-tasselled falcon After flying crane. But soon we reached another gate, Sword-guarded, and we entered, And plunged into the traffic Of clamorous merchantmen, Speeding their business ere the heat of day. And as we jostled, slowly, Through bewildering bazaars, The porters and the idler wayfarers All turned to look upon our shame, With cold, unpitying eyes, And indolent, gaping mouths, Or jested with our captors, Until we left the busier thoroughfares, And walked through groves of cypress and of ilex, Where not a sound or rumour troubled The silence of the dark-plumed boughs And glimmering deeps of peace, Save only the cool spurt of waters That, from a myriad unseen jets, Fretted the crystal airs of morning, And fell in frolic showers Of twinkling, rainbow drops, That plashed in unseen basins; And through the blaze of almond-orchards, Tremulous with blossom That flickered in a rosy, silken snow Of falling petals over us, And wreathed about our feet In soft and scented drifts; Beneath pomegranate trees in young, green leaf, And through vast gardens, glowing with strange flowers, Such as no April kindled into bloom Among the valleys of my native hills. We came unto a court of many fountains, Where, leaping off their jaded mules, Our captors loosed the thongs that held us, But left our wrists still bound. And one with great clay pitchers came, And over our hot bodies, travel-stained, Poured out cool, cleansing waters In a gurgling, crystal stream, And flung coarse robes of indigo About our naked shoulders. And here we left behind us The maidens and the younger boys, And passing through a gateway, Came out upon a busy wharf, Where, southward, midway through the city, The broad Euphrates flows, His dark flood thronged with merchant-dhows, And fishing-boats of reed and bitumen, Piled high with glistering barbel, freshly-caught; And foreign craft, with many-coloured sails, And laden deep with precious merchandise, That, over wide, bewildering waters, Across the perilous world, The adventurous, dark-bearded mariners, Who swear by unknown gods in alien tongues, Bring ever to the gates of Babylon. We crossed the drawbridge, round whose granite piers Swirled strong, Spring-swollen waters, Loud and tawny, And, through great brazen portals, Passed within the palace gates, When first I saw afar the hanging-gardens, Arch on arch, And tier on tier, Against a glowing sky. Two strapping Nubians, like young giants Hewn from blue-black marble By some immortal hand in immemorial ages, Led us slowly onward. The dappled pard-skins, slung across their shoulders, Scarcely hid the ox-like thews, Beneath the dark skin rippling, As they strode along before us. Through courts of alabaster, And painted corridors, And chambers fair with flowery tapestries They led us, wondering, till at last we came Into a vast, dim hall of glimmering gold, The end of all our journeying. And, as we halted on the threshold, My eyes could see but little for a moment, In the dusky, heavy air, Through the ceaseless cloud of incense, Rising from the smouldering braziers To the gold, grey-clouded dome, Tingling strangely in my nostrils, As I came from morning airs; Then slowly filling them with drowsy fume, When, looking up with half-dazed eyes, I saw the King upon his golden throne: And through my body Raged rebellious blood, In baffled riot beating At my corded wrists, As if to burst the galling bonds, That I might hurl that lean, swart face, So idly turning towards us, With thin curled lips, And cold, incurious eyes, To headlong death-- Yea! even though I tumbled The towers of Babylon round about my head. And, when our captors bowed their foreheads low, Obsequious to the throne, I stood upright, And gazed my loathing on that listless form-- The gay, embroidered robe, The golden cap, that prankt the crisped locks, The short, square beard, new-oiled and barbered-- But, in a flash, A heavy blow Fell on my head, And struck me to my knees Before the sleek, indifferent king. And then, on either hand, With gripping palms upon my shoulders set, The Nubians towered above me Like mighty men of stone. And savagely I struggled, Half-stunned, to rise again; When, as I vainly battled In their unrelenting clutch, My eyes lit for the first time on the Queen, Who sat upon the dais, by her lord Half-shadowed, on a throne of ivory, And all the hate died in me, as I saw The face that hovered over me in dream, When I had slept beneath the low-boughed cedar: The moon-pale brows, o'er which the clustered hair Hung like the smoke of torches, ruddy-gold, Against a canopy of peacock plumes: The deep brown, burning eyes, From which the soul looked on me in fierce pity. And, as I gazed on that exultant beauty, The hunter and the slayer of men Was slain within me instantly, And I forgot the mountains and my home; My desolate mother, and my father's death; My captive sisters ... and the throned King! I was as one, that moment, New-born into the world Full-limbed and thewed, Yet, with the wondering heart Of earth-bewildered childhood. And, unto me, it seemed That, as the Queen looked down on me, There stole into her eyes Some dim remembrance of old dreams, That in their brown depths flickered With strange, elusive light, Like stars that tremble in still forest-pools. One spake-- I scarce knew whom, nor cared-- And bade me choose, Before the throne, Between a life of slavery, Or merciful, swift death-- Death, that but a moment since, I would have dragged, exulting, on me-- And with my eyes still set on the Queen's face, I answered: "I will serve": And scarcely heeded that my wrists were loosed. And, huddled in a stifling hut, That night, among my fellows, I could not sleep at all: But gazed, wild-eyed, till dawn upon that face, Which hovered o'er me, like the moon of dreams; And seemed to draw the wandering tides of life In one vast wave, which ever strove To climb the heavens wherein she moved, That it might break in triumphing foam about her. Not then, nor ever afterwards, Was I a slave, among my fellow-slaves, But one, who, with mean drudgery, And daily penance serves Before a holy altar, That, sometimes, as he labours, his glad eyes May catch a gleam of the immortal light Within the secret shrine; Yea! and, maybe, shall look, one day, with trembling, On the bright-haired, imperishable god. And, even when, day after day, I bore the big reed-baskets, laden With wet clay, digged beyond the Western moat, Although I seemed to tread, As treads the ox that turns the water-wheel, A blindfold round of servitude, My quenchless vision ever burned before me: And when, in after days, I fed The roaring oven-furnaces; And toiled by them through sweltering days, Though over me, at times, would come Great longing for the hill-tops, And the noise of torrent-waters: Or when, more skilled, I moulded The damp clay into bricks; And spread the colour and the glaze; And in strength-giving heat of glowing kilns, I baked them durable, Clean-shaped, and meet for service: My vision flamed yet brighter; And unto me it seemed As if my gross and useless clay were burned In a white ecstasy of lustral fire, That, in the fashioning of the house of love, I might serve perfectly the builder's need. Thus, many months, I laboured; Till, one day, at the noontide hour of rest, I lay; and with a sharpened reed-- As temple-scribes write down the holy lore On tablets of wet clay-- On the moist earth beside me, I limned a young fawn, cropping A bunch of tender, overhanging leaves. And, as I slowly drew, I dreamt a little sadly of the days, When I, too, roamed, untethered, And drinking in, unquestioning, The sunshine and the air, And all the rapture of the earth that turns, New every morning to the wondering sun, Refashioned in still nights of starry dews: But one, the while, unseen of me, Watched my unconscious hand, approving: And I was set, next morning, Among the craftsmen, who so deftly limned The hunts and battles for the palace walls. And, happily, with them I lived A life of loving labour, for each line Flowed from the knowledge of my heart: I drew the startled ostrich Fleeing from the far-flung noose: The brindled lynx; the onaga In dewy-plashing flight; The bristling boar, at bay, Crouched in a deadly ring of threatening spears, With streaming nostrils, and red eyes ablaze; The striped hyaena; the gaunt, green-eyed wolf; The skulking jackal; the grey, brush-tailed fox; The hunting leopard and the antelope, In mid-chase tense, With every thew astrain; The dappled panther; the brown-eyed gazelle, Butting with black horns through the tangled brake The nimble hare, alert, with pricked-up ears; The tiger, crouched, with yellow eyes afire; The shaggy mountain-goat, Perched on the utmost crag, Against the afterglow of lucent ruby, Or, poised with bunching hoofs In mid-spring over a dark, yawning chasm; Or the black stallion, with his tameless troop, Fording a mountain-river in the dawn. And, sometimes, as we toiled, A terrible fleeting rapture Would come upon me, when the Queen Passed by us with her maidens; Or paused, a moment, gazing, With tranced and kindling eyes upon our labours: But never did I dare, at any time, To lift my eyes to hers, And look, as soul on soul, As on the day her beauty brought to birth The strange new life within me. In silence she would ever leave us; And ever with her passing perished The light and colour of my work; So that my heart failed, daunted by that glimpse Of the ever-living beauty. And, sometimes, I would carve in ruddy teak, Or ivory, from the Indian merchants bought, Or in the rare, black basalt, little beasts To please the idle fancies of the King; Or model in wet clay, and cast in bronze, Great bulls and lions for the palace-courts; Or carve him seals of lapis-lazuli, Of jasper, amethyst and serpentine, Chalcedony--carnelian, chrysoprase, Agate, sardonyx, and chalcedonyx-- Green jade, and alabaster; Or cut in stones that flashed and flickered Like a glancing kingfisher, Or, in the sun-filled amber, The kite with broad wings spread, Or little fluttering doves that pecked A golden bunch of dates: And then of these in settings of fine gold Made fillets, rings and ear-rings. Thus, one day, Dreaming, as ever, of the Queen, I wrought a golden serpent for her hair: And when I brought it to the King, next morn, Where he sat brooding over chess, He bade me bear it to the Queen, myself, And so, I went unto her, where she sat, Among her singing maidens, at the loom, Weaving a silken web of Tyrian dye. I laid the trinket at her feet, in silence: And she arose, and set it in her hair, Whose living lustre far outshone The cold, dead metal I had fashioned, As she stood before me, dreaming, In her robe of flowing blue; Then looked a moment on me with kind eyes. And though she spoke no word, I turned, and fled, in trembling, Before the light that shivered through me, And struck my soul with shuddering ecstasy: And, still, through many days, Although I did not look again Upon those dreaming eyes, Their visionary light Within my soul, revealed eternity. Thus, have the mortal years Flowed onward to the perfect end-- This day of days, That never night shall quench, Nor darkness vanquish: And, at dawn, I die. And yet, this morning, as I slowly climbed The steep, ascending stages That lead up to the hanging-gardens-- Where, tier on tier, The great brick arches bore Their April wealth of blossoms, Plumed with palm and dusky cypress-- I little knew that I Who came to carve a garland Round a fountain's porphry basin, Should scale so soon the utmost peak of life. Throughout the morn I toiled, Until an hour ere noon-- For no one, save the King and Queen, May walk in those high gardens, after midday-- When, underneath a cypress shade, I paused, a moment, resting; And looking down upon the basking city, Beneath me slumbering deeply-- Garden on garden glowing, grove on grove, Like some green fabric, shot with myriad hues, And chequered with white clusters of flat roofs, Aquiver in clear heat: And then I gazed up through the aching azure, At the restless kites that hover Ever over Babylon: And, as I watched one broad-winged bird that hung Above the seven-coloured pyramid Of Bel's great temple, With wide pinions spread, As though it kept eternal vigil over The golden image in the golden shrine, I thought of eagles poised Above the peaks of glittering snows, Beyond the Eastern plains. Half-dreaming, thus, I lay, Lulled by the tinkling waters, Till, unawares, sleep slowly overcame me; And noonday drifted by: And still, I slept, unheeding: And, in my sleep, I looked on Beauty in a quiet place Of forest gloom and immemorial dream: When, something rousing me from slumber, With waking eyes that yet seemed dream-enchanted, I looked upon the Queen, Where, in a secret close, Set thickly round with screens of yew and ilex, She stood upon the dark, broad brim Of a wide granite basin, gazing down, With dreaming eyes, into the glooming cool, Unraimented, save of the flickering gleam, Reflected from the lucent waters, That flowed before her silently: And slowly, from her feet, The cold light rippled up her body, till, Entangled in the meshes of her hair, It flooded the calm rapture of her face: When, dreaming still, she lifted up her eyes, Unseeing; and I looked upon her soul, Unveiled, in naked immortality, Untrammelled by the trappings of brief time, And cloaks of circumstance. How long I looked upon the perfect beauty, I cannot tell-- Each moment, flowing to eternity, Bearing me further from time's narrow shores; Though, yet, a little while, From those unshadowed deeps time sought to hold me. Suddenly, I felt A ghostly arrow pierce my life; And I leapt up, and turning, I saw the King beside me, With steely, glittering eyes Shooting barbed anger, Though he coldly spake, With evil, curling lips: "Slave, thou art dead!" And yet I did not quail: But, looking 'twixt his brows, I answered: and he blenched before my words: "Nay! I have seen: "And am newborn, a King!" And then his craven fingers Went quaking to his wagging beard, As if he felt my clutch upon his throat: Yet, though, with one quick blow, I might have hurled him down to death, I never stirred: And, eyeing me, he summoned But I, ere they could spring up the first stage, Went forth to meet them; And they bound my wrists. And so, down from the hills, my life has flowed, Until, at fullest flood, it meets the sea. With calm and unregretful heart, I wait Till dawn shall loose the arrow from the bow. I, who, with eager, faltering hand have sought To fashion a little beauty, in the end, Have looked on the perfect beauty, and I die-- Even as the priest, who, in the heart of night, Trembling before the thunder-riven shrine, Looks on the face of God, and perishes. And yet, maybe, when earth lies heavily Upon the time-o'ertoppled towers, And tumbled walls, and broken gates of brass; And the winds whisper one another: "Where, Oh! where is Babylon?" In the dim underworld of dreaming shades, My soul shall seek out beauty And look, once more, Upon the unveiled vision... And not die. Night passes: and already in the court, Amid the plash of fountains, There sounds the pad of naked feet approaching. With slow, deliberate pace, As though they trod out all my perished years, The Nubians come, to lead me out to death. Slowly the great door opens; And clearer comes the call of waters; Cool airs are on my brow ... Lo! ... in the East, the dawn.

Charles Hindley

The True History of Tom and Jerry or, The Day and Night Scenes, of Life in London from the Start to the Finish!

The King's Death Through skies blown clear by storm, o'er storm-spent seas, Day kindled pale with promise of full noon Of blue unclouded; no night-weary wind Ruffled the slumberous, heaving deeps to white, Though round the Farne Isles the waves never sink In foamless sleep--about the pillared crags For ever circling with unresting spray. At dawn's first glimmer, from his island-cell-- Rock-hewn, secure from tempest--Oswald came With slow and weary step, white-faced and worn With night-long vigil for storm-perilled souls. His anxious eye with sharp foreboding bright-- He scanned the treacherous flood; the long froth-trail That marks the lurking reefs; the jag-toothed chasms Which, foaming, gape at night beneath the keel-- The mouth of hell to storm-bewildered ships: But no scar-stranded vessel met his glance. Relieved, he drank the glistering calm of morn, With nostril keen and warm lips parted wide; While, gradually, the sun-enkindled air Quickened his pallid cheek with youthful flame, Though lonely years had silvered his dark head, And round his eyes had woven shadow-meshes. Clearly he caught the ever-clamorous cries Of guillemot and puffin from afar, Where, canopied by hovering, white wings, They crowded naked pinnacles of rock. He watched, with eyes of glistening tenderness, The brooding eider--Cuthbert's sacred bird, That bears among the isles his saintly name-- Breast the calm waves; a black, wet-gleaming fin Cleft the blue waters with a foaming jag, Where, close behind the restless herring-herd, With ravening maw of death, the porpoise sped. Oswald, light-tranced, dreamed in the sun awhile; Till, suddenly, as some old sorrow starts, Though years have glided by with soothing lull, The gust of ancient longing rent his bliss: His narrow isle, as by some darkling spell, More narrow shrank; the gulls' unceasing cries Grew still more fretful; and his hermit-life A sea-scourged desolation to him seemed. The holy tree of peace--which he had dreamt Would flourish in the wilderness afresh, Upspringing ever in new ecstasy Of branching beauty and white blooms of truth, Till its star-tangling crest should cleave the sky, And angels rustle through its topmost boughs-- Seemed sapless, rootless. Through his quivering limbs His famine-wasted youth to life upleapt With passionate yearning for humanity: The stir of towns; the jostling of glad throngs; Welcoming faces and warm-clasping hands; Yea, even for the lips and eyes of Love He hungered with keen pangs of old desire: And, if for him these might not be, he craved At least the exultation of swift peril-- The red-foamed riot of delirious strife That rears a bloody crest o'er peaceful shires, And, slaying, in a swirl of slaughter dies. With brow uplifted and strained, pulsing throat, And salt-parched lips out-thrust, unto the sun He stretched beseeching hands, as though he sought To snatch some glittering disaster thence. One moment radiant thus; and then once more His arms dropped listless, and he slowly shrank Within his sea-stained habit, cowering dark Amid the azure blaze of sea and sky. Then, stirring, with impatient step he moved Across the isle to where the rocky shore, Forming a little, crag-encircled bay, Sloped steeply to the level of the sea; But, as he neared the edges of the tide, Startled, he paused, as, marvelling, he saw A woman on the shelving, wet, black rock, Lying, forlorn, among the storm-wrack, white And motionless; still wet, her raiment clung About her limbs, and with her wet, gold hair Green sea-weed tangled. Oswald on her looked Amazed, as one who, in a sea-born trance, Discovers the lone spirit of the storm, Self-spent at last, and sunk in dreamless slumber Within some caverned gloom. Coldly he watched The little waves creep up the glistening rock, And, faltering, slide once more into the deep, As though they feared to waken her: at length, When one, more venturous, about her stole, And moved her heavy hair as if with life, He shuddered; and a lightning-knowledge struck His heart with fear; and in a flash he knew That no sea-phantom couched before him lay, But some frail fellow-creature, tempest-tost, Hung yet in peril on the edge of death, Her weak life slipping from the saving grasp While he delayed. He sprang through plashy weed, O'er slippery ridges, to the rock whereon She lay with upturned face and close-shut eyes-- One hand across her breast, the other dipped Within a shallow pool of emerald water, With blue-veined fingers clutching the red fronds Of frail sea-weed. Then Oswald, bending, felt Upon his cheek the feeble breath that still Fluttered between the pallid, parted lips. In trembling haste, he loosed the sodden cords That bound her to a spar; and with hot hands He chafed her icy limbs, until the glow Of life returned. With fitful quivering The white lids opened; and she looked on him With dull, unwondering eyes whose deep-sea blue The gloom of death's late passing shadowed yet; When suddenly light thrilled them, and bright fear Flashed from their depths, and, with a little gasp, She strove to rise; but Oswald with quick words Calmed her weak terror, and she sank once more, Closing her eyes; and, gently lifting her Within his arms--her gold hair hanging straight And heavy with sea-water, as he plunged Knee-deep through pools of crackling bladder-weed-- He bore her, unresisting, o'er the isle Unto the rock-built shelter he had reared, Some little way apart from his own cell, For storm-stayed fishers or wrecked mariners. He laid her on a bed of withered bents, And ministered to her with gentle hands And ceaseless care; till, wrapped in warm, deep sleep, She sank oblivious. Silently he placed His island-fare beside her on the board, Lest she should wake in need; then, with hushed step, He turned to go; but, ere he reached the door, He paused, and looked again towards the bed, As though he feared his strange sea-guest might flee Like some wild spirit, born of wondering foam, That wins from man the shelter of his breast, Then, on a night of moon-enchanted tides, Leaps with shrill laughter to its native seas, Bearing his soul within its glistening arms, To drown his peace on earth and hope of heaven In cold eternities of lightless deeps. But still in dreamless sleep the stranger lay, With parted lips and breathing soft and calm; About her head unloosed, her hair outshone, Among the grey-green bents, like fine, red gold. So beautiful she was that Oswald, pierced With quivering rapture, dared no longer bide, But, with quick fingers, softly raised the latch, And stumbled o'er the threshold. As he went, A flock of sea-gulls from the bent-thatched roof Rose, querulous, and round him, wheeling, swept, With creaking wings and cold, black eyes agleam; Yet Oswald saw them not, nor heard their cries; Nor saw he, as he paced the eastern crags, How, round the Farnes, the dreaming ocean lay In broad, unshadowed, sapphire ecstasy, That glowed to noon through slow, uncounted hours. His early gloom had vanished; time and space And earth and sea no longer compassed him; One thought alone consumed him--beauty slept Within the shelter of his hermitage, Upon grey, rustling bents, with golden hair. He roamed, unresting, till the copper sun Sank in a steel-grey sea, and earth and sky Were strewn with shadows--wavering and dim-- To weave a pathway for the dawning moon, That she, from night's oblivion, might create With the cold spell of her enchantments old A phantom earth with magical, bright seas, A vaster heaven of unrevealed stars. Unmoving, on a headland of swart crag That jutted gaunt and sharp against the night, Stood Oswald, cowled and silent. Hour by hour He gazed across the sea, which nothing shadowed, Save where--now dim, now white--a lonely sail Hung, restless, o'er a fisher's barren toil. Yet Oswald saw nor sail nor moon nor sea: His heart kept vigil by the little house Wherein the stranger slumbered; and it seemed His life, by some strange power within him stayed, Awaited the unlatching of the door. But now, within the hut, the sleeper dreamt Of foaming caverns and o'erwhelming waters; Then, shuddering awake, awhile she lay, And watched the moonlight, cold and white, which poured Through the warm dusk, from the high window-slit; When, all at once, the strangeness of the room Closed in upon her with bewildering dread. She stirred; the bents, beneath her, rustled strange; She started in affright, and, swaying, stood Within the streaming moonlight, till, at last, In memory, once more disaster swept Over her life, and left her, desolate, Upon bleak crags of alien seas unknown. Yet, through the tumult of tempestuous dark, Above the echo of despairing cries, A calm voice sounded; and beyond the whirl Of foaming death, wherein she caught the gleam Of well-loved faces drowning in cold seas, A living face shone out--a beacon clear: Then numbing fear fell from her, and she moved, Unlatched the door, and stole into the night. One moment, dazzled by the full-moon glare, She paused, a shivering form within the wide And glittering desolation--lone and frail. But Oswald, watchful on the eastern scars, Seeing her, forward came with eager pace To meet her; and, as he drew swiftly near, His cowl fell backward; and she knew again The face that calmed the terrors of her dreams. Yet, with the knowledge, through her being stole, Vague fear more strange, more impotent than the blind Unquestioning dread when death had round her stormed; No peril of the body could arouse Such ecstasy of terror in her soul, Which seemed upborne upon the shivering crest Of some great wave, just curving, ere it crash Upon the crags of time. Yet, though she feared When Oswald paused, uncertain, quick she spake, As though she sought to parry doom with words. She questioned him--scarce heeding his replies-- How she had hither come; when, suddenly, Sped by her fluttering words, the last, dim cloud Rolled from her memory, and she saw revealed Within a pitiless glare of naked light The utmost horror of her desolation. Mute with despair, she stood with parted lips, And then cried fiercely: "Hath the sea upcast None other on this shore? Am I, alone, Of all my kin who sailed in that doomed ship, Flung back to life?" And as, with piteous glance, He answered her: "Ah God, that I, with them, Had died! O traitor cords that held too sure My body to the broken spar of life! O feeble seas, that fumed in such wild wrath, Yet could not quench so frail a thing as I!" With passionate step, across the isle she ran, And leapt from crag to crag, until she stood Upon a dizzy scar that jutted sheer Above low-lapping waves. Then once again Her moaning cry was heard among the Isles: "O bitter waters, give them back to me! You shall not keep them; all your waves of woe Cannot withhold from me those dauntless lives That were my life. Surely they cannot rest Without me; even from your unfathomed graves Surely my love will draw them to my arms!" As though in tremulous expectation tranced, She yearned, with arms outstretched; as dawn arose Exultant from the sea, and with clear rays Kindled her wind-tost hair to streaming flame. Awhile she stood, then, moaning, slowly sank Upon the crag; and Oswald came to her With words of comfort which unloosed her pent And aching woe in swift, tumultuous tears. Oswald, in silent anguish, drew apart, Gazing, unseeing, o'er the dawning waves; Until at last the tempest of her grief, In low and fitful sobbing, spent itself; When, turning to him, once again she spake, And, shuddering, with faltering voice, outpoured The tale of her despair: and Oswald heard How she, who sat thus strangely by his side, Marna, a sea-earl's daughter, had besought Her father, when the old sea-hunger lit His eyes--as waves shot through with stormy fight-- For leave to bear him company but once, When, with his sons, he rode the adventurous seas; How he had yielded with reluctant love; And how, from out the firth of some far strand, Their galley rode, beneath a flaming dawn; How her young heart had leapt to see the sails Unfurled to take the wind, as, one by one, Toil-glistening rowers shipped the dripping oars, And loosened every sheet before the breeze; How, as the ship with timbers all astrain, Leapt to mid-sea, through Marna's body thrilled A kindred rapture, and there came to her The sheer, delirious joy of them true-born To wander with the foam--each creaking cord That tugged the quivering mast unto her singing Of unknown shores and far, enchanted lands, Beyond the blue horizon; how, all day, They rode, undaunted, through the spinning surf; But, as the sun dipped, in the cold, grey tide, The wind, that since the dawn with steady speed Had filled the sails, now came in fitful gusts, Fierce and yet fiercer, till the sullen waves Were lashed to anger, and the waters leapt To tussle with the furies of the air; And how the ship, in the encounter caught, Was tossed on crests of swirling dark, or dropped Between o'er-toppling walls of whelming night; How in those hours--too dread for thought or speech-- Her father's hand had bound her to a spar; And, even as--the cord between his teeth-- He tugged the last knot sure, the vessel crashed Upon a cleaving scar; and she but saw The strong, pale faces looking upon death, Before the fierce, exultant waters closed With cold oblivion o'er them; and no more She knew, until she waked within the hut, To find her world, in one disastrous night, In one swift surge of roaring darkness, swept From her young feet; her kindred, home and friends, And all familiar hopes and joys and fears Dropt like a garment from her life, which now Stood naked on the edge of some new world Of unknown terrors. Oswald heard her tale With pitying glance; yet in his eyes arose A strange, new light, which as each gust of grief Shook out the fluttering words, more brightly burned; So that, when Marna ceased, it seemed to her That he, in holy contemplation rapt, Had heeded not her woe; and from her heart Burst out a cry: "Ah God, I am alone!" But, stung by her shrill anguish, Oswald waked From his bright reverie, and his shining eyes Darkened with swift compassion, as he turned And, trembling, spake: "Nay, not alone..." Then mute He stood--his pale lips clenched--as though within There surged a torrent which he dared not loose. Marna looked wondering up; but, when her eyes Saw the white passion of his face, her soul Was tossed once more on crests of unknown fears; Yet rapture warred with terror in her heart; She trembled, and her breath came short and quick. She dared not raise her eyes again to his, Till, on her straining ears, his words, once more, Fell, slow and cold and clear as water dripping Between locked sluice-gates: "Nothing need you fear. Beyond the sea of unknown terrors lie White havens of an undiscovered peace. For even this bleak, scar-embattled coast May yield safe harbour to the storm-spent soul. Your world has fallen from you that you may Enter another world, more beautiful, Built 'neath the shadow of the throne of God. There shall you find new friends, who yet will seem Familiar to your eyes, because their souls Have passed through kindred perils and despairs." He ceased; and silence, trembling, 'twixt them hung; Till Marna, gazing yet across the sea, Rent it with words: "Where may I find this peace?" And Oswald answered: "In an inland dale The Sisters of the Cross await your coming, With ever-open gate. Within seven days, My brethren from the mainland will put out, Bringing me food; on their return with them You may embark. Till then, this barren rock Must be your home." Exultant light once more Leapt, flashing, in the depths of his dark eyes. Yet Marna looked not up, but, slowly, spake: Then in dismay She stopped, as though the thought had slipped unknown From her full heart; but Oswald caught the words, And spake with hard, quick speech, as if to baffle Some doubt that strove within him: "On this Isle I bide, till God shall kindle my weak soul To burn, a beacon o'er His lonely seas." Once more he paused; and perilous silence swayed Between them, until Oswald, quaking, rose, As one who dared no longer rest beneath O'er-toppling doom. Yet, with calm voice, he spake: "Even within this wilderness abides Such beauty that, in your brief sojourn here, Your soul shall starve not; all about you sweeps The ever-changing wonder of the sea; But if, too full of bitter memories, The bright waves darken, you may lift your eyes To watch the swooping gull; the flashing tern; The stately cormorant and the kittiwake-- Most beautiful of all the island-birds; Or, if your woman's heart should crave some grace More exquisite, see, frail bell-campions blow, As foam-flowers on the shallow, sandy turf." As thus he spake, a light in Marna's eyes Arose, and sorrow left her for awhile: And she with bright glance questioned him, and watched The hovering gulls, and plucked the snowy blooms, With little cries at each discovered beauty. Yet Oswald by her side walked silently, And watched, as one struck mute with anguished fear, Her eager eyes, and heard her chattering words. Then, suddenly, he left her, but returned Within the hour, with faltering step, and spake With tremulous voice: "We two must part awhile; For I must keep lone vigil in my cell Six days and nights, with fasting and with prayer; Meanwhile, within the little hut for you Are food and shelter till the brethren come. When I must give you over to their care." Marna, with wondering heart, looked up at him; But such a wild light flickered in his eyes She dared not speak; and, shuddering, he turned, And strode back swiftly to the hermitage. Marna looked after him with yearning gaze, As though her heart would have her call him back, Yet her lips moved not; motionless, she watched Until he passed from sight; then, sinking low Among the flowers, she wept, she knew not why. And, as the door closed on him, Oswald fell Prone on the cold, black, vigil-furrowed rock That paved his narrow cell; and long he lay As in the clutch of some dread waking-trance, Nor stirred until the shadows into night Were woven. Then unto his feet he leapt With this wild cry: "O God, why hast Thou sent This scourge most bitter for my naked soul? I feared not storm nor solitude, O God; I shrank not from the tempest of Thy wrath; Though oft my weak soul wavered, trampled o'er By deedless hours, and yearned unto the world, Ever afresh Thy love hath bound me fast Unto this island of Thy lonely seas; And I, who deemed that I at last might reach-- I who had come through all--Thy golden haven, Knew not Thy hand withheld this last despair, This scourge most bitter, being most beautiful." Then on his knees he sank, and tried to pray Before the Virgin's shrine, where ever burned His votive taper with unfailing light. But when his lips would breathe the holy name, His heart cried: "Marna! Marna!" Every pulse Throbbed "Marna!" And his body shook and swayed, As though it strove to utter that one word, And cry it once unto eternal stars, Though it should perish crying. Through the cell The silence murmured: "Marna!" And without A lone gull wailed it to the windy night. He lifted his wild eyes, and in the shrine He saw the face of Marna, which outburned The flickering taper; on the gloom up-surged, Foam-white, the face of Marna; till the dark Flowed pitiful o'er him, and on the stone He sank unconscious. Night went slowly by, And pale dawn stole in silence through his cell; And, in the light of morn, the taper died, With feeble guttering; yet he never stirred, Though noonday waxed and waned. But Marna roamed All night beneath the stars. To her it seemed That not until the closing of the door Had all hope perished: now death tore, afresh, Her father and her brothers from her arms. By day and night and under sun and moon She roamed unresting--seeing, heeding naught-- Till weariness o'ercame her, and she slept; And, as she slumbered, snowy-plumed peace Nestled within her heart; and, when she waked, She only yearned for that dim, cloistral calm, Embosomed deep in some bough-sheltered vale, Whither the boat must bear her. In his cell, As night paled slowly to the seventh morn, Oswald arose--the fire within his eyes Yet more intense, more fierce. With eager hand He clutched the latch, and, flinging wide the door, He strode into the dawn. One moment, dazed, As though bewildered by the light, he paused; But, when his glance in restless roving fell On Marna, standing on the western crag Against the setting moon, beneath the dawn, His passion surged upon him, and he shook; Then, springing madly forth, he, stumbling, ran, And, falling at her feet upon the rock, His voice rang out in fearful exultation: "You shall not go! I cannot let you go! Has not the tumult tossed you to my breast? Yea, and not all the storms of all the seas Shall drag you from me! Nay, you shall not go! For we will live together on this isle Which time has builded in the deeps for us-- We two together, one in ecstasy, Throughout eternity; for time shall fall From off us; and the world shall be no more: And God, if God should stand between us now..." Faltering, he paused; and Marna stood, afraid, Quaking before him; but she spake no word. Across the waters came the plash of oars; But Oswald heard them not, and once more cried: "You will not go--thrusting me back to death? For now I know the strange, new thing you brought For me from out the storm was life--yea, life; And I am one arisen from the grave. You will not thrust me back and take again That which you came through storm to bring to me? You will not go? I cannot let you go!" He ceased; and now the even plash of oars Came clearer. One dread moment Marna stood Swaying; then, stretching forth her arms, she cried: "Ah God! Ah God! Why hath Thy cold hand set This doom upon me? Must I ever bear Death and disaster unto whom I love? Oh, is it not enough that, 'neath the wave, Because I sought to bear them company, My father and my brothers lie in death? But this--ah God--that it should come to this! Must I bear ever death within my hands?" She paused one moment, with wild-heaving breast; Then, turning unto Oswald, spake again, With softer voice: "But you--have you no pity? You who are but God's servant--surely you Have pity on my weakness. From this doom Which overhangs me you must set me free. You say I brought you life; but in me lies For you--the priest of God--a death more deep Than all the drowning fathoms of the sea. I go, that you may live. If life indeed I brought you, I was but the torch of God To kindle the clear flame of your strong soul To burn, a beacon o'er His lonely seas." She ceased, with arms outstretched and lighted eyes. As on some holy vision Oswald gazed In rapt, adoring fear; nor spake, nor stirred. Near, and yet nearer, drew the plash of oars; And, turning in the boat, the brethren looked With wondering eyes upon them, whispering: "Lo, Some seraph-messenger of God most high Tarries with Oswald. See the strange new peace That burns his face like a white altar-flame. Not yet must we draw near, lest our weak sight Be blinded by that glory of gold hair That gleams so strangely in the light of dawn." When purple gloomed the wintry ridge Against the sunset's windy flame, From pine-browed hills, along the bridge, An unknown rider came. I watched him idly from the tower. Though he nor looked nor raised his head; I felt my life before him cower I saw him to the portal win Unchallenged, and no lackey stirred To take his bridle when within He strode without a word. Through all the house he passed unstayed, Until he reached my father's door; The hinge shrieked out like one afraid; Then silence fell once more. All night I hear the chafing ice Float, griding, down the swollen stream; I lie fast-held in terror's vice, Nor dare to think or dream. I only know the unknown knight Keeps vigil by my father's bed: Oh, who shall wake to see the light Flame all the east with red? The King's Death FIRST SLAVE: He sleeps. SECOND SLAVE: He sleeps, whom only death shall rouse To dread unsleeping in another world. FIRST SLAVE: How long the careful night has kept him wakeful, As if sleep loathed to snare him for our knives! SECOND SLAVE: Yea, we have crouched so close in quaking dark I scarce can lift my sword-arm: strike you first. FIRST SLAVE: The heavy waiting hours have crushed my strength; The hate that burst to such an eager flame Within my heart has smouldered to dull ash, Which pity breathes to scatter. SECOND SLAVE: Knows he pity? FIRST SLAVE: Nay, he is throned above his slaughtered kin, A reeking sword his sceptre. He has broken, Strong lives to feed the blaze of his ambition; Yet shall a slave's hand strike cold death in him For whom kings sweat like slaves? SECOND SLAVE: Yea, at the stroke One slave lies dead--a hundred kings are born; For every man that breathes will be a king; Vast empires, beaten-dust beneath his feet, Will rise again and teem with kingly men, When he, their death, is dead FIRST SLAVE: How still he sleeps! The tempest shrieks to wake him, yet he slumbers. As seas that foam against unyielding scars, The mad wind storms the castle, wall and tower, And is not spent. Hark, it has found a breach-- Some latch unloosed--the house is full of wind; It rushes, wailing, down the corridor; It seeks the King; it cries on him to waken; Now 'tis without, and shakes the rattling bolt; Lo, it has broken in, in little gusts, I feel it in my hair; 'twill lay cold fingers Upon his lips, and start him from his sleep. See, it has whipt the yellow flame to smoke. SECOND SLAVE: And now it fails; the heavy, hanging gold That shelters him from night is all unstirred. FIRST SLAVE: Even the wind must pause. SECOND SLAVE: 'Twas but a breeze To blow our sinking courage to clear fire. Too long we loiter; soon the approaching day Will take us, slaves who grasp the arms of men Yet dare not plunge them save in our own breasts. Come, let us strike! (_They approach the bed and draw aside the curtain._) FIRST SLAVE: The King--how still he sleeps! Can majesty in such calm slumber lie? SECOND SLAVE: Come, falter not, strike home! FIRST SLAVE: Hold, hold your hand, For death has stolen a march upon our hate; He does not breathe. SECOND SLAVE: The stars have wrought for us, And we are conquerors with unbloodied hands. FIRST SLAVE: Nay, nay, for in our thoughts his life was spilt; While yet our bodies lagged in fettered fear, Our shafted breath sped on and stabbed his sleep. Oh, red for all the world, across our brows, Our murderous thoughts have burned the brand of Cain. See, through the window stares the pitiless day! "I fear the Knight of the Wood," she said "For him may no man overthrow. Where boughs are matted thick o'erhead, There gleams, amid the shadows dread, The terror of his armour red; And all men fear him, high and low; Yet all must through the forest go." She paused awhile where larches flame About the borders of the wood; Then, crying loud on Love's high name To keep her maiden-heart from shame, She entered, and full-swiftly came Where, hooded with a scarlet hood, A rider in her pathway stood. She saw the gleam of armour red; She saw the fiery pennon wave Its flaming terror overhead 'Mid writhing boughs and shadows dread. "Ah God," she cried: "that I were dead, And laid for ever in my grave!" Then, swooning, called on Love to save. Among the springing fern she fell, And very nigh to death she lay; Till, like the fading of a spell At ringing of the matin-bell, The darkness left her; by a well She waked beneath the open day, And rose to go upon her way; When, once again, the ruddy light Of arms she saw, and turned to flee; But clutching brambles stayed her flight; While, marvelling, she saw the Knight Unhooded; and his eyes were bright With April colours of the sea; And crowned as a King was he. She knelt before him in the ferns, And sang: "O Lord of Love, I bow Before thy shield, where blazoned burns The flaming heart with light that turns The night to day. O heart that yearns For love, lo, Love before thee now-- The wild-wood knight with crowned brow!" Above Thy halo's burning blue For ever hovers the White Dove; Thy heart enshrines, for ever new, The Cross--the Crown of all Thy love; While, sapphire wing on sapphire wing, About Thee choiring angels swing Gold censers, and bright candles bear. Because I have no heart to sing, I come to Thee with all my care, Because the sword hath pierced Thy side, Thy brows are crowned with circling gold. The woe of all the world doth hide Within Thy mantle's azure fold. Because Thou, too, hast dwelt with fears, Through lingering days and endless years, I find no comfort otherwhere, Our Lady beautiful with tears, Our Lady sorrowfully fair, My feet have travelled the hot road Between the poppies' barren fires; But now I cast aside the load Of burning hopes and wild desires That ever fierce and fiercer grew. Thy peace falls like a falling dew Upon me as I kneel in prayer, Because Thou hast known sorrow, too, Because Thou, too, hast known despair, Love, take my hand, and look not with sad eyes Through the valley-shades: for us, the mountains rise; Beneath the cold, blue-cleaving peaks of snow Like flame the April-blossomed almonds blow-- Spring-grace and winter-glory intertwined Within the glittering web that colour weaves. _Yet who are they who troop so close behind_ _With raiment rustling like frost-withered leaves_ _That burden winter-winds with ever-restless sighs?_ Love, look not back, nor ever hearken more To murmuring shades; for us, the river-shore Is lit with dew-hung daffodils that gleam On either side the tawny, foaming stream That bears through April with triumphal song Dissolving winter to the brimming sea. _Yet who are they who, ever-whispering, throng,_ _With lean, grey lips that shudder piteously,_ _As if from some bright fruit of bitter-tasting core?_ Nay, look not back, for, lo, in tranced light Love stays awhile his world-encircling flight To wait our coming from the valley-ways; See where, a hovering fire amid the blaze, He pants aflame with irised plumes unfurled Above the utmost pinnacle of noon. _Yet who are they who wander through the world_ _Like weary clouds about a wintry moon,_ _With wan, bewildered brows that bear eternal night?_ Love, look not back, nor fill thy heart with woe Of old, sad loves that perished long ago; For ever after living lovers tread Pale, yearning ghosts of all earth's lovers dead. A little while with life we lead the train Ere we, too, follow, cold, some breathing love. _I fear their fevered eyes and hands that strain_ _To snatch our joy that flutters bright above,_ _To shadow with grey death its ruddy, pulsing glow._ Love, look not back in this life-crowning hour When all our love breaks into perfect flower Beneath the kindling heights of frozen time. Come, Love, that we with happy haste may climb Beyond the valley, and may chance to see Some unknown peak that cleaves unfading skies. _Old sorrow saps my strength; I may not flee_ _The flame of passionate hunger in their eyes;_ _Beseeching shade on shade--they hold me in their power._ Love, look not back, for, all too brief, our day, In wilder glories flameth fast away. Lo, even now, the northern snow-ridge glows-- With purple shadowed--from pale gold to rose That shivers white beneath stars dawning cold. Lift up thine eyes ere all the colour fades. _Ah, rainbow-plumed Love in airs of gold,_ _Too late I turn, a shade among the shades._ _To follow, death-enthralled, thy flight through ages grey._ MOTHER: Son, come home, nor tarry here In this peril-haunted place. My old heart is filled with fear By the white flame of thy face, And thine eyes whose restless fire Burneth ever wild and clear As red peats between the bars. Son, come home; the night is cold; Dropping from the wintry stars, Tingling frost falls through the air; See, the bents are white with rime; All the sheep are in the fold; All the cattle in the byre; Only we, of live things, roam O'er the fells so far from home; E'en the red fox in his lair Snuggles close to keep him warm; And the lonely, wandering hare Crouches, shivering, in her form; While by Greenlea's frozen edge Hides the mallard in the sedge. Son, come home; the ingle-seat Waits thee by the glowing peat, And the door is off the latch. Come, and we will feast and sing, As of old at Christmas time, Until thou wilt drowse and nod And with slumber-drooping head Gladly seek thy bracken-bed Underneath the heather-thatch; Where the healing sleep will bring Unto thee the peace of God. Son, come home! Whom seekest thou there? HERD: Guenevere! O Guenevere! MOTHER: Cry no more on Guenevere. Some wild warlock of the fells, Born beneath the Devil's Scars, Lures thee forth to drown thy soul Deep in Broomlea-water cold. Guenevere no longer dwells Anywhere beneath the stars; Though she walked these Crags of old, Many hundred years ago, Into earth she sank like snow; As a sunset-cloud in rain Breaks, and showers the thirsty plain, All the glory of her hair Fell to earth, we know not where. Leave thy foolish quest forlorn. Lo, to-night a King is born, Who, when earthly kings at last Into wildering night are passed, Yet shall wear the crown of morn. Mary, Thou whose love may turn Eyes that after evil burn, Draw his soul, that strays so far, To Thy Son's white throning-star. Queen of Heaven, hear my prayer! HERD: Guenevere! O Guenevere! MOTHER: Low she lies, and may not hear. The white lily, Guenevere, Ruthless time has trodden down; Arthur is a tarnished crown, High Gawain a broken spear, Percival a riven shield; They, who taught the world to yield, Closed with death and lost the field, Stricken by the last despair: Launcelot is but a name Blown about the winds of shame; Surely God has quenched the flame That burned men's souls for Guenevere. Mary, heed a mother's woe; Mary, heed a mother's tears! Thou, whose heart so long ago Knew the pangs and hopes and fears We poor mortal mothers know; Thou, to whom, on Christmas-morn, Christ, the Son of God, was born; Thou whose mother-love hath pressed The sweet Babe against thy breast; And with wondering joy hath felt The warm clutch of little hands, When the Kings from far-off lands-- Crowned with gold, in gold attire-- With the simple shepherds knelt 'Mid the beasts within the byre; Mary, if Thy heart, afraid, When beyond Thy care he strayed, Sometimes grieved that he must grow Unlike other boys and men-- Filled with dreams beyond Thy ken, Anguished with diviner woe, Pangs more fiery than Thy pain, Deeper than Thy dark despair-- From the perils of the night Give me back my son again. Thou, whose love may never fail, Heed a lonely mother's prayer! Come in all Thy healing might! MOTHER: Mary, Queen of Heaven, hail! HERD (_falling forward_): Guenevere! Guenevere! SCENE: _A rock in the midst of the North Sea,_ _whereon the three kings, bound naked by conquering_ _sea-rovers, have been left to perish._ VOICE OF THE DAWN-WIND: Awaken, O sea, from thy starry dream; Awaken, awaken! For delight of thy slumber not one pale gleam From dim star-clusters remaineth unshaken. All night I have haunted the valleys and rivers; Now hither I come-- Ere, quickened with sunlight, the drowsy east quivers-- To stir thy grey waters, of starlight forsaken, To loosen white foam in the red of the dawn. WAVE-VOICES: The sound of thy voice Has broken our sleep; All night we have waited thee, herald of light. We arise, we rejoice At thy bidding to leap, And spray with our laughter the trail of the night. All night we have waited thee, weary of stars-- The little star-dreams, and the sleep without song; The deep-brooding slumber of silence that holds Our melody mute in the uttermost deep. O Wind of the Dawn, we have waited thee long; The sound of thy voice Has broken our sleep; We arise, we rejoice At thy bidding to leap, With a tumult of singing, a rapture of spray, To scatter our joy in the path of the day. GARLAND: Day comes at last, beyond the sea's grey rim; The young sun leaps in sudden might of gold. ASHALORN: Before his fire our lives will smoulder dim; Like stars we shine, we fade; the tale is told, And all our empty splendour put to scorn; Fate leaves us, who were clothed in pride, forlorn, To perish, naked, in this lonely sea. But yesterday we ruled as kings of earth; Frail men to-day; to-morrow, who shall be? ARLO: But yesterday my cup of life was filled To overflowing with the wine of mirth-- The plashing joy from fruitful years distilled. GARLAND: But yesterday my kinghood sprang to birth; My fingers scarce had grasped the might new-born, When from my clutch the glittering pomp was torn. SEA-VOICES: They slumber, they slumber, the kings in their pride. The sails of the Rover are red in the wind; And white is the trail of the foam flung behind. They have fallen, have fallen, the kings in their pride; Their sea-gates are forced by the rush of the tide; Their splendour is scattered as surf on the wind; And red is the trail of the terror behind. Forsaken, forlorn, On a rock of the sea, In anguish they bow, And wait for the night and the darkness to be; Oh, bright was the gold in their hair; The sea-weed, in scorn, Is twined in it now; Oh, rich was their raiment and rare, Blue, purple, and gold, In fold upon fold; Of glory and majesty shorn, They are clothed with the wind of despair. GARLAND: Lo, the live waters run to greet the day: Even so I laughed to see the soaring light; My life was poised like yonder curving wave To break in such bright revel of keen spray. ARLO: I counted not the years that took their flight, Gold-crowned and singing; every hour I stood, As one enchanted in an April wood, In some new paradise of scent and flowers. I counted not the countless, careless hours, The days of rapture and the nights of peace. How should I dream that such delight could pass, Such colour fade, such flowing numbers cease, My glory perish where was none to save, And all my strength be trodden in the grass? ASHALORN: Oh, blest art thou who diest in thy youth; Oh, blest art thou who failest in thy prime; While yet thine eyes are full of wondering truth; Ere yet thy feet have found the ways of thorn. Too long I wandered down the vale of time, A lonely wind, all songless and forlorn; For I have found the empty heart of things, The secret sorrow of the summer rose, And all the sadness of the April green; I know that every happy stream that springs Into a sea of bitter memories flows; I know the curse that God has set on kings-- The solitary splendour and the crown Of desolation, and the prisoning state; The heart that yearns beneath the robe of gold, The soul that starves behind the golden gate. I know how chance has reared our earthly thrones Upon a shifting wrack of whitened bones, Of heroes fallen in the wars of old-- By wind upbuilded and by wind cast down. SEA-VOICES: As foam on the edge of the waters of night, They flicker and fall; More brief than delight, More frail than their tears, They flicker and fall In the tide of the years; Awhile they may triumph, as lords of the earth, With feasting and mirth, Yet the winds and the waters shall sweep over all. From the purple and green of the moorlands I come, To sweep o'er thy waters with turbulent flight, To sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might; I lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam, With laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray; To thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold, I thrill thee with rapture, then wander away. I have drunk the red wine of the heather, and swept Over moorland and fell, for mile upon mile. The little blue loughs were merry, and leapt, With a shaking of laughter, in dim, dreaming hollows; The little blue loughs were merry, and flung Their spray on my wings as above them I swung; I laughed to their laughter, and dallied awhile; Then left them to sink in the silence that follows. In the forest I stirred, like the chant of thy tides, The song of the boughs and the branches a-swinging; The ashes and beeches and oak-trees were singing, Like the noise of thy waters when dark tempest rides. I swung on the crest of the pine-trees a-swaying, As now on thy green, flowing surges, O sea; I piped in my triumph, they danced to my playing; I left them a-murmur, to hasten to thee. The white clouds were driven like ships through the air, And grey flowed the shadows o'er sea-coloured bent, And dark on the heathland, and dark on the wold: But here on thy waters, where all things grow fair, They shadow with purple thine emerald and gold. My revel unbroken, my rapture unspent, To thy far-shining wonder, O sea, I have come, To sweep o'er thy splendour with turbulent flight; To sway thee, and swing thee abroad in my might; I lean to thy lips, to their white, curling foam, With laughter and kisses, to smite it to spray; To thine uttermost deep, unlitten and cold, I thrill thee with rapture, then wander away. GARLAND: There is no sadness in the world but death. The years that whitened o'er thy head have taken The colour from thy life, but still in me The blood beats young and red; yea, still my breath Is full of freshness as the wind that blows Across the morning-fells when night has shaken His cooling dews among the wakening heath. Yea, now the wind that lashes o'er the sea Stings all my quivering body to keen life And whips the blood into my straining limbs; And all the youth within me springs to fire; I am consumed with ravening desire For one brief, wild, delirious hour of strife; I yearn for every joy that flies or swims, Rides on the wind or with the water flows. Yet I must die by patient, slow degrees, With hourly wasting flesh and parching blood; Ah God, that I might leap into the flood, And perish struggling in the adventurous seas! ARLO: My mouth is filled with saltness, and I thirst For forest-pools that bubble in the shade, When loud the hot chase pants through every glade, And fleeing fawns from every thicket burst; Or clear wine vintaged when the world was young, Gurgling from deep-mouthed jars of coloured stone. ASHALORN: The noonday burns my body to the bone, And sets a coal of fire upon my tongue, Between my lips, and stifles all my breath. Oh come, thou only joy undying, death! WAVE-VOICES: O wind, that failing, failing, failing, dies, Beneath the heat of August-laden skies, Sinking in sleep, sinking in quiet sleep-- Thy blue wings folded o'er our dreaming deep We too are weary, weary in the noon; We too will fall in shining slumber soon-- Foamless and still, foamless and very still, Unstirred, unshaken by thy restless will. Yet there are eyes that cannot, cannot close, And strong souls racked by fiery, rending woes-- Never to rest, never to gather rest By any stream of murmuring waters blest. But slumber falling, falling, on us lies, Silent and deep, beneath noon-laden skies, Silent and deep, silent and very deep, With blue wings folded o'er our dreaming sleep. VOICE OF THE EVENING WIND: I have shaken the noon from my wings, I arise To quicken the flame in the western skies-- To blow the clouds to a streaming flame, Where the red sun sinks in the opal sea, And red as the heart of the opal glows His last wild gleam in the waters grey. O grey-green waters, curling to rose, The kings are glad of the dying day; The kings are weary; the white mists close-- The white mists gather to cover their shame. ASHALORN: The evening mist is dank upon my brow, And cold upon my lips--yea, cold as death; Yet, through the gloom, she gazes on me now, As in our early-wedded days; her breath Is warm once more upon my withered cheek. O gaunt, grey lips, that strive but may not speak; O cold, grey eyes, that flicker in the gloam-- Long have we strayed; come, let us wander home! ARLO: Like lit September woodlands, streameth down Her hair, beneath the circle of her crown; Of rarer, redder glory than the cold Dead metal that for ever strives to hold The ever-straying wonder of live gold! Like woodland pools, her eyes, a dreaming brown-- Like woodland pools where autumn-splendours drown! O red-gold tresses, shaking in the gloam, Unto your light, unto your shade I come! GARLAND: Her eyes are azure as the wind-blown sea, With deep sea-shadowings of grey and green; And like an April storm her shining hair-- Yea, all the glittering Aprils that have been, And all the wondering Aprils yet to be, Have stored their wealth of shower and sunshine there; Yea, all the thousand, thousand springs of earth New-lit and re-awakened at her birth, In her sweet body glow and glimmer fair. O wonder of sea-colours and white foam And April glories, to thine arms I come! and the last, red flame Has faded away in a shimmer of rose-- A shimmer of rose that shivers to grey. The kings are glad of the dying day-- The kings are weary; the white mists close, The white mists gather to cover their shame. The day has come; at last my dream unfolds White, wondering petals with the rising sun. No other glade in Love's world-garden holds So fair a bloom from vanquished winter won. Long, oh, so long I watched through budding hours, And, trembling, feared my dream would never wake; As, one by one, I saw star-tranced flowers Out on the night their dewy splendour shake. But with the earliest gleam of dawn it stirred, Knowing that Love had put the dark to flight; And I must sing more glad than any bird Because the sun has filled my dream with light. Is it high noon, already, in the land? O Love, I dreamed that morn could never pass; That we might ever wander, hand in hand, As children in June-meadows plucking flowers, Through ever-waking, fresh-unfolding hours: Yet now we sink love-wearied in the grass; Yea, it is noon, high noon in all the land. The young wind slumbers; all the little birds That sang about us in the fields of morn Are songless now; no happy flight of words On Love's lip hovers--Love has waxed to noon. Ah, God, if Love should wane to evening soon To perish in a sunless world, forlorn, And cease with the last song of weary birds! At dawn I gathered flowers of white, To garland them for your delight. At noon I gathered flowers of blue, To weave them into joy for you. At eve I gather purple flowers, To strew above the withered hours. She knelt at eve beside the stream, And, sighing, sang: "O waters clear, Forsaken now of joy and fear, I come to drown a withered dream. "Unseen of day, I let it fall Within the shadow of my hair. O little dream, that bloomed so fair, The waters hide you after all!" "Is it not dawn?" she cried, and raised her head, "Or hath the sun, grey-shrouded, yesternight, Gone down with Love for ever to the dead? When Love has perished, can there yet be light?" "Yea, it is dawn," one answered: "see the dew Quivers agleam, and all the east is white; While in the willow song begins anew." "When Love has perished, can there yet be light?" ARKELD: Oh, why did you lift your eyes to mine? Oh, why did you lift your drooping head? AVERLAINE: The tangled threads of the fates entwine Our hearts that follow as children led. ARKELD: From the utmost ends of the earth we came, As star moves starward through wildering night. AVERLAINE: Our souls have mingled as flame with flame, Yea, they have mingled as light with light. ARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been! AVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow that falls between! ARKELD: The stars in their courses move through the sky Unswerving, unheeding, cold and blind. AVERLAINE: Why did you linger nor pass me by Where the cross-roads meet in the ways that wind? ARKELD: I saw your eyes from the dusk of your hair Flame out with sorrow and yearning love. AVERLAINE: And I, who wandered with grey despair, Looking up, saw heaven in blossom above. ARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been! AVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow that falls between! ARKELD: May we not go as we came, alone, Unto the ends of the earth anew? AVERLAINE: May we draw afresh from the rose new-blown The golden sunlight, the crystal dew? ARKELD: Yea, love between us has bloomed as a rose Out of the desert under our feet. AVERLAINE: May we forget how the red heart glows, Forget that the dew on the petals is sweet? ARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been! AVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow that falls between! ARKELD: Have the ages brought us together that we Might tremble, start at shadows, and cry? AVERLAINE: Yea, it has been, and ever will be Till Sorrow be slain or Love's self die. ARKELD: Stronger than Sorrow is Love; and Hate, The brother of Love, shall end our Sorrow. AVERLAINE: The Shadow is strong with the strength of Fate, And, slain, would rise from the grave to-morrow. ARKELD: Ah God, ah God, that it never had been! AVERLAINE: The Shadow, the Shadow for ever between! AVERLAINE: Yea, we must part, and tear with ruthless hands The golden web wherein, too late, Love strove To weave us joy and bind us heart to heart. ARKELD: Yea, we must part, and strew on desert-sands Petal by petal all the rose of Love, And part for ever where the cross-ways part. AVERLAINE: Yea, we must part, and never turn our eyes From strange horizons, desolate and far, Though Love cry ever: "Turn but once, sad heart!" ARKELD: Yea, we must part, and under alien skies Must follow after some cold, gleaming star, And roam, as north and south winds roam, apart. AVERLAINE: Yea, we must part, ere Love be grown too strong And we too helpless to resist his might; While each may go with pure, unshamed heart. ARKELD: Yea, we must part; and though we do Love wrong, He will the more subdue us in our flight, And hold us each more surely his, apart. O love, I bade you go; and you have borne The summer with you from the valley-lands; The poppy-flame has perished from the corn; And in the chill, wan light of early morn The reapers come in doleful, starveling bands, To bind the blackened sheaves with listless hands; For rain has put their sowing-toil to scorn. O Love, I bade you go; and autumn brings Bleak desolation; yet within my heart Unquenched and fierce the flame you kindled springs; For, echoing all day long, the courtyard rings As loud it rang when, rending Love apart, Your white horse cantered--swift and keen to start-- Into a world of other queens and kings. I bade you go; ah, wherefore are you gone? How could you leave me dark and desolate, O Sun of Love, that for brief summer shone? Mine eyes are ever on the western gate, Half-wishing, half-foredreading your return. Return, O Love, return! I cannot live without you; through the dark I stretch blind hands to you across the world; All day on unknown battle-fields I mark Your sword's red course, your banner blue unfurled; Yet never, in my day-dreams, you return. Return, O Love, return! Nay, you are gone: O Love, I bade you go. I would not have you come again to be A stranger in this house of silent woe, Where, being all, you would be naught to me. Mine, mine in dreams, but lost if you return; Oh, nevermore return! "To-day a wandering harper came With outland tales of deeds of fame; I hearkened from the noonday bright Until the failing of the light, The while he sang of joust and fight; Yet never once I caught your name. Oh, whither, whither are you gone, Whose name victorious ever shone Above all knights of other lands? Across what wilderness of sands? By what dead sea-deserted strands? On what far quest of Love forlorn? I loved you when men called you Lord Arkeld, the never-sleeping sword; Yet now, when all your might is furled, And you no longer crest the world, More are you mine than when you hurled Destruction on the embattled horde. Oh, deeper in the silent house The silence falls; Only the stir of bat or mouse About the walls. No cry, no voice in any room, No gust of breath; As if, within the clutch of doom, We waited death. The King is dead; No longer now The cold eyes gleam Beneath his brow. O cold, grey eyes, Wherein the light Of Love at dawn Seemed clear and bright, No true Love burned Your cold desire, Which mirrored but My own heart's fire. The King died yesterday.... Ah, no, he died When young Love perished long, so long ago; And on his throne, as marble at my side, Has reigned a carven image, cold as snow, Though all men bowed before it, crying: "King!" Too late, too late the chains which held me fall; Rock-bound, I bade the victor-knight go by; And now, when time has loosed me from the thrall, I know not where he tarries, 'neath what sky He waits the winter's end, the dawn of spring. Spring comes no more for me: though young March blow To flame the larches, and from tree to tree The green fire leap, till all the woodlands glow-- Though every runnel, filled to overflow, Bear sea-ward, loud and brown with melted snow, Spring comes no more for me! Spring comes no more for me: though April light The flame of gorse above the peacock sea; Though in an interweaving mesh of white The seagulls hover 'neath the cliff's sheer height; Though, hour by hour, new joys are winged for flight, Spring comes no more for me! Spring comes no more for me: though May will shake White flame of hawthorn over all the lea, Till every thick-set hedge and tangled brake Puts on fresh flower of beauty for her sake; Though all the world from winter-sleep awake, Spring comes no more for me! I wandered through the city till I came Within the vast cathedral, cool and dim; I looked upon the windows all aflame With blazoned knights and saints and seraphim. I looked on kings in purple, gold and blue, On martyrs high before whom all men bow; Until a gleam of light my footsteps drew Before a shining seraph, on whose brow A little flame, for ever pure and white, Unwavering burns--the symbol of our love; And as I knelt before him in the night, He looked, compassionate, on me from above. I heard a harper 'neath the castle walls Sing, for night-shelter in the house of thralls, A song of hapless lovers; in the shade I paused awhile, unseen of man or maid. Taking his harp, he touched the moaning strings, And sang of queens unloved and loveless kings; His song shot through my fluttering heart like flame Till, wondering, I heard him breathe your name. Oh, then I knew how all the deathless wrong Time wrought of old is but a harper's song; And all the hopeless sorrow of long years An idle tale to win a stranger's tears. Yea, in the song of Love's immortal dead Our love was told; with shuddering heart I fled, And strove to pass upon my way unseen, But song was hushed with whispers: "Lo, the Queen!" Was it for this we loved, O Time, to be Among Love's deathless through eternity, Set high on lone, divided peaks above The sheltered summer-valley, broad and green? Was it for this our joy and grief have been, Our barren day-dreams, dream-deserted nights-- That valley-lovers, looking up, might see How vain is Love among the starry heights, And, loving, sigh: "How vain a thing is Love!"? O Love, that we had found thee in the shade Where, all day long, the deep, leaf-hidden glade Hears but the moan of some forsaken dove, Or the clear song of happy, nameless streams; Where, all night long, the August moonlight gleams Through warm, green dusk, no longer cold and white! O Love, that we had found thee, unafraid, One summer morn, and followed thee till night, As unknown valley-lovers follow Love! I have grown old, awaiting spring's return, And, now spring comes, I stand like winter grey In a young world; yet warm within me burn The morning-fires Love kindled in youth's day. I have grown old; the young folk look on me With sighs, and wonder that I once was fair, And whisper one another: "Is this she? Did summer ever light that winter hair? "Ah, she is old; yet, she, too, once was young: Yea, loved as we love even, for men tell How bright her beauty burned on every tongue, And how a knightly stranger loved her well. "Yet Love grows old that beats so young and warm; His leaping fires in dust and ashes fail; Shall we, too, wither in the winter-storm, And wander thus one April, old and frail?" Love grows not old, O lovers, though youth die, And bodily beauty perish as the flower; Though all things fail, though spring and summer fly, Love's fire burns quenchless till the last dark hour. O valley-lovers, think you love, Being all of joy, knows naught of sorrow? A day, a night Of swift delight That fears no dread, grey-dawning morrow? O valley-lovers, think you love Knows only laughter, naught of weeping? A rose-red fire Of warm desire For ever burning, never sleeping? O lovers, little know ye Love. Love is a flame that feeds on sorrow-- A lone star bright Through endless night That waits a never-dawning morrow. "Thus would I sing of life, Ere I must yield my breath: Though broken in the strife, I sought not after death. Though ruthless years have scourged My soul with sorrow's brands, And, day by day, have urged My feet o'er desert-sands; Yet would I rather tread Again the bitter trail, Than lie, calm-browed and pale, Among the loveless dead. No pang would I forego, No stab of suffering, No agony of woe, If I to life might cling; If I might follow still, For evermore, afar, O'er barren dale and hill, My Love's unfading star. Yea, now, with failing breath, Thus would I sing of life: Though broken in the strife, I sought not after death. Darkness has come upon me in the end; Darkness has come upon me like a friend, Yet undesired; why comest thou, O night, To seal mine eyes for ever from the light? Darkness has come upon me; yet a star Burns through the night and beckons me from far. Look up, O eyes, unfaltering, without fear; O morning-star of Love, the dawn is near! Across his stripling shoulders Geoffrey felt The knighting-sword fall lightly, and he heard The King's voice bid him rise; and at the word He rose, new-flushed with knighthood, swiftly grown To sudden manhood, though, but now, he knelt A vigil-wearied squire before the throne. He paused one moment while the people turned To look on him with eyes that kindled bright, Seeing his face aglow with strange, new light; Yet them he saw not where they watched amazed, And, though like azure flames Queen Hild's eyes burned, Beyond the shadow of the throne he gazed To where, in kindred rapture, young Christine Stood, tremulous and white, in wind-flower grace-- Beneath her thick, dark hair, her happy face Pale-gleaming 'midst the ruddy maiden-throng; But, following Geoffrey's eyes, the trembling Queen Now bade the harpers rouse the air with song: From pulsing throat and silver-throbbing string The music soared, light-winged, and, fluttering, fell; When, startled as one waking from a spell, Geoffrey stepped back among the waiting knights; While knelt another squire before the King. In Queen Hild's eyes yet hovered stormy lights, Beneath her glooming brows, as waters gleam Under snow-laden skies; the summer day For her in that brief glance had shivered grey, Empty of light and song. She only heard The King and knights as people of a dream; Yet keenly Geoffrey's lightest, laughing word Stung to the quick, and stabbed her quivering life, Till from each shuddering wound the red joy flowed; And, though a ruddy fire on each cheek glowed, She felt her drained heart within her cold; Then all at once a hot thought stirred new strife Within her breast, and suddenly grown old And wise in treacherous imagining, She pressed her thin lips to a bitter smile, And strove with laughing mask to hide the guile That, slowly welling, through her body poured Cold-blooded life that feels no arrowy sting Of joy or hope, nor thrust of pity's sword. To Christine, where she yet enraptured stood, Hild, turning, spake kind words, and coldly praised The new-made knight. Each word Christine amazed Drank in with joyous heart and eager ears; To her it seemed ne'er lived a Queen so good; And love's swift rapture filled her eyes with tears. For her true heart, the day-long pageant moved Round Geoffrey's shining presence; king and knight But shone for her with pale, reflected light. As tranced planets circling round the sun, About the radiant head of her beloved The dim throngs moved until the day was done. When lucent gold suffused the cloudless west, And lingering thrush-notes failed in drowsy song, She left, at last, the weary maiden-throng, To stray alone through dew-hung garden-glades; And all the love unsealed within her breast Flowed out from her to light the darkest shades. Her quivering maiden-body could not hold The sudden welling of love's loosened flood; Through all her limbs it gushed, and in her blood It stormed each throbbing pulse with blissful ache; It seemed to spray the utmost glooms with gold, And scatter glistening dews in every brake. While yet she moved in rapture unafraid Among the lilies, down the Grey Nun's Walk, She heard behind the snapping of a stalk, And stayed transfixed, nor dared to turn her head, But stood a solitary, trembling maid-- Forlorn and frail, with all her courage fled. Thus Geoffrey found her as, hot-foot, he pressed To pour about her all the glowing tide Day-pent within his heart; the flood-gates wide, His love swept over her, sea after sea, Until life almost swooned within her breast, And she seemed like to drown in ecstasy. Yet, as the tempest sank in calm at last, She rose from out the foam of love, new-born-- As Venus from the irised surf of morn-- To such triumphant beauty, Geoffrey, thralled, Before her stood in wonder rooted fast; Even his love within him bowed appalled In tongueless worship as he gazed on her; While, lily-like, the tranced flowers among, She stood, love-radiant, and above her hung The canopy of star-enkindling night; Though, when again she moved with joyous stir, He sprang to her in love's unchallenged might. All night, beside her slumbering lord, the Queen Tossed sleepless--every aching sense astrain With tingling wakefulness that racked like pain Her weary limbs; all night, in wide-eyed dread, She watched the slow hours moving dark between The glimmering window and the curtained bed. The fitful calling of the owl, all night, Struck like the voice of terror on her ears; With brushing wings, about her taloned fears Fluttered till dawn: when, as the summer gloom, Grey-quivering, spilt in silver-showering light, She rose and stood within the dawning room, Shivering and pale--her long, unbraided hair Each moment quickening to a livelier gold About her snowy shoulders; yet, more cold Than the still gleam of winter-frozen meres, Her blue eyes shone with strange, unseeing stare, As though they sought to pierce some mist of fears; And, when she turned, the old familiar things Unknown and alien seemed to her sight-- Outworn and faded in the morning light The rose-embroidered tapestries, and frail The painted Love that hung on irised wings Above the sleeping King. Dark-browed and pale She looked upon her lord, and fresh despair With dreadful calm through all her being stole, And froze with icy breath the flickering soul That strove within her. Evil courage steeled Her heart once more, as, combing back her hair, She watched the waking world of wood and field: Hay-harvesters with long scythes flashing white; The dewy-browsing deer; the blue smoke-curl Above some woodland hut; a kerchiefed girl Driving the kine afield with loitering pace. But, as a youthful rider came in sight, She from the casement turned with darkening face, And looked not out again, and fiercely pressed Her white teeth in her quivering underlip, To stifle the wild cry that strove to slip From her strained throat; with clutching hands she sought To stay the throbbing tumult of her breast That fluttered like a bird in meshes caught. Christine as yet in dreamless slumber lay Within her turret-chamber; but a bird Within the laurel singing softly stirred Her eyes to wakeful life, and from her bed She rose and stood within the light of day, White-faced and wondering, with lifted head. As April-butterflies, new-winged for flight, That poise awhile in quivering amaze, Ere they may dare the unknown, glittering ways Of perilous airs--upon the brink of morn She paused one moment in the showering light, In radiant ecstasy of youth forlorn. Then swift remembrance flushed her virgin snow, And wakened in her eyes the living fire; With joyous haste she drew her bright attire About her trembling limbs, with eager hands, Veiling her maiden beauty's morning glow, Before she looked abroad on meadowlands, Where Geoffrey rode at dawn. Across the blaze Of dandelions silvering to seed, She saw his white horse swing with easy speed; He rode with head exultant in the breeze That lifted his brown hair. With lingering gaze She watched him vanish down an aisle of trees; Then, swiftly gathering her dark hair in braids Above her slender neck, she crossed the floor With noiseless step, unlatched the creaking door, And stole in trembling silence down the stair, Intent to reach the garden ere the maids Should come with chattering tongues and laughter there; When by her side she heard a rustling stir: The arras parted, and before her stood Queen Hild in proud, imperious womanhood, Looking upon her with cold, smiling eyes. In startled wonder Christine glanced at her. Then spake the Queen: "Do maids thus early rise To tend their household duties, or to feed The doves, relinquishing sleep's precious hours To see the morning dew upon the flowers And what frail blooms have perished 'neath the moon? To reach the Grey Nun's Walk, mayhap you speed-- To count the stricken buds of lilies strewn O'ernight upon the soil by careless feet That wandered there so late? Yea, now I know, Christine, because you flush and tremble so. Yet look you not on me with eyes that burn; I would not stay you when you go to greet The rider of the dawn on his return. Think you I leave my bed at break of day-- I, Hild the Queen--to thwart a lover's kiss? Think you my love of you could stoop to this, Though you would wed a fledgling, deedless Knight? Nay, shrink you not from me, turn not away; Because my heart has never known love's light, I fain would hear your happy tale of love, That I may prosper you and your fair youth. Will you not trust me?" Blind with love's glad truth, Christine sank down within Hild's outstretched arms. Speechless, awhile, with sobbing breath she strove; Then poured out all the tale of love's alarms, Raptures, despairs, and deathless ecstasies, In one quick torrent from her brimming heart; Then, quaking, ceased, and drew herself apart, Dismayed that she so easily had revealed To this white, cold-eyed Queen love's sanctities. Yet Hild moved not, but stood, with hard lips sealed, Until, the chiming of the turret-bell Recalling her, she spake with far-off voice: "I, loveless, in your innocent love rejoice. May nothing stem its eager raptured course! Oh, that my barren heart could love so well, And feel the surge of love's subduing force! Yet even I from out my dearth may give To you, Christine. Would you that Geoffrey's name Shall shine, unchallenged, on the lists of fame? If you would have him win for you the crown Of knightly immortality, and live Triumphant on men's tongues in high renown, Follow me now." With cold, exulting eyes She raised the arras, opening to the light An unknown stair-way clambering into night. Within the caverned wall she swiftly passed. Christine for one brief moment in surprise Uncertain paused; then, wondering, followed fast. The falling arras shutting out the day, She stumbled blindly through the soaring gloom-- Enclosing dank and chilly as the tomb Her panting life; and unto her it seemed That ever, as she climbed, more sheer the way Before her rose, and ever fainter gleamed The wan, white star of light that overhead Hovered remote. Far up the stair she heard A silken rustling as, without a word, Relentlessly Queen Hild before her sped For ever up the ever-soaring steep. But when it almost seemed that she must fall-- So loudly in her ears the pulses beat, And each step seemed to sink beneath her feet-- She heard the shrilly grating of a key, And saw, above her, in the unseen wall, A dazzling square of day break suddenly. Within the lighted doorway Queen Hild turned To reach a helping hand, and, as she bent To clutch the swooning maiden, well-nigh spent, And drew her to the chamber, weak and faint, Through her gold hair so rare a lustre burned, It seemed to Christine that an aureoled saint Leaned out from heaven to snatch her from the deep. Then, dizzily, she sank upon the floor, Dreaming that toil was over evermore, And she secure in Love's celestial fold; Till, waking gradually as from a sleep, Her dark eyes opened on a blaze of gold. She sat within a chamber hung around With glistering tapestry, whereon a knight, Who bore a golden helm above the fight, For ever triumphed o'er assailing swords, Or led the greenwood chase with horse and hound, While far behind him lagged the dames and lords And all the hunting train; till he, at length, Brought low the antlered quarry on the brink Of some deep, craggy cleft, wherefrom did shrink The quailing hounds with lathered flanks aquake. As Christine looked on them, her maiden-strength Returned to her; and now, more broad awake, She saw, within the centre of the room, A golden table whereon glittered bright A casket of wrought gold, and, in the light, Queen Hild, awaiting her, with smiling lips, And laughing words: "Is this then love's sad doom, To perish, fainting, in light's brief eclipse Between a curtain and a closed door? Shall this bright casket ever hold, unsought, The golden helm--in elfin-ages wrought For some star-destined knight--because love's heart Grows faint within her? Shall the world no more Acclaim its helmed lord?" But, with a start, Christine arose, and swiftly forward came With eager eyes, and stooped with fluttering breast-- Her slender, shapely hands together pressed In tense expectancy, and all her face With quivering light of wondering love aflame. The Queen bent down, and in a breathing space Unlocked the casket with a golden key, And deftly loosed a little golden pin; The heavy lid swung open and, within, To Christine's eyes revealed the golden helm. Then spake Queen Hild, once more: "Your love-gift see! Think you that any smith in all the realm Can beat dull metal to so fair a casque? This helm was wrought of magic-tempered gold To yieldless strength, by elfin-hammers chased, That toiled unwearied at their age-long task, And over it an unknown legend traced In letters of some world-forgotten tongue. At noon, with careful footing, down the stair Unto the hall the casket you must bear, When King and knight are gathered round the board, And, ere the tales be told or songs be sung, Acclaim your love the golden-helmed lord." Christine, awhile, in speechless wonderment, Hung o'er the glistering helm, and silence fell Within the arrased chamber like a spell; While softly, on some distant, sunlit roof, The basking pigeons cooed with deep content; Till, far below, a sudden-clanging hoof Startled the morn. The women's lifted eyes One moment met in kindred ecstasy; Then Hild, with hopeless shudder, shaking free, With strained voice spake: "Why do you longer wait? Your love returns; shall he, in sad surprise, Find no glad face to greet him at the gate?" As some new jest was tossed from tongue to tongue, Light laughter rippled round the midday board, Beneath the bannered rafters: dame and lord And maid and squire with merry chattering Sat feasting; though no motley humour wrung A smile from Hild, where she, beside the King, Watched pale and still. She saw on Geoffrey's face Grave wonder that he caught not anywhere Among the maids the dusk of Christine's hair, Or sunlight of her glance. His eyes, between The curtained doorway and her empty place, Kept eager, anxious vigil for Christine. But when, at last, the lingering meal nigh o'er, The waking harp-notes trembled through the hush, Like the light, fitful prelude of the thrush Ere his full song enchant the domed elm; The arras parting, through the open door She came. Before her borne, the golden helm Within the dim-lit hall shone out so bright, That lord and dame in rustling wonder rose, And squire and maiden sought to gather close, With questioning lips, about the love-bright maid. Christine, unheeding, turned nor left nor right; With lifted head and eager step unstayed, She strode to Geoffrey, while he stood alone, Radiant with wondering love--as one who sees The light of high, eternal mysteries Illume awhile the mortal shade that moves From out oblivion unto night unknown, Hugging a little grace of joys and loves. Before him now she came and, kneeling, spake, With slow, clear-welling voice: "In ages old This helm was wrought from elfin-hammered gold, For one who, in the after-days, should be Supreme above his kind, as, in the brake Of branching fern, the solitary tree That crests the fell-top. Unto you I bring The gift of destiny, that, as the sun New-risen of your knighthood, newly-won, The wondering world may see its glory shine." As Christine spake, with questioning glance the King Turned to the Queen, who gave no answering sign. Then, stretching forth his arm, he cried: "Sir knight, I know not by what evil chance this maid Has climbed the secret newell-stair unstayed And reached the casket-chamber, and has borne From thence the Helm of Strife, whereon the light Of day has never fallen, night or morn, For seven hundred years; but, ere you take The doomful gift, know this: he who shall dare To don the golden helm must ever fare Upon the edge of peril, ever ride Between dark-ambushed dangers, ever wake Unto the thunderous crash of battle-tide. Oh, pause before you take the fateful helm. Will you, so young, forego, for evermore, The sheltered haven-raptures of the shore, To strive in ceaseless tempest, till, at last, The fury-crested wave shall overwhelm Your broken life on death's dark crag upcast?" He ceased, and stood with eyes of hot appeal; An aching silence shuddered through the hall; None stirred nor spake, though, swaying like to fall, Christine, in mute, imploring agony, Wavered nigh death. As glittering points of steel Queen Hild's eyes gleamed in bitter victory. But all were turned to Geoffrey, where he stood In pillared might of manhood, very fair; His face a little paled beneath his hair, Though bright his eyes with all the light of day. At length he spake: "For evil or for good, I take the Helm of Strife; let come what may." Dawn shivered coldly through the meadowlands; The ever-trembling aspens by the stream Quivered with chilly light and fitful gleam; Ruffling the heavy foliage of the plane, Until the leaves turned, like pale, lifted hands, A cold gust stirred with presage of near rain. Coldly the light on Geoffrey's hauberk fell; But yet more cold on Christine's heart there lay The winter-clutch of grief, as, far away, She saw him ride, and in the stirrup rise And, turning, wave to her a last farewell. Beyond the ridge he vanished, and her eyes Caught the far flashing of the helm of gold One moment as it glanced with mocking light; Then naught but tossing pine-trees filled her sight. Yet darker gloomed the woodlands 'neath the drench Of pillared showers; colder and yet more cold Her heart had shuddered since the last, hot wrench Of parting overnight. Though still her mouth Felt the mute impress of love's sacred seal; Though still through all her senses seemed to steal The heavy fume of wound-wort that had hung All night about the hedgerows--parched with drouth; Though the first notes the missel-cock had sung, Ere darkness fled, resounded in her ears; Yet no hot tempest of tumultuous woe Shook her young body. As night-fallen snow Burdens with numb despair young April's green, Her sorrow lay upon her; hopes and fears Within her slept. As something vaguely seen Nor realised--since yesterday's dread noon Had shattered all love's triumph--life had passed About her like a dream by doom o'ercast. Long hours she sat, with silent, folded hands, And face that glimmered like a winter moon In cloudy hair. Across the rain-grey lands She gazed with eyes unseeing; till she heard A step within her chamber, and her name Fell dully on her ear; then like a flame Sharp anguish shot through every aching limb With keen remembrance. Suddenly she stirred, And, turning, looked on Hild. "Grieve you for him..." The Queen began; then, with a little gasp, Her voice failed, and she shrank before the gaze Of Christine's eyes, and, shrivelled by the blaze Of fires her hand had kindled, all her pride Fell shredded, and not even the gold clasp Of queenhood held, her naked deed to hide. She quailed, and, turning, fled from out the room. Soon Christine's wrath was drowned in whelming grief, And in the fall of tears she found relief-- As brooding skies in sweet release of rain. All day she wept, until, at length, the gloom Of eve laid soothing hands upon her pain. Then, once again, she rose, calm-browed, and sped Downstairs with silent step, and reached, unstayed, The Grey Nun's Walk, where all alone a maid Drank in the rain-cooled air. With low-breathed words, They whispered long together, while, o'erhead, From rain-wet branches rang the song of birds. The maiden often paused as in alarm; Then, with uncertain, half-delaying pace, She left Christine, returning in a space With Philip, Christine's brother, a young squire, Who strode by her with careless, swinging arm And eager face, with keen, blue eyes afire. Then all three stood, with whispering heads bent low, In eager converse clustered; till, at last, They parted, and, with high hopes beating fast, Christine unto her turret-room returned-- Her dark eyes bright and all her face aglow, As if some new-lit rapture in her burned. About her little chamber swift she moved, Until, at length, in travelling array, She paused to rest, and all-impatient lay Upon her snow-white bed, and watched the light Fail from the lilied arras that she loved Because her hand had wrought each petal white And slender, emerald stem. The falling night Was lit for her with many a memory Of little things she could no longer see, That had been with her in old, happy hours, Before her girlish joys had taken flight As morning dews from noon-unfolding flowers. For her, with laggard pace the minutes trailed, Till night seemed to eternity outdrawn. At last, an hour before the summer-dawn, She rose and once again, with noiseless tread, Crept down the stair, grey-cloaked and closely veiled, While every shadow struck her cold with dread Lest, drawing back the arras, Hild should stand With mocking smile before her; but, unstayed, She reached the stair-foot, and, no more afraid, She sought a low and shadow-hidden door, Slid back the silent bolts with eager hand, And stepped into the garden dim once more. She quickly crossed a dewy-plashing lawn, And, passing through a little wicket-gate, She reached the road. Not long had she to wait Ere, with two bridled horses, Philip came. Silent they mounted; far they fared ere dawn Burnished the castle-weathercock to flame. Northward they climbed from out the valley mist; Northward they crossed the sun-enchanted fells; Northward they plunged down deep, fern-hidden dells; And northward yet--until the sapphire noon Had burned and glowed to thunderous amethyst Of evening skies about an opal moon; Northward they followed fast the loud-tongued fame Of young Sir Geoffrey of the golden helm; Until it seemed that storm must overwhelm Their weary flight. They sought a lodging-place, And soon upon a lonely cell they came Wherein a hermit laboured after grace. On beds of withered bracken, soft and warm, He housed them, and himself, all night, alone, Knelt in long vigil on the aching stone, Within his little chapel, though, all night, His prayers were drowned by thunders of the storm, And all about him flashed blue, pulsing light. Christine in calm, undreaming slumber lay, Nor stirred till, clear and glittering, the morn Sang through the forest; though, with roots uptorn, The mightiest-limbed and highest-soaring oak Had fallen charred, with green leaves shrivelled grey. At tinkling of the matin-bell she woke, And soon with Philip left the woodland boughs For barer uplands. Over tawny bent And purpling heath they rode till day was spent; When, down within a broad, green-dusking dale, They sought the shelter of the holy house Of God's White Sisters of the Virgin's Veil. So, day by day, they ever northward pressed, Until they left the lands of peace behind, And rode among the border-hills, where blind Insatiate warfare ever rages fierce; Where night-winds ever fan a fiery crest, And dawn's light breaks on bright, embattled spears: A land whose barren hills are helmed with towers; A lone, grey land of battle-wasted shires; A land of blackened barns and empty byres; A land of rock-bound holds and robber-hordes, Of slumberous noons and wakeful midnight hours, Of ambushed dark and moonlight flashing swords. With hand on hilt and ever-kindling eyes, Flushed face and quivering nostril, Philip rode; But nought assailed them; every lone abode Forsaken seemed; all empty lay the land Beneath the empty sky; only the cries Of plovers pierced the blue on either hand; Until, at sudden cresting of a hill, The clang of battle sounded on their ears, And, far below, they saw a surge of spears Crash on unyielding ranks; while, from the sea Of striving steel, with deathly singing shrill, A spray of arrows flickered fitfully. Amazed they stood, wide-eyed, with holden breath; When, of a sudden, flashed upon their sight The golden helm in midmost of the fight, Where, with high-lifted head and undismayed, Sir Geoffrey rode, a very lord of death, With ever-leaping, ever-crashing blade. Christine watched long, now cold with quaking dread, Now hot with hope as each assailant fell; The bright sword held her gaze as by a spell; Because love blinded her to all but love, Unmoved she watched the foemen shudder dead, She whose heart erst the meanest woe could move. Then, dazed, she saw a solitary shaft, Unloosed with certain aim from out the bow, Strike clean through Geoffrey's hauberk, and bring low The golden helm, while o'er him swiftly met The tides of fight. Christine a little laughed With rattling throat, and stood with still eyes set. Scarce Philip dared to raise his eyes to hers To see the terror there. No word she spake, But leaned a little forward through the brake That bloomed about her in a golden blaze; Her hands were torn to bleeding by the furze, Yet nothing could disturb that dreadful gaze. Then, gradually, the heaving battle swerved To northward, faltering broken, and afar It closed again, where, round a jutting scar, The flashing torrent of the river curved. With eager step Christine ran down the hill, And sped across the late-forsaken field To where, with shattered sword and splintered shield, Among the mounded bodies Geoffrey lay. She loosed his helm, but deathly pale and still His young face gleamed within the light of day. Christine beside him knelt, as Philip sought A draught of water from the peat-born stream; When, in his eyes, at last, a fitful gleam Flickered, and bending low, with straining ears, The laboured breathing of her name she caught; And over his dead face fell fast her tears. Once more towards them the tide of battle swept; Christine moved not. Young Philip on her cried, And strove, in vain, to draw her safe aside. A random shaft in her unshielded breast-- Though hot to stay its course her brother leapt-- Struck quivering, and she slowly sank to rest. Queen Hild sat weaving in her garden-close, When on her startled ear there fell the news Of Christine's flight before the darkling dews Had thrilled with dawn. A strand of golden thread Slipped from her trembling fingers as she rose And hastened to the castle with drooped head. All morn she paced within her blinded room, Unresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched; All morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched, Blue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moan Escaped her lips. Without, in summer bloom, The garden murmured with bliss-burdened drone Of hover-flies and lily-charmed bees; Sometimes a finch lit on the window-ledge, With shrilly pipe, or, from the rose-hung hedge, A blackbird fluted; yet she neither heard Nor heeded aught; until, by rich degrees, Drowsed into noon the noise of bee and bird. Yea, even when, without her chamber, stayed A doubtful step, and timid fingers knocked, She answered not, but, swiftly striding, locked Yet more secure, with angry-clicking key, The bolted door, and the affrighted maid Unto the waiting hall fled, fearfully. Wearied at last, upon her bed Queen Hild In fitful slumber sank; but evil dreams Of battle-stricken lands and blood-red streams Swirled through her brain. Then, suddenly, she woke, Wide-eyed, and sat upright, with body chilled, Though in her throat the hot air seemed to choke. Swiftly she rose; then, binding her loosed hair, She bathed her throbbing brows, and, cold and calm, Downstairs she glided, while the evening-psalm In maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet, And from the chapel-tower, through quivering air, The bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat. She strode into the hall where yet the King Sat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirred Cool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird, From his soft-stringed lute. With scornful eyes Hild looked on them and spake: "Can nothing sting Your slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise? Must only stripling-knights and maidens ride To battle, where, unceasing, foemen wage War on your marches, and your wardens rage In impotent despair with desperate swords, While you, O King, with sheathed arms abide?" She paused, and, wondering, the King and lords Looked on her mutely; then, again, she spake: "Shall I, then, and my maidens sally forth With battle-brands to conquer the wild north? Yea, I will go! Who follows after me?" As by a blow struck suddenly awake, The King leapt up, and, like a clamorous sea, The knights about him. Scornfully the Queen Looked on them: "So my woman's words have roused The hands that slumbered and the hearts that drowsed. Make ready then for battle; ere seven days Have passed, the dawn must light your armour's sheen, And in the sun your pennoned lances blaze." Her voice ceased; and a pulsing flame of light Flashed through the hall; in crashing thunder broke The heavy, hanging heat; the rafters woke In echo as the rainy torrent poured; Bright gleamed the rapid lightning; yet more bright The war-lust kindled hot in every lord. To clang of armour the seventh morning stirred From slumber; restless hoof and champing bit Aroused the garth; and day, arising, lit A hundred lances, as, each bolt withdrawn, The courtyard-gate swung wide with noise far-heard, And flickering pennons rode into the dawn-- Before his knights, the King, and at his side, Queen Hild, with ever-northward-gazing eyes; But, ere they far had fared, in mute surprise They stayed and all drew rein, as down the road They saw a little band of warriors ride-- Sore travel-stained--who bore a heavy load Upon a branch-hung litter; while before Came Philip, bearing a war-broken lance. Though King and lords looked, wondering, in a glance Queen Hild had read the sorrow of his face And pierced the leaf-hid secret--which e'ermore A brand of fire upon her heart would trace. Darkness about her swirled, but, with a fierce Wild, conquering shudder, shaking herself free, Unto the light she clung, though like a sea It surged and eddied round her; yet so still She sat, none knew her steely eyes could pierce The leafy screen. With guilty terror chill, She heard the king speak--sadly riding forth: "Whence come you, Philip, battle-stained and slow? What burden bear you with such brows of woe?" Then Philip answered, mournfully: "I bring Two wanderers home from out the perilous north. Prepare to gaze on death's defeat, O King." They lowered the litter slowly to the ground; Back fell the branches; in the light of day, In calm, white sleep Christine and Geoffrey lay, And at their feet the baleful Helm of Strife Sword-cloven. Hushed stood all the knights around, When spake the King, alighting: "Come, O wife, And let us twain, with humble heads low-bowed, Even at the feet of love triumphant stand, A little while together, hand in hand." The Queen obeyed; but, fearfully, she shrank Before the eyes of death, and, quaking, cowed, With moaning cry, low in the dust she sank.

C. Silvester Horne

A Century of Christian Service Kensington Congregational Church, 1793-1893

Macmillan's Pocket American and English Classics A Series of English Texts, edited for use in Elementary and Secondary Schools, with Critical Introductions, Notes, etc. Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley. Andersen's Fairy Tales. Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum. Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Bacon's Essays. Bible (Memorable Passages from). Blackmore's Lorna Doone. Browning's Shorter Poems. Bryant's Thanatopsis, etc. Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii. Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. Burke's Speech on Conciliation. Burns' Poems (Selections from). Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Byron's Shorter Poems. Carlyle's Essay on Burns. Carlyle's Heroes and Hero Worship. Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (Illustrated). Chaucer's Prologue and Knight's Tale. Church's The Story of the Iliad. Church's The Story of the Odyssey. Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. Cooper's The Deerslayer. Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper's The Spy. Dana's Two Years Before the Mast. Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. 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INTRODUCTION. ix "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix" Atalanta's Race Paul Revere's Ride Skipper Ireson's Ride Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle Norman-French, which deals in a rambling way with the marvellous aristocrat,--though it must be added that many of the robuster Longfellow's _Paul Revere's Ride_. If the basis of the poem is something of an ethical purpose. Tennyson's _The Revenge_ and Browning's _Herve Riel_. The discussion of narrative methods may be left to the will and John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. "To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then repair All in a chaise and pair. "My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we." He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. "I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find, That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad, The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again; For saddletree scarce reach'd had he His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!" "Good lack!" quoth he--"yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise." Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat. So, "fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin--who but he? His fame soon spread around, "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!" And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house," They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired:" But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?--his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly--which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him: "What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall-- Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?" Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke: "I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in; Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit, "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. "But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, "It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine." Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why?--they were too big. Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half a crown; And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:-- "Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, "Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he;" And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see! "Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke." When chapman billies leave the street, And drouty neebors, neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, And gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles. The mosses, waters, slaps and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses.) O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou wasna sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:--Ae market-night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither-- They had been fou for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And aye the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; The storm without might rair and rustle-- Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drowned himself amang the nappy! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread,-- You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snowfall in the river,-- A moment white--then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride: That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, (A better never lifted leg,) Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares:-- Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Where in the snaw the chapman smoored; And past the birks and meikle stane, Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And through the whins, and by the cairn, Where hunters fand the murdered bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze; Through ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!-- The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shawed the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light: By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft,-- The gray hairs yet stack to the heft: Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'! As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strappin' in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonny burdies! But withered beldams, auld and droll Rigwooddie hags wad spean a foal, Louping and flinging on a cummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenned on Carrick shore; For monie a beast to dead she shot, And perished monie a bonny boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had won, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her power;-- To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jade she was, and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, And thought his very e'en enriched: And hotched and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out: "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open poussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get they fairin'! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'; Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane o' the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running-stream they darena cross! But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,-- But little wist she Maggie's mettle! Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed! Whene'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear,-- Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"-- "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like the tide-- And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, There never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story--unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved; not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon the forest side in Grasmere vale There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, he heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; hills which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts The certainty of honorable gain; Those fields, those hills--what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days had not been passed in singleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old-- Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest It was because the other was at work. The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old,--in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labor did not cease; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn--and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which, going by from year to year, had found, And left, the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while far into the night The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighborhood, And was a public symbol of the life That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR. Thus living on through such a length of years, The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear-- Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all-- Than that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature need must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. And, in a later time, ere yet the boy Had put on man's attire, did Michael love, Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the Young-one in his sight, when he Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched Under the large old oak, that near his door Stood single, and from matchless depth of shade, Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. There while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction, and reproof bestowed Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old; Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help; And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, Or looks or threatening gestures, could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the shepherd loved before Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came Feelings and emanations--things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up; And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means; But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him; and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his troubles in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;--but When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, Another kinsman--he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade--and Luke to him shall go, And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He was a parish-boy--at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; And, with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and monies to the poor, And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, floored With marble which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, And thus resumed:--"Well, Isabel! this scheme These two days, has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. --We have enough--I wish indeed that I Were younger;--but this hope is a good hope. --Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: --If he _could_ go, the Boy should go to-night." Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The Housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work: for, when she lay By Michael's side, she through the last two nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep; And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: We have no other Child but thee to lose, None to remember--do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father, he will die." The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the boy; To which, requests were added, that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbors round; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old Man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, And thus the old man spoke to him:--"My son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should touch On things thou canst not know of.--After thou First cam'st into the world--as oft befalls To new-born infants--thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Then when I heard thee by our own fireside First uttering, without words, a natural tune; While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou knowest, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so--I see That these are things of which I need not speak. --Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father: and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their Forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. --It looks as if it never could endure Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go." At this the old Man paused; Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: "This was a work for us; and now, my Son, It is a work for me. But, lay one stone-- Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, Boy, be of good hope;--we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale;--do thou thy part; I will do mine.--I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee: Up to the heights, and in among the storms, Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone, Before I knew thy face.--Heaven bless thee, Boy! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so--yes--yes-- I knew that thou could'st never have a wish To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me Only by links of love: when thou art gone, What will be left to us!--But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well-- When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here: a covenant 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave." The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, And, as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; And to the house together they returned. --Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell:--with morrow's dawn the Boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors, Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight. A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and, at length, He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart: I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the old Man--and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone. There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. The length of full seven years, from time to time, He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her Husband: at his death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR Is gone--the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighborhood:--yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor. --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!" At this the father raised his hook, He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept--and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!" --When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footprints small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! --Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time. But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:-- So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet And make submission meet Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day, While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true; On the deck of fame that died;-- With the gallant good Riou; Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our weary task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory. My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears. My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are banned, and barred--forbidden fare; But this was for my father's faith I suffered chains and courted death; That father perished at the stake For tenets he would not forsake; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place; We were seven--who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age, Finished as they had begun, Proud of Persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed: Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied;-- Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left: Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp: And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years--I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side. They chained us each to a column stone, And we were three--yet, each alone; We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face, But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight: And thus together--yet apart, Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope or legend old, Or song heroically bold; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon stone, A grating sound--not full and free As they of yore were wont to be; It might be fancy--but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do--and did my best-- And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him--with eyes as blue as heaven, For him my soul was sorely moved: And truly might it be distressed To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day-- (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles being free)-- A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun: And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for naught but others' ills, And then they flowed like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorred to view below. The other was as pure of mind, But formed to combat with his kind; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perished in the foremost rank With joy:--but not in chains to pine: His spirit withered with their clank, I saw it silently decline-- And so perchance in sooth did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills, Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fettered feet the worst of ills. Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls, A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave inthrals: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made--and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it knocked And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake, unshocked, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captive's tears Have moistened many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow-men Like brutes within an iron den; But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side; But why delay the truth?--he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand--nor dead,-- Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died, and they unlocked his chain, And scooped for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begged them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine--it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer-- They coldly laughed--and laid him there: The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such murder's fitting monument! But he, the favourite and the flower, Most cherished since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face, The infant love of all his race, His martyred father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired-- He, too, was struck, and day by day Was withered on the stalk away. Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood:-- I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors--this was woe Unmixed with such--but sure and slow; He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender--kind, And grieved for those he left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray-- An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur--not A groan o'er his untimely lot,-- A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence--lost In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listened, but I could not hear-- I called, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished; I called, and thought I heard a sound-- I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rushed to him:--I found him not, _I_ only stirred in this black spot, _I_ only lived--_I_ only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last--the sole--the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath-- My brothers--both had ceased to breathe; I took that hand which lay so still, Alas! my own was full as chill; I had not strength to stir, or strive, But felt that I was still alive-- A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope--but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I know not well--I never knew-- First came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too: I had no thought, no feeling--none-- Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, It was not night--it was not day, It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight, But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness--without a place; There were no stars--no earth--no time-- No check--no change--no good--no crime-- But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! A light broke in upon my brain,-- It was the carol of a bird; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard, And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery; But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track, I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done, But through the crevice where it came That bird was perched, as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree; A lovely bird, with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seemed to say them all for me! I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more: It seemed like me to want a mate, But was not half so desolate, And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine, But knowing well captivity, Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in winged guise, A visitant from Paradise; For--Heaven forgive that thought! the while Which made me both to weep and smile; I sometimes deemed that it might be My brother's soul come down to me; But then at last away it flew, And then 'twas mortal--well I knew, For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone,-- Lone--as the corse within its shroud, Lone--as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere, That hath no business to appear When skies are blue, and earth is gay. A kind of change came in my fate, My keepers grew compassionate; I know not what had made them so, They were inured to sights of woe, But so it was:--my broken chain With links unfastened did remain, And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side, And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part; And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun. Avoiding only, as I trod, My brothers' graves without a sod; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed, My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me: No child--no sire--no kin had I, No partner in my misery; I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad; But I was curious to ascend To my barred windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them--and they were the same, They were not changed like me in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow On high--their wide long lake below, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channelled rock and broken bush; I saw the white-walled distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view; A small green isle it seemed no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seemed joyous each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast, Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seemed to fly, And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled--and would fain I had not left my recent chain; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save,-- And yet my glance, too much oppressed, Had almost need of such a rest. It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count--I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free, I asked not why, and recked not where, It was at length the same to me, Fettered or fetterless to be, I learned to love despair. And thus when they appeared at last, And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage--and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home: With spiders I had friendship made, And watched them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill--yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learned to dwell-- My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are:--even I Regained my freedom with a sigh. 'Twas after dread Pultowa's day, When Fortune left the royal Swede. Around a slaughter'd army lay, No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war, Faithless as their vain votaries, men, Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, And Moscow's walls were safe again, Until a day more dark and drear, And a more memorable year, Should give to slaughter and to shame A mightier host and haughtier name; A greater wreck, a deeper fall, A shock to one--a thunderbolt to all. Such was the hazard of the die; The wounded Charles was taught to fly By day and night through field and flood, Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; For thousands fell that flight to aid; And not a voice was heard t' upbraid Ambition in his humbled hour, When truth had naught to dread from power. His horse was slain, and Gieta gave His own--and died the Russians' slave. This too sinks after many a league Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue; And in the depth of forests darkling, The watch-fires in the distance sparkling-- The beacons of surrounding foes-- A king must lay his limbs at length. Are these the laurels and repose For which the nations strain their strength? They laid him by a savage tree, In outworn nature's agony; His wounds were stiff--his limbs were stark-- The heavy hour was chill and dark; The fever in his blood forbade a transient slumber's fitful aid: And thus it was; but yet through all, Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, And made, in this extreme of ill, His pangs the vassals of his will: All silent and subdued were they, As once the nations round him lay. A band of chiefs!--alas! how few, Since but the fleeting of a day Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true And chivalrous: upon the clay Each sate him down, all sad and mute, Beside his monarch and his steed, For danger levels man and brute, And all are fellows in their need. Among the rest, Mazeppa made His pillow in an old oak's shade-- Himself as rough, and scarce less old, The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold. But first, outspent with his long course, The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, And made for him a leafy bed, And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, And joy'd to see how well he fed; For until now he had the dread His wearied courser might refuse To browse beneath the midnight dews: But he was hardy as his lord, And little cared for bed and board; But spirited and docile too; Whate'er was to be done, would do. Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, All Tartar-like he carried him; Obey'd his voice, and came to call, And knew him in the midst of all: Though thousands were around,--and Night, Without a star, pursued her flight,-- That steed from sunset until dawn His chief would follow like a fawn. This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, And laid his lance beneath his oak, Felt if his arms in order good The long day's march had well withstood-- If still the powder fill'd the pan, And flints unloosen'd kept their lock-- His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, And whether they had chafed his belt-- And next the venerable man, From out his haversack and can, Prepared and spread his slender stock; And to the monarch and his men The whole or portion offer'd then With far less of inquietude Than courtiers at a banquet would. And Charles of this his slender share With smiles partook a moment there, To force of cheer a greater show, And seem above both wounds and woe;-- And then he said--"Of all our band, Though firm of heart and strong of hand, In skirmish, march, or forage, none Can less have said or more have done Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth So fit a pain had never birth, Since Alexander's days till now, As thy Bucephalus and thou: All Scythia's fame to thine should yield For pricking on o'er flood and field." Mazeppa answer'd--"Ill betide The school wherein I learn'd to ride!" Quoth Charles--"Old Hetman, wherefore so, Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?" Mazeppa said--"'Twere long to tell; And we have many a league to go, With every now and then a blow, And ten to one at least the foe, Before our steeds may graze at ease Beyond the swift Borysthenes; And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, And I will be the sentinel Of this your troop."--"But I request," Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell This tale of thine, and I may reap, Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; For at this moment from my eyes The hope of present slumber flies." "Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track My seventy years of memory back: I think 'twas in my twentieth spring-- Ay, 'twas,--when Casimir was king-- John Casimir,--I was his page Six summers, in my earlier age. A learned monarch, faith! was he, And most unlike your majesty: He made no wars, and did not gain New realms to lose them back again; And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) He reign'd in most unseemly quiet; Not that he had no cares to vex, He loved the muses and the sex; And sometimes these so froward are, They made him wish himself at war; But soon his wrath being o'er, he took Another mistress, or new book. And then he gave prodigious fetes-- All Warsaw gather'd round his gates To gaze upon his splendid court, And dames, and chiefs, of princely port: So sung his poets, all but one, Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, And boasted that he could not flatter. It was a court of jousts and mimes, Where every courtier tried at rhymes; Even I for once produced some verses, And sign'd my odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.' There was a certain Palatine, A count of far and high descent, Rich as a salt or silver mine; And he was proud, ye may divine, As if from heaven he had been sent. He had such wealth in blood and ore As few could match beneath the throne; And he would gaze upon his store, And o'er his pedigree would pore, Until by some confusion led, Which almost look'd like want of head, He thought their merits were his own. His wife was not of his opinion-- His junior she by thirty years-- Grew daily tired of his dominion; And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, To virtue a few farewell tears, A restless dream or two, some glances At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, Awaited but the usual chances, (Those happy accidents which render The coldest dames so very tender,) To deck her Count with titles given, 'Tis said, as passports into heaven; But, strange to say, they rarely boast Of these, who have deserved them most. "I was a goodly stripling then; At seventy years I so may say, That there were few, or boys or men, Who, in my dawning time of day, Of vassal or of knight's degree, Could vie in vanities with me; For I had strength, youth, gaiety, A port, not like to this ye see, But as smooth as all is rugged now; For time, and care, and war, have plough'd My very soul from out my brow; And thus I should be disavow'd By all my kind and kin, could they Compare my day and yesterday. This change was wrought, too, long ere age Had ta'en my features for his page: With years, ye know, have not declined My strength, my courage, or my mind, Or at this hour I should not be Telling old tales beneath a tree, With starless skies my canopy. But let me on: Theresa's form-- Methinks it glides before me now, Between me and yon chestnut's bough, The memory is so quick and warm; And yet I find no words to tell The shape of her I loved so well. She had the Asiatic eye, Such as our Turkish neighbourhood, Hath mingled with our Polish blood, Dark as above us is the sky; But through it stole a tender light, Like the first moonrise of midnight; Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, Which seem'd to melt to its own beam; All love, half languor, and half fire, Like saints that at the stake expire, And lift their raptured looks on high As though it were a joy to die;-- Transparent with the sun therein, When waves no murmur dare to make, And heaven beholds her face within; A cheek and lip--but why proceed? I loved her then--I love her still; And such as I am, love indeed In fierce extremes--in good and ill; But still we love even in our rage, And haunted to our very age With the vain shadow of the past, As is Mazeppa to the last. "We met--we gazed--I saw, and sigh'd, She did not speak, and yet replied: There are ten thousand tones and signs We hear and see, but none defines-- Involuntary sparks of thought, Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought And form a strange intelligence Alike mysterious and intense, Which link the burning chain that binds, Without their will, young hearts and minds: Conveying, as the electric wire, We know not how, the absorbing fire.-- I saw, and sigh'd--in silence wept, And still reluctant distance kept, Until I was made known to her, And we might then and there confer Without suspicion--then, even then, I long'd, and was resolved to speak; But on my lips they died again, The accents tremulous and weak, Until one hour.--There is a game, A frivolous and foolish play, Wherewith we while away the day; It is--I have forgot the name-- And we to this, it seems, were set, By some strange chance, which I forget: I reckon'd not if I won or lost, It was enough for me to be So near to hear, and oh! to see The being whom I loved the most. I watch'd her as a sentinel, (May ours this dark night watch as well!) Until I saw, and thus it was, That she was pensive, nor perceived Her occupation, nor was grieved Nor glad to lose or gain; but still Play'd on for hours, as if her will Yet bound her to the place, though not That hers might be the winning lot. Then through my brain the thought did pass Even as a flash of lightning there, That there was something in her air Which would not doom me to despair; And on the thought my words broke forth, All incoherent as they were-- Their eloquence was little worth, But yet she listen'd--'tis enough-- Who listens once will listen twice; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff. "I loved, and was beloved again-- They tell me, sire, you never knew Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, I shorten all my joy or pain; To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; But all men are not born to reign, Or o'er their passions, or as you Thus o'er themselves and nations too. I am--or rather _was_--a prince, A chief of thousands, and could lead Them on where each would foremost bleed; But could not o'er myself evince The like control.--But to resume: I loved, and was beloved again; In sooth, it is a happy doom, But yet where happiest ends in pain.-- We met in secret, and the hour Which led me to that lady's bower Was fiery Expectation's dower. My days and nights were nothing--all Except that hour which doth recall In the long lapse from youth to age No other like itself--I'd give The Ukraine back again to live It o'er once more--and be a page, The happy page, who was the lord Of one soft heart and his own sword, And had no other gem nor wealth Save nature's gift of youth and health.-- We met in secret--doubly sweet, Some say, they find it so to meet; I know not that--I would have given My life but to have call'd her mine In the full view of earth and heaven; For I did oft and long repine That we could only meet by stealth. "For lovers there are many eyes, And such there were on us;--the devil On such occasions should be civil-- The devil!--I'm loth to do him wrong, It might be some untoward saint, Who would not be at rest too long But to his pious bile gave vent-- But one fair night, some lurking spies Surprised and seized us both. The Count was something more than wroth-- I was unarm'd; but if in steel, All cap-a-pie from head to heel, What 'gainst their numbers could I do?-- 'Twas near his castle, far away From city or from succour near, And almost on the break of day; I did not think to see another, My moments seem'd reduced to few; And with one prayer to Mary Mother, And, it may be, a saint or two, As I resign'd me to my fate, They led me to the castle gate: Theresa's doom I never knew, Our lot was henceforth separate-- An angry man, ye may opine, Was he, the proud Count Palatine; And he had reason good to be, But he was most enraged lest such An accident should chance to touch Upon his future pedigree; Nor less amazed, that such a blot His noble 'scutcheon should have got, While he was highest of his line; Because unto himself he seem'd The first of men, nor less he deem'd In others' eyes, and most in mine. 'Sdeath! with a _page_--perchance a king Had reconciled him to the thing; But with a stripling of a page-- I felt--but cannot paint his rage. "'Bring forth the horse!'--the horse was brought; In truth, he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, Who look'd as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs; but he was wild, Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, With spur and bridle undefined-- 'Twas but a day he had been caught; And snorting, with erected mane, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led. They bound me on, that menial throng, Upon his back with many a thong; They loosed him with a sudden lash-- Torrents less rapid and less rash. I saw not where he hurried on: 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes, Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout: With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And writhing half my form about, Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear nor heed: It vexes me--for I would fain Have paid their insult back again. I paid it well in after days: There is not of that castle gate, Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; Nor of its fields a blade of grass, Save what grows on a ridge of wall Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; And many a time ye there might pass, Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: I saw its turrets in a blaze, Their crackling battlements all cleft, And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought that day of pain, When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash, That one day I should come again, With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They play'd me then a bitter prank, When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank: At length I play'd them one as frank-- For time at last sets all things even-- And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong. "Away, away, my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind. All human dwellings left behind; We sped like meteors through the sky, When with its crackling sound the night Is chequer'd with the northern light. Town--village--none were on our track, But a wild plain of far extent, And bounded by a forest black; And, save the scarce seen battlement On distant heights of some stronghold, Against the Tartars built of old, No trace of man: the year before A Turkish army had march'd o'er; And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, The verdure flies the bloody sod. The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, And a low breeze crept moaning by-- I could have answer'd with a sigh-- But fast we fled, away, away-- And I could neither sigh nor pray; And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain Upon the courser's bristling mane; But, snorting still with rage and fear, He flew upon his far career. At times I almost thought, indeed, He must have slacken'd in his speed; But no--my bound and slender frame Was nothing to his angry might, And merely like a spur became: Each motion which I made to free My swoln limbs from their agony Increased his fury and affright: I tried my voice,--'twas faint and low, But yet he swerved as from a blow; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang. Meantime my cords were wet with gore, Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; And in my tongue the thirst became A something fierier far than flame. "We near'd the wild wood--'twas so wide, 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, That bent not to the roughest breeze Which howls down from Siberia's waste And strips the forest in its haste,-- But these were few and far between, Set thick with shrubs more young and green, Luxuriant with their annual leaves, Ere strown by those autumnal eves That nip the forest's foliage dead, Discolour'd with a lifeless red, Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore Upon the slain when battle's o'er, And some long winter's night hath shed Its frost o'er every tombless head, So cold and stark the raven's beak May peck unpierced each frozen cheek. 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, And here and there a chestnut stood, The strong oak, and the hardy pine; But far apart--and well it were, Or else a different lot were mine-- The boughs gave way, and did not tear My limbs; and I found strength to bear My wounds already scarr'd with cold-- My bonds forbade to loose my hold. We rustled through the leaves like wind, Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; By night I heard them on the track, Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop which can tire The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: Where'er we flew they follow'd on, Nor left us with the morning sun; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At daybreak winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword, At least to die amidst the horde, And perish--if it must be so-- At bay, destroying many a foe. When first my courser's race begun, I wish'd the goal already won; But now I doubted strength and speed. Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; Nor faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, Than through the forest-paths he past-- Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; All furious as a favour'd child Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still-- A woman piqued--who has her will. "The wood was past; 'twas more than noon, But chill the air although in June; Or it might be my veins ran cold-- Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; And I was then not what I seem, But headlong as a wintry stream, And wore my feelings out before I well could count their causes o'er. And what with fury, fear, and wrath, The tortures which beset my path, Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, Thus bound in nature's nakedness, (Sprung from a race whose rising blood When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, And trodden hard upon, is like The rattlesnake's in act to strike,) What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk? The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, I seem'd to sink upon the ground; But err'd, for I was fastly bound. My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more; The skies spun like a mighty wheel; I saw the trees like drunkards reel, And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, Which saw no farther: he who dies Can die no more than then I died. O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, I felt the blackness come and go, And strove to wake; but could not make My senses climb up from below: I felt as on a plank at sea, When all the waves that dash o'er thee, At the same time upheave and whelm, And hurl thee towards a desert realm. My undulating life was as The fancied lights that flitting pass Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when Fever begins upon the brain; But soon it pass'd, with little pain, But a confusion worse than such: I own that I should deem it much, Dying, to feel the same again; And yet I do suppose we must Feel far more ere we turn to dust: No matter; I have bared my brow Full in Death's face--before--and now. "My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse Life reassumed its lingering hold, And throb by throb: till grown a pang Which for a moment would convulse, My blood reflow'd though thick and chill; My ear with uncouth noises rang, My heart began once more to thrill; My sight return'd, though dim, alas! And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. Methought the dash of waves was nigh: There was a gleam too of the sky, Studded with stars;--it is no dream; The wild horse swims the wilder stream! The bright broad river's gushing tide Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, And we are half-way, struggling o'er To yon unknown and silent shore. The waters broke my hollow trance, And with a temporary strength My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. My courser's broad breast proudly braves And dashes off the ascending waves, And onward we advance! We reach the slippery shore at length, A haven I but little prized, For all behind was dark and drear, And all before was night and fear. How many hours of night or day In those suspended pangs I lay, I could not tell; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew. "With glossy skin, and dripping mane, And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain Up the repelling bank. We gain the top: a boundless plain Spreads through the shadow of the night, And onward, onward, onward, seems, Like precipices in our dreams, To stretch beyond the sight; And here and there a speck of white, Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, In masses broke into the light, As rose the moon upon my right. But nought distinctly seen In the dim waste would indicate The omen of a cottage gate; No twinkling taper from afar Stood like a hospitable star; Not even an ignis-fatuus rose To make him merry with my woes: That very cheat had cheer'd me then! Although detected, welcome still, Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men. "Onward we went--but slack and slow; His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went. A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour; But useless all to me. His new-born tameness nought avail'd-- My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, Perchance, had they been free. With feeble effort still I tried To rend the bonds so starkly tied-- But still it was in vain; My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, Which but prolong'd their pain. The dizzy race seem'd almost done, Although no goal was nearly won: Some streaks announced the coming sun-- How slow, alas! he came! Methought that mist of dawning gray Would never dapple into day; How heavily it roll'd away-- Before the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And call'd the radiance from their cars, And filled the earth, from his deep throne, With lonely lustre, all his own. "Up rose the sun; the mists were curl'd Back from the solitary world Which lay around--behind--before; What booted it to traverse o'er Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; No sign of travel--none of toil; The very air was mute; And not an insect's shrill small horn, Nor matin bird's new voice was borne From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, Panting as if his heart would burst, The weary brute still stagger'd on; And still we were--or seem'd--alone. At length, while reeling on our way, Methought I heard a courser neigh From out yon tuft of blackening firs. Is it the wind those branches stirs? No, no! from out the forest prance A trampling troop; I see them come! In one vast squadron they advance! The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse--and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils--never stretched by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet. The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answer'd, and then fell; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immoveable; His first and last career is done! On came the troop--they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong: They stop--they start--they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round, Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his shaggy hide. They snort--they foam--neigh--swerve aside, And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye.-- They left me there to my despair, Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Relieved from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me--and there we lay The dying on the dead! I little deem'd another day Would see my houseless, helpless head. "And there from morn till twilight bound, I felt the heavy hours toil round, With just enough of life to see My last of suns go down on me, In hopeless certainty of mind, That makes us feel at length resign'd To that which our foreboding years Presents the worst and last of fears Inevitable--even a boon, Nor more unkind for coming soon; Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare That prudence might escape: At times both wish'd for and implored, At times sought with self-pointed sword, Yet still a dark and hideous close To even intolerable woes, And welcome in no shape. And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revell'd beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, or calmer oft than he Whose heritage was misery: For he who hath in turn run through All that was beautiful and new, Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future (which is view'd Not quite as men are base or good, But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve:-- The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new Paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; To-morrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour; To-morrow would have given him power To rule, to shine, to smite, to save-- And must it dawn upon his grave? "The sun was sinking--still I lay Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; I thought to mingle there our clay; And my dim eyes of death had need, No hope arose of being freed. I cast my last looks up the sky, And there between me and the sun I saw the expecting raven fly, Who scarce would wait till both should die Ere his repast begun. He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, And each time nearer than before; I saw his wing through twilight flit, And once so near me he alit I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; But the slight motion of my hand, And feeble scratching of the sand, The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, Together scared him off at length.-- I know no more--my latest dream Is something of a lovely star Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, And went and came with wandering beam, And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense Sensation of recurring sense, And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath, A little thrill, a short suspense, An icy sickness curdling o'er My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain-- A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, A sigh, and nothing more. "I woke--Where was I?--Do I see A human face look down on me? And doth a roof above me close? Do these limbs on a couch repose? Is this a chamber where I lie? And is it mortal, yon bright eye That watches me with gentle glance? I closed my own again once more, As doubtful that the former trance Could not as yet be o'er. A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, Sate watching by the cottage wall: The sparkle of her eye I caught, Even with my first return of thought; For ever and anon she threw A prying, pitying glance on me With her black eyes so wild and free. I gazed, and gazed, until I knew No vision it could be,-- But that I lived, and was released From adding to the vulture's feast. And when the Cossack maid beheld My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, She smiled--and I essay'd to speak, But fail'd--and she approach'd, and made With lip and finger signs that said, I must not strive as yet to break The silence, till my strength should be Enough to leave my accents free; And then her hand on mine she laid, And smooth'd the pillow for my head, And stole along on tiptoe tread, And gently oped the door, and spake In whispers--ne'er was voice so sweet! Even music follow'd her light feet;-- But those she call'd were not awake, And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, Another look on me she cast, Another sign she made, to say, That I had nought to fear, that all Were near at my command or call, And she would not delay Her due return:--while she was gone, Methought I felt too much alone. "She came with mother and with sire-- What need of more?--I will not tire With long recital of the rest, Since I became the Cossack's guest. They found me senseless on the plain-- They bore me to the nearest hut-- They brought me into life again-- Me--one day o'er their realm to reign! Thus the vain fool who strove to glut His rage, refining on my pain, Sent me forth to the wilderness, Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, To pass the desert to a throne,-- What mortal his own doom may guess?-- Let none despond, let none despair! To-morrow the Borysthenes May see our coursers graze at ease Upon his Turkish bank,--and never Had I such welcome for a river As I shall yield when safely there. Comrades, good night!"--The Hetman threw His length beneath the oak-tree shade, With leafy couch already made, A bed nor comfortless nor new To him who took his rest whene'er The hour arrived, no matter where: His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. And if ye marvel Charles forgot To thank his tale _he_ wonder'd not,-- The king had been an hour asleep. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail, And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! St. Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no--already had his death-bell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve; Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away, And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: The music, yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by--she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain, But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere; She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire, She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss--in sooth such things have been. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage: not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland: He startled her; but soon she knew his face, And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race! "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs--Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away."--"Ah, Gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this armchair sit, And tell me how"--"Good Saints! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; And as she mutter'd "Well-a--well-a-day!" He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." Yet men will murder upon holy days: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro!--St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays This very night: good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddlebook, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: "A cruel man and impious thou art: Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian passion in her face: Good Angela, believe me by these tears; Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; The Dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide: No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. A casement high and triple arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven:--Porphyro grew faint; She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!--how fast she slept. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:-- O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:-- The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light.-- "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:--'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,-- Tumultuous,--and, in chords that tenderest be. He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:" Close to her ear touching the melody;-- Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: He ceased--she panted quick--and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd The blisses of her dream so pure and deep At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odour with the violet,-- Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.-- Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;-- A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim,--saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. "Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise--arise! the morning is at hand:-- The bloated wassailers will never heed:-- Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,-- Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears-- Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.-- In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side: The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:-- The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;-- The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans; And they are gone: aye, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short: "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back: But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son. May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass: The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. "O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's: And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. Beautiful-brow'd Oenone, my own soul, Behold this fruit whose gleaming rind ingrav'n "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement and the charm of married brows.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, 'This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' heaven like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale, And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 'Which in all action is the end of all; Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom--from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee, king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her clear and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. "'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge, of fair, Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure, That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' 'Here she ceas'd, And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris, Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die. "Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Fairest--why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet--from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone Oenone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth; Pass by the happy souls, that love to live; I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!--a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! "O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire." Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children, of three houses, Annie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port, And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up And flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away. A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff; In this the children play'd at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, While Annie still was mistress; but at times Enoch would hold possession for a week: "This is my house and this my little wife." "Mine too," said Philip, "turn and turn about:" When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger made Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at this The little wife would weep for company, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, And say she would be little wife to both. But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, And the new warmth of life's ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, But Philip loved in silence; and the girl Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; But she loved Enoch: tho' she knew it not, And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes, To hoard all savings to the uttermost, To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last A luckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year On board a merchantman, and made himself Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas: And all men look'd upon him favorably: And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. Then, on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd (His father lying sick and needing him) An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, And in their eyes and faces read his doom; Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, And slipt aside, and like a wounded life Crept down into the hollows of the wood; There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Seven happy years of health and competence, And mutual love and honorable toil; With children; first a daughter. In him woke, With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish To save all earnings to the uttermost, And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes, While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Or often journeying landward; for in truth Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. Then came a change, as all things human change. Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open'd a larger haven: thither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea; And once when there, and clambering on a mast In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: A limb was broken when they lifted him; And while he lay recovering there, his wife Bore him another son, a sickly one: Another hand crept too across his trade Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd "Save them from this, whatever comes to me." And while he pray'd, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? And Enoch all at once assented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife-- When he was gone--the children--what to do? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; To sell the boat--and yet he loved her well-- How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her! He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse-- And yet to sell her--then with what she brought Buy goods and stores--set Annie forth in trade With all that seamen needed or their wives-- So might she keep the house while he was gone. Should he not trade himself out yonder? go This voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice-- As oft as needed--last, returning rich, Become the master of a larger craft, With fuller profits lead an easier life, Have all his pretty young ones educated, And pass his days in peace among his own. Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. Forward she started with a happy cry, And laid the feeble infant in his arms; Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, Appraised his weight and fondled father-like, But had no heart to break his purposes To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will: Yet not with brawling opposition she, But manifold entreaties, many a tear, Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, Her and her children, let her plead in vain; So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, Till this was ended, and his careful hand,-- The space was narrow,--having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, Who needs would work for Annie to the last, Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes, Whatever came to him: and then he said "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,-- Nay--for I love him all the better for it-- God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again. Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd The current of his talk to graver things, In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, Heard and not heard him; as the village girl, Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, Musing on him that used to fill it for her, Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise; And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more." "Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours. Annie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day), get you a seaman's glass, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." But when the last of those last moments came, "Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Look to the babes, and till I come again, Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. And fear no more for me; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning? if I flee to these Can I go from him? and the sea is His, The sea is His: He made it." Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness, When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, "Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot. But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. She, when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past. Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him; Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?" For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy. Now the third child was sickly-born and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed--howsoe'er it was, After a lingering,--ere she was aware,-- Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away. In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. "Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now, May be some little comfort;" therefore went, Past thro' the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face, But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly, "Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, "Favor from one so sad and so forlorn As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd, His bashfulness and tenderness at war, He set himself beside her, saying to her: "I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, Enoch, your husband: I have ever said You chose the best among us--a strong man: For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. And wherefore did he go this weary way, And leave you lonely? not to see the world-- For pleasure?--nay, but for the wherewithal To give his babes a better bringing-up Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. And if he come again, vext will he be To find the precious morning hours were lost. And it would vex him even in his grave, If he could know his babes were running wild Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now-- Have we not known each other all our lives?-- I do beseech you by the love you bear Him and his children not to say me nay-- For, if you will, when Enoch comes again, Why then he shall repay me--if you will, Annie--for I am rich and well-to-do. Now let me put the boy and girl to school: This is the favor that I came to ask." Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer'd, "I cannot look you in the face; I seem so foolish and so broken down. When you came in my sorrow broke me down; And now I think your kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; He will repay you: money can be repaid; Not kindness such as yours." And Philip ask'd "Then you will let me, Annie?" There she turn'd, She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, Then calling down a blessing on his head Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, And past into the little garth beyond. So lifted up in spirit he moved away. Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and every way, Like one who does his duty by his own, Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, The late and early roses from his wall, Or conies from the down, and now and then, With some pretext of fineness in the meal To save the offence of charitable, flour From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, Out of full heart and boundless gratitude Light on a broken word to thank him with. But Philip was her children's all-in-all; From distant corners of the street they ran To greet his hearty welcome heartily; Lords of his house and of his mill were they; Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them Uncertain as a vision or a dream, Faint as a figure seen in early dawn Down at the far end of an avenue, Going we know not where: and so ten years, Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd To go with others nutting to the wood, And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him, "Come with us, Father Philip," he denied; But when the children pluck'd at him to go, He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, For was not Annie with them? and they went. But after scaling half the weary down, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, all her force Fail'd her; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said: So Philip rested with her well-content; While all the younger ones with jubilant cries Broke from their elders, and tumultuously Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away Their tawny clusters, crying to each other And calling, here and there, about the wood. But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Here in this wood, when like a wounded life He crept into the shadow: at last he said, Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, How merry they are down yonder in the wood. Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. "Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands; At which, as with a kind of anger in him, "The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost! No more of that! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said "I thought not of it: but--I know not why-- Their voices make me feel so solitary." Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. "Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, And it has been upon my mind so long, That tho' I know not when it first came there, I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie, It is beyond all hope, against all chance, That he who left you ten long years ago Should still be living; well then--let me speak: I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: I cannot help you as I wish to do Unless--they say that women are so quick-- Perhaps you know what I would have you know-- I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove A father to your children: I do think They love me as a father: I am sure That I love them as if they were mine own; And I believe, if you were fast my wife, That after all these sad uncertain years, We might be still as happy as God grants To any of His creatures. Think upon it: For I am well-to-do--no kin, no care, No burthen, save my care for you and yours: And we have known each other all our lives, And I have loved you longer than you know." Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke: "You have been as God's good angel in our house. God bless you for it, God reward you for it, Philip, with something happier than myself. Can one love twice? can you be ever loved As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" "I am content," he answer'd, "to be loved A little after Enoch." "Oh," she cried, Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: If Enoch comes--but Enoch will not come-- Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: Surely I shall be wiser in a year: Oh, wait a little!" Philip sadly said, "Annie, as I have waited all my life I well may wait a little." "Nay," she cried, "I am bound: you have my promise--in a year; Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?" And Philip answer'd, "I will bide my year." Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. Up came the children laden with their spoil; Then all descended to the port, and there At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you, That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. I am always bound to you, but you are free." Then Annie weeping answered, "I am bound." She spoke; and in one moment as it were, While yet she went about her household ways, Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, That he had loved her longer than she knew, That autumn into autumn flash'd again, And there he stood once more before her face, Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" she ask'd. "Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again: Come out and see." But she--she put him off-- So much to look to--such a change--a month-- Give her a month--she knew that she was bound-- A month--no more. Then Philip with his eyes Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, "Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." And Annie could have wept for pity of him; And yet she held him on delayingly With many a scarce-believable excuse, Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, Till half another year had slipped away. By this the lazy gossips of the port, Abhorrent of a calculation crost, Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; Some that she but held off to draw him on; And others laughed at her and Philip too, As simple folk that knew not their own minds; And one in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent's eggs together, laughingly Would hint at worse in either. Her own son Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; But evermore the daughter prest upon her To wed the man so dear to all of them And lift the household out of poverty; And Philip's rosy face contracting grew Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on him Sharp as reproach. At last one night it chanced That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly Pray'd for a sign, "my Enoch, is he gone?" Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, Started from bed, and struck herself a light, Then desperately seized the holy Book, Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, Suddenly put her finger on the text, "Under the palm-tree." That was nothing to her: No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept: When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun: "He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is singing Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms Whereof the happy people strowing cried 'Hosanna in the highest!'" Here she woke, Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, "There is no reason why we should not wed." "Then for God's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes, So you will wed me, let it be at once." So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. But never merrily beat Annie's heart. A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, She knew not what; nor loved she to be left Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often, Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: Such doubts and fears were common to her state, Being with child: but when her child was born, Then her new child was as herself renew'd, Then the new mother came about her heart, Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, And that mysterious instinct wholly died. And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd The ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext She slipt across the summer of the world, Then after a long tumble about the Cape And frequent interchange of foul and fair, She passing thro' the summer world again, The breath of heaven came continually And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, Till silent in her oriental haven. There Enoch traded for himself, and bought Quaint monsters for the market of those times, A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-head Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, Then baffling, a long course of them; and last Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens Till hard upon the cry of "breakers" came The crash of ruin, and the loss of all But Enoch and two others. Half the night, Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. No want was there of human sustenance, Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; Nor save for pity was it hard to take The helpless life so wild that it was tame. There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life. They could not leave him. After he was gone, The two remaining found a fallen stem; And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God's warning, "Wait." The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The lustre of the long convolvuluses That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows And glories of the broad belt of the world, All these he saw; but what he fain had seen He could not see, the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices; The blaze upon the waters to the east: The blaze upon his island overhead; The blaze upon the waters to the west; Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail. There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused, A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him, haunting him, or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places, known Far in a darker isle beyond the line; The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, Tho' faintly, merrily--far and far away-- He heard the pealing of his parish bells; Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart Spoken with That, which being everywhere Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone, Surely the man had died of solitude. Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head The sunny and rainy seasons came and went Year after year. His hopes to see his own, And pace the sacred old familiar fields, Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another ship (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: For since the mate had seen at early dawn Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle The silent water slipping from the hills, They sent a crew that landing burst away In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary, Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, With inarticulate rage, and making signs They knew not what: and yet he led the way To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; And ever as he mingled with the crew, And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue Was loosen'd, till he made them understand; Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, Scarce-credited at first but more and more, Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it; And clothes they gave him and free passage home; But oft he work'd among the rest and shook His isolation from him. None of these Came from his county, or could answer him, If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. And dull the voyage was with long delays, The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore His fancy fled before the lazy wind Returning, till beneath a clouded moon He like a lover down thro' all his blood Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: And that same morning officers and men Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: Then moving up the coast they landed him, Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. There Enoch spoke no word to any one, But homeward--home--what home? had he a home? His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm, Where either haven open'd on the deeps, Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray; Cut off the length of highway on before, And left but narrow breadth to left and right Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down: Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light Flared on him, and he came upon the place. Then down the long street having slowly stolen, His heart foreshadowing all calamity, His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes In those far-off seven happy years were born; But finding neither light nor murmur there (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept Still downward thinking, "dead, or dead to me!" Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, A front of timber-crost antiquity, So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, He thought it must have gone; but he was gone Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, With daily-dwindling profits held the house; A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. There Enoch rested silent many days. But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, Nor let him be, but often breaking in, Told him, with other annals of the port, Not knowing--Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, So broken--all the story of his house. His baby's death, her growing poverty, How Philip put her little ones to school, And kept them in it, his long wooing her, Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance No shadow past, nor motion: any one, Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale Less than the teller; only when she closed, "Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," He, shaking his gray head pathetically, Repeated muttering, "cast away and lost;" Again in deeper inward whispers, "lost!" But Enoch yearned to see her face again; "If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." So the thought Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below; There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward; but behind, With one small gate that open'd on the waste, Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it: But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnish'd board Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand, Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love,-- Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. "Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too! must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself. Never: no father's kiss for me--the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son." There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, All down the long and narrow street he went Beating it in upon his weary brain, As tho' it were the burthen of a song, "Not to tell her, never to let her know." He was not all unhappy. His resolve Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore Prayer from a living source within the will, And beating up thro' all the bitter world, Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, Kept him a living soul. "This miller's wife," He said to Miriam, "that you spoke about, Has she no fear that her first husband lives?" "Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, "fear enow! If you could tell her you had seen him dead, Why, that would be her comfort;" and he thought "After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, I wait His time;" and Enoch set himself, Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. Almost to all things could he turn his hand. Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd At lading and unlading the tall barks, That brought the stinted commerce of those days; Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: Yet since he did but labor for himself, Work without hope, there was not life in it Whereby the man could live; and as the year Roll'd itself round again to meet the day When Enoch had return'd, a languor came Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually Weakening the man, till he could do no more, But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall The boat that bears the hope of life approach To save the life despair'd of, than he saw Death dawning on him, and the close of all. For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope On Enoch thinking, "after I am gone, Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, "Woman, I have a secret--only swear, Before I tell you--swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." "Dead," clamor'd the good woman, "hear him talk; I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." "Swear," added Enoch sternly, "on the book." And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, "Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?" "Know him?" she said, "I knew him far away. Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street; Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her: "His head is low, and no man cares for him. I think I have not three days more to live; I am the man." At which the woman gave A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. "You Arden, you! nay,--sure he was a foot Higher than you be." Enoch said again, "My God has bow'd me down to what I am; My grief and solitude have broken me; Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married--but that name has twice been changed-- I married her who married Philip Ray. Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, And how he kept it. As the woman heard, Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, Saying only, "See your bairns before you go! Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied: "Woman, disturb me not now at the last, But let me hold my purpose till I die. Sit down again; mark me and understand, While I have power to speak. I charge you now When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; Save for the bar between us, loving her As when she lay her head beside my own. And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. And tell my son that I died blessing him. And say to Philip that I blest him too; He never meant us any thing but good. But if my children care to see me dead, Who hardly knew me living, let them come, I am their father; but she must not come, For my dead face would vex her after-life. And now there is but one of all my blood, Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, And I have borne it with me all these years, And thought to bear it with me to my grave; But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: It will moreover be a token to her, That I am he." He ceased; and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promising all, That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her Repeating all he wish'd, and once again She promised. Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, There came so loud a calling of the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang. He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad, Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a sail! I am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no more. So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: 'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!' Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: 'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?' Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to To the thumbscrew and the stake for the glory of the He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 'Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' And Sir Richard said again, 'We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of her fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more-- God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? For he said, 'Fight on! fight on!' Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said 'Fight on! fight on!' And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die--does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!' And the gunner said 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply: 'We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 'I have fought for Queen and Faith like a gallant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!' And he fell upon their decks, and he died. And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down in the deep, And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthy alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Dueffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall. Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is--friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"-- Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. (Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger) Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation--shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sat in council; At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. O for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" "Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step by step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! --Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter casks: And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'O rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, Already staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' --I found the Weser rolling o'er me." You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" The Piper's face fell, and he cried; "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion." "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!" Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, --Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,-- "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!" Alas, alas! for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street-- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville. Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" Then was called a council straight, Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this 'Formidable' clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, Up the English come--too late! So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a king on a throne._) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no king but God alone._) King Henry held it as life's whole gain That after his death his son should reign. 'Twas so in my youth I heard men say, And my old age calls it back to-day. King Henry of England's realm was he, The times had changed when on either coast "Clerkly Harry" was all his boast. Of ruthless strokes full many an one He had struck to crown himself and his son; And his elder brother's eyes were gone. And when to the chase his court would crowd, The poor flung ploughshares on his road, And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!" But all the chiefs of the English land Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand. And next with his son he sailed to France To claim the Norman allegiance: And every baron in Normandy Had taken the oath of fealty. 'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come When the King and the Prince might journey home: For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, And Christmas now was drawing near. Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,-- A pilot famous in seafaring; And he held to the King in all men's sight, A mark of gold for his tribute's right. "Liege Lord! my father guided the ship From whose boat your father's foot did slip When he caught the English soil in his grip, "And cried: 'By this clasp I claim command O'er every rood of English land!' "He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now In that ship with the archer carved at her prow: "And thither I'll bear an' it be my due, Your father's son and his grandson too. "The famed White Ship is mine in the bay; From Harfleur's harbor she sails to-day, "With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears And with fifty well-tried mariners." Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one, But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son. "My son and daughter and fellowship Shall cross the water in the White Ship." The King set sail with the eve's south wind, And soon he left that coast behind. The Prince and all his, a princely show, Remained in the good White Ship to go. With noble knights and with ladies fair, With courtiers and sailors gathered there, Three hundred living souls we were: And I Berold was the meanest hind In all that train to the Prince assign'd. The Prince was a lawless shameless youth; From his father's loins he sprang without ruth: Eighteen years till then had he seen, And the devil's dues in him were eighteen. And now he cried: "Bring wine from below; Let the sailors revel ere yet they row: "Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight Though we sail from the harbor at midnight." The rowers made good cheer without check; The lords and ladies obeyed his beck; The night was light and they danced on the deck. But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay, And the White Ship furrowed the water-way. The sails were set, and the oars kept tune To the double flight of the ship and the moon: Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead: As white as a lily glimmered she Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea. And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing! Is a songbird's course so swift on the wing?" And under the winter stars' still throng, From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, The knights and the ladies raised a song. A song,--nay, a shriek that rent the sky, That leaped o'er the deep!--the grievous cry Of three hundred living that now must die. An instant shriek that sprang to the shock As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock. 'Tis said that afar--a shrill strange sigh-- The King's ships heard it and knew not why. Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm 'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm. A great King's heir for the waves to whelm And the helpless pilot pale at the helm! The ship was eager and sucked athirst, By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced, And like the moil round a sinking cup, The waters against her crowded up. A moment the pilot's senses spin,-- The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din, Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in. A few friends leaped with him, standing near. "Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!" "What! none to be saved but these and I?" "Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!" Out of the churn of the choking ship, Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip, They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip. 'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim The Prince's sister screamed to him. He gazed aloft still rowing apace, And through the whirled surf he knew her face. To the toppling decks clave one and all As a fly cleaves to a chamber-wall. I Berold was clinging anear; I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, But I saw his eyes as he looked at her. He knew her face and he heard her cry, And he said, "Put back! she must not die!" And back with the current's force they reel Like a leaf that's drawn to a water-wheel. 'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float, But he rose and stood in the rocking boat. Low the poor ship leaned on the tide: O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, The sister toiled to the brother's side. He reached an oar to her from below, And stiffened his arms to clutch her so. And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat. And down to the boat they leaped and fell: It turned as a bucket turns in a well, And nothing was there but the surge and swell. The Prince that was and the King to come, There in an instant gone to his doom, In spite of all England's bended knee And maugre the Norman fealty! He was a Prince of lust and pride; He showed no grace till the hour he died. When he should be king, he oft would vow, He'd yoke the peasant to his own plough. O'er him the ships score their furrows now. God only knows where his soul did wake, But I saw him die for his sister's sake. By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a king on a throne._) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no king but God alone._) And now the end came o'er the waters' womb Like the last great Day that's yet to come. With prayers in vain and curses in vain, The White Ship sundered on the mid-main: And what were men and what was a ship Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip. I Berold was down in the sea; And passing strange though the thing may be, Of dreams then known I remember me. Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand When morning lights the sails to land: And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam When mothers call the children home: And high do the bells of Rouen beat When the Body of Christ goes down the street. These things and the like were heard and shown In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone; And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, And not these things, to be all a dream. The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, And the deep shuddered and the moon shone: And in a strait grasp my arms did span The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; And on it with me was another man. Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea-sky, We told our names, that man and I. "O I am Godefroy l'Aigle hight, And son I am to a belted knight." "And I am Berold the butcher's son Who slays the beasts in Rouen town." Then cried we upon God's name, as we Did drift on the bitter winter sea. But lo! a third man rose o'er the wave, And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!" He clutched to the yard with panting stare, And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there. He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he. "Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!" And loosed his hold and sank through the sea. And soul with soul again in that space We two were together face to face: And each knew each, as the moment sped, Less for one living than for one dead: And every still star overhead Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead. And the hours passed; till the noble's son Sighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone! "O farewell, friend, for I can no more!" "Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er. Three hundred souls were all lost but one, And I drifted over the sea alone. At last the morning rose on the sea Like an angel's wing that beat tow'ds me. Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat; Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher-boat. The sun was high o'er the eastern brim As I praised God and gave thanks to Him. That day I told my tale to a priest, Who charged me, till the shrift were releas'd, That I should keep it in mine own breast. And with the priest I thence did fare To King Henry's court at Winchester. We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, And he wept and mourned again and again, As if his own son had been slain: And round us ever there crowded fast Great men with faces all aghast: And who so bold that might tell the thing Which now they knew to their lord the King? Much woe I learned in their communing. The King had watched with a heart sore stirred For two whole days, and this was the third: And still to all his court would he say, "What keeps my son so long away?" And they said: "The ports lie far and wide That skirt the swell of the English tide; "And English cliffs are not more white Than her women are, and scarce so light Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright; "And in some port that he reached from France The Prince has lingered for his pleasaunce." But once the King asked: "What distant cry Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?" And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie Do the fishers fling their nets at sea." And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest When the sea-mew misses its young from its nest?" 'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread Albeit they knew not what they said: But who should speak to-day of the thing That all knew there except the King? Then pondering much they found a way, And met round the King's high seat that day. And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, And seldom he spoke and seldom heard. 'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware Of a little boy with golden hair, As bright as the golden poppy is That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss: Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring, And his garb black like the raven's wing. Nothing heard but his foot through the hall, For now the lords were silent all. And the King wondered, and said, "Alack! Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black? "Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall As though my court were a funeral?" Then lowly knelt the child at the dais, And looked up weeping in the King's face. "O wherefore black, O King, ye may say, For white is the hue of death to-day. "Your son and all his fellowship Lie low in the sea with the White Ship." King Henry fell as a man struck dead; And speechless still he stared from his bed When to him next day my rede I read. There's many an hour must needs beguile A King's high heart that he should smile,-- Full many a lordly hour, full fain Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:-- But this King never smiled again. By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a king on a throne._) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no king but God alone._) Atalanta, daughter of King Schoeneus, not willing to lose her virgin's estate, made it a law to all suitors that they should run a race with her in the public place, and if they failed to overcome her should die unrevenged; and thus many brave men perished. At last came Milanion, the son of Amphidamas, who, outrunning her with the help of Venus, gained the virgin and wedded her. Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went, Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day; But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom bent, Now at the noon-tide naught had happed to slay, Within a vale he called his hounds away, Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling About the cliffs and through the beech-trees ring. But when they ended, still awhile he stood, And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear, And all the day-long noises of the wood, And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year His hounds' feet pattering as they drew anear, And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. Then smiling did he turn to leave the place, But with his first step some new fleeting thought A shadow cast across his sunburnt face; I think the golden net that April brought From some warm world his wavering soul had caught; For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. Yet howsoever slow he went, at last The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done; Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast, Then, turning round to see what place was won, With shaded eyes looked underneath the sun, And o'er green meads and new-turned furrows brown Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus' town. So thitherward he turned, and on each side The folk were busy on the teeming land, And man and maid from the brown furrows cried, Or midst the newly blossomed vines did stand, And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand Thought of the nodding of the well-filled ear, Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear. Merry it was: about him sung the birds, The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry road, The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp-horned herds Now for the barefoot milking-maidens lowed; While from the freshness of his blue abode, Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget, The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet. Through such fair things unto the gates he came, And found them open, as though peace were there; Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or name, He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare, Which at the first of folk were wellnigh bare; But pressing on, and going more hastily, Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. Following the last of these, he still pressed on, Until an open space he came unto, Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won, For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. And now our hunter looked for something new, Because the whole wide space was bare, and stilled The high seats were, with eager people filled. There with the others to a seat he gat, Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 'Neath which in fair array King Schoeneus sat Upon his throne with councillors thereby; And underneath this well-wrought seat and high, He saw a golden image of the sun, A silver image of the Fleet-foot One. A brazen altar stood beneath their feet Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind; Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet Made ready even now his horn to wind, By whom a huge man held a sword, intwined With yellow flowers; these stood a little space From off the altar, nigh the starting-place. And there two runners did the sign abide Foot set to foot,--a young man slim and fair, Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often tried In places where no man his strength may spare; Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair A golden circlet of renown he wore, And in his hand an olive garland bore. But on this day with whom shall he contend? A maid stood by him like Diana clad When in the woods she lists her bow to bend, Too fair for one to look on and be glad, Who scarcely yet has thirty summer's had, If he must still behold her from afar; Too fair to let the world live free from war. She seemed all earthly matters to forget; Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near, But her foe trembled as a man in fear; Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's clang Just as the setting sun made eventide. Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, And swiftly were they running side by side; But silent did the thronging folk abide Until the turning-post was reached at last, And round about it still abreast they passed. But when the people saw how close they ran, When half-way to the starting-point they were, A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear; And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around, And even then he felt her past him bound Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, For no victorious joy her red lips smiled; Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep; No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, Though some divine thought softened all her face As once more rang the trumpet through the place. But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, One moment gazed upon her piteously, Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word He knelt before the bearer of the sword; Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence how, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, And he to hers upturned his sad white face; Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. So was the pageant ended, and all folk, Talking of this and that familiar thing In little groups from that sad concourse broke, For now the shrill bats were upon the wing, And soon dark night would slay the evening, And in dark gardens sang the nightingale Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. And with the last of all the hunter went, Who, wondering at the strange sight he had seen, Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant, Both why the vanquished man so slain had been, And if the maiden were an earthly queen, Or rather what much more she seemed to be, No sharer in the world's mortality. "Stranger," said he, "I pray she soon may die Whose lovely youth has slain so many an one! King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily, Who when her eyes first looked upon the sun Was fain to end her life but new begun, For he had vowed to leave but men alone Sprung from his loins when he from earth was gone. "Therefore he bade one leave her in the wood, And let wild things deal with her as they might, But this being done, some cruel god thought good To save her beauty in the world's despite: Folk say that her, so delicate and white As now she is, a rough, root-grubbing bear Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did rear. "In course of time the woodfolk slew her nurse, And to their rude abode the youngling brought, And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse, Who grown a woman, of no kingdom thought, But armed and swift, 'mid beasts destruction wrought, Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to slay, To whom her body seemed an easy prey. "So to this city, led by fate, she came Whom known by signs, whereof I cannot tell, King Schoeneus for his child at last did claim, Nor otherwise since that day doth she dwell, Sending too many a noble soul to hell.-- What! thine eyes glisten! what then, thinkest thou Her shining head unto the yoke to bow? "Listen, my son, and love some other maid, For she the saffron gown will never wear, And on no flower-strewn couch shall she be laid, Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear: Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear, Yea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly, Thou still may'st woo her ere thou comest to die, "Like him that on this day thou sawest lie dead; For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one, The maid has vowed e'en such a man to wed As in the course her swift feet can outrun, But whoso fails herein, his days are done: He came the nighest that was slain to-day, Although with him I deem she did but play. "Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives To those that long to win her loveliness; Be wise! be sure that many a maid there lives Gentler than she, of beauty little less, Whose swimming eyes thy loving words shall bless, When in some garden, knee set close to knee, Thou sing'st the song that love may teach to thee." So to the hunter spake that ancient man, And left him for his own home presently: But he turned round, and through the moonlight wan Reached the thick wood, and there, 'twixt tree and tree Distraught he passed the long night feverishly, 'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn arose To wage hot war against his speechless foes. There to the hart's flank seemed his shaft to grow, As panting down the broad green glades he flew, There by his horn the Dryads well might know His thrust against the bear's heart had been true, And there Adonis' bane his javelin slew, But still in vain through rough and smooth he went, For none the more his restlessness was spent. So wandering, he to Argive cities came, And in the lists with valiant men he stood, And by great deeds he won him praise and fame, And heaps of wealth for little-valued blood; But none of all these things, or life, seemed good Unto his heart, where still unsatisfied A ravenous longing warred with fear and pride. Therefore it happed when but a month had gone Since he had left King Schoeneus' city old, In hunting-gear again, again alone The forest-bordered meads did he behold, Where still mid thoughts of August's quivering gold Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine in trust Of faint October's purple-foaming must. And once again he passed the peaceful gate, While to his beating heart his lips did lie, That, owning not victorious love and fate, Said, half aloud, "And here too must I try, To win of alien men the mastery, And gather for my head fresh meed of fame, And cast new glory on my father's name." In spite of that, how beat his heart, when first Folk said to him, "And art thou come to see That which still makes our city's name accurst Among all mothers for its cruelty? Then know indeed that fate is good to thee Because to-morrow a new luckless one Against the whitefoot maid is pledged to run." So on the morrow with no curious eyes As once he did, that piteous sight he saw, Nor did that wonder in his heart arise As toward the goal the conquering maid 'gan draw, Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe, Too full the pain of longing filled his heart For fear or wonder there to have a part. But O, how long the night was ere it went! How long it was before the dawn begun Showed to the wakening birds the sun's intent That not in darkness should the world be done! And then, and then, how long before the sun Bade silently the toilers of the earth Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth! And long it seemed that in the market-place He stood and saw the chaffering folk go by, Ere from the ivory throne King Schoeneus' face Looked down upon the murmur royally, But then came trembling that the time was nigh When he midst pitying looks his love must claim, And jeering voices must salute his name. But as the throng he pierced to gain the throne, His alien face distraught and anxious told What hopeless errand he was bound upon, And, each to each, folk whispered to behold His godlike limbs; nay, and one woman old As he went by must pluck him by the sleeve And pray him yet that wretched love to leave. For sidling up she said, "Canst thou live twice, Fair son? canst thou have joyful youth again, That thus goest to the sacrifice, Thyself the victim? nay then, all in vain, Thy mother bore her longing and her pain, And one more maiden on the earth must dwell Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell. "O fool, thou knowest not the compact then That with the three-formed goddess she has made To keep her from the loving lips of men, And in no saffron gown to be arrayed, And therewithal with glory to be paid, And love of her the moonlit river sees White 'gainst the shadow of the formless trees. "Come back, and I myself will pray for thee Unto the sea-born framer of delights, To give thee her who on the earth may be The fairest stirrer-up to death and fights, To quench with hopeful days and joyous nights The flame that doth thy youthful heart consume: Come back, nor give thy beauty to the tomb." How should he listen to her earnest speech? Words, such as he not once or twice had said Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could reach The firm abode of that sad hardihead-- He turned about, and through the market stead Swiftly he passed, until before the throne In the cleared space he stood at last alone. Then said the King, "Stranger, what dost thou here? Have any of my folk done ill to thee? Or art thou of the forest men in fear? Or art thou of the sad fraternity Who still will strive my daughter's mates to be, Staking their lives to win to earthly bliss, The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis?" "O King," he said, "thou sayest the word indeed; Nor will I quit the strife till I have won My sweet delight, or death to end my need. And know that I am called Milanion, Of King Amphidamas the well-loved son: So fear not that to thy old name, O King, Much loss or shame my victory will bring." "Nay, Prince," said Schoeneus, "welcome to this land Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to try Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of his hand; Nor would we grudge thee well-won mastery. But now, why wilt thou come to me to die, And at my door lay down thy luckless head, Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, "Whose curses even now my heart doth fear? Lo, I am old, and know what life can be, And what a bitter thing is death anear. O Son! be wise, and hearken unto me, And if no other can be dear to thee, At least as now, yet is the world full wide, And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may hide: "But if thou losest life, then all is lost." "Nay, King," Milanion said, "thy words are vain. Doubt not that I have counted well the cost. But say, on what day will thou that I gain Fulfilled delight, or death to end my pain? Right glad were I if it could be to-day, And all my doubts at rest forever lay." "Nay," said King Schoeneus, "thus it shall not be, But rather shalt thou let a month go by, And weary with thy prayers for victory What god thou know'st the kindest and most nigh. So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die: And with my good-will wouldst thou have the maid, For of the equal gods I grow afraid. "And until then, O Prince, be thou my guest, And all these troublous things awhile forget." "Nay," said he, "couldst thou give my soul good rest, And on mine head a sleepy garland set, Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net, Nor shouldst thou hear from me another word; But now, make sharp thy fearful heading sword. "Yet will I do what son of man may do, And promise all the gods may most desire, That to myself I may at least be true; And on that day my heart and limbs so tire, With utmost strain and measureless desire, That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep When in the sunlight round that sword shall sweep." He went with that, nor anywhere would bide, But unto Argos restlessly did wend; And there, as one who lays all hope aside, Because the leech has said his life must end, Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend, And took his way unto the restless sea, For there he deemed his rest and help might be. Upon the shore of Argolis there stands A temple to the goddess that he sought, That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands, Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought, Though to no homestead there the sheaves are brought, No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk, Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work. Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees, Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, And entering, hear the washing of the seas That twice a day rise high above the base, And with the southwest urging them, embrace The marble feet of her that standeth there, That shrink not, naked though they be and fair. Small is the fane through which the sea-wind sings About Queen Venus' well-wrought image white, But hung around are many precious things, The gifts of those who, longing for delight, Have hung them there within the goddess' sight, And in return have taken at her hands The living treasures of the Grecian lands. And thither now has come Milanion, And showed unto the priests' wide-open eyes Gifts fairer than all those that there have shown, Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise Above the deeds of foolish living things, And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. And now before the Sea-born One he stands, By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft, And while the incense trickles from his hands, And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft, Thus doth he pray to her: "O Thou, who oft Hast holpen man and maid in their distress, Despise me not for this my wretchedness! "O goddess, among us who dwell below, Kings and great men, great for a little while, Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, Nor hate the hearts that love them without guile; Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile A vain device of him who set thee here, An empty dream of some artificer? "O great one, some men love, and are ashamed; Some men are weary of the bonds of love; Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed, That from thy toils their lives they cannot move, And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood prove. Alas! O goddess, if thou slayest me What new immortal can I serve but thee? "Think then, will it bring honor to thy head If folk say, 'Everything aside he cast And to all fame and honor was he dead, And to his one hope now is dead at last, Since all unholpen he is gone and past: Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly, He to his helper did not cease to cry." "Nay, but thou wilt help; they who died before Not single-hearted as I deem came here, Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts before Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear, Lest in their eyes their true thought might appear, Who sought to be the lords of that fair town, Dreaded of men and winners of renown. "O Queen, thou knowest I pray not for this: O, set us down together in some place Where not a voice can break our heaven of bliss, Where naught but rocks and I can see her face, Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace, Where not a foot our vanished steps can track,-- The golden age, the golden age come back! "O fairest, hear me now, who do thy will, Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain, But live and love and be thy servant still: Ah, give her joy and take away my pain, And thus two long-enduring servants gain. An easy thing this is to do for me, What need of my vain words to weary thee! "But none the less this place will I not leave Until I needs must go my death to meet, Or at thy hands some happy sign receive That in great joy we twain may one day greet Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet, Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all words, Victorious o'er our servants and our lords." Then from the altar back a space he drew, But from the Queen turned not his face away, But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue That arched the sky, at ending of the day, Was turned to ruddy gold and changing gray, And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed windless sea In the still evening murmured ceaselessly. And there he stood when all the sun was down, Nor had he moved, when the dim golden light, Like the far lustre of a godlike town, Had left the world to seeming hopeless night, Nor would he move the more when wan moonlight Streamed through the pillars for a little while, And lighted up the white Queen's changeless smile. Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea As step by step it set the wrack a-swim, The yellow torchlight nothing noted he Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn, And naught the doubled stillness of the fane When they were gone and all was hushed again. But when the waves had touched the marble base, And steps the fish swim over twice a day, The dawn beheld him sunken in his place Upon the floor; and sleeping there he lay, Not heeding aught the little jets of spray The roughened sea brought nigh, across him cast, For as one dead all thought from him had passed. Yet long before the sun had showed his head, Long ere the varied hangings on the wall Had gained once more their blue and green and red, He rose as one some well-known sign doth call When war upon the city's gates doth fall, And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep, He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. Then he turned round; not for the sea-gull's cry That wheeled above the temple in his flight, Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly Breathed on the new-born day and dying night, But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and wan, And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan. Now a faint light lit up the southern sky, Not sun or moon, for all the world was gray, But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh, Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay As toward the temple still it took its way, And still grew greater, till Milanion Saw naught for dazzling light that round him shone. But as he staggered with his arms outspread, Delicious unnamed odors breathed around, For languid happiness he bowed his head, And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground, Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found To give him reason for that happiness, Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss. At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see Through happy tears the goddess face to face With that faint image of Divinity, Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless grace Until that morn so gladdened all the place; Then he unwitting cried aloud her name, And covered up his eyes for fear and shame. But through the stillness he her voice could hear Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable, That said, "Milanion, wherefore dost thou fear? I am not hard to those who love me well; List to what I a second time will tell, And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. "See, by my feet three golden apples lie-- Such fruit among the heavy roses falls, Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully Store up within the best loved of my walls, Ancient Damascus, where the lover calls Above my unseen head, and faint and light The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night. "And note, that these are not alone most fair With heavenly gold, but longing strange they bring Unto the hearts of men, who will not care, Beholding these, for any once-loved thing Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. And thou shalt see thy well-girt swiftfoot maid By sight of these amid her glory stayed. "For bearing these within a scrip with thee, When first she heads thee from the starting-place Cast down the first one for her eyes to see, And when she turns aside make on apace, And if again she heads thee in the race Spare not the other two to cast aside If she not long enough behind will bide. "Farewell, and when has come the happy time That she Diana's raiment must unbind And all the world seems blessed with Saturn's clime, And thou with eager arms about her twined Beholdest first her gray eyes growing kind, Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely then Forget the Helper of unhappy men." Milanion raised his head at this last word, For now so soft and kind she seemed to be No longer of her Godhead was he feared; Too late he looked, for nothing could he see But the white image glimmering doubtfully In the departing twilight cold and gray, And those three apples on the steps that lay. These then he caught up quivering with delight, Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream, And though aweary with the watchful night, And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem He could not sleep; but yet the first sunbeam That smote the fane across the heaving deep Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep. But little ere the noontide did he rise, And why he felt so happy scarce could tell Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. Then, leaving the fair place where this befell, Oft he looked back as one who loved it well, Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan wend To bring all things unto a happy end. Now has the lingering month at last gone by, Again are all folk round the running-place, Nor other seems the dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race, For now, beheld of all, Milanion Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. But yet--what change is this that holds the maid? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, Some happy hope of help and victory? The others seemed to say, "We come to die, Look down upon us for a little while, That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." But he--what look of mastery was this He cast on her? why were his lips so red? Why was his face so flushed with happiness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead, E'en if to death he bows a willing head; So rather looks a god well pleased to find Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise, And wish that she were clad in other guise? Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word? What makes these longings, vague, without a name, And this vain pity never felt before, This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, These doubts that grow each minute more and more? Why does she tremble as the time grows near, And weak defeat and woful victory fear? But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, And forth they sprang; and she must play her part; Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, Though, slackening once, she turned her head about, But then she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand; Then trembling she her feet together drew, And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. Then from the course with eager steps she ran, And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again, the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold, And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, Who now the turning-post had well-nigh won. But as he set his mighty hand on it White fingers underneath his own were laid, And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit; Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay, Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see, And in her garment's hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she To win the day, though now but scanty space Was left betwixt him and the winning-place. Short was the way unto such winged feet, Quickly she gained upon him, till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still. Nor did she rest, but turned about to win, Once more, an unblest woful victory-- And yet--and yet--why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is? why do her gray eyes grow dim? Why do these tremors run through every limb? She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss: Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts! Upon the brazen altar break the sword, And scatter incense to appease the ghosts Of those who died here by their own award. Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, And did a deed forever to be sung. Here are the gathered folk, make no delay, Open King Schoeneus' well-filled treasury, Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day, The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery, Gold chains, and unguents brought from over sea, The saffron gown the old Phoenician brought, Within the temple of the Goddess wrought. O ye, O damsels, who shall never see Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you, Returning from another victory, In some cool bower do all that now is due! Since she in token of her service new Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain, The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale, That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"-- And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt-sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and arm." Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,-- The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Maenads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Small pity for him!--He sailed away From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,-- Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own town's-people on her deck! "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again!" And off he sailed through the fog and rain! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea,-- Looked for the coming that might not be! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-- Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,-- "What to me is this noisy ride? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck! Hate me and curse me,--I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead!" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touched him! why should we?" Said an old wife mourning her only son, "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Up the streets of Aberdeen By the kirk and college green Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, Pressed the mob in fury. Flouted him the drunken churl, Jeered at him the serving-girl, Prompt to please her master; And the begging carlin, late Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, Cursed him as he passed her. Yet, with calm and stately mien, Up the streets of Aberdeen Came he slowly riding; And, to all he saw and heard, Answering not with bitter word, Turning not for chiding. Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing, Loose and free and froward; Quoth the foremost, 'Ride him down! Push him! prick him! through the town Drive the Quaker coward!' But from out the thickening crowd Cried a sudden voice and loud: And the old man at his side Saw a comrade, battle tried, Scarred and sunburned darkly, Who with ready weapon bare, Fronting to the troopers there, Cried aloud: 'God save us, Call ye coward him who stood Ankle deep in Luetzen's blood, With the brave Gustavus?' 'Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine,' said Ury's lord; 'Put it up, I pray thee: Passive to his holy will, Trust I in my Master still, Even though He slay me. 'Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death, Not by me are needed.' Marvelled much that henchman bold, That his laird, so stout of old, Now so meekly pleaded. 'Woe's the day!' he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head, And a look of pity; 'Ury's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child, In his own good city! 'Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line, And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst we'll teach Civil look and decent speech To these boyish prancers!' 'Marvel not, mine ancient friend, Like beginning, like the end,' 'Is the sinful servant more Than his gracious Lord who bore 'Give me joy that in his name I can bear, with patient frame, All these vain ones offer; While for them He suffereth long, Shall I answer wrong with wrong, Scoffing with the scoffer? 'Happier I, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen, With bared heads to meet me. 'When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door; And the snooded daughter, Through her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renown From red fields of slaughter. 'Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, Hard the old friend's falling off, Hard to learn forgiving; But the Lord his own rewards, And his love with theirs accords, Warm and fresh and living. 'Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light Up the blackness streaking; Knowing God's own time is best, In a patient hope I rest For the full day-breaking!' So the Laird of Ury said, Turning slow his horse's head Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron gates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word Preach of Christ arisen! Not in vain, Confessor old, Unto us the tale is told Of thy day of trial; Every age on him who strays From its broad and beaten ways Pours its seven-fold vial. Happy he whose inward ear, Angel comfortings can hear, O'er the rabble's laughter; Glimpses through the smoke discern Of the good hereafter. Knowing this, that never yet Share of Truth was vainly set In the world's wide fallow; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead Reap the harvests yellow. Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneer From the Future borrow; Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight's sky of rain, Paint the golden morrow! Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 'Halt!'--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 'Fire!'--out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. 'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag,' she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word; 'Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!' he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town! 'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls;" When I talk of _Whig_ and _Tory_, when I tell the _Rebel_ story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals. I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill. 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning. Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?" Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking, To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door. Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"-- For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day. No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels! In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the wooden leg he wore, With a knot of women round him,--it was lucky I had found him, So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before. They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people; The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair, Just across the narrow river--Oh, so close it made me shiver!-- Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare. Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it, Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other, And their lips were white with terror as they said, The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted, And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill, When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately; the hill. Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall. At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming; At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers! At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted), In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs, And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks. So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still: The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,-- At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill. We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing-- Now the front rank fires a volley--they have thrown away their shot; For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not. Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:-- "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!" In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer, When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; Like a morning mist is gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks! O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray. Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't be doubted! God be thanked, the fight is over!"--Ah! the grim old soldier's smile! "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak we "Are they beaten? _Are_ they beaten? ARE they O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; were tattered, All at once, as we were gazing, lo! the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them,-- They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep. Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed? Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep? Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm! But the words have scarce been spoken when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm! So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!" And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of Old Jamaiky; I'm afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;" So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun. All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets fixed for storming: It's the death-grip that's a-coming,--they will try the works once more." With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,-- Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum! Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck? It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare. And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren! hurry! hurry! Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress his wound!" Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground. Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our brave fellows, As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore. For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What _will_ his mother do?" Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, "Mother!"--and--I saw his eyes were blue. --"Why, grandma, how you're winking!"--Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, and strong. And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather; --"Please to tell us what his name was?"--Just your own, my little dear. There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted, That,--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children are all here!" 11. =Edmonton= is a suburb a few miles directly north of London. 44. =Cheapside= was one of the most important of the old London streets. 49. The =saddletree= is the frame of the saddle. 115. =Carries weight.= The bottles seem to resemble the weights carried in horse races by the jockeys. 152. =Ware= is a town about fifteen miles north of London. Robert Burns was born of peasant parentage near Ayr, Scotland, on Written in 1790 in a single day and first published in 1791 as a 1. =Chapman billies=; pedlar fellows. 4. =Tak the gate=; take the road. 8. =Slaps=; gates in fences. 14. =Ayr=; a town in Ayrshire, Scotland, on the west coast about 20. =Blethering=; talking nonsense. 23. =Melder=; corn or grain sent to the mill to be ground. 30. =Doon=; a river near Ayr immortalized in Burns's song, "Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon." 32. =Alloway=; a small town near Ayr, Scotland. 33. =Gars me greet=; makes me weep. 40. =Reaming swats=; foaming new ale. 86. =Bogles=; bogies or goblins. 91. =Meikle stane=; huge stone. 93. =Cairn=; pile of stones. 105. =John Barleycorn=; a Scotch term for whiskey. 117. =Strathspeys.= The strathspey was a Scottish dance. 123. =Gart them skirl=; made them shriek. 127. =Cantrip slight=; magic charm. 149. =Coost her duddies=; threw off her clothes. 153. =Creeshie flannen=; greasy flannel. 181. =Lap and flang=; leapt and capered. 185. =Fidged fu' fain=; fidgeted with eagerness. 186. =Hotched=; jerked his arm while playing the bagpipe. Scott's character was almost wholly admirable. He was manly, Published first in _Marmion_ (1808) as "Lady Heron's Song." 2. =Border=; the country on the border between England and Scotland, a region of warfare and strife for many centuries. 32. =Galliard=; a lively dance of the period. 41. =Scaur=; a steep bank of rock. especially in its treatment of nature, was a reaction against the MICHAEL (Page 21) 2. =Greenhead Ghyll=; a ravine near Grasmere. 134. =Easedale=; a small lake near Grasmere. Written in 1800, after the author had visited the battlefield. In the battle of Hohenlinden (December 3, 1800), the French under 4. The =Iser= is a river rising in northern Switzerland and flowing into the Danube. 67. =Riou= was one of Nelson's officers. Charles Wolfe was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1791 and died at Sir John Moore (1761-1809) was commander of an English army of =Corunna= is a city in northwest Spain. answered, "I know it." As a poet Byron appeals especially to youth. His tales are so "Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned-- To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. "Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar--for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard!--May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God." 4. =Sudden fears.= Marie Antoinette's hair has been said to have 35. =Marsh's meteor lamp=; will o' the wisp. 38. =Cankering thing.= What does canker do? 57. The =elements= are fire, air, earth, and water. 82. =Polar day.= What is the length of the day near the poles? 107. =Lake Leman=; another name for Lake Geneva. 237. =Wist=; the imperfect tense of _wit_, _to be aware of_, _to 294. =Solitary cloud.= This line is one of several very close similarities in this poem to Wordsworth; cf.:-- "I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills." 341. The =little isle= referred to is Ile de Peilz, an islet on which a century ago were planted three elms. 392. =With a sigh.= It is not unheard of for men long imprisoned MAZEPPA (Page 58) 9. =Day were dark and drear=; Napoleon's famous defeat, and retreat from Moscow, October, 1815. 15. =Die.= What is the plural? 23. =Gieta= was a colonel in the king of Sweden's army. 51. =Levels man and brute.= Burke says in his _Speech on 104. =Bucephalus=; the horse of Alexander the Great. Alexander, 105. =Scythia= was a country, north and northeast of the Black 116. =Borysthenes=; another name for the Dnieper River. 151. A =Mime= was a sort of farce, travestying real persons or events. 237. =O'erwrought=; the past participle of _overwork_. Cf. _wheelwright_, _wainwright_, etc. 349. ='Scutcheon=, or escutcheon, is the shield-shaped surface upon which the armorial bearings are charged. 664. =Werst=; a Russian measure equal to about two-thirds of a mile. Keats's poetry is noted especially for its sensuous beauty, its 40. =New-stuffed.= What does this mean here? 70. =Amort= (Fr. a la mort); lifeless, spiritless. 75. =Porphyro= (Gr. _porphyro_ = a purple fish, purple). Why did 90. =Beldame= (_bel + dame_) originally meant a fair lady, then grandmother and, in general, old woman or hag. 105. =Gossip= originally meant a sponsor at baptism (_God-sib_), 115. =Holy loom.= See Introductory Note. "But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do." 138. How make =purple riot= in his heart? 208. =Casement high....= On these next three stanzas Keats spent 214. =Heraldries= are coats of arms. 215. =Emblazonings=; colored heraldries. 241. =Missal=; a mass book for the year. What is the meaning of this line? =Paynims=; pagans. 257. =Morphean.= Morpheus was the god of sleep. 262. =Azure-lidded sleep.= Note the different senses appealed to 266. =Soother=; used here for _more soothing_. 267. What are =lucent syrops=? Note derivation. 375. Angela. Have the deaths of Angela and the Beadsman been foretold? The clearness and simplicity of this exquisite pastoral make any 1. =Ida= is a mountain in northwest Asia Minor near the site of 10. Gargarus is the highest peak of Mount Ida. 13. =Troas= is the district in northwest Asia Minor in which was 13. =Ilion= was the Greek name for Troy. 16. =Paris= was the son of Priam, king of Troy, and his wife 37. =River-God=; Cebren, the god of a small river near Troas. 51. =Simois=; a river having its source in Mount Ida. 65. =Hesperian gold.= The apples of Hesperides were made of pure 66. =Ambrosially.= Ambrosia was the food of the gods. 72. =Oread.= The Oreads were nymphs who were supposed to guide travellers through dangerous places on the mountains. 83. =Here= (Roman Juno) was the wife and sister of Zeus (Roman Jupiter), and therefore Queen of Heaven. 84. =Pallas= (Roman Minerva) was the goddess of wisdom. 95. =Amaracus=; a fragrant flower. 95. =Asphodel=; supposed to have been a variety of Narcissus. 102. The =peacock= was a bird sacred to Here. 171. =Paphian=; a reference to Paphos in Cyprus where Aphrodite first set foot after her birth from sea foam. 220. =The Abominable=; Eris, the goddess already referred to. 257. =The Greek woman=; Helen, wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta. 259. =Cassandra=; the daughter of Priam, and hence the sister of The conclusion of the story of Oenone and Paris may be read in Tennyson's own _Death of Oenone_ or in William Morris's _Death of ENOCH ARDEN (Page 117) 7. =Danish barrows= are burial mounds supposed to have been left 18. The =fluke= is the part of the anchor which fastens in the ground. 36. =Wife to both.= This line is a prophecy of future events in the story. 98. The =lion-whelp= was evidently a heraldic device over the gateway to the hall. 213. =Look on yours.= This is another prophetic line. 494. =Under the palm-tree=; found in _Judges_ iv. 5. 527. =Summer of the world=; the equator. 563. =Stem=; the trunk of a tree. 573. =Convolvuluses=; plants with twining stems. 575. =The broad belt of the world.= The ancients considered the ocean to be a body of water completely surrounding the land. 633. This description may be compared with that of Ben Gunn in Stevenson's _Treasure Island_. 671. A =holt= is a piece of woodland. 671. A =tilth= is a name for land which is tilled. 733. =Shingle=; coarse gravel or small stones. THE REVENGE (Page 146) Grenville was a somewhat haughty and tyrannical leader, though conscious) of the pride of beauty, and strength, and valour, and 1. The =Azores= (here pronounced _A-zo-res_) are a group of 4. =Lord Thomas Howard= was admiral of the fleet to which the _Revenge_ belonged. 12. =The Inquisition= was a system of tribunals formed in the 17. =Bideford= in Devon was the birthplace of Sir Richard Grenville. In the sixteenth century it was one of England's chief 21. Victims of the Inquisition were sometimes tied to a =stake= and burned alive. 30. =Seville= is a city in southwestern Spain. It is here to be pronounced with the accent on the first syllable. 31. =Don=; a Spanish title of rank, here used to designate any 10. =Pique=; seems to be the pommel. See Note 235 above. See Note 235 above. See Note 235 above. See Note 235 above. See Note 235 above. See Note 235 above. See Note 235 above. See Note 235 above. 46. =Save Aix.= Notice that this is the first we know of the purpose of this ride. Is this an advantage or a disadvantage? 5. =Neck out-thrust.= Notice how Browning gives the well-known attitude of Napoleon. 9. =Mused.= What effect has this supposed soliloquy of Napoleon? 29. =Flag-bird.= What bird was on Napoleon's flag? 37. =Guilder=; a Dutch coin worth about forty cents. 79. =Pied Piper.= _Pied_ means variegated like a magpie. Cf. 89. =Cham.= The Great Cham, or Khan, was the ruler of Tartary. 91. =Nizam=; a native ruler of Hyderabad, India. 182. =Stiver=; a small Dutch coin. HERVE RIEL (Page 168) 5. =Saint Malo on the Rance=; a town on a small island near the 30. =Plymouth Sound.= Plymouth is on the southwestern coast of 43. =Pressed=; forced into military or naval service. 43. =Tourville=; the famous French admiral, who commanded at La 44. =Croisickese=; La Croisic, a small fishing village near the mouth of the Loire, which Browning often visited. overindulgence in narcotics. Henry never recovered from the shock of this disaster; and 2. =Rouen=; a city in northwest France on the river Seine. 14. =Clerkly Henry.= In his youth Henry had been a student and scholar--hence his early nickname "Henry Beauclerc." 17. =Eyes were gone.= According to a legend, which, however, has 35. =Liege=; having the right to allegiance. 36. =Father's foot.= William the Conqueror, Henry's father, 39. =Rood=; the fourth part of an acre. 45. =Harfleur's harbor.= Harfleur is a seaport town on the north 163. =Honfleur=; a town on the south bank of the outlet of the river Seine, opposite Harfleur. 166. =Body of Christ=; the procession of the Holy Communion. 211. =Shrift=; the confession made to a priest. 214. =Winchester=; a cathedral city in southern England, the ancient capital of the country. 260. =Dais=; the platform on which was the king's throne. 1. =Arcadia= was a province of the Grecian peninsula. 14. =Cornel= is a kind of wood of great hardness used for making 28. =King Schoenus=; a Boeotian king, the son of Athamas. Most other versions of the story name Iasius as Atalanta's father. 62. =Image of the sun=; a statue of Phoebus Apollo, the sun-god. 63. =The Fleet-foot One=; Mercury (Hermes), the messenger of the 177. =Saffron gown=; the orange-yellow dress indicative of the bride. 208. =Adonis' bane=; the wild boar. Adonis was a beautiful youth 224. =Must=; the juice of the grape before fermentation. 373. =Queen Venus.= It was to Venus, the goddess of love, that unhappy lovers were accustomed to turn for aid. 391. =Holpen=; the old past participle of the word help. 516. =Damascus=; the chief city of Syria. 535. =Saturn= (Cronus or Time) was the father of Jupiter. Under his rule came the so-called Golden Age of the world. 671. =Phoenician.= The Phoenicians lived on the eastern shore Longfellow's diary for the date December 17, 1839, contains the Published first in 1841 in _Ballads and Other Poems_. 2. =Paul Revere= (1735-1818) was a goldsmith and engraver who became one of the most active of the colonial patriots. 9. =North Church.= There is some dispute as to what church is 102. =Concord= is about nineteen miles northwest of Boston. 3. =Apuleius's Golden Ass.= Apuleius was a Roman satirist who 4. =Calender's horse of brass.= See the story in the _Arabian 6. =Islam's prophet on Al-Borak.= Mohammed was believed to make 26. =Bacchus=; the god of wine and revelry. A Bacchanalian revel 35. =Chaleur Bay=; an inlet of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, between 1. =Aberdeen=; a city in northeastern Scotland. 2. =Kirk=; the Scotch word for church. 10. =Carlin=; Scotch word for old woman. 35. =Luetzen=; a town in Saxony, province of Prussia. 57. =Walloon=; from certain provinces of Belgium. 81. =Snooded.= The snood was a band which a Scottish maiden wore 99. =Tolbooth=; a name commonly applied to a Scottish prison. 117. =Fallow=; ploughed but unsown land. "This poem was written in strict conformity to the account of the While Holmes is best known as the author of _The Autocrat of the 3. =Whig and Tory.= In the Colonies the Whigs were the 5. =April running battle=; the fight at Lexington and Concord, April 19, 1775, when the British forces were led by Lord Percy. 42. =Banyan=; a colored morning-gown. 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Roberto Bracco

I fantasmi: Dramma in quattro atti (Taken from Roberto Bracco Teatro, Vol. VII)

1861

Copyright 1904 by MARIAN LONGFELLOW and of Who Still Walks with Me, These Songs are dedicated by Washington "Post," the "Saturday Gazette" (Boston), and other Among these "Contrasted Songs" I trust that the reader will find something to which the heart may respond. Faithfully yours, On the Sea The Mansion that Endured Francis Coster's Story The mystic sea is singing its golden song to me; I bend to catch its murmur in silent ecstasy; Till, as the music ringeth in sweet and solemn tone, An answering echo waketh a music all mine own! The sea sings softly, softly upon my listening ear, And still its notes fall ever in cadence full and clear. The song that waxeth stronger within my beating heart Seems but a second measure--seems of the sea a part! And far from all the burdens that day brings in its train, My soul hath found Elysium--renews its youth again! I hear the golden billows beat on the rock-bound shore, And still my heart is singing that sweet song o'er and o'er! O happy Youth, how quickly the sands of life have run! The shades of eve are falling ere yet the day is done! The golden sea eternal beats loud and strong and free, And bears upon its bosom a joy eternally! 'Tis the Spirit of the Water! it breathes upon the sea; As phantom in its motions it glides mysteriously! I see the snow-clad islands that deck the opal bay, And the Spirit of the Water now robed in mist and spray. The charm that clings eternal to ocean fills my soul, As mist-wreathed waves in grandeur pass on unto their goal! Ye phantoms on Life's ocean! how like the mist ye seem, As backward turneth memory across Life's glow and gleam! While still the fateful presence glides on across the wave, Nor lifts its veil of mystery until we reach the grave! O speak! is it endeavor, or is it blighted faith? Or is it but the passing of pain--this silent wraith? We know not, oh, we know not here, for o'er Life's restless sea We too glide on, as phantoms all, this side Eternity! Calm seas that lie 'neath summer skies And mirror back those skies to me, Upon whose breast white sails arise And glide like spirits grand and free. Calm seas beneath whose hidden deep Are wonders far beyond my ken, There, rocked in murmuring currents, sleep The secrets not revealed to men! Peace, like a white-winged dove descends And hovers o'er the waters bright, While glory of the sunset blends With tones of the approaching night. My glad soul bids thee welcome, and Goes forth upon the ocean's tide! Far from the care that fills the land, To where my spirit would abide! Till, as the cares of day depart And the glad sea its greeting calls, I rise unshackled, strong of heart, And from my life the burden falls! Thus in this quiet nook I find All that I longed and sought in vain In the world's haunts, my soul to bind, And, seeking, found but grief and pain. Now, like a blessing falls thy grace, O grand, beloved, glorious sea! Drawn by thy message, face to face, My longing greets thy mystery! O solemn cliffs of Grand Manan! In silent might ye rise, As bounded by th' eternal sea And by the azure skies! Like a proud soul that stands apart, Unknown, unloved, unsought, Ye guard your stronghold silently Through many battles fought. The sea-gull sweeps across your wall, And seaward shapes his course! While at your feet the waves beat loud In measure wild and hoarse. O solemn heights! O grand and calm! Ye hold my heart in thrall! And not a sound is heard beyond The ocean's rise and fall. But as the waves beat strong and loud Upon your rugged shore, Through it the sea's sad monotone I hear forevermore! The sunset glow hath kissed your heights, As loth to leave you yet; And, bathed in glories red and gold, The eve and you have met. The boat speeds on--we may not stay, But from my brooding heart Your image, while this life remains, Can nevermore depart! O for the bounding wave, and the salt, salt spray on my face! For the soul as free as air, that by right belongs to me! For power to cast aside these fetters dark and strong, To bound over heaving deep--and no more to feel the thong O for the bounding wave, and the salt, salt spray on my face! For the strength to grasp and hold the plan of a waning race. For might to compel the tide in its turn to serve my will, O sweetest bird that ever sang In notes of wild rejoicing; Thine even-song as first it rang, Was thrilling in its voicing! I felt thy rapture as I heard Thy song in all its beauty; To me it scarce seemed but a bird; 'Twas life, and love, and duty! I could not see thy tiny form, As softly closed the gloaming; And like a wanderer in the storm My heart was blindly roaming. While, as thy song rang pure and clear O'er sweet smell of the haying, Mem'ry sped back through many a year, Both light and shade displaying. And still thy notes of reed-like tone Came clear o'er mead and river, With tender meaning all its own, And trilled and trilled forever! "O heart," it sang, "let thine own life Become a song to others, That thou mayst count them in the strife Not alien, but as brothers! Sing on, sing on, thy notes repeat, Sing life, and love, and duty, That mystic three whose names replete Are e'er with heavenly beauty. Sing life, the gift of ray divine That pierced the gloom of even; The first upon our path to shine, A heritage of Heaven! And love--oh, what were life without This second gift eternal, That bids the glad earth blossom out In summer's garb supernal! Yet love and life were both in vain Were duty not a flower That springs beneath the blessed rain To crown Life's darkest hour!" Not unto me a bird, that eve, In notes of earth was singing, But a pure voice its way did cleave From Heaven its message bringing! My one wee bud that grows in the meadow, Far apart from the flaunting garden blooms, Afar, where the brook and birds are singing, And the soft noon haze o'er the distance looms. My one wee bud, but to grow so bravely Where the rushes rise from the moorland green, Where birds skim close o'er the grassy billows And the low breeze murmurs its plaint between. My one wee song I sing in the even, When the home doth gather its loved ones close, And the world's afar and hearts grow nearer, And the jar of life sinks into repose. My one wee song, like a flower growing In this life of mine that were else so bare! Ah! shalt thou go forth to do my bidding-- My love, shall he cull it as blossom fair? Ah! flower and song, be this thy meaning, Thy mission of love in the world is clear; The grace once born of seed sown in shadow Shall bloom in the hearts that now hold thee dear! Scarlet and gold and crimson, Their banners flung to the breeze, Like monarchs' brilliant vesture The ranks of the maple trees. Golden and brown and russet The oaks in their Autumn dress; Soldiers in ranks deploying, To the front they onward press. Pale in their coats of yellow, Tinged and with orange flecked, The chestnuts on the hillside, As with royalty bedecked. Scarlet and gold and crimson, And golden and russet brown; Pale with a sun-kissed yellow Are the leaves now fluttering down. Garb of the season's bringing, Majestic it decks the hills, And Autumn's lavish splendor The soul with its beauty fills. Adown the grassy hill they come, To greet me, every morn; Those little maids (in Norman caps) Of joy and spring-time born. They march demurely, side by side, How many pair there be! Far as mine eye can reach, their forms In green and white I see. Each sister wears with youthful grace Her snowy Norman cap, And in the long procession there I see no pause or gap. And so, I watch to see them come As morn by morn I pass, The green of shimmering robe and glint Of snow within the grass. They never speak and yet they nod A friendly greeting there, And all their beauty round me seems A fragrance in the air. I speak to them? Oh, yes, I speak And lovingly I bid Them welcome every summer morn, Those maids with downcast lid! They are so modest, pure and fair; They are so very sweet, I fain would linger there and call Them clustering round my feet. Far backward in the view my eyes The slow procession see, And yet they never leave the path Nor can they speak to me. 'Tis the flag-lily growing tall Amid the meadow grass; The Iris, as we often call Each snowy-snooded lass. In couples stately, there they stand As far as eye can scan, And round them waves the nodding grass As homage due from man. They stand a line of vestals pure, Or each a sweet-faced nun; While on each snowy cap there falls The radiance of the sun. Although the power of speech may not Be theirs in worldly phrase, They teach a lesson just as true, And just as full of praise. In their allotted path they walk, And fill their destined end, Their beauty gladdens every eye, As down the hill they wend. O flower-sisters, if ye make One heart in rapture rise; If ye but waken one pure thought To bloom in Paradise. Then have your lives, though brief, as boon To mortal man been given, To draw from earth his sordid thoughts And bid them rest on Heaven! Like a frail shell on the breast of the ocean Sways now my heart to the rhythm of thine! Cradled, is borne on the crest of emotion, Sinks in the deep of a languor divine! And as the shell the wild waves onward carry, So doth thy love bear my heart to its shore! Here on its golden sands blissful to tarry Held in thy fond clasp to wander no more! Lay thy dear lips to my lips, oh my lover,-- Read in mine eyes all my tongue may not tell! Love, as a bee, gaily sips (gallant rover!), Rove thou no more--nay, I yield to thy spell! Oh, to be out on the Ocean! where the waves beat wild and free, Where there's naught 'twixt the sky and billows but the boat, and you, and me! Oh, to be out on the Ocean! with the cold, salt spray to dash Athwart the bows of the vessel, and foaming, to merrily lash The boat to freer effort, as she plunges a-thrill with life Oh, to be out on the Ocean! with no heart 'twixt you and me! With no bond that must bind forever here, but strong and brave and free! With the song of grand old Ocean, as it lulls us on its breast,-- Oh, to be out on the Ocean! although storms rise dark and strong, Oh, to be out on the Ocean! and to leave the din and strife, With naught 'twixt the sky and the billows but the boat, and you and me! We are sailing over the crest of the billow, Afar from the world and its sorrow and pain; While I on thy soft breast my head now may pillow And lull me to rest and to peace once again! Nay, Love, how thy heart in its prison is beating! It throbs 'neath mine ear as a fluttering bird; While swift to my lips comes thy low song, repeating The lilt of the waves, in a measure half-heard! And oh! to be far from the world, Love, with thee!" It rises and falls with the waves' rhythmic motion, Is filled with night's balm as with starbeams the sea! "With naught 'twixt the sky and the billows"--now singing The words keep repeating the tender refrain-- "But the boat,"--comes once more in cadence clear ringing,-- "'Twixt the sky and billows"--I hear it again! Now, "save thee and me"--falls the song in its measure Across the wide Ocean of thought, love, from thee, And I know to my heart's deep, mysterious treasure, Thy love, like a bird, flies to harbor with me! Nay, how could we dream that o'er Time's trackless ocean Thy soul, thus responsive, should answer to mine? Or, that out of the chalice of silent emotion My heart drink in equal communion with thine! I pinned a red rose o'er my heart, The rose my lover gave to me, With many vows and tender words, My love, my own, I love but thee. I wore the red rose o'er my heart, That summer day with gladness, And knew not doubt nor haunting care, Nor slightest touch of sadness. But ah! a thorn's within my heart, A thorn of false love's planting, Deceit had pressed its bitter sting, My life forever haunting. I took the red rose from my heart, No more, oh love, 'tis blowing, The thorn lies deep within my breast, Where never sign is showing. A fair little boat went sailing the sea, Far over the bright blue wave; And she dipped and curt'sied, gay and free, As became a craft so brave. A blithe young maiden a song of love Sang out on the summer air; The birds took the notes, on their boughs above And answered her, cheerily, there! As the boat went out and over the bar The white sails set to the breeze, Her clear song followed on pinions afar; The birds sang forth from the trees. O boat in your path to the rising sun, To that land beyond the sea, Pray, what is the cargo,--your journey done-- You will bear her, if Fate decree? For you take her heart (on your snowy deck) And you take her troth--may there be no wreck, No tempest out of the East! Will you bring her the perfect love she gave, And keep it unsoiled and true? Will you bring her a heart as strong and brave As the one she gives to you? Else what does it matter if wreck betide; Or the sun go down in cloud? It were better for her, this day, you died Than that Love should wear a shroud. It were better far that her song were mute, To swell forth a later day; For Love that hath never a constant root Must fade and wither away. So boat sail on, if you be not true; And maiden, oh hush that song! For the years that are coming swift to you Bear a dearer love along! One day I cast my lot upon the troublous tides of life, And ventured all my hoarded love upon its fitful strife. On one frail mortal like myself I set the store of years, And freighted well the ship that day with all my hopes and fears. And never sign of cloud uprose above my sunlit way! Ah, me! can life e'er bring again such perfect trust as this, Such eager hopes, such joyous dreams of ever present bliss? One day! Ah, me! 'tis years ago since first I saw her sail, And sent my prayers and tears for her above the gathering gale! Will she come back, my noble ship, and captain brave and crew Of joys and hopes and high resolves, of love both deep and true? Or, solemn thought! shall she ne'er find the haven here below, But anchor in the "silent land," beyond Life's ebb and flow, Beyond vain fret and fond regard, and strivings e'er to see The reason why so oft denied our dearest hopes should be! "Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine," I read in this old song, anew, this living love of thine! The old, old song that in the days now swift and sure are fled, Recalls its sparkle and its mirth, oblivious of its dead! It served to bear as lover's gift all tender thought and true, It wove among the garlands sweet red roses, never rue! "Drink to me only with thine eyes," ay with thy tender eyes-- Only within thy dark, grave eyes would I be mirrored now, And only from thy folded lips learn love's own cherished vow. "Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine!" O happy rose that bloometh upon her gentle breast! Of all thy joyous hours, this is, in truth, the best! Not sweeter is thy fragrance upon the balmy air Than her pure spirit sheddeth, so blithe and debonnaire! O happy rose that lieth upon that bosom white, To thee kind Fate hath granted a goal of pure delight! In vain I sigh and murmur, thy lot all envious view, And seek in vain to stifle this moment's pungent rue! O happy rose, as lying beneath her light caress, Now whisper to her softly, what I may not confess, And tell her she is fairer than bloom of earth, to-night, In that her soul exhaleth all virtues pure and bright! A Cloud scarce larger than a feather Uprose in Love's bright sky one day, But, ah, it grew to stormy weather And shrouded all the sun's bright ray! A little cloud! but ah, the sorrow That springs from bitter words that jar; How deep the pain from which we borrow,-- How strong the wall that forms the bar! We may in after-hours grow tender And strive to read our lives aright, But if to Love its due we render, We know Life's thread, at best, is slight! What if the look, the word, but spoken, Had been "the last" we ever met? Ah! Life had been too short, too broken, Its pang forever to forget! My heart grows faint with longing and with love As in the twilight comes thy well-loved face; And closer, closer drawn by threads that bind Thee to me, all our tender joys I trace. In lines keen-cut, and lasting as the stone When sculptor's art transforms it into life-- That erst were soulless marble, still and poor To mirror forth our hope or joy or strife! In lines keen-cut! Yea, on my living heart, (That slumbered 'neath its veil of seeming death), Thou tracest characters full bold and deep, And breathest now with life-inspiring breath! Thus was Love born! To me, who deemed it cast Behind me!--with the shadows and the blight That fell on trusting heart and life and home, And wrapped my soul in darkest tones of night! Nay, but thy Love has waked me, and I live! For love and life, twin-born, are guests of mine, Thine eyes have told me lover's sweetest tale, And tender lips have sealed me wholly thine! So, if within the hours apart we walk Ofttimes in paths that take us from our nest-- The nest we built with loving heart and hands-- It takes not from us love nor trust nor rest! It takes them not--no hand but ours can rob Each other of this gift surpassing all! No hand but ours can bind or break this bond, And from no other hand but ours can fall Blight or distrust, or grief or bitter pain; And so, my own, in this we builded well If through life's storm or sunshine there shall fall No grief or loss our lips may ever tell! My heart grows faint with longing and with love,-- And yet I know I must not keep thee e'er A tender bond-slave to my amorous will;-- Such chain as that 'twere ill that thou shouldst wear! I would not have thee swayed, dear love, by aught Thy manhood would disclaim; nor would I hold Thee prisoner to my clinging heart, howe'er Its pleading touch would seek to thee enfold! Love cannot live where faith and trust are not,-- Love will not brook a gilded chain to wear;-- And where the fetters bind, the bird's sweet song Is hushed--the skies above, no more, are fair! But I would hold thee in my heart of hearts So little prisoner, that thou ne'er shouldst stray From Love's dear shrine,--but, through the waning years Our love-life should grow dearer day by day! Yes, hold me closer, closer in thy arms, And closer to thy beating heart, that I, Secure in all that crowns a woman's lot, May now, with thee, the bitter past defy! Yet would I not call down an envious doom On any of the future's sunny days; 'Twere ill in me to tempt the Fates, I trow; But, rather, as one pleading, kneels and prays:-- "Stay but thy hand, O Time! and pitying grant Us of thy sunny sheaves of Harvest Day; Hours brimmed with sweetness and all glad with love,-- That, passing on, we scarce may heed the way "That erst was strewn with sharpest stones and weeds; So lead us gently, Time, we may not miss Aught of Life's joy or of its brilliant light, Or, missing, crave a fuller cup than this!" Yes, hold me closer, closer; let me rest My head, content, above thy throbbing heart. Struggle and bay of laurel are the world's; But this, my own dear Love, the better part! Fame and Ambition--lo! do not they burn With all the lurid light and gleam of earth? Love, silent and benign, an influence sheds, And heralds forth in life a higher birth! Vain is ambition, yea, or conquered goal, To bind my heart or satisfy me here. Then hold me closer, closer to thee, Love; For this I give it all--hold thou me near! (This legend, in prose, I found in a French collection, and have believed it would be acceptable rendered into verse. M. L.) Back, in olden time when emperors Ruled the land where Tiber flows, Proud and stern dwelt Gondoforus, As the ancient legend shows. As he mused in hours of leisure, Came into his brain this thought: "Straight I'll build, for mine own glory Here, a palace deftly wrought "Of the richest gold and silver; With the choicest gems bedecked; That shall on my house and lineage Still a greater light reflect. "Shall outshine the Roman Emperor's In its beauty and its worth; Place fore'er his lordly structure 'Mid the lesser of the earth." So he sent his message speeding To the regions far and near, That some great and cunning builder Might at his command appear. When, one day, with mien all lowly, Wrapped about in garments gray, Stood the architect before him, His behest to now essay. Spoke his will--and Gondoforus Went forth proudly unto war; Days and months sped on unheeded, Still no word came from afar. Yet the architect wrought, silent, Though he touched nor plan nor pen; For the palace he was building Was not seen by eyes of men. While unto the poor and wretched Freely of the gold gave he; Precious stones were turned to healing Needs of poor humanity! Back, returning flushed with victory, Gondoforus came apace; Sought, in vain, to view his palace-- Bare and empty was its place! Then he sent, with sternest message, For the architect, and said-- "Caitiff, what is now thy showing? Answer, by thy hoary head!" Thomas (he who, doubting, lingered When his fellows pressed to claim As their risen Lord, the Saviour) Spake: "Oh, thou of kingly name, "Lo! thy house is even builded!" But the warrior bade them cast In deep dungeon him who trifled With his will--there bind him fast, While he planned the subtlest torment For the traitor's aged frame, While he doomed, with keenest vengeance, Him to torture, death and shame! But, as in his rage he pondered, Sleep o'ertook him, held him chained, And a vision hovered near him-- Earthly sense grew dim and waned. Then the spirit of his brother Swiftly to his side drew nigh; Said, in words that thrilled his being, "He whom thou hast doomed to die "Is the servant of the Mighty; Is an instrument of grace, For the angels now have shown me (Where no narrow walls have place "And where dwell the hosts eternal) Reared in all its beauty there, And of ornament most fair. "Fashioned of the precious metals Thou wouldst fain have builded here; Fashioned with a grace and glory That on Earth doth not appear. Thus, in Paradise there standeth Waiting thee, a House divine, Which the Architect hath fashioned All on Earth to now outshine!" Then the vision paled and vanished; Gondoforus straightway sped To the captive, who awaiting, Bowed in prayer his aged head. Gondoforus knelt before him; Then the holy Thomas spoke, As he raised the humble warrior Crushed beneath the vision's stroke-- "Knowest not, O King, the mansions That endure, are reared on high? Builded there, for us, in Heaven By our faith and charity." On fair Lake Como's sunny brink, An ancient monastery stood Close to the mountain's steep ascent, As nestling 'neath its snowy hood. And there a pale young artisan His cunning plied; a wondrous chime He sought to frame, that those who loved The beauty of that molten rhyme Within the valley's breadth should hear Pealing at morn and even clear. For years he toiled, content if he At last might frame a chime so sweet That pilgrims oft would silent pause To hear the music glad repeat. Borne o'er the tranquil waters' reach And bringing swift unto the heart Its tones of warning, praise, and love, That nevermore should then depart. Such was the thought he wove, and prayed That his life's work be holy made. The day came when that perfect chime Was placed aloft, its song to wing Forth o'er the waters' silent reach And to the convent's roof to bring The lost and wayworn traveller from The busy haunts of world and strife, Back, where the calm of prayer might prove The guide-post to Eternal life! Then was the artisan as one Whose dearest life-work, here, was done. Not so, howe'er! 'Twas yet to be A lifelong task--a path to lead Through many a land, in futile search O'er stony ways where feet should bleed. Not yet his soul's high guerdon find-- The prize his hands had placed aloft. How rarely here on earth we see Life's morning fill its promise soft. Not yet was he to find his rest Beside Lake Como's lovely breast. A savage horde o'erran the land And bore away the prized chime; Afar from peaceful Como's side, To some unknown and distant clime. In vain the artisan complained Beneath a fate unkind; he drew No comfort from lament or prayer, For peace no more his hearthstone knew. Then, as one day he brooding mused And consolation sweet refused, He seemed to see before his eyes A land outspread, wherein his feet Should wander, seeking ever there His loved and lost--his chime so sweet, He rose at once; he sought no aid; But bowed his head in silent prayer; Then from his home he straightway passed That no one might his purpose share. And leaving home and rest that day With breaking heart went on his way. Whene'er he heard, in foreign land, Some wondrous story of a chime Whose tones were liquid notes of song, Whose bells rang out a gladsome rhyme, He journeyed to that storied place, Nor paused till he should reach the spot,-- Only to find his quest in vain, While yet those bells were ne'er forgot. Each day his soul went up in prayer That those clear chimes might pierce the air! Thus journeyed he for many a year While locks of gold had turned to grey Till in a distant land he strayed And heard at close of summer day The old sweet song rung by his chime He long had listened for in vain! Quickly rose tears in lifted eyes, Quickly his heart renounced its pain! "O loved and lost! for many a day You've called me from my youth away!" For now on foreign strand he waits Alone in age--alone in kin, Listening as listens one who bides Outside of Heaven, to praise within. Not vain his search! not lost his love! He feels once more the old-time throb Ere cruel foes his prize had ta'en; No more may they his treasure rob! His life went forth in one glad cry Beneath that far-off, alien sky! 'Twas ended--all the tender search; The hours of pain and sleepless toil; There, where no loved his hand might clasp; There, on that wild and foreign soil. But deep within his heart was writ His purpose pure; his steadfast search. And lo! his chime still calls to prayer, And still peals forth from ivied church. The bells once blessed by saintly hands Now call, in Limerick, God's commands! My story's done--what need to say He sleeps as well and sweetly there Beneath that arch of foreign sky As in his native land so fair. He found, ere death had met his feet The prize he sought with spirit brave, And finding was content to lie Afar from Como in his grave. Love was the goal that led his feet To peace and deathless calm replete. The chimes? Ah, well, perhaps they peal No less the sweetly that their note In alien lands the tidings bring; They still to God their praise devote, And though their maker no more hears The liquid music of each tone, They speak to those whose living needs Make of the chimes their very own. Though hand that made is turned to clay, His work--the chimes--lives on alway! (I came across this legend, in prose, some time ago, to which was Once--I've read in olden story-- Lived a holy man of God, And two children, 'neath his guidance, Through life's pitfalls safely trod. Every day's returning duties Found them docile at his side, There to draw from Wisdom's fountain All his tender care supplied. But the day's first, freshest hour At the altar found them prone, Gladly giving to their Savior All He claimeth as His own. There they served with purest offering At the sacrifice sublime, Knelt, responded, and with reverence Sounded oft the bell's clear chime. And this duty then completed, To the little chapel door Turned their feet, and, entering, vanished There to eat their humble store. But one day their teacher seeking, Spake the elder one full clear, "Tell us, Father, what fair infant Doth so oft to us appear?" Then the priest replied in accents Full of tender, loving care-- "Son, I know not him you speak of Who with thee thy task doth share." But they came again unto him Day by day, with urgent word, And it was with deepest wonder That their simple tale he heard. And he asked--"Of what sort is he?" And they answered him again-- "Father, he is clad in raiment Seamless and without a stain!" "But whence cometh he?" replying Spoke the priest in accents mild; And they answered, "From the altar, As it were, descends the child. "And we asked him then to share With us of our milk and bread; And he doth, right willingly;" This is what the children said. And the priest was full of wonder; To the children then spake he-- "Are there marks whereby to know him If mine eyes the child should see?" "Yes, my father, yes, he beareth In his hands and in his feet Wounds that pierce his tender body." These the words that they repeat. "From his hands the crimson liquid, On the bread he taketh, flows Till beneath his touch it blusheth Like the deep heart of the rose!" Then with awe replied their master-- "O my sons, list unto me! Know it is the sweet Child Jesus The Holy One, that you did see! "When again he cometh to you, With these words your greeting be: 'Thou hast breakfasted with us, Grant we three may sup with Thee!'" Then the children did his bidding; Sweetly then the Child did say, "Be it so, on Thursday next; On that day they came rejoicing, But they brought nor milk nor bread; Served they at the Mass right gladly; "Pax Vobiscum," then was said-- But they still knelt on, unheeding, Thus they fell in Christ asleep; Master, children, with their Savior Then his marriage-feast did keep! Lo! half way up the hill I pause To turn within the ancient gate And enter ground now hallowed! The silent city where they wait In perfect rest till He shall bid Them rise who now in sleep are laid; Whose life, and death, and waiting e'en, On Him in childlike faith is stayed! No sound is heard within the spot Save the soft wind among the trees, Or song of insect's busy hum, Or low of herd upon the breeze. I walk 'mid graves of those long dead, Who lived and suffered, strove and won, And now have entered into life E'en while we say their life is done! I fain would take when I return Into the world's wild rush and roar, The peace of this fair autumn day, That it bide with me evermore! That I may learn from this blest spot Where sleep the dead--who in the Lord Now take their rest--that life is more Than idle jest, than passing word, Than anxious effort for the bread That perisheth! Yea, more! That life is as a vessel given Of precious ointment, that we bear And fear that we its freight may waste Ere we may yield it to His care! Poor trembling soul within this frame of clay, That vainly questioneth, wouldst fain essay The problem that nor time nor man may solve, Around which cycles evermore revolve! Not till the light upon thy quest is born, That only beams in an immortal morn, Shalt thou be satisfied, thy fears allayed, And, freed from earth, a new creation made! I dreamed, and lo! upon the silent earth (That ever swings, as from its misty birth), I kinless stood! and all the streams that erst In joyous measure sang me forth their tale Sank to a murmur; even while there burst Upon mine eyes that straightway turned me pale! I looked and wondered, and I grew as chill As though their fated touch had froze my blood; As far beyond that living, green-clad hill, In breathless awe, mine eyes were turned, I stood Appalled! Forth from the bosom of the deep There rose a wondrous chain of towering cliffs, Clear as the lake upon whose mirror sleep Light-poised, all tenderly the skiffs; While rays of light played o'er their polished sides, As slowly rose and sank they on the tides. Kissed by the sun they grew; their colors' sheen Of rose and emerald-touched tips; between The amethyst deepened to a royal tone Of purple, and I stood and gazed, alone! I knew that naught of earth was left save me To look upon that strange and glorious sea! And, as I gazed, wild flames leapt up to seize The iceberg's glow and melt it to their will: Naught could their hungry rage of greed appease, While luridly and sullen burned they still, What, then, does it portray--this onslaught fierce Of flames upon these sunlit cliffs of ice, If it be not that Evil seeks to pierce The armor thrown about the soul's device; The powers that wage unceasing war, And ever seek to gain what lies afar Above them! "Souls of just men perfect made," "Yield not," I cried, "for here a mortal stands "Alone and helpless in these alien lands; "And yet on mortal lips, I know, is laid "The burden of a knowledge far above "All thought of human gain or human love!" And crying thus, I woke, nor ever knew If to fruition my bright vision grew. I stood on empyrean heights and saw, Outlined in figures bold, a vision there; Loud were the shouts of strife and deadly war, While Peace, remote, shone in her beauty fair. I heard the clash of arms; the martial tread; While nation warred with nation in their lust Of pride and power, until there lay the dead-- The heroes of a decade--in the dust! I saw, in ranks that spread to either pole, Heroic deeds of great men and of true; The highest aspirations of the soul; The work wrought, through the many, by the few! I sped from rising sun unto the west; I read the stars that mirrored in the sky; And some in a resplendent light were dressed, And some through shadow I could scarce descry. I saw a Nation's rise and saw its fall; I learned a people's passing glory there; I heard the strident voice of Justice call, And answering cheer and joy were in the air. I passed through touching scenes of humble life, Where hearts were beating in their full content; Where far from peaceful hearth and home lay strife, And days of joy and gaiety were spent. I passed 'mid scenes of dark and dull despair, On, on, where bitter want and hunger raged; Where naught of holiness was pictured there, But man 'gainst man his cruel warfare waged! I heard the wail of childhood in its need, And saw the fearful shadow of Death's wing Pass swiftly on and through the darkness speed, And heard the joyous song the angels sing! I heard the deeds of woe--saw sins of ill; I knew Life's tragedy was played the while; That greed of gain--that selfish, restless will Was crushing out the tender youth's sweet smile. I also read of good and saw its scope Of radiance on a troubled world's dark web; And saw that trust and love and buoyant hope Outrode the spring-time tide ere it could ebb. Nay, tell me, then, whence came each passing scene, And why such widespread power vouchsafed to me, That time nor space held aught of bar between The shifting lights of land and distant sea? How could I realize the utmost span Of life and love, nay more, of silent death As meted out within the time of man, And passing o'er the wide world's pulsing breath? O puissant Press! what need have I to tell The power of thy great sceptre wielded here? When those, beneath whose brilliant, magic spell We've sat entranced, now in our midst appear! Each face familiar warms the brother's heart; Each hand extended meets an earnest clasp; Each friend is here, a living sentient part Of Brotherhood and seeks an honest grasp! O mighty power for good or yet for ill; For saving grace; mayhap for withering blight! Thy brimming cup of service should be still The draught to lift a weary world to light. Thy arm should raised be in noble strife; Thy steady hand still wield the trenchant pen; Thus all of light and grace and noble life Shall call thee forth from hearts of fellowmen! A little while, my friends, and I am lying Beneath the sod that tells us Spring is nigh; And I, who've found this life no rest supplying, Shall lay my task aside without a sigh. A little while, and friends who kindly greet me Shall seek my place--in tears shall seek in vain; And those whose love and tender thought now meet me, Shall say--"She comes, our friend, no more again!" A little while--and oh, how great the yearning To lay the burden down, to be as free As bird that hails its nest, on wing returning; So do I think, beloved, of rest and thee! The rest my weary heart and soul have waited Through all these years of sorrow and of doubt; As traveller on his homeward way, belated, Impatient seeks and can not bide without. And thee! Oh loved one gone, this year, before me, Unto a world of light and rapture pure; The thought of thee doth, smiling, now allure me To draw more close and yet to more endure! O'er the long reach of water comes The plash of dipping oar, And faintly, borne upon the wind, Far voices gain the shore. I hear their low, faint murmur as The boat glides on its way, And with the glance of flashing oar Fall silver drops of spray! I lie with half-closed eyes and dream Of days that long are fled; While fancy brings unto my side The forms of those now dead. When life and love were as a song From vibrant chords of youth! When every heart that greeted me Spoke but of trust and truth! Thus half-adream I hold commune With mine own heart, and ask Were youth and joy the greater gain, Or life's more finished task? Quick comes the answer to my lips-- Quick to the question craved-- "The noblest deeds of life are those In later years engraved "On tablets of the living mind, In characters full bold; Not happiness, nor yet content, Can here life's measure hold! "Not to glide on in summer dreams, Nor yet to love, is best; But in thy noble strength to grow And earn the longed-for rest!" So not with envious eyes I watch The boat whose living freight Is youth and all youth's sunny dreams-- I, who have learned to wait! O heart of mine, why sighest For joys thou may'st not taste? O eyes, why turn in longing Across the weary waste? And lips that falter sadly Of home and love and peace, Now all thy vain repining And doubt and grief, oh, cease! Home! Nay, thy home is distant; Will longing bring it near, And heart, will thy complaining Point out the way more clear? O heart of mine, thou sighest In vain, thy home's afar; It shineth as a beacon To exile--as a star Unto the lonely sailor Who dreams of land and love, But as he dreams looks ever Unto his star above! Then, heart, bind to thy longing The gaze that turns aloft Beyond the raging tempest To seek love's guidance oft. Heimweh! O homesick sailor, Across life's stormy main Return unto thy haven, No more to roam again! O'er the wild reach of wave afar Thy cliffs arise; once more I turn mine eyes upon thy hills And purple-tinted shore. All silent in majestic state, Monarch of mighty realm, Thy front is raised to meet the storm, When fierce gales overwhelm. Yet on this lovely autumn day, In soft enchantment's chain, Outlined fore'er on distant sky Thy memory shall remain. My feet must tread in other paths Than this beloved land, And other footprints in their turn Shall press this shining sand. Sea, air and sky are filled alike With beauty and delight; The sea is shimmering at my feet With all of life and light. So let me bear to other scenes This picture; it shall stay As memory and as joy to me Through many a weary day. And oft shall rise before my sight When distance, time and care Have touched my life with graver thought, This vision passing fair! I see her passing through the fields All fresh with daisies and with rye, And something purer, brighter, breathes Than the mere tints of earth and sky. Her dainty head with grace is poised, And 'neath her hat-brim's shade I see The soft, dark eyes, the pure child-face That hold so much of joy for me! Her feet, as loath to tread the bloom Of flowers and of field-grass bright, Fall lightly as she maketh way To pass, nor leave behind her blight. Fearless the eyes, and full of thought, As though Life's secret fain she'd know; Grace, of a wildness all untrained, Wraps her within its subtile glow. And, as she treads her way a-field I know she seeks me, me alone! O child! my heart grows weak, to-night, To stifle now its secret moan! What will ye bring her, Love and Life? Or what withhold? I may not see; But, oh, I pray, whate'er ye take, Leave her her grace and purity. Where the long reach of shadows play, And placid waters murmur by I dream throughout the summer day Nor note the hours that winged fly. Hushed is the voice of sordid trade, And e'en the birds' sweet song is stilled; While all the cares that Life hath made Slip from my heart, which now is filled With peace alone. O Nature pure! To thee, I turn, no more to stray In spirit, with thee ever sure To find sweet solace for the day! O leafy homes where song-birds rest; O gentle breeze that rocks and sways! My heart all silent stays to rest And bide apart these heaven-born days! For other worlds are pictured there; Reflected in the waters lie; And each is clear and passing fair, And fleecy clouds o'er each glide by! Years have sped by with rapid wing Since those bright days of long ago, When, hand in hand, in Life's sweet spring, We told our love in accents low. For you were young, and fair, and free, And I a youth with ardor bold; You were, of all earth's maids, to me The fairest--ah, the story's old! Our youthful fancy in the years That now lie far behind, anew Springs forth from memories Time endears, When smiles were frequent, tears were few! Ah well! we parted! Still doth shine Your form on fancy's pictured wall, As when you were my "Valentine," And I to you was all in all! I see you on the busy street, A comely matron, fair of face; The maiden, tall, and pale and sweet, Keeps by your side with even pace. You see her not? Nay, she is mine, This gracious presence from the Past! She is my one fair Valentine Through summer's glow, through winter's blast! Slowly sinks the sun. The evening takes from night a deeper tone; their own. Martins! How your note reminds me of the days so long ago, Once again about my spirit! Memory brings before my view Friends and faces long since vanished--sounds and scenes that once I knew. Till the sea-girt town uprises from the mist, in verdure drest, So I muse while twilight summons once again the long ago, And its clustered memories fill my brooding heart, and overflow. Youth and love, and hope, aweary in these years have grown and I But I think when Azrael greets me I would fain the hour were mine Leave me alone to my sorrow, my sorrow, Leave me alone, I would "mourn my dead!" Never again on the morrow'll he greet me, Never again, it is said, it is said! Never again shall I see him approaching, Hear his clear voice ring over the lea; Never again shall his strong arm enfold me, Never again, ah, woe is me! Never again! oh the weight of this anguish! Never to see him, to hear him again! Only my heart to my heart can disclose it-- Never, ah! never--this quivering pain! Never again will he wait 'neath my window, Bidding me join him, as loving he stands; Never to watch for his coming to meet me Over the sea from those distant lands! Dark are his eyes as is the veiled splendor Of tropical skies in storm overcast! Glorious his smile as the sunlight descending, Full on the earth when that tempest is past! Now in the land of his birth though he wander, 'Neath Southern palms tho' his footsteps rove, Ever, I know, in its pain and its longing, Turns his heart's trust unto mine's deathless love! Leave me alone to my sorrow, my sorrow, Leave me alone with life's dreary refrain! Never again shall I hear his fond pleading, Listening I hear only--"Never again!" We are severed by more than the ocean's vast billows! We must walk in our paths each alone and in pain! But our hearts grow but closer, and fonder, and nearer, Though here upon earth, it be "never again!" So many things, dear Lord, I asked; So many things that were untried; So many things I sought, but oh Hadst Thou denied! Hadst Thou denied! I did not know their gold was dross; I did not see the chasm wide But downward plunged, and now I cry-- Hadst Thou denied! Hadst Thou denied! So many things, with outstretched hands, I begged might not be turned aside. I know the best had oft been mine Hadst Thou denied! Hadst Thou denied! I wearied Thee with my wild prayers To taste of joys that ne'er abide. While many blessings had been mine Hadst Thou denied! Hadst Thou denied! Hadst Thou denied my foolish wish; Hadst Thou my spirit longer tried! All these vain years, in grief, I own, Had reaped rich gain hadst Thou denied! Why should I remember the days of long ago? Days we spent together, beside the river's flow; Why should I remember the dreams that haunt me yet? Ah, why should I remember--if you forget! Why should I remember the nights I sat and dreamed As stars came out in Heaven--when they and I it seemed, Alone kept watch and vigil--ah, I recall them yet! But why should I remember--if you forget! Why should I remember those days of Summer time When Love immortal bound me, and sang his witching rhyme. Why should I remember your vows as there we met? Ah, why should I remember--if you forget! Why should I remember the grave I fashioned wide Within my heart and laid you, and all that with you died. Why should I bewail you, and why should it be yet That I must still remember--and you forget! Why has my heart grown empty and why this empty throne Where you who made life dear have left me now alone? Why can I not a watch against your mem'ry set? Ah, why should I remember--when you forget! Dear heart, sweet heart that through these years Hast walked with me, in sun, in shade! Though thy dear presence bides with me In thought alone, that ne'er shall fade! We may not wander hand in hand, We seldom greet us face to face, Yet in my life thy love, thy words Have ever yet a hallowed place! Together in the past we roamed When girlhood's fancies bound our will,-- To-day, no less, we deem it sweet The tie that holds us captive still! To thee, beloved, my storm-tost heart Turns now, as then, for word of cheer. In those far days my arm was strong, My love did hold thee from all fear; But now my strength is well nigh spent, Though mem'ry crowns each happy hour, And fain would forms now vanished seek, And fain recall that witching power! Some sleep in death whom we called dear; Some roam afar in distant lands, While you and I have ever grown The nearer, knit by Friendship's bands! And as the years roll on I cling, Dear heart, more closely to thy love; God grant for all life's bitterness A lasting peace to come, above! "And they shall rise again!" Oh, words of comfort given To many hearts by sorrow borne unto the earth! "And they shall rise again!" The gates of death are riven, And forth, immortal, steps the Soul unto her birth! Long had they lain in vast Nepenthe's hidden coffers, The germs of life that silent waited but the call Of Love Divine to seize upon the gift it proffers, And to throw back and off, forever, the dark pall. "And they shall rise again!" Arise to glories bounding No earth-born vision, and no span of fleeting days, But, born of depths which life thus far had been but sounding, The heirs of Heaven's crown and its immortal praise! "And they shall rise again!" Oh joys of hope eternal! That though we, weeping, lay them 'neath the heavy sod, God's angels, guarding now, behold their spring supernal, And hold them trusting, waiting but the call of God! So shall this Easter morn, to-day, bring to us waiting, His Word fulfilled,--His gift of gifts above all price! For Earth and Light and Air are all to us relating The glories borne at dawn from shores of Paradise! And so I take mine onward path, alone, And yet not quite alone if God decree; The way my Lord hath trod shall be mine own, And so my strength shall be! What though it lead through tangled brake and brier, And sharpest stones shall pierce my wounded feet? Unto that height if my faint soul aspire These words mine ear might greet:-- "If thou but follow Me through toil and pain, If thou but take thy cross and follow Me, I will reward thee, when I come again, "But if thou wilt not bear thy cross with Me Thou canst not hope to win the victor's prize; No martyr's crown, no saint's green palm shall be Thy share in Paradise!" And so I fain would take mine onward way In humble imitation of my Lord. This hope to be bear me in it day by day,-- His never-failing word! Calm seas upon whose placid breast My barque one day shall anchored lie, Beyond this season's keen unrest, Beneath a softened evening sky! I shall not in those hours of peace Recount the storms that strike me now; For me the struggle sore shall cease, And Trust stand at my vessel's prow! The shipwreck and the storm no more May toss me 'neath its stern decree; But anchored within sight of shore A perfect rest shall welcome me! I shall not count the tears that flow These weary hours, these restless days; For then my keener sight shall know The hidden meaning of His ways! And thus I look beyond the storm, Beyond the clouds that now appear; Knowing the ills that take such form Shall flee before the evening clear! Calm seas upon whose placid breast My barque one day shall anchored lie, My soul may not possess thy rest Until the evening draweth nigh! Some day when all this weary time No more hath power to stay my flight; When far from earth's unhappy clime My soul shall speed her way to light, I shall no more this garb of clay (Beneath whose weight I sink opprest) Bear with me; but, oh blessed day, Find all denied in life of rest! Some day! ah, how my heart doth cry With longing and with pain, aloud, For some faint sign lest hope should die; For some small token through the cloud! Lest joy no more my guest should be, And peace, that calms with tender touch, No more should come to visit me, Who need their presence here so much. Some day! Nay, do I not know well This life bears little in its hand That we should lie as in a spell Beneath its strong and cruel band. At best, 'tis but a span dealt out To each; as grains of sand may seem That, as the tempest whirls about, Are gone, and ended as a dream! O fair, broad Lake, upon whose breast The shifting shadows rise and fall, Thy surging waters' vague unrest Sinks beneath twilight's gathering pall. Thy changing beauties quickly glide Successive past th' entranced eye, While hills around, in regal pride, Reflected in thy waters lie. I hear the plash of dipping oar, I see the boats swing on their way; The waves flow on from shore to shore, While softly, slowly dies the day. And sweetly with the evening's calm Upon my heart there falls a peace, That comes as comes the evening psalm, That bids the world's vain tumult cease. And as fall swift the shades of night Along the path my feet must tread, Lo! through the clouds a golden light Upon Life's passing scene is shed. And so, bathed in its softened glow, And tuned to sweetest harmonies Far, far beyond Life's ebb and flow-- The soul, immortal, seeks the skies! O storm-tost soul in thine hour of need Turn to the light ere the moments fly, Turn unto One who will ever heed-- Jesus of Nazareth passeth by! Hark, what mean these songs of praise And clouds of incense that float on high? See! borne on wings on this day of days, Jesus of Nazareth passeth by! If thou but touch His garment's hem As they did of old (if thou wouldst not die), Lo, from His person, as unto them, Healing and love flow silently! Into each heart He entereth now, Listeneth unto each sinner's cry! Then--leaving His blessing upon each brow-- Jesus of Nazareth passeth by! Joy that we sat at His blessed feet! Joy that He hears e'en the faintest sigh! Loudly our lips exultant repeat-- "Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!" Nearer my rest with each succeeding day That bears me still mine own allotted task. Nearer my rest! the clouds roll swift away, And nought remains, O Lord, for me to ask, If I but bear unflinchingly life's pain, And humbly lay it at Thy feet divine, Then shall I see each loss a hidden gain, And Thy sweet mercy through the darkness shine. Nearer my rest! and as I journey on Grant me, dear Lord, (my angel-guides to be, To keep and help me ere that rest be won), Patience, and Faith, and blessed Purity. These guides, I pray Thee, each Thine attribute, And thou, O Lord, my shield and armor bright; For without Thee no tree shall bear good fruit; These three, O Lord, to lead me through the night! These hands have labored, Lord, so many years; So many years these feet have trod this road; So many years these shoulders, bent and weak, Have borne their own and others' heavy load! This heart has broken in these many years, And tears have dimmed these eyes, till life Has seemed but one sad wilderness, and few The hours of peace amidst the bitter strife! Must I, then, Lord, toil on unceasing here? Hast thou no words of comfort for my soul? Are all the cheerless, fainting hours to win No progress toward my weary spirit's goal? Nay! as I speak, I know the day will dawn From out the dark and tempest-driven night, When I, released, shall stand erect and free Within the glory of that radiant light! No more, then, heart, bewail these hours of earth, No more shed tears of blood, for surely there, Beyond the darkness and the pain and gloom Shines forth the sun in lands that are most fair! Nor knew, till late, that it was such; Oft hath it robbed me of my rest; Oft have I shivered at its touch! I wore it, trembling, and I knew Nor why it was, in fact, nor how Its presence fell like evening dew On shrinking heart, and lip and brow! It was a thing of pain, and yet A subtile blessing seemed to flow From 'neath its touch, though eyes were wet As from the stab of ruthless foe! Not until years had fled did I Behold the inner presence there; Not until Time had passed all by, Did I perceive its beauty rare. But now I know thee as thou art, O Face divine that lookest down Upon my life and bruised heart; And fear of thee fore'er hath flown! Thou shalt walk with me, as I know, For the brief space of years to be; A newer, higher path to show Where sorrow wins me purity! A day whose wondrous dawn is writ In letters firm and free and bold, Through years whose prophecies shall fit This stone from Life's mosaic old! A day wherein my hands shall rest From labor ill-requited here; The hands whose clasp on peace hath prest Too light to hold it very near. That day whose number ofttimes now Rolls past each year, but all unseen By eyes now holden, shades the brow Where other shades have frequent been! Some token in each joyous year That most I loved, abides unseen, And bears aloft an index clear Upon its leaves now clasped between. The month, the day, the hour is there, Unconscious to my searching eye When, be the skies or dark or fair, Shall added be the Year I die! And as I note each feast of song On earth; each joy, each loss or birth, Shall I not give--nor thus be wrong-- A thought to that, when clogging earth Shall hold me bond-slave here no more! No more shall dim with tears mine eyes; When I shall simply pass the door No living hand impatient tries! Not mine to know that day as yet; But in the watches of the night, The watch my soul herself hath set, I wait the coming of that light. Not then as messenger of dread I wait to read it on the scroll; Not as impatient, nor as wed To life, abides my waiting soul! Though now inscribed "unknown" it takes Its place on calendar of earth, An anniversary that wakes To greet us from the hour of birth! God of the Nations! Thou whose might Hath led us from the dark to light, Since first a puny people we Sought and obtained our Liberty! Grant, we beseech Thee, for the Earth A Peace that shall have noble birth! A Peace that shall beneath its wings Enfold the brightest, best of things! Keep Thou the people of that land, Who for their homes and firesides stand; Teach Thou another land to rest Her arms, and bend her haughty crest! Bring Thou within the fold of right All who are plagued with war and blight! And bring, O God, in this New Year, A reign of Love and not of Fear! So shall we keep Thy word divine; So shall the land no more repine; And this wide world, oppressed with fear, Look onward to a brighter year. God of the Nations! Thou whose might Hath led us from the dark to light, Grant us to live that we may be Worthy our birthright--Liberty! We name our heroes in the hush That follows battle's awful roar, And count the cost of that great rush To victory! They deemed no more Than just the simple right to shed Their blood in such a holy cause. Where the unconquered died or bled We turn, from our safe ground, and pause To wonder how, in days long gone, Such power was given to right the wrong! We deem them worthy of all praise, The heroes of that battlefield; And looking backward to those days, That meed of praise most gladly yield. Were they more true to dictates bold Of honor in that olden time? Or, when the weight of proof is told, Rang out the truth in purer chime? Gave they more freely of life's stream Than we would do? than we dare dream? They did not flinch when in the wage Of war stern duty's standard waved, But heart and hand did both engage, And on each soul was deep engraved "Country and Home;" fit words to urge To action more heroic still, As o'er that mighty ocean's surge Rang out the watchward of their will! As onward pressed to liberty The men through whom we now are free! In conflict rang their cry of might, "Ours is the cause that must be won; God is the helper of the right!" So sped the word at Lexington, While hurrying from peaceful plow To war's red-stained field they came. Not theirs 'neath tyranny to bow; Not theirs a country's death and shame; But to go on to greater height With wings outspread for purer flight. Hail heroes in our country's need! We bring ye wreathes of laurel leaves; We gather of the scattered seed In full and ripened harvest sheaves. Yours be it e'er to lift our minds To realms of higher deed and thought; Be ours to loose what here but binds And holds us from the object sought. Then may we hope, in time, to stand As staunch and true as that brave band. To-day, as meet, we hold this page Of History before the world; While overhead, undimmed by age Our country's flag is all unfurled! O emblem of sweet Freedom's gift, Not vainly are thy stars displayed! To thee our eyes with pride we lift; Thy Stars and Stripes our strength have made. Hail! heroes of brave deeds well done; Hail! day that gave us Lexington! O Land of our Birth! whose bright colors are waving From mountain and valley; o'er sea and o'er land; A pathway of light, Lo! its glory is paving, To wane not, nor darken, at despot's command! We stand 'neath the Flag that embodies the union, While History passes in stirring review; Our hearts, in remembrance, now hold proud communion With the record of deeds both gallant and true! O Land of our Birth! 'tis a glory undying That sheds its soft light over each scene outspread; And Tyranny's hand, all in vain, is defying The Heaven-born Peace that to Freedom is wed! We feel the glad throb of the patriot's devotion, That e'er to the Stars and the Stripes must be due, All else is engulfed in o'erwhelming emotion That finds its fulfillment the Red, White and Blue! Fling to the breeze our noble Flag, And let it ride the gale! In time of War 'twill never lag; Its stars and stripes ne'er pale! Give it to Heaven's breeze, once more, And let it proudly float! The emblem bear from shore to shore, To herald Freedom's note! Look to it, Children! 'Tis a gift Most precious in its worth; No slave his streaming eyes need lift To curse his wretched birth! No deed to bring the blush of shame Should flaunt beneath its folds; But ever brighter grow the fame Of work its plan unfolds. As fair, to-day, as when The founders of our liberty Stood forth, God's noblemen! When by the price of blood and tears They sealed that sacred deed, And cast aside all doubts and fears, To meet a Country's need. Then let it float to Heaven's breeze, Beneath the sapphire dome; Far o'er the tops of waving trees; Fling to the breeze our noble Flag, And let it ride the gale! In time of War 'twill never lag; Its stars and stripes ne'er pale! In time of Peace how fair to see-- Sent forth by patriot hand-- This symbol of sweet Liberty Throughout our native land! It grows 'mid tangled underwood, All brilliant in the fields, And o'er our hearts a subtile spell Its golden beauty wields. Perchance some exile's foot hath pressed The road with weary tread, When lo! from out the wayside growth It rears its bonny head. Not with the first faint tints of Spring Are its bright blossoms seen; But, radiant in its garb, and decked With Autumn's fruitful sheen. Then hail! bright floweret of our choice-- With multiform design; Though many in thy blossom's wealth, Still one on parent vine! Roll, muffled drums, upon the air, and flags furl colors bright; In lowly tents their bivouac find, though not by us forgot. Wail forth, oh music, in soft strains, and learn, oh soul of man, Of Life, and turn from its rude clash and all its weary pain, To muse awhile on heroes gone and hear their praise again. As words of orator now fall upon the listening ear, Hushed is the magic of his touch That waked the soul to joyous praise! The vibrant strain we loved so much Still echoes on throughout the days; Days that had sped in steady round Thrilled by the songs his bow had bound. Stilled is the music to our ears. In higher cycles, we believe, Brighter than earthly crown appears His genius, and shall meed receive: While in a rarer, fuller light, His touch still wakens to delight. Then is he not as one who dies And whose brief day is ended here; For, in those worlds which Time defies, His melody grows still more clear; Then is he not as one whose light Is darkened by Death's envious night! Thus while we wear within our thought The beauty of his god-like art That here in eager longing sought To voice the music in his heart, O bear in mind no truth divine Of art is lost--it needs must shine Across the waste of shipwrecked lives As o'er the brightest path below; Where'er its meaning steadfast strives To sing its measure's stately flow, For Life is art--as art is Life-- And soars above unequal strife! He gave to man the measure free The gods had given to his soul; And, touched to deeper ecstasy, Bound Music to his sweet control. O Artist true! we deem thy death But entrance into fuller breath. But fuller grasp of thy great work; But deeper draughts from wells divine, Where disappointment ne'er may lurk, Where round thy head the glories shine Which crowns endeavor firm and true, And gives thee roses--never rue! Here do we leave thee with thy brow Encircled with the roses sweet; Victory's token, crowning now Thine art with all our praises meet; Here do we leave thee, victor still, For Art bends not to Death's stern will! The nation weeps, while through the stricken land Stalks the grim specter raised by traitor hand; And on the air there rises dire lament For vigil, suffering and life now spent. Lo! through the tumult comes that voice of trust From soul of mortal triumphing o'er dust: "God's will, not ours;" O hero strong To rise above the thought of burning wrong Seeing, while here, the heavy cross grow light, "His will be done; His guiding hand my way!" That heart, yet bound by racking pain, could say. The nation weeps. Anger and grief uplift On high their hands; O from this pain to sift Some grain of comfort and some thought of rest! Again those tender words, "God knoweth best." As man, not free from earthly fault was he, For mortal man may not perfection see; But yet, as man, he bore full well his part And freely spent his wealth of brain and heart. E'en as we think of him the silent land Draws near, and dimly by his bed there stand Lincoln and Garfield, now henceforth to be With him a martyr-trio grand and free. The nation weeps; O hearts be comforted! He needs no more your words, so feebly said; He heeds no more your thoughts of praise or blame, For he hath won for'er a higher fame. Soldier of cross and battlefield, his death Hath taught humanity that fleeting breath Of mortal glory here is but a slender span, And brief, indeed, on earth the life of man! Dear earth enfold him in your restful arms And guard him well, though past are all alarms; E'en though, while now at rest he calmly sleeps, The nation weeps! The stricken nation weeps! _The lilies clustered fair and tall; I stood outside the garden wall._ Life's lilies grew along his way, In beauty clad, from day to day; While music, with her lovely strains, Led him a captive in her chains. And friends with generous hand and thought Unto his fireside greetings brought. "I would have given my life to be The rose she touched so tenderly." So sang the poet, and the tone Awoke for him sweet strains alone. Ah! earthly love, how vain thou art To still the longings of the heart! The Angel Azrael touched his hand, And life on earth yields the demand; No more he stands "outside the gate," No more hath need to watch or wait! Who shall separate that spirit from the blessed love of Christ? Far beyond our aching vision, enters that serener day. Patient, pure, she took the burden of this life unto His feet, And for her the shadowy valley had no terror to appal. Passed unto a life all glorious now a ransomed soul she bides,-- "It is all right!" Yes, friend, it is all right, Although about thee close the shades of night To human eyes. To eyes that wake to light It is all right--it is all right! "It is all right." E'en though we miss thee here. For thee are past the clouds, and all the fear Bred of this life which shall no more appear To thee as good; because thy sky is clear. "It is all right." Kind soul, so bright and true, We miss thee now, we miss the happy view Of all that through the days of life here grew. The old hath passed--for thee hath dawned the new. "It is all right!" Thy words, as fell the night, Before thine eyes had pierced the coming light, Fall on our ears a benison all bright; We can but say with thee "it is all right!"

E. (Eliza) Fenwick

Secresy or, Ruin on the Rock

1766

But who hath breathed the scent of violets, And not that moment been a lover glad? _Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast; "Such a starved bank of moss, Till, that May morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born." All rights reserved For whom this little company of her sisters was first gathered. copyrighted works, and for the use of these the compiler owes and Special acknowledgments are due to the following publishers and copyright holders: horticulture, and the violet was not forgotten when the bard was Chaucer's affection for "floures" is well known. Of the many Shakspearean quotations in this field, probably the most familiar "Violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath." "Long as there are violets They will have their place in story," "The meadow your walks have left so sweet That wherever a March wind sighs, In violets blue as your eyes." Akers, Adelaide Proctor and dozens of others is a garden of "In her hair the sunbeams nest, And in her eyes the violets blow, While in the summer of her breast The songbird thoughts flit to and fro." considered in his quest. The silent, soft and humble heart In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes. The air is white with snow-flakes clinging; Between the gusts that come and go Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. Or can it be the breeze is bringing The breath of violets?--Ah, no! The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. It is my lady's voice that's stringing Its beads of gold to song; and so Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. The violets I see upspringing Are in my lady's eyes, I trow; The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. A chaplet on her head she wore (Heigho, the chaplet!); Of sweet violets therein was store-- She's sweeter than the violet. Tell me, this sweet morn, Tell me all you know,-- Tell me, was I born? Tell me, did I grow? Fell I from the blue Like a drop of rain, Then, as violets do, Blossomed up again? Misty grew the violets of her eyes. The violet loves the sunny bank, The cowslip loves the lea, The scarlet creeper loves the elm; But I love--thee. Your name pronounced brings to my heart A feeling like the violet's breath. Out from the leaves of my "Lucille" Falls a faded violet. Sweet and faint as its fragrance steal Out from the leaves of my "Lucille" Tender memories, and I feel A sense of longing and regret. Out from the leaves of my "Lucille" Falls a faded violet. Be other brows by pleasure's wreath Or glory's coronal oppressed, To me the humblest flower seems best, Some sweet wild bloom with dews still wet. So, Love, but kiss a violet-- O, Love, but kiss a violet-- And fling it to my breast! Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered through the village, Sauntered as soft away! So unsuspected violets Within the fields lie low, Too late for striving fingers That passed an hour ago. The silent, soft and humble heart In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes. Perchance the violets o'er my dust Will half betray their buried trust, And say, their blue eyes full of dew, "She loved you better than you knew." Nature does not recognize This strife that rends the earth and skies; She sends the pitying violets To heal the outrage with their bloom and cover it with soft regrets. Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers. And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies; While the low violet thrives at their root. Blue eyes Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies. Love comes and goes as the free wind blows, That asks not, as it passes, If it touches the head of the roses red Or the violets down in the grasses. Little maid, a violet Is knocking at your door, Eagerly its message sweet Repeating o'er and o'er: "Some one sent me with his love,-- Take me, I implore!" Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears, Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue, Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew. We shall be, as we are, (Still breathes the secret strain) Within our Father's loving care When violets come again. Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white, On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light, O'er the cold winter beds of their late-waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots. When Roman fields are red with cyclamen, And in the palace gardens you may find, Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind, Clusters of cream-white violets, O then The ruined city of immortal men Must smile, a little to her fate resigned. Beside me, where I rest, Thy loving hands will set The flowers that please me best, Moss-rose and violet. Once in a dream I saw the flowers That bud and bloom in Paradise; More fair they are than waking eyes Have seen in all this world of ours. And faint the perfume-bearing rose, And faint the lily on its stem, And faint the perfect violet, Compared with them. I do not know The subtle secret of the snow, That hides away the violets Till April teaches them to blow. Their tender loveliness to see, Assured that little things and large Fulfil God's purpose equally. Violet, sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet, Even yet, With the thoughts of other years? Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres? Violet, dear violet, Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of Him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee. Violets, shy violets, How many hearts with thee compare! Under a mantle of frost-work and snow, Close by the arc of the fairy-queen's ring, Sleeping in delicate grottoes of ice, Clusters of violets dream of the spring. That strain again! It had a dying fall: Oh! it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets Stealing and giving odor. Slow rose the silken-fringed lids, and eyes Like violets wet with dew drank in the light. The careful little violet, She makes me think of you, Holding her leafy petticoats From out the morning dew. The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly As in the air of her native East. When the earliest violets ope On the sunniest southern slope, When the air is sweet and keen Ere the full-blown flower is seen, When that blithe, forerunning air Breathes more hope than thou canst bear, Thou, oh buried, broken heart, Into quivering life shalt start. The wind-flowers and the violets were still too sound asleep, Under the snow's warm blanket, close folded, soft and deep. Beautiful maid, discreet, Where is the mate that is meet, Meet for thee--strive as he could-- Yet will I kneel at thy feet, Fearing another one should, Violets, shy violets, How many hearts with thee compare, Who hide themselves in thickest green, And thence unseen Ravish the enraptured air With sweetness, dewy, fresh and fair! I think the very violets Are looking the way you'll come! Once, long ago, in summer's glow, We threaded, you and I, A garden's maze of pleasant ways, Whose beauty charmed the eye,-- Where violets bent in sweet content And pinks stood proud and high. Then, feeble man, be wise, tak tent How industry can fetch content. Behold the bees where'er they wing, Or through the bonny bowers o' spring, Where violets or roses blaw, An' siller dew-draps nightly fa'. In her hair the sunbeams nest, And in her eyes the violets blow, While in the summer of her breast The songbird thoughts flit to and fro. Violets steeped in dreamy odors, Humble as the Mother mild, Blue as were her eyes when watching O'er her sleeping child. O Mother Nature, kind to every child Blessed with the gift of speech, the gift of grace, Teach thou the modest violet, shy and wild, To look with trustfulness into my face. In Farsistan the violet spreads Its leaves to the rival sky. My love, whose lips are softer far Than drowsy poppy petals are, And sweeter than the violet. From wintry days blue violets shrink From wintry lives blue eyes will turn. Her eyes be like the violets Ablow in Sudbury lane; When she doth smile, her face is sweet As blossoms after rain. Through jocund reel, or measured tread Of stately minuet, Like fairy vision shone the bloom Of rose and violet, As, hand in hand with Washington, The hero of the day, The smiling face and nymph-like grace Of Nancy led the way. You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own,-- What are you when the Rose is blown? Rock-gnawing lichens that forerun the feet Of violets. True Brahmin, in the meadows wet, Expound the Vedas of the violet! Soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung And violets scattered round; and old and young In every cottage porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride. Der Mai ist da mit seinen goldnen Lichtern Und seinen Lueften und gewuerzten Dueften, Und freundlich lockt er mit den weissen Bluethen, Und grusst aus tausend blauen Veilchenaugen. I only know That she was very true and good: The queenliest lily cannot match The shy, sweet violet of the wood. Her bloom the rose outvies, The lily dares no plea, The violet's glory dies, No flower so sweet can be; When love is in her eyes What need of spring for me? Who is there can sing of a more divine thing Than the edge of the woods in the edge of the spring, Ere the violets peep, while hepaticas sleep, And still in the hollows the snow-drifts lie deep? The erthe was ful softe and swete. Through moysture of the welle wete Sprong up the sote grene, grene gras, As fayre, as thycke, as myster was. But moche amended it the place That therthe was of such a grace That it of floures hath plente, That both in somer and wynter be. There sprange the vyolet al newe, And fresshe pervynke ryche of hewe, And floures yelowe, white and rede; Such plente grewe there never in mede. Ful gaye was al the grounde, and queynt, And poudred, as men had it peynt, With many a freshe and sondry floure That casten up ful good savoure. Low lilies press about thy feet With violets changing kisses sweet. Come up, come up, O soft spring airs, Come from your silver shining seas, Where all day long you toss the wave About the low and palm-plumed keys! For here the violet in the wood Thrills with the fulness you shall take, And wrapped away from life and love The wild rose dreams, and fain would wake. Hear the rain whisper, "Dear violet, come." The brown buds thicken on the trees, Unbound, the free streams sing, As March leads forth, across the leas, The wild and windy spring. Where in the fields the melted snow Leaves hollows warm and wet, Ere many days will sweetly blow The first blue violet. Along the wood-paths, warm and wet, Springs up the frail wood-violet. The wild Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise Their heads without affright, without amaze, And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child. Violet is for faithfulness, Which in me shall abide. Such sweet prophetic gladness as we feel When first we find beneath the bare spring hills So lately circled by the whirling snows, The crocus peeping from the withered leaves; When first we see the lingering day of flowers Dawning in violets blue. The violet varies from the lily as far As oak from elm. Some wear the lily's stainless white And some the rose of passion, And some the violet's heavenly blue, But each in its own fashion. Beauty clear and fair Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose And come to honor nothing else. No tree unfolds its timid bud, Chill pours the hillside's chilling flood, Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come? All flowers died when Eve left Paradise, And all the world was flowerless for a while, Until a little child was laid in earth; Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes, And from its lips rose-petals for its smile. Sweet and sad, like a white dove's note, Strange voices wakened my soul to glee, And soft scents strayed from the violet's throat. When the rain beats and March winds blow, We should be glad if we could know How, not so very far away, There shineth a serener day Where birds are blithe, and happy children pass To gather violets among the grass. Like a violet, like a lark, Like the dawn that kills the dark, Like a dew-drop, trembling, clinging, Is the poet's first sweet singing. Earth folds dark blankets round the violet blue. Her mild eyes were innocent of ill As violets in sheltered nooks enshrined. O violets, who never fret, nor say, "I won't!" "I will!" Who only live to do your best His wishes to fulfil, Teach us your sweet obedience. When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the bluebird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from the last year's leaves below. I hold thy violets against my face And deeply breathe the haunting purple scent That fills my weary heart with sweet content And lays upon my soul a chrismal grace; The air around me for a little space Is heavy with the fragrance they have lent, And every passing wind that heavenward went Has held thy blossoms in a close embrace. 'Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow, And girls were selling violets in the town. My house is small and low; But with pictures such as these,-- Of the sunset, and the row Of illuminated trees, And the heifer as she drinks From the field of meadowed ground, With the violets and the pinks For a border all around,-- Let me never, foolish, pray For a vision wider spread, But, contented, only say, Give me, Lord, my daily bread. How can our fancies help but go Out from this realm of mist and rain, Out from this realm of sleet and snow, When the first southern violets blow? But one short week ago the trees were bare, And winds were keen, and violets pinched with frost; Today the spring is in the air. Are there violets in the sod, Crocuses beneath the clod? When will Boreas give us peace? Or has Winter signed a lease For another month of frost, Leaving Spring to pay the cost? For it seems he still is king, Though 'tis spring. See, the violets call from out the grasses, Look, the purple answers from the ground; Azure melts and to that warbler passes, Sudden, a sky-fleck on the fences found! I know that thou art the word of my God, dear violet. On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves, Spring's earliest nurselings spread their glowing leaves, Bright with the hues from wider pictures won, White, azure, golden,--drift, or sky, or sun;-- The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast The frozen trophy torn from winter's crest; The violet, gazing on the arch of blue Till her own iris wears its deepened hue; The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould, Naked and shivering with his cup of gold. The meadow your walks have left so sweet That wherever a March wind sighs, In violets blue as your eyes. The warring hosts of Winter and of Spring Are hurtling o'er the plains. All night I heard their battle clarions ring And jar the window-panes. The saddened robins flit through leafless trees, And chirp with tuneless voice, And wait the conquering sun, the unbinding breeze; They cannot yet rejoice. Slowly the victor Spring her foe outflanks, And countermines his snows; Then, unawares, along the grassy banks, Her ambushed violets throws. Knowledge this man prizes best Seems fantastic to the rest: Pondering shadows, colors, clouds, Grass-buds and caterpillar shrouds, Boughs on which the wild bees settle, Tints that spot the violet's petal. But who hath breathed the scent of violets And not that moment been some lover glad? What blooms here, Filling the honeyed atmosphere With faint, delicious fragrances, Freighted with blessed memories? The earliest March violet, Dear as the image of Regret, And beautiful as Hope. Violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high. Pit, pat, patter, clatter, Sudden sun, and clatter, patter! First the blue and then the shower; Bursting bud and smiling flower; Brooks set free with tinkling ring; Birds too full of song to sing; Crisp old leaves astir with pride, Where the timid violets hide: All things ready with a will-- April's coming up the hill! Violets suit when homebirds build and sing. Awake, arise, and come away To the wild woods and the plains; To the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves; Where the pine its garland weaves, Of sapless green and ivy dim, Round stems that never kiss the sun; Where the lawns and pastures be, And the sand-hills of the sea; Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets; And wind-flowers and violets, Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year, weak and new. The lone violet, which for love's own sake, Its life exhales in pure unconscious good. In my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. Deep violets you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you Without a thought disloyal. To thee the nymphs of the forest offer their store of lilies, And at thy feet fair Nais lays her violets pale. The wind sprang up in the tree-tops And shrieked with a voice of death, But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees, Was touched with a violet's breath. One morn a lad cried in the street, "Fresh violets!" and, as in answer sweet, A bluebird flung, bouquet-like, clear and strong, Athwart the misty window, his first song. The April morn Climbs softly up the eastern sky, And glimmers through the milk-white thorn, Or dances where the violets lie. April violets glow In wayside nooks, close clustering into groups, Like shy elves hiding from the traveler's eye. Violets begin to blush; Speedwell opens too her eye And the kingcup wooes the sky. It isn't raining rain to me, but fields of clover bloom, Where any buccaneering bee can find a bed and room; A health unto the happy, and a fig for him who frets! It isn't raining rain to me, it's raining violets. She walked across the fields icebound, Like some shy, sunny hint of spring, And stooping suddenly she found A violet, a dainty thing, Which shunned the chilly light of day Until sweet Aprille came that way. The violet trills, through the bluebird, Of the heaven that within her she feels. Like those same winds when, startled from their lair, They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks From icy caves, even as thy clear looks Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care. And now the other violets are crowding up to see What welcome in this blustering world may chance for them to be. They lift themselves on slender stems in every shaded place, Heads over heads, all turned one way, wonder in every face. It is April, crying sore and weeping O'er the chilly earth so brown and bare. "When I went away," she murmurs, sobbing, "All my violet banks were starred with blue; Who, O who has been here, basely robbing Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?" Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain, Raised in song as when the wind rejoices, Ring the answer, "We are here again!" Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets grow. Violets now, that strew The green lap of the new-come spring. Elder boughs were budding yet, Oaken boughs looked wintry still, But primrose and veined violet In the mossful turf were set, While mating birds made haste to sing And build with right good-will. Which April ne'er forgets! Sweetly breathing, vernal air, That with kind warmth doth repair Winter's ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice o' the East Borrow their perfumes; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky; Whose disheveled tresses shed Pearls upon the violet bed. A wealth of clover clothes the place Where, clad in buff-lined coats of blue, Our countrymen o'erthrew Their alien foe; and violets efface All signs of combat. Down through the sunshine Wings flutter and fly;-- Quick, little violet, Open your eye! Where violets hide, Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side, And blue-birds, in the misty spring, Of cloudless skies and summer sing. Here the first violets Perhaps will bud unseen, And a dove, maybe, Return to nestle here. In winter, when the garden-plots were bare, And deep winds piloted the shriven snow, He saw its gleaming in the cottage fire, While, with a book of botany on his knee, He sat and hunger'd for a breath of spring. Here beds of roses sweetened all the page; Here lilies whiter than the falling snow Crept gleaming softly from the printed lines; Here dewy violets sparkled till the book Dazzled his eyes with rays of misty blue. Die blauen Veilchen der Aengelein, Die rothen Rosen der Waengelein, Die weissen Lilien der Haendchen klein, Die bluehen und bluehen noch immerfort, Und nur das Herzchen ist verdorrt. Again has come the springtime With the crocus' golden bloom, With the smell of the fresh-turned earth mould And the violet's perfume. Under the green hedges, after the snow, There do the dear little violets grow, Hiding their modest and beautiful heads Under the hawthorne in soft, mossy beds. A duller sense than mine should feel The stir in nature's warming soul; It makes the shouting bluebirds reel, And bursts the violet's twisted scroll. I see Thee in the distant blue, But in the violet's dell of dew, Behold, I breathe and touch Thee, too. Spring sat dejected in a sheltered nook And sighed because of the long-lingering snow, And prayed that warm, life-giving winds might blow; When at her feet there grew, with trembling look, A violet that whispered: "I forsook My cell to comfort thee and still thy woe." Then, filled with hope, Spring said: "I now shall go And greet each hill and vale and winding brook." Where'er she went, earth blessed her with its flowers: Arbutus, columbines, anemones, And sunny marigolds that deck the wet Lowlands. But in the soothing moonlit hours, When dreaming 'neath the blossom-laden trees, She holds with loving hands the violet. Ein kleines blau Veilchen Stand eben erst ein Weilchen Da dacht' es einmal nach Und sprach: "Dass ich hier unten blueh' Lohnt sich kaum der Mueh'; Muss mich ueberall buecken Und druecken. Ei," spricht' es, "hier ist's schoen, Aber alles kann man doch nicht sehen; Ist doch nur ein Schwerz; Auf der Alp da droben, Das waer, eher zu loben: Da moecht' ich wohl sein, Da gueckt' ich bis in Himmel hinein." O violet, blue-eyed violet, Scented with sweetest breath! Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May, Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem; Scatters her violets with lavish hands, White, blue and amber. The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods Grow misty-green with leafing buds, And violets and wind-flowers sway Against the throbbing heart of May. When springtime comes, Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank. Rosy and white on the wanton breeze The petals fall from the apple-trees, And under the hedge where the shade lies wet Are children, picking the violet. The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear. The violet there, in soft May dew, Comes up, as modest and as true. Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then-- The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys, Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again. Where the rose doth wear her blushes Like a garment, and the fair And modest violets sit together, Weaving, in mild May weather, Fit for any queen to wear. Hear the rain whisper, "Dear violet, come!" On every sunny hillock spread, The pale primrose lifts her head; Rich with sweets, the western gale Sweeps along the cowslip'd dale; Every bank, with violets gay, Smiles to welcome in the May. The air was soft and fresh and sweet; The slopes in spring's new verdure lay, And wet with dew-drops at my feet Bloomed the young violets of May. In each hedgerow spring must hasten Cowslips sweet to set; And under every leaf, in shadow Hide a violet. The buds of April had burst into bloom on the willow and maple, Fresh with dew was the sod, with dim blue violets sprinkled. The dream of winter broken, Behold her, blue and dear, Shy Violet, sure token That April's here! Not the first violet on a woodland lea Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she. No more shall meads be decked with flowers, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers, Nor greenest buds on branches spring, Nor warbling birds delight to sing, Nor April violets paint the grove, If I forsake my Celia's love. And O, and O, The daisies blow, And the primroses are wakened; And the violets white Sit in silver light, And the green buds are long in the spike end. A violet that nestles cheek to the mellowed ground; The humming of a happy brook about its daily round; The woody breath of pines; the smell of loosening sods; Such simple links of being,--such common things of God's. Merry, ever-merry May! Made of sunbeams, shade and showers, Bursting buds and breathing flowers! Dripping locked and rosy-vested, Violet slippered, rainbow crested. There were banks of purple violet, And arbutus, first whisper of the May. Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red, From thee the violet steals its breath in May. Beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Beauty through my senses stole,-- I yielded myself to the perfect whole. Now the tender, sweet arbutus Trails her blossom-clustered vines, And the many-figured cinquefoil In the shady hollow twines; Here, behind this crumbled tree-trunk, With the cooling showers wet, Fresh and upright, blooms the sunny Golden-yellow violet. Saintly violets, plucked in bosky dell. Thy feasting tables shall be hills With daisies spread, and daffadils; Where thou shalt sit, and red-brest by, For meat, shall give thee melody. Ile give thee chaines and carkanets Of primroses and violets. With saucy gesture Primroses flare, And roguish violets Hidden with care. And whatsoever There stirs and strives, The spring's contented, It works and thrives. White violets, pure violets, That might be wreathed in coronets For baby brows of spotless mould, That no earth shadows overfold; White winsome things with dovelike wings That brood in grassy nest, As thick as stars no tempest mars With presence of unrest. Look forth, Beloved, through the tender air, And let thine eyes The violets be. The violets whisper from the shade Which their own leaves have made: "Men scent our fragrance on the air, Yet take no heed Of humble lessons we would read." The gentle drift Of odorous distillings in the air, Daffodils growing on the field's green breast, Buds all a-blow, and the enchanted breath Of violets peeping in the damp hedgerow, Kindled to being. That young May violet to me is dear, And I visit the silent streamlet near, To look on the lovely flower. The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string: The warblers now are on the wing, Across the pathless ocean glooms. Through tender grass and violet blooms I move along and gaily sing. Violets stir and arbutus wakes, Claytonia's rosy bells unfold; Dandelion through the meadow makes A royal road, with seals of gold. Dear little violet, Don't be afraid! Lift your blue eyes From the rock's mossy shade! All the birds call for you Out of the sky: May is here, waiting, And so, too, am I. Come, pretty violet, Winter's away: Come, for without you May isn't May. Now all is beautiful Under the sky. May's here--and violets! Winter, good-bye! Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace, Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first, The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue. While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream. The country ever has a lagging spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses. And in the meadows soft, on either hand, Blossomed white parsley and the violet. Welcome, maids of honor, You do bring And wait upon her. She has virgins many Fresh and fair, Yet you are More sweet than any. Ye are the maiden posies And so graced To be placed 'Fore damask roses. Tute le barche parte via sta note, E quela del mio ben doman de note; Tute le barche cargara de tole, E quela del mio ben de rose e viole. Better to smell the violet cool, Than sip the glowing wine. Wooed by the June day's fervent breath, Violets opened their violet eyes. The wind, that poet of the elements, Tonight comes whistling down our tropic lanes, And wakes the slumbrous hours with sweet refrains. . . . . . . Before the pilgrim minstrel violets place The purple censers of their fervent youth. Now in snowdrops pure and pale Breaks the sere grass; the violet rends her veil. The violet's charms I prize, indeed, So modest 'tis, and fair. Seek the bank where flowering elders crowd, Where scattered wild the lily of the vale Its balmy essence breathes; where cowslips hang The dewy head, where purple violets lurk With all the lowly children of the shade. So then the world's repeating its old story? Once more, thank God, its fairest page we turn! The violets and mayflowers, like the glory Of gold and color in old missals, burn With fadeless shimmering; These are its headings and vignettes. The heart Beats quicker when the Book of Life apart Falls at the page of Spring! Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree, And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea, Refresh the idle boatman where they blow. Close by the roots of moss-grown stumps, The sweetest and the first to blow, The blue-eyed violets, in clumps, Kiss one another as they grow. The purple heath and golden broom On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale. She who sung so gently to the lute Her dream of home, steals timidly away, Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray. Lead me where amid the tranquil vale The broken streamlet flows in silver light; And I will linger when the gale O'er the bank of violets sighs, Listening to hear its softened sounds arise. In lower pools that see All their marges clothed all around With the innumerable lily; Whence the golden-girdled bee Flits through flowering rush to fret White or duskier violet. Blue violets, blithe violets, Who that is human e'er forgets Your brightness and your blithesomeness, Your innocent meek tenderness, That e'er hath stood in budding wood And seen you at his feet, Like rarest elves that deck themselves In fairyhood complete, Though blue as mist the sun has kissed In valleys wild and sweet? Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, In purple's richest pride arrayed, Your errand here fulfil; Go bid the artist's simple stain Your lustre imitate in vain, And match your Master's skill. They are the nation of the bees, Born from the breath of flowers. Low in the violet's breast of blue For treasured food they sink; They know the flowers that hold the dew For their small race to drink. Sweet-brier, leaning on the crag That the lady-fern hides under; Harebells, violets white and blue: Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder? Violet, delicate, sweet, Down in the deep of the wood, Hid in thy still retreat, Far from the sound of the street, Man and his merciless mood. I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows. Under foot the violet, Crocus and hyacinth, with rich inlay, Broidered the ground. In my veins a music as of boughs When the cool aspen-fingers of the rain Feel for the eyelids of the earth in spring. In every vein quick life; within my soul The meekness of some sweet eternity Forgot; and in my eyes soft violet-thoughts That widen'd in the eye-ball to the light, And peep'd, and trembled chilly back to the soul Like leaves of violets closing. A little child with wondering, wide blue eyes Shining with ecstasy, yet dimmed with tears, As though a sudden joy strove with her fears Only half conquered, while a sweet surprise Like the first radiant glow of dawning skies In the uplifted, wistful face appears; Her tiny foot advanced, as one who nears The gates of some long-wished-for Paradise,-- With parted lips the timid maiden stands Clothed in her childish robe of spotless white; Close to her bosom, in her little hands, Clasping a knot of violets, all bright With morning dew, and shyly whispering In tones of bird and streamlet: "I am Spring!" Now boys and laughing girls pluck violets And all the dainty wildflowers of the field. She is so noble, firm and true, I drink truth from her eyes, As violets gain the heavens' own blue In gazing at the skies. The violet in her greenwood bower Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. The lone violet which for love's own sake Its life exhales in pure unconscious good, Some sunless glen a glowing shrine to make, With urn of incense in the solitude. The wild rose sends a honeyed breath To woo the bee from neighboring wold; The violet holds its dainty cup To catch the morning's earliest gold. Her passions the shy violet From Hafiz never hides. Love-longings of the raptured bird The bird to him confides. They knew me not,--blue flower, blue eyes; She, careless, passed me when we met; The tender glance which I would prize Above all things, the violet Received, and I went on my way, Companioned with the cheerless day. Like some immortal heathen thing, All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet, With brook and bird and breeze in tune, The beautiful bright earth of June Moves to the fullness of her noon, While serving sunbeams round her fling The purple violets as they fleet. Run, little rivulet, run! Sing of the flowers, every one,-- Of the delicate harebell and violet blue; Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew. Safe from the storm and the heat, Breathing of beauty and good, Fragrantly, under thy hood, O violets, blue-eyed violets! Scented with sweetest breath, You seem, as I stoop to pluck you, To whisper, "There is no death." A shadowy nook, where half afraid Of their own loveliness, some violets lie. Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease, Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made! I heard the laughter of a brook, A tiny brook, that babbled through The fields and told the tales it took Of bird and reed and water-thing; And stooping low I saw a gleam Of violets that nodded to Their gay reflection in the stream. More shy than the shy violet Hiding when the wind doth pass. The ferns bend low, the grasses lean, As doing homage to a queen, The fairest queens that ever smiled On cavalier, or king beguiled: Oh, sweet and tender violets! I go to the river there below Where in bunches the violets grow, And sun and shadow meet. Peep the blue violets out of black loam. The violet varies from the lily as far As oak from elm. Lover of each gracious thing Which makes glad the summer-tide, From the daisies clustering And the violets, purple-eyed, To those shy and hidden blooms Which in forest coverts stay. I thread the rustling ranks, that hide Their misty violet treasure. But when the green world buds to blossoming, Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth, Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth and hope: Or if a later, sadder love be born, Let this not look for grace beyond its scope, But give itself. And now, when summer south-winds blow And brier and harebell bloom again, I tread the pleasant paths we trod, I see the violet-sprinkled sod Whereon she leaned. Sisters, ere the moon is set, Twine the white, white violet, While the dews are on it yet, With the myriad-starred mignonette. Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare The summer to its rose may bring; Far sweeter to the wooing air The hidden violet of the spring. And near the snow-drop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen. Pale marguerites, that swayed with dainty grace To every breeze, the violet's sweet, shy face, And heart'sease, wonder-eyed. Oh, those gardens dear and far, Where the wild wind-fairies are! Though we see not, we can hearken To them when the spring skies darken, Singing clearly, singing purely, Songs of far-off Elfland surely, And they pluck the wild wind posies, Lilies, violets and roses. Miss Violet displays no hood, Nor garbs herself as violets should-- She sports a witching hat; Nor is she found in dim retreat, But often on the crowded street Her boots go pit-a-pat. And give my simple thought the skill to know What interchanging hints between us pass; What sense of joy it is that thrills me so Whene'er I see blue violets in the grass. Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower. It trembled off the keys,--a parting kiss So sweet,--the angel slept upon his sword As through the gate of Paradise we swept,-- Partakers of creation's primal bliss! --The air was heavy with the breath Of violets and love till death-- Forgetful of eternal banishment, Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted ways, Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone, Drenched in the dew no other wings frequent, --Our thirsting hearts drank in the breath Of violets and love in death-- There was no world, no flesh, no boundary line-- Spirit to spirit--chord and dissonance, Beyond the jealousy of space or time His life in one low cry broke over mine! --The waking angel drew a shuddering breath Of violets and love and death. Bay leaves between And primroses green Embellish the sweet violet. Better to smell the violet cool Than sip the glowing wine; Better to hark a hidden brook Than watch a diamond shine. Upon the water's velvet edge The purple blossoms breathe delight, Close nestled to the grassy sedge As sweet as dawn, as dark as night. O brook and branches, far away, My heart keeps time with you today! "The violets--the violets!" Call the crowfoot and the crocus, Call the pale anemone, Call the violet and the daisy, Clothed with careful modesty. The mosses are wet Under chestnut and thorn With blossoms new-born Of dim violet. Give me only a bud from the trees Or a blade of grass in morning dew, Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, I could look on it forever. How could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet! Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou'dst been, O give to strengthen me. When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight. An emerald robe o'er all the fields is drawn; Here are cowslips, there the violets appear; The rill's low laughter, children's joyous words, The ploughman's chorus, with the song of birds, In mingled cadences, are heard afar and near. All the world is blooming, wherefore sigh? Violets amid the grasses lie, And the wild bees with their girdles bright Climb up dazzling shafts of dazzling light; And on cowslips fall, in golden play, Shadows of the swallows on their way. One loves a baby face, with violets there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair, As these were all the little locks could bear. The sea is growing summer blue, But fairer, sweeter than the smiling sky, Or bashful violet with tender eye, Is she whose love for me will never die,-- I love you, darling, only you! I cried impatiently;--"nothing but use! As if God never made a violet, Or hung a harebell!" The pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet and lily fair, The dappled pink and blushing rose, To deck my charming Chloe's hair. 'Twas a child In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, Something to waken wonder. Never sky In noontide depth, or softly breaking dawn-- Never the dew in new-born violet's cup, Lay so entranced in purity. Violets, faint with love's perfume, Lie hid in tall green grasses. The violet, she is faint with heat-- The lily is all forlorn; My love, arise, with thy dewy eyes, Arise, and be their morn! Grow greener, grass, where the river flows-- Her feet have pressed you; Blow fresher, violet! lily! rose! Her eyes have blessed you. Violets make the airs that pass Telltales of their fragrant slope. Sich a rainy season But Sun will play de hide-an'-seek Yander in the sky. Lily'll look so lonesome-- Violet hide his eye; But de skies will do yo' weepin', So, honey, don't you cry! W'en der rain is over, Violet dress in blue; Red rose say: "I sweet terday-- An' here's a kiss fer you!" Shadows, like the violets tangled, Like the soft light, softly mingled. When violets pranked the turf with blue, And morning filled their cups with dew. Came one by one the seasons, meetly drest. . . . . . . First Spring--upon whose head a wreath was set Of wind-flowers and the yellow violet-- Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliest Of months, one ever to the minstrel dear (Her sweet eyes dewy wet), June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine The brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine. Oh, not more sweet the tears Of the dewy eve on the violet shed, Than the dews of age on the hoary head When it enters the eve of years. 'Twas violet time when he and she Went roaming the meadows wide and free. A happy lad and lass were they, Their hearts, their hopes, their voices gay,-- She seventeen, he twenty-three. The skies were calm as a sleeping sea, And the hills and streams and the mossy lea A part of the wooing seemed to be; 'Twas violet time. Years fled, and weak and old grew he; His form was bent like a snow-bowed tree, His hair was white and hers was gray, But their souls were young as a morn in May, And in their souls--sweet mystery!-- 'Twas violet time! A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye-- Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky, She lived. O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet; The old trees o'er it lean. The brown pine-needles at our feet Spread forth until the green is met, To mingle all their perfume sweet With trillium and with violet. Ungarlanded still stand the fair White ladyes of the wood; Yet, purple-robed, the violet Peeps from her gray-green hood. Passing along through the field of wheat By the hedge where in spring the violets glow, And the bluebells blossom around our feet. Lady violet, blooming meekly By the brooklet free, Bending low thy gentle forehead All his grace to see; Turn thee from the wooing water-- Whisper soft, I pray, For the wind might hear my secret-- Does he love me? Say! Violets in the hazel copse, Bluebells in the dingle; Birds in all the green tree-tops Joyous songs commingle. In her face a garden lies: Violets are her azure eyes; Just below them there repose Blushing cheeks of velvet rose; 'Twixt the roses, scorning drouth, Tulips of her tempting mouth. In this garden alley may Only one, the chosen, stray. Reveling in their radiant hues, Tasting of their precious dews, Rich delights he ne'er forgets-- Tulips, roses, violets. From over-sea, Violets, for memories, I send to thee. For thoughts of a sylvan home, For forest trees gemmed with dew, For sake of the Giver kind, Violets, I love you. I sometimes dream that when at last My life is done with fading things, Again will blossom forth the past To which my memory fondest clings. That some fair star has kept for me Fresh blooming still by brook and tree The violets--the violets! When woods in early green were dressed, And from the chambers of the west The warmer breezes, traveling out, Breathed the new scent of flowers about, My truant steps from home would stray, Upon its grassy side to play, List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, And crop the violet on its brim. In shadows cool and dim I rest at ease from care and cark, With pinks and violets to mark My small horizon's rim. A shadowy nook, where half afraid Of their own loveliness, some violets lie That will not look the gold sun in the face. How sweet to rest, ere dawns the summer's heat, Where violets gaze upward to the sky! Little streams have flowers a-many, Beautiful and fair as any,-- Arrowhead with eye of jet, And the water-violet. Soft-breathed winds, under yon gracious moon, Doing mild errands for mild violets. The violets that skirt the bank Bend down to thank The laughing stream with kisses sweet. Poised in a sheeny mist Of the dust of bloom, Clasped to the poppy's breast and kissed, Baptized in violet perfume From foot to plume! Modest violet, maiden violet, Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes? These fall-time violets seem Like a dream within a dream. O that I were listening under the olives! So should I hear behind in the woodland The peasants talking. Either a woman, A wrinkled grandame, stands in the sunshine, Stirs the brown soil in an acre of violets-- Large odorous violets--and answers slowly A child's swift babble; or else at noon The laborers come. The violets meet and disport themselves, Under the trees, by tens and twelves. Shall I tell you what wonderful fancy Built up this palace for me? It was only a little white violet I found at the root of a tree. From the field by the river's brink, Where violets hid his nest, Soars high with a canticle of the blest The jubilant bobolink. Open wide the windows-- The green hills are in sight, Winds are whispering, "Violets!" And--there's a daisy white, And the great sun says, "Good morning!" And the valleys sing delight. Violets, faint with love's perfume, Lie hid in tall green grasses. The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear, The violets for modesty which weel she fa's to wear. The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet, The blushing poppy that nods and trembles In its scarlet hood among the wheat. In meadows bright with violets And Spring's fair children of the sun. Why do you shiver so, Violet sweet? Soft is the meadow-grass Under my feet. Wrapped in your hood of green, Peep from your earth-door So silent and shy? O day of days! Thy memory Will never fade, nor pass; Patches of lowly violets Were clouding all the grass. Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast; Your eyes will tell her something--perhaps she'll guess the rest! How gentle is the soul that looketh out From violets sweet through dim, blue, tearful eyes, That turns a pleading face to look about And watch the sun's course through the smiling skies! Who beheld it? O, the rare surprise When, like souls upspringing from the sod, Violets unclosed their still blue eyes In the green fair world of God! Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn, Blushing into life new-born! Lend me violets for my hair, And thy russet robe to wear! The south wind is like a gentle friend Parting the hair so softly on my brow. I know it has been trifling with the rose And stooping to the violet. The flowers we know, they move us so, Almost to weep we're fain; Who heard us say, that fairest day Last spring, "They're come again, Sweet violets"? I can hear these violets' chorus To the sky's benediction above; And we all together are lying On the bosom of Infinite Love. The modest, lowly violet In leaves of tender green is set, So rich she cannot hide from view, But covers all the bank with blue. Here blows the warm red clover, There peeps the violet blue; O happy little children! God made them all for you. I pressed them to my lips for you, Ah me! I know your heart forgets In knowing not, or caring that I pick thee violets. When eve had come, and thicker grew The shadows all the garden through, Beside the rose-embowered gate, Her laughter stilled. To speak, or wait-- Oh, beating heart, what should I do! Long lashes hid her eyes of blue, Twin violets befringed with dew. I wonder if the violet felt Your presence when you gently knelt, And breathed for you its sweetest air Because you loved yet left it there. O, were I yon violet, On which she is walking! Or were I yon small bird, To which she is talking! I asked a nodding violet, why It sadly hung its head. It told me Cynthia late past by, Too soon from it that fled. Compassed all about with roses sweet And dainty violets from head to feet. Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone: Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. On beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew. Over the river there lieth A city wondrous fair, And never the eye of a mortal Hath looked on the glories there. The lilies grow by the rivers, Stately and fair they blow, And lift their balm to the angels, In their censer-cup of snow; And the violets blossom forever In the haunts where the wild birds sing, And the fern and the flowers are fragrant In the balm of eternal spring. The violets bloom is loveliest, Oh pretty pets, the violets. Ah, the days may be sullen and sober, The nights may be stormy and cold; But for him who has eyes to behold, The violets bloom in October. The soft warm haze Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, The violet returns. Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet. I think I love the violets best of all, Because of that hushed sweetness, far and faint As star-dust through the darkness dimly sown. The violet's bloom is loveliest! They come from out their coverts green, The daintiest damsels ever seen, Oh, pretty pets, the violets! To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess. The sun pierced through And made a rainbow of the mist, And high, so high against the blue, I saw a mountain capped in snow; And in my hand were violets. Where fields of goldenrod cannot offset One meadow with a single violet. If ever thou 'rt left alone, Think not that thy love is dead, But look till thou find'st the red Wild rose, and say, "'Tis her cheek." Then kiss it close; and seek-- Where the clear dew never dries-- Blue violets for mine eyes. Trust not, ye modest violets, His promises to you, Nor dare upon his fickle smile To broaden your kerchiefs blue. Because you mirror the skies In color of heaven's own blue-- For your sweet and dainty selves, Violets, I love you. When violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple drest, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. My chill-veined snow-drops,--choicer yet My white or azure violet. There came a softness in the air And with a throb of longing, ere I knew A hint of violets, a thought of you For whom it was, my heart breathed up a prayer. The primrose turned a babbling flower Within its sweet recess; I blushed to see its secret bower, And turned her name to bless. The violets said the eyes were blue, I loved, and did they tell me true? I know, I know where violets blow Upon a sweet hillside, And very bashfully they grow And in the grasses hide-- It is the fairest field, I trow, In the whole world wide. O, for the life of a gipsy! A strong-armed, barefoot girl; And to have the wind for a waiting-maid To keep my hair in curl; To bring me scent of the violet, And the red rose and the pine; And at night to spread my grassy bed-- Ah! wouldn't it be divine? The lillie will not long endure, Nor the snow continue pure: The rose, the violet,--one day See! both these lady-flowers decay: You must fade as well as they. Once thy lip, to touch it only, To my soul has sent a thrill Sweeter than the violet lonely Plucked in March-time by the rill. Blow, violets, blow! And tell him, in your blossoming o'er and o'er, How in the places which he used to know His name is still breathed fondly as of yore. See hyacinths and violets dim and sweet, And orange-blossoms on their dark green stems. The snow-drop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odors, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. When love in the faint heart trembles, And the eyes with tears are wet, O, tell me what resembles Thee, young Regret? Violets with dewdrops drooping, Lilies o'erfull of gold, Roses in June rains stooping, That weep for the cold, Are like thee, young Regret. Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass Heaven, like dew, on the waking earth lies; Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets-- Best of it all I find in your eyes. Far back where the April violets grew There smiled, amid crystals of deathless dew, Our first and last Arcadia. In clear, unbroken melody The brook sings and the birds reply: "The violets--the violets!" No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again. When October dons her crown, And the leaves are turning brown,-- Breathe, sweet children, soft regrets For the vanished violets. Primrose and cowslip have I gathered here, Anemone and hiding violet, When April sang the spring song of the year. Now all is changed; the autumn day is wet With clouds blown from the west, and vapors fold Over the dripping woods and vacant wold. She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom, And violets, not half so blue as her eyes. Poor little Violet, calling through the chill Of this new frost which did her sister slay, In which she must herself, too, pass away! Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed; Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid. As I was gathering violets in the snow, Methought how often, when the heart is low, And Nature grieves, The buds of simple faith will meekly blow 'Neath frosted leaves. Now cometh Winter, soft snow-wraps to bring, To keep her baby violets warm till spring. Very dark the autumn sky, Dark the clouds that hurried by; Very rough the autumn breeze Shouting rudely to the trees. Listening, frightened, pale and cold, Through the withered leaves and mould Peered a violet all in dread-- "Where, oh, where is spring?" she said. Sighed the trees, "Poor little thing! She may call in vain for spring!" And the grasses whispered low, "We must never let her know." "What's this whispering?" roared the breeze; "Hush! a violet," sobbed the trees, "Thinks it's spring--poor child, we fear She will die if she should hear!" Softly stole the wind away, Tenderly he murmured, "Stay!" To a late thrush on the wing, "Stay with her one day and sing!" Sang the thrush so sweet and clear That the sun came out to hear, And, in answer to her song, Beamed on violet all day long. Violet, little violet, Brave and true and sweet thou art. "All nature mourns," I said; "November wild Hath torn the fairest pages from her book." But suddenly a wild bird overhead Poured forth a strain so strangely clear and sweet, It seemed to bring me back the skies of May, And wake the sleeping violets at my feet. Then long I pondered o'er the poet's words, "The loss of beauty is not always loss," Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain, And gave me strength to bear again my cross. The violet's gone, The first-born child of the early sun; With us she is but a winter's flower, The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. I picked thee violets Upon a morn when the white mist Went trailing down the leas and made A gauzy scarf to twine and twist About the feet of the blue hills. Between her breasts that never yet felt trouble A bunch of violets full-blown and double Serenely sleep. Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy aery shell, By slow Meander's argent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale. Even the tiny violet can make Her little circle sweet as love. And Helen breathed the scent of violets, blown Along the bosky shores. There her head the golden lily rears, The soft-eyed violet sheds her odorous tears. I used to go and watch them, Both night and morning, too:-- It was my tears, I fancy, That kept the violets blue. My girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, A soft hand, like a lady's, soft and fair, A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet, A tiny foot, and little boot upon it. Here the first violets Perhaps will bud unseen, And a dove, maybe, Return to nestle here. Gold violets, bright violets, The sparkling dew at sunrise wets, And doth with nectar overbrim; Lustre no cloudy day can dim; The golden sun doth shine upon And call his children rare; The yellow-bird hath sometimes stirred Drawn downward unaware. Lay her in lilies and in violets. The violet's blue, The rose bloom's red,--and friends are tried and true; The blossoms on the boughs are white in spring, The wind is soft, the birds spread joyous wing, And soar and wheel in the blue sky, and sing, Because--because I love you. In languid luxury soft she glides Encircled by the azure tides, Like some fair lily, faint with weeping, Upon a bed of violets sleeping. E'en now what affection the violet awakes; What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore! Then by the enchantress Fancy led, On violet banks I lay my head. The air is sweet with violets running wild 'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals. Mistress violet, mistress violet, I want your tender and true eyes! For mine are as cold and as black as jet, And I want your heavenly blue eyes! Modest violet, maiden violet, Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes? Flowers were the couch, Pansies and violets, and asphodels, And hyacinths, earth's freshest, softest lap. Flowers, of such as keep Their fragrant tissues and their heavenly hues Fresh-bathed forever in eternal dews-- The violet with her low-drooped eye, For learned modesty. Before the urchin well could go, She stole the whiteness of the snow; And more--the whiteness to adorn, She stole the blushes of the morn: Stole all the sweets that ether sheds On primrose buds or violet beds. If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this fair; To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms. Thine old-world eyes--each one a violet-- Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth-- Sets me a-dreaming. Have our eyes not met In childhood--in a garden of the South? May his soft foot, where it treads, Gardens thence produce, and meads, And those meddowes full be set With the rose and violet. I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets and the lily-cups-- Those flowers made of light. The light drop of dew That glows in the violet's eye, In the splendor of morn, to the fugitive view, May rival a star in the sky. I saw thee weep--the big bright tear Came o'er that eye of blue: And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew. Oh Stream of Life! the violet springs But once beside thy bed; But one brief summer, on thy path, The dews of heaven are shed. Whate'er the baffling power Sent anger and earthquake, and a thousand ills-- It made the violet flower, And the wide world with breathless beauty thrills. The morning star of all the flowers The virgin, virgin violet. O Winter, thou art warm at heart; Thine every pulse doth throb and glow, And thou dost feel life's joy and smart, Beneath the blinding snow. Thine is the scent of bursting bud, Of April shower and violet; Thou feelest spring in all thy blood Yearn up like sweet regret. Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt. What joy sufficient hath November felt, What profit from the violets' day of pain? Pluck the others, but still remember Their herald out of dim December-- The morning-star of all the flowers, The pledge of daylight's lengthened hours; Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget The virgin, virgin violet. Violet, little violet, Brave and true and sweet thou art. May is in thy sunny heart, Maiden violet. Gentle as the summer day, Wintry storms bring no dismay, Winsome violet. All the days to thee are spring, Thine own sunshine dost thou bring, Violet, faithful violet! Only in dreams thy love comes back, And fills my soul with joy divine. Only in dreams I feel thy heart Once more beat close to mine. Only in blissful dreams of spring, And sunny banks of violet blue, The past folds back its curtain dim And memory shows thine image true. Winter is come again. There is no voice Of waters with beguiling for your ear, And the cool forest and the meadows green Witch not your feet away; and in the dells There are no violets. Once more, dear friend, the violet bank we seek, And tread with joy our old familiar ways. Cheek o'er cheek, and with red so tender Just to see how a lady's splendor Shone the heads of the daffodils down. Winds through the violets' misty covering Now kissed the white ones and now the blue, Sang the redbreast over them hovering All as the world were but just made new. That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath. Could you not come when woods are green? Could you not come when lambs are seen? When the primrose laughs from its child-like sleep, And the violets hide and the bluebells peep? Thy face is like the violet's That to the red rose lingers close, And he who looks at thee forgets The honeyed sweetness of the rose. He gave her the wildwood roses And violets for her wreath, And a whisper at last of sweet response Stole on her perfumed breath. Come not, O sweet days, Out of yon cloudless blue, Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays, With faces like dead lovers, who died true. Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet, Primrose and violet, Forgetting that they lie Deep in the mould till winter has gone by. Blighting and blowing--blighting and blowing-- And the stones of the rivulet silent lie, And the winds in the fading woodlands cry, And the birds in the clouds are going; And the dandelion hides his gold, And their little blue tents the violets fold, And the air is gray with snowing: So life keeps coming and going. Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god's lair . . . . . . To sink o'erdrowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew Around my head and feet silently there, Till spring's glad choir adown the valley pealed And violets trembled in the morning dew. The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill, The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill, The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill. Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew, Where to spring winds their soft eyes open flew; Safely they sleep the churlish winter through. Though all life's portals are indiced with woe, And frozen pearls are all the world can show, Feel! Nature's breath is warm beneath the snow! You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave's one violet? Your look?--that pays a thousand pains. What's death? You'll love me yet! Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look, Some with smiling eyes, and some He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep, He above whose grave are set Sprays of Roman violet; Poets, sages,--all who wrought In the crucible of thought. A fair little girl sat under a tree Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, "Dear work, good night, good night!" The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; The violets curtsied and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep; I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow. Where the fern in gladness dances On the banks of dimpled burns, Where the streamlet's bright wave glances When the spring returns; White as winter's spotless drift There our faces we uplift. Still we see the stars above us, Still we trust, because they love us-- Are they flowers in the sky, Violets that have learned to fly? We believe, and hope, and trust, Know that He who made is just, And He never will forsake us While we're white and pure of heart. Sister, maiden Sister, take us-- One of us thou art! O violets, sweet blue eyes of the spring! Here's the violet's modest blue, That 'neath hawthorns hides from view. While they choose each lovely spot, The sun disdains them not; So I've brought the flowers to plead And win a smile from thee. Last night I found the violets You sent me once across the sea; From gardens that the winter frets, In summer lands they came to me. Still fragrant of the English earth, Still hurried from the frozen dew, To me they spoke of Christmas mirth, They spoke of England, spoke of you. Darling, walk with me this morn; Let your brown tresses drink its sheen; These violets, within them worn, Of floral fays shall make you queen. O faint, delicious, springtime violet! Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free. The violet, Spring's little infant, stands Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands; On the fair tulip thou dost dote, Thou cloth'st it in a gay and party-colored coat. Under the larch with its tassels wet, While the early sunbeams lingered yet, In the rosy dawn my love I met. Under the larch when the sun was set, He came with an April violet: Forty years--and I have it yet. Out of life with its fond regret, What have love and memory yet? Only an April violet. Good-bye to the red rose that is your mouth, The tender violets that are your sigh; The sweetness that you are--that is my South-- Ah, not too soon, Enchantress, do I fly!-- Tell me good-bye! Through the deep drifts the south wind breathed its way Down to the earth's green face; the air grew warm, The snowdrops had regained their lovely charm; The world had melted round them in a day: My full heart longed for violets. The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems colored by its skies. When we were children we would say,-- "I like the coming of the spring, I like the violets of May, I like, why, almost everything That March and May and April bring." But now we value less the rose, And care not when the birds take wing. We like the winter and the snows. So long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets They will have a place in story. Go, azure myrtle blossom, Go, violets and jasmine fair, And star the darkness of her hair, Or faint against her bosom. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet. God does not send us strange flowers every year. When the spring winds blow o'er the pleasant places, The same dear things lift up the same fair faces-- The violet is here. It all comes back: the odor, grace and hue; Each sweet relation of its life repeated: No blank is left, no looking-for is cheated; It is the thing we knew. So after the death-winter it must be. God will not put strange signs in the heavenly places: The old love will look out from the old faces. Veilchen! I shall have thee! The violets whisper from the shade, Which their own leaves have made.

Jesse Lynch Williams

Princeton Stories

1871

"_Hello! Is that you, Jimmy?_" "Well, this is David Cory, the JUMBLE BOOKman. Do you like Indian "Tell me where I may find my fortune," answered Little Sir Cat. The little white clouds are like sheep That play all the night while the moon's shining bright. "What is it?" asked Tottie. "Hurry up and tell," whispered Teddy, hugging Tessie's arm, while "Oh, dear!" sighed the three tiny T's. "Here you are, Miss," said the grocer man, handing the package to Everything went along beautifully. Teddy kept well behind so that Tessie turned a frightened glance towards Teddy who just came up. "Let's go out in the garden now," said Tessie, and the two little "No," answered Tottie, "'cause she has only fur." Is a rogue, do you know He tries to poke through The tip of Ted's shoe? And always, it's shocking. He's half through his stocking! "_How happy I am In the forest so deep; I sing and I play While other folks sleep!_" "_All thro' the night I sing and I play, While other folk do Just the opposite way!_" "Look," said Little Indian to Too-Wit. "Aren't they cunning?" "Hello, hullo, Too-woo!" cried Too-Wit. Little Indian leaned over the bank and picked up the lily. Shaggy Angoras and kittens white, Big Tom Cats as black as night, And nice old Tabby Cats drinking tea, "_Will you come into my auto?" Said the spider to the fly. "There is room in my Web-tonneau And I'll join you by and by._" All The Jungle Folk were mad, every one was wild, Everybody wore a scowl, not a creature smiled. What was all this row about? Listen to what had Happened in the Jungle to make them all so mad. Mikey Monk had climbed a tree. Who was Mikey Monk? Mikey was a monkey and full of life and spunk; Also full of naughty tricks, I am sad to say, That is why the Jungle Folks are so mad to-day. Up a tree had Mikey climbed, clear up to the top, Then he threw some cocoanuts, threw them down ker-flop. Charlie Crocodile got mad, so did George Giraffe, And they both grew angrier when they heard his laugh. Harry Hippopotamus happened to come near; Suddenly a cocoanut whistled by his ear. He had hardly time to wink when another shot Made him think he'd better not linger in that spot. Tommy Tiger came along on his stealthy toes; Suddenly a cocoa ball barely grazed his nose. Oscar Ostrich sauntered by as a nut came down; "Goodness, what was that?" he squawked, with an angry frown. Harry Hippopotamus looked around and said, "Don't you think there's something queer happening overhead? It is rather difficult," he added, with a sigh, "Finding out why cocoanuts are raining from the sky! "Say, why don't you fellows ascertain the cause? Where is a Policeman to enforce the laws? Oscar Ostrich, won't you go--for you are so fleet-- See if you can run across a Copper on his beat?" Sure enough, in half a wink back again he came With a big Policeman, Eddie Elephant by name. "What is this disturbance? Move along!" he said. Suddenly his helmet tumbled off his head. "Who did that?" he shouted, when another nut Whistled by his ivories, hit him on the foot. With his trunk he grabbed the tree, gave some mighty heaves, My! what a commotion up amongst the leaves. Then he butted all his might with his great big head. "Break it up in kindling wood!" Tommy Tiger said. Back and forth the tall tree swayed with a swishing sound, Then a little scream was heard, something bumped to the ground. Mikey Monk had lost his grip; on the ground he lay. All the animals rushed in, pounced upon their prey. "Break away!" the Copper said, "I arrest him now. I will lock him up at once; we will show him how "To obey the Jungle Laws. He won't sleep a wink After he has been to Court. He'll have time to think In the Jungle Jail how bad he has been to-day. After he gets out again he won't disobey." Over Tommy Tiger's head then he thrust his trunk; By the ear he grabbed a hold of naughty Mikey Monk. All the jungle populace joined in the parade. Mikey Monk was crying--he was now afraid. "Let me go!" he cried and sobbed, "and I'll promise you Never more a naughty thing will I ever do." But the big Policeman just kept straight ahead. Did not even answer him; only shook his head. At King Lion's Court at last stopped the big parade, And before the King of Beasts Mikey was arrayed. Very stern the Lion looked at the grave complaint, Though of course he must have known Mikey was no saint. When the Cop had finished Mikey held his breath, He was all a-tremble; almost scared to death. All the angry animals shouted, "Do not fail To commit this Monkey to the Jungle Jail!" "As you wish," King Lion answered with a roar. Then they slipped the handcuffs over Mikey's paw And Policeman Elephant took poor Mike away To the Jungle Lockup, where he had to stay. Till the Jungle Animals thought that just about Punishment enough he'd had! then they let him go; And no better monkey after this than he In the Jolly Jungle ever climbed a tree Little Boy Blue, where have you gone? The cows are eating the tall green corn. Drive them away or Farmer Lane Will give you a beating with his cane. "Good," said Bertie, "where's my bank?" "_Last Saturday night a week ago I went to the city to see a fine show. And Sunday morning, just for a lark, I chased a gray squirrel all over the Park!_" "_Oh, how brave is Little Sir Cat! We like the feather in his hat, But more than that we like the way He saved our Mother Bird to-day!_" "I can't understand you. You had better go home and talk to Mrs. Went a-sailing on the 'C.'_" "Come out of your castle!" _The little mouse in the pantry And my little yellow canary Runs away with a high silk hat._ As I was going up Murray Hill, Murray Hill was dirty; There I met a pretty Miss, Very trim and perty. "Little Miss, pretty Miss, If I had a trillion I would wed you, but, alas! I only have a million!" Dear Santa Claus, I hope that you Will find it easy to get through Our chimney, 'cause if you should stick Up there where all the smoke is thick, What would we do, and what would you, For goodness sakes, what would you do? So if you find it is not wise Enough for you to safely slide Down to our room without mistake, The attic window you must take. It's quite close to the chimney, too, And big enough, I know, for you. I'll creep up there the day before And leave unlocked the attic door; And if I can I'll open, too, The window so you can get through Without the leastest bit of fuss With all the presents you've for us. I don't see how you'll tell apart Our stockings, so you'd better start With mine; it's close up to the clock; The next is father's silken sock; The others all are just like mine, 'Cept Jimmy's--his is tied with twine. I want a doll with violet eyes Who, when you squeeze her, "Mamma!" cries; And little baby carriage, too, With pillows and a cover blue; Some candy and a china set Of teacups for my dolly pet. Jim wants a ball, a mask and bat, A soldier suit, a gun and hat, Some candy and a picture book For rainy days at which to look. Mother says she'll write to you, And father says that he will, too. Now, please remember what I've said About the attic overhead; The window which I'll leave for you Wide open so you can get through; And whose each stocking is, and where, When you come creeping down the stair, Good-by, dear Santa Claus, I've wrote All I can think of in this note. "Hark!" the herald angels cry Leaning from the starry sky, "In a manger Christmas morn Christ the baby King is born!" Near Him stand the lowly kine, O'er her little babe divine Mother Mary bends her face Full of wonder, tender grace. Silent in humility. In the humble wooden stall Sleeps the baby King of all. On the straw that warms His bed Shines the halo 'round His head, Like a little candle's light Making all the stable bright. Hark! the dewy Heavens ring With the song the Angels sing, "In a manger Christmas morn Christ the baby King is born!" "_Who wants to buy some nice fresh eggs Laid by a hen with yellow legs, Yellow legs and a bright red comb, In a little round nest in my own dear home?_" "_Oh, I'm the bird as you all have heard Who fights for the U. S. A. I love the stars on our beautiful flag As I watch it wave from my lonely crag, And I give a screech that is heard afar, Three cheers for every silver star, And the bands of red and white and blue, And the soldier boys who are brave and true, And the sailor lads on the deep wide sea, Oh, the U. S. A. is the land for me!_" _On another page of this jolly book, If you just turn over the pages and look, You'll find a story about Sir Cat And the Cow that jumped over the Moon Man's Hat._ Dobbin has an iron shoe On each of his feet, so you Can see it's hard for him to go Anything but very slow. One little Boy Scout beating a tat-too; A little comrade heard the call--then there were two. Two little Boy Scouts climbing up a tree; Along came another one--then there were three. Three little Boy Scouts standing by the door; Running out they met a Scout--then there were four. Four little Boy Scouts in the water dive; Another one swam up to them--then there were five. Five little Boy Scouts doing lots of tricks; Their captain called out, "Shoulder arms!"--then there were six. Six little Boy Scouts looking up to heaven; An airship brought another down--then there were seven. Seven little Boy Scouts got to school quite late; They found a scholar in the room--then there were eight. Eight little Boy Scouts dressed up very fine; They caught a little ragged one--then there were nine. Nine little Boy Scouts chased a speckled hen; They bumped into another Scout--then there were ten. Ten little Boy Scouts yelling "Hip, hurrah!" This is all there is to tell--these are all there are! She wasn't at all, and Billy was wrong, and was acting very, very The Princess Lil stood on the edge of the lake waiting for her "You're late," she said, as she took her seat. The princess made no reply, but sat gazing at the setting sun's "_Gently the wind of the dewy night blows, Over the quivering stream; While children are sleeping, the fairies are peeping, Singing to them a dream._ "_Over and over, from daisy and clover, From all of the sweet flower throng, The fairies are swinging and drowsily singing, A sweet little hush-a-by song._" Softly on his tippie-toe. I don t think it's very nice To catch the cunning little mice. Mother smiled. "Who do you think?" she asked, cuddling her little answered, "Let's go home right away and get them." Her little brother left his toy warriors and ran to the window. "_Come here to-night When the moon is bright. You'll hear a fine tune When I jump o'er the moon._" "Helloa, Muff. Have you spilt any snuff lately?" Baker's man, Bake me a doughnut As fast as you can._ "What!" cried the Baker Man, in astonishment. _We are the soldier birds of the air, And we need no aeroplane, For we can fly across the sky In sunshine and in rain. And if an enemy comes in view With our bright sharp swords we'll cut him in two._ _Jack, be nimble! Jack be quick! Jack, jump over the candlestick! Jack jumped when something struck his wheel, For his candlestick was an automobile!_ Some might call Tommy naughty Because he sleeps too long, But when you're fast asleep, I'm sure You can't be doing wrong. Besides he's dreaming such good dreams Of boys on time each day, That never miss a day at school Or straggle on the way. _Little Bo Peep had lost her sheep, And didn't know where to find them; But she turned them all to automobiles, And now she rides behind them._ If dreams were only real, just think How happy I would be, 'Cause mostly all the heroes come And have a talk with me When I'm asleep; if only they Would come when I'm awake, I'd like to have my father give Their famous hands a shake. I know I'll think that last night's dream Was best of all I've had, For such a great, big gentleman Called out to me, "My lad, Remember that to fight is brave, But braver yet to be A defender of the weak ones, To set the captives free, To preserve your country's honor, And strive all wrongs to right." I liked him best of all the men Who visit me at night. His name is Abraham Lincoln, The kindest of them all. I only hope some other night He'll make a longer call. "Yes, indeed," replied Ruth, "just see the fun they are having." "Yes, but only a very poor one; no turkey, no nuts and raisins." "Yes, you may," Mother answered, and, touching the bell, she told "Yes, Mother," answered Ruth with a smile, "some of my very own Puss, come sit you on a chair And I will brush your silken hair; I'll so enhance its satin sheen That of all cats you'll be the queen. "May I help you carry your basket?" he asked politely. "Oh, dear!" screamed Little Red Riding Hood. "_Look out for the Big Gray Wolf, my dears. He has long sharp teeth and pointed ears, And he roams through the forest dark and dim. Be careful you don't get caught by him!_" "Look," whispered Little Sir Cat, "there's the wolf." "What shall we do?" sobbed Little Red Riding Hood. _A little dog doesn't tie a can On the tip of his waggy tail, And a tiny minnow in the brook Swallow a great big whale._ belonged to Jimmy's new friends. This little dog's name was Flip. When Nursie puts me in my tub To make me clean and fit, I wonder where the water goes When I sit down on it. "What is it, little girl?" And the Sky-blue Rooster said to her: "Twinkle, twinkle, little star!" I took some eggs to market All on a summer's day. I couldn't get high prices, So I threw them all away. And then, my dears, how awful, (Exactly as I feared) The neighbors ran me out of town Because I profiteered. Then a big pumpkin rolled out through the door and turned into a "Looking for a place to sleep." But, oh, dear me! He had hardly pulled on his boots when the door "Good morning!" said Little Sir Cat. "Of course you shouldn't," he answered. "Why, what do you know?" asked Cinderella. And pretty soon--I'll tell you another story--unless-- _Tomorrow it rains dogs and cats And ruins all the children's hats._ _I love her on a Monday When hanging out the clothes, And I'm gunning for the blackbird That dares trespass on her nose._ And down the Forest's Emerald Strand The animals in gay parade March 'neath the big trees' leafy shade. With horn and trumpet, rattlers loud, Which Rattle Snake has lent the crowd, They make a noise that would compare With a tornado anywhere. Our old friend Tommy Tiger grins, As Mikey Monk some trick begins, Says, "Don't you dare to make a fuss!" Then Oscar Ostrich says "How do!" As Buster Bear comes into view; "I hope you have recovered quite-- Those Bumble Bees know how to bite!" "Forget it!" Buster growls with pluck, "I haven't yet paid Doctor Duck!" But seeing then their Lion Lord, They all bow down with one accord. King Leo, with his tawny mane, Is sauntering down the Forest Lane, In all his majesty and pride His Ladyship close by his side. "It must be almost midnight now," Cries Mikey with a lowly bow; "Will not your Royal Highness stay And see the rockets glittering spray?" The Roman Candles shoot forth stars, The rockets circle Jupe and Mars, When suddenly across the sky A big black cloud goes drifting by. It hides from view the silver moon, The Jolly Junglers cease their tune; A hush falls over leaf and root-- And then the Owl begins to hoot. Twelve times he toots his horn-- "Let's go to bed before the morn," King Leo cries, "This awful din Has made my noodle fairly spin!" Go home to sleep at his command, And all is quiet as a mouse Within each Jolly Jungler's house. Sitting very still on his log was Old Uncle Bullfrog. He was half "Duckey Daddles, where have you been?" asked Mamma Duck. The hill was fine for coasting, The snow was well packed down, And little Billy Brown, And also pretty Winnie Green And graceful Gertie Gray-- Now, please, my little readers, Don't imagine what I say Means really that these boys and girls Were painted all this way; If so, such colored children Would be a bit too gay! Their fathers' names were Mr. Black, And, funny, too, it was Greenville The name they called the town. Well, just as I was saying, The coasting was immense, And after school the boys and girls Were ready to commence. The sleds were in a big, long row, All tied together, too, As Sammy Black lay down to steer The merry-making crew. He didn't seem to mind the wind That o'er the snowdrifts blew, That made his cheeks so bright and red, His stubby nose so blue! "Come on, you fellers; hurry up! Quick, girls, get on your sled! And push against the other ones, I'm fixed to go ahead!" The last sled little Billy Brown Then pushed with all his might, And down the hill the train of sleds Began its snowy flight. Such yells and cries! and "Hold on tight! Don't drag your feet! Keep still! Don't lean so far upon the right, Or else we'll have a spill!" Each face was beaming with delight, Each voice was loud and shrill, The train was going all its might And nearly down the hill. Just as they reached the bottom, The front sled gave a swing, And plump into a big snowdrift They went like anything! The Blacks were mixed up with the Whites, A sort of coast kaleidoscope, With sleds stuck in between. And when they all were sorted out, No easy thing to do, They found that almost every boy And girl was black and blue! A frog he would a-wooing go In a very stylish way, So he bought a frogmobile, you know, And the lady frog said "Yea!" Is galloping off for Raspberry Cross. When he gets there if he says "Please, Ma'am," A lady will give him some raspberry jam. "Did it tickle?" inquired Little Sir Cat. "_Nobody, nobody cares for me, I feel as lonely as can be. I'm a character in Mother Goose, So I consider you've no excuse Not to speak a word to me, Piggie Porker, diddle dum dee._" And maybe he will in the next story, unless-- _The big high church steeple Falls down on the people._ Little Jack Horner sat in the corner Of his father's candy shop. He held in his thumb, not a sugarplum. But a licious lolly-pop! How Mister Breeze Saved Marjorie's Easter Lily "_Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?" "Oh, now that I have a car," she said, "It grows twice as fast, you know._" Outside my window in the tree The owl toots on his horn. (It will be dark until the lark Comes singing in the dawn.) Above the sky one little star Looks down with friendly eye. (Thro' all the night it won't be light Until the sun's on high.) It seems so long to wait to play I've 'most forgotten how. I guess I'll go to sleep and dream About the fairies now! "You just wait," said Jack, "I'll work out some sort of a plan." Goosey, goosey gander Whither do you wander? Of your winged motor car Are you growing fonder? "_Ding, dong bell, Wasn't that a wonderful little bird? Went the little drum, As Little Sir Cat marched off to war Beating the drum sticks o'er and o'er._ And pretty soon you will find another story--unless-- _The postman in the morning Gives me a candy pill, And the doctor sends me a valentine Instead of a great big bill._ _I love her on Tuesday As she irons smooth and clean Her little dolly's dresses With the tucks and frills between._ "This little girl ain't got no folks and no place to stay; so she's been staying in a box with straw in it with me nights. I've fetched her to be your valentine. She's hungry. Mary led her down the hall. Aunt Dorothy and Mary sat up late that night hastily making warm "Oh, what fun!" cried Jamie. "I wonder what will happen next?" "Hello, my little man!" cried a voice close at hand. Jamie looked "How do you do, Sir!" answered Jamie. "I wonder who he is?" thought Jamie. disappeared. In a few minutes, the camel, too, disappeared, and the wonderful "_Cheer up, little comrade, And beat your little drum, For nothing now shall hurt you Since I to you have come, For I will bring you comfort, So never, never fear. Cheer up, little comrade, For help is very near._" "Don't cry, I'll help you find them," said Little Sir Cat. Has found her sheep And now she'll take care to mind them. No more will they roam, For she'll lead them home Bringing their tails behind them._ _Unless you lose this pretty book And cannot find it tho' you look Inside the silver sugar bowl And down the cellar in the coal._ "Suppose we make believe the old mirror is a portrait," she said. "Oh, mother, darling!" screamed Madge, "where did it come from?" Madge rushed over to the closet, but in her excitement found it difficult to turn the key. "What's it all about?" cried Billy. "Just like a play," volunteered Billy, "with me as the hero!" "With Madge as the author," said mother. _I love her on a Wednesday When she kneads the snowy dough, For the dimples in her elbows Make such a pretty show._ Of course, if it is a nice day, I go out to the park on my roller Came down too soon, And asked his way to Norwich. In his crescent machine, Made of cheese so green, He drove off after his porridge._ "Why, Jamie," she cried, "are you playing for money?" "No," replied Jamie, quite indignantly, "I'm playing for _you_." "How lovely," answered Rosalie, "and how beautifully you play!" When nursey bids me drink my milk It gurgles down my throat Just like the gurgle of the waves Beneath a sailing boat. Hip-hurrah! away they go Gliding over the glittering snow, Down the hill at a furious rate, Over the lawn and out through the gate. Jimmy in front is squeezed pretty tight, But what does he care,--he's safe all right! Billy, the motorman, guides the wheel Which steers the sled on its runners of steel. Flossie is cuddled up next to Bill, And last on the sled is Sister Jill. Hip-hurrah! as on they glide, Isn't it lots of fun to slide? Up again to the top of the hill Dragging the sled for Motorman Bill. Then once more they get into place, All aboard! for another race. What is more fun I'd like to know Than coasting over the glittering snow. _I love her on a Thursday When she darns a gap that shows In the sombre socks of Father Or Brother's careless hose._ "_Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?" As he doffed his hat To the cockle-shells all in a row._ And pretty soon you will find another story--unless-- _The friendly clock upon the wall Should strike out three times playing ball._ One morning Lily rushed into the house calling out: Sure enough, just outside the garrison was a great crowd of gayly _I love her on a Friday When the house is upside down And her golden hair is muffled In a twisted turban brown._ "What is 'Annuity'?" asked Lily. "Is it Indian for birthday?" _There was an old woman Who lived in a shoe, She had so many children She didn't know what to do. But she mounted the shoe On a big motor car, And now there is room For them all without jar._ Went up the hill To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down And broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after._ "Mother, come see a cat with red top boots!" Went up the hill But, oh, dear me, I hate to tell They spilt the water when they fell._ _The Sun tomorrow morning Should go upon a strike, And want a penny extra To do his daily hike!_ There was an old sheep With a bell on his tail. It rang with a clatter And clanged with a wail. Whenever that poor little sheep Hove in sight The birds and the beasts Disappeared in a fright. When quite an old man, he was sitting in a field, plunged in deep out-of-the-way places around the big barn and the farm buildings. keepings." "What shall I do?" said Ruth to herself. Just then an old lantern successfully all efforts of capture. Everybody loves Robin Redbreast. Who of us in early spring is not When I'm in bed I feel so small, And all the shadows seem so tall. The little light out in the hall A thin bright line throws on the wall; It squeezes thro' the crack between The half-closed door and nursery screen. And after I have said my prayer And mother's footstep on the stair Grows fainter, fainter, fainter, there Creeps over me a sort of scare; It prickles me from toe to head And seems to wiggle all the bed. But if I cuddle down and keep Real quiet, and don't kick my feet, And have the clothes all smooth and neat, Why, pretty soon I fall asleep; And then the fairies from their glen Play with me till it's day again. _Lady Bug, Lady Bug, fly away home; Your house is on fire, your children are gone!_ "Oh, save my children!" she cried. Little Sir Cat scrambled under the thicket but the brambles kept "Hurry, my brave fireman!" called the Mother Lady Bug; "save my treasures." _A giant goes down the street for a stroll, And thinks a peppermint stick is a barber's pole._ There was an old woman lived under a hill On auto'bile wheels that wouldn't stand still. So she drove around selling her cranberry pies,-- And she's the old woman who never told lies. frightened them back. Is looking about the quiet house. The little mouse wouldn't get any cake. Looking back through history every boy as he gazes on the face of Let us make believe we are in Nice during Carnival time and are The "Cours" is gay with suspended banners, bright with festooned balconies and merry faces. Sidewalks and streets are filled with Next behind the car moves in military order a regiment of mounted Mother Hubbard finds Little Sir Cat at Home Went to the cupboard To get her poor dog a bone, But when she got there The cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none._" "_I have a little husband No bigger than my thumb, So I put him in a bird cage And keep him safe at home._" And pretty soon I'll tell you another story unless _The Big Red Barn gets frisky And jumps across the road, And the buzzy, wuzzy horsefly Eats up the little toad._ Said the great big Turkey Gobbler To the little Turkey Turk, "I guess I'll stay at home today And not go down to work; "I have a sort of feeling That it's wiser not to roam And that it would be safer For me to stay at home." _I love her on a Saturday Together to a matinee Or moving picture show._ On Bucephalus and at the head of his army of 40,000 foot soldiers Little Sir Cat Meets Tom, the Piper's Son Sat in his father's shop. In his thumb he held a plum And a lollypop._ lollypop." "_Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son, Stole a pig and away he run,_" screamed a green poll parrot from her cage. "Piggie what?" asked Tom, scratching his head. _But just the same, dear children, Remember to obey, For you might be unlucky And lose your homeward way._ God grant that I the new year through May strive with heart and soul to do Those things which are most good and true. God grant that I each morning start My duties with a cheerful heart, And faithfully perform my part. To wear a smile all through the day, To banish thoughts unkind away; And when my bedtime comes, to pray. To say my prayers with folded hands As night comes softly o'er the lands, To Him, who always understands. And when the bells on New Year's dawn Proclaim the bright New Year is born, And I awake on New Year's morn, I pray Him whisper, low and sweet, To help me guide my wayward feet, Lest I forget my prayer to meet. There was an old woman Lived under the hill, And if she's not married She's living there still. "_Glory to God in the highest, and on earth Peace, good will toward men._" "Plant old black Nig. I wouldn't wonder if she came up sort of kittenish!" Come blow your horn, Your cows are eating Farmer Green's corn,_" "_Old Mother Hubbard never goes to the cupboard To get me a bone any more; For she has an excuse, so what is the use? She remembers what happened before. So now we both go to a nice movie show, And then to a restaurant fine, Where we order a stew of giblets for two, And the orchestra plays while we dine._" Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her; He made a car of the pumpkin shell, And there he kept her very well. Suppose we "go a-Maying" among old traditions and see with what Once upon a time every village had its annual setting up of the villagers the choice of a suitable tree on their domains. A tall, The leader of the chimney-sweeps, called "Jack in the Green," was A big Black Spider was spinning away, Spinning her lacey web all day; And when she had finished it, close to the wall She curled herself up in a round black ball. Lazily buzzing, buzzing away, A little Blue Fly was buzzing all day. Into the open window he flew And close to the Spider's web he drew. "Oh, what a pretty piece of lace Swinging away in the window space!" The little Blue Fly remarked to himself, As he carefully crawled on the narrow shelf. Then he brushed the dirt from his gauzy wing And watched the spider web swing and swing. Now this little Fly was a mischievous Fly, And there wasn't a bit of green in his eye! So, as he watched it swing and swing, He thought 'twould be fun to cut the string. Then Mrs. Spider's hammock would fall Down with a somersault off the wall. Creeping up to her hiding place, He gave a pull on the flimsy lace. Down one end of the hammock fell, While the Big Black Spider gave a yell. Out thro' the window the little Fly flew; 'Twas safer out there for him, he knew. And he said, as he winked his little blue eye: "Good-by, Mrs. Spider; good-by, good-by!" I hate to go to bed at night, Or get up when again it's light-- It's funny that I love to do 'Most anything between these two. Bennie's Easter Dream "Come along!" he said. "I'm going to give you a ride on my back." In a few minutes Bennie had on his clothes and tiptoeing down the _Cock-a-doodle doo! You've got my egg of blue; My yellow one, my purple one, My little green one, too!_ _I love her on a Sunday, As she goes to church with me, With her little gilt-edged Bible Held close and reverently._ "_Little fishy in the brook, Papa catch him with a hook, Mamma fry him in the pan, Johnny eat him like a man,_" "_If that's the case," replied the fish, Giving his tail a shimmery swish, "I'll go right home to Mrs. Trout And tell her it's safe for her to go out._" "Oh, just traveling," he answered. "What have you been doing?" "_You remember the tramp all tattered and torn? Well, he made lots of money in cotton and corn. So he bought me an automobile and a ring, And the minister married us both in the spring,_" "_Please go 'way, don't bother me, For I'm as busy as can be._" _That little Black Spider Puts salt in her cider._ I've been waiting at the door Yesterday he left the house To go a-hunting for a mouse. happiest boy on earth, he thought, when they started out on their hungry--supper. It was a fierce struggle, for the Indians outnumbered our brave "_Please, Mister Cat, go ring the bell, I'm sure it won't be wrong. Perhaps my Mary will come out, I've waited here so long,_" said Mary's Little Lamb. _Dear children, never be unkind To small four-footed things. Nor pull a poor fly's wings._ _And never tease your little dog, With unkind act or word, And never throw a cruel stone At any little bird._ I often think when Winter comes How cold must be the trees; More than in the Summer Time They need their coats of leaves. In your golden jail, On your trapeze balancing With your yellow tail, Don't you wish that you could fly Through the window pane Singing in the lane? Where the apple trees in bloom Drop their petals white, So you almost think it has Snowed 'most all the night? Would you love to see the nest Mrs. Robin's made, And the eggs of china blue Which she just has laid? Don't you want to leave your cage? See, the door is wide Open and the window, too-- You can fly outside. _See the turkey gobbler run. Guess he doesn't call it fun. Don't you hope he gets away _Up and down the page he goes On his long, thin pointed toes. Now and then he gives a squawk-- That's the way a Turkey talks!_ Jack and Grace were in the nursery playing with their toys, when "Isn't it lovely, Jack!" exclaimed Grace. "I'm so glad I came!" "Nowhere!" she answered. "Don't you know where Nowhere is?" beautiful blue dress, she laughed and said: "Oh, dolly, I guess it was you I dreamed was the beautiful Blue _There was an Old Woman who lived in a shoe, And it was a pity she didn't have two. It was crowded so tight from the heel to the toe The children were packed like sardines in a row._ "What are you doing here?" they asked, all in one voice. "Bumpty bump!" replied the little bear. Then all the little dwarfs looked frightened to death, and they whispered together and tried to hide the bags of gold under the And that's how Little Sir Cat found his fortune.

Frederic Manning

Poems

1882

An Interpretative Rendition into English _Who shall strike the wax of mystery from those priceless amphoræ, and give to the unsophisticated nostrils of the average reader the ravishing bouquet of wine pressed in a garden in Mitylene, twenty-five centuries ago?_--MAURICE THOMPSON. _Then to me so lying awake a vision_ _Came without sleep over the seas and touched me,_ _Softly touched mine eyelids and lips; and I, too,_ _Full of the vision,_ _Saw the white implacable Aphrodite,_ _Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled_ _Shine as fire of sunset on western waters;_ _Saw the reluctant_ _Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her,_ _Looking always, looking with necks reverted_ Ω θεόί, πίς ἆρα Κύπρις, ἢ τίς μερος τοῡδε ξνυήψατο Hither now, O Muses, leaving the golden House of God unseen in the azure spaces, Come and breathe on bosom and brow and kindle Song like the sunglow; Come and lift my shaken soul to the sacred Shadow cast by Helicon's rustling forests; Sweep on wings of flame from the middle ether, Seize and uplift me; Thrill my heart that throbs with unwonted fervor, Chasten mouth and throat with immortal kisses, Till I yield on maddening heights the very Breath of my body. Come with Musagetes, ye Hours and Graces, Dance around the team of swans that attend him Up Parnassian heights, to his holy temple High on the hill-top; Come, ye Muses, too, from the shades of Pindus, Let your songs, that echo on winds of rapture, Wake the lyre he tunes to the sweet inspiring Sound of your voices. If Panormus, Cyprus or Paphos hold thee, Either home of Gods or the island temple, Hark again and come at my invocation, Goddess benefic; Come thou, foam-born Kypris, and pour in dainty Cups of amber gold thy delicate nectar, Subtly mixed with fire that will swiftly kindle Love in our bosoms; Thus the bowl ambrosial was stirred in Paphos For the feast, and taking the burnished ladle, Hermes poured the wine for the Gods who lifted Reverent beakers; High they held their goblets and made libation, Spilling wine as pledge to the Fates and Hades Quaffing deep and binding their hearts to Eros, Lauding thy servant. So to me and my Lesbians round me gathered, Each made mine, an amphor of love long tasted, Bid us drink, who sigh for thy thrill ecstatic, Passion's full goblet; Grant me this, O Kypris, and on thy altar Dawn will see a goat of the breed of Naxos, Snowy doves from Cos and the drip of rarest Lesbian vintage; For a regal taste is mine and the glowing Zenith-lure and beauty of suns must brighten Love for me, that ever upon perfection Trembles elusive. When the moon at full on the sill of heaven Lights her beacon, flooding the earth with silver, All the shining stars that about her cluster Hide their fair faces; So when Anactoria's beauty dazzles Sight of mine, grown dim with the joy it gives me, Gorgo, Atthis, Gyrinno, all the others Fade from my vision. Peer of Gods to me is the man thy presence Crowns with joy; who hears, as he sits beside thee, Accents sweet of thy lips the silence breaking, With lovely laughter; Tones that make the heart in my bosom flutter, For if I, the space of a moment even, Near to thee come, any word I would utter Instantly fails me; Vain my stricken tongue would a whisper fashion, Subtly under my skin runs fire ecstatic; Straightway mists surge dim to my eyes and leave them Reft of their vision; Echoes ring in my ears; a trembling seizes All my body bathed in soft perspiration; Pale as grass I grow in my passion's madness, Like one insensate; But must I dare all, since to me unworthy, Bliss thy beauty brings that a God might envy; Never yet was fervid woman a fairer Ah! undying Daughter of God, befriend me! Calm my blood that thrills with impending transport; Feed my lips the murmur of words to stir her Bosom to pity; Overcome with kisses her faintest protest, Melt her mood to mine with amorous touches, Till her low assent and her sigh's abandon Lure me to rapture. If it pleased the whim of Zeus in an idle Hour to choose a king for the flowers, he surely Would have crowned the rose for its regal beauty, Deeming it peerless; By its grace is valley and hill embellished, Earth is made a shrine for the lover's ardor; Dear it is to flowers as the charm of lovely Eyes are to mortals; Joy and pride of plants, and the garden's glory, Beauty's blush it brings to the cheek of meadows; Draining fire and dew from the dawn for rarest Color and odor; Softly breathed, its scent is a plea for passion, When it blooms to welcome the kiss of Kypris; Sheathed in fragrant leaves its tremulous petals Laugh in the zephyr. Aphrodite, subtle of soul and deathless, Daughter of God, weaver of wiles, I pray thee Neither with care, dread Mistress, nor with anguish, Slay thou my spirit! But in pity hasten, come now if ever From afar of old when my voice implored thee, Thou hast deigned to listen, leaving the golden House of thy father With thy chariot yoked; and with doves that drew thee, Fair and fleet around the dark earth from heaven, Dipping vibrant wings down the azure distance, Through the mid-ether; Very swift they came; and thou, gracious Vision, Leaned with face that smiled in immortal beauty, Leaned to me and asked, "What misfortune threatened? Why I had called thee?" "What my frenzied heart craved in utter yearning, Whom its wild desire would persuade to passion? What disdainful charms, madly worshipped, slight thee? Who wrongs thee, Sappho?" "She that fain would fly, she shall quickly follow, She that now rejects, yet with gifts shall woo thee, She that heeds thee not, soon shall love to madness, Love thee, the loth one!" Come to me now thus, Goddess, and release me From distress and pain; and all my distracted Heart would seek, do thou, once again fulfilling, Still be my ally! Slumber streams from quivering leaves that listless Bask in heat and stillness of Lesbian summer; Breathless swoons the air with the apple-blossoms' Delicate odor; From the shade of branches that droop and cover Shallow trenches winding about the orchard, Restful comes, and cool to the sense, the flowing Murmur of water. All around through the apple boughs in blossom Murmur cool the breezes of early summer, And from leaves that quiver above me gently Slumber is shaken; Glades of poppies swoon in the drowsy languor, Dreaming roses bend, and the oleanders Bask and nod to drone of bees in the silent Fervor of noontide; Myrtle coverts hedging the open vista, Dear to nightly frolic of Nymph and Satyr, Yield a mossy bed for the brown and weary Limbs of the shepherd. Echo ever wafts through the drooping frondage, Ceaseless silver murmur of water falling In the grotto cool of the Nymphs, the sacred Down the sides of rocks that are gray and lichened Trickle tiny rills, whose expectant tinkle Drips with gurgle hushed in the clear glimmering Depths of the basin. Fair on royal couches of leaves recumbent, Interspersed with languor of waxen lilies, Lotus flowers empurple the pool whose edge is Cushioned with mosses; Here recline the Nymphs at the hour of twilight, Back in shadows dim of the cave, their golden Sea-green eyes half lidded, up to their supple Waists in the water. Sheltered once by ferns I espied them binding Tresses long, the tint of lilac and orange; Just beyond the shimmer of light their bodies Roseate glistened; Deftly, then, they girdled their loins with garlands, Linked with leaves luxuriant limb and shoulder; On their breasts they bruised the red blood of roses Fresh from the garden. She of orange hair was the Nymph Euxanthis, And the lilac-tressed were Iphis and Io; How they laughed, relating at length their ease in When the drifting gray of the vesper shadow Dimmed their upward path through the midmost azure, And the length of night overtook them distant Far from Olympus; Far away from splendor and joy of Paphos, From the voice and smile of their peerless Mistress, Back to whom their truant wings were in rapture Speeding belated; Chilled at heart and grieving they drooped their pinions, Down through dusk that darkened on Mitylene's Columns of marble; Down through glory wan of the fading sunset, Veering ever toward the abode of Sappho, Toward my home, the fane of the glad devoted Soon they gained the tile of my roof and rested, Slipped their heads beneath their wings while I watched them Sink to sleep and dreams, in the warm and drowsy Night of midsummer. Golden-throned Muse, sing the song that in olden Days was sung of love and delight in Teos, In the goodly land of the lovely women: Strains that in other Years the hoary bard with the youthful fancy Set to mirthful stir of flutes, when the dancing Nymphs that poured the wine for the poet's banquet Mixed it with kisses; Sing the song while I, in the arms of Atthis, Seal her lips to mine with a lover's fervor, Breathe her breath and drink her sighs to the honeyed Lull of the melics. Dreaming I spake with the Daughter of Cyprus, Heard the languor soft of her voice, the blended Suave accord of tones interfused with laughter Low and desireful; Dreaming saw her dread ineffable beauty, Saw through texture fine of her clinging tunic Blush the fire of flesh, the rose of her body, Radiant, blinding; Saw through filmy meshes the melting lovely Flow of line, the exquisite curves, whence piercing Rapture reached with tangible touch to thrill me, Almost to slay me; Saw the gleaming foot, and the golden sandal Held by straps of Lydian work thrice doubled Over the instep's arch, and up the rounded Dazzling ankle; Saw the charms that shimmered from knee to shoulder, Hint of hues, than milk or the snowdrift whiter; Secret grace, the shrine of the soul of passion, Glows that consumed me; Saw the gathered mass of her xanthic tresses, Mitra-bound, escape from the clasping fillet, Float and shine as clouds in the sunset splendor, Mists in the dawn-fire; Saw the face immortal, and daring greatly, Raised my eyes to hers of unfathomed azure, Drank their world's desire, their limitless longing, Swooned and was nothing. Come, ye dainty Graces and lovely Muses, Rosy-armed and pure and with fairest tresses, Come from groves on Helicon's hill where murmur Founts that are holy; Come with dancing step and with lips harmonic, Gather near and view my ivory distaff, Gift from Cos my brother Charaxus brought me, Up the blue Ægean, the island-dotted Choicest wool alone will I spin for fabrics, Winding reel with threads for the cloths as fleecy, Soft and fine as they bring from far Phocea, While I weave my thought shall engird the giver, Whether here, or far on the sea, or resting Couched in shady courts with the lovely garland Softer than mists o'er the pale green of waters, O'er the charmed sea, shod with sandals of shadow Comes the warm sleep wind of Argolis, floating Garlands of fragrance; Comes the sweet wind by the still hours attended, Touching tired lids on the shores dim with distance, Faintly one fair star of evening enkindles On the dusk afar its lone fire Œtean, Shining serene till the darkness will deepen Others to splendor; Bringing ineffable peace, and the gladsome Return with the night of all things that morning Ruthlessly parted, the child to its mother, Lover to lover. From the marble court of rose-crowned companions, All alone my feet again seek the little Theatre pledged to the Muse, now deserted, Facing the surges; Where the carved Pan-heads that laugh down the gentle Slope of broad steps to the refluent ripple, Flute from their thin pipes the dithyrambs deathless, Songs all unuttered. Empty each seat where my girl friends acclaimed me, Poets with names on the tiered stone engraven, Over whose verge blooms the apple tree, drifting Perfume and petals; Gone Telesippa and tender Gyrinno, Anactoria, woman divine; Atthis, Subtlest of soul, fair Damophyla, Dica, Here an hour past soul-enravished they listened While my rapt heart breathed its pæan impassioned, Chanted its wild prayer to thee, Aphrodite, Now to their homes are they gone in the city, Pensive to dream limb-relaxed while the languid Slaves come and lift from the tresses they loosen, Flowers that have faded. Thou alone, Sappho, art sole with the silence, Sole with night and dreams that are darkness, weaving Thoughts that are sighs from the heart and their meaning Vague as the shadow; When the great silence shall come to thee, sad one, Men that forget shall remember thy music, Murmur thy name that shall steal on their passion Soft as the sleep wind. Kypris, hear my prayer to thee and the Nereids! Safely bring the ship of my brother homewards, Bring him back unharmed to the heart that loves him, Throbbing remorseful; Fair Immortal, banish from mind, I pray thee, Every discord's hint that of yore estranged us; Grant that never again dissension's hateful Wrangle shall part us; May he never in days to come remember Keen reproach of mine that had grieved him sorely; Words that broke my very heart when I heard them Uttered by others; Words that wounded deep and recurring often, Bowed his head with shame at the public banquet; Where my scorn, amid festal joy and laughter, Sharpened the covert Jests that stung his pride and assailed his folly, Slave-espoused when he, a Lesbian noble, Might have won the fairest in Mitylene, Virgins the noblest; Open slurs that linked his name with Doricha, She whose wondrous charms the wealth of Charaxus Ransomed from bondage. Now that he is gone and my anger vanished, Keen regret and grief for the pain I gave him Pierce my heart, and fear of loss that is anguish Darkens the daylight. Long ago beloved, thy memory, Atthis, Saddens still my heart as the soft Æolic Twilight deepens down on the sea, and fitful Winds that have wandered Over groves of myrtle at Amathonte Waft forgotten passion on breaths of perfume. Long ago, how madly I loved thee, Atthis! Faithless, light-hearted Loved one, mine no more, who lovest another More than me; the silent flute and the faded Garlands haunt the heart of me thou forgettest, Long since thy lover. Artisans, raise high the roof beam! Tall is the bridegroom as Ares, Taller by far than the tallest, Ay! towering over his fellows, As over men of all other Lands towers the Lesbian singer, Well-favored, too, is the maiden, Eyes that are sweeter than honey, Fair both in face and in figure, For there was never another Virgin in loveliness like her, By Aphrodite so honored, O happy bridegroom, the wedding Comes to the point of completion; Thou hast the maid of thy choosing, See how a paleness suffuses Soft o'er her exquisite features, Passion's benign premonition, Go to the couch unreluctant, Rejoicing and sweet to the bridegroom; He in his turn is rejoicing, May Hesperus lead thee, and Hera, She whom to-night that ye honor, Silver-throned Goddess of marriage, Bride, that goest to the bridal chamber In the dove-drawn car of Aphrodite, By a band of dimpled Loves surrounded; Bride, of maidens all the fairest image Mitylene treasures of the Goddess, Rosy-ankled Graces Are thy playmates; Bride, O fair and lovely, thy companions Are the gracious hours that onward passing For thy gladsome footsteps Scatter garlands. Bride, that blushing like the sweetest apple On the very branch's end, so strangely Overlooked, ungathered By the gleaners; Bride, that like the apple that was never Overlooked but out of reach so plainly, Only one thy rarest Fruit may gather; Bride, that into womanhood has ripened For the harvest of the bridegroom only, He alone shall taste thy Hoarded sweetness. Vesper is here! behold Faint gleams that welcome shine! Rise from the feast, O youths, And chant the fescennine! Before the porch we sing The hymeneal song; Vesper is here, O youths! The star we waited long. We lead the festal groups Across the bridegroom's porch; Vesper is here, O youths! Wave high the bridal torch. Hail, noble bridegroom, hail! The virgin fair has come; Unlatch the door and lead Her timid footsteps home. Hail, noble bridegroom, hail! Straight as a tender tree; Fond as a folding vine Thy bride will cling to thee. Pale death shall come, and thou and thine shall be, Then and thereafter, to all memory Forgotten as the wind that yesterday Blew the last lingering apple buds away; For thou hadst never that undying rose To grace the brow and shed immortal glows; Pieria's fadeless flower that few may claim To wreathe and save thy unremembered name. Ay! even on the fields of Dis unknown, Obscure among the shadows and alone, Thy flitting shade shall pass uncomforted Of any heed from all the flitting dead. But no one maid, I think, beneath the skies, At any time shall live and be as wise, In sooth, as I am; for the Muses Nine Have made me honored and their gifts are mine; And men, I think, will never quite forget My songs or me; so long as stars shall set Or sun shall rise, or hearts feel love's desire, My voice shall cross their dreams, a sigh of fire. See, he is dying, Delicate, lovely, Weep, O ye maidens, Beating your bosoms, Rending your tunics. Hasten, for never Loved thou another See, on the rosy Cheek with its dimple, Blushing no longer, Thanatos' shadow. Save him, O Goddess! Thou, the beguiler, All-powerful, holy, Stay the dread evil. No more at vintage Time will he come with Bloom of the meadows. See, he is dying, Fading as flowers With the lost summer. Think not to ever look as once of yore, Atthis, upon my love; for thou no more Wilt find intact upon its stem the flower Thy guile left slain and bleeding in that hour. So ruthless shepherds crush beneath their feet The hill flower blooming in the summer heat; The hyacinth whose purple heart is found Left bruised and dead, to darken on the ground. Death is an evil; so the Gods decree, So they have judged, and such must rightly be Our mortal view; for they who dwell on high Had never lived, had it been good to die. And so the poet's house should never know Of tears and lamentations any show; Such things befit not us who deathless sing Of love and beauty, gladness and the spring. No hint of grief should mar the features of Our dreams of endless beauty, lasting love; For they reflect the joy inviolate, Eternal calm that fronts whatever fate. Clëis, my darling, grieve no more, I pray! Let wandering winds thy sorrow bear away, And all our care; my daughter, let thy smile Shine through thy tears and gladden me the while. I saw a tender maiden plucking flowers Once, long ago, in the bright morning hours; And then from heaven I saw a sudden cloud Fall swift and dark, and heard her cry aloud. Again I looked, but from my open door My anxious eyes espied the maid no more; The cloud had vanished, bearing her away To underlands beyond the smiling day. Do I long for maidenhood? Do I long for days When upon the mountain slope I would stand and gaze Over the Ægean's blue Melting into mist, Ere with love my virgin lips Cercolas had kissed? Maidenhood, O maidenhood, Whither hast thou flown? _To a land beyond the sea_ _Thou hast never known._ Maidenhood, O maidenhood, Wilt return to me? _Never will my bloom again_ _Give its grace to thee._ Now the autumn skies are low, Youth and summer sped; Shepherd hills are far away, Cercolas is dead. Mitylene's marble courts Echo with my name;-- Maidenhood, we never dreamed, Long ago of fame. I shall be ever maiden, Ever the little child, In my passionate quest for the lovely, By earth's glad wonder beguiled. I shall be ever maiden, Standing in soul apart, For the Gods give the secret of beauty Alone to the virgin heart. Daughter of mine, so fair, With a form like a golden flower, Wherefore thy pensive air And the dreams in the myrtle bower? Clëis, beloved, thy eyes That are turned from my gaze, thy hand That trembles so, I prize More than all the Lydian land; More than the lovely hills With the Lesbian olive crowned;-- Tell me, darling, what ills In the gloom of thy thought are found? Daughter of mine, come near And thy head on my knees recline; Whisper and never fear, For the beat of thy heart is mine. Sweet mother, I can turn With content to my loom no more; My bosom throbs, I yearn For a youth that my eyes adore; Whom I knew when a little child; My heart by Love is thus With the sweetest of pain beguiled. I do not think with my two arms to touch the sky, I do not dream to do almighty things; So small a singing bird may never soar so high, To beat the sapphire fire with baffled wings. I do not think with my two arms to touch the sky, I do not dream by any chance to share With deathless Gods the bliss of Paphos they deny To men behind the azure veil of air. I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner; Swifter far was she than Atalanta, When through clinging fleece of her wind-rippled Garments blushed the glimmer of her limbs. I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner; Lovelier was she than Atalanta, When the straining vision of the suitor Saw her beauty mock impending death. I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner, All the singing numbers of Terpander, And my melic verse that glows supreme. I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner, Sapphics with their triple surge of music Melting in the final verse Adonic, Like the foam fall of a spended wave. Faint not in thy strong heart! Nor downcast stand apart; Beyond the reach of daring will there lies No beauty's prize. Faint not in thy strong heart! Through temple, field and mart, Courage alone the guerdon from the fray May bear away. Ares said he would drag Hephestus by force From Poseidon's palace Deep down in the sea; Where he had fashioned The cunning throne With the secret chains. He presented the throne, Forsooth, as a gift To the queen of heaven; But Hera soon found For revenge on her Who had him cast From the home of Gods. For secure in its clasp Of adamant gold She was held imprisoned, The prey of his guile; And Hephestus knew By him alone Could the queen be freed. But the great God of war Made boast of his strength; He would bring the forger Of metals and tricks On high to release Her enraged despair. Ares said he would drag Hephestus by force, But was made to waver And flee when assailed With a blazing brand By the dark God Of the underworld. Immortal, bright; Nor moth nor worm may eat it, Nor rust tarnish. So are the Muse's gifts The offspring fair, That merit from high heaven Youth eternal. My ways are quiet, none may find My temper of malignant kind; For one should check the words that start When anger spreads within the heart. Who from my hands what I can spare Of gifts accept the largest share, Those are the very ones who boast No gratitude and wrong me most. He who in face and form is fair Must needs be good, the Gods declare; But he whose thought and act are right Will soon be equal fair to sight. Beauty of youth is but the flower Of spring, whose pleasure lasts an hour; While worth that knows no mortal doom Is like the amaranthine bloom. Pride not thyself upon a ring, Or any trinket thing Of fleeting value, dross or gold. Wealth, lacking worth, is no safe friend, Though both to life may lend, In just proportion, joy untold. Leto and Niobe were friends full dear, The Goddess' heart and woman's heart were one In that maternal love that men revere, Love that endures when other loves are done. But Niobe with all a mother's pride, Artless and foolish, would not be denied; And boasted that her children were more fair Than Leto's lovely children of the air. The proud Olympians vowed revenge for this, Irate Apollo, angered Artemis; They slew her children, heedless of her moan, And with the last her heart was turned to stone. From Scythian wood they brew The dye whose yellow hue Turns gold the lovely hair Of Lesbians fair. So, Zanthis, slave of mine, Shall dip the fleeces fine, And dye the robes I made A saffron shade. Immortal Paphia! have I earned thy hate, That I should burn in passion's fatal flame? Is not my constant service thine to claim, My prayer's appeal with praise of thee elate? Has not my life been one sole hymn of thee, One quivering chord on Love's harp overwrought? My soul has trembled up to thee in thought, Probed to its depth thy every ecstasy. Are not my countless heart-beats each a vow, Of tribute throbs a garland? For thy gain The Fates have drenched my soul in passion's rain, Pieria's roses twined about my brow. The virgin harvest of my heart was thine, I shuddered in the joy that half consumed; The votive garlands on thy altar bloomed, My days were songs to nights of bliss divine. Why try me, then, with torture, gracious Queen? Why verge me on this rapture's dread abyss, Hold breast from breast and stay the yearning kiss? Ah, couldst thou fashion pain that stung less keen? The throe of Tantalus is mine to bear, Beauty that Thetis-like eludes my clasp; Glances that lure, that make each breath a gasp, And then disdainful gloat at my despair. Scornful she dwells beyond my ardor's clutch, Bathed in an aureole of carnal fire;-- O bind her equal slave to fond desire, Let passion's tingling warmth her being touch! Come to me, Goddess, come as once of old, Hearing my voice implore thee from afar, I drew to earth thy dazzling avatar; Accord the smile of piercing bliss untold. Ask me the dear suave question phrased of yore; "Sappho, who grieveth now thy mad fond heart? Wouldst win her beauty, she who frowns apart? Wild as thou lovest, she soon shall love thee more." O fair Olympian, answer thus, I pray! Release me from this torment, yield my arms The transport thirsted of her folded charms, In glow that welds her heart to mine for aye. From the gnarled branches of the apple trees The heavy petals, lifted by the breeze, Fluttered on puffs of odor fine and fell In the clear water of the garden well; And some a bolder zephyr blew in sport Across the marble reaches of my court, And some by sudden gusts were wafted wide Toward sea and city, down the mountain side. Green olive hills, the violet vale below; The air was azure fire and o'er the blue Still sea the doves of Aphrodite flew. My dreaming eyes saw Eros from afar Coming from heaven in his mother's car, In purple tunic clad; and at my heart The God was aiming his relentless dart. He whom fair Aphrodite called her son, She, the adored, she, the imperial One; He passed as winds that shake the soul, as pains Sweet to the heart, as fire that warms the veins; He passed and left my limbs dissolved in dew, Relaxed and faint, with passion quivered through; Exhausted with spent thrills of dread delight, A sudden darkness rushing on my sight. Now Love shakes my soul, a mighty Wind from the high mountain falling Full on the oaks of the forest; Now, limb-relaxing, it masters My life and implacable thrills me, Rending with anguish and rapture. Now my heart, paining my bosom, Pants with desire as a mænad Mad for the orgiac revel. Now under my skin run subtle Arrows of flame, and my body Quivers with surge of emotion. Now long importunate yearnings Vanquish with surfeit my reason; Fainting my senses forsake me. O Sappho, why art thou ever Singing with praises the blessed Queen of the heaven? Why does the heart in thy bosom Ever revert in its yearning Why are thy senses unsated Ever in quest of elusive Love that is deathless? Ah, gracious Daughter of Cyprus, Never can I as a mortal Tire of thy service. Thou art the breath of my body, The blood in my veins, and the glowing Pulse of my bosom. Omnipotent, burning, resistless, Thou art the passion that shaking Masters me ever. Thou art the crisis of rapture Relaxing my limbs, and the melting Ebb of emotion; Bringing the tears to my lashes, Sighs to my lips, in the swooning Excess of passion. O golden-crowned Aphrodite, Grant I shall ever be grateful, Sure of thy favor; Worthy the lot of thy priestess, Supreme in the song that forever Rings with thy praises. And down I set the cushion Upon the couch that she, Relaxed supine upon it, Might give her lips to me. As some enamored priestess At Aphrodite's shrine, Entranced I bent above her With sense of the divine. She had, by nature nubile, In years a child, no hint Of any secret knowledge Of passion's least intent. Her mouth for immolation Was ripe, and mine the art; And one long kiss of passion Deflowered her virgin heart. I loved you, Atthis, once, long years ago! My blood was flame that thrilled to passion's throe; Now long neglect has quenched the olden fire, And blight of drifting years effaced desire. I loved you, Atthis--joy of long ago-- Love shook my soul as winds on forests blow; This lawless heart that dared exhaust delight, Unsated strove and maddened through the night. I loved you, Atthis, once, long years ago! With pain whose surge I felt to anguish grow; Suffered the storms that waste the heart and leave A desert shore where seas but break to grieve. I loved you, Atthis--spring of long ago-- Watched you depart, to Andromeda go; Then I, as keen despair its shadow cast, O'er my deserted threshold, sobbing, passed. I loved you, Atthis, once, long years ago! The thought of me is hateful now, I know; And all the lavish tenderness of old Has gone from me and left my bosom cold. I loved you, Atthis--dream of long ago-- How the fond words, impassioned music low, Sustain the sigh of love's divine regret No length of time may bid the heart forget. Less soft a Tyrian robe Of texture fine, Less delicate a rose Than flesh of thine. Whiter thy breast than snow That virgin lies, And deeper than the blue Of seas thy eyes. More golden than the fruit Of orange trees, Thy locks that floating lure The satyr breeze. Less fine of silver string An Orphic lyre, Less sweet than thy low laugh That wakes desire. Upon a cushion soft My limbs I place, My every garment doffed For deeper grace; From burning doves embalmed In baccharis, The scented fumes have calmed Me like a kiss. Beyond the phallic shrine That tripods light, I pledge with holy wine An image white; Than foam more fair, When from the ravished sea She rose to air. Daughter of God, accept These gifts of mine! Last night my body slept In arms divine. These sated lips and eyes That erstwhile sued, Accord this sacrifice In gratitude. Once on a time They say that Leda found Beneath the thyme An egg upon the ground; And yet the swan She fondled long ago Was whiter than Its shell of peeping snow. Violet-weaving Sappho, pure and lovely, Softly-smiling Sappho, I would utter Something that my secret hope has cherished, Did no painful sense of shame deter me. Had the impulse of thy heart been honest, It had urged no evil supplication; Shame had not abashed thy eyes before me, And thy words had done thee no dishonor. Softly-smiling Sappho, longing bids me Tell thee all that in my heart lies hidden. Have no fear, Alcæus, to offend me! Thy emotion stirs my heart to pity. I desire thee, violet-weaving Sappho! Love thee madly, softly-smiling Sappho! Hush, Alcæus! thou must choose a younger Comrade for thy couch, for I would never Join thy years to mine--the Gods forbid it-- Youth and ardent fire to age and ashes. Across the still sea's moonlit wave Selene came Softly to seek the Latmian cave, Her breast aflame With secret passion's ruthless throe, Her scruples done, And burning with desire to know As the moon in all her splendor Slowly rose above the forest, Silent stood the Cretan women Round the altar. Girdled close their clinging tunics, Made of some transparent fabric, Traced the every curve and lissome Of their bodies. With revering eyes uplifted To the round and rising planet, Soon its drifting beams of silver Lit their faces. Soft and clear its sphere effulgent, Full defined above the treetops, Steeped in pale unearthly glamor All the landscape. When the argent glimmer rested On the altar piled with garlands, And its glow unveiled the marble Linking hands, the Cretan women Moving gracefully with metric Steps began to dance a measure All so light their feet unsandalled Pressed the velvet grass in treading, That they scarcely bruised its tender Blooming verdure. Slowly turning in a circle To the east, their voices chanted In a plaintive note the sacred Then they paused, their steps retracing Toward the west, and answered strophe By antistrophe with choric Tones accordant; With the aftersong epodic, Standing all before the altar, Lo! the hymn in praise of Paphos Was completed. Countless are the cups thou drainest In thy hymns to Dionysos, War and wine alone thou singest;-- Spacious halls are thine where many Trophies hang in Ares' honor, Brazen shields and shining helmets, Plates of brass, Chalcidian broad-swords, When with winter roars the Thracian North wind through the leafless forest, Thou dost heap the fire and banish Care with many a tawny goblet, Thus contend the maidens In the cretic dance, Rosy arms that glisten, Eyes that glance; Cheeks as fair as blossoms, Parted lips that glow, With their honeyed voices Chanting low; With their plastic bodies Swaying to the flute, Moving with the music Never mute; Graceful the orchestric Figures they unfold, While the vesper heaven Turns to gold. While charming maids plait garlands for thy brows, Larichus, bring the pledge for this carouse Like lovely Ganymede, brother mine, And cool from thy patera pour the wine. Thy slender limbs have all a Satyr's grace, Hylas, the Wood-God, dimples in thy face; These maids of mine, beloved and loving me, My dreams have made thy Nymphs to sport with thee. I heard fair Mitylene's plaudits cease O'er Lykas, Menon and Dinnomenes; And hail thy beauty worthy of the prize, Cupbearer to the council of the wise. No noble youth the prytaneum holds, Whose graceful form the purple tunic folds Can match with thee, when on affairs of state Come, shell divine, be vocal now for me, As when the Hebrus river and the sea The head and golden lyre of Orpheus. Calliope, queen of the tuneful throng, Descend and be the Muse of melic song; For through my frame life's tides renewing bring The glad vein-warming vigor of the spring. The skies that dome the earth with far blue fire Make the wide land one temple of desire;-- Just now across my cheek I felt a God, In the enraptured breeze, pass zephyr-shod. Was that Pan's flute, O Atthis, that we heard, Or the soft love-note of a woodland bird? That flame a scarlet wing that skimmed the stream, Or the red flash of our impassioned dream? Ah, soon again we two shall gather fair Garlands of dill and rose to deck our bare White arms that cling, white breast that burns to breast, When the long night of love shall banish rest. Deftly on my little Seven-stringed barbitos, Now to please my girl friends Songs I set to music. Maidens fair, companions Of the Muses, never Toward you shall my feelings Undergo a change. Chanted in a plaintive Old Ionic measure, All the songs I give you Are the songs of love. What bucolic maiden Now thy heart bewitches, Of the strange amours? Round her awkward ankles She has not the faintest Sense of art to draw her Long ungraceful tunic. Yet she surely makes thee, For thy sweet unlawful Love a fair requital. Joy and praise attend thee, In thy keen perceptive Taste for beauty, daughter Aphrodite's handmaid, Bright as gold thou earnest, Tender woven garlands Round thy tender neck; Sweet as soft Persuasion, Shy Euneica, lovely Girl from Salamis. Slender thou as Syrinx, As the waving reed-nymph, Summer winds, deflowered. On thy lips whose quiver Seems to plead for pity, Mine shall rest and linger Like the mouth of Pan On the mouth of Syrinx, When his breath that filled her Blew through all her body Music of his love. Gorgo, I am weary Of thy love's insistence, Thou to me appearest An ill-favored child. Though I am than Gello Fonder still of virgins, Toward thee I have never Felt the least desire. Yesternight I knew not What to do, for pity Moved my bosom deeply, Seeing thee implore. Harassed by alternate Yielding and refusal, I was half persuaded Then to grant thy prayer. At my door thy presence Lingers like a shadow; Vain wouldst thou reproach me With appealing eyes. Dost thou think by constant Proofs of lasting passion, Slowly my obdurate Will to wear away? Gorgo, I am weary Of thy love's insistence, And my strength exhausted Grants thy wish at last. Set, O Dica, garlands on thy lovely Glinting mass of fine and golden tresses, Sprays of dill with fingers soft entwining While I stand apart to better judge. Those who have fair wreaths about the forehead, Breathing brentheian odor to the senses, Ever first find favor with the Graces Who from wreathless suppliants turn away. Dica, Mnasidica, thou art shapely With the flowing curves of Aphrodite; Eyes the color of her azure ocean Washing wide on Cyprus' languid shore. In thy every movement grace unconscious Sways the rhythmic poem of thy body, Charming with elusive undulation Like a splendid lily in the wind. As I stand apart to judge the better Fair effects that roses add to beauty, All thy rays of loveliness concentered Sun me till I swoon with swift desire. Sleep thou in the bosom Of thy tender girl friend, Telesippa, gentle Maiden from Miletus. Like twin petals shyly Closing to the darkness, Dewy on your drooping Lids shall fall her kisses. While her arms enfold you, On your drowsy senses Shall her soft caresses Seal delicious languor. Warm from her desireful Heart the flush of passion On your cheek unconscious, With her sighs shall deepen. All the long sweet night-time, Sleepless while you slumber, She shall lie and quiver With her love's mad longing. Now the silver crescent Of the moon has vanished, With the golden Pleiads Drifting down the west. It is after midnight And the time is passing, Hours we pledged to passion And I sleep alone. Anger ill becomes thee, Tender-souled Gyrinno, But less loved by me. Art thou still relentless, Wilful one, annulling All thy protestations In the fervid past? Be thou hast forgotten? Dost thou love another, Even now, perchance? Ah, my tears are falling, Yet in my despairing Mood I lie and listen For thy furtive step; For the lightest rustle Of thy flowing garment, For thy sweet and panting Whisper at the door. Now the moon has vanished With the golden Pleiads; It is after midnight And I sleep alone. Thou burnest us, Megara, With thy passions wild; Bringing from Panormus Such unbridled fires. Thou burnest us, a supple Flow of tortured flame, Raging, biting, searing, Lawless of the will. Thou burnest us, Megara, Love must know reserve, Curbing power to keep it Keener for restraint. Haughtier than thou, O fair Erinna, I have never met with any maiden. Such a careless scorn as thine for passion Proves a dire affront to Aphrodite. When with soft desire she wounds thy bosom, Thou shalt know love's pain and doubly suffer. Keep the gifts I gave thee, long rejected; Fabrics for thy lap from far Phocea, Babylonian unguents, scented sandals, And the costly mitra for thy tresses; Tripods worked in brass to flank the altar With the ivory figure of the Goddess; Where the sacrificial fumes from sacred Flames shall rise to gladden and appease her, In the hour when at her call thy fervid Breast and mouth to mine shall be relinquished. It was when the sunset Burned with saffron fire, And Apollo's coursers Turned below the hills, That on Mitylene's Marble bridge we met, Gongyla, thou golden Like the breath of morning Or a breeze from sea, Fresh thy beauty smote me, Virile of the north. Startled by thy vision, Transports half divine Flooded veins and bosom, Shook me with desire. Soon the kinder sunglow Of Æolic lands Melted all the futile Snows about thy heart. Cold of heart and strangely Uninclined to passion, Wisdom's vigil leaves thee, Sapphics thou hast written, Verses in my metre, With a skill surpassing In the melic art. Love's superb enchantment Thou art fain to banish, Like the virgin Huntress Long by thee adored. Molded by thy tunic, Every arching contour Of her chaste and noble Form I dream to see; Even view her stepping From the leafy covert Down the dawn-white valley, Stately as a stag. Long I sued but found thee Deaf to all entreaty, Till one summer twilight Listless in the heat; Soothed by slumber's languor, And my low monodic Voice that hymned a paean In the praise of love; Loth to yield yet vanquished, As I knelt beside thee, All thy long resistance To my kiss succumbed. Anagora, fairest Spoil of fateful battle, Babylonian temples Knew thy luring song. Wrested from barbaric Captors for thy beauty, Thou wert made a priestess At Mylitta's shrine. Once these flexile fingers Clasped in mine so closely, Neath the temple's arches Thrummed the tabor soft. Thou hast taught me secrets Of the cryptic chambers, How the zonahs worship In the burning East; Raptures that my wildest Dreaming never pictured, Arts of love that charmed me, Subtle, new and strange. Hearken to my earnest May the night be doubled Now for our delight. Philomel in my garden, Messenger sweet of springtide, From the bough of the olive tree utter Tidings ecstatic. Linger long on thy olden Note as in days remembered; Ere the Boatman that knew Aphrodite Ravished my vision. Fatal glamor of beauty, Beauty of Gods made mortal; Ah, before its delight I am ever Fearful of heaven. Spring in breeze and the blossom, Grasses and leaves and odors, On my heart with the breath of a vanished April is shaken; Shaken with thrill and regret of Lost caresses and kisses; Anactoria's memory, Atthis Never forgotten. Philomel in my garden, Messenger sweet of springtide, From the bough of the olive tree utter Tidings ecstatic. Golden pulse grew on the shore, Ferns along the hill, And the red cliff roses bore Bees to drink their fill; Bees that from the meadows bring Wine of melilot, Honey-sups on golden wing To the garden grot. But to me, neglected flower, Phaon will not see, Passion brings no crowning hour, Honey nor the bee. Daughter of Pandion, lovely Swallow that veers at my window, Swift on the flood of the sunshine Darting thy shadow; What is thy innocent purpose, Why dost thou hover and haunt me? Is it a kinship of sorrow Brings thee anear me? Must thou forever be tongueless, Flying in fear of Tereus? Must he for Itys pursue thee, Changed to a lapwing? Tireless of pinion and never Resting on bush or the branches, Close to the earth, up the azure, Over the treetops; After thy wing in its madness Follows my glance, as a flitting Child on the track of its mother Hastens in silence. Daughter of Pandion, lovely Swallow that veers at my window, Hast thou a message from Cyprus She wrapped herself in linen woven close, Stuffs delicate and texture-fine as those The dark Nile traders for our bartering Love lent her feet the wings of winds to reach (Whose steps stir not the shingle of the beach) My marble court and, breathless, bid me know My lover's sails across the harbor blow. He seemed to her, as to himself he seems, Like some bright God long treasured in her dreams; She saw him standing at his galley's prow-- My Phaon, mine, in Mitylene now! Hesperus shines Low on the eastern wave, Off toward the Asian shore; Over faint lines Whose grays and purples pave Where seas night-calmed adore. Fair vesper fire, Fairest of stars, the light Benign of secret bliss; Star of desire, Bringing to me with night Dreams and my Phaon's kiss. Just now the golden-sandalled Dawn Peered through the lattice of my room; Why must thou fare so soon, my Phaon? Last night I met thee at the shore, A thousand hues were in the sky; The breeze from Cyprus blew, my Phaon! I drew, to lave thy heated brow, My kerchief dripping from the sea; Why hadst thou sailed so far, my Phaon? Far up the narrow mountain paths We heard the shepherds fluting home; Like some white God thou seemed, my Phaon! And through the olive trees we saw The twinkle of my vesper lamp; Wilt kiss me now as then, my Phaon? Nay, loosen not with gentle force The clasp of my restraining arms; I will not let thee go, my Phaon! See, deftly in my trailing robe I spring and draw the lattice close; Is it not night again, my Phaon? Beloved, stand face to face, And, lifting lids, disclose to me the grace, The Paphic fire that lingers yet and lies Reflected in thy eyes. Phaon, my sole beloved, Stand not to my mad passion all unmoved; O let, ere thou to far Panormus sail, One hour of love prevail. Dear ingrate, come and let Thy breath like odor from a cassolet, Thy smile, the clinging touch of lips and heart Anoint me, ere we part. Phaon, I yearn and seek But thee alone; and what I feel must speak In all these fond and wilful ways of mine, O mortal, made divine! My girl friends now no more Hang their sweet gifts of garlands at my door; Dear maids, with all your vanished empery Ye now are naught to me. Phaon, thy galley rides Within the harbor's mouth and waits the tides And favoring winds, far to the west to fly And leave me here to die. The brawny rowers lean To bend long-stroking oars; and changing scene And fairer loves than mine shall soon efface This last divine embrace. Phaon, the lifting breeze! See, at thy feet I kneel and clasp thy knees! Go not, go not! O hear my sobbing prayer, And yield to my despair! Dark-eyed Sleep, child of Night, Come in thy shadow garment to my couch, And with thy soothing touch, Cool as the vesper breeze, Grant that I may forget; Bestow condign release, A taste of rest that comes with endless sleep; Lure off the haunting dreams, The dire Eumenides That torture my repose. For I would live a space Though Phaon has forsaken me, nor yet Be found on shadow fields Among the lilies tall Of pale Persephone. Afar-seen cliff Stands in the western sea Toward Cephallenian lands. Apollo's temple crowns Its whitened crest, And at its base The waves eternal beat. Its leap has power To cure the pangs Of unrequited love. Thither pale lovers go With anguished hearts To dare the deep and quench Love's slow consuming flame. Urged to the edge By maddening desire, I, too, shall fling myself Imploring thee, Apollo, lord and king! Into the chill Embraces of the sea, Less cold than thine, O Phaon, I shall fall-- Fall with the flutter of a wounded dove; And I shall rise Indifferent forever to love's dream, Or find below The sea's eternal voice, Eternal peace. This is the dust of Timas! Here inurned Rest the dear ashes where so late had burned Her spirit's flame. She perished, gentle maid, Before her bridal day and now a shade, Silent and sad, she evermore must be In the dark chamber of Persephone. When life had faded with the flower and leaf, Each girl friend sweet, in token of her grief, Resigned her severed locks with bended head, Beauty's fair tribute to the lovely dead. Maidens, that pass my tomb with laughter sweet, A voice unresting echoes at your feet; Pause, and if any would my story seek, Once in the vanished years it chanced to please Arista, daughter of Hermocleides, To dedicate my life in virgin bliss To thee, revered of women, Artemis! O Goddess, deign to bless my grandsire's line, For Saon was a temple priest of thine; And grant, O Queen, in thy benefic grace, Unending fame and fortune to his race. Above the lowly grave of Pelagon, Ill-fated fisher lad, Meniscus' son, His father placed as sign of storm and strife The weel and oar, memorial of his life.

Aarni Kouta

Ristin tie Runoja

1884

because she is my friend_ _Oh, you were not so idle-- You wore a sprig of green; You wore a feather in your cap, The reddest ever seen._ Your eyes were of the blue; You wandered up and down the world, For you had much to do._ _For oh, you were not idle, Whatever men might say-- You made the colour of the year Magnificent and gay._ With painted slender folded hands She waited what might come, Her cymar was of ardassine, Fire red from throat to hem, Broidered with Turkis stones therein-- She gave her soul for them. Faint cassia and love-haunted myrrh Made perilous her hair, And what was Sidon's woe to her Whose face was king's despair? Nor life nor love from those cold lips, But ah, in what degree, Her passionate lover leans and sips Her death-bright poesy. Blindness, and women wailing on white seas, Seas where no placid sails have ever been, Dreams like wan demons on waste marshes seen Thro' dulling, fevered eyes. The dregs and lees Of wine long spilt to dead divinities. Grey, empty days when Spring is never green, Can the heart answer what these riddles mean-- Can the life hold such hopelessness as these? Love lying low in the long pleasant grass, Youth with his eager face against the sun, They may not guess the hours when these shall pass, In what drear coin such lovely dreams are paid, At what grim cost their flowery days are won, When man is old and lonely and afraid. Dawn shaking long light pennons in the East-- Is love the least And love the greatest of the morning's woes? See how the rose Breaks in a hundred petals down the sky. Darkness must die, And in the heart, where flutters sad desire, Wakes the new fire Silver and azure of the open day. So, grief, away! We will be glad with flagons, drown old pain, And Dawn shall bring us to her own again. You are the dreams we do not dare to dream, The dim florescence of a mystic rose, In poverty or pride love comes and goes, We do not question what the deeps may seem Launched on the steady current of the stream. Gaily and hardily we hear the prose; In youth, red sun, in age the charnel snows. Nor see the banks where subtle flowers gleam, In green sweet beds of moly and of thyme Wild as an errant fancy. All the while We know you, mystic rose; we know your smile, Your deep, still eyes, your fragrant floating hair, The peacock purple of the gown you wear, O lyric alchemist of rune and rhyme! Leave the Vine, Ah Love, and the wreath of myrtle, Leave the Song, to die, on the lips of laughter, Come, for love is faint with the choric measure, Weary of waiting. Down the sky in lines of pellucid amber Blows the hair of her whom the gods have treasured, Fair, more fair is mine in the ring of maidens, Mine for the taking. I sinned, but gloriously. I bore the fall From Heaven's high places as becomes a king. I did not shrink before the utmost sting Of torture or of banishment. The pall Of Dis, I cried, should be the hall Where sad proud men of men should meet and sing The woes of that defeat ambitions bring Hurled from the last vain fight against the wall. I thought I had been punished. To forego All lovely sights, the whisper of fresh rain, To brood forever endlessly on pain Yet still a Prince, Ah God, I dreamed,--and then I learned my Fate, this wandering to and fro In Devil's work among the sons of men. Above her task the long year through She works with steady hands, The while her heart is tired with dreams Which no man understands. For long and long ago she knew Green trees and open sky, Before the law condemned her days To doom until she die. And so she dreams in mystic peace, Indifferent to the scene, Because her heart retains and knows The little stain of green. The long lost lights of love I know, They thrill from ultimate space, they blow Like small bewildered stars, tossed high On some unknown and passionate sky. I know them for the loved lost lights That made the glamour of my nights Long, long ago, and now I fear Their coming, and the garb they wear. For they are very white and cold, They are not coloured as of old, In trailing radiance, rose and red, For these are ghosts, and they are dead. We have forgiven you because you are so fair, Eloquent by virtue of your dark enchanting eyes, Evil to your heart of hearts, shall we blame or care, You are very beautiful, and love has made you wise. With a splendid insolence you exist to sin, Scorn us for the weaknesses that bring us to our pain. Weak you are and false you are and never may we win, Yet we have forgiven you, and shall forgive again. We are very, very old, We have had our day, So we bend above our work While the others play. Do they call us women, we Gaunt and grey and grim, Hideous and sexless things Weak of brain and limb? Beauty ended, love long past, Yet, when all else flees, We are women, for we still Have our memories. It is too late to part. I dreamed a dream That love had loosed me, that no more your name Should vex my soul, for very pride and shame I hid you out of mind; I said, The stream Has grown too wide between us, it would seem To sunder even memory. Your fame Rang hollow on my ear, and then you came And love laughed for the lie he would redeem. It is too late. Love will not let me go. The bare suns burn me, and the strong winds blow; I take them fearlessly, for I am wise At last; for being yours I must be brave, Tho' you give nothing, still am I your slave, The light within my heart your eyes, your eyes. I live in a beautiful garden, All joyous with fountains and flowers; I reck not of penance or pardon, At ease thro' the exquisite hours. My blossoms of lilies and pansies, Pale heliotrope, rosemary, rue, All lull me with delicate fancies As shy as the dawn and the dew. But the ghost--Gods--the ghost in the gloaming, How it lures me with whispers and cries, How it speaks of the wind and the roaming, Free, free, 'neath the Romany skies. 'Tis the hedge that is crimson with roses, All wonderfully crimson and gold, And caged in my beautiful closes I know what it is to be old. Her eyes are dark with unknown deeps, Old woes and new despair, Her shackled spirit feels the thong That breaks her body bare. The savage master of her days Who mocks her passive pain, How should he know her scorn of him. Indifferent to the stain? For in her heart she sees the glow Of sacrificial fires, A priestess of a mystic rite Performed on nameless pyres. The incident of shame and toil She takes with idle breath, For she remembers Africa, And what to her is death? The sky is more blue than the eyes of a boy, A riot of roses entangles the year; Ah, come to me, run to me, fill me with joy, Dear, dear, dear. The air is a passion of perfume and song, The little moon swings up above, look above, I cannot wait longer, I've waited so long, Love, love, love. Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries, Israfel will charm you with the magic of his song: Yet you will not smile for him, by reason of your memories, For Lucifer is absent, and the cry goes up, How long! For his expiation you would give your dreams and destinies, Paradise is clouded by the measure of your pain; Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries, Till the jasper gates swing wide to bring him home again. Out of the jungle he came, he came, Man of the lion's breed, His heart was fire and his eyes were flame, And he piped on a singing reed. Spring was sweet and keen in his blood, Singing, he sought his mate, The wife for the life and time of his mood, Formed for his needs by fate. Over his reed he piped and sang, His eyes were the eyes of a man, But the jungle knew how his changes rang, For his heart was the heart of Pan. Wave buffeted and sick with storm, The ships came reeling in, The harbour lights were kind and warm, And yet, so hard to win. Like wings, the tired sails fluttered down, While night began to fall, Then came, sea-scarred, toward the town, The smallest ship of all. At last in harbour, safe and still, No more she need be brave, No more she'd meet the winds' rough will, The wanton of each wave. The harbour lights! but where the moon Should murmur blessings bright, Clouded instead the dread typhoon, That thundered down the night. What curse the luring harbour bore Of false security; The port held desolation more Than boasted all the sea. When morning came with leering lip, What death lay on her breast, And oh! the little weary ship Was wrecked with all the rest. (A bust by H. F.) Grave as a little god, erect and wise, He dares the years that open to his gaze. Brave in his charming beauty, he portrays A bright eternal youth, and in his eyes Sweet moons that are no more. No sad surprise Has gloomed the gay adventure of his ways, And from the flower-lit meadow of the days He leaps clean-hearted to life's enterprise. There was a cry from the sky, A cry at night; It wakened the breeze in the trees When the moon was white; And I, only I, Adrift on life's terrible seas, Read the cry aright. Pennants of gold were unrolled, They told of sun; Night's pain with the dark and the rain, Was over and done. The travail of old Had passed from the mother again, And the fight was won. There was a cry from the sky, And my soul was torn With a passion divine, as of wine, From the breast of morn; For I, only I, Knew the cry as the signal and sign That love was born. Thais and Lalage, your eyes are closed, Phryne, Aholibah, your lips are dust. Your tinkling feet are idle and composed, All your gold beauty vanished into rust. Nor Dionysian mysteries taught you this, Since the gold serpent was your seal and sign; Tho' deathless be the imprint of your kiss, The lips that redden are not yours, but mine. How you would scorn us, Lalage, the lure Of your mad moments, us, the motley crew; Yet shall your beauty only so endure Imperishable, that we sing of you. When Tristan sailed from Ireland Across the summer sea, How young he was, how debonnaire, How glad he was and free. Why should he know the gales would blow, The skies be black above, How should he dream his port was Death, And Doom, whose name is Love? The Lady Iseult, sweet as prayer, We hardly dare to pray, Pearl-pale beneath her shadow hair, Grows fairer day by day, The ichor gains her spring-kissed veins, Her skies the eyes of youth. How should she dream the ichor Love, Was hellebore in truth? So Tristan sailed from Ireland As youth must always sail; He quaffed the cup, nor asked the wine; He dared, nor feared to fail. And be it poison, be it life, Or wrecks that strew the shore, Tristan set forth! nor ask the end, Else youth shall sail no more. Ah, never, never, never! for the flag Is twined about my body, and my back Is braced against the wall! I know the lack Of crust and water, and a man might brag For fighting thus, yet--how a soul may lag, For want of just so little, when the rack Of hopeless strife from dawn to bivouac Finds the foe now who storms the utmost crag. Never surrender! You who storm my heart Till I am faint with love and hunger, all Starved for your lips--how can I say "depart"? And yet--drag up the sword again--and thrust! Ah, Love, mine enemy--I will not fall Until my honour's flag and I are dust. Those who ask for a star Often receive but a stone, Yet they asked for a star, Does the high thought not atone? I, who asked but a stone, A plaything of azure or red, May I count it for gain That I won a star instead? We have no rain, we have no sun, We only watch the moments run Like little adders thro' the leaves, Lost ere their flitting has begun. The cool light airs that fan our brow, What aromatic sweets they know! The tall tired trees that make our sky Are lapped in spices as they bow. The bright-eyed flowers that form our bed, Seem brimmed with gay immortal life, Yet we dream on when they are dead. The gods upon the hills no more are seen, Couched on the virginal green, No more their cry upon the silence grieves, The shadow of dark leaves. The blazonry of Spring must now abate, Without the purple state Of Aphrodite, amorous and frail, Cinctured with lilies pale. She who was love and every man's desire, Now only can inspire, The mutual love of mortals, and alone Like wind her plaints are blown. About the unregarding world her hands Yearn forth across the lands Once passionate with her lovers, but in vain, They will not come again! She who was Aphrodite, tho' she gives Love to each heart that lives, Gives and receives not. She, of love the breath, Doomed now with utter death. On the wrist a paroquet, Motley on the shoulder, We exist for joy of life, Never growing older. Dancing down the lane of years, Rosy garlands trailing, Who would pause for time or tears, Barren days bewailing. Brighter burden never were Than the smiles we scatter, Loving deeds and laughing love, This is our great matter. And the wise who scorn our bells Mate with melancholy, We are wiser than the wise, Holding hands with folly. Perhaps the world is tired of pageantries, And all the weary women called the Hours, Their badge of pride. In violet harmonies, With sweet blue veils of silence o'er their eyes, They shall return to Spring's most languorous bowers; And Light and Beauty shall come down as showers Releasing life from all its pedantries. Only the bloomy purple hill to see Thro' half-closed lids, and only to be blind With asphodils! Shall these things ever be? Surely the time is ripe to live for this Dawn, springing radiant from her sleep to find A world of lovers waiting for her kiss. My dark, wild woman of the braes, I know your heart, I know your ways, I know the raw, sweet food you taste, I love the colours 'round your waist. Ribbons of green and gold you wear, Threaded about your shadowy hair, My colours--and your eyes are mine, Dark as the deeps of love--and wine. I wake with you at budding Dawn, Leaving this life of dew-spread lawn, To join your spirit in the wild, Your brother, lover, or your child. Take me upon your savage breast, Teach me your calms and your unrest. Take me, I know the jungle cry, Teach me your love, or let me die. My heart's a yellow butterfly That flutters down the road; A beggar, tricksy, dancing thing That scorns a fixed abode. The aigrette of the thistle bloom Becomes the swinging sign Of merry hostelries, where I May pause awhile and dine. The sky is lapis lazuli Bestrewn by clouds of pearl,-- Who would not be a butterfly Instead of just a girl? He tasted dragon's blood From the dark dragon tree, In those far islands where the mood Is faery-like and free. With cinnamon and nard His strange gay clothes were sweet, His lips were fanciful with fard, Red flames played 'round his feet. Sharp dancing pointed flames, Detached as butterflies, He called them all by secret names, They were his ecstasies. No love, no maiden bright Might woo him from his swoon, For he had tasted strange delight In lands beyond the moon. What was his offense to you, You who sit thro' dreamless days, Sifting thro' your fingers slim Ashes in a porphyry vase? Hatred makes your eyes grow hard, As you conjure forth his name From the dust that was his face, From the heart that was his flame. Then she, lifting heavy eyes, Spoke: "When this man walked the world Him I loved, he loved not me; So his days to death I hurled. "Dying, then, he touched my hand, Smiled and whispered, 'I forgive'; This his vengeance on my soul, I must hate him while I live." Once I could love this season of the year, And watch the calm and delicate decline Of Summer gladly; I could see the pine Deep green on bluest sky, and laugh for cheer Of very living. Yet I'd fain appear Th' unhurried gourmet, tasting of my wine, Lingering o'er memories of the purpled vine, Loath for each passing moment. Ah, my dear, Now like a careless child, I toss the hours Over my shoulder, I forget the sun, The dewy dawn, the white moon and the flowers. Like a tired pilgrim with his goal in view, Looking not right nor left, I run, I run To that bright day of days that brings me you. I feel as murderers feel, who, having slain Their love, laugh with red hands and do not care. I took sweet Summer by her lovely hair, Bent her white throat, and gladly saw the stain Crimson her green leaf-gown of hill and plain. I would not wait for her last kiss, nor spare One splendid flying hour, for chill and fair Autumn, my love, comes near me thro' the rain. Pale with mysterious wonder, her deep eyes Are wells of wisdom; fugitive, astray From a blue land that dreams beyond the skies. 'Tis done. I lay young Summer on her pyre, And turning, burn thro' distance to the day That brings me to the lips of my desire. Whence came the fire in her eyes, eyes of a beast in the jungle, Desperate, golden and green, wild as a river in spate? Glamourie slept in her eyes, terribly calm in the tumult, Hidden and secret and sweet was the smile of her crimson mouth. A marigold wound in her hair, she swayed like wind in the desert, Whence came the fire in her eyes? I, only I, knew the secret, The thing that hung on her breast, hid by her stormy hair, Amber drops on a string, her talisman, witches' amber, Golden, yellow and brown, that only a witch may wear. The flame is spent, I can no more Hold the tall candle by your door. Too often have I watched to see Your lagging steps come home to me. The Tyrian traders taught me this. They came, perfumed with ambergris, With amethystine robes, and hair Curled by the kisses of salt air. They mocked me for my weary hands, Holding your light as love demands, They sang the lure of poppied sleep, Their lips were warm, their eyes were deep. The flame is spent! Your pale weak face Must seek another resting place. Win me, and hold me now who can! The Tyrian trader was a man! There's a town called Maldonado, That's the place where I would be; There's a girl in Maldonado, And she gave her heart to me. Starved with sixty days of sailing, How we swaggered to the shore, Hands in pockets, eyes cocked sideways, At the girl in every door. Sweet they fluttered to our shoulders, She, my girl, the fairest girl, And I took her for a plaything, Face of flower and heart of pearl. Round my neck she clung and pleaded, But I told her to be wise; Said no sailor could be faithful, And his love was ever lies. Then she turned and left me silent, Stepping weary, stepping slow; Merry was I to have won her, And I laughed to see her go. Now 'tis done--I have lost her, Seas between us thunder wide, "Dear," I said, "I shall forget you," And God knows that I have lied! Many girls have smiled upon me, Up and down the Northern coast, But their kisses only taunt me With the kiss that I have lost. Oh! You're killing me by inches, Velvet lips and eyes of brown, For it's love I left behind me, Down in Maldonado town. The long well rose above me, a slim shaft, With wet, black walls, and high aloft the light Round as a moon intensified my night. I ate the air and bitterly I quaffed The death damp; nor my pleading nor my craft Availed to aid me in my desperate plight: The vista of high heaven the only sight To see, and at my woe high heaven had laughed. Suddenly the darkness deepened, and a face Gloomed on the opening, terrible and grim An Afreet! In his hands he held disgrace And direst poverty and ruinous strife. "Choose now between," he cried, "calm Death by him And Life empoisoned," yet I cried, "Give Life." I have a little brook in the deeps of my heart. What does it matter if the day be chill or clear, Coloured like a tourmaline and winged like a dart, Voiced like a nightingale, it sings all the year. Small bright herbs on the banks of the stream, Moon-pale primroses, and tapestries of fern, This is the reality and life is just a dream, Iridescent bubble that the moon tides turn. To the world's end, to the world's end, Did I wander seeking you, And wide was the water and dark was the fell, With Time at my heels like a hound of hell, And the worst still left to do. To the world's end, to the world's end, And the void to verify. They told me of a tale of love supreme. "Sometimes," I cried, "I have caught the gleam, I shall seek it tho' I die." At the world's end, at the world's end, At the end of the endless mile, Nothing to see but the silent snow-- I turned with my tears to your heart, and lo! Love was with me all the while! O, she was most precious, as the wind's self was fair. What did I give her when I had her on my knee? Red kisses for her coral lips, and a red comb for her hair. She took my gifts, she took my heart, and fled away from me. O, but she was fanciful, she found a savage mate, He scorned her, he spurned her, he drove her from his door; She cuddled in his inglenook and laughed at all his hate, She took his curses, took his blows, and never left him more. Must I leave you in the mountains, Boy o' dreams, Must I leave you where the fountains Toss the silver of their streams, Where the trees are clothed in samite, And the little broken moon Is a symbol and an answer, Like the reading of a rune? May I take you to the city, Boy o' dreams, Where your heart will break with pity At the lethargy that seems Only half alive to living, Only enemy to mirth, Where the dusty facts will blind you To the fancies of the earth? I must take you--but I'll keep you, Boy o' dreams, Where no alien winds shall sweep you, In a secret place that gleams, With the light of your own laughter, Yours the vessel, yours the chart, And we'll brave the storm together. You, the captain of my heart. The helot got him a hempen cord, A slave of love was he, "She made me dance to her circumstance-- In the air one dances free!" She sits on a throne of ivory Serene in her silver gown, "Ah, woe," he cried, "but the world is wide, But 'tis straight where I lie down. "She mocked, she scorned, and she hated me, She shall pity me not," he said; "Too late for the nether way of hate, I may flout her when I'm dead." Out in the dark of the moonless sky, The rope was round his neck, "'Tis the torque of gold from her throat so cold, Why should I rue or reck?" Tighter tangled the hempen cord; "'Tis her fingers hot with fire, In a tempest of fear she draws me near,-- Now dying is not so dire!" Black, more black grew the empty void, "And I but a broken reed, For there's only her face in this grisly place"-- But his love stood there indeed! Close to her heart she took his head, And she kissed him back to breath, "You are mine by right of that line of white, You are mine--by Life and Death!" I have dallied with wantons, made mad by their passionate wine, Time, like a golden ball, I have tossed to the wastes of the air. Like the spume on the crest of the wave blowing back to the sea, Cast from the depths beneath, now to riot and dance in the light, Caught to my heart again from the doom of your fugitive sight. The document of day is folded down, Night, the great lawyer, takes the waiting sheet, And o'er the murky shadows of the town Sets his red seal, to make the deed complete. I asked to be released, I did not know 'Twas hate, not love, that would not let me go. Vengeance had burned your image on my mind, I gazed and gazed until my eyes were blind. Now--neither pride nor love has set me free, But happy chance--in wonderful degree. Shackled by memory, a prey to fear, Once you were mine by the black load I bore, But now, released, I lose you--O my Dear, Ever, irrevocably mine no more! Sin was a terrible and ruddy sword, My hands were only lilies, only made To lay against his lips, and so I prayed Another weapon. Willingly I poured On his strong heart the gifts that could accord With my life's fact, but Ah! the gifts were weighed And all found wanting--and I was afraid Of love which was so dreadfully my lord. He showed me the magnificence, the height To be attained for those who dare to seek, For those who dare the wonder and delight. I might attain--I might--but if I should!-- I was afraid, my fainting heart was weak, And so, Love help me, I was only--good! Wear a lure fantastical, Till the out-worn city hearts Dance for you and sing. Lime us with grotesque desires, Warm with green and gold; Apathetic we have grown, Tired and hard and old. Draw us gently to your truth, Calm our hopes and fears; Till at last the grass blades speak To attentive ears. We only ask for sunshine, We did not want the rain; But see the flowers that spring from showers All up and down the plain. We beg the gods for laughter, We shrink, we dread the tears; But grief's redress is happiness, Alternate through the years. Steady stand the ilex trees, All the leaves are still, Motionless the opal haze Drowses on the hill. There a marble statue waits Patient of the hours, Ringed about with silent sun Over dreamy flowers. Nature mirrors perfect peace, Round me everywhere, Only in my heart is found Torment and despair. We are so tired of merely being human, Loving or loved, the sweet imperfect woman. Masters, you know not what your lips have missed, On the rose mouths you keep but to be kissed. Know the blue veils which you have named the sea Cover the eyes of Isis; that the sky Is the white body of Neith, arched so on high. Ours is a secret language, when we smile, Dreams are denied at birth, all to beguile Your earthy substance. Ah, at what fell cost We pay you, so our heritage is lost. She was the fairest of the King's fair daughters, Gold and rubies glittered on her hands; Her voice was the lilting of a rain of silver waters, And her lovers were as endless as her lands. Down thro' the birch wood with her maidens all about her, So virginal she came with dainty tread, Love I looked and love I spoke, till white grew red. Free she was as fair, she forgot her father's palace, Left her lands to wander at my side; You are white as the moths of Twilight, You are secret as mist and dew, And your down-dropped eyes Are eternally wise, Strange sins have wrought their hue. Mother of men and women, They are ghosts, not men you have bred; In infinite scorn Their bodies were born While their souls were worse than dead. We are what your lips have made us, Empty, and bitterly old; Our faith has lied, Oh, barren bride, And the fires of the world are cold. How shall the present verify the past? Like flames we strove, still onward, upward rising, Spurning the singing continents--at last, Wrecked on this fatal day of our devising. Nurtured by lunar rainbows, chill and sweet, Our fancy was a gossamer of beauty; Now like a web it drags about our feet, Named with the symbols drear of fact and duty. Suckled by Greece, and cradled by Cathay, How tacitly we waive this breeding wild, Deny our parents in our deeds to-day. Let us awake--obedient to our dreams, Let us embrace huge issues, comprehending The scheme entire--Great Beauty's birth, which seems The glorious urge for life, unchecked, unending. The air is heavy with a mist of spice, Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue, Have I not paid, have I not paid the price? How shall these tempters torture me anew? I close my eyes and dream the incense drifts Over the monstrance, and the acolyte Swings the gold censer. Then the vision lifts: I know the poisonous joys I have to fight. Day with its flowers and yellow butterflies, Holds for my heart no pain, the wind is free That blows upon my garden from far skies, Yet may I hold it in white chastity. But night!--and the still air!--Ah, God above, Have I the strength to wage thy war anew? Blot out my senses or I die for love,-- Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue! The orchard apples hung above, Golden and red and green. Her face beneath was ripe for love, Cat-eyed with sparks between. Simples she came to gather there With hands of ivory; Gold fillets bound her golden hair; Her gown was cramosie. She plucked the herbs with subtle grace, Derisive in her deed. Was there no Prince to read her face, No Prince with Beauty's need? Her hands with cassia buds were sweet: "Come, love," her young heart cried, The Prince with delicate swift feet, Was even at her side! Her tamed white leopard leaped in fear, Love beckons love so soon. They gathered no more simples there, The long late afternoon. Beyond the hill the hearth fires burn, A hundred flags in air, But one which tossed but yesterday Is dead, one hearth is bare. The wife whose fingers fed the fire Grew weary of the play, A lad laughed thro' the open door And stole my dear away. And now alone I face the road; No hearth, no home for me. And yet--Ah Life!--come sun, come rain, My beggar soul is free. Round her knees her lovers yearned, She who sat in black and gold, What recked she who begged or burned, Sister to the gods of old. Darkness was her pedigree, Light her ever living flame, Lovers die for such as she, Paying for her smiles with shame. Round her head the music floats, Black by night and gold by day; These are Time's inchoate notes, Calling, "Sister, come away." Bride of eager-blooded gods, Wife to man's primeval age, What to her shall serve these clods Save to irk her pilgrimage? The themes of women! Mounting up the sky, Beating the air with tremulous weak wings, How shall so small a matter win so high, The vain sweet goal of their imaginings? Striving for Beauty, dark philosophy, Or the obscure and purple deeps of truth, How shall they know their one great verity, The answer to their queries and their youth? Simple vain themes of women! Only this One theme may lift their wings to goals above,-- To spill their hearts out blindly in a kiss, An infinite surrendering to love. Night thundered down the valley From off the rocky steeps, Like wind it broke the silences That light divinely keeps. As low dark clouds concealing The things one dare not see, So grimly dark and ominous Hung low each shadowy tree. Night, the dread terror-master, What wordless woe he weaves! Suddenly peace, and all the air Is scented with green leaves. They all are dead but Barnabas; he'll wait, With his old groping hands and haggard eyes, Which nothing in the world can now surprise, Till the last leaf whirls thro' the clanging gate Of the last sunrise. Did he learn too late? Maybe, that one may hear the moans and cries That ring by night, and yet be calm and wise. And teach the women how a man can hate! I did not think a soul could live so long, And be so little. He remembers youth With a wry smile of disbelief; the wrong Was this, he squeezed the fruit so dry So long ago; and now must live, forsooth Because a woman will not let him die. Coming thro' the porch of dreams To the portal of the day, Vacant all the ether seems With a grief that leaves her grey. In a threnody of sighs, With the cloud wreaths 'round her face, Morning veils her heavy eyes, Weeping for her vanished grace. Ah! in gaining lusty Dawn, Life, and pleasant facts of light, Why must we, the darkness gone, Lose the dreams that haunt the night? Light of the World, what are violets but eyes of you, Perfume, your hair blowing back on the breeze, Ah, but the fugitive dainty surprise of you, Pricking in green on the blossomy trees. Give me the sun of your smile to be fire to me, Give me the moon when the passion is gone, Give me the light to be dream and desire to me Down the dark alleys that lead to the dawn. You are the dawning of dreams. You are the end of desire. You are the gladness and glory that seems Dauntless, to urge and aspire. Cradle my soul on your wings, Cradle my head on your breast. Teach me the ardour that conquers and sings. Grant me your infinite rest. Because the lover cares for daffodils Must we be stranger to the passion flower, Or slight the iris, dewy from a shower? New argosies of dreams to sail the hours. No rosy perfume blown from garden bowers May bear the subtle perfume this distills. Must we forego the dreamy twilight stars Because the true-love lives for morning sun? Love dare not hold the sense behind such bars. The moon drips scented petals on our hair, While life is everything, tho' love be fair. Inadequate and void, the days Are not more tired than tears; And yet, how long, how long the ways, Down the bare lane of years. The bird that flutters from the nest Is fused of fire and spring, And yet how soon the throbbing breast Will lose the life to sing. How long the lane, how soon 'tis past, Rough road, dark sky above, And yet, dear heart, there's home at last, With light, and life, and love! Thro' the pleached alley in my garden of the Spring Merry leaves tossed over me with elfish whispering. I was not alone, alone, for Love with blowing hair Touched my hands and touched my heart, dancing everywhere. Darting round about my steps, as a swallow slips, How she laughed and laughed at me, with little rosy lips, Ghostly wise she kissed my eyes, her mouth was chill as snow, For she had died, my Love had died, so very long ago.

Mary MacLane

My Friend Annabel Lee

1881

O! should I ever dare profane With venal touch the hallow'd lyre, Let me be banish'd from the Muses' train; Ne'er let me feel their heart-ennobling fire! Unworthy of a Poet's glorious name, Let me be doom'd to everlasting shame! comprehensive,--the most powerful,--the most delightful,--and, Park-Fields, Allesley, near Coventry, The Muse's triumph Sylvia's Elegy on her dead Canary-bird On seeing Mademoiselle ***** dance, &c. Sonnet, on taking a favourite walk after recovery from sickness Sonnet, written on my Birth Day Ode written on the night of the illuminations for The desperation and madness of Guilt On hearing the Nightingale Lines on the death of the Rev. Mr. B ***, supposed to be written by his Sister Lines on hearing a Young Gentleman, &c. On seeing the Apollo Belvidere Inscription for ditto Translation from Anacreon What adverse passions rule my changeful breast, With hope exalted, or by fear deprest! Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre, And proudly to poetic fame aspire; Now dies the sacred flame, my pride declines, And diffidence the immortal wreath resigns. Friends, void of taste, warm advocates for trade, With shafts of ridicule, my peace invade: 'A Poet!'--thus they sneeringly exclaim-- 'Well may you court that glorious, envied name; For, sure, no common joys his lot attend; None but himself those joys can comprehend. O, superhuman bliss, employ sublime, To scribble fiction, and to jingle rhyme! Caged in some muse-behaunted, Grub-street garret, To prate his feeders' promptings, like a parrot! And what, though want and scorn his life assail? What, though he rave in Bedlam, starve in jail? Such trifling ills the Bard may well despise; Sure of immortal honour when he dies. But, seriously--the advice of friendship hear: Stop short in your poetical career; O! quell the frenzies of your fever'd brain, And turn, at Wisdom's call, to trade and gain,' Absorb'd in passive sadness, I comply; Turn from the Muse my disenchanted eye, And deign to study, as my friends persuade, The little, money-getting arts of trade. But soon the Goddess, fired with high disdain To see me woo the yellow strumpet, Gain, Resuming all her beauty, all her power, Returns to triumph in the vacant hour; Weakly reluctant, on her charms I gaze, Trembling, I feel her fascinating lays; Roused from ignoble dreams, my wondering soul Springs to the well-known bliss, regardless of control. Say then, ye blind, profane! who dare to blame The heaven-born Poet, and his thirst of fame; Ye slaves of Mammon! whose low minds behold No fair, no great, no good, in aught but gold; Say! will the Captive of tyrannic sway, Restored to genial air, and boundless day, Turn to his dungeon's suffocating night? Will the proud Eagle, who with daring flight Sublimely soars against the solar blaze, And eyes the inspiring God with raptured gaze, Stoop from his native kingdom in the sky, To share the breathings of mortality? How, then, can he, whose breast the Muse inspires, Restrain his soul, or quench those hallow'd fires? How can he quit the world of mental bliss, For all the riches,--miseries!--of this? When to the region of the tuneful Nine, Rapt in poetic vision, I retire, Listening intent to catch the strain divine-- What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre! Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes, Stray the fair daughters of immortal song; Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries, And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong. O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo? Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar? A solemn pause ensues:--then falters low The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!' 'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour Saw each poetic star indulgent shine; E'en Phoebus' self o'erruled with kindliest power, And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine." 'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring; In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried; We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing, And watch'd his progress with delight and pride. 'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind, Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known; Taught him to range, by matter unconfined, And claim the world of fancy for his own. 'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race; Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul, Started at once with more than human pace, And urged his flight, impatient for the goal: 'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired, He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth, The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired: 'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast! The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade; Soon dire Adversity's relentless host, Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade: 'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride; Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn, Rush into solitude his pangs to hide. 'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires: In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear! Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.' Sweet little warbler! art thou dead? And must I hear thy notes no more? Then will I make thy funeral bed; Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore. Beneath the turf in yonder bower, Where oft I've listened to thy lay, Forgetting care, while many an hour In music sweetly stole away;-- There will I bid thy relics rest; Then sadly sigh my last farewell; But long, oh! long within my breast Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell. Still to that spot, now more endear'd, Shall thy fond mistress oft return, And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd, To deck with verse thy simple urn. 'Here lies a bird, once famed to be Peerless in plumage and in lay; This was the soul of melody, And that the golden blush of day.' 'Soon as the Morn began to peep, While yet with shade her smiles were veil'd, The sprightly warbler shook off sleep, And with his song her coming hail'd.' 'His guardian rose, nor scorn'd as mean, But found it still a pleasing care, To keep his little mansion clean, And minister his daily fare.' 'The dewy groundsel was his feast, Which when the watchful songster view'd, Straight his loud, thrilling strain he ceased, And softly chirp'd his gratitude.' 'Then would he peck his savoury treat,-- Turn his head sly, and breathe a note-- Now flutter wild with wings and feet-- Then silent sit--now pour his throat.' 'His playful freaks, his joyous lay, Well pleased, his mistress would attend; It call'd affection into play, And gave to solitude a friend.' 'Thus happily his days he led Even to the ninth revolving year; Then Fate, alas! her weapon sped; And Pity laid his relics here.' Should Phoebus e'er desert my mind, And should the Nine their aid refuse, Enchanting Girl! I still could find A theme in thee, in thee a Muse. Can Fiction any charms devise That proudly may with thine compare? On thee she turns her wondering eyes, And drops the pencil in despair. Far sweeter are thy notes to me Than sweetest poet ever sung; And true perfection would it be To sing thy beauties with thy tongue. Let Phoebus, then, desert my mind! And let the Nine their aid refuse! Ever, my Julia! shall I find In thee a theme, in thee a Muse. Sing, lovely Girl! to hear Thee sing Hush'd is the listening air; My spirit trembles on the wing, And no delay can bear. Those down-cast eyes, that smile supprest, Thy conscious power betray; Yet, Siren! grant the bold request; Come, steal my heart away. See, see, those ruby lips divide; An ivory shrine appears; There Harmony and Love reside, To ravish mortal ears. And hark! they from that sweet recess Breathe their celestial lays; The enchanting sounds my thought possess With rapture and amaze. Still pressing on with strong control I feel the lavish strain, Till drunk with bliss, my wilder'd soul Reels on the brink of pain. Ah! how could I so rashly dare Contend with Powers divine? The pride of victory forbear; My heart is wholly thine. What fine aerial Shape, In orient colours dight, Springs from the world unknown Upon my wondering sight? Loosely through various space The lovely Figure flows, And leaves the sleeping air Unconscious as it goes. Hark! a spontaneous strain Its fairy gait attends; In concord every sound With every movement blends. Lo, now! the passive Form Moves as the music leads; Each motion from each note, Harmoniously proceeds. By the same sense, methinks, At once I hear and see; And ears and eyes and mind Are all one harmony. Along my shivering nerves The mingled raptures thrill, And strangely take my soul, And rule it as they will; True to the magic force, That shifts a thousand ways, An echo, and a shade, It answers and obeys. But ah! the charm expires.-- Did Fancy thus deceive? She smiles, and fondly vain, Would have me so believe. Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again! Forbidden long to my desiring sight, Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain, I visit ye with fresh, increased delight. Vine-mantled Hills, whose heights I joy'd to climb, The Morn's sweet infant breathings to inhale; River! whose banks I roved in trance sublime, While fancy-whispering Eve spread soft her veil; And thou, O Wood, in whose moon-checkered shade The nightly songstress oft has charm'd my ear Till Morning told me I so long had stay'd: Hail all ye objects to my memory dear! Once more, to feel the transports ye impart, Health wakes my every sense and tunes my heart. Again has Time his annual circle run, And April ushers in my natal day: Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun, How many a year has swiftly roll'd away! Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun; What various colours does the web display! Some dark, some brighter; ere the work be done The sadder hues will overshade the gay. Yet not to Melancholy will I yield; Still Fortitude and Hope shall keep the field; Swerving from thee, O Virtue! I repent; Now! to repel Temptation I am steel'd; To follow thee I'm resolutely bent. Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign, Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain, Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray Primeval nature in his simple lay; And him of Mantua, in a nicer age, To form the graces of his artful page; O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene, And with thy presence bless the brightening scene; Now, while I rove his willowy banks along, With fond intent to wake the rural song, Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart The force of nature, and the grace of art. Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn, And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn; The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise; The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play, Waking the flowers to steal new sweets away: And now with trembling steps, her swain to find, Fair Delia hastens to the spot assign'd: Her faithful Colin waits impatient there; How raptured to regain his long-lost fair! O happiness!--and am I then so blest? Or does a heavenly dream possess my breast? Has not her father sternly bid us part, And for my rival claim'd his daughter's heart? Has not my Delia sigh'd the sad adieu? Have I not long been banish'd from her view? Away, ye jealous fears! ye sorrows, flee! This letter, this! revokes the dire decree. And lo! she comes! she comes! but why so slow, Pensive, and shy, as if oppress'd with wo? O my Delia! tell, What dark ideas in thy bosom dwell. Is not thy letter true? then give thy soul To love and happiness without control. O generous Colin! can'st thou, then, forget The painful past, and love thy Delia yet? Deem me not faithless; stern parental sway, Spite of my tears, constrained me to obey. Faithless? O no! I knew thy father's ire; Thy filial virtue could not but admire; Still did I hope, believe, and know thee true: The pains I suffer'd thou did'st suffer too. Now weep no more; this bids our sufferings cease, This letter--heavenly messenger of peace!-- That promises a more propitious fate; But thou, sweet girl! the same blest news relate; Chase from thy fancy every shade of fear; Wipe from thy cheek that ill-beseeming tear; And tell thy lover all;--he burns to hear. When Damon first his amorous suit addrest Thou long had'st reign'd the sovereign of my breast; My love, my heart, my soul were vow'd to thee, And none but Colin could have charms for me. With scorn, thou know'st, his courtship I declined: O, that my thoughts had sway'd my father's mind! But Damon's ampler wealth, which I despised, Too much, alas! my doting father prized. What were thy words that sad, that trying hour, When, in submission to paternal power, I sacrificed the feelings of my heart, And faltering told thee we were doom'd to part? 'Part!--must we part, my Delia?' did'st thou say, 'Alas! 'tis Virtue's law; we must obey; But still, to render absence less severe, Let us, my Love, Hope's pleasing dictates hear. Little of Damon, yet, thy father knows: Time his perfidious purpose will disclose; Then will thy sire his hasty choice repent; And to our loves, perhaps, may yield consent. Meanwhile beware, my Delia, O beware! Lest Damon's arts thine innocence insnare.' Such were thy parting words. Now, Colin, hear! Then will thy words prophetical appear. Each night the favourite of my parents came To boast the matchless ardour of his flame; Still did he teaze me with his flattering strain;-- Fool, to suppose his praise could make me vain! At length a favouring hour the traitor chose, And dared his wicked purpose to disclose. Did he? O heaven! the impostor could not dare; I would, my Love, thy Colin had been there! Just then, most luckily, my sire returned: Surprised, enraged, his Damon's guilt he learn'd: Then banish'd him, (his advocate no more,) With vengeful threats for ever from his door. Look! how the glorious Sun, as he ascends, His radiance o'er the dew-bright earth extends, While the last fogs of conquer'd night retreat, And Nature welcomes the reviving heat: So thy returning smiles, indulgent fair! Dispel my fears and every jealous care. No less delight to me thy smiles impart, Diffusing sunshine through my raptured heart; Hope, like yon lark, has spread her drooping wings, And, mounting up to heaven, her carol sings. Observe, my Love, the beauties of the scene; The youthful year puts forth its tender green; Awakened Flora bids her flowerets rise, Opening their colours to the genial skies; Winter is fled; fair Spring's melodious voice Whispers, in every balmy breeze, rejoice! The sparkling rills dance warbling in their beds; The trees with gladness lift their fresh, green heads; From yonder wood responsive cuckoos sing; The swallow skims the stream, and dips his wing. Objects and sounds of joy! yet, Delia, these, Unaided by thy presence, would not please; Though thousand charms and harmonies unite, Thy favour only crowns the full delight. Now, Colin, duty summons me away; Gladly I would, but must no longer stay. When duty summons we resist in vain: Yet tell me, kindest Delia, once again,-- To give me courage unalarm'd to part, And soothe, till next we meet, my restless heart,-- O tell me art thou now for ever mine? Yes, Colin, now I am for ever thine. My task is done; no further will I mow; I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow. Well, Giles, what cheer? how far behind you lag! Badly your practice answers to your brag. Deuce take the scythe! no wonder I am last; The wonder is I work'd my way so fast; Sure such another never yet was made; It's maker must have been a duller blade; The bungling fool, might I his fault chastise, Should use it for a razor till he dies. Ha, ha, well said, young jester; though bereft Of strength and patience, yet your wit is left. But come, good friend, to dinner let us go; Tired are my limbs, my wasted spirits low. Poor David! age is weak, soon jaded out; I feel, as when beginning, fresh and stout; Your easy task is ended, therefore dine: I scorn refreshment till I finish mine. Then to yon grassy bank I will retreat, Shaded by willows from the oppressive heat; There may we dine, and seated all at ease, Imbibe fresh vigour with the cooling breeze. Curse his old arms! so nimble and so strong; How calmly did he seem to creep along! While I for conquest strove with eager pain, And labour'd, sweated, panted--all in vain! This awkward tool--yet no defect I see-- The ground uneven--some cause must there be. He the best mower? let it not be known; No, crafty Giles, that secret is your own. Fatigue, thirst, hunger, strongly urge me hence.-- I'll e'en o'ertake him with some fair pretence. Ha, ha, the foolish vanity of youth, Such painful efforts to disguise the truth! Who comes? what, Giles! so quickly change your mind? Too wise, I thought, to tarry long behind. In one employment when good fellows meet, They should together toil, together eat. Here let us sit; against this trunk I'll lean, You against that; the dinner placed between. Now rest we silent till our meal be done; While in our ears sweet watery murmurs run. Right! when the body feels recruited force, More eloquently will the mind discourse. Now, David, I'll attempt a loftier strain; Listen, and judge of my poetic vein. See Phoebus his meridian height attains, And, like a king, in all his splendour reigns; Beneath his scorching radiance Nature lies Feverish and faint; her beauteous verdure dies; Oppress'd and panting with the sultry heat, The flocks and herds to shades or streams retreat; Through the still air no Zephyr dares to play, } Lest his soft pinion melt in heat away; } But if, to mitigate the solar ray, } A lucid cloud should kindly intervene; Then the glad Zephyrs sport beneath the grateful screen. How beautiful the thoughts! and how sublime! Rich is the language, and exact the rhyme. Inform me, friend, are those fine strains your own? They rise superior to the rustic tone. Why not be mine? does then the gift of song To wealth and rank exclusively belong? Fancy with choice unbribed her few selects, Nor affluence, nor exalted birth respects; The kingly mansion she will oft forsake, Pleased with the shepherd her abode to make: With me the kind Enchantress long has dwelt; Long has my soul her inspirations felt. I once the feelings of a poet knew; (Though in my best of days no match for you,) But now my genius yields to conquering time; Yet still I keep my judgment and my rhyme; Then what that judgment dictates I declare: No tuneful shepherd can with you compare; Although in many a county I have been, And many a rural poet I have seen. O cease your high applauses, kindest friend! For sure my merit they must far transcend. How different men in different ways excel! My forte is rhyming, your's is mowing well; And while to me you deign in song to yield, You bear the scythe triumphant through the field. That only Youth, whose sweetly-flowing lays, Resembling your's, deserve the second praise, Dwelt near this place--or memory I lack-- Yes! now I recollect--five summers back, When to these parts for harvest-work I came, How all the fields resounded with his fame. The Bard I ne'er beheld; but heard the swains Still, with delight, repeat his peerless strains: Not less by Fortune, than the Muses, blest, No cares of life disturb'd his peaceful breast; For poesy alone his happy soul possest. Did you not know that youth? Full well I knew; Nor is he, David, quite unknown to you;-- That Youth am I!--(with what surprize you gaze!) Then was I blest indeed with golden days; My parents' only child, at home I dwelt, Indulged, caress'd, nor cares, nor wishes felt: How did they joy my verses to peruse! How praise each effort of my lisping Muse! Then sweetly glided on the stream of time; I tended flocks, or meditated rhyme. Alas! my friend, those blissful hours are o'er, My then-propitious stars now rule no more. Long has my Father slept among the dead:-- With his last breath my joys, my hopes all fled. The wealth he left, which might our woes have eased, His greedy creditors unpitying seized: My Mother and myself (our sole resource) For livelihood to labour took recourse. Affecting tale! I've heard it with a tear. No longer sit we idly chatting here; The village clock has struck; come, let us up! To-night, friend David, we'll together sup. Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd? Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles, Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane With sacred awe, repentant, to confess The Son of Venus is indeed a God? I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd And destined for his temple Love has claim'd. The great, creating Parent, when she breathed Into thine earthly frame the breath of life, Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul Of finer essence, capable to trace, To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good, Wherever found, through all her various works. And is not Woman, then, her fairest work, Fairest, and oft her best? endowed with gifts Potent to captivate, and softly rule The hearts of all men? chiefly such as thou, By partial Nature favour'd from the birth? Why wast thou, then, reluctant to confess The sovereignty of Love? so strangely deaf Through half thy genial season to the voice Of Nature, kindly calling thee to taste Felicity congenial to thy soul? This was the secret cause:--inscrutable To vulgar minds, who fancied thee foredoom'd To celibacy, for thyself alone Existing; but I rightlier judged my Friend-- The cause was this: there lurk'd within thy breast A visionary flame; for, while retired In solitude, on classic lore intent, Thy fancy, to console thee for the loss Of female intercourse, conceived a Maid, With each soft charm, each moral grace, adorn'd, Fit Empress of thy soul; and oft would Hope Gaze on the lovely phantom, till at length She dared to stand on disappointment's verge, Anticipating such thy future bride. What wonder, then, that Chloe's golden locks Should weave no snare for thee? that Delia's eyes, So darkly bright, should innocently glance, Nor dart their lightnings through thy kindling frame? That many a Fair should unregarded pass, So far unlike the picture in thy mind? At last, in happy hour, my Friend beheld Partial, a Maid of mild, engaging mien, Of artless manners, affable, and gay, Yet modestly reserved, with native taste Endued, with genuine feeling, with a heart Expansive, generous, and a mind well-taught, Well-principled in things of prime concern. Still, as, with anxious doubt, thou didst pursue The delicate research, new virtues dawn'd Upon thy ravish'd view:--'twas She!--'twas She! Then marvelling Fancy saw her image live; And Hope her dream fulfill'd; then triumph'd Love; And Nature was obeyed.-- Yet still suspense Reign'd awful in thy breast, for who could stand Between the realms of happiness and pain, Waiting his sentence fearless? O my Friend! What was thy transport, when the gracious Maid With virgin blushes and approving smile Received thy vows, consented to be thine? Now, then, let Friendship gratulate thy lot, Supremely blest! and let her fondly hope That, while the names of Husband, Father, thrill Thy soul with livelier joy, thou wilt, at times, Remember still, well pleased, the name of Friend. Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng I mark with transport some diviner song; Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire, Commanding silence to the vulgar quire; Apollo smiles, and all the tongues of Fame Through the poetic realm Delille proclaim. O let a British Bard, admiring, greet Thy glorious triumph, and thy praise repeat! When merit claims the panegyric lay, Envy he scorns, and joys the debt to pay. Painter of Nature hail! to thee belong Unrivall'd talents for descriptive song: While others, fired with more ambitious views, And, throned in Glory's temple, shine sublime, Proud of their laurel-wreaths that fear not Time, Thy Genius fondly stoops to softer themes, The landscape's beauties--flowers, and groves, and streams, And round his brows in modest triumph wears A simple garden-wreath, but ever green, as theirs. What though, some critics, in their taste severe, Turn from thy subject a disdainful ear, Demanding still, their duller minds to strike, War, passion, plot, surprises--and the like? Yet will true Taste, that ranges unconfined, And feels the charms of every various kind, Oft quit Voltaire, or Corneille, to peruse, Delille! the milder beauties of thy Muse; Oft love, with thee, through rural scenes to stray, And sweetly study Nature in thy lay. But, ah! what boldness does thy breast inspire? Say, wilt thou dare to touch the Mantuan lyre? Long has thy country wish'd that classic spoil, Yet, of her tongue distrustful, shunn'd the toil; O cease then!--but thy hand essays the strings,-- Amazement!--Fancy cries, 'tis Virgil sings! The same thy numbers, so correctly free, So full of sweetness, full of majesty! Now, France, exult! nor view with envy more Surrounding nations rich in Roman lore; Delille has sung; then glory in his name, Engraved, immortal, on the rolls of Fame. Whence the shouts of public joy, Whence the galaxies of light, That strike the deafen'd ear? That charm the dazzled sight? While Night, arrested in her highest way, Stands wondering at the scene, and doubtful of her sway? Hark! Fame exalts her voice:-- 'Britannia triumphs, let her sons rejoice! The Gallic Foe, that dared her vengeance brave, Lies whelm'd in death beneath the blood-stain'd wave; Britannia thunder'd o'er the rebel main, His distant billows heard, and own'd her awful reign.' Be hush'd my soul! in still amazement mourn! O fly the giddy train! From their inhuman transports turn With pity,--with disdain! Strip, strip, from Victory the fair disguise, And let her own dire form appal thine eyes! Ah, mark her triumphs in yon hideous scene! Myriads of brother-men untimely slain; Hear the deep groan, survey the dying mien, Convulsed with agonies of pain; And hark! what cries of wretchedness resound Throughout the troubled air! Widows and Orphans doom'd a helpless prey To famine and despair! And does ambition glory? Oh! the shame! The direful outrage to the human name! Nature herself is moved, the blushing stars retire, And sudden storms denounce high heaven's awaken'd ire. See the black firmament divide! The almighty sword, with heavenly lustre bright, Flashes on the sight Terrific glory, dazzling mortal pride; The parted concave closes, while around Deep, rushing peals resound, Scatter the clouds, in airy tempest hurl'd, And shake the solid pillars of the world. As breathing from the tomb, A death-like stillness reigns, Save that in Fancy's jealous ear A sad, prophetic breeze complains Of some impending doom, While every soul is lost in vacancy and fear. Now while Ambition lies in sleep unblest, Portentous visions haunt his guilty breast: Borne on a trophied car, sublime he goes Amid the gazing crowd, Who shout his triumphs loud; With haughty bliss his flatter'd spirit glows:-- Sudden deserted and alone, Confused, alarm'd, in dreary shades unknown, He hears the wild waves beat the shore, The din of battle roar:-- 'Tis silence! frowning vengeful from the gloom, Before his shrinking eyes Unnumber'd spectres rise, Point to their bleeding wounds, and sternly curse their doom: The conscious Murderer starts, the thunders roll, And hell's dread chaos yawns on his despairing soul. But when the morn exerts her cheering power, And guilt-alarming darkness disappears, Wilt thou, Ambition! slight the warning hour, And fondly strive to dissipate thy fears? Yet wilt thou dare fulfil The madness of thy will? Kindle round earth the wasteful flames of strife, And glut the fiends of war with human life? Then mask with glory's name thy murderous cause, While fond, deluded mortals shout applause? Yet madly wilt thou dare?-- Devoted Wretch! forbear!-- Cries of the living, curses of the dead, Have claim'd thy destined head; And that same Power, whose mighty hand Once humbled thine aspiring flight, And hurl'd thee, with thy rebel band, Down to the deeps of hell and night, Now warns no more; that Power no longer spares, Thy sentence he hath fix'd, thy fate he now prepares. I felt thee, Horror! rush upon my soul, Thy hideous band my frighted fancy saw; Spare me, O spare me! cease thy dire controul, And let my trembling hand the vision draw. Lo! what terrific Forms around thee wait, The monstrous births abhorr'd of Mind and Fate! Murder, with blood of innocence defiled; Despair, deep-groaning; Madness screaming wild; Mid clouds of smoke, the fire-eyed Fury, War, Through gore and mangled flesh whirl'd in her thundering car; Plague, sallow Hag! who arms her breath With thousand viewless darts of death; And Earthquake, image of the final doom, That, bursting fierce his anguish'd mother's womb, Whelms nations in the yawning jaws of night, And palsies mighty Nature with affright. Amid that direful band I see thee, Horror! stand, With bloodless visage, terror-frozen stare, Distorted, ice-bound limbs, and bristling hair, Thy shivering lips bereft of speech and breath, In monstrous union life combined with death. I see thee still, O Horror! and in thee Methinks an image of myself I see; For, while I gaze with fear-fixed sight, O Horror! thy Gorgonian might Turns me to stone: dread tyrant, O forbear! To view thee I no longer dare.-- I feel my throbbing heart respire. Again my fancy with unquell'd desire, O Horror! courts thee, trembling owns thy power. Come, let us now, at this congenial hour, While midnight tempests sweep With bellowing rage the ship-ingulfing deep, While thunders roar, and livid lightnings blaze, Let us on that dread, watery chaos gaze. Or from the peopled vale, below, Uplooking, see, from lofty Alpine crown, The rolling mass of snow, Into a mountain grown, Rush overwhelming down. Or let us, in Numidian desert drear, The roar of prowling beasts, and hiss of serpents hear; Or bask by blazing city; or explore, On Etna's brink, the sulphurous mouth of hell, And hear the fiery flood tempestuous roar, And hear the damn'd in hotter torments yell. Or wilt thou, Horror! haunt the villain's breast, In dismal solitude, by thought opprest; Where guilty Conscience fetter'd lies, Turn'd all her shrinking lidless eyes Full to the blaze of truth's unclouded sun, And struggles, still in vain, her pangs, herself to shun? Ah!--now more hideous grows thine air; With direr aspect ne'er dost thou appear, To fright weak Beings in this earthly sphere; Faint semblance of thy most tremendous mien, As, in Tartarean gulfs of endless night, By agonizing demons thou art seen: But oh! what living eye could bear that sight? To look on it e'en Fancy does not dare.-- Oh! may I ne'er be doom'd to see thee, Horror! there! Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye New joys, anticipated, ever play; Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway The moral elements of life comply; At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease, And settle into order, beauty, peace; How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hour Which gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power! Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky, Invested with her own all-cheering ray, To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fate Which long had shrouded this terrestrial state, What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair, Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer: Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide, And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide. From the veil'd awful future, to her view Scenes of immortal bliss thou didst disclose; With faith's rapt eye she hail'd the vision true, Spurn'd the base earth, and smiled upon her woes. Thou Sovereign of the human soul Whose influence rules without controul! Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear, Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrains The shuddering spirit in his icy chains: O Hope! be thou for ever near; Keep the dread tyrant far away, And all my willing, grateful bosom sway. Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet, In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet, And fondly passive to thy dictates, deem Those smiling hours all heavenly as they seem: Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood, With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car, And 'gainst me summon all her host to war, Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude, With his well-tempered shield To brave the threatening field. Amid that scene of woes and mental strife Let thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear, Inviting Fancy far from mortal life, To wander, blest, her own-created sphere. Do thou her glowing thought possess, And let her fairy pencil draw, Free, and unconscious of thy law, Fair images of Happiness; Of that celestial form which lives imprest Indelible, eternal, in thy breast. E'en in the dead calm of the mind, When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind; O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play, The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray! This, this is inspiration's hour! Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul, Rouses her every sense, her every power, And with a force too mighty to controul Inspires the warm, enthusiastic song: Now will I sing, O Wellington! of thee; To thee my plausive strains, of right, belong; For thee my lyre shall pour its choicest harmony. Long have I fondly mused the theme sublime; And from my grateful heart of patriot flame In secret, offer'd incense to thy name; But dared not with unhallow'd rhyme Profane the British Hero's fame. Thrice welcome this propitious time! Now, joining with my Country's minstrel-band, Thy deeds, O Wellington! will I rehearse In lofty never-dying verse, To which Britannia's self shall deign To lend a listening ear, While in thy military, swift career Triumphantly she leads thee by the hand, And proudly thrones thee high in glory's fane. In yonder eastern climes afar What dawning light attracts the Muse's eye?-- She feels the influence of her ruling star, And with an eagle's gaze, an eagle's wings, As to Apollo's self, transported, springs-- 'Tis Wellington in Victory's brilliant car, Who his triumphal progress has begun; Around him honour's sun Shoots forth its orient ray: In wondering India's sky He rises like the God of day. Greet him, O England! greet thy conquering Son! O! could'st thou but foresee The events of dark futurity, How would'st thou, then, adore the name of Wellington! Know!--he shall soon thy thunders wield In many a European field, Confound thy haughty foes with dread amaze, And fill the dazzled world with his meridian blaze. To Europe's frighten'd eyes What scenes of horror rise! See, from the darkness of the infernal world, Where with the rebel demons he was hurl'd, See, Revolution rears his hydra-head! Ill-fated Gallia is his destined prey. Thither the Monster makes his furious way; And with a loud, ferocious yell, That strikes the earth with dread, And spreads delight through hell, He summons all his hideous train, To strengthen and support his reign. Broke are the bonds of social life, All kindred, all domestic ties; Mid scenes of anarchy and civil strife, Mid plots, cabals, and murderous rivalries, Eager for prey, with licence unconfined Range the fierce Passions of the human mind, With frantic men rejoicing devils howl, And all hell's ravenous blood-hounds barking prowl. O could oblivion veil that direst page of fate! The revolutionary storm subsides.-- Lo! now, proud Gallia's Genius towers on high; O'er half Europa he already strides, And glorying in his might threats earth and sky; The neighbouring nations, vanquish'd to his sway, Like abject slaves his tyrant power obey. What conqueror leads the Gallic armies on? Fortune's loved child, Ambition's darling son, 'Tis the French Emperor, great Napoleon: And subject to his high imperial will, His warlike marshals his commands fulfil. What can resist their overwhelming force? Has Liberty no succour? no resource? She has! she has! O save her, Wellington! Ere yet unhappy Spain be forced to yield, Fly with Britannic forces to the field, And pluck the noblest palm thou yet hast won. The memory of Talavera's day Still strikes our foes with wonder and dismay; There did the Briton soldier boldly claim The honour due to his illustrious name. On Torres-Vedras' height, Like Jove upon the Olympian steep, When he defied the Giant-race to fight, Thy station calmly didst thou keep, Despite the vengeful threats of boasting France. How didst thou long to see her powers advance! But no: the veteran Chief, Massena, fled. Swiftly thy ardent troops his flight pursue; His soldiers fall in crowds; Confusion, Fear, And Slaughter dog them in the rear; Famine and Desolation meet their van. Spaniard with Portuguese in vengeance vies; New toils they still encounter, dangers new, Thus Fortune's Favourite, this unconquer'd man Accomplishes his haughty boast: Home he returns with less than half his host; His baggage, ordnance, thine, brave Wellington! And all his wreaths in former warfare won. So Albion, throned upon her rocky seat, Sees the proud-swelling billows idly beat; Resistance needs not their assaults to foil; Shrinking into themselves, they straight recoil, Leaving foam, dirt, and sea-weed at her feet. On Douro's banks Methinks I view the hostile, threatening ranks; The Lord of war to battle calls:-- Hark! through the affrighted sky Bursts the dread cannons' roar; While thousand slaughterous balls In vollies whizzing fly. See, see, the Gallic Captain falls! His bold achievements now are o'er. The Britons shout, and rush into the field; The French dishearten'd yield: What heaps of wounded, slain, O'er all the encumber'd plain! They now resist no more.-- The battle's won! The voices of Renown the tidings spread: Exulting England echoes thy applause; Ambitious Gallia hears thy name with dread; While European Freedom lifts her head, And hails the great Defender of her cause. Hero of England, with admiring eyes We trace in thee the noble qualities That constitute the Chief complete: In others, oft, they singly shine; In thee they all united meet, And in one galaxy their rays combine. Nature has given thee an intrepid heart, That ever glows with patriotic flame, And with the impassion'd love of martial fame. And gifted, too, thou art With a strong, hardy frame, Patient of toils and hardships. In thy mind Deep judgment with sagacity we find; Coolness and firmness in rare union join'd. In tactics versed, in all the rules of art, By long experience taught, thou play'st the Chieftain's part. Lo, now! in vision rapt, I view The far-famed plains of Waterloo. As slowly, dimly dawns the morning-light, Around the battle-field I cast my sight; Thrill'd with delight severe, with awe opprest, My labouring heart throbs wildly in my breast. Hail fellow-countrymen! I trust in you, And in your great Commander too; Hail valiant Britons! hail brave Wellington! Full many a conquest have ye gain'd; O! may another, now, be soon obtain'd! But yonder see the great Napoleon! Secure of victory he proudly stands, Surrounded by his choicest veteran bands, Who welcome with loud shouts their long-loved Chief, From Elba's isle return'd, from exile brief; They idolize him as the warrior-God, And burn with zeal to obey his voice, his nod. The opponent armies on each other gaze, And look defiance though the view dismays. Sudden the French artillery rends the skies; And the Britannic instantly replies; Hundreds of brazen throats shoot forth afar Their iron globes, those thunderbolts of war; Hundreds of soldiers fall upon the plain; Some shot, expire; more, wounded, writhe in pain. The cavalries to combat fiercely dash, And like two comets 'gainst each other clash; Horses and men roll mingled on the ground, Confusion, slaughter, horror all around. Regiments of infantry form quick the square, And the fierce-charging horsemen firmly dare; In vain to break them every means they try, The troops well-disciplined, the attempts defy. Long time in dread suspense the strife remains, While heaps of dead and wounded load the plains. Angel of Britain! guard our Hero's life! On that, on that depends the upshot of the fight. How does Napoleon's soul indignant burn! Resolving, now, his last resource to try, And urge his desperate way to victory, He straight commands a vast, o'erpowering force Of infantry, artillery, and horse, The centre of his stubborn foe to turn. Ah! now tremendous grows the strife, On either side they war as Furies now; What deluges of blood! what waste of life! How will the mighty struggle finish?--how?-- Thank heaven! 'tis o'er,--the French, driven back, retire; Again I breathe--more freely I respire. Lo! Bulow with the Prussian force appears! The British Chief with joy his cannon hears, And, flush'd with confidence, exulting cries, We'll conquer yet; advance, my friends, advance! Shouting they spring upon their enemies; See, Wellington! the great Napoleon flies!-- Britannia, yet again, has triumph'd over France! 'Tis night:--the busy, ceaseless noise of day No more is heard; the now-deserted-streets Lie dark and silent;--London's weary swarms Rest in profound repose. Hark! a loud cry Frightens the silence;--'tis the cry of fire! I hear the dissonance of rattling wheels, The tread of hasty feet, the doleful sigh Of sympathy, and terror's thrilling shriek:-- O mercy heaven!-- Behold the fiery Pest! See, how the flames climb up the lofty walls, Involve their prey, and greedily devour: The crowd exert their efforts to controul The spreading bane; some labour to supply The numerous engines; others bear aloft The pliant tubes, guiding their watery store Amid the fiercer fire; on ladders some Ascending, scale the walls, and undeterr'd, Their dangerous office ply; some wildly haste To save their properties: 'tis bustle all, And noisy tumult. Doubtful for a time The strife remains; where'er the Burning winds His flamy spires, the well-directed streams, Incessant spouting, damp the sickening flames, Repelling their advance; but, oft repulsed, As oft they rally with recruited strength: Alternate in the mind rise hope and fear. Tumbles a roof with clattering noise, the sky Lightens, a burst of clamour!--all is hush'd In awful stillness, save that from beneath The ruins fall'n is heard a muttering sound, As if the Demon of the element In indignation menaced dire revenge. Ah! now, unchain'd by some mysterious Power, Some Fiend of air, in league with That of fire, The wind begins to howl; its breath awakes The sleepy flames;--loud and more loud it howls, And rushes on them with collected might; Before the driving spirit burst the flames In a redoubled tempest, and deride Opposing man. See! how they proudly toss Their many heads on high, and through the vault Of darkness fling a sad, malignant day: Look! with what fury, what resistless rage, From street to street the fiery Deluge pours His rapid billows, swallowing everything In horrible destruction; lowly roofs, And gorgeous mansions, lofty spires and domes Capacious, on whose fair, majestic tops, As on her throne exalted, Art assumed Her noblest honours, whose firm pillars braved Storms, and the still-corroding course of years; These, these with all their wealth, the various stores Of luxury and commerce, to the flames Abandon'd, sink an undefended prey, Swelling the general wreck; unheeded sink By their possessors, flying for their lives: Cries, groans, laments, on every side resound. Sudden a magazine of nitrous grain Bursts in a blazing column to the clouds; The dread explosion shakes the solid ground, And through the skies in lengthening thunder rolls: Driven by the furious overwhelming blast To distance round, the burning fragments fall On every side; see, see, yon ships catch fire, Their rigging's in a blaze; affrighted Thames Shrinks from the sight; his waters cast a gleam Portentous, dismal, like the light of hell. Before the Conflagration numbers fly Frighted, in throngs precipitate, to seek A refuge in the distant fields secure, Which, cover'd thick with victims of distress, Present a wretched world. There Youth, surprised By hard experience, learns, alas! too soon The destiny of Man; and from those eyes Where expectation and unclouded joy Serenely shone, the streams of sorrow flow: There helpless Age, robb'd of the scanty means A life of labour earn'd, driven from his home To wander, destitute, the vale of years, Yields to despondence, tears his hoary locks, Falls on the ground, and eagerly implores Rest in the grave: there, gazing on the fires, The tender Mother stands,--her frenzied soul Glares from her look, her bosom heaves a groan, She hugs her crying infant to her heart, Despairing, lost: what countless forms of wo! Lethargic some, and mute; some, giving loose To their distracted feelings, rave aloud In all the clamorous vehemence of grief. The din subsides;--a voice, distinctly heard, A frantic voice exclaims, my child! my child! My child is in the flames!--Oh! horrible!-- What succour? what resource? the roaring wind More fiercely blows, the Burning pours along, The skies are lighten'd, Uproar opens wide His thousand mouths, Danger and Ruin prowl At large with boundless license, all is doubt And consternation, one tempestuous sea Of wretchedness, one chaos of despair. Seized with wild fear Imagination sees The elements broke loose, Time on the brink Of dread Eternity, with all the signs Of that tremendous period when the dead Shall rise to judgment--hush'd in solemn awe-- Listening the trump of doom.-- Thus raged the storm, Till the great God of heaven in mercy bade The wind be silent, bade the gathering clouds Pour down abundant rain; the raging Fires, In prompt obedience to the sovereign will Of their Creator, dwindled and expired. Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born train That o'er the varying year alternate reign; Whose eye, soft-beaming with thy father's fire, Fond Nature woos with ever-fresh desire, Enchanting Spring! O let thy votary's lay Invite thy angel smile, thy genial sway! Still do thy beauties, to my partial heart, Whene'er I gaze, superior joys impart: When winter's cloudy veil thou draw'st away } And, vested with the sun's mild, dewy ray, } First to the longing earth thy charms thou dost display; } Or when Aurora, to the lark's gay song, Full of thy spirit, lightly trips along; With joyful kisses greets the first-born flowers, And o'er them breathes thy warm, refreshing showers; Or when, on shadowy pillow in the west, Fann'd by thy gentlest Zephyrs into rest, Eve sweetly dozes, whilst, as in a dream, She sees the glimmerings of the solar beam O'er the dim landscape languishingly stray, On ocean's smiling face reflected play, Fade in the purple ether's darkening hues, And vernal peace and joy o'er earth diffuse. More grateful strains, O Spring! thy favours claim, Shine on thy beauties, and endear thy name. While Winter's winds thy new-born charms deface, And the young Year starves in his cold embrace, The Hours, by stealth advancing, bear away, And on thy lap, with smiles of pleasure, lay The shivering Babe; new vigour there he gains, And spreads thy various treasures o'er the plains. The joyous Naiades, from their icy bands Unfetter'd, dance and warble o'er the lands; The Dryads feel thy genial breath, and raise Their heads, new-crown'd with leaves, and whisper praise; The plumy warblers wake their amorous strains; The herds and flocks sport o'er the fresh, green plains; Fancy and Hope return the mind to bless, A paradise she sees and dreams of happiness. Come, then, indulgent Ruler of the year, Sweet Spring! to grateful Nature ever dear! From the blest regions of Elysian day, Climes favour'd high with thy perennial sway, O deign to come! and let our raptured eyes View thee, as through a veil, in these obscurer skies. Methinks, I see thee coming from afar, Thy beauty decks Apollo's mounting car; The tyrant of the north with dazzled sight Beholds, and, yielding, meditates his flight; His dread, petrific rod he long has broke, And freed glad Nature from his icy yoke; She lifts her head, and hails the approaching hour When she shall feel thy more propitious power. O haste thy progress, and exert thy sway! In all thy charms, on some thrice-hallow'd day, When the soft-whispering air to Fancy's ears Wafts the celestial music of the spheres, While Pleasures, Loves, and Graces round thee fly, Glide on a sun-beam down the clear, blue sky; Crown'd with a myrtle-wreath, begin thy reign; Bid lingering Winter fly with all his train; Pour forth thy favours o'er this western isle, And let each grateful eye reflect thy smile. No longer Beauty's many-colour'd robe Adorns the autumnal scene; no longer play The Zephyrs with her tresses; she has fled To happier regions, and has left the year Naked and void of charms; the leafless woods Tremble no more with rapture at the voice Of harmony: ah! how is Nature changed! Silent, and sad, she anxiously awaits Thy coming, mighty King! and, as the sun Less bright, less ardent, more and more declines Towards the horizon, with alarm she marks Thy shadow lengthening in the nightly shade And towering o'er her, prostrate as she lies, More threatening, more gigantic; till, at length, Boreas, thy harbinger, forth-rushing fierce, Tears from chill'd Autumn's head the withering Crown, And blustering loud in her affrighted ear, O Winter! tells thy terrible approach. Behold! in awful majesty thou comest! On huge, black clouds, that through the encumber'd sky, Before the northern blast, sail slowly on, Thou ridest sublime; aloft in ether towers Thy giant form; thy formidable frown Blackens the night; thy threatening voice, sent forth Upon the impetuous winds, affrights the world. Yet dare I welcome thee, terrific Power! Dread Winter, hail! thy terrors fill my soul With a delightful awe; I love to trace Thy varying scenes, the wonders of thy reign. Thy Ministers await thy sovereign will, And, in the secret regions of the air, In cloudy magazines prepare thy stores Of snow, and rain, and hail. At thy command Frost, that invisible, mysterious Power, Breathes upon Nature, and thou see'st her soon An unresisting captive, bound in ice; Vainly she mourns, till, at thy bidding, Thaw With his damp, misty standard, from the south Comes creeping silently, and sets her free; She weeps for joy. Ah! now thou dost unchain The Demon of the tempest, to exert On tortured Nature thy tyrannic might; Fierce on the whirlwind's wing he rushes forth With dreadful bellowings, hurling all around Destructive deluges of rain, snow, hail, In wildest discord, and chaotic war Mingling earth, sea, and sky. All-potent Lord! Dread Winter! though Sublimity appears Thy chief attendant, and partakes thy throne; Yet Beauty often visits thee, and dares, In many a scene, with the more powerful charms Of her majestic sister to combine Her pleasing graces: I delight to view Thy snowy robe of purest, glowing white, The clear, blue skies, the cheerful evergreen Amid the wintry desert, from whose boughs The little redbreast chirps; the trees and herbs With snow and hoarfrost fringed, to fancy's eye Presenting pictured shapes, and, when the sun Sheds o'er them his effulgence, sparkling keen With million living particles of light. But with far nobler transport I survey Thy nightly scene, O Winter! when by frost Refined and clear'd, the pure transpicuous air Through her thin, azure veil, to wondering man Displays the unclouded heavens, myriads of stars Shining in all their glory: at the view Rapt Contemplation, in her car of light, Expatiates in the interminable space, Ranging from world to world, from sun to sun, O'erwhelm'd with wonder and astonishment, And sacred awe, till lifting up her eyes, She sees Religion, from the opening gate Of heaven itself, on her seraphic wings Smiling descend; she feels her power divine, And raptured hymns the great Creator's praise. In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair, While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone. Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery! Still, ever still the same where'er I fly; No peace, no hope, not one poor moment's glimpse Through all the blackness of eternity! Monster of direst guilt! this mother's hand Murder'd my babe, my new-born innocent. I seek not mercy, no!--long sought in vain While conscience prey'd upon my secret heart, Wasting its life in agonizing groans, And floods of scalding tears,--but now no more; Those pangs are past, this heart is wither'd, dead! Changed all to crime, all rottenness and stench; 'Twould taint creation were it not confined. Parch'd are these eyes, their sorrows turn'd to ice, A mountain of impenetrable ice, In whose unfathom'd centre lies my soul, Imprison'd, numb'd, buried in conscious death. O could I cease to think! cease quite to be! O could I live in torments! writhe in hell! Raptures to this! Rouse, rouse to life, my soul, In madness of despair, O burst thy tomb; Call God and devils to behold thy guilt, And blast thee. (_It lightens._) See, what sudden blaze! they come! Welcome, O welcome! follow me, look there! There lies my murder'd babe:--now strike!--avenge! Overwhelming stroke! (_She falls upon the ground insensible:-- at length, coming to herself_)-- Ah! am I conscious still? Not blasted then?--does this one little spark Amidst a universe of solid gloom Still live? I'll try to quench it with my blood. Come, dagger, pierce, pierce deep; I feel thy point; My blood flows fast, it animates my heart. The gathering cloud of death grows thick and dark, It hangs oppressive on my swimming sight: See, see, the Spirit of my murder'd child Comes with a troop of demons to conduct My soul to hell;--they seize me for their prey, They drag me down: Oh! horror! horror! oh! Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song! O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lost As in a blissful dream! how has my soul Been wafted in a sea of melody! Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself: Still with the enchanting music's dying breath The air is kept in motion, and conveys Sweet whispers to the finely-listening ear; Or is it but an echo from the cell Of memory that deludes my doating sense? Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway, And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web; But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature, More soft, more amiable, as if inform'd With the departed soul of harmony. Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deserves All my heart's gratitude; for it has still'd Its anxious throbbings, and removed the load Of sadness that oppress'd the springs of life: More lightly now it beats, and welcomes back The glowing tide of health, and conscious feels The blessing of existence. It imparts To all my frame reanimating force; My nerves partake of its elastic spring; No longer falsely sentient, they receive The just impression from external things, Vibrate harmoniously to Nature's touch, And in her general concert bear a part. Thanks, sweetest Bird! enchanting Nightingale! How by the magic influence of thy song, How am I changed from what, of late, I was! And every object, too, how seems it changed! This wood, when first I enter'd it, appear'd To Fancy's eye the haunt of Melancholy, Her dreariest haunt, where, in her saddest mood, The Goddess loved to dwell;--'twas lonesome gloom, And awful stillness all: I felt her power; The imaginative Spirit she o'erwhelm'd With a mysterious load of shapeless feeling: Her leaden hand oppress'd my labouring heart; Upon the ground I sank,--scarce sensible, And buried, as it were, in conscious death. With what soft influence, what resistless power, Did thy mellifluous strain, kind Philomel! Insinuate itself into my ear, Melting its dull unwillingness to listen, And opening soon a passage to my heart! But thou beginn'st again, be hush'd my soul! O wondrous power of heavenly harmony! See, Philomel! the Goddess of the night, Charm'd with thy strains her cloudy veil withdraws, And pays thee with a smile of gratitude; A smile that to her beauty adds new charms, Enchanting heaven and earth, while Melancholy, Sighing away her sadness, lifts her head, And, gazing on her tutelary Power With eyes reflecting soft her dewy light, Feels her divinest inspiration steal Into her melting soul, absorb'd in heaven. My sympathizing heart with bliss o'erflows. Thanks sweetest Nightingale! thanks for thy song! Long on this night shall grateful memory doat; And oft to this loved wood will I return. Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame, O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name; Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise, And swell the general chorus of thy praise. Though not so loud, more dear the applause to thee Of all the favour'd sons of harmony, Who, with one full consent, admiring own } Thee as their master--monarch--thee alone; } And humbly bow before thee on thy throne. } O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart; Thou hast created for thyself an art. As, in the natural world, around the sun The planets their career of brightness run, Each moving in an orbit of its own, And all obeying laws to science known. Musicians thus, each blest with his degree Of talent by the God of harmony, Shine forth distinguish'd in their several ways, While every one the rules of art obeys. We calculate the merits of their name, And pay them their proportion'd share of fame. Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st; Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st, Like comet, blazing in its bold career, That leaves behind the planetary sphere, And rushes towards the centre of the sun Till with Apollo's self it seems but one. A Genius, an Original, art thou, Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now. When thou dost take thy magic bow in hand What mortal ear the enchantment can withstand? Transported, we admire thy peerless skill; Thou movest our feelings, passions, at thy will; With fear we tremble, we with anger glow, Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow; Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain, From mirth and laughter who can then refrain? Such is thy music's power to rule the heart, Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art. O! what a nameless feeling of delight Stole o'er my wondering spirit, like a gleam From opening heaven!--dost thou, then, Fancy, deign Once more to visit me? thou dost! thou dost! That breath of extacy, that heavenly light, Flow'd from the wafture of thy angel wings, And from thy smiling eyes: divinest Power! Welcome, thrice welcome! O vouchsafe to make My breast thy temple, and my heart thy shrine! Still will I worship thee, and thou shalt keep, In peace, thy new abode, nor fear the approach Of aught profane or hostile, to disturb Thy holy mysteries; for I will chase Far from the hallow'd precincts where thou dwell'st Each worldly passion, every grovelling thought, And all the train of Vice; striving to make The shrine well-worthy its celestial guest. Still will I worship thee, and oft invoke Thine inspirations, and with transport yield To thy sweet, magic influence all my soul: The slightest breath of thine inspiring voice Shall wake my nerves, most feelingly alive, And bid them tremble with poetic bliss. The frown of Reason thou no more shalt fear; Did I say Reason's frown?--no!--'twas the frown Of false Philosophy, her foolish pride. Reason and Thou are sisters, born to rule Unitedly, in happiest harmony, The mind of man; and in the heaven-sent hour Of inspiration, from the self-same source Ye pour the stream of mingled light and flame That animates, illumes, and warms the soul. How could I e'er desert thee, loveliest Nymph! To court thy rival, false Philosophy? How could I quit thy verdant, flowery walks, To tread with painful toil the briary maze Of metaphysic lore? Indulgent Power! The offence forgive. Lured by the specious name, Philosophy, and by her meteor rays Misled, with fond presumptuousness I strove To penetrate the dark, unfathom'd depth Where Truth in awful mystery resides. Not deigning in thy mirror to behold Her image, though in loveliest beauty clad, With lawless curiosity I sought To view the Goddess in her naked form. But heaven to man, nor angel gives to scan Truth's very self; she lives for ever hid, Shrined in the bosom of Divinity. Long wandering mid the chaos, I at length Approach'd the border of the cold, dark waste, The bottomless abyss, the dreadful void Of scepticism; affrighted, back I shrunk. O Fancy! ne'er will I forsake thee more, Nor view thee with severe, truth-searching eye, Melting thy fairy visions into air. Thy paradise, delighted, let me rove, There study nature, and with grateful heart, In thy serene, translucent stream behold The light of truth reflected, and the smile Of heaven's benevolence, and in that glass The loveliness of every Virtue woo And every Grace. There let me, too, behold In all her beauty, bright-eyed Poesy, That heavenly Maid who charm'd my youthful heart; And let the love of glory fire my breast; And let me see, to stimulate my powers, The new-born crescent of my fame ascend, While on its pointed horn the Fairy, Hope, On tiptoe stands, fluttering her airy wings To fan its beams and joyful hails the hour When in its full-orb'd glory it shall shine. Come, my dear Love, and let us climb yon hill, The prospect, from its height, will well reward The toil of climbing; thence we shall command The various beauties of the landscape round.-- Now we have reached the top. O! what a scene Opens upon the sight, and swallows up The admiring soul! She feels as if from earth Uplifted into heaven. Scarce can she yet Collect herself, and exercise her powers. While o'er heaven's lofty, wide-extended arch, And round the vast horizon, the bold eye Shoots forth her view, with what sublime delight The bosom swells! See, where the God of day, Who through the cloudless ether long has rid On his bright, fiery car, amidst a blaze Of dazzling glory, and in wrath shot round His burning arrows, with tyrannic power Oppressing Nature, now, his daily course Well-nigh completed, toward the western goal Declines, and with less awful majesty Concludes his reign; his flamy chariot hid In floods of golden light that dazzles still, Though less intense. O! how these scenes exalt The throbbing heart! Louisa, canst thou bear These strong emotions? do they not o'erpower Thy tender nerves? I fear, my Love, they do; Those eyes that, late, with transport beam'd so bright, Now veil their rays with the soft, dewy shade Of tenderness. Let us repose awhile; The roots of yonder tree, cover'd with moss, Present a pleasing seat; there let us sit. Hark! Zephyr wakes, and sweetly-whispering, tells The approach of Eve; already Nature feels Her soothing influence, her refreshing breath; The fields, the trees, imbibe the cool, moist air, Their feverish thirst allay, and smile revived. The Soul, too, feels her influence, sweetly soothed Into a tender calm. O! let us now, My loved Louisa! let us now enjoy The landscape's charms, and all the nameless sweets Of this, our favourite hour, for ever dear To Fancy and to Love. Cast round thy sight Upon the altered scene, nor longer fear The dazzling sun; his latest, lingering beams Where are they? can'st thou find them?--see! they gild The glittering top of yonder village-spire; Upon that distant hill they faintly shine; And look! the topmost boughs of this tall oak Majestic, which o'ercanopies our heads, Yet catch their tremulous glimmerings:--now they fade, Fade and expire; and, as they fade, the Moon, The full-orb'd Moon, that seem'd, erewhile, to melt In the bright azure, from the darkening sky Emerging slow, and silent, sheds around Her snowy light, that with the day's last, dim Reflection, from the broad, translucid lake, Insensibly commingles, and unites In sweetest harmony, o'er all the scene Diffusing magic tints, enchanting power. How lovely every object now appears! Each in itself, and how they all combine In one delightful whole! What eye, what heart, O Nature! can resist thy potent charms When thus in soft, transparent shade half-veil'd? Now Beauty and Sublimity, methinks, Upon the lap of Eve, embracing sleep. Mark the tree-tops, my Love, of yonder wood, Whose moonlight foliage fluctuates in the breeze, Say, do they not, in figure, motion, hue, Resemble the sea-waves at misty dawn? What shadowy shape along the troubled lake Comes this way moving? how mysteriously It glides along! how indistinct its form! Imagination views with sweet surprise The unknown appearance--breathless in suspense. The Spirit of the waters can it be, On his aerial car? some fairy Power? Pants not thy heart, Louisa, half-alarm'd? It grows upon the sight,--strange, watery sounds Attend its course;--hark! was not that a voice? O! 'tis a fishing-boat!--its sails and oars I now discern. The church-clock strikes! how loud Burst forth its sound into the startled air, That feels it still, and trembles far around! My dearest Love! it summons us away; The dew begins to fall; let us depart: How sweetly have we spent this evening-hour! The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind, For which the appropriate name is hard to find; No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be, With strictest truth, pronounced a Tragedy; Since, though predominant the tragic tone, It reigns not uniformly and alone; Then, that its character be best proclaim'd, A Tragic-drama let the piece be named. But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude, 'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude, Where incidents in strange confusion blend, Without connexion, interest, or end: Not so;--far different was the bard's design; For though, at times, he ventures to combine With grave Melpomene's impassion'd strain The gay Thalia's more enlivening vein; (As all mankind with one consent agree How strong the charms of sweet variety,) Yet Reason's path he still with care observes, And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves, His plot conducting by the rules of art: And, above all, he strives to touch the heart; Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire, Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire. Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent; The poet means not here to represent The tragic Muse in all her terrors drest, With might tempestuous to convulse the breast; Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien, To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene; But with an air more mild and versatile, } Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile, } Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style, } Resembling in effect an April-night When from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light; And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease, Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze. But, in few words our author ends his plea, Already tending to prolixity, To paint from Nature was his leading aim; Let then, the play your candid hearing claim: Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws; If good, reward it with deserved applause; If bad, condemn; yet be it still exempt From your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt. The long-anticipated, wish'd-for night; How on this blissful night, while yet remote, Did Hope and Fancy with fond rapture doat! Like eagles, oft, in glory's dazzling sky, With full-stretch'd pinions have they soar'd on high, To greet the appearance of the poet's name, Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame. Alas! they soar not now;--the demon, Fear, Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere: Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;-- The world of torment opens on her eyes, Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;-- (_The speaker pauses--the audience are supposed to clap, when he continues,_) But Hope, returning to dispel her fears, Claps her bright wings; the magic sound and light At once have forced their dreaded foe to flight, Silenced the hissing, chased the darkness round, And charm'd up marvelling Fancy from the ground. Say, shall the cherubs dare once more to fly? Not, as of late, in glory's dazzling sky, To greet the appearance of the poet's name, Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame; Presumptuous flight! but let them dare to rise, Cheer'd by the light of your propitious eyes, Within this roof, glory's contracted sphere, On fluttering pinions, unsubdued by Fear; O! let them dare, ere yet the curtain draws, Fondly anticipate your kind applause. Perplexing case!--your pardon, Friends, I pray,-- My head so turns, I know not what to say;-- However, since I've dared to come before ye, I'll stop the whirligig,-- (_Clapping his hand to his forehead_,) and tell my story: Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction. Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise, That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise, Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit: The devil take him for neglecting it! Nay though,--'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd From certain motives--which were most absurd; For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein, And still-prepared inventiveness of brain, He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan, To set about it when the play began; Thus purposing the drama's fate to know, Then write his epilogue quite a propos. The time at last arrives--the signal rings, Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs, And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene, With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,-- Watches opinion's breezes as they blow, To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow. Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spite Was doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write, And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose, Could not forbear, at times, to cock my nose Over his shoulder, curiously to trace His progress;--zounds! how snail-like was his pace! Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken, 'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done! As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun, My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded; He was--excuse the pun--with grape high-loaded. Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar, Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door. But lest, here too, like hazard I should run; } I'll end my story. When the play was done, } The epilogue was--look! 'tis here--begun: } Such as it is, however, if you will, I'll read it; shall I, Friends? (_They clap._) Your orders I fulfil. 'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bell Summons me--Duncan-like, to heaven or hell; See, see, the curtain draws;--it now commences; Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses: But let me to my task:--what noise is this? They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss! Now then, to work, my pen:--descend, O Muse! Thine inspiration through my soul infuse; Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er before Has been imagined,--never will be more. What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise, I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skies Dart up triumphantly in flames of light:-- They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night. Again they clap, O extacy!-- Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein, He halts,--reads,--curses,--and begins again; But not a single couplet could he muster; How should he, with his soul in such a fluster, All rapture, gratitude, for your applause? Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause! At God's command the vital spirit fled, And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead. Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare To gaze on thee;--dread sight! death, death is there. How does thy loss o'erwhelm my heart with grief! But tears, kind nature's tears afford relief. Reluctant, sad, I take my last farewell:-- Thy virtues in my mind shall ever dwell; Thy tender friendship felt so long for me, Thy frankness, truth, thy generosity, Thy tuneful tongue's persuasive eloquence, Thy science, learning, taste, wit, common sense, Thy patriot love of genuine liberty, Thy heart o'erflowing with philanthropy; And chiefly will I strive henceforth to feel Thy firm religious faith and pious zeal, Enlighten'd, liberal, free from bigotry, And, that prime excellence, thy charity. Farewell!--for ever?--no! forbid it, Heaven! A glorious promise is to Christians given; Though parted in this world of sin and pain, On high, my Brother! we shall meet again. Your book I've read: I would that I had not! For what instruction, pleasure, have I got? Amid that artful labyrinth of doubt Long, long I wander'd, striving to get out; Your thread of sophistry, my only clue, I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through: That spider's web entangled me the more: With desperate courage onward still I went, Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent: Now, now, at last, thank God! the task is o'er. I've been a child, who whirls himself about, Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round; Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out, He falls, and rues his folly on the ground. Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes; I view the youth, and feel compassion rise. He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze I listen,--listen, and admiring gaze. Still, as he catches inspiration's fire, Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings, That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings, He pours into the music all his soul, And governs mine with strong, but soft controul: Raptured I glow, and more and more admire. His mortal ailments I no longer see; But, of divinities my fancy dreams; Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire; And lame the powerful Deity of fire; His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems; And in his voice I hear the God of harmony. Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee, Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be: Now, cold correctness!--I despise the name; Is that a passport through the gates of fame? Thy pedant rules with care I studied once; Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce? Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more; My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er. When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul, Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll, Onward they rush with unresisted sway, } Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away } Who would with obstacles their progress stay. } As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply With the great luminaries of the sky, So Genius, to direct his course aright, Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light. Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed The name of Shakspeare!-- What a glorious theme For never-ending praise! His drama's page, Like a clear mirror, to our wondering view Displays the living image of the world, And all the different characters of men: Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay, We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feel All the strong sympathies of real life. To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lent Her magic wand, potent to conjure up Ideal Forms, distinctly character'd, Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight. The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane, Majestic as the canopy of heaven, Embracing all created things, a fane His superhuman genius has upraised, To Nature consecrate? The Goddess there For ever dwells, and from her sanctuary, By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest, Reveals her awful mysteries to man, And with her power divine rules every heart. At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sons Of learning, and of art! ye men, endow'd With talent, taste! ye nobler few who feel The genuine glow of genius! bow down all In admiration! with deep feeling own Your littleness, your insignificance; And with one general voice due homage pay To Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child! the name of that divinest Bard Acts on Imagination like a charm Of holiest power;--with deep, religious awe She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd The relics that enshrined his godlike soul. O! with what heartfelt interest and delight, With what astonishment, will all the sons Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride Will England ever boast her Milton's name, The Poet matchless in sublimity! E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre; Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought, They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power No longer treads the guilt-polluted world, But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air: Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour, When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wake With frames resuscitated, glorified: Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard, Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs, Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir, And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss. Still, as the fleeting seasons change, From joy to joy poor mortals range, And as the year pursues its round, One pleasure's lost, another found; Time, urging on his envious course, Still drives them from their last resource. So butterflies, when children chase The gaudy prize with eager pace, On each fresh flower but just alight, And, ere they taste, renew their flight. Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess A constant source of happiness, And am not poorly forced to live On what the seasons please to give. Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole, What care I, while I quaff the bowl? In that secure, I can defy The changeful temper of the sky. No weatherglass, or if I be, Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear, While yonder Censor mounts the chair: His form erect, his stately pace, His huge, white wig, his solemn face, His scowling brows, his ken severe, His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer, Some high Philosopher declare:-- Hush! let us hear him from the chair: 'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth; How ill-beseeming sons of earth! Know ye not well the fate of man? That death is certain, life a span? That merriment soon sinks in sorrow, Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow? Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice, That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?' Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine, Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine. Since mortals must die, Since life's but a span, 'Tis wisdom, say I, To live while we can, And fill up with pleasure The poor little measure. Of fate to complain How simple and vain! Long faces I hate; They shorten the date. My Friends! while ye may, Be jovial to-day; The things that will be Ne'er wish to foresee; Or, should ye employ Your thoughts on to-morrow, Let Hope sing of joy, Not Fear croak of sorrow. But see! the Sage flies, so no more. Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before. Why must Poets, when they sing, Drink of the Castalian spring? Sure 'tis chilling to the brain; Witness many a modern strain: Poets! would ye sing with fire, Wine, not water, must inspire. Come, then, pour thy purple stream, Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme. How within thy crystal frame Does the rosy nectar flame! Not so beauteous on the vine Did the clustering rubies shine, When the potent God of day Fill'd them with his ripening ray; When with proudness and delight Bacchus view'd the charming sight. Still it keeps Apollo's fires; Still the vintage-God admires. Hail sweet antidote of wo! Chiefest blessing mortals know! Nay, the mighty powers divine Own the magic force of wine. Wearied with the world's affairs, Jove himself, to drown his cares, Bids the nectar'd goblet bear: Lo! the youthful Hebe fair Pours the living draught around;-- Hark! with mirth the skies resound. 'Tis to wine, for aught I know, Deities their godship owe; Don't we mortals owe to wine Manhood, and each spark divine? Say, thou life-inspiring Bowl, Who thy heavenly treasure stole? Not the hand that stole Jove's fire Did so happily aspire; Tell the lucky spoiler's name, Worthy never-dying fame. Since it must a secret be, Him I'll praise, in praising thee. Glory of the social treat! Source of friendly converse sweet! Source of cheerfulness and sense, Humour, wit, and eloquence, Courage and sincerity, Candour and philanthropy! Source of--O thou bounteous wine! What the good that is not thine? Were my nerves relax'd and low? Did my chill blood toil on slow? When thy spirit through me flows, How each vital function glows! Tuned, my nerves, no longer coy, Answer to the touch of joy: On the steams, that from thee rise, Time on swifter pinions flies; Fancy gilds them with her rays; Hope amid the rainbow plays. But behold! what Image bright Rises heavenly to my sight! Could such wondrous charms adorn Venus, when from ocean born? Say, my Julia, is it thou, Ever lovely, loveliest now? Yet, methinks, the Cyprian Queen Comes herself, but takes thy mien. Goddess! I confess thy power, And to love devote the hour, Let me but, with grateful soul, Greet once more the bounteous Bowl. Ere Reason rose within my breast, To enforce her sacred law, Still would some charm, in every maid, My veering passions draw. But now, to calm those gales of night, The morn her light displays; The twinkling stars no more I view, For only Venus sways: The spotless heaven of genuine love Unveil'd I wondering see, And all that heaven, transported, claim Yes, I could love, could softly yield To passion all my willing breast, And fondly listen to the voice That oft invites me to be blest; That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss, Stands gazing on the form divine, So sweetly whispers to my soul, O make the heavenly Julia thine! But hush, thou fascinating voice! Hence visionary extacy! Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear She would not deign to smile on me. Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay; See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd? See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay Their devotion to thee, are all waiting around? O come then, propitious to our invocation, To preside of thy rites at the solemnization. Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free, And the music of glasses that merrily ring, Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee; With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King! To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation, And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation. On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee, Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly shine; While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see, We greet thy munificence boundless, divine. From these we already inhale animation, Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation. As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows, We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane; Each breast with thy own godlike character glows; There truth, generosity, happiness reign. Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation; Thou hast blest us, kind God! with thy full inspiration. What majesty! what elegance and grace! The form how perfect! how divine the face! In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:-- Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand? No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see; I feel the presence of the Deity. O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight Behold this image of the God of light; Admire its whole, admire its every part; 'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art. Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere The God appears, than in his Image here. Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;-- Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here, And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade The noble homage of a patriot tear. Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain, Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd; Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main, And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world. His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame, With loud applause, to latest ages tell; Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name, Where last he conquer'd, where--alas! he fell. Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread, Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead, To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame, And pay just worship to each godlike name; (If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo, And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,) Midst all the monuments that court your view, And claim the debt to buried merit due, Mark chiefly this;--on this with tearful eyes More fondly gaze;--beneath it Howard lies! O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn; Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn; Benevolence sits weeping on his stone; Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne. Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame. On him what various gifts did heaven confer!-- Poet, historian, wit, philosopher; But ah!--peruse it, Christian, with a tear-- The chief of infidels lies buried here: Lament the abuse of such rare talents given; Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven. Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps, From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd, Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps! Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world! Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child; Fate urged him on, his great career to fill; On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled; And on his eagles Victory waited still. By battles won, by policy profound, Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay: England alone, of all the nations round, His power opposed, disdaining to obey. Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat, Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies. Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;-- There sunk his glory's sun;--ne'er more to rise. Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart, Pause!--while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;-- 'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart, Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.' Here, deeply pensive, scan The greatness,--and the littleness of man. In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps, Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps. The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame, Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame, Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here. Thus human Glory ends its bright career. To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart! An intellect sublime, a feeling heart; But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong, Hurried him irresistibly along Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill; No law could bridle his own proud self-will. O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind, Byron had been--the first of human kind! What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail? Crown they with happiness our mortal state? Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail! O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate. Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!-- His frantic hand--O horror!--doom'd to bleed?-- His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes-- 'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.' His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;-- Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire, He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear, Into the holy presence of her Sire. Champion of justice and humanity, At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word-- Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard! Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven, Thy task was done,--it was thy call to heaven! Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by, Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye! Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power, In health's full vigour, at the festal hour, All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom, Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb. Mortal take heed!--in awful silence think, Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink; O listen to Religion's warning cry!-- 'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!' Though thou hast seen my locks are gray, Ah! do not, Julia, turn away; Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine, Disdainfully my love decline. Behold yon wreath!--how lovely shows The snowy lily with the blushing rose! In Moscow's flames her torch relume! In Moscow's ruins find a tomb! Locke says--the soul may slumber;-- Lavater says--the soul is seen Reflected in the mien;-- The last assertion true, Proofs of the first we view In faces without number. By faith alone, you say, not works, Man must obtain salvation;-- If you are saved, the doctrine needs No better confirmation. My Lady Sceptical, for want of proof, What all believe, denies; Yet she believes what all, with proof, deny, That she is wondrous wise. 'The dullest ass may write In verse, that jingling stuff!' Indeed, Sir? have you tried? 'I have.' That's proof enough. Yon fop has strangely got it in his noddle That he excels in tragic declamation; Kemble's the favourite, and the model, That claims his praise, and prompts his imitation; Now, that the praise is just, none can deny; But the imitation gives that praise the lie: Decide, ye Critics! for 'tis hard to know,-- Is he to Kemble's fame a friend or foe? Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns, Averts her blushing face; Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns To meet his warm embrace: Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be, Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me. The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King. This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing; But there's a deep-laid policy in it; For, did the Chancellor not--that conscience keep, It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit; Seated on wool, it may securely sleep. Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree. 'Pat!'--cries an Englishman--''tis clear to me, More grateful for the union you should be; Think what an honour is to Ireland done: "Murther!"--cries Pat--"he wedded her by force, And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce." Too long within the House has darkness dwelt, Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill, For blind debate might love that darkness still, 'Tis well the new experiment to try: A stronger, purer light--none can deny-- Will then illume the House--light coming from on high. 'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!' Cried Hal,--'can play the part of Bottom.' "Play it yourself;"--retorted Ned,-- "You'll look quite natural with an ass's head." Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock? No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes, Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock; Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes, Draws tears of pity from a barber's block! A quack, a mere anatomy, Wanting to buy a nag, Questions his friend, a wag, What colour it shall be:-- 'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course, For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.' Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;-- The people hail their own-elected House; On tiptoe stands the general expectation:-- What the grand doings of the Administration? Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse! Have writ many pages, To decide if the Mind How strange! that in the pages Of these metaphysical sages We so seldom can find Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat, All flattery you despise?-- Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that, And I am sure he lies. What a strong contrast to most modern sages Were some philosophers of ancient ages! E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too, Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew. Now! vain pretenders such presumption show, They seem to fancy that they all things know. Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity, Would that ye knew but half as much as he! Pale is Amelia's face, And red Lavinia's nose is; The sisters ever jar: 'Tis like the civil war Between the rival roses. On that dark theme, man's genealogy, How strangely people's notions disagree!-- Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:-- My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:-- Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses Into their minds,--to prompt opinion--passes. Would-be philosophers have tried to scan The pedigree of that odd creature, man. 'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries. Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise; (I, for my part, the compliment decline)-- But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine? 'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!' Is't possible?--Yet, when I look on you,-- I, verily, begin to think so too. 'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache--so bad! I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.' "I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had, You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences." Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion, Goes about, seeking whom he may devour. What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on? To guard his flock against the tempter's power.-- Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em: To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em: Like a devouring lion is the priest; Or--give the devil his due--you'll own, at least, He has the marks about him of the beast. Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.? 'It means I'm member of the Faculty.' Hum!--from your practice else one might infer It meant mock-doctor, or death's minister. 'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry, Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty! March not so fast, my friends! or you will find, That, in your haste, you've left them all behind. One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle, Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle. 'What shall we play for?'--Edwin quickly cried; "Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied. 'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.' He wins the game, and straight demands his pay. I'll pay you with a check--if you persist." Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate! Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated? To a far higher intellectual state, Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated. A lady had a sickly son; A skeleton but for his skin:-- Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;-- The mother chid him for his sin.-- 'Her charms were not to be withstood, Too tempting for frail flesh and blood! As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.' "That's no excuse for skin and bone." 'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me; To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed, Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'-- Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed; I'd accept--but for something--the vast obligation. 'But for what, pray?'--The instinct of self-preservation. If, as Swift says, in the most delicate mind Nastiest ideas we are sure to find, Then--equal to his humour and his wit Swift's delicacy we must all admit. That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought, To save your idle brain the toil of thought, You read in such a dull, lethargic tone, It seems almost as stupid as your own. Pursefull's a stickler for the law's abuse:-- To him, 'tis clear, it was of sterling use. Pursefull still advocates the law's abuse.-- What moralist can gratitude condemn? They, formerly, have done so much for him; Ought he not, now, to do his best for them? Bury, for practice bold and skill Deserves to be of note; He cures by means that well might kill,-- He cuts his patient's throat! When Satan tempts a priest to rise, 'It is the call of heaven!' he cries, And mount's ambition's ladder:-- To heaven's own call that bids him be, Like Christ, full of humility, He's deafer than an adder. Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye! But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory! Man's owl-eyed reason--Popish Priests assert-- Can't safely bear the gospel's heavenly light; Therefore, with kindest zeal, they do their best To keep their flocks in unillumined night. 'The brokers of the Stock-Exchange Are nicknamed bears and bulls;--how strange! What reason, Sir, to call them so?' Ma'am, see their manners, you will know. Words upon words impetuous rush along, And tread each other's brains out as they throng. 'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'-- Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries-- 'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view? And such a fine complexion's ivory hue? Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn: Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn. I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me;--what then? Don't we all know that monkies mimic men? 'I cannot say your poem I admire; It wants originality and fire; Besides, I find it, by no means, correct; You've written it in haste, I should suspect,' "What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?" 'I shall think so if you so loudly bray.' A worthy man of rags Intreats for charity A rogue of money-bags. 'Pshaw! it at home begins.' Then serve thyself and me; For it will be no less A cover to thy sins, Than to my nakedness. The Fair-one, at her toilet, thus exprest The ambitious aims that swell'd her panting breast: 'Pull, Fanny, pull again, with all your might; I must, to-day, be laced up very tight; For, to a glorious conquest I aspire:-- Know, that two Noblemen my charms admire! Pull, then, good girl! I'll be so tightly laced, That half-a-yard will measure round my waist.' 'Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake; You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.' In altering thus and shortening his oration, Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong; It well may fill his Lordship with vexation, When he has toil'd so hard to make it long. 'I've writ an epigram;--here, read it, do.-- The critics praise it highly:--what think you?' "I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.' "It may be to your taste--'tis not to mine." 'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!-- The point may be too fine for me to see it." 'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.' "Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find." Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit, They fain would tear the tree up by the root. Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted, But old ones can't;--'tis by all gardeners granted. 'Twill die;--and when the good old tree is dead, What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead? The Squire has long imagined that his son Is deeply studying Coke and Lyttelton. They meet.--'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.-- How get you on in Law? my clever boy! In practice too?--But Tom, what bills you draw! Expensive work this studying of the law!' The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:-- "O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire; In chamber-practice I have much to do."-- His answer--in a certain sense--is true. To move her lover, a coquetish Miss Began to sob, pretending she should faint;-- Her maid restored her straight by whispering this: 'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.' The labourers in the vineyard toil (So numerous are their creeds) Far less to cultivate the soil, Than break each others' heads. 'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it. I would be bound--the merest scribbler could-- To write one in a minute.' No doubt you could--but then there would Indeed, be nothing in it. The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls, With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles. Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head; Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view; O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead! Ye marble statues! how I envy you! To hear him preach the Methodistic creed, What eager crowds to Ranter's chapel speed! His eloquence the harden'd sinner frightens; Like heaven itself--says Fame, he thunders, lightens. I go to hear him;--Fame has made a blunder;-- I see no lightning, though I hear the thunder. For flowery sermons Doctor Drudge Of preachers at the top is;-- If from their influence we may judge, His flowers are only poppies. Sir! you're both fool and knave!--to Frank, Blunt cries-- I know I am, Sir, Frank to Blunt replies:-- Now, in self-knowledge if all knowledge lies, A fool, like Frank, must be extremely wise! Vice is a mouse-trap, pleasure is the bait, Like mice, enticing mortals to their fate; And of this truth experience leaves no doubt;-- 'Tis far more easy to get in than out. Old maids their spleen on marriage vent;-- The reason would you know? 'Tis not, that others are made wives, But that they can't be so. How grave he looks! how mighty wise!-- He seems Minerva's sacred bird:-- He speaks! our ears refute our eyes-- The cackling of a goose is heard. To wed the youthful, fair Coquette?-- Ben had a purse well-stored with gold! He caught her in't;--'twas Hymen's net! Flirtilla's teeth, well-form'd and white, Were Hymen's pincers, and could bite! When the Royal Exchange to the flames fell a prey, All the Monarchs and Queens from their niches were thrown; Lackaday! on the pavement in fragments they lay, Every one except Charley the Second alone. Strange event! O my Muse! to blind mortals below Clear this mystery which none but immortals can know. "Cytherea and Momus pray'd Vulcan to spare The blithe, amorous King:--Vulcan granted their prayer."

James Jeffrey Roche

By-Ways of War The Story of the Filibusters

To the Memory of my school mate William Morgan who was drowned in _Press of Munn's Review_ _Carbondale, Penna._ A Child's Elegy The Comet--15 cents The Silent Life--15 cents Both Booklets--25 cents "Loves not man the less, but Nature more From those our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be or have been before, To mingle with the Universe and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal." Verses in this booklet may be copied in the public prints by giving credit as above. Swift circuit-rider of the endless skies, Thou wanderer of the outer, unknown air, Amid those dim, uncharted regions there, Imagination droops--in deep surprise Man doth behold thee, and the fearful speed At which thou spurrest on thy flaming steed. Born of the dark and ever-deepening Past, Who nurs'd thee there in yonder viewless space Afar from earth--thy all-beholding face Hath gazed unspeakable, with clear eye cast Worldward on each magnificent return As if of human progress thou wouldst learn. And thou hast seen each triumph and each plan By which the human race since human time Hath learned at last Earth's secrets all-sublime While rising from the elements to man-- Hast seen it triumph over sea and air And universal knowledge hope to share. Thy circuit measures well the age of man, The epoch of a life--and few there be Who seeing thee, thy face again may see, For human life is but a little span, With varying cycles of a different day, And in diffusion wears itself away. Child of the Sun, when first the human eye Beheld thee coursing in the night afar Like an illumined spectre of a star-- Beheld thy awful form against the sky Strong men fell earthward with a coward-cry On their pale lips, as if afraid to die-- And that brute King--Nero, the cruel King, When looking on thy fiery face unknown, Sate trembling on his little human throne, And thought that thou didst evil tidings bring-- That thou wert writing on the distant skies A doom from which no human king could rise. Thy age is all unknown--man can but guess The time when first the Sun thy circle set-- He can but guess thy secret birth--and yet Observing thee his knowledge is not less; He knows each cycle, each return to be A moment in that vast eternity. Recording-comet of th' immortal space, What history thy eye hath look'd upon Since first thy airy, circling course was run! What fallen pride! What scatterings of race! Didst thou behold from thy almighty dome-- Didst thou behold--their birth, their rise, their fall-- Low humbled by the under hordes at last, With glory and fair triumphs in the past, And footprints of destruction over all. While thou, fleet comet, with a light divine Continueth upon the earth to shine. Speed on! swift comet--turn, wanderer, turn! And with thy flaming, god-like pen of light On heaven's scroll with burning letters write: Live but to love, O earth!--to love and learn, For while a comet's mighty cycles fail, Love,--love and truth forever shall prevail. It is forever so--when there is need Of some clear, clarion voice to forward lead God raiseth up a man from his own seed; Not from the soft, luxurious lap of earth, But from a nobler soil, so that from birth The frame is moulded with a chosen food That has one only end--to make it good, Full generous, far-sighted, firm and keen, With strength to rise above the gross and mean-- The sordid selfishness that like a curse Drives from the heart the virtues it would nurse-- That love of country, freedom's holy cause, Justice, mercy, that eye for equal laws, Faith in the future and our fellow-men, Faith in the sword when shielded by the pen-- And so it was with us--when there was need Of one commanding voice to forward lead, God rais'd up here a man from His own seed; And so came forth the gentle Washington, Fair child of Fate, the nation's noblest son, Whom Virtue fostered and whom Virtue won. Some few there be whose feet knew rougher ground, But few indeed a loftier summit found-- Nurtured in tender soil, he held a path Where others faltered, heeding not the wrath Of any king or potentate or power-- His was the hero-heart--he saw the hour,-- He knew the mighty odds, yet would not cower. And when the tyrant's heel touch'd on our shore And thrust itself unbidden to our door,-- But Washington alone with eagle-eye Withstood the foe and taught him how to die; Repulsed, disheartened, driven to despair, He lifted up his voice in humble prayer, For in that awful night at Valley Forge He drank the bitter cup--he knew Fate's scourge, He felt her lash,--this tender-hearted George. Father of Liberty--thou Child of Light, Columbia's first-born, who in thy might Restored to Freedom her enfeebled sight-- If spirits of the nobler dead can hear, This day--thy natal day--press close thine ear And learn what we thy nation need to fear, And if the immortal dead can truly speak, Show us, O Child of Light, where we are weak,-- Grant us thy counsel (for thou art with God) And bear us wisdom where thy footsteps trod, And if thou seest aught of envious strife From virtue sapping all her sweeter life, Teach us, O Child of Light, a purer love, For thou hast learn'd of God--thou art above Thy weak and erring mortals here below Who see the light, yet forward fear to go-- Guide us, if spirits of the dead may guide, So that in peace we ever may abide, So that from land to sea, from shore to shore, We shall be brothers now and evermore. All day long the sky was cloudless, Life was waiting for a breath, And the heat was more oppressive Than the fear of sudden death; All day long the sun was shining In a hot and windless sky, And the trees were weak for water-- Earth and air were dead and dry. But e'er Night her wings had folded Came a welcome western breeze, Moving idly through the forest, Prophesying to the trees, Till above that dim horizon Giant clouds like warring foes Marshalled far in battle numbers As the wild winds wilder rose. Hark! O hear the double rumble As the thunder shakes the air, Like a thousand hoofs advancing In yon cloudy corral there!-- Look!--how red the lightning flashes! How the echoes roll and roll-- Dirges from some demon goddess-- How the bells of heaven toll! Like a lance, a flash of lightning Cuts the foremost cloud in twain And the thunder's mighty echo Rolls athwart the drenching rain Till the landscape fades like shadows In the driving sheets of spray, And the wind wails through the forest, And the great trees rock and sway. Soon the air is strangely solemn And the winds no longer blow To the thunder's distant drumming In the valley far below; And along the low horizon All the clouds are growing dim, While upon the western hilltops Rolls again the sun's red rim. And away across the valley In the heavens arching high, Like a bed for fairy flowers Swings the rainbow in the sky-- Swings until the shadows gather And the sun sinks out of sight, Seemingly to whisper softly To the world a fond good night. Jim, the newsboy, died today, So the evening papers say-- And the funeral will be In the afternoon at three-- "Please" (the papers say) "a flow'r Bring for Jim before the hour-- Any color that you deem A true token of esteem, If you would remember him-- The newsboy, Jim. At his corner near Broad street, Jim, tho' lame, would smiling greet With a merry, winning call All his patrons, great and small, And his fellow newsboys say That they miss him much today, And they have a tablet bought, And upon it this is wrought: "In memory of Newsboy Jim, We all liked him." Little toilers on Life's road To yon visionless abode, There was much of good in Jim Or the boys had disliked him; There was something in his heart That drew patrons to his mart, Something noble, something true-- Strive that it be said of you As in eulogy of Jim, "We all liked him." Bitter March-wind, blow and blow; Drive away the drifting snow; Toss the tree-tops to and fro; Kiss the ice-bound lakes and streams And arouse them from their dreams. Happy March-wind, blithely blow, Winter's heart is full of woe, Winter's head is lying low; Bring, O bring the melting rain Back unto the earth again. Weeping March-wind, blow and blow Till thy tears of sorrow flow Down thy dying cheeks of snow-- Weep away! for man must wait Till those tearful winds abate. Merry March-wind, softer blow, Let the little children know Where the sweetest flowers grow; Let thy tender accents ring From the joyous harp of Spring. All ye wild-winds, blow and blow, Drive away the drifting snow, Bend the bushes, bend them low; Breathe upon the trembling sod Springtime's messages from God. The Delaware above the Rift Each bank is fast o'erflowing, And sweeping onward dark and swift, Wild and still wilder growing It hurls a heavy raft along Upon its rocking way, While the Captain's call the hills prolong At dawning of the day: Pull, lads, pull!--to Jersey side, The Rift is near! Pull, lads, pull!--for the high floods hide The ragged rocks like an ocean tide, And the river's rush I hear. Safely the Rift is left behind, A careful stearsman stearing; Swiftly we speed, only to find A dizzy eddy nearing, Where rolling in the river-lake, And whirling round and round A dozen rafts the circle make, And warning cries resound: Pull, lads, pull!--Sylvania's shore! The Eddy's near! Pull, lads, pull!--till the sweeping oar Bends like a bow and you hear the roar Of the river in the rear. The luring eddy lies behind Where the dizzy rafts are whirling, And we speed along with the cutting wind, The foam like suds up-curling, When ahead a sharp curve comes in sight And we hear the Captain call As the raft swerves sudden to the right And the ridges tower tall: Pull, lads, pull!--to Jersey side! The Bend I fear! Pull, lads, pull!--and soon we'll ride On the rolling wave to Trenton's tide With river calm and clear. The Bend is past, but the Water-gap Of the Delaware up-rearing, Looms far ahead like a narrow trap As fast our raft is nearing, And calm and deep the waters grow, And scarcely comes a sound Till the Captain's calling, to and fro Re-echoes far around: Rest, lads, rest!--a little while! Be of good cheer! Rest, lads, rest! till yonder isle We safely pass--a few more mile And all our course is clear. Along the wave we smoothly glide Until the island clearing, When down we speed as with the tide, Now here, now there a veering, Until a great bridge lifts its form Against the evening sky, When like the rolling of a storm The crew repeats the cry: Pull, lads, pull!--Sylvania's shore! The Bridge is near! Pull, lads, pull!--the for'ard oar, And soon our dangerous task is o'er, And little need we fear. So on we speed; now fast, now slow; By isle and rift and eddy Until at length along we flow With movement firm and steady; And low and lower lie the hills, And wider spreads the vale, And soft the Captain's calling trills Upon the evening gale: Rest, lads, rest!--our work is done-- The danger's o'er! Rest, lads, rest!--another sun Will see a haven safely won By Trenton's friendly shore. A Child's Elegy We know her not whom once we knew, Who died it seems e'er death was due-- We know her not; she is asleep; That one so young must bid adieu, Must part so soon from earthly view. Those tender feet we knew so late We hear no more; we can but wait To hear them in the House of God When dust to dust we tread the sod, For in that home of homes they wait For us beside the city's gate. Those little hands out-held in love, That in such innocence did move To fondle each familiar face Are still--they cannot now embrace As once they did so like a dove That weary parents would approve. Those little lips that met our own So sweetly when we were alone No more shall meet the lips of earth, Sealed up unto another birth; But when these larger lives have flown Our lips will meet; she will be known. Springtime was here--the birds would soon Have re-appeared--the birds would soon Have warbled from a new-built nest, Would soon have felt beneath their breast The little ones--and such a boon Had taught them still a sweeter tune. But of the little ones not all Will answer to the parent-call, Not all will learn to rise and fly-- Many are born, but some must die; Many will rise, but some must fall, And God knows best for each and all. This is the hope--we know not how-- This is the hope that lures us now, That makes the parting less of pain-- The hope that we shall meet again, And so while unto grief we bow The road beyond seems brighter now. I have been far away from the Delaware's shore, From the river where once I did play, But I'm dreaming tonight by the old cottage door Where the moonlight is gleaming bright as day. Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of that dear old stream, Dreaming of the days that are no more-- The days so bright and fair, Dreaming in the moonlight gleaming on the shore Of the dear old Delaware. And the river is still, and so peaceful tonight That its murmur I scarcely can hear, And across it the moonlight is beaming so bright That the scenes of my childhood appear. And I think of my mother who bade me farewell And the sister who kist me good-bye-- They are sleeping below in that beautiful dell But methinks that again they are nigh. Long deserted has been the old river home, My old home by the dear Delaware, But never, O never again will I roam From the scenes of my childhood so fair. I will cherish the dreams I am dreaming tonight, Will upbuild the old homestead once more, And perhaps when I'm dead, for another's delight It will bloom by the Delaware's shore. Along the lake's wild northern shore An island dark with trees Lies shadow-like, and o'er and o'er At midnight thru a leafy door Comes music on the breeze, Sweet music on the breeze, Where sad-eyed Norma dreams, And o'er the wave, in thru the trees The mellow moonlight streams. And Norma's voice is sweet to hear As the breathing of a bell; But while so welcome to the ear Of any one afar or near, The notes, O few can tell! The notes, O few can tell! Falling so wildly sweet, Like the mournful ringing of a bell With the tones still incomplete. How came this maid upon the isle Why sings she sweetly all the while As if to ease her self-denial? Why sings she a refrain At the lonely midnight hour On an island dark with trees, Enchanting souls unto her bower By such sweet melodies? The legend runs:--That long ago A lover came to woo, But left her--why?--(no man doth know) For while her love like wine did flow Away from her he drew-- He drew from her away, While she was left forlorn And ever (so the legends say) Did daily for him mourn. But Norma left her home one night When all were fast asleep And angel-like she trod the light Moonpath across the waters bright Until she ceased to weep, Until she ceased to weep, Singing a sweet, sweet song That on the lake that lay asleep The night-wind did prolong. And after Norma's death, one day A knock at her father's door Announced the lad who went away When both were lovers young and gay, Who now would love her more Than any other maid, Yes, any other maid, Saying, O where is Norma now, Where is my sweetheart now? O Youth, my daughter is not here-- She waited, waited long To hear the voice she held more dear Than all the rest--nor could we cheer Her with another song; But many hear her sing By the island,--sing so sweet That never, never can they bring The song to me complete. The lover sadly turned away And vowed that he would know The song complete e'er dawn of day And followed where the moonpath lay Upon the lake below, Where Norma sang of love On the island dark with trees That cast deep shadows on the cove, And his heart was ill at ease. At midnight o'er the moonlit wave He bent his little boat, Till he heard the song the soft winds gave, But if his life that song might save, He could not tell a note! He could not learn a note! Tho' many, and many, and many a night In the lovely moonpath gleaming bright He listened from his boat. But the song he never, never knew Altho' he listened long, And so it is--is ever true When hearts withhold a love long due; For Love sings one sweet song, One sweet familiar song, At thy heart's door today, And knocking, waits, but waiting long Forever turns away. The Past unto the Present cries-- Arise, ye more than blind, arise! For I who fell the forest low Would now another forest grow, But what is done I cannot mend, So unto you a message send-- Much did I do for you, for me Plant a tree, Plant a tree. The Present, waking from its sleep, Across the hills began to creep, And saw where Past had fallen far A noble forest, with a scar On many a wounded mountain side That from the elements would hide-- And answered:--Past, I will for thee Plant a tree, A forest tree. The feeling Future, yet unborn, Heard Present echoing her horn, And stirring somewhat in Life's cell Did try her dearest wish to tell, Whispering in an undertone: I--I shall reap as ye have sown, O heed the Past! and--thanks to thee-- Plant a tree, Plant a tree. Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, I sing a fond farewell, But, maiden, though I sing adieu, My love I cannot tell-- My love I cannot tell to thee For parting gives me pain, Oh may I in the days to be Meet with thee once again. Maid of Shehawken, sweet and fair, Accept my humble praise, And may thy path be free from care, Full happy be thy days, And ever mid the lure of life Where e'er thy lot may be, In pleasant paths or weary strife-- Remember, I love thee. Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, Tho' far away we roam, Few places will we find, O few As sweet as our highland home, And tho' Life's pathway lead along The shining streets of gold, Our lips will never know a song As sweet as the songs of old. Maid of Shehawken, dearer far Than any that I know, Lighting my pathway like a star, Afar from thee I go, But tho' I leave the Hills of Wayne My heart is still with thee, O maiden, may we meet again In the days that are to be. Cease thy murmuring, Delaware, For thy many braves so fair Who are sleeping by thy stream-- Rouse them not--there let them dream. For upon that silent shore Indian's cry shall sound no more. There, where still the owlets cry And the solemn night-winds sigh, Let the victor's head remain With the spirits of the slain, Leave the warriors fast asleep Where the willows o'er them weep, For thy murmuring, Delaware, Cannot wake those sleeping there, For thy voice deep in the foam Cannot ever call them home. There, where low and high degree Sleep beneath the self-same tree, And where warriors small and great, Share in death a common fate, Leave the pale-face and the braves Side by side within their graves. There, where ridges lifting high Try to bridge the endless sky, And where willows bend like lead O'er the footprints of the dead-- To each brother slumbering there, Sing sweet songs, my Delaware. Brave!--thy happy days have fled Into silence with the dead; Thy canoe, thy well-worn way, And thy bow are in decay. And no more thy camp-fires gleam By thy sweet, complaining stream; And I mourn thy ruthless fate; Weeping am I--but too late-- For upon that silent shore Indian's cry shall sound no more. Well named thou art, O little lake Set in among the hills; Well named art thou,--each star doth make Reflected forms that fancies wake And memory fondly fills. And nightly on the rugged shore Each cot with ruddy beam Lights up thy face from pane and door And throws a stream of silver o'er Thy bosom like a dream. Thy hemlock hills, now dimly grown, Fling shadows on thy face, And to their branch the birds have flown, Except the owl, whose monotone The listening ear can trace. There, where the starlight thickly trails A path across thy wave, A passing boat a boatman hails Whose maiden crew still softly sails As with a pilot brave. While from thy shore a lithe canoe Shoots o'er thy bosom fair, Leaving behind a milk-white view As when the beaver paddled thru Thy waters unaware. Up rides the moon with rosy rim All silently and still, Chasing away the shadows dim That on thy surface seem to swim Like wood nymphs from the hill. Now midnight comes, and on thy shore No boatman plies his way, The cottage lights shine forth no more From window-pane or open door Where yet thy shadows play. Silent and strangely still is all; The stars like candles are, No echoes on the forest fall,-- Each lonely owl hath ceas'd to call His wood-mate from afar. Silent and calmly still is all; Dim Night is monarch now, His kingdom is the midnight air, The forests his attendants fair, Who, at his bidding, bow-- And stand like sentinels asleep Beneath the moon's wan beam, Until Aurora fair doth creep Above the hill where she doth keep Bright morn with welcome gleam. Speak, O speak, my angel fair, Is there sadness everywhere-- Folly where the flower feedeth Rapids where the river leadeth To delight? Is there, is there anything An eternal joy can bring-- What is real and what but seemeth Like a dream a dreamer dreameth Thru the night? Can there be, Angel of Love Can there be bright homes above-- What is Life--and when it endeth What is Death--why it descendeth I implore? That thy hand is leading me-- Tell me, are these seraphs singing Up in heaven, gladness bringing The shadows fall on Twin Lake fair As crimson sets the Autumn sun; A holy hush is on the air Of eventide and day is done. No zephyrs kiss the little lake; So still and calm is either shore, That on her face dim shadows wake And deepen ever more and more. And where the long-leaf laurels grow A cuckoo sounds the hour of rest, And fondly answering far below Its mate is calling from her nest. Now comes the twilight, calm and still, And, with a cloak of sable hue, Half hides the lake and upland hill That faint and fainter fades from view. And through the broken web of night Each stalwart star with even ray Reflects upon the lake a light To guide a boatman on his way. And soon the massive moon doth ride Athwart the pine trees' heavy shade, That doth her fiery chariot hide, As an apparent halt is made. And sweetly from a maiden fair In yon canoe that skirts the shore A laugh rings out upon the air And echoes softly o'er and o'er Till dying on the distant hill, An evening silence settles far,-- A quietness, so calm, so still, With rising moon and silent star-- That peace, sweet peace subdues the soul, While on the clear and pensive air The bells of Como softly toll The ever-sacred hour of prayer. It is often, yes, often that the man who swears Is a man who dares and a man who cares; For the gentle voice and the eye of blue Will sometimes tell of a heart less true Than the rough, cold voice and manner stern-- And you some day this truth will learn:-- That often, yes, often that the man who swears Is a man who dares and a man who cares. When you are sick with fever and pain, Who comes to ease your weary brain? Is it the friend with the eyes of blue And gentle voice that comes to you, Or, is it the one with manner cold And voice so stern and ways so bold, That presses a hand on your fevered brow And soothes your troubled spirits now. When you are down and your friends are few, Who is it comes to comfort you? Is it the one with eyes so mild And voice as sweet as a little child-- Is it the one with gentle way That comes to you and dares to say:-- So sorry, friend; say, here's my hand, I'll do your bidding; now just command? When in misfortune you need a friend Who will fight for you to the bitter end-- Is it always the one who speaks quite low And fears to say what he knows, is so, Or is it the man who speaks his mind And shows some mettle--and hardly kind Whose heart is cold until your woe Melts an entrance as the sun melts snow? I would not say that swearing is right But I say some men are willing to fight-- It is wrong indeed for a man to swear, And I envy no one's weakness there-- Still I believe, with me you would say While one will swear and another pray You would follow the man who is willing to dare Tho one might pray and the other swear. Here Nature's nice adjusted tool Hath cut a chasm; and each pool Reflects a narrow, rocky room Where sun-born flowers seldom bloom, But where the ledging, level shelves Betray the dance hall of the elves. And overhead the tasseled trees Frown from the wall, and with each breeze Awake the solemn avenue, But hide from sight the upward view, When with a hundred harps they sing To Boreas their mighty king. Here Echo dwells in lonely mood, And answers to the dying wood; Unsuited to a varying rhyme She hath no voice for tuneful Time Content to speak as she hath heard The lyric wind, the singing bird. Here these same falls awoke the glen Long, long before the march of men; Long, long before yon broken soil Brought forth the fruit of human toil And here these falls will dance and play When feeling man has passed away. Sing little Falls; and echo Glen, Till silent are the songs of men And they that dwell upon the earth Have disappeared as at thy birth And senseless Rock--if think ye can, Think ye--how short the life of man! Kind guardian of the Lonely Shore, And Sorrow's true and only friend, Comforting angel of the poor-- What heavenly spirit did descend With passive voice, with ways unknown, Within thy very self complete? O Hope, when left at last alone We fall a suppliant at thy feet And worship there, with heart forlorn From childhood's land of make-believe, Through early youth, the brightening morn, Till tottering age, the fading eve. And who could walk without thee, friend? Who walk dim paths without thy hand? From out the world shouldst thou ascend Blind Poverty would stalk the land; Despair would seize some simple knave And Hatred every evil one,-- O Hope, for more would seek the grave Without thy timely vision shown:-- The sick upon the lowly bed; The blind a-begging as of yore; The weeping child who works unfed; The prisoner by the fatal door, All, led along, still cling below To feel thy subtle charms so free, As wearily, drearily on they go, Following, following after thee. And when upon Life's field they fall, When Disappointment reigns supreme, Thy voice, omnipotent, would call E'en from the dust their fondest dream; Would call and wake the slumbering thought, And point it to some great ideal While adding all, but taking naught From out the present, living real. Then, Hope, thou sentinel of light By Disappointment's lonely shore, Speak out amid the depth of night And guide us safely evermore. Let lawyers harp about the law, And all its majesty and might; They find in every case a flaw And think they're right. Let politicians praise the truth And laud its virtue to the sky-- They practice from their very youth To give the lie. Let prophets send the saints to heaven And damn poor sinners e'en to hell-- How such authority is given They cannot tell. Let doctors prate of human pain Alleviated by their skill, When Death's dull sickness comes, in vain Is every pill. Let poets pipe of bloody war And claim its carnal method right; They're only piping cowards, for Not one will fight. And so it seems we mortals boast Of knowledge where we know the least And show our ignorance the most Like any beast. He was a lad--a tender boy, And she--she held him as her toy, And when she wearied of his way And would with other playthings play, I heard him say beneath his breath:-- A fool am I; it is my death-- She jilted me--the little lass,-- I will not let such fooling pass But shift at once some bitter dart Back--back again into her heart, But then thought he--All those who play With fools are fools as well as they, And so he made a living rule:-- It takes a fool to fool a fool.

François Habert

Les Divins Oracles de Zoroastre, ancien Philosophe Grec, Interpretez en Rime Françoise, par François Habert de Berry Avec un Commentaire moral sur ledit Zoroastre, en Poesie Françoise, et Latine.

In making this book I have tried to avoid poems which have been included in many cases because the previous versions were full of Master Teng-t'u Old and New Li Fu-jen Song of Snow-white Heads Lament of Hsi-chuen Ch'in Chia Ch'in Chia's Wife's Reply The Campaign against Wu The Ruins of Lo-yang The Cock-fight Bearer's Song Five "Tzu-yeh" Songs The Little Lady of Ch'ing-hsi Song of the Men of Chin-ling Lo-yang People hide their Love The Waters of Lung-t'ou Ch'ien Fu The Herd-boy How I sailed on the Lake till I came A Seventeenth-century Chinese Poem Being on Duty all night in the Palace and dreaming of the Hsien-yu Temple Passing T'ien-men Street in Ch'ang-an and seeing a distant View of Chung-nan Mountain Rejoicing at the Arrival of Ch'en The Grain-tribute The People of Tao-chou The Chancellor's Gravel-drive The Charcoal-seller The Old Man with the Broken Arm Kept waiting in the Boat at Chiu-k'ou Ten Days by an adverse Wind On Board Ship: Reading Yuean Chen's Arriving at Hsuen-yang To a Portrait Painter who desired him to sit Having climbed to the topmost Peak of the Incense-burner Mountain Eating Bamboo-shoots Alarm at first entering the Yang-tze On being removed from Hsuen-yang and sent to Chung-chou Being visited by a Friend during Stopping the Night at Jung-yang The Hat given to the Poet by Li Chien After getting Drunk, becoming Sober in Rising Late and Playing with A-ts'ui, aged Two On a Box containing his own Works On being Sixty Climbing the Terrace of Kuan-yin and looking at the City looking North Going to the Mountains with a little Dancing Girl, aged Fifteen On hearing someone sing a Poem by (Northern Wei, ruled over the North of China, 386-532.) Turning from thought to emotion, the most conspicuous feature of Accordingly we find that while our poets tend to lay stress on physical courage and other qualities which normal women admire, Such were the artificialities of later Chinese poetry. Chinese prosody distinguishes between two tones, a "flat" and a prosody. It would be equally difficult to define accurately the (_d_) Verbal parallelism in the couplet, _e.g._: After long illness one first realizes that seeking medicines is a mistake; In one's decaying years one begins to repent that one's study of books was deferred. attempting to use the same imagery and rhapsodical verbiage, not _El candil se esta apagando, La alcuza no tiene aceite-- No te digo que te vayas, ... No te digo que te quedes._ The brazier is going out, The lamp has no more oil-- I do not tell you to go, ... I do not tell you to stay. On two sides of river, wedding made: Time comes; no boat. Lusting heart loses hope Not seeing what-it-desires. _Liang and Minor Dynasties._--This period is known as that of the love-poetry are those of the Han Court. Innumerable poems record precipitate flight from his enemies. characteristics of poetry. Combines rhyme and literalness with wonderful dexterity. conduct of his prince, he drowned himself in the river Mi-lo. The "We grasp our battle-spears: we don our breast-plates of hide. The axles of our chariots touch: our short swords meet. Standards obscure the sun: the foe roll up like clouds. Arrows fall thick: the warriors press forward. They menace our ranks: they break our line. They grasp their jade drum-sticks: they beat the sounding drums. Heaven decrees their fall: the dread Powers are angry. The warriors are all dead: they lie on the moor-field. They issued but shall not enter: they went but shall not return. The plains are flat and wide: the way home is long. Their swords lie beside them: their black bows, in their hand. Steadfast to the end, they could not be daunted. _I.e._, military genius. "And so it becomes the Great King's wind. "Such is the Woman-wind of the common people." The following is a sample of Sung Yue's prose: By Sung Yue (third century B.C.) character, I deny that it is licentious." The King said: "Can you Fashionable quarters in the capital of Ch'u state. Sung Yue was not dismissed from court. Anon. (first century B.C.) To be an orphan, To be fated to be an orphan. How bitter is this lot! When my father and mother were alive I used to ride in a carriage With four fine horses. But when they both died, My brother and sister-in-law Sent me out to be a merchant. In the south I travelled to the "Nine Rivers" And in the east as far as Ch'i and Lu. At the end of the year when I came home I dared not tell them what I had suffered-- Of the lice and vermin in my head, Of the dust in my face and eyes. My brother told me to get ready the dinner. My sister-in-law told me to see after the horses. I was always going up into the hall And running down again to the parlour. My tears fell like rain. In the morning they sent me to draw water, I didn't get back till night-fall. My hands were all sore And I had no shoes. I walked the cold earth Treading on thorns and brambles. As I stopped to pull out the thorns, How bitter my heart was! My tears fell and fell And I went on sobbing and sobbing. In winter I have no great-coat; Nor in summer, thin clothes. It is no pleasure to be alive. I had rather quickly leave the earth And go beneath the Yellow Springs. The April winds blow And the grass is growing green. In the third month--silkworms and mulberries, In the sixth month--the melon-harvest. I went out with the melon-cart And just as I was coming home The melon-cart turned over. The people who came to help me were few, But the people who ate the melons were many, All they left me was the stalks-- To take home as fast as I could. My brother and sister-in-law were harsh, They asked me all sorts of awful questions. Why does everyone in the village hate me? I want to write a letter and send it To my mother and father under the earth, And tell them I can't go on any longer Living with my brother and sister-in-law. She had been ill for years and years; She sent for me to say something. She couldn't say what she wanted Because of the tears that kept coming of themselves. "I have burdened you with orphan children, With orphan children two or three. Don't let our children go hungry or cold; If they do wrong, don't slap or beat them. When you take out the baby, rock it in your arms. Don't forget to do that." Last she said, "When I carried them in my arms they had no clothes And now their jackets have no linings." [_She dies._ I shut the doors and barred the windows And left the motherless children. When I got to the market and met my friends, I wept. I sat down and could not go with them. I asked them to buy some cakes for my children. In the presence of my friends I sobbed and cried. I tried not to grieve, but sorrow would not cease. I felt in my pocket and gave my friends some money. When I got home I found my children Calling to be taken into their mother's arms. I walked up and down in the empty room This way and that a long while. Then I went away from it and said to myself "I will forget and never speak of her again." Anon. (first century B.C.) In the eastern quarter dawn breaks, the stars flicker pale. The morning cock at Ju-nan mounts the wall and crows. The songs are over, the clock run down, but still the feast is set. The moon grows dim and the stars are few; morning has come to the world. At a thousand gates and ten thousand doors the fish-shaped keys turn; Round the Palace and up by the Castle, the crows and magpies are flying. A water-clock. Anon. (first century B.C.) We set out the jade cups. We summon the honoured guests To enter at the Golden Gate. They enter at the Golden Gate In the Eastern Kitchen the meat is sliced and ready-- Roast beef and boiled pork and mutton. The Master of the Feast hands round the wine. The harp-players sound their clear chords. The cups are pushed aside and we face each other at chess: The rival pawns are marshalled rank against rank. The fire glows and the smoke puffs and curls; From the incense-burner rises a delicate fragrance. The clear wine has made our cheeks red; Round the table joy and peace prevail. May those who shared in this day's delight Through countless autumns enjoy like felicity. At fifteen I went with the army, At fourscore I came home. On the way I met a man from the village, I asked him who there was at home. "That over there is your house, All covered over with trees and bushes." Rabbits had run in at the dog-hole, Pheasants flew down from the beams of the roof. In the courtyard was growing some wild grain; And by the well, some wild mallows. I'll boil the grain and make porridge, I'll pluck the mallows and make soup. Soup and porridge are both cooked, But there is no one to eat them with. I went out and looked towards the east, While tears fell and wetted my clothes. In a narrow road where there was not room to pass My carriage met the carriage of a young man. And while his axle was touching my axle In the narrow road I asked him where he lived. "The place where I live is easy enough to find, Easy to find and difficult to forget. The gates of my house are built of yellow gold, The hall of my house is paved with white jade, On the hall table flagons of wine are set, I have summoned to serve me dancers of Han-tan. In the midst of the courtyard grows a cassia-tree,-- And candles on its branches flaring away in the night." Capital of the kingdom of Chao, where the people were famous for They fought south of the Castle, They died north of the wall. They died in the moors and were not buried. Their flesh was the food of crows. "Tell the crows we are not afraid; We have died in the moors and cannot be buried. Crows, how can our bodies escape you?" The waters flowed deep And the rushes in the pool were dark. The riders fought and were slain: Their horses wander neighing. By the bridge there was a house. Was it south, was it north? The harvest was never gathered. How can we give you your offerings? You served your Prince faithfully, Though all in vain. I think of you, faithful soldiers; Your service shall not be forgotten. For in the morning you went out to battle And at night you did not return. Anon. (first century B.C.). I went out at the eastern gate: I never thought to return. But I came back to the gate with my heart full of sorrow. There was not a peck of rice in the bin: There was not a coat hanging on the pegs. So I took my sword and went towards the gate. My wife and child clutched at my coat and wept: "Some people want to be rich and grand: I only want to share my porridge with you. Above, we have the blue waves of the sky: Below, the yellow face of this little child." "Dear wife, I cannot stay. Soon it will be too late. When one is growing old One cannot put things off." Anon. (first century B.C.) She went up the mountain to pluck wild herbs; She came down the mountain and met her former husband. She knelt down and asked her former husband "What do you find your new wife like?" "My new wife, although her talk is clever, Cannot charm me as my old wife could. In beauty of face there is not much to choose. But in usefulness they are not at all alike. My new wife comes in from the road to meet me; My old wife always came down from her tower. My new wife is clever at embroidering silk; My old wife was good at plain sewing. Of silk embroidery one can do an inch a day; Of plain sewing, more than five feet. Putting her silks by the side of your sewing, I see that the new will not compare with the old." My love is living To the south of the Great Sea. What shall I send to greet him? Two pearls and a comb of tortoise-shell: I'll send them to him packed in a box of jade. They tell me he is not true: They tell me he dashed my box to the ground, Dashed it to the ground and burnt it And scattered its ashes to the wind. From this day to the ends of time I must never think of him, Never again think of him. The cocks are crowing, And the dogs are barking-- My brother and his wife will soon know. The autumn wind is blowing; The morning wind is sighing. In a moment the sun will rise in the east And then _it_ too will know. _I.e._, about her engagement being broken off. I am a prisoner in the hands of the enemy, Enduring the shame of captivity. My bones stick out and my strength is gone Through not getting enough to eat. My brother is a Mandarin And his horses are fed on maize. Why can't he spare a little money To send and ransom me? If you were riding in a coach And I were wearing a "li," And one day we met in the road, You would get down and bow. If you were carrying a "teng" And I were riding on a horse, And one day we met in the road I would get down for you. A peasant's coat made of straw. An umbrella under which a cheap-jack sells his wares. I want to be your friend For ever and ever without break or decay. When the hills are all flat And the rivers are all dry, When it lightens and thunders in winter, When it rains and snows in summer, When Heaven and Earth mingle-- Not till then will I part from you. "The dew on the garlic-leaf," sung at the burial of kings and princes. How swiftly it dries, The dew on the garlic-leaf, The dew that dries so fast To-morrow will fall again. But he whom we carry to the grave Will never more return. "The Graveyard," sung at the burial of common men. What man's land is the graveyard? It is the crowded home of ghosts,-- Wise and foolish shoulder to shoulder. The King of the Dead claims them all; Man's fate knows no tarrying. On and on, always on and on Away from you, parted by a life-parting. Going from one another ten thousand "li," Each in a different corner of the World. The way between is difficult and long, Face to face how shall we meet again? The Tartar horse prefers the North wind, The bird from Yueeh nests on the Southern branch. Since we parted the time is already long, Daily my clothes hang looser round my waist. Floating clouds obscure the white sun, The wandering one has quite forgotten home. Thinking of you has made me suddenly old, The months and years swiftly draw to their close. I'll put you out of my mind and forget for ever And try with all my might to eat and thrive. The opposite of a parting by death. Green, green, The grass by the river-bank. Thick, thick, The willow trees in the garden. Sad, sad, The lady in the tower. White, white, Sitting at the casement window. Fair, fair, Her red-powdered face. Small, small, She puts out her pale hand. Once she was a dancing-house girl. Now she is a wandering man's wife. The wandering man went, but did not return. It is hard alone to keep an empty bed. Green, green, The cypress on the mound. Firm, firm, The boulder in the stream. Man's life lived within this world, Is like the sojourning of a hurried traveller. A cup of wine together will make us glad, And a little friendship is no little matter. Yoking my chariot I urge my stubborn horses. I wander about in the streets of Wan and Lo. In Lo Town how fine everything is! The "Caps and Belts" go seeking each other out. The great boulevards are intersected by lanes, Wherein are the town-houses of Royal Dukes. The two palaces stare at each other from afar, The twin gates rise a hundred feet. By prolonging the feast let us keep our hearts gay, And leave no room for sadness to creep in. High officers. Of this day's glorious feast and revel The pleasure and delight are difficult to describe. Plucking the lute they sent forth lingering sounds, The new melodies in beauty reached the divine. Skilful singers intoned the high words, Those who knew the tune heard the trueness of their singing. We sat there each with the same desire And like thoughts by each unexpressed: "Man in the world lodging for a single life-time Passes suddenly like dust borne on the wind. Then let us hurry out with high steps And be the first to reach the highways and fords: Rather than stay at home wretched and poor For long years plunged in sordid grief." In the north-west there is a high house, Its top level with the floating clouds. Embroidered curtains thinly screen its windows, Its storied tower is built on three steps. From above there comes a noise of playing and singing, The tune sounding, oh! how sad! Who can it be, playing so sad a tune? Surely it must be Ch'i Liang's wife. The tranquil "D" follows the wind's rising, The middle lay lingers indecisive. To each note, two or three sobs, Her high will conquered by overwhelming grief. She does not regret that she is left so sad, But minds that so few can understand her song. She wants to become those two wild geese That with beating wings rise high aloft. Who had no father, no husband, and no children. Crossing the river I pluck hibiscus-flowers: In the orchid-swamps are many fragrant herbs. I gather them, but who shall I send them to? My love is living in lands far away. I turn and look towards my own country: The long road stretches on for ever. The same heart, yet a different dwelling: Always fretting, till we are grown old! A bright moon illumines the night-prospect: The house-cricket chirrups on the eastern wall. The Handle of the Pole-star points to the Beginning of Winter. The host of stars is scattered over the sky. The white dew wets the moor-grasses,-- With sudden swiftness the times and seasons change. The autumn cicada sings among the trees, The swallows, alas, whither are they gone? Once I had a same-house friend, He took flight and rose high away. He did not remember how once we went hand in hand, But left me like footsteps behind one in the dust. In the South is the Winnowing-fan and the Pole-star in the North, A friend who is not firm as a great rock Is of no profit and idly bears the name. In the courtyard there grows a strange tree, Its green leaves ooze with a fragrant moisture. Holding the branch I cut a flower from the tree, Meaning to send it away to the person I love. Its sweet smell fills my sleeves and lap. The road is long, how shall I get it there? Such a thing is not fine enough to send: But it may remind him of the time that has past since he left. _I.e._ (supposing he went away in the autumn), remind him that spring has come. Far away twinkles the Herd-boy star; Brightly shines the Lady of the Han River. Slender, slender she plies her white fingers. Click, click go the wheels of her spinning-loom. At the end of the day she has not finished her task; Her bitter tears fall like streaming rain. The Han River runs shallow and clear; Set between them, how short a space! But the river water will not let them pass, Gazing at each other but never able to speak. Turning my chariot I yoke my horses and go. On and on down the long roads The autumn winds shake the hundred grasses. On every side, how desolate and bare! The things I meet are all new things, Their strangeness hastens the coming of old age. Prosperity and decay each have their season. Success is bitter when it is slow in coming. Man's life is not metal or stone, He cannot far prolong the days of his fate. Suddenly he follows in the way of things that change. Fame is the only treasure that endures. The Eastern Castle stands tall and high; Far and wide stretch the towers that guard it. The whirling wind uprises and shakes the earth; The autumn grasses grow thick and green. The four seasons alternate without pause, The year's end hurries swiftly on. The Bird of the Morning Wind is stricken with sorrow; The frail cicada suffers and is hard pressed. Free and clear, let us loosen the bonds of our hearts. Why should we go on always restraining and binding? In Yen and Chao are many fair ladies, Beautiful people with faces like jade. Their clothes are made all of silk gauze. They stand at the door practising tranquil lays. The echo of their singing, how sad it sounds! By the pitch of the song one knows the stops have been tightened. Lowering their song, a little while they pause. "I should like to be those two flying swallows Who are carrying clay to nest in the eaves of your house." I drive my chariot up to the Eastern Gate; From afar I see the graveyard north of the Wall. The white aspens how they murmur, murmur; Pines and cypresses flank the broad paths. Beneath lie men who died long ago; Black, black is the long night that holds them. Deep down beneath the Yellow Springs, Thousands of years they lie without waking. In infinite succession light and darkness shift, And years vanish like the morning dew. Man's life is like a sojourning, His longevity lacks the firmness of stone and metal. For ever it has been that mourners in their turn were mourned, Saint and Sage,--all alike are trapped. Seeking by food to obtain Immortality Many have been the dupe of strange drugs. Better far to drink good wine And clothe our bodies in robes of satin and silk. The dead are gone and with them we cannot converse. The living are here and ought to have our love. Leaving the city-gate I look ahead And see before me only mounds and tombs. The old graves are ploughed up into fields, The pines and cypresses are hewn for timber. In the white aspens sad winds sing; Their long murmuring kills my heart with grief. I want to go home, to ride to my village gate. I want to go back, but there's no road back. The years of a lifetime do not reach a hundred. Yet they contain a thousand years' sorrow. When days are short and the dull nights long, Why not take a lamp and wander forth? If you want to be happy you must do it now, There is no waiting till an after-time. The fool who's loath to spend the wealth he's got Becomes the laughing-stock of after ages. It is true that Master Wang became immortal, But how can _we_ hope to share his lot? Cold, cold the year draws to its end, The crickets and grasshoppers make a doleful chirping. The chill wind increases its violence. My wandering love has no coat to cover him. He gave his embroidered furs to the Lady of Lo, But from me his bedfellow he is quite estranged. Sleeping alone in the depth of the long night In a dream I thought I saw the light of his face. My dear one thought of our old joys together, He came in his chariot and gave me the front reins. I wanted so to prolong our play and laughter, To hold his hand and go back with him in his coach. But, when he had come he would not stay long Nor stop to go with me to the Inner Chamber. Truly without the falcon's wings to carry me How can I rival the flying wind's swiftness? I go and lean at the gate and think of my grief, My falling tears wet the double gates. At the beginning of winter a cold spirit comes, The North Wind blows--chill, chill. My sorrows being many, I know the length of the nights, Raising my head I look at the stars in their places. On the fifteenth day the bright moon is full, On the twentieth day the "toad and hare" wane. A stranger came to me from a distant land And brought me a single scroll with writing on it; At the top of the scroll was written "Do not forget," At the bottom was written "Goodbye for Ever." I put the letter away in the folds of my dress, For three years the writing did not fade. How with an undivided heart I loved you I fear that you will never know or guess. The bright moon, oh, how white it shines, Shines down on the gauze curtains of my bed. Racked by sorrow I toss and cannot sleep. Picking up my clothes, I wander up and down. My absent love says that he is happy, But I would rather he said he was coming back. Out in the courtyard I stand hesitating, alone. To whom can I tell the sad thoughts I think? Staring before me I enter my room again; Falling tears wet my mantle and robe. Autumn wind rises: white clouds fly. Grass and trees wither: geese go south. Orchids all in bloom: chrysanthemums smell sweet. I think of my lovely lady: I never can forget. Floating-pagoda boat crosses Fen River. Across the mid-stream white waves rise Flute and drum keep time to sound of the rowers' song; Amidst revel and feasting, sad thoughts come; Youth's years how few! Age how sure! The sound of her silk skirt has stopped. On the marble pavement dust grows. Her empty room is cold and still. Fallen leaves are piled against the doors. Longing for that lovely lady How can I bring my aching heart to rest? curtain. The emperor cried: Is it or isn't it? I stand and look. The swish, swish of a silk skirt. How slow she comes! Our love was pure As the snow on the mountains: White as a moon Between the clouds-- They're telling me Your thoughts are double That's why I've come To break it off. To-day we'll drink A cup of wine. To-morrow we'll part Walking about Where its branches divide East and west. Alas and alas, And again alas. So must a girl Cry when she's married, If she find not a man Of single heart, Who will not leave her Till her hair is white. Since our hair was plaited and we became man and wife The love between us was never broken by doubt. So let us be merry this night together, Feasting and playing while the good time lasts. I suddenly remember the distance that I must travel; I spring from bed and look out to see the time. The stars and planets are all grown dim in the sky; Long, long is the road; I cannot stay. I am going on service, away to the battle-ground, And I do not know when I shall come back. I hold your hand with only a deep sigh; Afterwards, tears--in the days when we are parted. With all your might enjoy the spring flowers, But do not forget the time of our love and pride. Know that if I live, I will come back again, And if I die, we will go on thinking of each other. (Parting from Su Wu) The good time will never come back again: In a moment,--our parting will be over. Anxiously--we halt at the road-side, Hesitating--we embrace where the fields begin. The clouds above are floating across the sky: Swiftly, swiftly passing: or blending together. The waves in the wind lose their fixed place And are rolled away each to a corner of Heaven. From now onwards--long must be our parting. So let us stop again for a little while. I wish I could ride on the wings of the morning wind And go with you right to your journey's end. I came ten thousand leagues Across sandy deserts In the service of my Prince, To break the Hun tribes. My way was blocked and barred, My arrows and sword broken. My armies had faded away, My reputation had gone. My old mother is long dead. Although I want to requite my Prince How can I return? My people have married me In a far corner of Earth: Sent me away to a strange land, To the king of the Wu-sun. A tent is my house, Of felt are my walls; Raw flesh my food With mare's milk to drink. Always thinking of my own country, My heart sad within. Would I were a yellow stork And could fly to my old home! Solemn, solemn the coachman gets ready to go: "Chiang, chiang" the harness bells ring. At break of dawn I must start on my long journey: At cock-crow I must gird on my belt. I turn back and look at the empty room: For a moment I almost think I see you there. One parting, but ten thousand regrets: As I take my seat, my heart is unquiet. What shall I do to tell you all my thoughts? How can I let you know of all my love? Precious hairpins make the head to shine And bright mirrors can reflect beauty. Fragrant herbs banish evil smells And the scholar's harp has a clear note. The man in the Book of Odes who was given a quince Wanted to pay it back with diamonds and rubies. When I think of all the things you have done for me, How ashamed I am to have done so little for you! Although I know that it is a poor return, All I can give you is this description of my feelings. My poor body is alas unworthy: I was ill when first you brought me home. Limp and weary in the house-- Time passed and I got no better. We could hardly ever see each other: I could not serve you as I ought. Then you received the Imperial Mandate: You were ordered to go far away to the City. Long, long must be our parting: I was not destined to tell you my thoughts. I stood on tiptoe gazing into the distance, Interminably gazing at the road that had taken you. With thoughts of you my mind is obsessed: In my dreams I see the light of your face. Now you are started on your long journey Each day brings you further from me. Oh that I had a bird's wings And high flying could follow you. Long I sob and long I cry: The tears fall down and wet my skirt. By Sung Tzu-hou (second century A.D.) On the Eastern Way at the city of Lo-yang At the edge of the road peach-trees and plum-trees grow; On the two sides,--flower matched by flower; Across the road,--leaf touching leaf. A spring wind rises from the north-east; Flowers and leaves gently nod and sway. Up the road somebody's daughter comes Carrying a basket, to gather silkworms' food. (_She sees the fruit trees in blossom and, forgetting about her silkworms, begins to pluck the branches._) With her slender hand she breaks a branch from the tree; The flowers fall, tossed and scattered in the wind. _The tree says:_ "Lovely lady, I never did you harm; Why should you hate me and do me injury?" _The lady answers:_ "At high autumn in the eighth and ninth moons When the white dew changes to hoar-frost, At the year's end the wind would have lashed your boughs, Your sweet fragrance could not have lasted long. Though in the autumn your leaves patter to the ground, When spring comes, your gay bloom returns. But in men's lives when their bright youth is spent Joy and love never come back again." When I was young, throughout the hot season There were no carriages driving about the roads. People shut their doors and lay down in the cool: Or if they went out, it was not to pay calls. Nowadays--ill-bred, ignorant fellows, When they feel the heat, make for a friend's house. The unfortunate host, when he hears someone coming Scowls and frowns, but can think of no escape. "There's nothing for it but to rise and go to the door," And in his comfortable seat he groans and sighs. The conversation does not end quickly: Prattling and babbling, what a lot he says! Only when one is almost dead with fatigue He asks at last if one isn't finding him tiring. (One's arm is almost in half with continual fanning: The sweat is pouring down one's neck in streams.) Do not say that this is a small matter: I consider the practice a blot on our social life. I therefore caution all wise men That August visitors should not be admitted. I look up and see / his curtains and bed: I look down and examine / his table and mat. The things are there / just as before. But the man they belonged to / is not there. His spirit suddenly / has taken flight And left me behind / far away. To whom shall I look / on whom rely? My tears flow / in an endless stream. "Yu, yu" / cry the wandering deer As they carry fodder / to their young in the wood. Flap, flap / fly the birds As they carry their little ones / back to the nest. I alone / am desolate Dreading the days / of our long parting: My grieving heart's / settled pain No one else / can understand. There is a saying / among people "Sorrow makes us / grow old." Alas, alas / for my white hairs! All too early / they have come! Long wailing, / long sighing My thoughts are fixed on my sage parent. They say the good / live long: Then why was he / not spared? My charioteer hastens to yoke my carriage, For I must go on a journey far away. "Where are you going on your journey far away?" To the land of Wu where my enemies are. But I must ride many thousand miles, Beyond the Eastern Road that leads to Wu. Between the rivers bitter winds blow, Swiftly flow the waters of Huai and Ssu. I want to take a skiff and cross these rivers, But alas for me, where shall I find a boat? To sit idle is not my desire: Gladly enough would I go to my country's aid. (_He abandons the campaign_) In the North-west there is a floating cloud Stretched on high, like a chariot's canvas-awning. Alas that I was born in these times, To be blown along like a cloud puffed by the wind! It has blown me away far to the South-east, On and on till I came to Wu-hui. Wu-hui is not my country: Why should I go on staying and staying here? I will give it up and never speak of it again,-- This being abroad and always living in dread. I climb to the ridge of Pei Mang Mountain And look down on the city of Lo-yang. In Lo-yang how still it is! Palaces and houses all burnt to ashes. Walls and fences all broken and gaping, Thorns and brambles shooting up to the sky. I do not see the old old-men: I only see the new young men. I turn aside, for the straight road is lost: The fields are overgrown and will never be ploughed again. I have been away such a long time That I do not know which street is which. How sad and ugly the empty moors are! A thousand miles without the smoke of a chimney. I think of the house I lived in all those years: I am heart-tied and cannot speak. "Wondrous was the wall-stone, Weirdly broken; Burgh-steads bursten, Giants' work tumbleth, Roofs are wrenched, Towers totter, Bereft of rune-gates. Smoke is on the plaster, Scarred the shower-burghs, Shorn and shattered, By eld under-eaten. Earth's grip haveth Wealders and workmen." By Ts'ao Chih Our wandering eyes are sated with the dancer's skill. Our ears are weary with the sound of "kung" and "shang." Our host is silent and sits doing nothing: All the guests go on to places of amusement. On long benches the sportsmen sit ranged Round a cleared room, watching the fighting-cocks. The gallant birds are all in battle-trim: They raise their tails and flap defiantly. Their beating wings stir the calm air: Their angry eyes gleam with a red light. Where their beaks have struck, the fine feathers are scattered: With their strong talons they wound again and again. Their long cries enter the blue clouds; Their flapping wings tirelessly beat and throb. "Pray God the lamp-oil lasts a little longer, Then I shall not leave without winning the match!" Notes of the scale. By Ts'ao Chih In the Nine Provinces there is not room enough: I want to soar high among the clouds, And, far beyond the Eight Limits of the compass, Cast my gaze across the unmeasured void. I will wear as my gown the red mists of sunrise, And as my skirt the white fringes of the clouds: My canopy--the dim lustre of Space: My chariot--six dragons mounting heavenward: And before the light of Time has shifted a pace Suddenly stand upon the World's blue rim. The doors of Heaven swing open, The double gates shine with a red light. I roam and linger in the palace of Wen-ch'ang, I climb up to the hall of T'ai-wei. The Lord God lies at his western lattice: And the lesser Spirits are together in the eastern gallery. They wash me in a bath of rainbow-spray And gird me with a belt of jasper and rubies. I wander at my ease gathering divine herbs: I bend down and touch the scented flowers. Wang-tzu gives me drugs of long-life And Hsien-men hands me strange potions. By the partaking of food I evade the rites of Death: My span is extended to the enjoyment of life everlasting. By Liu Hsuen's wife (third century A.D.). Flap, flap, you curtain in front of our bed! I hung you there to screen us from the light of day. I brought you with me when I left my father's house; Now I am taking you back with me again. I will fold you up and lay you flat in your box. Curtain--shall I ever take you out again? When I was young I learnt fencing And was better at it than Crooked Castle. My spirit was high as the rolling clouds And my fame resounded beyond the World. I took my sword to the desert sands, I drank my horse at the Nine Moors. My flags and banners flapped in the wind, And nothing was heard but the song of my drums. War and its travels have made me sad, And a fierce anger burns within me: It's thinking of how I've wasted my time That makes this fury tear my heart. A famous general. I will cast out Wisdom and reject Learning. My thoughts shall wander in the Great Void (_bis_). Always repenting of wrongs done Will never bring my heart to rest. I cast my hook in a single stream; But my joy is as though I possessed a Kingdom. I loose my hair and go singing; To the four frontiers men join in my refrain. This is the purport of my song: "My thoughts shall wander in the Great Void." A gentle wind fans the calm night: A bright moon shines on the high tower. A voice whispers, but no one answers when I call: A shadow stirs, but no one comes when I beckon. The kitchen-man brings in a dish of lentils: Wine is there, but I do not fill my cup. Contentment with poverty is Fortune's best gift: Riches and Honour are the handmaids of Disaster. Though gold and gems by the world are sought and prized, To me they seem no more than weeds or chaff. How sad it is to be a woman! Nothing on earth is held so cheap. Boys stand leaning at the door Like Gods fallen out of Heaven. Their hearts brave the Four Oceans, The wind and dust of a thousand miles. No one is glad when a girl is born: By _her_ the family sets no store. When she grows up, she hides in her room Afraid to look a man in the face. No one cries when she leaves her home-- Sudden as clouds when the rain stops. She bows her head and composes her face, Her teeth are pressed on her red lips: She bows and kneels countless times. She must humble herself even to the servants. _His_ love is distant as the stars in Heaven, Yet the sunflower bends toward the sun. Their hearts more sundered than water and fire-- A hundred evils are heaped upon her. Her face will follow the years' changes: Her lord will find new pleasures. They that were once like substance and shadow Are now as far as Hu from Ch'in. Yet Hu and Ch'in shall sooner meet Than they whose parting is like Ts'an and Ch'en. Two lands. Two stars. By Tso Ssu (third century A.D.) When I was young I played with a soft brush And was passionately devoted to reading all sorts of books. In prose I made Chia I my standard: In verse I imitated Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju. But then the arrows began singing at the frontier. And a winged summons came flying to the City. Although arms were not my profession, I had once read Jang-Chu's war-book. I shouted aloud and my cries rent the air: I felt as though Tung Wu were already annihilated. The scholar's knife cuts best at its first use And my dreams hurried on to the completion of my plan. I wanted at a stroke to clear the Yang-tze and Hsiang, And at a glance to quell the Tibetans and Hu. When my task was done, I should not accept a barony, But refusing with a bow, retire to a cottage in the country. Flap, flap, the captive bird in the cage Beating its wings against the four corners. Depressed, depressed the scholar in the narrow street: Clasping a shadow, he dwells in an empty house. When he goes out, there is nowhere for him to go: Bunches and brambles block up his path. He composes a memorial, but it is rejected and unread, He is left stranded, like a fish in a dry pond. Without--he has not a single farthing of salary: Within--there is not a peck of grain in his larder. His relations upbraid him for his lack of success: His friends and callers daily decrease in number. Su Ch'in used to go preaching in the North And Li Ssu sent a memorandum to the West. I once hoped to pluck the fruits of life: But now alas, they are all withered and dry. The bird in a forest can perch but on one bough, And this should be the wise man's pattern. By Chang Tsai (third century A.D.) At Pei-mang how they rise to Heaven, Those high mounds, four or five in the fields! What men lie buried under these tombs? All of them were Lords of the Han world. "Kung" and "Wen" gaze across at each other: The Yuean mound is all grown over with weeds. When the dynasty was falling, tumult and disorder arose, Thieves and robbers roamed like wild beasts. Of earth they have carried away more than one handful, They have gone into vaults and opened the secret doors. The stones that were set in them, thieves have carried away, The ancestral temples are hummocks in the ground: The walls that went round them are all levelled flat. Over everything the tangled thorns are growing: A herd-boy pushes through them up the path. Down in the thorns rabbits have made their burrows: The weeds and thistles will never be cleared away. Over the tombs the ploughshare will be driven And peasants will have their fields and orchards there. They that were once lords of a thousand hosts Are now become the dust of the hills and ridges. I think of what Yuen-men said And am sorely grieved at the thought of "then" and "now." Names of two tombs. In the early days of the dynasty a man stole a handful of earth Yuen-men said to Meng Ch'ang-chuen (died 279 B.C.), "Does it not When I was alive, I wandered in the streets of the Capital: Now that I am dead, I am left to lie in the fields. In the morning I drove out from the High Hall: In the evening I lodged beneath the Yellow Springs. When the white sun had sunk in the Western Chasm I hung up my chariot and rested my four horses. Now, even the mighty Maker of All Could not bring the life back to my limbs. Shape and substance day by day will vanish: Hair and teeth will gradually fall away. Forever from of old men have been so: And none born can escape this thing. By Lu Yuen (fourth century A.D.) Living in retirement beyond the World, Silently enjoying isolation, I pull the rope of my door tighter And stuff my window with roots and ferns. My spirit is tuned to the Spring-season: At the fall of the year there is autumn in my heart. Thus imitating cosmic changes My cottage becomes a Universe. Shady, shady the wood in front of the Hall: At midsummer full of calm shadows. The south wind follows summer's train: With its eddying-puffs it blows open my coat. I am free from ties and can live a life of retirement. When I rise from sleep, I play with books and harp. The lettuce in the garden still grows moist: Of last year's grain there is always plenty left. Self-support should maintain strict limits: More than enough is not what I want. I grind millet and make good wine: When the wine is heated, I pour it out for myself. My little children are playing at my side, Learning to talk, they babble unformed sounds. These things have made me happy again And I forget my lost cap of office. Distant, distant I gaze at the white clouds: With a deep yearning I think of the Sages of Antiquity. In the quiet of the morning I heard a knock at my door: I threw on my clothes and opened it myself. I asked who it was who had come so early to see me: He said he was a peasant, coming with good intent. He brought a present of wine and rice-soup, Believing that I had fallen on evil days. "You live in rags under a thatched roof And seem to have no desire for a better lot. The rest of mankind have all the same ambitions: You, too, must learn to wallow in their mire." "Old man, I am impressed by what you say, But my soul is not fashioned like other men's. To drive in their rut I might perhaps learn: To be untrue to myself could only lead to muddle. Let us drink and enjoy together the wine you have brought: For my course is set and cannot now be altered." A long time ago I went on a journey, Right to the corner The road there Was long and winding, And stormy waves Barred my path. What made me Go this way? Hunger drove me I tried hard To fill my belly: And even a little Seemed a lot. But this was clearly A bad bargain, So I went home And lived in idleness. High and low, wise and simple, all busily hoard up the moments of life. How greatly they err! Therefore I have to the uttermost exposed the bitterness both of Substance and Shadow, and have made Spirit show how, by following Nature, we may dissolve this bitterness. _Substance speaks to Shadow_: Heaven and Earth exist for ever: Mountains and rivers never change. But herbs and trees in perpetual rotation Are renovated and withered by the dews and frosts: And Man the wise, Man the divine-- Shall he alone escape this law? Fortuitously appearing for a moment in the World He suddenly departs, never to return. How can he know that the friends he has left Are missing him and thinking of him? Only the things that he used remain; They look upon them and their tears flow. Me no magical arts can save, Though you may hope for a wizard's aid. I beg you listen to this advice-- When you can get wine, be sure to drink it. _Shadow replies_: There is no way to preserve life. Drugs of Immortality are instruments of folly. I would gladly wander in Paradise, But it is far away and there is no road. Since the day that I was joined to you We have shared all our joys and pains. While you rested in the shade, I left you a while: But till the end we shall be together. Our joint existence is impermanent: Sadly together we shall slip away. That when the body decays Fame should also go Is a thought unendurable, burning the heart. Let us strive and labour while yet we may To do some deed that men will praise. Wine may in truth dispel our sorrow, But how compare it with lasting Fame? _Spirit expounds_: God can only set in motion: He cannot control the things he has made. Man, the second of the Three Orders, Owes his precedence to Me. Though I am different from you, We were born involved in one another: Nor by any means can we escape The intimate sharing of good and ill. The Three Emperors were saintly men, Yet to-day--where are they? P'eng lived to a great age, Yet he went at last, when he longed to stay. And late or soon, all go: Wise and simple have no reprieve. Wine may bring forgetfulness, But does it not hasten old-age? If you set your heart on noble deeds, How do you know that any will praise you? By all this thinking you do Me injury: You had better go where Fate leads-- Without joy, without fear: When you must go--then go, And make as little fuss as you can. Chill and harsh the year draws to its close: In my cotton dress I seek sunlight on the porch. In the southern orchard all the leaves are gone: In the north garden rotting boughs lie heaped. I empty my cup and drink it down to the dregs: I look towards the kitchen, but no smoke rises. Poems and books lie piled beside my chair: But the light is going and I shall not have time to read them. My life here is not like the Agony in Ch'en, But often I have to bear bitter reproaches. Let me then remember, to calm my heart's distress, That the Sages of old were often in like case. Confucius was maltreated in Ch'en. White hair covers my temples, I am wrinkled and seared beyond repair, And though I have got five sons, They all hate paper and brush. A-shu is eighteen: For laziness there is none like him. A-hsuean does his best, But really loathes the Fine Arts. Yung-tuan is thirteen. But does not know "six" from "seven." T'ung-tzu in his ninth year Is only concerned with things to eat. If Heaven treats me like this, What can I do but fill my cup? Written in Chinese with two characters very easy to distinguish. I built my hut in a zone of human habitation, Yet near me there sounds no noise of horse or coach. Would you know how that is possible? A heart that is distant creates a wilderness round it. I pluck chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge, Then gaze long at the distant summer hills. The mountain air is fresh at the dusk of day: The flying birds two by two return. In these things there lies a deep meaning; Yet when we would express it, words suddenly fail us. My old desire to live in the Southern Village Was not because I had taken a fancy to the house. But I heard it was a place of simple-minded men With whom it were a joy to spend the mornings and evenings. Many years I had longed to settle here: Now at last I have managed to move house. I do not mind if my cottage is rather small So long as there's room enough for bed and mat. Often and often the neighbours come to see me And with brave words discuss the things of old. Rare writings we read together and praise: Doubtful meanings we examine together and settle. When I was young, I was out of tune with the herd: My only love was for the hills and mountains. Unwitting I fell into the Web of the World's dust And was not free until my thirtieth year. The migrant bird longs for the old wood: The fish in the tank thinks of its native pool. I had rescued from wildness a patch of the Southern Moor And, still rustic, I returned to field and garden. My ground covers no more than ten acres: My thatched cottage has eight or nine rooms. Elms and willows cluster by the eaves: Peach trees and plum trees grow before the Hall. Hazy, hazy the distant hamlets of men. Steady the smoke of the half-deserted village, A dog barks somewhere in the deep lanes, A cock crows at the top of the mulberry tree. At gate and courtyard--no murmur of the World's dust: In the empty rooms--leisure and deep stillness. Long I lived checked by the bars of a cage: Now I have turned again to Nature and Freedom. In the month of June the grass grows high And round my cottage thick-leaved branches sway. There is not a bird but delights in the place where it rests: And I too--love my thatched cottage. I have done my ploughing: I have sown my seed. Again I have time to sit and read my books. In the narrow lane there are no deep ruts: Often my friends' carriages turn back. In high spirits I pour out my spring wine And pluck the lettuce growing in my garden. A gentle rain comes stealing up from the east And a sweet wind bears it company. My thoughts float idly over the story of King Chou My eyes wander over the pictures of Hills and Seas. At a single glance I survey the whole Universe. He will never be happy, whom such pleasures fail to please! The lingering clouds, rolling, rolling, And the settled rain, dripping, dripping, In the Eight Directions--the same dusk. The level lands--one great river. Wine I have, wine I have: Idly I drink at the eastern window. Longingly--I think of my friends, But neither boat nor carriage comes. Swiftly the years, beyond recall. Solemn the stillness of this fair morning. I will clothe myself in spring-clothing And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill. By the mountain-stream a mist hovers, Hovers a moment, then scatters. There comes a wind blowing from the south That brushes the fields of new corn. I sent out invitations To summon guests. I collected together All my friends. Loud talk And simple feasting: Discussion of philosophy, Investigation of subtleties. Tongues loosened And minds at one. Hearts refreshed By discharge of emotion! High rises the Eastern Peak Soaring up to the blue sky. Among the rocks--an empty hollow, Secret, still, mysterious! Uncarved and unhewn, Screened by nature with a roof of clouds. Times and Seasons, what things are you Bringing to my life ceaseless change? I will lodge for ever in this hollow Where Springs and Autumns unheeded pass. By Chan Fang-sheng (fourth century A.D.) Cliffs that rise a thousand feet Without a break, Lake that stretches a hundred miles Without a wave, Sands that are white through all the year, Without a stain, Pine-tree woods, winter and summer Ever-green, Streams that for ever flow and flow Without a pause, Trees that for twenty thousand years Your vows have kept, You have suddenly healed the pain of a traveller's heart, And moved his brush to write a new song. At the time when blossoms Fall from the cherry-tree: On a day when yellow birds Hovered in the branches-- You said you must stop, Because your horse was tired: I said I must go, Because my silkworms were hungry. All night I could not sleep Because of the moonlight on my bed. I kept on hearing a voice calling: Out of Nowhere, Nothing answered "yes." I will carry my coat and not put on my belt; With unpainted eyebrows I will stand at the front window. My tiresome petticoat keeps on flapping about; If it opens a little, I shall blame the spring wind. I heard my love was going to Yang-chou And went with him as far as Ch'u-shan. For a moment when you held me fast in your outstretched arms I thought the river stood still and did not flow. I have brought my pillow and am lying at the northern window, So come to me and play with me awhile. With so much quarrelling and so few kisses How long do you think our love can last? Her door opened on the white water Close by the side of the timber bridge: That's where the little lady lived All alone without a lover. Anon. (fourth century) Green rushes with red shoots, Long leaves bending to the wind-- You and I in the same boat Plucking rushes at the Five Lakes. We started at dawn from the orchid-island: We rested under the elms till noon. You and I plucking rushes Had not plucked a handful when night came! "Seeing the plum-tree I thought of the Western Island And I plucked a branch to send to the North Country. I put on my dress of apricot-yellow silk And bound up my hair black as the crow's wing. But which is the road that leads to the Western Island? I'll ask the man at the ferry by the Bridge of Boats. But the sun is sinking and the orioles flying home: And the wind is blowing and sighing in the walnut-tree. I'll stand under the tree just beside the gate: I'll stand by the door and show off my enamelled hair-pins." She's opened the gate, but her lover has not come: She's gone out at the gate to pluck red lotus. The lotus flowers stand higher than a man's head. She bends down--and plays with the lotus seeds, The lotus seeds are green like the lake-water. She gathers the flowers and puts them into her gown-- The lotus-bud that is red all through. She thinks of her lover, her lover that does not come: She looks up and sees the wild geese flying-- The Western Island is full of wild geese. To look for her lover she climbs the Blue Tower. The tower is high: she looks, but cannot see: All day she leans on the balcony rails. The rail is twisted into a twelve-fold pattern. She lets fall her hand white like the colour of jade. She rolls up the awning, she sees the wide sky, And the sea-water waving its vacant blue. "The sea shall carry my dreams far away, So that you shall be sorry at last for my sorrow. If the South wind--only knew my thoughts It would blow my dreams till they got to the Western Island." By Tsang Chih (sixth century) I was brought up under the Stone Castle: My window opened on to the castle tower. In the castle were beautiful young men Who waved to me as they went in and out. By Hsieh T'iao (fifth century A.D.) Chiang-nan is a glorious and beautiful land, And Chin-ling an exalted and kingly province! The green canals of the city stretch on and on And its high towers stretch up and up. Flying gables lean over the bridle-road: Drooping willows cover the Royal Aqueduct. Shrill flutes sing by the coach's awning, And reiterated drums bang near its painted wheels. The names of the deserving shall be carved on the Cloud Terrace. And for those who have done valiantly rich reward awaits. Now late I follow Time's Necessity: Mounting a barricade I pacify remote tribes. Discarding my sash I don a coat of rhinoceros-skin: Rolling up my skirts I shoulder a black bow. Even at the very start my strength fails: What will become of me before it's all over? Red hills lie athwart us as a menace in the west, And fiery mountains glare terrible in the south. The body burns, the head aches and throbs: If a bird light here, its soul forthwith departs. Warm springs Pour from cloudy pools And hot smoke issues between the rocks. The sun and moon are perpetually obscured: The rain and dew never stay dry. There are red serpents a hundred feet long, And black snakes ten girths round. The sand-spitters shoot their poison at the sunbeams: The flying insects are ill with the shifting glare. The hungry monkeys dare not come down to eat: The morning birds dare not set out to fly. At the Ching river many die of poison: Crossing the Lu one is lucky if one is only ill. Our living feet walk on dead ground: Our high wills surmount the snares of Fate. The Spear-boat General got but little honour: The Wave-subduer met with scant reward. If our Prince still grudges the things that are easy to give, Can he hope that his soldiers will give what is hardest to give? Hou Yen (first century B.C.). Ma Yuean (first century A.D.). Rewards and titles. "I heard at night your long sighs And knew that you were thinking of me." As she spoke, the doors of Heaven opened And our souls conversed and I saw her face. She set me a pillow to rest on And she brought me meat and drink. I stood beside her where she lay, But suddenly woke and she was not there: And none knew how my soul was torn, How the tears fell surging over my breast. By Wu-ti, emperor of the Liang dynasty (A.D. 464-549) In the high trees--many doleful winds: The ocean waters--lashed into waves. If the sharp sword be not in your hand, How can you hope your friends will remain many? Do you not see that sparrow on the fence? Seeing the hawk it casts itself into the snare. The fowler to catch the sparrow is delighted: The Young Man to see the sparrow is grieved. He takes his sword and cuts through the netting: The yellow sparrow flies away, away. Away, away, up to the blue sky And down again to thank the Young Man. By the Emperor Ch'ien Wen-ti (sixth century) A beautiful place is the town of Lo-yang: The big streets are full of spring light. The lads go driving out with harps in their hands: The mulberry girls go out to the fields with their baskets. Golden whips glint at the horses' flanks. Gauze sleeves brush the green boughs. Racing dawn, the carriages come home,-- And the girls with their high baskets full of fruit. My bed is so empty that I keep on waking up: As the cold increases, the night-wind begins to blow. It rustles the curtains, making a noise like the sea: Oh that those were waves which could carry me back to you! Entering the Hall, she meets the new wife: Leaving the gate, she runs into her former husband. Words stick: she does not manage to say anything: She presses her hands together and hesitates. Agitates moon-like fan--sheds pearl-like tears-- Realizes she loves him just as much as ever: That her present pain will never come to an end. By Wu-ti Who says That it's by my desire, This separation, this living so far from you? My dress still smells of the lavender you gave: My hand still holds the letter that you sent. Round my waist I wear a double sash: I dream that it binds us both with a same-heart knot. Did not you know that people hide their love, Like a flower that seems too precious to be picked? By the Emperor Ch'ien Wen-ti, of the Liang dynasty, who reigned during the year A.D. 500. Of marsh-mallows my boat is made, The ropes are lily-roots. The pole-star is athwart the sky: The moon sinks low. It's at the ferry I'm plucking lilies. But it might be the Yellow River-- So afraid you seem of the wind and waves, So long you tarry at the crossing. The road that I came by mounts eight thousand feet: The river that I crossed hangs a hundred fathoms. The brambles so thick that in summer one cannot pass! The snow so high that in winter one cannot climb! With branches that interlace Lung Valley is dark: Against cliffs that tower one's voice beats and echoes. I turn my head, and it seems only a dream That I ever lived in the streets of Hsien-yang. By Yang-ti (605-617), emperor of the Sui dynasty The evening river is level and motionless-- The spring colours just open to their full. Suddenly a wave carries the moon away And the tidal water comes with its freight of stars. _I.e._, the reflection in the water. Altun (486-566 A.D.) was a Tartar employed by the Chinese in king of Chou, but lost nearly half his men. Kao Huan fell ill of Kao Huan, that son of a mouse Dared to attack King Pi. But at the first stroke of sword and bow, The aggressor's plot recoiled on himself. When this reached Kao Huan's ears, he sat up in bed and tried to Lies under the Dark Mountains: Where the sky is like the sides of a tent Stretched down over the Great Steppe. The sky is gray, gray: And the steppe wide, wide: Over grass that the wind has battered low Sheep and oxen roam. Business men boast of their skill and cunning But in philosophy they are like little children. Bragging to each other of successful depredations They neglect to consider the ultimate fate of the body. What should they know of the Master of Dark Truth Who saw the wide world in a jade cup, By illumined conception got clear of Heaven and Earth: On the chariot of Mutation entered the Gate of Immutability? "Tell me now, what should a man want But to sit alone, sipping his cup of wine?" I should like to have visitors come and discuss philosophy And not to have the tax-collector coming to collect taxes: My three sons married into good families And my five daughters wedded to steady husbands. Then I could jog through a happy five-score years And, at the end, need no Paradise. These days, continually fuddled with drink, I fail to satisfy the appetites of the soul. But seeing men all behaving like drunkards, How can I alone remain sober? Written during the war which preceded the T'ang dynasty. I loved you dearly, Stone Fish Lake, With your rock-island shaped like a swimming fish! On the fish's back is the Wine-cup Hollow And round the fish,--the flowing waters of the Lake. The boys on the shore sent little wooden ships, Each made to carry a single cup of wine. The island-drinkers emptied the liquor-boats And set their sails and sent them back for more. On the shores of the Lake were jutting slabs of rock And under the rocks there flowed an icy stream. Heated with wine, to rinse our mouths and hands In those cold waters was a joy beyond compare! For Caps and Coaches I do not care at all. But I wish I could sit on the rocky banks of the Lake For ever and ever staring at the Stone Fish. To the south-east--three thousand leagues-- The Yuean and Hsiang form into a mighty lake. Above the lake are deep mountain valleys, And men dwelling whose hearts are without guile. Gay like children, they swarm to the tops of the trees; And run to the water to catch bream and trout. Their pleasures are the same as those of beasts and birds; They put no restraint either on body or mind. Far I have wandered throughout the Nine Lands; Wherever I went such manners had disappeared. I find myself standing and wondering, perplexed, Whether Saints and Sages have really done us good. The hills and rivers of the lowland country You have made your battle-ground. How do you suppose the people who live there Will procure "firewood and hay"? Do not let me hear you talking together About titles and promotions; For a single general's reputation Is made out of ten thousand corpses. The necessaries of life. Families, when a child is born Want it to be intelligent. I, through intelligence, Having wrecked my whole life, Only hope the baby will prove Ignorant and stupid. Then he will crown a tranquil life By becoming a Cabinet Minister. An old man selling charms in a cranny of the town wall. He writes out spells to bless the silkworms and spells to protect With the money he gets each day he only buys wine. But he does not worry when his legs get wobbly, For he has a boy to lean on. Away and away I sail in my light boat; My heart leaps with a great gust of joy. Through the leafless branches I see the temple in the wood; Over the dwindling stream the stone bridge towers. Down the grassy lanes sheep and oxen pass; In the misty village cranes and magpies cry. Back in my home I drink a cup of wine And need not fear the greed of the evening wind. Which "eats" men. In the southern village the boy who minds the ox With his naked feet stands on the ox's back. Through the hole in his coat the river wind blows; Through his broken hat the mountain rain pours. In the narrow lane suddenly we were face to face. The boy is home and the ox is back in its stall; And a dark smoke oozes through the thatched roof. Of Spring water,--thirty or forty miles: In the evening sunlight,--three or four houses. Youths and boys minding geese and ducks: Women and girls tending mulberries and hemp. The place,--remote: their coats and scarves old: The year,--fruitful: their talk and laughter gay. The old wanderer moors his flat boat And staggers up the bank to pluck wistaria flowers. country-side deserted. They have left the city and do not know where to go. "Green, green, those elm-tree leaves: _they_ will cure my hunger, The wind has flattened the yellow mother-wort: Above it in the distance they see the walls of a house. "_There_ surely must be people living who'll give you something They tap at the door, but no one comes: they look in, but the kitchen is empty. They stand hesitating in the lonely road and their tears fall like rain. Since I left my home to seek official state Seven years I have lived in Ch'ang-an. What have I gained? Only you, Yuean; So hard it is to bind friendships fast. We have roamed on horseback under the flowering trees; We have walked in the snow and warmed our hearts with wine. We have met and parted at the Western Gate And neither of us bothered to put on Cap or Belt. We did not go up together for Examination; We were not serving in the same Department of State. The bond that joined us lay deeper than outward things; The rivers of our souls spring from the same well! Yuean has told the story of this intrigue in an autobiographical I look down on the Twelve City Streets:-- Red dust flanked by green trees! Coaches and horsemen alone fill my eyes; I do not see whom my heart longs to see. K'ung T'an has died at Lo-yang; Yuean Chen is banished to Ching-men. Of all that walk on the North-South Road There is not one that I care for more than the rest! unimportant tribe of Tartars, which he considered had been unduly In 821 the Emperor Mou Tsung came to the throne. His arbitrary In 831 Yuean Chen also died. Famous for its rock-sculptures, carved in the sixth and seventh centuries. translated into verse." At the palace doors the smell of meat and wine; On the road the bones of one who was frozen to death. what a small part of his whole work it represents!" No poet in the world can ever have enjoyed greater contemporary At Ch'ang-an--a full foot of snow; A levee at dawn--to bestow congratulations on the Emperor. Just as I was nearing the Gate of the Silver Terrace, After I had left the suburb of Hsin-ch'ang On the high causeway my horse's foot slipped; In the middle of the journey my lantern suddenly went out. Ten leagues riding, always facing to the North; The cold wind almost blew off my ears. I waited for the bell outside the Five Gates; I waited for the summons within the Triple Hall. My hair and beard were frozen and covered with icicles; My coat and robe--chilly like water. Suddenly I thought of Hsien-yu Valley And secretly envied Ch'en Chue-shih, In warm bed-socks dozing beneath the rugs And not getting up till the sun has mounted the sky. At the western window I paused from writing rescripts; The pines and bamboos were all buried in stillness. The moon rose and a calm wind came; Suddenly, it was like an evening in the hills. And so, as I dozed, I dreamed of the South West And thought I was staying at the Hsien-yu Temple. When I woke and heard the dripping of the Palace clock I still thought it the murmur of a mountain stream. Where the poet used to spend his holidays. The snow has gone from Chung-nan; spring is almost come. Lovely in the distance its blue colours, against the brown of the We talked together in the Yung-shou Temple; Going home--I shed a few tears, Grieving about things,--not sorry for you. Long, long the road to Lan-t'ien; You said yourself you would not be able to write. Reckoning up your halts for eating and sleeping-- By this time you've crossed the Shang mountains. Last night the clouds scattered away; A thousand leagues, the same moonlight scene. When dawn came, I dreamt I saw your face; It must have been that you were thinking of me. In my dream, I thought I held your hand And asked you to tell me what your thoughts were. And _you_ said: "I miss you bitterly, But there's no one here to send to you with a letter." When I awoke, before I had time to speak, A knocking on the door sounded "Doong, doong!" They came and told me a messenger from Shang-chou Had brought a letter,--a single scroll from you! Up from my pillow I suddenly sprang out of bed, And threw you my clothes, all topsy-turvy. I undid the knot and saw the letter within; A single sheet with thirteen lines of writing. At the top it told the sorrows of an exile's heart; At the bottom it described the pains of separation. The sorrows and pains took up so much space There was no room left to talk about the weather! But you said that when you wrote You were staying for the night to the east of Shang-chou; Sitting alone, lighted by a solitary candle Lodging in the mountain hostel of Yang-Ch'eng. Night was late when you finished writing, The mountain moon was slanting towards the west. What is it lies aslant across the moon? A single tree of purple _paulovnia_ flowers-- Paulovnia flowers just on the point of falling Are a symbol to express "thinking of an absent friend." Lovingly--you wrote on the back side, To send in the letter, your "Poem of the Paulovnia Flower." The Poem of the Paulovnia Flower has eight rhymes; Yet these eight couplets have cast a spell on my heart. They have taken hold of this morning's thoughts And carried them to yours, the night you wrote your letter. The whole poem I read three times; Each verse ten times I recite. So precious to me are the fourscore words That each letter changes into a bar of gold! When the yellow bird's note was almost stopped; And half formed the green plum's fruit; Sitting and grieving that spring things were over, I rose and entered the Eastern Garden's gate. I carried my cup and was dully drinking alone: Suddenly I heard a knocking sound at the door. Dwelling secluded, I was glad that someone had come; How much the more, when I saw it was Ch'en Hsiung! At ease and leisure,--all day we talked; Crowding and jostling,--the feelings of many years. How great a thing is a single cup of wine! For it makes us tell the story of our whole lives. When I was almost forty I had a daughter whose name was Golden Bells. Now it is just a year since she was born; She is learning to sit and cannot yet talk. Ashamed,--to find that I have not a sage's heart: I cannot resist vulgar thoughts and feelings. Henceforward I am tied to things outside myself: My only reward,--the pleasure I am getting now. If I am spared the grief of her dying young, Then I shall have the trouble of getting her married. My plan for retiring and going back to the hills Must now be postponed for fifteen years! Ruined and ill,--a man of two score; Pretty and guileless,--a girl of three. Not a boy,--but, still better than nothing: To soothe one's feeling,--from time to time a kiss! There came a day,--they suddenly took her from me; Her soul's shadow wandered I know not where. And when I remember how just at the time she died She lisped strange sounds, beginning to learn to talk, _Then_ I know that the ties of flesh and blood Only bind us to a load of grief and sorrow. At last, by thinking of the time before she was born, By thought and reason I drove the pain away. Since my heart forgot her, many days have passed And three times winter has changed to spring. This morning, for a little, the old grief came back, Because, in the road, I met her foster-nurse. Sad, sad--lean with long illness; Monotonous, monotonous--days and nights pass. The summer trees have clad themselves in shade; The autumn "lan" already houses the dew. The eggs that lay in the nest when I took to bed Have changed into little birds and flown away. The worm that then lay hidden in its hole Has hatched into a cricket sitting on the tree. The Four Seasons go on for ever and ever: In all Nature nothing stops to rest Even for a moment. Only the sick man's heart Deep down still aches as of old! The epidendrum. Deep the waters of the Black Pool, coloured like ink; They say a Holy Dragon lives there, whom men have never seen. Beside the Pool they have built a shrine; the authorities have established a ritual; A dragon by itself remains a dragon, but men can make it a god. doing. advice When the dragon comes, ah! The wind stirs and sighs Paper money thrown, ah! Silk umbrellas waved. When the dragon goes, ah! The wind also--still. Incense-fire dies, ah! The cups and vessels are cold. Parody of a famous Han dynasty hymn. Meats lie stacked on the rocks of the Pool's shore; Wine flows on the grass in front of the shrine. I do not know, of all those offerings, how much the Dragon eats; But the mice of the woods and the foxes of the hills are continually drunk and sated. Why are the foxes so lucky? What have the sucking-pigs done, sucking-pig, Beneath the nine-fold depths of His pool, does He know or not? There came an officer knocking by night at my door-- In a loud voice demanding grain-tribute. My house-servants dared not wait till the morning, But brought candles and set them on the barn-floor. Passed through the sieve, clean-washed as pearls, A whole cart-load, thirty bushels of grain. But still they cry that it is not paid in full: With whips and curses they goad my servants and boys. Once, in error, I entered public life; I am inwardly ashamed that my talents were not sufficient. In succession I occupied four official posts; For doing nothing,--ten years' salary! Often have I heard that saying of ancient men That "good and ill follow in an endless chain." And to-day it ought to set my heart at rest To return to others the corn in my great barn. In the land of Tao-chou Many of the people are dwarfs; The tallest of them never grow to more than three feet. They were sold in the market as dwarf slaves and yearly sent to Described as "an offering of natural products from the land of Old men--weeping for their grandsons; mothers for their children! 'In offering products, one must offer what is there, and not what The people of Tao-chou, Old ones and young ones, how great their joy! The people of Tao-chou Still enjoy this gift. And even now when they speak of the Governor Tears start to their eyes. When boys are born the syllable "Yang" is often used in their forename. Of cord and cassia-wood is the harp compounded: Within it lie ancient melodies. Ancient melodies--weak and savourless, Not appealing to present men's taste. Light and colour are faded from the jade stops: Dust has covered the rose-red strings. Decay and ruin came to it long ago, But the sound that is left is still cold and clear. I do not refuse to play it, if you want me to: But even if I play, people will not listen. How did it come to be neglected so? Because of the Ch'iang flute and the Ch'in flageolet. Barbarous modern instruments. The singers have hushed their notes of clear song: The red sleeves of the dancers are motionless. Hugging his lute, the old harper of Chao Rocks and sways as he touches the five chords. The loud notes swell and scatter abroad: "Sa, sa," like wind blowing the rain. The soft notes dying almost to nothing: "Ch'ieh, ch'ieh," like the voice of ghosts talking. Now as glad as the magpie's lucky song: Again bitter as the gibbon's ominous cry. His ten fingers have no fixed note: Up and down--"kung," chih, and yue. And those who sit and listen to the tune he plays Of soul and body lose the mastery. And those who pass that way as he plays the tune, Suddenly stop and cannot raise their feet. Alas, alas that the ears of common men Should love the modern and not love the old. Thus it is that the harp in the green window Day by day is covered deeper with dust. In the Royal City spring is almost over: Tinkle, tinkle--the coaches and horsemen pass. We tell each other "This is the peony season": And follow with the crowd that goes to the Flower Market. "Cheap and dear--no uniform price: The cost of the plant depends on the number of blossoms. For the fine flower,--a hundred pieces of damask: For the cheap flower,--five bits of silk. Above is spread an awning to protect them: Around is woven a wattle-fence to screen them. If you sprinkle water and cover the roots with mud, When they are transplanted, they will not lose their beauty." Each household thoughtlessly follows the custom, Man by man, no one realizing. There happened to be an old farm labourer Who came by chance that way. He bowed his head and sighed a deep sigh: But this sigh nobody understood. He was thinking, "A cluster of deep-red flowers Would pay the taxes of ten poor houses." Tartars led in chains, Tartars led in chains! Their ears pierced, their faces bruised--they are driven into the Their bodies were covered with the wounds of arrows, their bones stood out from their cheeks. plate nor cup: At night they must lie in their dirt and rags on beds that stank with filth. Suddenly they came to the Yangtze River and remembered the waters Those that were with him in the same band asked to hear his tale: He told them "I was born and bred in the town of Liang-yuean. In the frontier wars of Ta-li I fell into the Tartars' hands. Since the days the Tartars took me alive forty years have passed: I thought to myself, 'It is well for me that my limbs are still And yet, being old, in my heart I feared I should never live to return. The Tartar chieftains shoot so well that the birds are afraid to Frightened, I sheltered at the Green Grave, where the frozen grasses are few: Stealthily I crossed the Yellow River, at night, on the thin ice, land: No one now will take pity on me: resistance is all in vain. Thinking of this, my voice chokes and I ask of Heaven above, Was I spared from death only to spend the rest of my years in sorrow? My native village of Liang-yuean I shall not see again: My wife and children in the Tartars' land I have fruitlessly deserted. When I fell among Tartars and was taken prisoner, I pined for the Now that I am back in the land of Han, they have turned me into Had I but known what my fate would be, I would not have started home! For the two lands, so wide apart, are alike in the sorrow they bring. Tartar prisoners in chains! North of Ch'ang-an. A Government-bull yoked to a Government-cart! Moored by the bank of Ch'an River, a barge loaded with gravel. A single load of gravel, How many pounds it weighs! Carrying at dawn, carrying at dusk, what is it all for? They are carrying it towards the Five Gates, Under the shadow of green laurels they are making a gravel-drive. And was terribly afraid that the wet and mud Would dirty his horse's hoofs. The Chancellor's horse's hoofs Stepped on the gravel and remained perfectly clean; But the bull employed in dragging the cart Was almost sweating blood. The Assistant Chancellor's business Is to "save men, govern the country And harmonize Yin and Yang." Whether the bull's neck is sore Need not trouble him at all. The negative and positive principles in nature. There was once a man who dreamt he went to Heaven: His dream-body soared aloft through space. He rode on the back of a white-plumed crane, And was led on his flight by two crimson banners. Whirring of wings and flapping of coat tails! Jade bells suddenly all a-tinkle! Half way to Heaven, he looked down beneath him, Down on the dark turmoil of the World. Gradually he lost the place of his native town; Mountains and water--nothing else distinct. The Eastern Ocean--a single strip of white: The Hills of China,--five specks of green. Gliding past him a host of fairies swept In long procession to the Palace of the Jade City. How should he guess that the children of Tzu-men Bow to the throne like courtiers of earthly kings? They take him to the presence of the Mighty Jade Emperor: He bows his head and proffers loyal homage. The Emperor says: "We see you have fairy talents: Be of good heart and do not slight yourself. We shall send to fetch you in fifteen years And give you a place in the Courtyard of Immortality." Twice bowing, he acknowledged the gracious words: Then woke from sleep, full of wonder and joy. He hid his secret and dared not tell it abroad: But vowed a vow he would live in a cave of rock. From love and affection he severed kith and kin: From his eating and drinking he omitted savoury and spice. His morning meal was a dish of coral-dust: At night he sipped an essence of dewy mists. In the empty mountains he lived for thirty years Daily watching for the Heavenly Coach to come. The time of appointment was already long past, But of wings and coach-bells--still no sound. His teeth and hair daily withered and decayed: His ears and eyes gradually lost their keenness. One morning he suffered the Common Change And his body was one with the dust and dirt of the hill. Gods and fairies! If indeed such things there be, Their ways are beyond the striving of mortal men. If you have not on your skull the Golden Bump's protrusion, If your name is absent from the rolls of the Red Terrace, In vain you learn the "Method of Avoiding Food": For naught you study the "Book of Alchemic Lore." Though you sweat and toil, what shall your trouble bring? You will only shorten the five-score years of your span. Sad, alas, the man who dreamt of Fairies! For a single dream spoiled his whole life. Boundless, the great sea. Straight down,--no bottom: sideways,--no border. Of cloudy waves and misty billows down in the uttermost depths Men have fabled, in the midst there stand three sacred hills. On the hills, thick growing,--herbs that banish Death. And magic-workers year by year were sent to gather the herbs. The Blessed Islands, now and of old, what but an empty tale? Dauntless, the mighty wind. To the Lofty Principle and Great Unity in vain they raised their prayers. Do you not see The graves on the top of Black Horse Hill and the tombs at What is left but the sighing wind blowing in the tangled grasses? The Dark and Primal Master of Sages in his five thousand words Never spoke of herbs, Never spoke of "hsien," Nor spoke of soaring in broad daylight up to the blue heaven. The burial-places of these two Emperors. Lao-tzu, in the Tao Te Ching. North and south rise facing each other. I beg to ask, to whom do they belong? To the two Princes of the period Cheng Yuean. Were turned into Temples planted in the Dust of the World. In the tiring-rooms and dancers' towers all is silent and still; Only the willows like dancers' arms, and the pond like a mirror. One does not hear songs and flutes, but only chimes and bells. The Imperial Patent on the Temple doors is written in letters of gold; For nuns' quarters and monks' cells ample space is allowed. For green moss and bright moonlight--plenty of room provided; turned into Temples; I begin to fear that the whole world will become a vast convent. Hsien Tsung's brothers? An old charcoal-seller Cutting wood and burning charcoal in the forests of the Southern The money he gets by selling charcoal, how far does it go? It is just enough to clothe his limbs and put food in his mouth. Although, alas, the coat on his back is a coat without lining. He hopes for the coming of cold weather, to send up the price of coal! Last night, outside the city,--a whole foot of snow; At dawn he drives the charcoal wagon along the frozen ruts. Oxen,--weary; man,--hungry: the sun, already high; Suddenly, a pair of prancing horsemen. Who can it be coming? A public official in a yellow coat and a boy in a white shirt. In their hands they hold a written warrant: on their tongues--the A whole wagon of charcoal, More than a thousand pieces! The Courtiers have tied to the oxen's collar, as the price of a wagon of coal! I was going to the City to sell the herbs I had plucked; On the way I rested by some trees at the Blue Gate. Along the road there came a horseman riding; Whose face was pale with a strange look of dread. Friends and relations, waiting to say good-bye, Pressed at his side, but he did not dare to pause. I, in wonder, asked the people about me Who he was and what had happened to him. They told me this was a Privy Councillor Whose grave duties were like the pivot of State. His food allowance was ten thousand cash; Three times a day the Emperor came to his house. Yesterday he was called to a meeting of Heroes: To-day he is banished to the country of Yai-chou. So always, the Counsellors of Kings; Favour and ruin changed between dawn and dusk! Green, green,--the grass of the Eastern Suburb; And amid the grass, a road that leads to the hills. Resting in peace among the white clouds, At last he has made a "coup" that cannot fail! At Hsin-feng an old man--four-score and eight; The hair on his head and the hair of his eyebrows--white as the new snow. Leaning on the shoulders of his great-grandchildren, he walks in front of the Inn; With his left arm he leans on their shoulders; his right arm is broken. Naught I knew of banner and lance; nothing of arrow or bow. Then came the wars of T'ien-pao and the great levy of men; Of three men in each house,--one man was taken. And those to whom the lot fell, where were they taken to? Five months' journey, a thousand miles--away to Yuen-nan. We heard it said that in Yuen-nan there flows the Lu River; Children parting from fathers and mothers; husbands parting from wives. Everyone says that in expeditions against the Min tribes Of a million men who are sent out, not one returns. I, that am old, was then twenty-four; In the depth of the night not daring to let any one know I secretly took a huge stone and dashed it against my arm. For drawing the bow and waving the banner now wholly unfit; I knew henceforward I should not be sent to fight in Yuen-nan. Bones broken and sinews wounded could not fail to hurt; I was ready enough to bear pain, if only I got back home. My arm--broken ever since; it was sixty years ago. One limb, although destroyed,--whole body safe! But even now on winter nights when the wind and rain blow From evening on till day's dawn I cannot sleep for pain. Not sleeping for pain Is a small thing to bear, Compared with the joy of being alive when all the rest are dead. For otherwise, years ago, at the ford of Lu River A ghost, I'd have wandered in Yuen-nan, always looking for home. Over the graves of ten thousand soldiers, mournfully hovering." So the old man spoke. And I bid you listen to his words Have you not heard That the Prime Minister of K'ai-yuean, Sung K'ai-fu, And have you not heard That the Prime Minister of T'ien-Pao, Yang Kuo-chung Desiring to win imperial favour, started a frontier war? Cousin of the notorious mistress of Ming-huang, Yang Kuei-fei. White billows and huge waves block the river crossing; Wherever I go, danger and difficulty; whatever I do, failure. Just as in my worldly career I wander and lose the road, I am growing old, time flies, and my short span runs out. While I sit in a boat at Chiu-k'ou, wasting ten days! I take your poems in my hand and read them beside the candle; The poems are finished: the candle is low: dawn not yet come. With sore eyes by the guttering candle still I sit in the dark, Listening to waves that, driven by the wind, strike the prow of the ship. A bend of the river brings into view two triumphal arches; We are almost come to Hsuen-yang: how my thoughts are stirred As we pass to the south of Yue Liang's tower and the east of P'en Port. The forest trees are leafless and withered,--after the mountain rain; The roofs of the houses are hidden low among the river mists. The horses, fed on water grass, are too weak to carry their load; There is no one among men that has not a special failing: And my failing consists in writing verses. I have broken away from the thousand ties of life: But this infirmity still remains behind. Each time that I look at a fine landscape: Each time that I meet a loved friend, I raise my voice and recite a stanza of poetry And am glad as though a God had crossed my path. Ever since the day I was banished to Hsuen-yang Half my time I have lived among the hills. And often, when I have finished a new poem, Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock. I lean my body on the banks of white stone: I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch. My mad singing startles the valleys and hills: The apes and birds all come to peep. Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world, I choose a place that is unfrequented by men. At Nine Rivers, in the tenth year, in winter,--heavy snow; The birds of the air, hungry and cold, went flying east and west; alive. I that was once a man of the North am now an exile here: Bird and man, in their different kind, are each strangers in the south. And because the sight of an exiled bird wounded an exile's heart, Of all things I bid you, do not fly to the land of the north-west Kiukiang, the poet's place of exile. A.D. 815. His first winter at Kiukiang. By the weight of snow. The revolt of Wu Yuean-chi. _You_, so bravely splashing reds and blues! Just when _I_ am getting wrinkled and old. Why should you waste the moments of inspiration Tracing the withered limbs of a sick man? Tall, tall is the Palace of Ch'i-lin; But my deeds have not been frescoed on its walls. Minutely limned on a foot of painting silk-- What can I do with a portrait such as _that_? Yesterday I heard that such-a-one was gone; This morning they tell me that so-and-so is dead. Of friends and acquaintances more than two-thirds Have suffered change and passed to the Land of Ghosts. Those that are gone I shall not see again; They, alas, are for ever finished and done. Those that are left,--where are they now? They are all scattered,--a thousand miles away. Those I have known and loved through all my life, On the fingers of my hand--how many do I count? Only the prefects of T'ung, Kuo and Li And Feng Province--just those four. Longing for each other we are all grown gray; Through the Fleeting World rolled like a wave in the stream. Alas that the feasts and frolics of old days Have withered and vanished, bringing us to this! When shall we meet and drink a cup of wine And laughing gaze into each other's eyes? Up and up, the Incense-burner Peak! In my heart is stored what my eyes and ears perceived. All the year--detained by official business; To-day at last I got a chance to go. Grasping the creepers, I clung to dangerous rocks; My hands and feet--weary with groping for hold. There came with me three or four friends, But two friends dared not go further. At last we reached the topmost crest of the Peak; My eyes were blinded, my soul rocked and reeled. The chasm beneath me--ten thousand feet; The ground I stood on, only a foot wide. If you have not exhausted the scope of seeing and hearing, How can you realize the wideness of the world? The waters of the River looked narrow as a ribbon, P'en Castle smaller than a man's fist. How it clings, the dust of the world's halter! It chokes my limbs: I cannot shake it away. Thinking of retirement, I heaved an envious sigh, Then, with lowered head, came back to the Ants' Nest. _I.e._, retirement from office. My new Province is a land of bamboo-groves: Their shoots in spring fill the valleys and hills. The mountain woodman cuts an armful of them And brings them down to sell at the early market. Things are cheap in proportion as they are common; For two farthings, I buy a whole bundle. I put the shoots in a great earthen pot And heat them up along with boiling rice. The purple nodules broken,--like an old brocade; The white skin opened,--like new pearls. Now every day I eat them recklessly; For a long time I have not touched meat. All the time I was living at Lo-yang They could not give me enough to suit my taste, Now I can have as many shoots as I please; For each breath of the south-wind makes a new bamboo! Sent as a present from Annam-- A red cockatoo. Coloured like the peach-tree blossom, Speaking with the speech of men. And they did to it what is always done To the learned and eloquent. They took a cage with stout bars And shut it up inside. After lunch--one short nap: On waking up--two cups of tea. Raising my head, I see the sun's light Once again slanting to the south-west. Those who are happy regret the shortness of the day; Those who are sad tire of the year's sloth. But those whose hearts are devoid of joy or sadness Just go on living, regardless of "short" or "long." Above, a mountain ten thousand feet high: Below, a river a thousand fathoms deep. A strip of green, walled by cliffs of stone: Wide enough for the passage of a single reed. At Chue-t'ang a straight cleft yawns: At Yen-yue islands block the stream. Long before night the walls are black with dusk; Without wind white waves rise. The big rocks are like a flat sword: The little rocks resemble ivory tusks. We are stuck fast and cannot move a step. How much the less, three hundred miles? Frail and slender, the twisted-bamboo rope: Weak, the dangerous hold of the towers' feet. A single slip--the whole convoy lost: And _my_ life hangs on _this_ thread! I have heard a saying "He that has an upright heart Shall walk scathless through the lands of Man and Mo." How can I believe that since the world began In every shipwreck none have drowned but rogues? And how can I, born in evil days And fresh from failure, ask a kindness of Fate? Often I fear that these un-talented limbs Will be laid at last in an un-named grave! The distance to Chung-chou. Dangerous savages. Of civil war. Alluding to his renewed banishment. A remote place in the mountains of Pa (Ssech'uan) Before this, when I was stationed at Hsuen-yang, Already I regretted the fewness of friends and guests. Suddenly, suddenly,--bearing a stricken heart I left the gates, with nothing to comfort me. Henceforward,--relegated to deep seclusion In a bottomless gorge, flanked by precipitous mountains, Five months on end the passage of boats is stopped By the piled billows that toss and leap like colts. The inhabitants of Pa resemble wild apes; Fierce and lusty, they fill the mountains and prairies. Among such as these I cannot hope for friends And am pleased with anyone who is even remotely human! Written when Governor of Chung-Chou I took money and bought flowering trees And planted them out on the bank to the east of the Keep. I simply bought whatever had most blooms, Not caring whether peach, apricot, or plum. A hundred fruits, all mixed up together; A thousand branches, flowering in due rotation. Each has its season coming early or late; But to all alike the fertile soil is kind. The red flowers hang like a heavy mist; The white flowers gleam like a fall of snow. The wandering bees cannot bear to leave them; The sweet birds also come there to roost. In front there flows an ever-running stream; Beneath there is built a little flat terrace. Sometimes I sweep the flagstones of the terrace; Sometimes, in the wind, I raise my cup and drink. The flower-branches screen my head from the sun; The flower-buds fall down into my lap. Alone drinking, alone singing my songs I do not notice that the moon is level with the steps. The people of Pa do not care for flowers; All the spring no one has come to look. But their Governor General, alone with his cup of wine Sits till evening and will not move from the place! My niece, who is six years old, is called "Miss Tortoise"; My daughter of three,--little "Summer Dress." One is beginning to learn to joke and talk; The other can already recite poems and songs. At morning they play clinging about my feet; At night they sleep pillowed against my dress. Why, children, did you reach the world so late, Coming to me just when my years are spent? Young things draw our feelings to them; Old people easily give their hearts. The sweetest vintage at last turns sour; The full moon in the end begins to wane. And so with men the bonds of love and affection Soon may change to a load of sorrow and care. But all the world is bound by love's ties; Why did I think that I alone should escape? Trees growing--right in front of my window; The trees are high and the leaves grow thick. Sad alas! the distant mountain view Obscured by this, dimly shows between. One morning I took knife and axe; With my own hand I lopped the branches off. Ten thousand leaves fall about my head; A thousand hills came before my eyes. Suddenly, as when clouds or mists break And straight through, the blue sky appears; Again, like the face of a friend one has loved Seen at last after an age of parting. First there came a gentle wind blowing; One by one the birds flew back to the tree. To ease my mind I gazed to the South East; As my eyes wandered, my thoughts went far away. Of men there is none that has not some preference; Of things there is none but mixes good with ill. It was not that I did not love the tender branches; But better still,--to see the green hills! I have been ill so long that I do not count the days; At the southern window, evening--and again evening. Sadly chirping in the grasses under my eaves The winter sparrows morning and evening sing. By an effort I rise and lean heavily on my bed; Tottering I step towards the door of the courtyard. By chance I meet a friend who is coming to see me; Just as if I had gone specially to meet him. They took my couch and placed it in the setting sun; They spread my rug and I leaned on the balcony-pillar. Tranquil talk was better than any medicine; Gradually the feelings came back to my numbed heart. Little sleeping and much grieving,--the traveller Rises at midnight and looks back towards home. The sands are bright with moonlight that joins the shores; The sail is white with dew that has covered the boat. Nearing the sea, the river grows broader and broader: Approaching autumn,--the nights longer and longer. Thirty times we have slept amid mists and waves, And still we have not reached Hang-chow! I grew up at Jung-yang; I was still young when I left. On and on,--forty years passed Till again I stayed for the night at Jung-yang. When I went away, I was only eleven or twelve; This year I am turned fifty-six. Yet thinking back to the times of my childish games, Whole and undimmed, still they rise before me. The old houses have all disappeared; Down in the village none of my people are left. It is not only that streets and buildings have changed; But steep is level and level changed to steep! Alone unchanged, the waters of Ch'iu and Yu Passionless,--flow in their old course. To distant service my heart is well accustomed; When I left home, it wasn't _that_ which was difficult But because I had to leave Miss Kuei at home-- For this it was that tears filled my eyes. Little girls ought to be daintily fed: Mrs. Ts'ao, please see to this! That's why I've packed and sent a silver spoon; You will think of me and eat up your food nicely! Long ago to a white-haired gentleman You made the present of a black gauze hat. The gauze hat still sits on my head; But you already are gone to the Nether Springs. The thing is old, but still fit to wear; The man is gone and will never be seen again. Out on the hill the moon is shining to-night And the trees on your tomb are swayed by the autumn wind. To bring warmth to a single body is not much use. I wish I had a big rug ten thousand feet long, Which at one time could cover up every inch of the City. Our party scattered at yellow dusk and I came home to bed; In front of the tower the ocean moon, accompanying the tide, had risen. The swallows, about to return to the beams, went back to roost again; And in my ears something sounded like the music of flutes and strings. Ever since the time when I was a lusty boy Down till now when I am ill and old, _Then_ on the shore,--building sand-pagodas; _Now_, at Court, covered with tinkling jade. This and that,--equally childish games, Things whose substance passes in a moment of time! While the hands are busy, the heart cannot understand; When there are no Scriptures, then Doctrine is sound. Even should one zealously strive to learn the Way, That very striving will make one's error more. This is the teaching of the Dhyana Sect. All the morning I have lain perversely in bed; Now at dusk I rise with many yawns. My warm stove is quick to get ablaze; At the cold mirror I am slow in doing my hair. With melted snow I boil fragrant tea; Seasoned with curds I cook a milk-pudding. At my sloth and greed there is no one but me to laugh; My cheerful vigour none but myself knows. The taste of my wine is mild and works no poison; The notes of my harp are soft and bring no sadness. To the Three Joys in the book of Mencius I have added the fourth of playing with my baby-boy. I break up cypress and make a book-box; The box well-made,--and the cypress-wood tough. In it shall be kept what author's works? The inscription says PO LO-T'IEN. All my life has been spent in writing books, From when I was young till now that I am old. First and last,--seventy whole volumes; Big and little,--three thousand themes. Well I know in the end they'll be scattered and lost; But I cannot bear to see them thrown away With my own hand I open and shut the locks, And put it carefully in front of the book-curtain. I am like Teng Pai-tao; But to-day there is not any Wang Ts'an. All I can do is to divide them among my daughters To be left by them to give to my grandchildren. _I.e._, separate poems, essays, etc. Who was obliged to abandon his only child on the roadside. Who rescued a foundling. Between thirty and forty, one is distracted by the Five Lusts; Between seventy and eighty, one is a prey to a hundred diseases. But from fifty to sixty one is free from all ills; Calm and still--the heart enjoys rest. I have put behind me Love and Greed; I have done with Profit and I am still short of illness and decay and far from decrepit age. Strength of limb I still possess to seek the rivers and hills; Still my heart has spirit enough to listen to flutes and strings. Drunken I recall old poems and sing a whole volume. Meng-te has asked for a poem and herewith I exhort him Not to complain of three-score, "the time of obedient ears." Hundreds of houses, thousands of houses,--like a chess-board. The twelve streets like a field planted with rows of cabbage. A single grain of rice falling--into the Great Barn. Written when the poet was about sixty-five Two top-knots not yet plaited into one. Of thirty years--just beyond half. You who are really a lady of silks and satins Are now become my hill and stream companion! At the spring fountains together we splash and play: On the lovely trees together we climb and sport. Her cheeks grow rosy, as she quickens her sleeve-dancing: Her brows grow sad, as she slows her song's tune. Don't go singing the Song of the Willow Branches, When there's no one here with a heart for you to break! At night you came and took my hand and we wandered together in my On the banks of the Ch'ang my aged body three times has passed through sickness; At Hsien-yang to the grasses on your grave eight times has autumn come. I--lodging in the world of men; my hair white as snow. A-wei and Han-lang both followed in their turn; Since you died. Near Ch'ang-an, modern Si-ngan-fu. Affectionate names of Li Chien and Ts'ui Hsuean-liang. Written when he was over seventy At night, in my dream, I stoutly climbed a mountain. Going out alone with my staff of holly-wood. A thousand crags, a hundred hundred valleys-- In my dream-journey none were unexplored And all the while my feet never grew tired And my step was as strong as in my young days. Can it be that when the mind travels backward The body also returns to its old state? And can it be, as between body and soul, That the body may languish, while the soul is still strong? Soul and body--both are vanities: Dreaming and waking--both alike unreal. In the day my feet are palsied and tottering; In the night my steps go striding over the hills. As day and night are divided in equal parts-- Between the two, I _get_ as much as I _lose_. Congratulating himself on the comforts of his life after his retirement from office. Written _circa_ 844. Lined coat, warm cap and easy felt slippers, In the little tower, at the low window, sitting over the sunken brazier. Body at rest, heart at peace; no need to rise early. I wonder if the courtiers at the Western Capital know of these things, or not? Written long after Chen's death No new poems his brush will trace: Even his fame is dead. His old poems are deep in dust At the bottom of boxes and cupboards. Once lately, when someone was singing, Suddenly I heard a verse-- Before I had time to catch the words A pain had stabbed my heart. "Those who speak know nothing; Those who know are silent." These words, as I am told, Were spoken by Lao-tzu. If we are to believe that Lao-tzu Was himself _one who knew_, How comes it that he wrote a book Of five thousand words? Chuang-tzu levels all things And reduces them to the same Monad. But _I_ say that even in their sameness Difference may be found. Although in following the promptings of their nature They display the same tendency, Yet it seems to me that in some ways A phoenix is superior to a reptile! Written shortly before his death A traveller came from across the seas Telling of strange sights. "In a deep fold of the sea-hills I saw a terrace and tower. In the midst there stood a Fairy Temple With one niche empty. They all told me this was waiting For Lo-t'ien to come." Traveller, I have studied the Empty Gate; I am no disciple of Fairies The story you have just told Is nothing but an idle tale. The hills of ocean shall never be When I leave the earth it will be to go They have put my bed beside the unpainted screen; They have shifted my stove in front of the blue curtain. I listen to my grandchildren, reading me a book; I watch the servants, heating up my soup. With rapid pencil I answer the poems of friends; I feel in my pockets and pull out medicine-money. When this superintendence of trifling affairs is done, I lie back on my pillows and sleep with my face to the

Lady Mary Hamilton

Munster Village

1739

What various views of our uncertain State These playful, unassuming Rhymes relate! Journey to London _To face the Title_ Conflict with Lawyer Gripe-all " Committed with a riotous Dancing Party Engaged with Jovial Friends, or who sings best " The Party breaking up and QUAE GENUS breaking down " Turned out of a House which he mistakes for his own " Johnny Quae Genus! what a name To offer to the voice of Fame! (Though she 'tis hop'd may condescend To act as Little Johnny's friend) This may be said, when first the eye Does, by a careless glance, descry The striking range of marshall'd words Which a gay TITLE-PAGE affords. But what's a name, as SHAKESPEARE says, It neither gives nor lessens praise; Adds no fresh odour to the rose, Nor any other flower that blows: Whether with rare or common name The fragrance will be just the same. 'Tis not a title can confer The good or ill of character, _HOWARDS_ have been both beat and bang'd, And some with ancient names been hang'd: Look at a ship with convicts stor'd What noble names are oft on board! It is the living, current course Or of the better or the worse, That stamps, whate'er may be the name, Or with a good or evil fame. But howsoe'er the thing we view Our little Johnny's title's new: Or for the child or for the man, In an old phrase, 'tis _spick_ and _span_. Besides, as most folk do agree To find a charm in novelty, 'Tis the first time that Grammar rule Which makes boys tremble when at school, Did with the name an union crave Which at the font a sponsor gave. But whether 'twas in hum'rous mood Or by some classic whim pursued, Or as, in Eton's Grammar known, It bore relation to his own, And a short time before he died, In pleasant humour, after dinner, Surnam'd, in wine, the little sinner. And thus, amid the table's roar, } Gave him from good, old _Lilly's_ store, } A name which none e'er had before. } --'Squire Worthy, who, perchance was there, Promis'd the Doctor's wish to share, That want, at least might not annoy The progress of the Foundling Boy. "--Syntax," He said, "We'll try between us To make the fortune of QUAE GENUS: You feed his mind with learning's food, And I'll protect him if he's good." "Will add my mite as _Johnny's_ friend; Nor shall he want the scraps of knowledge Which he can pick up at my College." --Thus, as they did the bumper ply To Johnny's future destiny, The warm, almost parental heart Of Mrs. Syntax bore its part; And her cheek wore a smile of joy As she beheld th' unconscious boy, Who, careless of the kind debate, Play'd with the cherries on his plate. But such is life's uncertain hour, And such is fate's tyrannic power, That while our comforts smile around The fatal dart inflicts the wound: Thus e'er another month was past Syntax, alas! had breath'd his last. Whene'er he heard the widow sigh QUAE GENUS wept he scarce knew why: Of a kind friend fate had bereft him, And an odd name was all he left him. His urchin fancy only thought As his enquiring mind was taught, That his adopted sire was gone Where the good go to worlds unknown, To happy regions plac'd on high Above the blue and starry sky, Where, he was with the hope endued, That he should go, if he were good. But the good lady took him home And kept him many a year to come; When he grew up a charming youth, In whom simplicity and truth Did o'er his ev'ry thought preside; While, with such an anxious guide, Life smil'd and seem'd to promise fair, That it would answer to the care Which her affection had bestow'd, To set him on his future road: But when she died poor John was hurl'd Into a bustling, tricking world. He had, 'tis true, all she could leave; She gave him all there was to give; Of all she had she made him heir, But left it to a lawyer's care: No wonder then that he was cheated And her fond anxious hopes defeated: So that instead of his possessing The fruits of her last, dying blessing; He had, as it turn'd out, to rue } What foul rascality could do; } And his own wild vagaries too. } Here, gentle reader, here begins The account of our young Hero's sins: But all which thus far form'd his fate, QUAE GENUS will himself relate, And what truth bids him to rehearse, My hum-strum Muse records in verse. Thus I proceed,--my humble strain } But still it hopes to please again. } In this great overwhelming town, Certain receptacles are known, Where both the sexes shew their faces To boast their talents and get places: Not such as kings and courts can give, Not such as noble folk receive, But those which yield their useful aid To common wants or gen'ral trade, Or finely furbish out the show That fashion does on life bestow. Here those who want them may apply For toiling powers and industry, On whom the nervous strength's bestow'd To urge the wheel or bear the load. Here all who want, may pick and chuse Each service of domestic use: The laundry, kitchen, chamber, dairy, May always find an Ann or Mary, While in th' accommodating room, He who wants coachman, footman, groom, Or butler staid, may come and have, With such as know to dress and shave. --The art and skill may here be sought In ev'ry thing that's sold and bought, In all the well spread counter tells Of knowledge keen in yards and ells; Adepts in selling and in buying And perfect in the modes of lying; Who flatter misses in their teens, And harangue over bombazeens, Can, in glib words, nor fear detection, Arrange each colour to complexion: Can teach the beau the neckcloth's tie, With most becoming gravity; Or with a consequential air, Turn up the collar to a hair. --Besides, your nice shop-women too, May at a call be brought to view, Who, with swift fingers, so bewitching, Are skill'd in ev'ry kind of stitching; Can trim the hat, arrange the bonnet, And place the tasty ribbon on it. In short, here all to service bound, May in their various shapes be found. --From such who may display their charms, By smirking looks and active arms, To those in kitchen under ground Amid black pots and kettles found: From such as teach the early rules, Or in the male or female schools, To those of an inferior breed, Who ne'er have known to write or read: From those who do the laws perplex In toil at an attorney's desk, To such as pass their busy lives In cleaning shoes or cleaning knives. To these, perhaps, an added score } Might swell the tiresome list or more, } But here description says, "give o'er." } In such enregistering shop One morn a figure chanc'd to pop; (But here I beg it may be guess'd, Of these same shops it was the best, His hat was rather worse for wear, } His clothing, too, was somewhat bare, } His boots might say, "we've travell'd far." } His left hand an umbrella bore And something like a glove he wore: Clean was his very sun-burnt skin Without a long hair on his chin, While his lank face, in ev'ry feature, Proclaim'd a keen, discerning nature; And when he spoke there was an air } Of something not quite common there: } His manner good, his language fair. } A double cape of curious make, Fell from his shoulders down his back, As if art did the folds provide A very awkward hump to hide; But, if 'twere so, the cunning fail'd, For still the treach'rous bunch prevail'd. By chatting here and talking there, He did his curious mind prepare With all the means by which to gain The end his wishes would obtain;-- Then with half-humble, solemn face, He sought the ruler of the place, Who boasted an establish'd fame, And _Sharpsight_ was his well-known name. But ere we in our way proceed To tell of many a future deed, It may, we doubt not, be as well, To save all guess-work, just to tell, Of the part now upon the stage QUAE GENUS was the personage. Fortune's dark clouds, for some time past That learned title had o'ercast, And he had borrow'd names in plenty, He might have gone by more than twenty; But now arriv'd in this great town } Without a fear of being known } He thought he might assume his own: } And he had weighty reasons too For what he was about to do, Which, we believe, a future page Will reconcile as reasons sage. At length his statement he began, When thus the conversation ran. "'Tis the first time I e'er applied To ask your counsel for my guide: But strange events have brought me here, And at your desk I now appear, But not without the means to pay, For all you do and all you say. And here, good Sir, there's no concealing We must be cautious in our dealing: I want employment that will give Means to be honest and to live. Such is my warm, heart-felt desire, Such is the boon I now require,-- And if you do my wishes aid, I tell you Sir,--_you shall be PAID_." Sticking his pen behind his ear And with a keen enquiring leer, _Sharpsight_ the curious figure view'd, And thus the important talk pursued. "In answer to your just desire, Permit me fairly to enquire, Which to my ledger is transmitted, For what your qualities are fitted? And, in good faith, I wish to know, What you have done, and what can do? Nay, to whose word I may refer For your good name and character. Such is essential to the case, Such are the first steps to a place, Of whate'er kind that place may be, Whether of high or low degree; Without them no access to station, No character, no situation. --What you assert, you say is true, I'm sure, my friend, I wish so too: For what you ask, as you describe, Is ask'd by all the serving tribe: 'Tis that to which they all pretend, But those I never can commend In honour to my own good name, } And to this room's establish'd fame, } But what the rigid truth may claim. } Though as you look this place around, But common folk are to be found: Coachmen who sit without a whip; Footmen, without a call to skip; And Journeymen without a trade; Clerks whose pens have long been idle; With grooms quite dull, who ask a bridle; Cooks who exclaim for roast and boil'd, And nurs'ry-maids without a child; Young, sprightly girls who long to clamber From drawing-rooms to upper chamber, Ready the drudg'ry to assail Of scrubbing-brush, and mop and pail; Stout porters who for places tarry, Whose shoulders ache for loads to carry; But character they must maintain, Or here they come, and pay in vain. In short, were I to count them o'er, I could name twenty kinds or more, Who patient and impatient wait About this busy, crowded gate. --But you might higher claimants see Within this crowded registry, Who do not at the desk appear, Nor e'er are seen in person here; But they are charged a larger fee, Both for success and secrecy. Thus you must see how much depends, To gain your object and your ends, That you should truly let me know What you have done,--what you can do; And I, once more, beg to refer To your good name and character." "I do profess I can engage With noble, simple, and with sage. Though young as yet, I've been so hurl'd About what you would call the world, That well I know it, yet 'tis true, I can be very honest too. --Of the good name which you demand, I tell you--I've not one at hand. Of friends, I once had ample store, But those fair, prosp'rous days are o'er, And I must mourn it to my cost That friends are dead, and gone, and lost; But if to conscience 'tis referr'd, My conscience says, Sir, take his word. --Of character, though I have none, Perhaps, Sir, I can purchase one: I, from a corner of my coat, May just pluck out a pretty note; Which, with a view to gain an end, Might, in an urgent want, befriend. Now, if to place me, you contrive, } Where I may have a chance to thrive; } I'll give this note, if I'm alive. } It may be rather worth your while; Perhaps it may awake a smile." _Sharpsight_ appear'd to look astray, But still he took a glance that way. "I'm not," he said, "to be beguil'd;" Though when he glanc'd that way, he _smil'd_, And, turning to the other side, In a calm, soften'd tone replied. "Here money is not that way earn'd, My reputation is concern'd; But still I can my duty do, And strive to be a friend to you. _Sir Jeff'ry Gourmand_ you may suit; A Knight renown'd, of high repute, As all who know his name can tell, For being rich and living well; A gen'rous man, but full of whim, And you may be the thing for him: In such a way your case I'll mention As shall awaken his attention. And now, my worthy friend, I pray, Mind well what I'm about to say: Without a creature to refer Or for good name or character, And in a state which seems to be Involv'd in awkward mystery; And I shall add, with your excuse For the remark which I must use, That either accident or nature Has, on your back, plac'd such a feature, That were you e'en my dearest friend, I dare not such an one commend To any lady worth a groat, Unless to serve the dame for nought. --Just turn around, and you may see A Lady in deep scrutiny, With a nice quizzing-glass in hand, Glancing across a liv'ried band; And once a month she does appear On this domestic errand here. If of a maid she wants the use, Her woman comes to pick and chuse; But if a man,--she is so nice, She comes herself to make the choice. A widow rich, who gives high wages, If they should please, whom she engages: But he must be of such a size, And look so well in her keen eyes, That she scarce one in twenty sees Fit to wear her rich liveries. There's one who has a squinting eye-- I know full well she'll pass him by; On one poor rogue she'll turn her back Because his frightful beard is black; Another will not eat her bread Because his frizzled crop is red; These are too weak,--and those too strong, And some an inch too short or long: She'll take the best-made of the bunch, But would be fainting at a hunch. --Thus then, according to my plan, _Sir Jeff'ry Gourmand_ is the man; But to his questions pray reply Without the veil of mystery: Your story from your very youth, If he should ask it--tell the truth; Your errors fail not to unfold-- In telling them be firm, be bold; While you your better virtues own, E'en let your mischiefs all be known, But let not folly blazen forth Whate'er you have of conscious worth; Express the ill with down-cast eye, And veil the good with modesty; Though, if you can with prudence poke Into your tale a funny joke, Fear not, 'tis what his humour loves, As his own daily chit-chat proves; And while he does his bev'rage quaff, At what he says--be sure you laugh. But should you not his service suit, He will not play the churlish brute; And if not gone too far astray, May serve you in some other way. Thus you must see I do my best-- To Fortune I shall leave the rest: But now I see _Sir Jeff'ry_ enter, And I must leave you to your venture." _Sharpsight_ then after humbly greeting This huge man-mountain of good eating, For a few minutes in his ear, Told that which he alone could hear. The Knight then cast a curious eye On Johnny, who was standing by, And just enquir'd from whence he came, What was his age, and what his name; Whom he had serv'd, and why he left The place of which he was bereft? "If, Sir, it were not thought too free, If I might take the liberty, I would not wish you here to wait While I my strange condition state, As it would take an hour or more, My various story to explore; Tho' 'tis not such, that I should fear The tale to tell or you to hear: You, who will kind allowance make For wants that press, and hearts that ache, And passions that restraint disdain When justice sues, and sues in vain; And 'tis to that tale I refer For name, for age and character, Whom I have serv'd, and what the scene Where my frail manhood's years have been: And if you will but condescend To my young hist'ry to attend, And will not the fond hope deny me, That you, good Sir, will take and try me, And let my rude, misgotten shape From your observance to escape, You will command,--I will obey; When you may see from day to day, How far, Sir, I may make pretence To your good grace and confidence." "Then be it so," the Knight replied, "I trust I may be satisfied. I'm told there's something droll about you, But droll'ry will not make me scout you; Nor do I mind, my friend, the pack, Which you now wear upon your back: We're rather equal on that score-- Your's is behind, and mine's before; Nay, when of both I take a view, Mine is the larger of the two." QUAE GENUS, with a ready grace, Lifted his hat to hide his face; But still he so arrang'd the screen That his gay visage might be seen; Which seem'd to burst as from the hit Of the fat Knight's spontaneous wit, Who chuckled first, and then made known His further will to laughing John. "Be punctual;--at the hour of ten We will, to-morrow, meet again; When I will hear, without delay, The whole which you have got to say: But know, you will offend my feeling If you should shuffle from plain dealing. I'm serious now:--on that depends, How far we may continue friends." QUAE GENUS fail'd not, at the hour, To pass _Sir Jeff'ry's_ chamber door; Where, seated in a cushion'd chair As large as some post-chaises are, And though it may be strange to tell, The Knight contriv'd to fill it well; He seem'd attentive to peruse The pages of the daily news: When, with a look and with a loll, As if he thought on something droll, And in a sort of pleasant glee, He thus commenc'd the colloquy.-- "First, I must ask to know your name, Your parentage, and whence you came; And when these trifling things are past, The master whom you liv'd with last." "QUAE GENUS, is the name I bear." "QUAE GENUS? 'tis a name so rare, It never met my ear or eye, If I can trust my memory. I mean the surname that you own, By which your family is known: Not what your sponsor's pedant hammer Beat into use from Lilly's grammar. I want your father's name."-- "'Twere well! If I that honour'd name could tell; I must suppose that such a creature Was form'd in her own way, by Nature! That I had parents must be true; A father and a mother too, But who they were I never heard, Nor has the secret yet appear'd: They're known to Heaven,--but to me My birth's a perfect mystery: Though this I'm sure that I can tell-- It was not worth a miracle." "By whom, then, was QUAE GENUS given?" "By one who is a saint in Heaven; If ever mortal beings go To bliss above, from ills below: This I believe, nay I would swear, That such is his allotment there; And I would kiss the book I trow, The holy book that tells me so. A Grammar Title was his own, And therefore 'twas--he gave me one: 'Twas DOCTOR SYNTAX, and I'm proud That 'tis to him the name I ow'd." "I knew him not, but this I know, What pleasure to his works I owe; And you will meet my partial whim-- Prove that you e'er belong'd to him. Treasur'd within that curtain'd case, His works possess a favour'd place; And if the binding aught can tell, They show that I respect them well. Go, take a volume down, and look-- Perhaps, my friend, you know the book." "I know it well, as you will see, It tells my infant history: This leaf will partly save the task Of answ'ring what you're pleas'd to ask. That little infant whom you see } In basket laid,--that, Sir, is me, } Now grown to sad maturity. } --It was within an Inn of Court, Where busy Lawyers plead and sport; Upon those stairs and thus enclos'd, My new-born figure was expos'd. Of mercy they had little share } Whose cruel purpose plac'd me there, } And left me to the Lawyer's care; } For, had th' Attorney been in town, Who did those very chambers own, I doubt what might have been my fate: The thing was strange--the hour was late; The work-house might be distant far, And dubious been the nursings there. But one, perchance, possess'd the floor When I was laid beside the door, Who would have felt a crying sin Had he not ta'en the stranger in. When I this pictur'd figure view, So innocent--so helpless too, A smile's contending with a tear, On seeing what I now appear: A pretty figure for a casket,-- A little Falstaff in the basket." "Further of this you need not tell, I know the curious story well; At least as far as there appears In what regards your infant years, And all that did your fate betide, Till your good friend the Doctor died. --But now,--Of _Masters_ name the last Whom you have serv'd for some time past." "_Masters_, an' please you, I had none, And _Mistresses_, I had but one: Indeed, Sir, it may not be civil, But O, she is a very devil, Which I am sure you will allow Soon as you come her name to know, Tho' oft and oft, and o'er and o'er, You must have heard it spoke before, But not in any pressing hour Have you been subject to her power. It might not be a thing of course But I her servant was perforce, For sure as my name is QUAE GENUS There seem'd a contract made between us; And her sad service I must rue, If I come not to live with you; With her I must continue still, If it proves not your gen'rous will, To receive me, Sir, from her With what she gives of character, For she sometimes can make pretence To ask heart-felt benevolence." "This is most strange, I do declare! } But pray what figure did she bear } While you th' unwilling servant were?" } "An ever-varying form she wore, As ever changeful Proteus bore: But or in motion she, or still; Her ev'ry hour is mark'd with ill. She looks best pleas'd when sorrow flows, She can disdain when virtue bows: Labour and penury and pain And sad disease compose her train, While vain complaint and discontent Form her pale-fac'd establishment." SIR JEFF'RY now let loose a smile As if some fancy did beguile And play upon his easy thought, With light, amusive mischief fraught; And this sarcastic question prov'd The pleasantry _Sir Jeff'ry_ lov'd. "When she was in a spiteful humour, What said she of that _pretty tumour_? The which without a wish to pry, Must sometimes meet her wand'ring eye. Did she ne'er stroke your circling back, Nor e'er salute it with a smack; Or when she was dispos'd to sneer Deck it with sun and moon and stars, Or cover with her liv'ry's robe The Continents of half the Globe; Or like an Atlas, did she flout you As you bore half the world about you, When you might show it as a sight, And gain no common profit by't; Blend with the Panorama's skill, In all the pride of printed bill, Deliver'd with a ready hand Through Leic'ster-fields or in the Strand." The Knight's loud laughter then succeeded,-- And Johnny laughing too, proceeded. "How happy you who thus can joke And wrap me in your funny cloak, Nay, when your mirth, Sir, may think fit, Can fill my crooked back with wit; Can even make me almost proud, Of that self-same prepost'rous load. You may, perhaps, be not aware, But 'tis the truth which I declare, I would serve you for half the wages Which common servitude engages, Provided you would pay the rest In such nice puns and merry jest; I would with joy sign the receipt, For half in cash, and half in wit." "Well, well, go on," _Sir Jeff'ry_ said, While his glad, twinkling eyes betray'd, How much QUAE GENUS pleas'd his fancy At this so flatt'ring necromancy. --While the Knight his cold coffee quaffing, But still at his own fancies laughing, Exclaim'd, "proceed, but be it known, } I wish the lady's hist'ry done, } And then you will conclude your own." } "When she first knew me she could see A form as strait as poplar tree, Then I was ruddy, fair and plump, Nor was my back crown'd with a hump, Of which you may not be aware, For hang the hag, she plac'd it there, And you, good Sir, shall shortly know, How to her power the gift I owe." "The more I hear, the more I see, The more you deal in mystery. This Mistress, sure, of which you tell, A widow she, or is she wedded? Or e'er by blushing Hymen bedded?" "O no, Sir, no.--She is more common Than is the worst street-walking woman. There's scarce a mortal about town To whom this Mistress is not known; And if the track I should pursue, I might add in the country too. But 'tis a keen wit that unravels The wide extent of all her travels; Nor time nor space has she to spare, She's here and there and ev'ry where. Though if I at a guess may venture Beneath this roof she will not enter, Unless, as you the chance may see, The saucy minx comes here with me." "But one more question I've to ask, Ere you perform your promis'd task, And tell me from all shuffling free, The items of your history, Up to the moment when you stand A candidate for my command. And now QUAE GENUS tell the name Of this same universal dame, Whom you, poor fellow, have been serving, And, as you state it, almost starving. --If in your tale she does agree, It is a tale of mystery; Some fairy fable, I suppose, That paints, in emblems, human woes, And does in figur'd words, apply To your peculiar history. It is not in the usual way That such as you their state display; It is not in such borrow'd guise That they unfold their histories, With here and there a little bit Of droll'ry to shew off their wit; It is not in this form I see Those who may wear my livery; But your's I feel a diff'rent case From those who come to seek a place; Or when the register may send him, With, 'Sir, we beg to recommend him.' I now bethink me of the sage Who lov'd you in your tender age; And when I see you have a claim } To share the page that marks his fame, } SYNTAX, that highly honour'd name } A passport is, my good QUAE GENUS, To the familiar talk between us. From that relation which you share, No longer stand, but take a chair, And now proceed, without delay, To close the tale in your own way. "And once again, I ask the name Of this so universal dame; What is her fortune,--where she lives, And the strange means by which she thrives? Where she acquires her wond'rous power, Which you describe, o'er ev'ry hour? Where it began, my curious friend; Then tell me, pray, when it will end." With due respect, as was requir'd, He took the chair for he was tir'd, And calling truth to be his guide, He thus in solemn tone replied. "MISS-FORTUNE is the name she bears, Her rent-roll's form'd of sighs and tears: She doth not live or here or there, I fear, Sir, she lives ev'ry where. I'm sure that I know not the ground Where her sad influence is not found; But if a circle should appear } Beyond her arbitrary sphere, } I feel and hope, Sir, it is here. } --This worn-out coat, Sir, which you see, Is the kind Lady's livery: I once was fat, but now am thin, Made up of nought but bone and skin; I once was large but now am small, From feeding in her servants'-hall, And the hump I shall ever bear Is an example of her care. As for the blessed Dame's beginning, I've heard that it began in sinning, And I have learn'd that she will end When this vile world has learn'd to mend; But if we guess when that may be, We may guess to eternity." "MISS-FORTUNE!! Heav'ns! O thus she's nam'd," The Knight, with uplift eyes exclaim'd. "O the dull head, not to have seen What the _Finale_ must have been!" Then clasping hands and chuckling first Into a bellowing laugh he burst, Though not to his broad face confin'd, But on each side, before, behind, It seem'd as if his whimsies bound him, In a joyous circle round him: His belly trembles, his sides ache, And the great-chair scarce stands the shake. 'Twas a hoarse, deep bass, note of mirth, To which his fancy thus gave birth; And Johnny fail'd not to come after An octave higher in his laughter, While his delight appear'd to speak In somewhat of a treble squeak.-- Thus, for some minutes they enjoy'd The _Duo_ which their nerves employ'd. _Sir Jeff'ry_ shook his head awhile, Then spoke with a complacent smile. "Though in a diff'ring point of view, } I know her just as well as you; } And hang the hag she plagues me too. } Need I, good fellow, need I tell ye, She deck'd me out with this great belly; 'Tis she, by way of friendly treat, Has given this pair of gouty feet; Nay sometimes when her whim commands _Miss-Fortune_ robs me of my hands: 'Tis she with her intention vile That makes me overflow with bile; And tho' my table's spread with plenty Of ev'ry nice and costly dainty, She sometimes envies me a bite, And takes away my appetite. She does not meddle with my wealth, But then she undermines my health; She never in my strong box looks, Nor pries into my banker's books; My ample fortune I contrive To guard with care and make it thrive, I check her power to destroy it, But then she says, 'you sha'n't enjoy it; I will take care you shall endure The ills and pains gold cannot cure.' Or leagu'd with wrinkled age at least, She strives to interrupt the feast. --But with her malice I contend, Where she's a foe, I'm oft a friend, And, with the weapons I can wield, I sometimes drive her from the field. Nay when she does the victim clasp, I snatch it from her cruel grasp. And thus you see, or more or less, I make her prove my happiness." "There was indeed a time when I Knew her but by warm sympathy With those who did her burthen bear, Which I have since been forc'd to share; But this, at least, I'm pleas'd to own, And 'tis a truth to you well known, Nay, this I'll say, in others' breast, Where'er the virtue is possess'd, She does, as I have felt, and see, Awake benign Humanity." "And she shall 'wake it now, QUAE GENUS! An instant contract's made between us. I break that which she made with you, And gladly you abjure it too. I have no doubt, my friend, to venture; Into my service you shall enter, Your ills at present shall be o'er, _Miss-Fortune_ you shall serve no more. At least, I say, while you contrive By your good deeds with me to live: I'll save you from your late disaster And change your mistress for a master. I want no bowings, no grimaces, No blessings that I've chang'd your places. --I now remind you to relate All that has been your various fate, Nay, all that you have ever known, Since time and freedom were your own. --I tell you, _Johnny_, speak the truth; I know what follies wait on youth: I know where erring passion leads, On what a slipp'ry ground it treads: I can remember that I fail'd When the gay, tempting world prevail'd; Nor shall I now the thought conceal, Which reason tells me to reveal. What Heaven forgives should be forgiven By all who look with hope tow'rds Heaven: But I expect not faults alone, } I trust in what you may have done, } There may work out a little fun. } --If I guess right your lively eye } Was not exactly made to cry, } But sometimes call forth pleasantry; } Of diff'ring thoughts to ope the vein, Let pleasure forth or lessen pain. But still do not your mischiefs hide, Throughout your tale, be truth your guide; Nor make _Miss-Fortune_ though she starves, Worse, by the bye, than she deserves, For after all her misdeeds past, The Dame may do you good at last. --Deceive me, and you will offend, Deceive me, and you lose a friend: Try to deceive me and again You'll join _Miss-Fortune's_ pale-fac'd train. Proceed then, and, without a fear, } Pour thy misdoings in my ear } And I will with indulgence hear. } I'll not discard you for the evil, Though you should prove a little devil, Though to your hump you should not fail, To add your horns and hoofs and tail; Though you should prove a bag of sin, And hump'd without be hump'd within, Here you shall have your home, your food; Kick at _Miss-Fortune_, and be good." He spoke, then rang the shrill-ton'd bell, Which did its well-known message tell.-- A tray appear'd, and well prepar'd, Which _Johnny_ with _Sir Jeff'ry_ shar'd. When, waving his beflannell'd hand, The knight thus utter'd his command. "And now, thou little Imp of Sin, Without a compliment begin." "The Volume that now lies before ye, Tells you thus far, Sir, of my story; Which would be upon this occasion A work of supererogation; Though I shall beg leave to repeat, I'm not the new-born of the street; But as it never yet appear'd, At least, as I have ever heard, To such unknown, unfather'd heirs, I am a Foundling of _the stairs_, Without a mark upon the dress, By which there might be form'd a guess, Whether I should the offspring prove Of noble or of vulgar love; Whether thus left in Inn of Court Where Lawyers live of ev'ry sort; Love in a deep full-bottom clad, Gave me a grave black-letter'd dad, Who, if 'twere so, might not agree To have a child without a fee; And, therefore, would not plead my cause, But left me to the vagrant laws Of chance, who did not do amiss, But sued in _Forma Pauperis_, And, in a Court where Mercy reign'd, The little Foundling's cause was gain'd: SYNTAX was judge, and pity's power Sav'd me in that forsaken hour. He with that truly Christian spirit, Which Heaven gave him to inherit, Fondly embrac'd me as his own; But ere three transient years were gone, I lost my friend, but found another, A father he, and she, a mother; For such at least they both have prov'd, And as their child the stranger lov'd. O, rest her soul!--to her 'tis given To share his happy lot in Heaven. I seem'd to be her utmost pride, And Johnny trotting by her side, Fill'd with delight her glancing eye In warm affection's sympathy. This fond, this kind, this fost'ring friend Did to my ev'ry want attend; Her only fault, she rather spoil'd As he grew up, the darling child; But though her care was not confin'd Or to his body, or his mind, Though, with a fond parental view, She gave to both th' attention due, Ne'er would she her displeasure fix On his most wild, unlucky tricks. So that at church he held grave airs, Pronounc'd Amen, and said his pray'rs, And on a Sunday evening read A sermon ere they went to bed, Throughout the week, he was quite free For mischief with impunity. --If on the folk I squirted water, How she would shake her sides with laughter; If the long-rotten eggs were thrown If any stinging stuff was put Into the hasty trav'ller's boot; If the sly movement of the heel Should overturn the spinning-wheel. --If holly plac'd beside the rose Should wound the gay sheep-shearer's nose, Or 'neath the tail a thorn-bush pricking, Should set Dame Dobbins' mare a kicking, And overthrow the market load, While beans and peas o'erspread the road, If the poor injur'd made complaint To Madam of her wily saint, She would reply, 'pray cease your noise, These are the tricks of clever boys, It is my pleasant Johnny's fun, Tell me the damage, and have done.' --When I became a rosy boy, My growth encreas'd her growing joy; But now such gamesome hours were o'er I play'd my childish tricks no more. My little heart 'gan to beat high, And with heroic ardor try The tempting danger to pursue, And do what others could not do: I sought to climb the highest tree, Where none would dare to follow me, Or the gay sporting horse to ride, Which no school-fellow dare bestride. My feats were sometimes rather scaring, But the Dame lov'd to see me daring; As by my running, leaping, walking, I us'd to set the parish talking, And, to the good old women's wonder, I fear'd not lightning nor thunder. She thought, in future time, my name } By some achievement bold, might claim } A loud blast in the trump of fame. } "When, as a youth, how great the charm To lean upon his willing arm, Or when she wish'd to take the air, To guide her poney in the chair; To fetch her book, to place her stool, Or bear the _laden ridicule:_ To chat, to laugh, to sing, to read, As whims or wishes might succeed: And I am proud to make it known Her ev'ry pleasure was my own; And all to please her I could do, Was joy, as it was duty too. "Here now my better story ends-- So far, I trust, Sir, we are friends: When I must tell of what's to come." _Sir Jeffery_, half-laughing, said, "_Johnny_, I pray, be not afraid, Whate'er your luckless wit has done, I swear I will set down in fun; By me, your sins shall be forgiven As sure as Mercy is in Heaven." "Then, at your pleasure I proceed, Nor will I hide a single deed; There is but one I doubt to own, But that to you shall be made known, And will with you securely rest As in my own uneasy breast; Though I'm afraid of vengeful laws As I believe without a cause. Indeed, I have contriv'd to play The very fool for many a day, But brief, be sure, I'll strive to be In this my early history. "And here, an' please you, Sir, begins The tale of my mishaps--the chapter of my sins." It may seem queer when 'tis the will Of Fate, its wishes to fulfil, To call the culprit to the bar, One born beneath a luckless star, And from his urging conscience tell The truths that on his mem'ry dwell, When, like a checquer they display The black and white to open day. Thus, as the truth he's bound to state, The former may preponderate; While, in a happy moment bold, He may some conscious good unfold, Nor can the awkward task refuse Both to applaud and to accuse. --Such thoughts as these might be the cause, Why poor QUAE GENUS made a pause. "Well," said _Sir Jeff'ry_, "pray go on, Or never will your tale have done: I've told you, and you must attend; You tell your story to a friend, Who will, whatever may appear, With kindness and compassion hear." "Your pardon, Sir, I will proceed, Nor stop till I've perform'd the deed. --Thus, so far Fortune deck'd with smiles The season which our youth beguiles, And gave the hope of added measure To gay delight and solid pleasure: But while the merry song went round, And to the tabor's lively sound, The village did in cadence beat, With all its many twinkling feet, Pale Fate appear'd, in cypress wreath, And call'd out for the DANCE OF DEATH: When my dear friend, who gave the feast, And cheer'd with smiles each happy guest, Was borne away, I scarce knew why, But I was told,--it was to die. And soon, alas! I wond'ring saw All govern'd by a man of law, With whom she seldom converse held, But when her private cares compell'd Some petty, trifling, legal aid, Which coolly she discharg'd and paid. 'Twas by this man's exulting side I walk'd along and sobb'd and sigh'd When she was carried to the bourne From whence we mortals ne'er return. --I was by all around approv'd, And by the better neighbours lov'd, While I in ev'ry eye could see The pity that was felt for me. By her death-bed he held the quill That made him master of her will, While a round sum was written there To pay him for the tender care Which he of her sweet boy would take, For her's and her dear husband's sake. Husband! whom this same man of law, This forging rascal never saw: Indeed by many it was thought He put his name where he ought not. It much surpriz'd each curious friend, And quite astonish'd _Doctor Bend_, Whose rev'rend titles should have been Where the foul lawyer's name was seen. Wrong was suspected, Counsel had, But no objection could be made, And by all forms of law allied, The will was shap'd and testified: The attorney to his duties swore, So he became Executor. 'Tis true she left her all to me, But here and there a legacy; Though, such were this strange will's commands Through _Lawyer Gripe-all's_ grasping hands, All was to pass and there remain Till I the age of man attain; And if I chanc'd to die before,-- The lawyer was to take the store. All saw, or all believ'd the cheat, But the law veil'd the base deceit, And when the doctor came to see How justice might be done to me, On due reflection, thought it fit, As things were order'd, to submit; Told me, at present, to be quiet, To seem content, nor breed a riot, But when I truely crav'd a friend, Then with affection's warmth caress'd me, And, with a parent's blessing, bless'd me. "From that dear cottage now I mov'd, Where I such tender fondness prov'd; From a calm scene of taste refin'd, And all that could improve the mind; Where daily blessings were bestow'd From all the humble neighbourhood; Where heart-felt goodness was employ'd, And social harmony enjoy'd;-- From these QUAE GENUS was transferr'd To where the daily curse was heard, Where the law's promise was delay'd, And money for injustice paid; Or a loud, base, malignant joy, Which the law's triumphs might employ;-- To an old house that stood alone, With ivy and with moss o'ergrown, And where the practiser of laws Did his foul deeds 'mid bats and daws; Nay, which, as fame reports, was worse, The house was saddled with a curse, That _Gripe-all_, in the law's despite, Had robb'd some widow of her right, And, by his cutting and his carving, Had got the house--and left her starving. "Oft I my loss, in secret, wept, And when my eyelids should have slept, Nay, when those eyelids should have clos'd And I in strength'ning sleep repos'd, They remain'd wakeful oft and shed Their dews upon my troubled bed. Though Master _Gripe-all_, it was known Shew'd me a kindness not his own; And did with all indulgence treat me, As the best means, at length, to cheat me. He strove my early grief to soothe, Call'd me his dear, delightful youth; Gave me a pretty horse to ride, With money in my purse beside; Let me employ the taylor's art To deck me out and make me smart, Let me just study when I pleas'd, Nor e'er my mind with learning teas'd. But still a gnawing discontent Prey'd on me wheresoe'er I went. --Of Phillis too I was bereft, One real pleasure that was left: A fav'rite spaniel of my friend, That did on all my steps attend, At eve was frisking, fond and gay, } But on the sad succeeding day, } A poison'd, swollen form it lay. } It might be chance, but while I griev'd, The following letter I received, Which was thrown o'er a hedge the while I sat half weeping on a stile. The writer I could never tell; But he who wrote it meant me well; And I've no doubt that it contain'd The thoughts which through the country reign'd." "_I'm a poor man, but yet can spell, } And I lov'd Madam SYNTAX well: } --But I've a sorry tale to tell. } Young 'Squire you're in the Devil's hands, Or one who yields to his commands, And who, I'm certain, would be bold In bloody deeds, if 'tis for gold. Halters he fears, but the base wretch Fears no one mortal but JACK KETCH: Yet what with quirks and such like flaws, He can contrive to cheat the laws_: _Though Madam's hand the will might sign, It is no more her will than mine. Some say, as she lay on her bed, The deed was sign'd when she was dead, And I've heard some one say, whose name I must not give to common fame, He'd lay ten pounds and say, 'have done,' You liv'd not on to twenty-one; And if you die before, 'tis known, That Madam's money's all his own. Nay, how he did the will compose, 'Tis Beelzebub alone who knows! He in a lonely mansion lives, But there the cunning villain thrives: Yes, he gets on, as it appears, By setting people by the ears: Though I have heard NAN MIDWIFE say, Who sometimes travels late that way, That 'neath the yew, near the house wall, Where the dark ivy's seen to crawl, A cat she once saw which was half As big as any full-grown calf, And with her tail beat down the bushes, As if they were but slender rushes; Has often felt sulphureous steam, And seen bright lines of lightning gleam. These things the good, old woman, swears She sometimes smells and sees and hears, While thus all trembling with affright, She scarce can get her bald mare by't. --Run off, young 'Squire, for much I fear You'll be cut off, if you stay here. My service thus I do commend, From, Sir, your very humble friend: And hope you will take in good part, What comes from poor but honest heart!_" "This plain epistle told no more Than had been hinted at before; But though I was too bold to fear That danger of such kind was near, Yet still the honest counsel brought My mind to a new range of thought. "One day as I was riding out, Prowling the country round about, A guide-post stood, in letter'd pride, Close by the dusty high-road side: With many towns for passage fam'd, _Oxford_ upon its points was nam'd, Which instant call'd me to attend To my kind patron _Doctor Bend_: And then there 'rose within my breast A thought that reason did suggest, And not th' effect of boyish whim, '_Th' Attorney quit and fly to him_.'-- --Soon after, by a lucky chance, I heard what made my heart to dance, That _Cerberus_ would be from home, At least for sev'ral days to come, Though, when of me he took his leave, He said, 'expect me home at eve, But, as talk may the way beguile,' He added, 'ride with me a mile.' --This was the very thing I wish'd, For now I felt the fox was dish'd. He rode on first and bade me follow, 'Twas then that I began to hollow; I had but one _white lie_ to tell And all things would be going well. I said it was my guardian's whim That I should make the tour with him, And ask'd for a clean shirt or so As I had such a way to go. Thus my great-coat, most closely roll'd, Did all the useful package hold, And to the saddle strongly tied I was completely satisfied, As nought appear'd, thus pack'd together, But a protection from the weather, So that the lawyer's lynx's eye Was clos'd on curiosity: For Madam Gripe-all's ready care Did, to my wish, the whole prepare. Indeed, whatever she might be, Her kindness never fail'd to me. She frequently would call me son, And say she lov'd me as her own; Nay, when the clock struck, she would say, 'Kiss me as often, dear, I pray As that same clock is heard to strike, And oft'ner, dearest, if you like.' Though such favour ne'er was shown, } But when we both were quite alone, } And seldom when the clock struck one. } Her fondness I could well have stinted, For, to say truth, she smelt and squinted: But I remember'd that she cried, When my poor, little Phillis died. "I felt my airing rather droll, Jogging with _Gripe-all_ cheek-by-jowl, And hearing him, with no great awe, Expound the secrets of the law. --When arriv'd at seven miles' end He smil'd and said, 'Good bye, my friend: Now homewards you will turn and tell, That thus far you have left me well.' I left him with a hope, how vain! I ne'er might see his face again. My spur did sprightly poney goad Till I had got into the road Which did to Oxford's city lead, When I restrain'd my foaming steed, And, calmly pacing on my way, Ere _Great Tom_ toll'd the following day, I had embrac'd my rev'rend friend And kindest patron, _Doctor Bend_. "I told a simple, artless tale, That seem'd completely to prevail, As I beheld his face the while Beam with a kind, approving smile. ''Tis a bold trick,' the Doctor said, 'Which you, my lively spark, have play'd, But since to College you are come, I'll try to make the place your home; Where I should hope you need not fear To be cut short in your career; I think, at least, we may engage To keep you safe till you're of age, When I shall leave you to the struggling With _Gripe-all's_ artifice and juggling: But still the cunning lawyer knows I have good friends 'mong some of those Who lead the bar or have a seat Where the keen eye detects a cheat. He will, I doubt not, swear and curse, Nay, he may say you've stole his horse; But if he meets with no disaster, In two days he shall see his master, And John will have a strict command To give a letter to his hand Which I shall with due caution write Before I seek my bed to-night, And if my mental eye sees clear Will fix my friend QUAE GENUS here.' John met the lawyer on the road, Just as he reach'd his own abode, And ere at home he could have heard Of my escape a single word: Told him at once all he could tell, That I at Oxford was, and well, Where as I stay'd, I had of course, With many thanks return'd his horse, John said, he rather look'd confus'd As the epistle he perus'd. --Whether it bore a kind request I should with ALMA MATER rest, Or any hint that might apply If soothing it contain'd or threat, } I never knew or I forget,-- } With all submission it was met. } To all it ask'd he did agree, And sent his kind regards to me, While he his counsel did commend Not to run off from _Doctor Bend_, Nor e'er be govern'd by the whim That made me run away from him. "Thus soon in Scholar's cap and gown, } I was seen saunt'ring up and down } The High-Street of fair Oxford Town. } And though I stood not first in fame, I never bore an idler's name. I was content, nay 'twas my pride The Doctor ne'er was heard to chide, Which, as your Oxford youths can tell, Was getting onward rather well. My friends, the WORTHIES, near the Lake, Lov'd me for DOCTOR SYNTAX' sake, And, free from e'en a speck of care, I pass'd a short-liv'd Summer there. --But time, as it is us'd, roll'd on, And I, at length, was twenty-one. "I now became a man of cares To bear the weight of my affairs, To know my fortune's full amount, And to arrange a clear account Between the vile, rapacious elf, The _Lawyer Gripe-all_ and myself. --No sooner to the place I came, } Soon as was heard my well-known name, } The bells my coming did proclaim, } And had I stay'd the following day, I would have made the village gay! Thus _Gripe-all_ was full well prepar'd And put at once upon his guard. I went unwittingly alone To claim my right and ask my own, Though arm'd, to cut the matter short, With an enliv'ning dose of Port, While he was ready to display The spirit of the law's delay. --A step, he said, he could not stir And many a proof he must receive, Which well he knew I could not give; And till these papers I could shew, He must remain in _Statu quo_. But still, as a kind, gen'rous friend, And from respect to _Doctor Bend_, He would, though cash did not abound, Advance me then _four hundred pound_. I took the notes and thought it best To wait the settling of the rest; But soon I saw, as I'm alive, That I had sign'd receipt for _five_. My fingers caught the fraudful paper, At which he 'gan to fume and vapour, And let loose language full of ire, On which I caught him by the nose, And gave the wretch some heavy blows, Nay, as the blood ran down his face, I dash'd the ink all in his face, So that his figure might have done E'en for the pit of Acheron. Inky black and bloody red Was o'er his ghastly visage spread, As he lay senseless on the floor, And, as I then thought, breath'd no more. --The office, now a scene of blood, Most haply in the garden stood, So that our scene of sanguine riot Did not disturb domestic quiet: The notes were in my pocket stor'd, And the receipt was in the hoard; But as I now believ'd him dead, I thought of being hang'd--and fled. Nor did I make the whisky wait Which then stood at the garden gate. The driver who there held the reins, Took me through many secret lanes And woodland roads, that might evade Pursuit, if any should be made. He had an humble play-mate been When I was sportive on the green; But now, like me, to manhood grown, Was as a skilful driver known; And would have gone to serve QUAE GENUS Though fire and water were between us. I told him all the fears I felt, And how I had with _Gripe-all_ dealt; Nay, urg'd him, if I were pursued, } To cheat the blood-hounds, if he could, } All which he mainly swore he would. } Nay, hop'd I'd given him such a drubbing, As to send him Beelzebubbing; Though, first or last, he sure would go To his relations down below. "Thus as we talk'd a mail-coach pass'd, And as I could not go too fast, I found, perchance, an empty seat, And thus I made a quick retreat; Nay should, in eight and forty hours, By the wheels' ever-rolling powers, Have a secure retirement found, Safe from pursuit, on Scottish ground. But as Misfortune, it is said, Calls in associates to her aid, And, indeed, is seldom known To pay her visits all alone; So either from the sultry weather, Or anxious thoughts, or both together, I was stopp'd short in my career, By intermitting fits severe Of heat and cold: a Galen came, And Julep was the good man's name, For truly good he prov'd to me In skill and in humanity. ''Tis not,' he said, 'disease alone, Which various symptoms have made known, But they're encreasing as I find, By a disturb'd and anxious mind, And if that cannot be subdued, Med'cine will do but little good.' I therefore, my distresses told, In short, my story did unfold, While, as I spoke, in his kind eye, I saw the tear of sympathy, And did beneath his roof receive The care that pitying skill could give. "The fever wag'd a painful strife, A struggling chance 'tween Death and Life, That play'd upon my yielding spine, Which did to outward curve incline: I felt the mark would ne'er forsake Its cruel seat upon my back; I bent beneath the foul disaster That ne'er would yield to any plaister: Nor medicine, nor knife can cure it, And must struggle to endure it. Thus when restor'd to health and vigour, I was become a crook-back'd figure: My former round and healthful face Had lost its plump, its rosy grace, And was reduc'd from this same cause To pale and lean and lantern jaws, That none who once QUAE GENUS knew Would recollect him on the view; Nor e'en would recognition wait Though he should pass by _Gripe-all's_ gate. When in the glass I chanc'd to view, } The figure I now scarcely knew, } I shudder'd and despis'd it too. } Ere you depart, a worthy friend, A lawyer too, nay, do not start, Whose well-stor'd head and honest-heart, Throughout his life were ne'er disjoin'd, And in his practice are combin'd The cause of truth and right to aid; Who ne'er has heard the poor upbraid His conscious dealings, while 'tis known, The wealthy do his virtues own. Thus, as your fate has been accurs'd, Of legal dealers, with the worst; You now may, as by all confess'd, Obtain good counsel from the best. "On such a character intent, To Lawyer _Make-peace_ thus I went, And told my curious story o'er As I have told it you before. With a keen look my face he ey'd, And in a gentle tone replied. 'If the good man you thus have bang'd, You may contemplate being hang'd; But, as the case to me appears, I trust you may dismiss your fears; For even now you do not know What evil follow'd from the blow; And though some blood may have been spill'd, It follows not the man was kill'd: Besides, whatever ill was done, There was no witness, no not one To prove which of you was in fault, Who first provok'd or gave th' assault; And if, my friend, you had not fled You need not fear, though he were dead. --No advertisement has appear'd To state the crime, as I have heard, And surely I've the means to know If any measures had been so. But still, remember, I advise That you move under a disguise, 'Till time and chance have drawn aside That veil that does these threat'nings hide, Which, in your present dubious state, May on your wary footsteps wait. Change your dress and change your name, For neither now must be the same.' 'My dress and name I'll do anon, The fever all the rest has done; For Doctor _Bend_ I would defy } The fondled Foundling to descry, } In his mis-shapen misery. } JACK PAGE I substitute for you!' 'You have good friends whom you can trust, Who to misfortune will be just, They will, I doubt not, let you know, How you must act and what to do. And much I think you have been wrong, To have with-held your pen so long. Obey me now in all I've said; Be secret and be not afraid.' "He spoke, and, in the kindest way, Urg'd me to make no more delay; And when I sought to give the fee; 'No, no,' he said, 'to such as thee For mere good words I'm never paid;-- This is my way of plying trade. When you have made a fair escape From this unlucky, wretched scrape, And when you are again restor'd To your own happy bed and board; When from all thraldom you are free, Then, if it suits, remember me.' "My notes were sew'd up in my coat, For JULEP would not take a groat. 'When you reach home,' he kindly said; 'Like his friend MAKE-PEACE, I'll be paid.' Thus I set off, as was my plan, Guis'd as a trudging, trav'lling man, And in his journey going on To seek his fate in London town. My needfuls in an oil-cloth sack, Were buckled to my wretched back, And late at night when the full moon In an unclouded brightness shone, I left those gen'rous friends behind Which such as me so seldom find: A Galen, with that goodness fraught, Who gave his skill and drugs for nought; And an attorney, whose great aim Was to put roguery to shame; Nay, whose superior virtues tell The Law can shew a _Miracle_. "You must, _Sir Jeff'ry_, often see } The strange effects of vanity; } Another you will find in me. } You'll scarce believe as I relate The folly which I now must state: That I've been such a silly elf I now can scarce believe myself: And I could wish I dare conceal What duty bids me to reveal. --Did not calm prudence whisper now To my existing state to bow, To tell it all to such a friend As I had found in _Doctor Bend_, Or a quick pilgrimage to make } To Worthy-Hall beside the Lake, } Where, for dear _Doctor Syntax'_ sake, } The troubled _Foundling_ would receive All that protecting care could give. This was the counsel _Make-peace_ gave, A lawyer who was not a knave; Who would advise without a fee, And felt for human misery. --This Reason said in lessons strong, As I pac'd my still way along, When the dull sound of my own feet And Philomela's sonnet sweet Did on the gen'ral silence break, And seem'd to keep the night awake. Then VANITY sat pick-a-pack Perch'd on the hump upon my back, And whisper'd into either ear, 'Such humbling counsels do not hear. Where poor QUAE GENUS has been known His alter'd form must ne'er be shown: With this sad shape he never can Hold himself forth a gentleman: No art can furnish you a cloak To hide from pity or from joke. If passing on a river's ridge, Or, perchance lolling o'er a bridge, You gaze upon the stream below Whose crystal mirror's seen to flow, Would not the picture meet your eye Of your own sad deformity? At Oxford you would be the talk Of the High-street or Christ-Church-walk, While many quizzing fools look round To view your rising back begown'd. --How would you bear the wond'ring ken Of the good folk of Sommerden, While they with pitying looks lament The once straight form, but now so bent! Then leave the world where you have been, Where I would be no longer seen, Nor let the jealous eye compare, What you once was with what you are. Might I advise, I'd sooner die } Unknown, in humble privacy, } Again,' said whisp'ring vanity, } 'Than e'er appear where I was known For graces which were then my own, That pity or that scorn might point At such a form, so out of joint.' "I need not say how many days I sought the bye and secret ways, For ever list'ning to the tongue } That whisper'd soft and pleaded strong, } To set each better feeling wrong. } Hence I resign'd myself to chance, Left fortune, friends, inheritance, And madly felt that I was hurl'd Thus mark'd to wander through the world. To snatch at, and at once receive, Whate'er the world might chance to give. 'Twas not a whimsy of the brain, } That did the idle scheme sustain, } 'Twas something which I can't explain. } All feeling center'd in the pack That had thus risen on my back; And as I felt the burden there, It seem'd the seat of ev'ry care, Of ev'ry painful thought brimfull, Like OLD PANDORA'S _Ridicule_. But as every single note } Which I from _Gripe-all's_ grasp had got, } Was still secure within my coat, } I had sufficient means and more To travel all the kingdom o'er With staff in hand, and well-shod feet, } And oil'd umbrella form'd to meet } The show'rs that might my passage greet. } One pocket did a bible hold, The other held the story told, Which good AEneas did rehearse To Dido, in immortal verse; While from a loop before descended A flute that oft my hours befriended: Thus I with verse, with prose or fist, Was scholar, fiddler, methodist. As fit occasion might demand, I could let Scripture Phrase off-hand, Or fine re-sounding verses quote, Or play a tune in lively note. Thus qualified to cut and carve, I need not fear that I should starve; While in some future lucky stage Of my uncertain pilgrimage, I might have hopes, remov'd from strife, To be a fixture for my life. "Such was the wild, fantastic scheme Such was the strange distracted dream, That, stranger still, rose from the pack Which chance had fix'd upon my back. Of friends forgetful, 'twas my plot That I by friends should be forgot.-- I seem'd to wish that I were thrown Upon some island yet unknown, Where crooked figure is the feature Of all the living, reas'ning nature; And where deformity would be A shape of perfect symmetry; Which SWIFT would not have fail'd to spare, Had his bold fancy wander'd there, And _Lemuel Gulliver_ had been The visitor of such a scene. "In this same state I wander'd on, Grumbling and doubting and alone, Though some encouragement I met Which made me whilom cease to fret; For, tales I hap'd by chance to know And pleasant fancies I could show, With which my active mind was stor'd, Had sometimes paid my bed and board; Nay, had prolong'd my welcome stay Throughout a grave or lively day. "One evening by a riv'let's side That did in gentle murmurs glide, Where the green turf its carpet spread, And willow boughs wav'd o'er my head, I sat reclin'd, nor was my flute, As I could wake its music, mute: When a huge waggon pass'd along, And soon a chorus join'd the song. Invited by the social strain, I rose and sought the jocund train; Men, women, children, all so gay, Who loudly cheer'd the tedious way. The cargo which the waggon bore Were modern times and those of yore; The image of each living scene, And of such things as ne'er had been: Witches and goblins, clouds and skies Deck'd out in their varieties, The river's flow, the ocean's waves, The crowns of kings, the bonds of slaves, Helmets and mitres, robes and arms, Terrific forms, and beauty's charms, All mov'd along, together hurl'd, Th' outfittings of a mimic world: When what with spouting, what with song, As the procession trudg'd along, No cunning was required to see, It was a strolling company, Who were proceeding to make known Their talents in a neighb'ring town. Here a strange thought occur'd that I Might try my powers in Tragedy; While the vain fancy was possess'd I might appear among the best: In short among them I display'd An earnest of the acting trade. The bills were blazon'd with my name, A candidate for scenic fame, And 'twas announc'd that Mr. Page Would first appear on any stage. The part which I of course preferr'd Was SHAKESPEAR'S well known R. the THIRD. I wanted not the wardrobe's aid, My crook-back was already made; My form disdain'd the aid of art, And thus I play'd the tyrant's part: But from my being thus disjoin'd, To this same part I was confin'd. Though by this outfit I must own I could perform the awkward clown, Or any other hunch-back fellow, Where white and red be-mark'd my face, And excellence was my disgrace: For here I shrunk beneath the pack That fate had nail'd upon my back. "I wish'd to figure as Othello, But he was a fine, straight-made fellow, Whom, with a shape, so crook'd, so bent, I could not dare to represent, And though his face was olive brown, No injury his form had known; While mine, in its unseemly guise, Fair Desdemona must despise: Nor could it be a bard's design, } That love-sick maids should e'er incline } To such an outrag'd shape as mine. } My voice possess'd a tender strain, That could express a lover's pain; But such a figure never yet Was seen to win a _Juliet_. Nay ladies lolling in a box, Would think it a most curious hoax, If through their glasses they should see Lord Townly such an imp as me. Thus for a month or more, JACK PAGE Fretted and strutted on the stage, Sometimes affording Richard's figure In all its native twist and vigour; Or bearing kick, or smack, or thump From Harlequin upon his hump. Though I say not, I was ill-paid For the fine acting I display'd. Nay, had I less mis-shapen been, I might to the Theatric scene, Have turn'd my strange life's future views, And courted the Dramatic Muse. "But as I could not smooth my shape From the hips upwards to the nape, And as to so confin'd a round My imitative powers were bound, My Genius I resolv'd to try In writing Farce or Comedy, In which I could exert my art For my dear self to form a part Wherein the keen, applauding eye Might dwell on my deformity, And where the picture might beguile The judgement to afford a smile. --When this same work I had perform'd My vanity was rather warm'd. 'Humour,' 'twas said, 'the piece discovers,' And it was call'd, 'The Crooked Lovers.' "I think, _Sir Jeff'ry_ you may guess, } The plot my Farce aims to possess,-- } A kind of praise of ugliness; } Where Beauty is not seen to charm, Nor fill the heart with fond alarm; Where finest eyes may gleam in vain, May wake no joy, or give no pain: And though the beaming smiles may grace The rosy bloom of Delia's face, Here they excite no am'rous passion, Nor call forth tender inclination: Such the desire, that ev'ry day, Amuses Cupid when at play, But other objects must engage The scenes I offer'd to the stage: Lame legs, club feet, and blinking eyes, With such like eccentricities, Call'd forth my amorous desire, And set my actors all on fire. With me no Damon longs to sip The sweets of Cath'rine's pouting lip, But smoke-dried Strephon seeks the bliss Of a well-guarded, snuffy kiss, Where the long nose, delightful wonder, Scarce from the chin can keep asunder; Where lovers' hearts ne'er feel a thump, But when they view each other's hump. "Now here again I was o'erthrown By a crook-back, and not my own; The May'rs gay wife, whose back appears Upon a level with her ears, Was pleas'd at first that I had prov'd She was an object to be lov'd; But as the Parish Parson too, With a small form was quite askew, And as, when it was pleasant weather, This pair would take a walk together, Would saunter through the winding glade, Or sit beneath the beechen shade; And, as it seem'd, were never cloy'd With tender converse so enjoy'd; It hap'd some Critic keen discovers Whom I meant by 'The Crooked Lovers.' The May'ress call'd th' obedient Mayor To frown from magisterial chair, And with the terrors of his mace To drive my Hunch-back from the place;-- And on the high-road I once more Was trav'lling as I did before. "To you, Sir, it was never known To feel the state which I must own: No home, not knowing where to go, How I should act and what to do. Just as a ship whose rudder's lost, Nor within sight of any coast; Without the power to stand the shock Of tempest, or to shun the rock. From the strange nature of my birth, I knew no relative on earth, Nor to my giddy thoughts was given To look with any hope to Heaven. To London I propos'd to go, Where not a being did I know: To me it was an unknown shore, Where I had never been before, At least, since of all care bereft, I was a helpless Foundling left. Thus, as I thought, behold I stood, Beside a mill-dam's spreading flood; The waters form'd to drive the mill } With its tremendous wheel, stood still, } While evening glimmer'd on the hill. } One plunge I said and all is o'er, My hopes and fears will be no more; An unknown child, an unknown man, And I shall end as I began. Nor can I say what would have follow'd, I, and my hump, might have been swallow'd In the deep, wat'ry gulph beneath, Had I not heard a hautbois breath A lively, but an uncouth strain, As it appear'd from rustic swain, Which, as it dwelt upon my ear, Told me that merriment was near, And did at once dispel the gloom That might have sought a wat'ry tomb. I turn'd my footsteps tow'rds the sound That was now heard the valley round; When soon upon the rural green, The sight of busy mirth was seen. "With sights like these, I had been us'd In early days to be amus'd When I but wav'd my boyish hand The rural groupes obey'd command, When ev'ry rustic feast I grac'd And was in highest station plac'd, Though I did to no name aspire, Yet I was nam'd the youthful 'Squire, For Madam Syntax sake was shown The honour which was not my own. But now, such was my fortune's change, A wand'rer I was left to range I scarce knew where, and doom'd to wait For what might be my future fate. Thus I approach'd the busy throng, And when I heard the joyous song, Though, with a mingled sense of pain, My flute pour'd forth a doubtful strain. --'Twas a sheep-shearing that employ'd The festive toil which all enjoy'd, And I was welcom'd to receive The bounties that the feast could give; And while I did my carols play, With flowers the maidens made me gay, And as they gave my back a thump, Each stuck a nosegay on my hump. Here I must own, there's no concealing, These compliments attack'd my feeling, And I was deck'd out in a part, Which on my back, was near my heart; Yet, as sweet smiles shew'd the intent That no offensive thought was meant, I, with kind words and sprightly tune Strove to repay the fragrant boon. --The yeoman, master of the feast, Was kind, and own'd me as his guest, And as he view'd each added fleece That did his summer wealth encrease, He joyous made the toast go round To the song's animating sound, While the patient ewes grown light, And eas'd of all their fleecy weight, No more the shearer's hand restrain But bound off to their hills again. Such was the scene that did awhile My bosom of its cares beguile, For he must have a wretched heart To whom those joys no joy impart, Which others are beheld to feel And to th' attentive eye reveal; Nay, I must own that this night's pleasure, Which revell'd in unbounded measure, A kind, though short, oblivion shed O'er my crook-back and thoughtful head: Yes, brief it was, for soon again My pleasure yielded to my pain, And all the jocund, festive folly Was then restor'd to melancholy. The ale was good, my draughts were deep, And, overcome by sudden sleep, Upon a chair my head repos'd, And soon my eyes were soundly clos'd. Th' Exciseman, a smart, parish wit, Thought he could make a funny hit, And with his ochre red and black, Drew a fierce face upon my back, The thought, at least, was not quite civil, With all the emblems of the devil. He had display'd his humour's art Upon a very tender part, At least, my pride, as you must know, Had to my fancy made it so. When, by the roar caus'd by the joke, I from the slumb'ring fit awoke; Soon did I make th' Exciseman sick Of such a mortifying trick: His gauging-rod was heard to crack In many a stroke upon his back, Till, by his supplicating tone, I found I had aveng'd my own. But though the marks were brush'd with care, By the same hand which trac'd them there; And though I was most warmly prest, By the kind master of the feast, To pass another jovial day; I felt offence and walk'd away. "'Do what I can, go where I will, This Hump's my evil genius still, And serves in some odd way or other My any sense of joy to smother.' --Such was th' expression that my tongue Would mutter as I trudg'd along. --But REASON told me, cease your strife With this companion of your life; 'Tis fix'd as fate, and you must wear it, Therefore with resignation bear it. It is, I own, an ugly tumour, But you should treat it with good humour, And still be pleas'd you cannot trace Any mis-givings on your face. The change you surely would not try For a lame leg or squinting eye: Though somewhat out of line your figure, You still enjoy Health's active vigour: All's right before, so never mind A certain awkwardness behind; For sure, when you present your front, No eye can see a blemish on't. With merry and good-humour'd folk, Treat it, Oh treat it as a joke, And if, by chance, you meet a fool Who turns it into ridicule, Tell him you'd rather have the feature, Coarse as it is, than his ill-nature. Take care that none who know you, find An awkward hump within your mind: Oh, let it be your constant care To banish disproportion there, And you will laugh with friends who crack Chance-medley jokes upon your back! "To Reason I attention lent; } Th' advice was good,--and, strait or bent, } I now resolv'd to be content. } "Thus, as I urg'd my onward way, In spirits rather growing gay, With saddle bags and all alone, } A sprightly horse came trotting on, } As if he had his rider thrown. } The beast I, with some trouble, caught, And then its fallen master sought, Whom, within half a mile I found All pale and stretch'd upon the ground: When I approach'd, as in surprise, He gave a groan and op'd his eyes. A crystal brook ran murm'ring by, Its cooling fluid to supply, And soon its sprinklings did afford The power that banish'd strength restor'd. Thus, when re-mounted on his steed, We did, in progress slow, proceed: I cautious pac'd it by his side With tighten'd rein the horse to guide; And with attentive eye, prevent Another downfall accident. "We might have gone a mile or more, When we beheld a lofty tower That did in stately form arise, A welcome sight to anxious eyes, Marking a spot where might be found Some styptic to a bleeding wound. I shall be brief,--the Horseman's head } Was soon repos'd on downy bed; } The Surgeon came and he was bled: } The lancet was by blisters follow'd, And potions, in due order, swallow'd. He look'd his thanks, then squeez'd my hand, Bade me, what gold could pay, command; Of all I wish'd to take my fill, Enjoy myself, nor fear the bill. I took my patient at his word, And what the _Blue Bell_ could afford, (An Inn of good repute and worth, Well known to all who travel North,) As it was his desire, enjoy'd, Till with good living I was cloy'd. But his sick bed I did amuse, I told him tales and read the news; So that with emphasis he swore He almost griev'd his ills were o'er. "As near, I think, as I can tell, A fortnight pass'd ere he was well; When he thus wish'd me to make known How his best thanks could best be shown.-- "'I now may tell, my saddle-bags Held a rich bundle of those rags Which, from the Bank, are issued forth, As we all know, of precious worth, And might have been a certain prize Had they been seen by knavish eyes. A rogue would have possess'd the steed, And with his mettle and his speed, Have sought a spot, where, at his leisure, He might have rummag'd all my treasure; Nay, been in town before the post Could have made known what I had lost, And, on some artful trick's reliance, Have set discovery at defiance: When I, here sitting sad and stewing, Might have been pond'ring o'er my ruin: While, from your noble, gen'rous dealing, I feel a joy there's no revealing. "'A _Trav'ller_ is the name I bear, A well-known, useful character, Who, through the kingdom's wide-stretch'd bounds, Ne'er fails to make his yearly rounds. I for a London house of trade Employ my necessary aid, By which its commerce I extend From Dover to the far Land's End. Well mounted, or perhaps in chaise, We quietly pursue our ways; Lift our heads high, and look so grand When we have payments to demand, But bow, and handsome speeches give When we have orders to receive: Thus suiting manners, as you see To our commercial policy. Nay, when the busy day is o'er, We meet at night, perhaps a score; And, in return, give our commands To humble host, who cringing stands, In order to prepare the best For the be-bagg'd and trav'lling guest, And bring us wine to aid our cheer; } While, with stump'd pens behind the ear, } Good folks in town may drink their beer-- } Nay, may be boasting of our labours In smoking clubs of sober neighbours. "'To what the London Mart supplies, We give our wings and off it flies: Thus knowledge, taste, and every fashion Find a quick way throughout the nation, And all the wants of high and low We with a ready zeal bestow. --The beauties of improving art We scatter round in every part, And diff'rent districts of the isle In our communications smile. To learning we distribute books, And sauces to the country cooks: Nay, none there are who will refuse The town-made blacking for their shoes: On Shetland legs its lustre glows As on the boots of Bond-street beaux. Where is the Miss, or where the Maid Who does not ask our frequent aid? At city ball or country fair Our visits are apparent there; And but for us, the summer races Would be despoil'd of half their graces. In short, as ev'ry eye may see, The kingdom is one gallery; That its abundant uses owes To what the Traveller bestows. Hence it is not a vain pretence That we may make to consequence, Who, by our turns and windings, strive To make this flying commerce thrive: Too happy when we carry home Bags of Bank rags for which we roam: Nay, I may think I owe to you, That mine are safe within my view, And any wish I will obey, Which to my power you may convey.' "I seiz'd the time and told my tale, At least, as much as might avail Some settlement in town to find, That suited both my means and mind; When by advice, and, which was better, By a most urgent, friendly letter, Arriv'd in London,--I soon found I did not tread on hostile ground: Nay, ere a week was pass'd and gone, } Fortune, I hop'd had ceas'd to frown, } As I did now a station own, } With promis'd comfort by my side, That gave me gains, nor hurt my pride. But my misfortunes were not past, Though this I hope will be my last, Or I'll avenge me of the pack, The foe I carry on my back; From London Bridge I'll dash me plump,-- And drown th' incorrigible Hump. "Now, the good lady of the house, Who had an influence o'er her spouse, Was in that interesting state Which I can't otherwise relate Than being such as loving wives Think the great honour of their lives, And she thought, if her daily eye Should view my sad deformity, It might the happy shape destroy Of the expected girl or boy; And ladies, in a certain trim, Must be indulg'd in ev'ry whim. Such danger did my form display, Another hour I must not stay: But gold was giv'n to heal my pride, And bribe me to be satisfied. 'Tis true, kind words explain'd the cause; Nay, much was said of Nature's laws; And where that ruling pow'r thought fit, To her caprice we must submit. --Thus, once again, if not for ever, I had to curse th' infernal fever That did my upright form disgrace, And rob me of my welcome place. --At length, brimfull of discontent, Half-mad, I to the Office went; Where Fortune seem'd to change my view, For there she made me known to you. "Thus, Sir, I've told my tedious story, And now a suppliant stand before you: But in my story, right or wrong, Truth was the rudder of my tongue. --I've done, and, in all patience, wait, To know how you may rule my fate; And if my hist'ry will commend } QUAE GENUS, (such may be his end,) } To you, _Sir Jeff'ry_, as his friend." } Silence for some short time ensu'd, Ere conversation was renew'd. --_Sir Jeff'ry_ first strok'd down his chin, } With something 'twixt a yawn and grin, } And then thought proper to begin. } "By a great writer it is said, And one who seldom was betray'd, When he employ'd his tongue or pen On the known characters of men: (And if, perchance, I'm not mistaken, I think his famous name was BACON,) That in the changeful scenes of life, Which raise up enmity and strife, He may 'gainst others hold his head, Nor the wide world's opinion dread, If, though he almost stands alone, An honest heart maintains its own: But that he is an arrant fool Who yields to his own ridicule. Now such a fool, as we have seen, QUAE GENUS, from weak pride, has been: But, though I wonder at his folly, I will not make him melancholy. "Things at the worst, 'tis said, must mend, And I will prove your real friend, If you, hereafter, have the sense To merit my full confidence: And now, I think, you may prepare To take my household to your care. Your pride must not offended be At putting on a livery, As that will be the best disguise To hide you from all prying eyes; QUAE GENUS, too, you now must yield, That learned name should be conceal'd; _Ezekiel_ will suspicion smother, As well, I think, as any other, Till I have due enquiry made If _Gripe-all_ be alive or dead, And how far I may recommend The runaway to _Doctor Bend_. Do what is right--and laugh at fear; The mark you carry in your rear Will never intercept the view Fortune may have in store for you. No more let vanity resent The stroke by which your form is bent! How many in the world's wide range Would willingly their figures change For such as yours, and give their wealth To get your hump and all its health. Look at my legs--my stomach see, And tell me, would you change with me? Nay, when your healthy form I view, } Though all be-hump'd, I'd change with you, } And give you half my fortune too. } Lament no more your loss of beauty, But give your thoughts to do that duty Which my peculiar wants require, And more you need not to desire. I feel I cannot pay too high For care and for fidelity: Let me see that--my heart engages To give you something more than wages --Your duties will be found to vary, Thus you will soon my wants attend Less as a servant than a friend. You may suppose I little know Of what is going on below; My leading wishes are, to prove That I am duly serv'd above, And you, as may be daily seen, Must play the active game between." More pass'd, that needs not our repeating, About the mystery of eating, Which did these sage instructions close, When good _Sir Jeff'ry_ 'gan to doze: And, soon as he more soundly slept, Downstairs _Ezekiel_ cautious crept, (For by that name he now is known, As fate has chang'd it for his own,) To let th' expecting folk below The nature of his office know. To ev'ry man he gave his fist,-- The females, too, he warmly kiss'd; Then to th' assembled kitchen spoke, But not as if he thought a joke, Or in a hypocritic glee, But with a smiling gravity. "_Sir Jeff'ry's_ household int'rests are Committed to my faithful care; And I must hope we all agree To serve him with fidelity." To this they all, in order due, Gave their assent--and bound it too By words which each one, in their station, Gave as a solemn declaration. The cook and housekeeper began, And thus her red rag glibly ran; While, from her knee unto her chin, She wav'd the floured rolling pin. "O, may the kettle never boil, May butter always turn to oil, And may the jack, the chimney's boast, From time to time despoil the roast! May soot fall on the ready stew, And the cat lick the rich ragout! May China dish with pie to bake, While I am speaking, may it crack, If I e'er took the offer'd bribe From any of the market tribe, Or e'er disgrac'd the name of cook To falsify the kitchen book; Nay, if I have touch'd or taken, For my own use, one slice of bacon; If ever I were such a sinner, May I now spoil _Sir Jeff'ry's_ dinner; And should I suffer such disgrace, I instantly should lose my place!" "May I be hang'd by some bell rope If e'er I cribb'd an ounce of soap, Or pocketed wax-candles' ends To deal out slily to my friends; Or, in the linen's gen'ral muster, Made free with towel or with duster; Or e'er did bribes from turners take, The mops to spoil, or brooms to break; Or in the bed-rooms made a stir To call in the upholsterer, As house-maids with dishonest view, Are, as I've heard, so apt to do! Or ever gave, in washing tub, The linen a hard, tearing rub, That might encrease the rags--a fee Which household custom gives to me! --That I speak truth, I here declare, And Molly, too, the same will swear; Who striking hard upon the dresser, Hop'd Heaven itself would never bless her, If, from whate'er she saw or knew What had been promis'd was not true." "Though I am rather in a flutter, I vow I never turn'd the butter Into the pot that might encrease The perquisite of daily grease; Nor sought for fat, no, not a bit, But what dripp'd kindly from the spit, Or from the plates and dishes came, When I had daily clean'd the same; Nor ever let a candle fall To fill a gaping interval! Nor did I e'er a doit receive Which coal-merchants may sometimes give To those who watch the kitchen-grate, And keep it in a flaming state; Who may the poker wield at will And seldom leave its poking still, Nor e'er the kitchen blaze controul Charges that are so often laid To the hard-working, kitchen maid!" "O may I never, never be A servant out of livery, Which is th' ambitious, hop'd-for lot Of all who wear the shoulder knot! O may I never quit my place } Behind the chair, nor shew my face, } The sideboard's glitt'ring show to grace, } If, when my master ceas'd to dine, I ever stole a glass of wine! If e'er I did my finger dip In some nice sauce and rub my lip! If turnpike tolls I e'er enlarg'd,-- May I this moment be discharg'd!" "May I be flogg'd with thorny briars If e'er I heard such cursed liars, And should I venture now to say } I ne'er purloin'd or corn or hay, } I should be liar big as they! } Nay, 'tis such folly to be lying, And all these trifling tricks denying, Which, ere a fortnight's past and over, Mr. _Ezekiel_ must discover. _Sir Jeff'ry's_ keen look never sees What are but clever servants' fees, And he would feel it to his sorrow, Were he to change us all to-morrow; For the new steward soon will see No master's better serv'd than he. There's not a carriage about town That looks genteeler than our own; Or horses with more sprightly air, Trot through the street or round a square. I say that we all do our duty, And if we make a little booty, We never hear _Sir Jeff._ complain: And wherefore should one give him pain? If better servants he should seek, He must be changing ev'ry week; And I am sure that kind of strife Would spoil the quiet of his life: Nay, as you know, there is no question Would operate on his digestion; And when that fails, it is a point That puts the rest all out of joint. Thus all our trifling, secret gains Save him a multitude of pains: And when our daily work is done, If we kick up a little fun, No harm proceeds--no ill is meant-- He's not disturb'd--and all's content. --Nay, now my friends, I'll club my shilling, And you, I'm sure, will be as willing To drink--that bus'ness may go on In the same temper it has done, And, without any treach'rous bother, That we may understand each other: That, without boasting or denying, We need not to continue lying; And that, disdaining needless fuss, _Ezekiel_ may be one of us." The wine was brought, for vulgar beer Was not thought proper to appear; The cook a pigeon pie produc'd, And other tit-bits that amus'd The appetites of those who sought 'em, With thanks to the fat dame who brought 'em. --Thus the new steward was made free Of kitchen hospitality; And to be blind to what he saw, He was bound down by kitchen law. At length, in office thus install'd, And each was gone where duty call'd, He, with a pressing arm, embrac'd } The busy cook's well-fatten'd waist, } As with her pin she plied the paste; } When from her active tongue he drew The duties which he had to do, And how he might their claims divide, Nor lean too much to either side. --Our hero, who now felt his ground, Thought not of change in what he found; And that to enter on reform Would be but to excite a storm, Disturb the Knight's desir'd repose And fill a kitchen full of foes. He plainly saw his station bound him To be at peace with all around him: But, as the diff'rent int'rests drew, He rather trembled at the view. Thus, if we may small things compare With those which more important are, We may _Ezekiel's_ state apply To maxims of philosophy, By which it seems life's changeful hours Are subject to two adverse powers, That govern as by time or chance, Nay, struggle for predominance; While each, at diff'rent hours, may be Possess'd of short-liv'd victory, As varying impulses may bind The operations of the mind. Here selfish int'rest will prevail-- There gen'rous feeling turns the scale; So that he neither can be said Strictly to be or good or bad; But in the one or other sense, Of that presiding influence Which counteracting views may give, And the complying mind receive. Thus, subject to these adverse powers, In diff'rent places--diff'rent hours-- Poor mortal man, by their constraint, May be a sinner or a saint. To day he's wading to the chin In folly's stream, through thick and thin; While, on the morrow, he may prove What virtue's self delights to love. 'Twas in this case our hero stood: He might be bad--he might be good; If good, he must the kitchen sweep-- If bad, its tricks a secret keep; But if he would preserve his cloth, He must determine to be both. Thus, as he took a thoughtful view, } He saw, his int'rest to pursue, } He must divide himself in two. } Above to stick to rigid plan-- Below to join the lively clan: In what _Sir Jeff'ry_ did entrust To his sole province, to be just; But ne'er to interrupt the show That was kept up by friends below: At least, he was resolv'd to try This system of philosophy; To be a favourite with all, In drawing room and servants' hall. From all that he at present view'd, No other plan could be pursu'd; No other method could he trace, To be at ease and keep his place. Up-stairs to serious care he went, } Down-stairs to stolen merriment, } And thus the day and night were spent. } _Sir Jeff'ry_, in a tone of pleasure, Talk'd of _Ezekiel_ as a treasure; And, far as the good Knight could tell, He merited the title well: Nay, it is true, he never fail'd To meet the humour that prevail'd; And through the day, from morn till night, _Sir Jeff'ry_ found that all was right. But when he slumb'ring sought his bed, And on the pillow laid his head, Then did our hero quit his post And pass away like midnight ghost; Then did he from his virtue move, The power that rul'd him when above, And seek the lively sports below; For what could puzzled hunch-back do? Could he another course prefer? No,--he must take things as they were. In this wide world, how oft is seen A phantom with alluring mien, Y'clep'd Temptation, whose sweet smiles Too oft the stoutest heart beguiles. Whate'er its forms, they seldom fail Sooner or later to prevail. If it assumes a golden shower, Or sits in any seat of power, How numerous the slavish band Who offer to obey command: Still, some examples may be shown Of those whose virtues would disown Its influence, and refuse to fly, Or yield the palm of victory. But where's the heart that e'er disdains The pow'r that dwells where beauty reigns? If such a question we propose, _Ezekiel_ was not one of those; And thus below-stairs he began To break upon his up-stairs plan: Nay, this same rigid rule of right, } In his close duties to the Knight, } He now thought might be drawn too tight; } And that, in trifles, to his feeling, He might be safe in double dealing, And in the drawing-room apply The aid of kitchen policy: But he as soon would think of murther As to proceed an atom further. How he thus happen'd to decline From his strict, philosophic line; Why he relax'd from law severe In the Knight's upper atmosphere, Will not surprise one human creature Who the world knows, or human nature, Or recollects the joy or smart When passion first invades the heart. There were two objects most bewitching, That sparkled all around the kitchen; Though so bright was every kettle, Or plate or pan of various metal, That each might gaze upon a face As if they peep'd into a glass: Though fire-irons did reveal The shining of the polish'd steel,-- Yet these superior pow'rs display'd, Than aught by human artist made: In short, to state what they could be, And silence curiosity, They were two eyes which lustre shed Where'er the owner turn'd her head; Though they gave not the only grace That play'd on Molly's charming face. But whether 'twas her lips or nose, Or the fine curve of auburn brows, That aided the commanding eye In its well-play'd artillery, Howe'er that be--in his warm heart _Ezekiel_ had receiv'd the dart, And as its ruling power he felt, Each steady purpose 'gan to melt:-- For her he might his virtue stake } And let his yielding conscience quake, } Nay, cheat _Sir Jeff'ry_ for her sake. } 'Tis not the office of the Muse, On slight suspicions, to accuse; Nor does she now present to view More than 'tis probable she knew: But one day, and it may be more, His constant meal of dainties o'er, Dull nature did the Knight incline To snore a little o'er his wine. Our hero, seeing Molly pass, He tempted her to take a glass; For, in his state of tender feeling, What gen'rous mind will call it stealing? And scorn'd be they who think it treason Against the better rules of reason, If, in return, he sought a kiss; But as he seiz'd the melting bliss, Tall Margery was passing by By chance or curiosity: She glanc'd at all was onward going, And what _Ezekiel_ was bestowing; When, as she cast her leering eye, Thus thought her rising jealousy. "If, Sir, you give Miss Moll the glass, I'll try to make a bottle pass;" Then push'd her stout arm by the door, The sideboard's juices to explore. If 'twas by chance the action came, Or if a purpos'd trick's to blame, A smart kick caus'd the door to close And caught the damsel by the nose. The luckless nose was rather long, And had its gristle not been strong, Had not the door been edg'd with baize To give its hurried motion ease,-- Had it been sharp, the wicked pinch Might have cut short that nose an inch. _Madge_ now scream'd out at her disaster, } And swore that she would tell her master, } But our _Ezekiel_ found a plaister; } Though what the plaister was he found To silence tongues and cure the wound, We must not nice enquiry make For virtue's and our hero's sake. But we may tell, for this we know, That all was still and calm below; Though as the faithful verse will prove He shap'd another plan above, Form'd to controul all household feud, And be as honest as he could; Thus give to things another face To live at ease and keep his place. --Two int'rests into one were thrown, Those of _Sir Jeff'ry_ and his own: The former strictly to maintain, Nor yet the latter to disdain; The Knight's confiding grace to keep, Nor let his own advantage sleep; The kitchen's jovial mirth to boast, But leave the cook to rule the roast; To be of Molly's smiles possest, Though never to offend the rest: And here we fear is the beginning, The first short lesson of his sinning. So young, and with such little sense Of what is call'd--experience; And whom the world had not yet taught, As it might do, to set at nought What conscience tells us we should shun, What we should do or leave undone; Or, with a certain self-deceit, The virtues of the heart to cheat, He certainly appears to be Envelop'd in perplexity, And verging on a dang'rous scrape From which he might not make escape Without a loss which he would rue Of the fair prospects in his view; And thus be on a sudden hurl'd Faithless and friendless on the world. As in his plan this hasty change Was, it may seem, so very strange, It therefore may be well to know From whence such awkward motives flow, For awkward motives they must be Which trench upon integrity. It was not Molly's sparkling eyes Which sought his virtue to surprise; For though he might her heart beguile To yield his wish a fav'ring smile, She ne'er allow'd of a pretence Beyond the claim of Innocence. There is a proverb so well known It would be ign'rance not to own The having heard and felt its truth E'en in the days of early youth, That, if we chance with those to live Whose lives a bad example give, They will convey, as we shall find, A foul contagion to the mind. Thus for a time _Ezekiel_ stood Firm as the tree that crowns the wood, But, after mocking ev'ry blast, Will sometimes bend and fall at last. Though whether he began to shake, Or only suffer'd twigs to break, But still retain'd his fibres bound, } In firm defiance to the ground, } While the main trunk, tho' shook, was sound, } Is what the curious mind shall know, And no far distant page will show. Thus the humble verse will trace His future honour or disgrace; As intermingled they must be With scenes of household history. When good _Sir Jeff'ry's_ gout was kind And to his bed he was confin'd; No dainty dinner to be got, And nought but messes in the pot, The kitchen folk, then quite at leisure, Would think of more than common pleasure; Then butlers of the higher station, And valets to gay men of fashion, Invited were, to join the ball Now given in the servants' hall, With ladies' maids who titles bore Of mistresses--whose gowns they wore; And sometimes a smart tradesman, too, Would pop in to say--_how do ye do_. --Here all home secrets were betray'd-- } The various tricks which servants play'd, } And how their fortunes could be made. } When one grave man his silence broke, And thus to our _Ezekiel_ spoke:-- "Had I," says he, "so fine a place, As your superior manners grace; Had I a rich man in my keeping, Who passes half his time in sleeping; Whose purse is always in your view, And lets you pay his tradesmen too; While, that he may enjoy his ease, He makes you guardian of his keys, My growing fortune soon should flow, And in a way he ne'er should know. If by his bed you are his nurse, And have the jingling of his purse; If, when the doctor comes to see him, And you are calmly told to fee him, You must be nam'd the veriest elf If, then, you do not fee yourself: Nay, when his fingers, cramp'd with gout, Cannot well take a _sovereign_ out, And he should bid you take out four, Contrive to grapple five or more. 'Tis when he's sick with aches and ails, When pain torments and mem'ry fails, When the night's pass'd his bed beside, Then Fortune tells you to provide For future wants,--and bless the hour That gives the means into your power: Nor ever fail, on some pretence, To rail against the rash expense Which doctors and their varlets bring To patients, sick and suffering, Till you can get him to exclaim-- 'Expense is a mere idle name; Of cost let your complainings cease, I care not so it gives me ease:' Then offer up your thanks to Heaven That to his fortune it is given To be thus blest with ample wealth, At any cost to purchase health. This is your harvest; I shall tell Another story when he's well: That time's but short,--though let him see That then you're all economy. When he can settle an account, And look into the just amount, Then, then let ev'ry thing appear Just as it ought--correct and clear. Thus let your speculations rove When well below, when sick above, And all I'm worth I now would stake You will, in time, a fortune make. Rich as he is, and careless too, With such a confidence in you, _Sir Jeffery_ will never feel Your happy turn in fortune's wheel." "Hold, hold awhile," the list'ner said, "This is too much," and shook his head; "For still I feel, without offence, I've not quite done with Conscience, Nor can so boldly lay aside The warnings of that faithful guide! Am I this moment to forget How much I'm in _Sir Jeff'ry's_ debt, And thus, with chance of foul disgrace, To play the rogue and risque my place?" "No, no," his counsellor replied, "Servants and masters are allied; Each is to each a foster-brother, And have their claims on one another. An useful servant is a treasure, Whose service masters seldom measure. What I now from my heart commend, As an experienc'd, willing friend, Is not to rob or place your paw On what is guarded by the law, But such as are no more than fees For all your extra services; For duties which no pay engages, Under the common name of wages; For what your varied service grants To all his fancied, sickly wants, Which never can your toil requite For all you do by day or night. "When _Sir Jeffery_ fortune gain'd, By contracts from the State obtain'd, Think you he had a pious loathing To crib a yard from soldiers' clothing? And when he did his thousands touch, To say--'my lord, I've got too much; And I am ready to confess I should have done the job for less.' How could such men their fortunes make Did they but fair advantage take! And have you not an equal claim, In a small way, to do the same? --When the Knight took his daily range And calculated as he went, How he should make his _Cent. per Cent._ Think you that he was over-nice To fix his rate of merchandise? When his ships sought some foreign strand, Did he disdain the contraband, If he could but with safety chouse The sentries of the custom-house? A little smuggling all allow, But only mind the when and how: Take your _per centage_, but with care; And who will say it is not fair? --I've serv'd the wealthy and the great, Nay once a Minister of state, And as I saw that in his station He did not fail to rob the nation, I thought I might indulge the whim, As a turn serv'd, to pilfer him. I courted too my Lady's maid, For Charlotte understood her trade: I form'd my plan and did espouse her, Then started up a tonish grocer, Kept butlers in my constant pay Who serve me in the usual way, And all the house-keepers around With certain something in the pound. Now hear the advantage which I share From all my caution, all my care! I have a genteel, pleasant home, To ladies let my drawing-room, And in a whisky I can ride With Charlotte smiling by my side. 'Tis thus I offer to your view, What I have done,--for you to do." Here this fine conversation ended, But not, perhaps, as was intended, Which strong temptations might display To lead th' unsettled mind astray; And, for a time, as fancy play'd, Now beaming light, now seeking shade, _Ezekiel_ hover'd o'er the plan Of specious rogue or honest man. Perhaps a smart, neat, pleasant shop, Did on his pericranium pop, With his warm, faithful wish to crown, The lovely Molly then his own: Such interests might his purpose guide, Till he was questioned by his pride;-- "--But can this be a proper plan For one bred like a gentleman? 'Tis true I cannot change the show } Of kitchen policy below, } There I must yield, I'm bound to know: } But, in the regions above, The whole in rectitude shall move; To the Knight's goodness I may trust, And faithful will I be and just; Nor ever take or e'en receive But what his favour's pleas'd to give; Nor shall reproach my mind disgrace Whene'er I look him in the face." Such were his thoughts,--the grocer fail'd. Thus honesty at length prevail'd, And sav'd him, as things shortly stood, From baseness of ingratitude. In a few days the parting gout Gave the Knight leave to go about, And one day in his arm-chair plac'd, The table with its luncheon grac'd, Smiling, as he luxurious sat, He thus let loose his easy chat. "This soup, my friend's a special treat, Fit for an Emperor to eat, And now, my pleasure to pursue, I trust I have a treat for you. I've spar'd no pains to know the fate That on your future hopes may wait, And what I shall proceed to tell May altogether please you well, Unless you are resolv'd to try New whims and tricks of foolery, On which, however will depend, Whether your master is your friend. If, at all points, the news I bring May not be quite so flattering; Yet surely it deserves at least, To be thought good, if not the best. --You need no longer stand in awe Of any terrors of the law, The beating you to _Gripe-all_ gave Did little harm to that same knave, For he surviv'd to play a prank, By robbing of a country bank, And fled, as his late neighbours say, To flourish in America. Thither your fortune too is gone, But then your fears are also flown. Time, it is hop'd may make amends, Fortune and you may still be friends; Nor shall I my best wishes smother To introduce you to each other. My growing favour you will see, So lay aside your livery: Hence you will need not a disguise 'Gainst curious thoughts and prying eyes: Your former title you may claim, Again QUAE GENUS is your name: Be faithful, and you soon shall know The kindness I may yet bestow. Nay, be but honest, while I live } Your upright service shall receive } All that my grateful hand should give: } Nor doubt my purpose as sincere,-- More may be meant than meets the ear." What heart, with the least sense of good, That would not melt with gratitude, When such a gen'rous friend was near The clouded scenes of life to cheer, And bid the drooping hopes pursue A brighter prospect now in view! And where's the heart that would not feel, And where's the tongue that could conceal The sense that virtue had withstood Such specious efforts to delude! QUAE GENUS the sensation felt That bade repenting thoughts to melt; Nay, he e'en cast his eyes to Heaven, With doubts that he should be forgiven For having listen'd to deceit And almost yielded to the cheat, Whose principles had he obey'd As in the grocer's scheme display'd, All trembling he should now have stood A monster of ingratitude. What he had 'scap'd his heart confess'd, And his moist eyes confirm'd the rest. With ev'ry grateful feeling fraught He spoke not, but 'twas thus he thought:-- "My ever-watchful care shall tend To make me worthy such a friend, And all my kindred virtues burn To make that friend a due return." The Knight, with kindness, view'd the feeling, Which poor QUAE GENUS was revealing; When, to cut short the pleasing pain Which words were failing to explain, He smiling bade him take his way To the known duties of the day. Of words there was a mute hiatus, And of the noon-tide apparatus The table quickly was bereft, While with some new-born pamphlet left, _Sir Jeffery_ calmly was proceeding To gratify his usual reading, When our QUAE GENUS bore away The fragments of the lighten'd tray, And sought his pantry's cool retreat, Where, lolling on a welcome seat, He let his busy fancy range Throughout the unexpected change, That did upon his fortune wait; And still, though humble was his state, Scarce could he think it a disaster To wait the will of such a master; Nor did his pride reluctant bend, Since that same master was his friend. All that indulgence could bestow _Sir Jeff'ry_ did not fail to show; And, when alone, it seem'd to please The knight to set him at his ease, And shrink the distance to a span Between the master and the man. --Nay, here it cannot be denied } That it was soothing to his pride } To lay the shoulder-knot aside. } The liv'ried dress of red and brown He thus was call'd on to disown: In blue and buff, or buff and blue He now appear'd to daily view. The knight allow'd the taylor's art By all its power to make him smart; And Snip with his consummate skill, In working drapery to his will, By his contrivance gave the cape A flow to soften down the shape, So that the hump could scarce be said His general figure to degrade, Nor, to a common view, be seen To indispose his pleasing mien. Thus did he sit and calmly bless The hopes of promis'd happiness. The various, the uncertain views Which the all-anxious world pursues, While it directs its searching eye To what is call'd prosperity, Compose the gen'ral, pictur'd strife That forms the daily scene of life; And make up the uncertain measure Of power, of riches, and of pleasure; Which, whatsoe'er may be our state, } Do on the varying projects wait } Of lowly poor or princely great: } For as all worldly things move on We weigh them by comparison. Thus he who boasts his little all At a street-corner on a stall, Tempting the gaze of wandering eyes To view the transient merchandise, Will look to Fortune's smile to bless His humble trading with success, As he whose freighted vessel sails O'er distant seas with doubtful gales. Nay, in Ambition's humble school Perceive we not the love of rule, O'er rustic swains to bear the rod And be a village demi-god? To gain command and take the lead Where mean submission courts a head, Does in the lowest class prevail Of vulgar thoughts to turn the scale, As that which on their wishes wait, Whose object is to rule the state. --Seek you for pleasure as it flows, In ev'ry soil the flow'ret grows; From the pale primrose of the dale Nurs'd only by the vernal gale, To the rich plant of sweets so rare } Whose tints the rainbow colours share } And drinks conservatorial air. } But, 'tis so subject to the blast, It cannot promise long to last; Though still it 'joys the fragrant day, Till nature bids it pass away. The rude boy turns the circling rope, Or flies a kite or spins a top, When, a stout stripling, he is seen With bat and ball upon the green; The later pleasures then await On humble life whate'er its state, And are with equal ardor sought As those with high refinement wrought, Where birth and wealth and taste combine To make the festive brilliance shine. Thus the same passions govern all Who creep on this terrestrial ball: Their objects, truly, are the same, However shap'd, whate'er their name. What though the varying plan confounds In giving sixpences or pounds, In velvet or in home-spun cloth, They may be base curmudgeons both. Some are by charity enroll'd On tablets proud in lines of gold, While others, as by stealth, convey The mite that shuns the light of day; Though each performs a diff'rent part, Each may possess a Christian heart. It is not upon wealth alone That happiness erects its throne: How oft, alas! it is we see The rich involv'd in misery; How oft is view'd in reason's eye The wants which wealth can ne'er supply! The way to power may be betray'd, Though 'tis with solid gold inlaid; Nay, purchas'd pleasure prove deceit, And be at length a very cheat. --How weak, how vain is human pride, Dares man upon himself confide: The wretch who glories in his gain Amasses heaps on heaps in vain. Why lose we life, in anxious cares, To lay in hoards for future years? Can they, when tortur'd by disease, Cheer our sick heart and purchase ease? Can they prolong one gasp of breath, Or calm the troubled hour of death? What's man in all his boasted sway? Perhaps the tyrant of a day. Can he in all the pride of power Ensure his honours for an hour? Alike the laws of life take place Through ev'ry branch of human race: The monarch, of long regal line, Was rais'd from dust as frail as mine. Can he pour health into his veins Or cool the fever's restless pains? Can he worn down in nature's course New brace his feebled nerves with force? Can he, how vain is mortal power, Stretch life beyond the destin'd hour? "Consider, man, weigh well thy frame; The king, the beggar, is the same, Dust form'd us all,--each breathes his day, } Then sinks into his mortal clay." } Thus wrote the fabling Muse of GAY. } Such thoughts as these of moral kind QUAE GENUS weigh'd within his mind: For wherefore should it not be thought } That, as his early mind was taught, } It might be with sage maxims fraught? } --Thus seated, or as he stood sentry, Sole guardian of the butler's pantry, Which lock'd up all the household state, The cumbrance rich of massy plate, And all the honour that could grace The power of superior place, That did acknowledg'd rank bestow O'er all the kitchen-folk below; What wonder that his mind should range On hopes that waited on the change Which unexpected Fortune's power Seem'd on his present state to shower. Though while his wand'ring mind embrac'd The present time as well as past, The visions of the future too Gave a fair prospect to his view. But life this well-known feature bears, Our _hopes_' associates are our _fears_, And ever seem, in reason's eye, As struggling for the mastery, In which they play their various part, To gain that citadel the heart. Thus though our Hero's honest pride Was, for the present, satisfied; And did things, as they seem'd to show, Promise to stay in _Statu Quo_, He, surely, would have ask'd no more For Fortune on his lot to pour, And with all due contentment wait For what might be his future fate: But while the present hour beguiles His cheerful mind with cheering smiles, The forward thought would strive to sow An awkward wrinkle on his brow. Now, strange as the event appears, The source of all his hopes and fears Was on each settled point the same, And _Jeff'ry Gourmand_ was its name. The Knight most gen'rous was and free, And kind as kindest heart could be, So that QUAE GENUS scarce could trace The humbling duties of his place. Whate'er he did was sure to please, No fretful whims appear'd to tease; And while with fond attention shown, He did each willing duty own, Sir _Jeff'ry_ frequent smiles bestow'd, And many a kind indulgence show'd, And oftentimes would wants repress To make his fav'rite's labours less: Nay, when he dawdled o'er his meat, } Would nod and bid him take a seat } To share the lux'ry of the treat. } --He fancied, and it might be true, That none about him e'er could do What his peculiar wants required, And in the way he most desired, As _his_ QUAE GENUS, thus he claim'd him, Whene'er to other folk he nam'd him. Indeed, he took it in his head That no one else could warm his bed, And give it that proportion'd heat That gave due warmth to either sheet. Our Hero rather lik'd the plan, As Molly brought the warming-pan, And having pass'd it through the door, Waited without till all was o'er. Thus, having rang'd the alarum-bell, With other things I must not tell, And seen Sir _Jeff'ry's_ pillow'd head Turning to rest within his bed, QUAE GENUS bore the pan away Where Molly fair was us'd to stay. He was to honour firm, and she The mirror bright of Chastity. Thus half an hour was often spent In interchange of sentiment, Which doubtless was some tender theme: A subject for a pleasing dream. All this tells well,--nor was this all; The sceptre of the servants'-hall Was now committed to his hand; O'er that he had supreme command, But such his mild and smiling sway, All felt a pleasure to obey; And 'twas the kitchen's daily toast, Long may QUAE GENUS rule the roast. Tradesmen did to his worth subscribe, For bills were paid without a bribe; And good Sir _Jeffery_ quite content How the allotted income went, At no accounts e'er gave a look, But those which fill'd his Banker's book. What could our Hero more desire, What more his anxious wish require, When with a calm and reas'ning eye He ponder'd o'er his destiny, As he unwound the tangled thread That to his present comforts led, And serv'd as a directing clue In such strange ways to guide him through? --To what new heights his hopes might soar, It would be needless to explore: For now the threat'ning time appears When he is troubled with his fears. His hopes have triumph'd o'er the past; But then the present may not last; And what succession he might find Harass'd with doubts his anxious mind. --Of the gross, cumbrous flesh the load Sir _Jeffery_ bore did not forebode Through future years a ling'ring strife Between the powers of death and life; The legs puff'd out with frequent swell, Did symptoms of the dropsy tell; The stiffen'd joints no one could doubt Were children of a settled gout; And humours redd'ning on the face, Indeed, whene'er QUAE GENUS view'd, With rich and poignant sauce embued, As dish to dish did there succeed, Which seem'd by Death compos'd to feed With fatal relishes to please The curious taste of each disease, That did Sir _Jeffery's_ carcase share And riot on the destin'd fare: When thus he watch'd th' insidious food, He fear'd the ground on which he stood. --Oft did he curse the weighty haunch Which might o'ercharge Sir _Jeff'ry's_ paunch; And to the turtle give a kick, Whose callipash might make him sick. He only pray'd Sir _Jeff'ry's_ wealth Might keep on life and purchase health. "Let him but live," he would exclaim, "And fortune I will never blame." Money is oft employ'd in vain, To cure disease and stifle pain; And though he hop'd yet still he fear'd Whene'er grave Galen's self appear'd; For when the solemn Doctor came, (Sir MIDRIFF BOLUS was his name,) He often in a whisper said, "I wonder that he is not dead, Nay, I must own, 'tis most surprising, That such a length of gormandising Has not ere this produc'd a treat For hungry church-yard worms to eat, And 'tis the skill by which I thrive That keeps him to this hour alive. Nay, though I now Sir _Jeffery_ see } In spirits and such smiling glee, } I tremble for to-morrow's fee." } --When this brief tale he chose to tell And ring his patient's fun'ral bell, QUAE GENUS fail'd not to exclaim, As he call'd on the Doctor's name, "O tell me not of the disaster That I must feel for such a master, Nay, I may add, for such a friend Were I to go to the world's end, Alas, my journey would be vain, Another such I ne'er should gain!" Sir MIDRIFF, member of the college, And of high standing for his knowledge, In lab'ring physic's mystic sense And practical experience, As common fame was pleas'd to say, Expected more than common pay. Now, as Sir _Jeff'ry_ never thought His health could be too dearly bought, Whene'er the healing Knight was seen, Wrapt up within the Indian screen, To shape the drugs that might becalm Some secret pain or sudden qualm; Or when there was a frequent question, Of bile's o'erflow and indigestion, Or some more serious want had sped Sir _Jeff'ry Gourmand_ to his bed, QUAE GENUS fail'd not to convey (For he had learn'd the ready way), The two-fold fee, by strict command, Into Sir _Midriff's_ ready hand. Thus, in this kind of double dealing, The Doctor had a pleasant feeling, That seem'd to work up a regard For him who gave the due reward, And knew so well to shape the fee From the sick chamber's treasury. Thus when our Hero told his pain } And did his future fears explain, } _Galen_ replied,--"Those fears restrain, } To this grave promise pray attend, Sir _Midriff Bolus_ is your friend." Such, when he touch'd the welcome fees, Were the sly Doctor's promises: QUAE GENUS with good grace receiv'd 'em, Though 'tis not said that he believ'd 'em. --No, never was a visit past, But it was hinted as the last, Had they not been in lucky trim To have sent off post-haste for him. Whene'er the Knight's legs took to swelling, All ears were bor'd with sad foretelling; And if his chest was over-loaded, Some dire disaster was foreboded, But failing in prophetic story, He gave his science all the glory. A year, howe'er, was past and gone, And all the household cares went on, In active zeal and order too, As all such matters ought to do, With hours of leisure well employ'd, And many a fantasy enjoy'd. But something yet remains to know:-- To manage _two strings to your bow_, A maxim is, which ev'ry age Has rend'red venerably sage, And forms a more than useful rule In the world's universal school. Sir _Jeffery_, we make no doubt, In various ways had found it out: It might have help'd him on to wealth, And now to aid the wants of health, He kept the adage in his view, } And as one Doctor might not do, } It now appears that he had two. } The one, in order due, has been Brought forth on the dramatic scene, Ranks high in bright collegiate fame, And M. D. decorates his name. He never ventures to prescribe But what is known to all the tribe, Who hold the dispensarial reign Beneath the dome of Warwick-Lane. The other, steering from the track Of learned lore, was styl'd a Quack; Who, by a secret skill, composes For many an ill his sovereign doses: But whether right or wrong, the town Had given his nostrums some renown. Salves for all wounds, for each disease Specifics that could give it ease, Balsams, beyond all human praise, That would prolong our mortal days. All these, in many a puffing paper, Are seen in striking forms to vapour, As, in the Magazines they shine, The boast of Doctor ANODYNE. His office was advice to give In his own house from morn till eve, And a green door, within a court, Mark'd out the place of snug resort, Where patients could indulge the feeling That might dispose them to concealing The nervous hope, the sly desire To eke out life's expiring fire, Without the danger to expose Their secret or to friends or foes. Sir _Jeffery_ was one of these Who thought it was no waste of fees, Though they were toss'd about by stealth, If he could think they purchas'd health: But here, who will not say, it seems He guarded life by two extremes. Sir _Midriff_ told him he must starve, And _Anodyne_ to cut and carve: But though the first he nobly paid, It was the latter he obey'd. Full often was his _Merc'ry_ sent To bring back med'cine and content; Permission, what he wish'd, to eat, } And physic to allay the heat } Brought on by a luxurious treat; } To give the stomach strength to bear it, With some enliv'ning dose to cheer it. But still our Hero's watchful eye Saw that this sensuality Was bringing matters to an end, That he too soon should lose his friend; And in what way he should supply The loss when that same friend should die, Did often o'er his senses creep When he should have been fast asleep. Sir _Midriff_ to his promise swore, And _Anodyne_ had promis'd more, Both had prescrib'd or more or less, A future vision of success: But time has still some steps to move, Before they their engagements prove; Ere our QUAE GENUS we shall see In a new line of history. Sir _Jeffery_ now began to droop, Nor was he eager for his soup: He blunder'd on the wrong ragout, } Nor harangu'd o'er a fav'rite stew, } Scarce wild-duck from a widgeon knew. } No longer thought it an abuse, To see St. MICH: without a goose. Unless prepar'd with cordial strong, He hardly heard the jovial song, Or hearing, had not strength to move And strike the table to approve. Nay, sometimes his unsteady hand Could not the rubied glass command, But forc'd him slowly to divide The rosy bumper's flowing tide. Beside him oft QUAE GENUS sat An hour, and not a word of chat; And when he was in sleepy taking The news would scarcely keep him waking. --It was a melancholy showing, But poor Sir _Jeffery_ was a-going. "Indulge his gormandising swallow, And apoplexy soon must follow," Such did Sir _Midriff's_ sage foreknowledge Give as the doctrine of the College. "--Now, if you dare to keep him low, A dropsy gives the fatal blow. Remember, my good friend, I pray, What _Anodyne_ is pleas'd to say." When, in a kind of solemn croak, The Quack, with shaking noddle, spoke. Thus did the differing doctors fail, Nor could their varying skill prevail: They neither could set matters right, Or quicken a pall'd appetite. More weak and weak Sir _Jeffery_ grew, Nay, wasted to the daily view, And, as his faithful servant found, Between two stools he fell to ground. But still he smelt the sav'ry meat, } He sometimes still would eye the treat, } And praise the dish he could not eat. } One day, when in a sunshine hour, To pick a bit he felt the power, Just as he did his knife apply To give a slice of oyster-pie, Whether the effort was too great To bear the morsel to his plate; Or if, from any other cause, His nature made a gen'ral pause, He gave a groan, it was his last, And life and oyster-pies were past. Which of the Doctors did the deed, The one who starv'd or he who fed, Or whether Nature, nothing loth, Laugh'd at the counsels of them both, And, as they issued their commands, Her victim took from both their hands, I know not, but it seems to me, To be the work of all the three. Here it would be but idle folly To call on fruitless melancholy, To talk of blisters that in vain Were spread to bring back life again; Or all the lancet's power explore To wake the breath that breath'd no more; The stroke was struck, no human art Could now withdraw the fatal dart. Mutes marching on, in solemn pace, With gladden'd heart and sorrowing face, Who, clad in black attire, for pay Let out their sorrows by the day: The nodding plumes and 'scutcheon'd hearse Would make a pretty show in verse; But 'tis enough, Sir _Jeffery_ dead, That his remains, enshrin'd in lead, And, cloth'd in all their sad array, To mingle with their native clay, Were safe convey'd to that same bourne From whence no travellers return. --We must another track pursue, } Life's varying path we have in view,-- } Our way QUAE GENUS is with you! } As our enlighten'd reason ranges O'er man and all his various changes, What sober thoughts the scenes supply, To hamper our philosophy; To make the expanding bosom swell With the fine things the tongue can tell! And it were well, that while we preach, We practice, what we're fain to teach. O, here might many a line be lent, To teach the mind to learn content, And with a manly spirit bear The stroke of disappointing care; Awake a just disdain to smile On muckworm fortune base and vile, Look on its threatnings to betray, As darksome clouds that pass away, And call on cheering hope to see Some future, kind reality. --All who Sir _Jeffery_ knew could tell Our Hero serv'd him passing well; Nay to the care which he bestow'd } The Knight a lengthen'd period ow'd, } And such the thanks he oft avow'd. } QUAE GENUS never lost his views Of duty and its faithful dues; His honour no one could suspect, Nor did he mark with cold neglect Those services which intervene } In a sick chamber's sickly scene: } His duty thought no office mean, } And to Sir _Jeffery's_ closing sigh All, all was warm fidelity. Nay, thus the Knight would frequent own A grateful sense of service done; And oft, in words like these, he said, That duty shall be well repaid. "QUAE GENUS, know me for your friend, I to your welfare shall attend; Your friend while I retain my breath, And when that's gone, your friend in death." That death he felt as a disaster, For, to speak truth, he lov'd his master, Nor did he doubt that a reward Would prove that master's firm regard. 'Tis nature, in life's worst vexation, To look at least for consolation; And he, 'tis true, had turn'd his eye To a consoling legacy, That might, at least, make some amends, For losing this his best of friends; But his ill luck we must not smother; He lost the one, nor found the other. The will was full of good intent, And a warm legacy was meant To poor QUAE GENUS, there's no doubt, But shuffling Fortune left it out; 'Twas she cut short the kind bequest, Which was thus fatally express'd. "To this my last and solemn Will My true and faithful servant's name, Who to my care has every claim: --To JOHN QUAE GENUS I bequeath One month posterior to my death, The sum of Here a blank ensued Which has not yet been understood, Or why the figures were delay'd That would a sterling gift have made. Whether a sudden twitch of gout Caus'd him to leave the figures out; Or visit of a chatt'ring friend That did th' important words suspend, Until the 'morrow's sun should shine, That 'morrow with its ha's and hums, Which, often promis'd, never comes: Howe'er the enquiring mind may guess It cannot find the wish'd success: In short, whatever cause prevail'd, Too true, the gen'rous purpose fail'd. In the Knight's mind the boon was will'd, But still the blank was never fill'd, And no more the said will engages Than mourning suit and one year's wages, Which all his household should inherit Whate'er their station or their merit: Here no distinction was display'd 'Tween high and low, 'tween man and maid, And though QUAE GENUS was the first, He had his portion with the worst. Our Hero thought it wond'rous hard Thus to be foil'd of his reward, That which, in ev'ry point of view, He felt to be his honest due; And both his master and his friend Did to his services intend; Which, as the sun at noontide clear, Does by the codicil appear: But when he ask'd Sir _Jeffery's_ heir } (Who did so large a fortune share) } The blank hiatus to repair, } Which he with truth could represent As an untoward accident, The wealthy merchant shook his head And bade him go and ask the dead. QUAE GENUS ventur'd to reply While his breast heav'd a painful sigh, "The dead, you know, Sir, cannot speak, But could the grave its silence break, I humbly ask your gen'rous heart, Would not its language take my part, Would it not utter, 'O fulfil The purpose of the codicil?' Would it not tell you to supply The blank with a due legacy?" The rich man, turning on his heel, Did not the rising taunt conceal. "All that the grave may please to say, I promise, friend, I will obey." What could be done with this high Cit, But to look sad and to submit; For it could answer no good end Though indispos'd to be a friend, That kind of discontent to show Which might convert him to a foe. But ere we altogether leave Sir _Jeffery's_ grateful friends to grieve, We mean all those which to the sight Were clearly writ, in black and white, Within the bound'ries of the will, Nor left to _blundering Codicil_, It may not be amiss to draw The picture of the _Heir at Law_. When on the 'Change he took his rounds, He walk'd an hundred thousand pounds: Not less was his acknowledg'd worth When ev'ry morn he sallied forth, With expectation grave, to meet Fortune's fresh smiles in Lombard-Street. Upright in all his worldly dealing:-- But that high sense of noble feeling, The humane impulse to relieve, To wipe the eye of those who grieve, The wish of goodness to impart The bounties of a gen'rous heart, These were not his; and though the scroll That may the charities enroll Of gilded pride, upon the wall In some conspicuous hospital, Might his known name and title bear, 'Twas vanity that plac'd it there. But though, perhaps, a plum or more Was added to his former store, If, by sad chance, with haggard mien, An humble suppliant should be seen, A mother sick, a father dead, And children, left forlorn, unfed, His hand ne'er ventur'd on his purse To give relief, and, what was worse, He would alarm the wretches' fears With beadles fierce and overseers, Or talk of laws for vagrants made, Which call the scourge-man to their aid. Thus nought was look'd for at his hands, But justice strict to just demands: No smiling, generous overflow Of fair reward would he bestow; No bounty did his thoughts prepare For duty's overweening care; While service, by affection wrought, Was, in his reck'ning, set at nought. QUAE GENUS gave in his account; Its justness own'd, the full amount Was duly paid, but I'll forgive The mind refusing to believe, That, when the rich man should discover That he had paid some nine-pence over, He did, without a look of shame, That pittance as a balance claim: It may appear full passing strange, But 'tis a fact, he took the change, And did the jingling half-pence greet, Like fish-women in open street. E'en the worn wardrobe of the Knight, Which is esteem'd the valet's right, The gen'ral heir-loom of his place, Was seiz'd by the curmudgeon base, And borne away, a paltry gain, But when, among the other dues, Were order'd off the _Gouty Shoes_, QUAE GENUS, with contempt inflam'd, Thus, in a hearty tone, exclaim'd, "Away, to the mean merchant bear 'em! Heaven grant he may be forc'd to wear 'em!" --Thus things went on;--then came the time, (The truth e'en shames my humble rhyme) For one did both the titles share, Appear'd to pay, in legal guise, The wages and the legacies. QUAE GENUS, who had lately been A favour'd actor in the scene, Could not have guess'd at such disaster From such a friend and such a master: And though he strove, he scarce could hide The feelings of an honest pride, When, from Sir _Jeffery's_ error, he And those who wore a livery, Nay even house and kitchen-maid Were in the same proportions paid,-- When his allotted mourning bore The same coarse stuff the coachman wore. But how his heart began to beat When he was charg'd for the _receipt_! All his distinction now was lost, And he who long had rul'd the roast, Had, since Sir _Jeffery_ went to rest, Been of his station dispossest; Nay, not a common smile remain'd Of all the favour he had gain'd, While beggarly mistrust took place, Which he must feel as foul disgrace: For ev'ry key had been demanded; One instant made him empty-handed Dismiss'd from his late envied station Without a nod of approbation, He was preparing to depart With downcast look and heavy heart; Nor could e'en Molly's tender smile Of one sad thought that heart beguile "And now, I say, adieu, my friends, For here our fellow-service ends. You need not put on sorrowing faces; You will soon meet with ready places; 'Tis me whose disappointing care, Of cheering prospects, bids despair. --You all, I'm sure can well believe, I have most ample cause to grieve That cruel Fortune thus should frown, When I thought her fond smiles my own. --Sir _Jeffery_ now is laid in dust, But when alive, how good, how just! And all who knew him well must know He never wish'd to use me so. Had he believ'd his end so nigh, I should have had the legacy, Which would have made me full amends For loss of fortune, loss of friends. Another day had he surviv'd, To the next morning had he liv'd, It might, perhaps, have been my fate To know an independent state, As he had told me, o'er and o'er, I ne'er should go to service more. When I did on his wants attend He spoke as a familiar friend: How often too we might be seen Chatting within the Indian screen! Whenever we were left alone, We seem'd not two, but were as one. I knew each tit-bit that he lov'd; He always what I gave approv'd; And as I stood beside his chair, Attending with respectful air, He oft would bid me sit and dine, Fill up his glass and pour out mine. --When thumb and finger he applied To the gold snuff box by his side, I shar'd the pinch, and he ne'er ceas'd To say, 'God bless you,' when I sneez'd; Nay, when my snortings I repeated, He thus my awkward flurry greeted, 'My friend, familiarize your nose To this exhilarating dose, For sure as we together dine This box, QUAE GENUS, shall be thine!' But that kind friend, alas! is dead, And box and snuff and all are fled. Nay, had I now a hope on earth, And could engage in trifling mirth, I here might my complainings close With disappointments of my nose. --His common purse I could command, 'Twas daily open to my hand; You all well know I paid his bills, And when, to ease his various ills, Sir _Midriff_ came, I us'd to squeeze Into his palm the welcome fees. Whene'er I showed my weekly book, He never gave the page a look; And when I urg'd it the good Knight Would smile and say, 'I'm sure 'tis right.' Nay, I can say, in ev'ry sense, I ne'er abus'd his confidence: No, no, I never did purloin An atom of the lowest coin, And what I have to Heaven is known, In honest truth, to be my own, Then wonder not, I feel it hard, To be depriv'd of my reward, And, by such a chance, be hurl'd Again to struggle with the world. Reasons, besides, I must not tell, Why the Knight treated me so well; But I play'd no delusive part, And they did honour to his heart: Of that heart, had he left a share, } As well as fortune to his heir, } I need not now indulge despair." } "Mr. QUAE GENUS, never fear," The Coachman said, "your spirits cheer! Dame Fortune has look'd down 'tis plain, But the jade may look up again: 'Tis true that dev'lish oyster-pie Fell souse upon the legacy: E'en so it was, I cannot doubt it, But I would think no more about it. You so well know your P's and Q's, That you have but to pick and chuse. I speak the truth, there are but few Mr. QUAE GENUS, such as you: And though the merchant will not give The bounty which you should receive, What though he would not spare a farthing To save a soul of us from starving, Good names he'll give us, as he ought, For they we know will cost him nought; 'Twere better therefore to be civil, And hold the candle to the Devil, For we as servants cannot stir Without a show of character. --As you perceive, I'm not a chick, And know enough to make one sick: Nay, somewhat my experience lends, To guess at this world's odds and ends. I've been in many curious places; I've serv'd my Lords,--and serv'd their Graces; And, which gives work of more ado, I've even serv'd my Ladies too: I knew to shut or ope my eyes, To see strange things, nor look surprise. Sometimes good-luck has given a lift, And sometimes, I've been turn'd adrift; But should I live to Judgement-day, No, I will never fail to say, That I ne'er so much comfort knew, As since this house was rul'd by you. --Now, when you get an upper place, Which soon, I'm sure, must be the case, If then your favour will contrive, I should my Lord or Lady drive, For I the reins can handle true Of pairs, of fours, and sixes too, I promise, nay, my word engages To give you poundage from my wages. --I know you're gen'rous, kind and free, But here you will accord with me, That interest has a powerful weight Both with the little and the great: You see it well by what is past, Since your fine plan is overcast. I do not wish to give offence, But interest is common sense, And he who does not look to that, The blunt, rough _Coachman_, said no more: When _Molly's_ fine black eyes ran o'er: The _Cook_ look'd grave, and _Betty_ sigh'd, } The _Kitchen-maid_ sat still and cried, } While _Thomas_ not a word replied.-- } QUAE GENUS, not to be remiss, Gave to each maid a friendly kiss, And when he whisper'd his adieu To charming _Molly_, he gave two: Perhaps, if they were counted o'er, Her sweet lips might acknowledge more: Then told her softly not to fear, And kindly whisper'd in her ear, "What e'er my lot, I will be true To fond affection and to you." Our gloomy Hero now departed, And left the mansion heavy-hearted, Where in such comfort he had liv'd, Nor, till dismiss'd it, ever griev'd, To a snug lodging he had hir'd. Thus once again by Fortune thrown On the wide world, and all alone, Without th' appearance of a friend On whose kind aid he could depend, QUAE GENUS pac'd his lonely floor All to and fro and o'er and o'er, Thinking what efforts might be made, What stroke be struck, what game be play'd, To place him in some active state That promis'd to be fortunate. One consolation he possest, } Which, though it did not charm to rest } The rising troubles of his breast, } Yet still, whatever might confound him, Gave him full time to look around him, And, on whatever project bent, To weigh its views, and wait th' event. For, though his purse might not run o'er, He had a snug, sufficient store, To keep his anxious spirits free From any dread of penury, And guard him amidst toils and strife, Against the insidious smiles of life, That do so often tempt the mind To cast discretion far behind, Or make it fearful hazards try, Impell'd by dire necessity. --He had not yet unripp'd his coat, } In which conceal'd lay every note } Which he from _Gripe-all's_ clutches got: } A hoard on which he might depend, When he look'd round nor saw a friend. Besides, he had no trifle gain'd, While with Sir _Jeffery_ he remain'd; For though, as has been lately said, He never play'd a trick of trade; Nor had he even thought it right To take a valet's perquisite, Nor e'er allow'd his hands to seize The household steward's common fees, But of the strict and rigid law Of duty ever stood in awe. --All this the Knight full well believ'd, Nor could he think himself deceiv'd, When once he answer'd to a friend, Who did the young man's cares commend. "That same QUAE GENUS is so just In all committed to his trust, To his right notions such a slave, He would not with a razor shave, Nor use a strap, nor ply a hone, He had not purchas'd as his own."-- Thus, as most worthy of his charge, Sir _Jeffery's_ annual pay was large, And when th' allotted quarter came, Something was added to his claim, Which with such gen'rous grace was given, It seem'd like Manna sent from Heaven!-- Besides, his wages, being high, Encreas'd the gen'ral legacy, Which he with all the household shar'd; The last, and now his sole reward. Thus so far independence brought A'gleam of comfort on his thought; He was not left on ruin's brink To sit and sigh, and swear and think. _Two_ points alone he had in view, He thought it hard they were but _two_; Nor could he call his fortune kind When they alone employ'd his mind: These were the DOCTORS, won by fees To make most bounteous promises; And though these GALENS might deny 'em, He was at least resolv'd to try 'em; And, if Sir MIDRIFF should decline, He would apply to ANODYNE. --The _former_, if he pleas'd, could well, And with strict truth, his value tell: For none with such experience knew That he was active, honest, true, And to his patient, well or ill, Did ev'ry duteous care fulfil. Nay, that it was the Knight's good pleasure To speak of him as of a treasure. Now, on his serious purpose bent, He to Sir MIDRIFF BOLUS went; But then, alas! as we shall see, His face did not forebode a fee: Nor did the great man smiling meet him, Or with a tone familiar greet him, As his keen humour us'd to do When _golden sovereigns_ were in view: Nor did he take him by the hand, As when it did the coin command. He now put on a curious leer, That said, "I pray, what brought _you_ here?" "I'm come to hope you'll condescend To prove yourself my promis'd friend," QUAE GENUS said, "and with this view, I now present myself to you. You told me, 'when your master's gone, Look on my friendship as your own.' He's gone, alas, I too well know, To me a most affecting blow: But still, I trust, I may engage Your kind, protecting patronage, And, among those of rank and wealth Who make you guardian of their health, Your favour may smile on my fate, And I renew an household state, Like that which crown'd my better days, When I enjoy'd your frequent praise." The Doctor now his suppliant ey'd, And thus in hasty tone replied. "Indeed I've something else to do Than thus to be employ'd by you: I'm in great haste and must away, My patients wait, I cannot stay, To hear you, your fine story tell:-- So, honest friend, I wish you well."-- --Thus when Sir _Jeffery's_ fees were o'er He thought not of QUAE GENUS more. Now, as he pac'd along the street, } Thus did he to himself repeat, } "Is this the fortune I must meet? } Is this the merited reward Which they receive who strive to guard Their hearts against the tempting guise Of int'rest and its sorceries; And say to Virtue, 'Maid divine! Behold thy slave, I'm wholly thine!' --It is not that I now repent, Or harbour selfish discontent, That I should hesitate to seize The golden opportunities Which were presented to my power, Not ev'ry day, but ev'ry hour, While with Sir _Jeffery Gourmand_ I Enjoy'd the means those arts to ply, Which, by the curious eye unseen, Might with such gains have pregnant been: No, no, thank Heaven, I'm not embued With that worst vice, Ingratitude; An odious vice that is of kin To every other mortal sin. I felt his kindness, and where'er My lot may be of pain and care, Those kind reflections I possess To make me smile in my distress, That I ne'er for a moment swerv'd From the best duties he deserv'd; Nay, which he, to his closing days, So often honour'd with his praise,-- And should it be my lot to find Another master good and kind, Whose gen'rous heart would condescend To treat QUAE GENUS as a friend, This I may truly boast, that he } Should find an humble friend in me, } Whose soul is faithful loyalty! } I would the path of truth pursue As I have long been us'd to do; And where, howe'er oblig'd to bend To pressing views, my wishes tend. But, in this world of chance and change, As it appears, I'm doom'd to range, And I may be oblig'd to treat it As it will be my lot to meet it. I will not rob nor will I steal, } But from myself I'll not conceal } The secret purpose which I feel. } Commandments I will never break, But when fair interest is at stake, I'll follow in my future views The conduct which the world pursues; And when that principle I own, The world will have no right to frown. Thus whatsoe'er may be my station, Where chance may fix my next vocation I'll keep discretion in my view, As prudent folk profess to do. --But ere throughout the town at large I look for some inviting charge, Though with one Doctor I have fail'd, Another now shall be assail'd; Though brilliant prospects may not shine, Yet I'll e'en go to ANODYNE. The QUACK may prove a better friend Than e'er Sir MIDRIFF might intend; At all events, howe'er perverse, 'Tis plain he cannot prove a worse; Howe'er that be, I can but try."-- --Thus clos'd his thoughts' soliloquy. QUAE GENUS now pass'd up the Court The sickly patient's still resort, Where, in a corner quite retired, The mansion stood which he desired, Whose door, bedight with darksome green And mouldings edg'd with black, is seen; While letter'd gold appears to shine And tell the name of ANODYNE. He touch'd the well-known tinkling-bell That did some sickly presence tell, When the door op'd with rapid force, And patients glided in of course. There was ne'er heard a knocker's sound, To rouse the idle neighbours round, Or to the windows call the eye Of peeping curiosity. The signal was not given twice; QUAE GENUS enter'd in a trice And sought the solemn Doctor's nook, Where he sat with a folio book, Some ancient Galen's learned creed, Which 'tis not certain he could read: Alone, o'er this he gravely doz'd, But when the sick arriv'd, he clos'd The cumbrous volume, and gave ear The tale of some distress to hear. To JOHNNY this was no new scene, For here he had full often been, But as he _fee-less_ ne'er before Had hasten'd through the well-known door, He felt some doubts within his mind What sort of welcome he should find. Sir MIDRIFF'S conduct it appears, Had chang'd his promis'd hopes to fears; And when he felt such rude disdain From one who rul'd in Warwick-Lane, Who boasted of superior knowledge To all the learned of the College; Who from his frequent promise swerv'd, To one who his kind smiles deserv'd; Yet ev'ry day, and ev'ry hour, Possess'd the patronising power, With mere commending words to gain The boon QUAE GENUS ask'd in vain;-- What good then could his hopes supply From the low pride of quackery, From one who rested his pretence On nostrums and on impudence. But he had felt that in Life's dance, We often owe to strokes of chance, That unexpected good prevail'd Where Reason's better hopes have fail'd. Such thoughts the purpose did incline To make his bows to ANODYNE. The Doctor with a friendly air, } 'Rose from his dictatorial chair, } And pleasure told to see him there: } When thus QUAE GENUS in reply, Began the following Colloquy. "Sir _Jeffery_, as, I trust, you know, Is gone, Sir, where we all must go; In spite of all your healing power, Has reach'd, at length, his final hour, Though had he trusted all to you, } And to Sir MIDRIFF bade adieu, } Which he was half inclin'd to do, } Perhaps, my present visit here Would not so penniless appear; For I am come, as you must see, Without the pass-port of a fee. It is self-interest, I fear, Yes, I must own it, brings me here. Since his departure I am hurl'd To push my fortune in the world, And may I now with courage say, You will assist me on my way? --Such is, alas! my alter'd case, I'm seeking for another place, Though e'en my visionary mind Can never hope again to find Such a so envied household post, As that which I have lately lost. With fortune I shall ne'er contend But smile on that which she may send; And of whatever state possest, Be satisfied and act my best. Now, as I've reason well to know, Though 'tis not you have told me so, That persons of superior worth, The wealthy and of noble birth; Who, tir'd of physic's settled rules, As taught in colleges and schools, Have sought your bold and fearless skill, The potent drafts and secret pill, Which your _Acumen_ can impart, Beyond the reach of drudging art, And I have heard will cure the pain, When boasting science tries in vain: Nor is this all, the tonish fair Attend to seek your healing care. When here I've for Sir _Jeffery_ been, } Dames of high figure I have seen, } Lolling behind your folding screen } With all their gay caricatures The lively eye's attractive lures. Broad bonnets all beflower'd o'er, Are often passing through your door, And I have glanc'd at many a shawl That glided through your gloomy hall. When such grand visitors as these Apply to you to give them ease; And when your skill relieves their pain, That is the time their grace to gain, And then, good Doctor, you might see If you could gain a grace for me; While to some patient you commend The service of your humble friend: Nor will he fail returns to make, Which you may condescend to take; And grateful memory will repay Your kindness to his dying day." The modest suit was not denied, And thus, th' assenting Don replied. "QUAE GENUS, my regards are thine, As sure as my name's ANODYNE. --If worth lay in a flatt'ring tongue, You would not want a service long; For if you do with caution use it, Where is the ear that will refuse it? 'Tis but the art how to apply The well-conceal'd artillery, And, more or less, the well-told tale Will o'er the pliant mind prevail. Your int'rest, friend, I'll not neglect, Perhaps do more than you expect; Nay, I e'en may your mind surprise, When I mark how that int'rest lies;-- But 'tis not where your hopes may look, 'Tis not that page in fortune's book. --The higher folk who come to me Are all involv'd in secrecy: Those who can't walk employ a hack, When they employ the humble quack: Hence, no fine carriages resort About the purlieus of my court, For the rich owners, with their wealth, Blush to pass this bye-way to health. Such is proud fashion's powerful rule O'er many a purse-proud, titled fool: They tell me all their sickness claims, But seem afraid to tell their names. --There's an old man I sometimes see, And faith he brings a handsome fee, Whose hackney always drops his fare Just by, in the adjoining Square: Where, when we've clos'd our consultation, He hobbles to regain his station. In a loose coat of common wear, This person chuses to appear; With his round hat and dingy caxon, He calls himself a Mr. Jackson; Though still his manners and his words Are such as highest rank affords: And, sure as I e'er gave a puke, I know the man to be a duke.-- But I, of course, the secret keep, And let his splendid titles sleep. --I have two ladies now in hand, Whose whims and fancies I command: They tell of humours on the skin, But then they only shew their chin; No other part they let me see, Such is their bashful fantasy. They seem to think I doubt their graces, As veils o'erspread their pimpled faces, So that where'er they chuse to show 'em, I do not think that I should know 'em. Yet by their chat they have betray'd, That one's a wife, and one's a maid: Nor from the names can they refrain They never fail in their appointments, And are fast curing by my ointments: Thus, from their praise, I hope to claim An added honour to my name. Nor are these all; for many more } Of wealth and rank pass through my door; } Though still as I have said before, } They to such aid as mine apply All mask'd in fearful secrecy. These whims I have explain'd, to prove I cannot in this quarter move; And where I could your worth commend It would degrade you to attend. But I shall now unfold to view, Another chance I have for you: And let your patience ope its ear To all you are about to hear. "'Tis not to breathe the tonish air } Of Portland-Place, or Grosv'nor-Square, } Or stand behind her Grace's chair: } 'Tis not to serve the titled beaux, And flourish in your master' clothes: 'Tis not, as you are wont, to grace Some peopled household's highest place, Though well-accomplish'd as you are, 'Tis chance alone can place you there: For, through your days, you may not boast A master such as you have lost; Nay, your precarious life may end Before a master proves a friend; And, after all, old age may come Without an alms-house for a home. Think, think in what a woeful plight The man must live who's pocket's light! Are not his hours by want depress'd? Penurious care corrodes his breast; Without respect, or love, or friends, His solitary day descends. O be not led away by pride, But use the means that may provide For future wants, when evils press, And life is pregnant with distress! Hear me, my friend, nor let surprise With staring looks burst from your eyes, When I, in language frank and free,-- Tell you to come and _live with me_. "Think not I want you for a hack, A serving menial to a quack; If to my interests you attend, } You will be treated as a friend. } On this be sure you may depend, } That you will find a better station, In profit as in inclination, Than were you hired to be solus Behind the chair of Doctor BOLUS. --Within a week, perhaps a day, You'll see the part you have to play. The man I had, whom you have seen, Might still beneath this roof have been, But he by coughing was worn down To a poor gasping skeleton, And 'twere not fit I should endure One in my house I could not cure He would not prove a tempting sign To spread the fame of ANODYNE: But in the time he here remain'd, He had a little fortune gain'd. --Your knowledge, which I well can trace, } Is far above a servant's place, } And would a higher station grace. } The pleasing manners you possess, Your winning speech and nice address, Might call to your ambitious view, An higher state than you pursue; Though still your savings you might waste, Before you're suited to your taste. --Such aid as your's I long have wanted, And if my warm proposal's granted, You must at once grow wond'rous dull, Or soon your pocket will be full: Here, in one year, you will get more Than with your noble lords in four. Nay, on the honour of a friend, Who no deception can intend, You'll greatly err, if you decline Such an official place as mine. --I'll teach you how to cup and bleed; These operations you will need; The pulses' movements you shall know, When they are either high or low: While other symptoms of disease I can communicate with ease. All this, if I the truth discern, Your ready mind will quickly learn. Besides 'tis right to let you know You'll have no nauseous work to do; For the old woman spreads the blisters, Rolls up the pills and stirs the clysters. While 'tis my hand alone composes The patients' necessary doses, And your chief care is to dispense These med'cines with your eloquence. --But I have sick folk to attend, So while away an hour, my friend: And as I trust you'll stay and dine, We'll close our bargain o'er our wine." It often happens as we range Through life, an unexpected change, With sudden stroke may pain destroy And turn our thoughts from grief to joy: Or as some shock cuts off relief May turn a flow of joy to grief. Thus our days' varying system bears Th' alternate play of hopes and fears: Nay, when more pleasant views provoke, May turn our gravity to joke. Besides, as in the Drama's art, The scene displays the varying part, So apt are we to play the fool, We serve for our own ridicule: And when sly Fortune's pleas'd to vary Our progress with some strange vagary, We oft become such merry elves To burst with laughter at ourselves. Thus as QUAE GENUS pac'd the room, Reflecting on the time to come, And all the heap of promis'd good By ANODYNE to be bestow'd; That he was to be cramm'd with wealth, And turn all sickness into health; His fancy, tickled at the thought, He set each serious wish at nought, And laugh'd till his sides seem'd to crack, To think he should become a Quack. But when he had indulg'd the joke Which this idea might provoke, He thought more gravely of the case And vow'd to take the proffer'd place: At all events, he could but try This self-same scheme of quackery: At least some knowledge he should gain, And knowledge never comes in vain. Indeed, what harm, if he succeed in The arts of cupping and of bleeding? The lancet's power to command Might be of use in any hand, And e'en in any hand might save A forlorn suff'rer from the grave; While he might well instructed be In principles of Pharmacy. He also felt that application Might fit him for a better station; That in some distant country town, He might a _Galen's_ title own: Where, if his fortune did not vary, He might strut an Apothecary. Thus between gravity and smile Conceit play'd its full part the while, Though not without a view to gains Which might reward his present pains: Indeed he knew the means that made 'em, For he had for Sir _Jeffery_ paid 'em: As while for potion, pill and plaister A golden fee awaits the master; He found it was a useful plan, With lesser coin, to fee the man, Who had the means to lift the latch That did the secret wish dispatch; And could th' impatience set to rest Of the more eager, grumbling guest. --Thus, with lively hope high-season'd, QUAE GENUS walk'd about and reason'd; And, in his Pericranium fast, This grave opinion fix'd at last: If not in honour, yet in purse, _He might go further and fare worse_,-- But if no other good were done, There might be sure a world of fun. Patients that morning had been plenty, Not less it seems than five-and-twenty; This the old woman smiling stated, And told him that the dinner waited. The table shew'd a plenteous treat } Of fish and fowl and sav'ry meat, } But poor QUAE GENUS scarce could eat. } For, though prepar'd for any diet, His hunger soon repos'd in quiet. The Doctor fed, but talk'd the while, Of gastric juice and flowing bile; Of kidneys and o'ergrowing liver, As of sore eyes now cur'd for ever; What his fam'd _Nostrum_ had perform'd, And how it had the bowels storm'd Of guttling Gourmand with such force, That it a passage made of course, Which three great Doctors tried in vain, With all their boasted skill to gain. Besides our hero did not know How cookery went on below, And he might think, poor dainty sinner, That the same hands had dress'd the dinner, Which were entrusted with the care Each daily med'cine to prepare; To melt the salves and spread anon The cerates and diacolon; That did the drugs or grind or pound, And dress the sore leg's running wound: But so it was, a sick sensation Check'd all his powers of mastication, And caus'd his stomach to resent The very taste of nutriment: Nay his sad appetite approv'd When all the dishes were remov'd. --They therefore soon had ceas'd to dine } And o'er the second pint of wine } The bargain clos'd with ANODYNE. } What that was, it is fit to know, And the verse now will briefly show. QUAE GENUS had made up his mind Not to his interest to be blind; But in the game that path pursue Which prudence says we ought to do, Nor to let scruples overpower Th' advantage of the passing hour, And yet that artifice restrain Whose daily efforts are for gain: In short to take the middle plan, } Which, as the world is us'd to scan, } Marks what is call'd an _Honest Man_. } He might not hesitate complying With a small spice of useful lying That idle questions might disarm, Do some slight good, but never harm, Afford a sentimental grace To conversation's common place, And give a customary aid To all the retail slang of trade. With mind thus settled and prepar'd He ANODYNE'S first lecture heard. And as it surely was the best, We shall pass over all the rest. "This the first rule that I shall trace:-- You must command a solemn face; Nor suffer objects to beguile Your features to familiar smile. Here, I must own, you oft may see What may court transient pleasantry; For e'en 'midst misery and pain, You'll find such whims and fancies reign, Hear patients cough and grunt and sneeze In such uncouth, discordant keys, That without care, I should not wonder Your muscles into laugh might blunder. You have a speech runs off at score, As rapid as a chaise and four, But with my sickly folk be slow As a stage-waggon's us'd to go; And pray remember to apply Your words with due solemnity. I know you well can suit your tongue To any age, to old or young; Nor will the task your care perplex In the complaints of either sex; And bear in mind, whate'er you see, To veil your thoughts with modesty: But hear the great and leading rule Of this my Esculapian school. "I care not by what name you call This spacious parlour, room or hall: But here my daily patients range Whose order you must never change: Were I to take them one by one, By Heaven I should ne'er have done; And, therefore, govern'd by their feather I thus assort my birds together. Here, on the right, are duly seated Those who for gouty freaks are treated, Then comes the symptomatic fever, And next the bilious and their liver: Then follow others in their turn, The chills which shake, the heats that burn; The stomachs which will ne'er digest The food their feeders love the best; The wheesers too are not far off, All those who hem and spit and cough, With such, not of the happiest kind, Whose bowels threat to crack with wind The Hypochondres here repose Impatient for the cordial dose, And children on the carpet brawl, Till my spice biscuits calm the squall. "I first review th' assembled tribe Then walk off stately and prescribe, When I consign to your quick sense Th' appropriate med'cines to dispense, To all the classes in your view, } With gentle tone and caution due: } See then how much depends on you. } Each case that asks superior art I send into a room apart; And _there_ I never feel alarm; I play no tricks and do no harm. When I a desp'rate illness see, For patients must not die with me, I recommend them to repair To goat's-milk and the country air; And when such counsel they receive They do not fail to take their leave, Full of my candour and disdain Of any little paltry gain. Deep cuts, sore legs and gummy eyes, With all the common casualties, I with my healing dame bestow, In her snug, secret cell below: Indeed I've sometimes star'd to see The wonders of her surgery. --'Tis true 'mong doctors I'm not famous, But still I'm not an _Ignoramus_; For I can play a skillfull part In elements of chymic art; I give the drafts a varying hue, To-day so red, to-morrow blue, And touch them with a diff'rent savour, To give a worse or better flavour, As it may suit, then change their name, } Though they may be the very same, } Both in their object and their aim. } "It is with me a leading fashion To play thus with imagination; A symptom that doth never cease, Or more or less in all disease. There are sly shifts in ev'ry trade, Which money calls in to its aid: But here I'd have it understood, If when my practice does no good, My conscience never has the qualm, That I do any real harm. Nor are my various cures unknown As placards tell of my renown! My nostrums oft my hopes fulfil, Nor do I know they ever kill. Those cases which I've cause to doubt, And cannot find their symptoms out, I never fail to leave to nature, Who is a wonder-working creature: And my chief cures which make a stir,-- I e'en must own I owe to her.-- --Such the great object of my care.-- Fear not, you will th' advantage share. But know, when all my sick are here, You as _Inferior_ must appear; But business o'er and they are gone, Then good QUAE GENUS, we are one!" At length the compact was agreed, } And all things promis'd to succeed: } Our Hero soon could cup and bleed; } And, with a kind, officious grace, The med'cine gave in time and place; Nay, as occasion might afford, Bitters improve with sweet'ning word: He had acquir'd the art to please With welcome flatt'ries such as these. "_How stout your legs appear to-day! I trust you have walk'd all the way! And ere that our brief work is done, We shall have taught you how to run!_" "_O madam! how I must rejoice, That you have lost your husky voice; Soon I doubt not that I shall find Your tones are of the sweetest kind_!" "_And that fine face I griev'd to view When cloth'd in such a pallid hue; But I have seen, this passing week, The colour coming on your cheek. And if some ill does not oppose, We soon shall see the tender rose: And hope's a friend that will supply The prospect which, I trust, is nigh_." Now sometimes he would give a scope To his propensity to joke. For 'mid this pale-fac'd, grumbling mess 'Twere well to stir some chearfulness: For if a parson chose to squeeze A lady on her crummy knees, (For here a little play and prate Might cheer a sickly _tete-a-tete_) His whisper might perchance declare, "Doctor, her pulses are not there." --At all events, things went on well, As the pleas'd verse may freely tell; And the young Doctor ne'er complain'd Of what he by his office gain'd. But here we now shall change our road And slip into an _Episode_; It is a common way we know, In which much better poets go: Though pride will not suggest that we Can be accus'd of _poetry_; Yet we must own that, in our time, We have stirr'd up some reams of _Rhyme_. Howe'er that be, we now must come To steer our Hero's walks from home. Among the few who sought the aid Of ANODYNE'S more secret trade, Was one who sent a written case Which did his various symptoms trace: Thus, when the Quack prepar'd the dose, QUAE GENUS took it snug and close: He only knew the cordial sent, To whom address'd, and where it went: Besides it was his daily task Questions of import grave to ask. How was his pulse? How had he slept? If tremors o'er the system crept? With such enquiries as our verse Might feel it awkward to rehearse. Of that no more, the patient's name Was _Woodlands_, known in rural fame: Through early years, a sportsman he, The flower of hunting chivalry; Was rich, and as he well was able, Saw jovial sportsmen round his table, Drank hard and lov'd the evening glee, With those who drank as hard as he. But gout, with other ills came on, And jovial life was pass'd and gone: Health's active season now was o'er, When he could hunt and feast no more. He sold his hounds and took a wife, To soothe the latter years of life; But they were few, as we shall see, In spite of care and Quackery. She was a _Belle_ of rural fame, Who gave her troth and bore his name: Whate'er had been her hopes and views When she did an old husband chuse, The knowledge we do not profess, But leave the gen'rous mind to guess. At all events, her outward mien, As it should be had always been, Nor had a jealous eye suspected Her duty had been e'er neglected. But as infirm he now was grown, } At her desire, he came to town } To seek Physicians of renown. } He first had one, he then had two, But their prescriptions did not do; When still her care prevail'd, and she Another sought, so he had three; And no more good seem'd to be done, Than if he had been seen by none. --Thus matters stood, nay he grew worse When an old busy, chattering nurse, Talk'd of the cures, almost divine, Of our friend Doctor ANODYNE. The drowning catch at any reed, And all is help in desp'rate need: Thus the rich man propos'd to try The boasted aid of Quackery, And what he wish'd, Amelia said, With anxious smile, must be obey'd. --Thus then it is, as we have seen, QUAE GENUS has the attendant been; But now we are about to see What a snug _Proteus_ he can be. The Lady, to his great surprise, Oft view'd him with enquiring eyes, And did a kind attention show Which he thought queer she should bestow, But he soon found the matter out; Madam herself clear'd up the doubt, As, in her _Boudoir's_ still recess, She did her quiet thoughts express. In a soft, pleasant tone she spoke, As half in earnest half in joke; But as she thus her mind unveil'd, It might be seen what thought prevail'd. "There's something in your air and face } That tells me you will not disgrace } The trust which I now wish to place } In your obedience to my will; And if you do that trust fulfil, If you act up to my intent, QUAE GENUS never shall repent." --His fingers on his lips he press'd, He clos'd his hands upon his breast; With most submissive air he bow'd, And secresy he swore and vow'd; When Madam _Woodlands_ thus proceeded: (I scarce need add that she succeeded.) "You do a Doctor's business ply; Now do not stare,--for so do I: There is a pale-fac'd patient too Whose certain cure I have in view, And I've a med'cine that will prove Specific,--as he's sick of love; It will, in time, set all at ease, And cure the pangs of his disease; For no prescription can be better Than that contain'd within this letter, Which you, my friend, must understand To give into the patient's hand. Believe me too, when you are told, You'll find it worth its weight in gold. --There is," she said, "a smile I see Now stealing on your gravity; But know, QUAE GENUS I do nought That is with base dishonour fraught; My whims, though secret, common-sense Will clothe in garb of innocence."-- In short, but not without a fee, He took the balmy recipe, And ev'ry time he bore a letter The patient's case was growing better. Thus fortune kindly did bestow Two strings to our keen Hero's bow; And to his wishes, in good troth, He reap'd no common gains from both. --But here, another lucky hour Did on his hopes new promise pour: For Madam _Woodlands_ more than hinted, If, in his present projects stinted, He should no longer wish to shine With Quackery and ANODYNE, He might, by her all-fav'ring grace, Attain her household's highest place. He saw, and not by way of whim, This was the very place for him; But still he felt he could not quit, As in a momentary fit, That state he to the Doctor ow'd, And which such benefit bestow'd; Then, without proper warning, leave him, Or with some scurvy tale deceive him, He saw in any point of view That honour prompts, it would not do. Thus, in a state of constant doubt, He scarce knew what he was about, And to the daily patients gave Their med'cines just as chance would have. To all diseases waiting there } He did not e'en appear to care } What was the complaint or where, } If it was fever or the gout; But left each dose to find it out. --Thus strange indeed, but it appear'd The healing shop would soon be clear'd, The patients calmly pass'd away; } Nay, some of them were rather gay, } And fees forsook th' impoverish'd day. } When this change our QUAE GENUS saw, He thought awhile and felt an awe, When it struck sudden on his sense, That his so wicked negligence, Had caus'd, perhaps, the final doom Of many an inmate of the room; But, on a fearful search, he found, Not one of them was under ground, Nay, that by giving med'cines wrong, He did their precious lives prolong; At least no harm they had endur'd, For by his blund'ring they were cur'd. Shrewd ANODYNE, of course, suspected That his prime bus'ness was neglected; Indeed he clearly understood QUAE GENUS did more harm than good, And therefore, without much delay, Hinted in a good-humour'd way, "You're tir'd, my friend, as it appears, (Of which I've sometime had my fears) You're tir'd of the _Galenic Art_; 'Twere better, therefore, that we part." QUAE GENUS made a calm reply, With acquiescing modesty: Nor was a harsh, unpleasant word From these dissolving Doctors, heard. In truth, each party was good-hearted; So they shook hands and thus they parted. Our _Proteus_ now is seen to grace Another and a favour'd place; The confidential servant he In 'Squire _Woodlands'_ family: But the poor 'Squire was hast'ning fast To that sad hour which prov'd his last; For soon, alas, the fatal gout Got in his head, and let life out; When Madam made a quick retreat From town to the fine country seat Which now was her's, with all the rest Of the great wealth which he possess'd. What tears the widow'd Lady shed In sorrow o'er her husband dead, Whether as they her cheeks bedew'd, They flow'd from grief or gratitude; How calm or poignant was her woe, We tell not, for we do not know. Yet this we can with safety tell, Because we surely know it well, That through her husband's sickly life She was a tender nurse and wife. --But now another scene appears, Dispers'd her grief, dried up her tears; Rich as she was and still a beauty, She look'd to change her line of duty; 'Twas Nature's act, as all will see Who read her little history. In earlier years, ere she was led By Hymen to the marriage bed, VALCOUR and she each other lov'd, But their fond passion hopeless prov'd. --She was high-bred with fortune small, And his Commission was his all: For though he was of ancient line } And did with noble virtues shine, } He was the youngest child of nine; } And ere her marriage rites were o'er He sought renown on India's shore. What he thus bravely sought he found, And once more trod on British ground, With that, but little else beside, A month before Old Woodlands died. He let her hear that still he lov'd, She wrote, nor said she disapprov'd; That was the recipe to cure The doubts his bosom might endure; In which QUAE GENUS was employ'd, And caus'd the good he now enjoy'd. --But then she acted with discretion; As her fond husband's sole possession She would not, at his last, allow The promise of a future vow: She felt her tender inclination, As a reversionary passion She must not own for him she lov'd, Till Death each hindrance had remov'd. For due decorum she obey'd, And the sage widow's period stay'd; Nor till Time pull'd the Hatchment down, Did she her _Valcour's_ wishes crown: But crown'd they were; a splendid show Did Fortune on the rites bestow, When Hymen call'd on Love to shower Its roses o'er the nuptial bower. QUAE GENUS did the sports contrive Which kept the country-folk alive, And all the scatter'd bounties flow'd As his disposing hand bestow'd, Nor did one over-curious mind Suspect that any lurk'd behind. Nay, it was order'd to his care } The gen'ral figure to prepare } That was to blaze in Portman-Square. } He, who had sometime form'd the plan Well knew the purse alone could aid The progress of that pretty trade, And now had learn'd, quite at his ease, To take the upper servant's fees, Which to fulfil his growing aim, In a resistless plenty came. --VALCOUR was grand, his _Eastern Taste_ Was not dispos'd to run to waste; Madam had never yet made known Her beauty to th' admiring town, And ready wealth was now at hand Their mutual wishes to command: Plutus with Fashion standing by } Impatient languish'd to supply } Each wish of glowing luxury. } The tonish trade display'd its store Where our QUAE GENUS kept the door; In various forms, a numerous host All strove who should affect him most, And by what tempting means engage, His trusty, promis'd patronage. Whene'er enquiry makes a stir To trace the human character, The strict and scrutinising eye Must look for human frailty, And will perceive as on we range, Our dispositions prone to change, Nor like the features of the face, Fix'd on their first-born, native place. So many tempting Sirens play Their games to lead the heart astray, So many gay temptations smile The wav'ring prudence to beguile; So many worldly interests wake The pliant feelings to forsake And wander from the beaten road In which they hitherto have trod; That reason from her judgement-seat Must, with a tender rigour, treat The venial errors of the mind, And in severity be kind. --Our Hero an example shews To ask the candour we propose, For he, we are compell'd to own, Had given his thoughts a different tone. As we have said, it was his plan To be a _future Gentleman_, And that he only could attain By seizing all the means to gain An added heap to that same store Which luck'ly he possess'd before. He, therefore, now had laid aside Those scruples which his boasted pride Maintain'd against the retail sense Of the shrewd _Grocer's_ eloquence, While, with Sir _Jeffery Gourmand_, he Preserv'd such pure fidelity. --And here it should not be forgot That it was _Molly's_ happy lot, By some keen plan which he had laid, To be the Lady's fav'rite maid: For _Molly_ he sincerely lov'd, And was with gen'rous passion mov'd; Nay, when his project he should carry, He had engag'd the maid to marry: Thus she was well prepar'd to join In forwarding the main design; Which as it may, perhaps, appear From the surmises hinted here, Was never, never to refuse What custom offer'd as their dues, And all the op'ning hand of chance Might gather from extravagance. How far this system may succeed Will soon be seen by those who read. This VALCOUR was a noble creature, Splendid and gen'rous in his nature; Nor had these feelings been decreas'd By the profusion of the East, Which he from well-earn'd station shar'd; But honour was his chief reward. He no amass'd Pagodas brought Whence treasures are so often sought: Yet he, the favour'd lot of few, As they bright fortune's track pursue, Though India gave him mod'rate store, Found plenteous wealth on Britain's shore. --Full many a well fought field he try'd, And MARS beheld his course with pride, Nay bade the wreath of triumph glow The Hero's pride, upon his brow, While Knighthood's pointed star express'd The tinsel glitter on his breast. But VENUS, who such things disposes Chang'd all the laurel into roses; And HYMEN did his state enfold In saffron mantle, rich with gold. As Nature in its fancies varies, Sir CHARLES indulg'd in his vagaries, With a wild love of shew and figure; Yet still he was resolv'd with rigour, A line of prudence to pursue And keep discretion in his view. Full droll indeed it may appear But thus he chose to persevere: Not to run out was all that he Consider'd as oeconomy; If his rents answer'd what he spent He'd bless his stars and be content; But never did his views appear To look upon the coming year. Nor e'er did he his mind distress To know if he could live on less: Nay at the thought how he would laugh, When told that he could live on half, And felt affront, if 'twere repeated That by his servants he was cheated. --Such a receipt to pamper ruin Nay to hurry an undoing, Has seldom given so queer a chance To gratify extravagance. --But so it was--QUAE GENUS thought Just as the rising fancy taught: While, in mock fashion's borrow'd pride, MOLLY was seated by his side. Now as her needle made its way Some 'broider'd figure to display, Thinking, perhaps, how well her art Gave semblance to a two-fold heart; He fondly call'd her willing ear With all attention due to hear. "Plac'd as we are, it seems to be The height of that prosperity Which such as we can e'er enjoy; And it becomes us to employ The means it offers to possess Our views of future happiness. I doubt not, MOLLY, but you feel, For your sweet lady, all the zeal, Which flows alike from due regard As the just hope of due reward: But still, I think, it must appear That we've a doubtful course to steer; How we may keep within the line, } Our great folks' interest to combine } With what we know is yours and mine. } They are with generous grace endued, To us how kind they are and good. But life with them is nought but pleasure; Luxurious show fills up the measure Of all their hours, as they run on Through each meander of the Ton. They sometimes talk of prudent schemes, And reason's language veils the dreams; But the incessant love of change Invites the unreflecting range 'Neath ev'ry dome where pride resorts And fashion holds her motley courts; Though while they for their pleasures roam We too well know their cost at home. This proud parade can never last, Their ready wealth will soon be past. --Nay, when I bring the month's account, And silent point to the amount; He tells my Lady what I've done, And she exclaims, ''tis precious fun!-- We need not for our ruin fear With such a careful guardian near!' When I point out the triple charge In many a bill display'd at large, She says, 'QUAE GENUS, do not grieve, Tradesmen, my honest friend, must live! Nay, when from service you retire, And sit all plodding by your fire In thought what profits should repay The labours of the closing day;-- When o'er some door we see your name, } A dealer of great retail fame, } You have our leave to do the same.' } "I made my bow and answer'd nought, But then I paid it off in thought; And, as their gen'rous leave they give, Like others to play tricks and live, I may begin, perhaps, before My name is painted on the door; And, in good time, my fortune try With that same prosp'ring honesty. --I tell you, MOLLY, 'tis as clear As we, dear girl, are sitting here, That our great folks were both created So rich, please fortune, to be cheated. And we must aid them, as you see, Thus to fulfil their destiny. For trifles we'll not make a fuss, They will not be the worse for us: If we do not our pockets fill, Others there are who quickly will, But not by any paltry gains, As pilfering of _Sovereigns_. You must not crib a handsome shawl And say 'twas lost at such a ball; Nor will you in some corner place A card or roll of costly lace, That when you think she has forgot it, You to your own use may allot it:-- Nor, when she gives a thrice-worn dress Your vanity and wish to bless, Do not within its wide folds smother, As if by chance, just such another, As she'd not miss it 'mid such plenty A wardrobe of full five-and-twenty, While others, 'mid the toilet's din Are almost daily pouring in. Can we such means as these pursue?-- Would it be just in me and you: Though I guess by your waggish smile, What you are thinking of the while. But still I feel it is not right That you should lose your perquisite; Nor do I, my dear girl, incline E'er to forego the claim to mine, And tempting opportunity May tell us what those claims should be, As 'tis our right to seize the chance That's furnish'd by extravagance, When call'd upon to prove our taste In saving what would run to waste; For rumpled fin'ry, all thrown by, Is safer in our custody. --When t'other day the Knight bespoke A new great-coat and Hussar cloak; 'Sure, Sir,' I said, 'you have forgot Of these same coverings what a lot, Neither be-spotted, scratch'd or torn And some of them have scarce been worn, Which are all hanging in the hall:'-- 'They're old,' he said, 'so take them all.' --I bow'd and took them to my keeping; Snug in my wardrobe they are sleeping. It is the same, I know it well, You of your Lady have to tell: I doubt not but your hoard encreases Of Spencers, mantles and pelisses: But let it be our mutual boast That sage precaution rules the roast; And take care that we never deal in Any thing that looks like stealing. My books are fair, accounts are right, In them my honour's sound and tight: Valet I am and Butler both, A rare advantage to our cloth, And there's no day, nay scarce an hour But tempting profits court my power, Yet may dread _Heaven_ above forsake me, And _Old Nick_ in his fury take me, If I the pilf'ring track pursue Which hireling knaves so often do. When from the shopmen we receive The somethings they are us'd to give As their long, bouncing bills are paid, 'Tis not our Knight is tax'd, but trade, Though should we not our poundage claim _Sum Totals_ would be just the same. --E'en when, as if a boon, I crave Some superfluity to save, Perhaps he'll tell me I'm a fool, Or threat to floor me with a stool. --Last week, he said, 'at our next fete, (Mind what I say and hold your prate) Let the desert in splendour shine With gay plateaus and many a pine.' When as, to check the cost's encrease, I hinted what they were a piece, He ranted, 'if there are not _five_, Thou slave, I'll cut you up alive. Dare you look piteous? for then You scurvy clown, I'll order _ten_.' "These gay delusions cannot last, The spendthrift scene will soon be past; And, in another year or two You'll see that what I say is true. When Banker's checks, that easy pay Like fancy's ghosts have pass'd away, When the whole funded wealth is sold Another story will be told; When all the ready cash is flown, The country-rents will change their tone, Nor will the half-grown oaks supply The means for one year's luxury. Crabbed Entail will rise beside } And dare the acres to provide } The power to feed their needy pride, } And Mortgage-deeds in vain will strive To keep the piteous show alive. While thus the vain folk whom we serve, Do from each point of prudence swerve, While thus they waste in such a way, To Luxury the willing prey, I know, my girl, what I've to do, And faith, shall leave the rest to you!" "My dearest friend, you are so clever, That I could hear you talk for ever. Let not QUAE GENUS be afraid, He ne'er shall want my ready aid; For surely to his heart 'tis known, } His ev'ry interest is my own, } At least I feel that we are one. } O yes, I comprehend him well!" But now she heard her Lady's bell, A summons that must be attended,-- So here the conversation ended. Thus VALCOUR and his brilliant dame Attain'd their folly's highest aim, To scale the ladder of the Ton As many wealthy fools have done, And laugh, if they should hear the call, "Your foot may slip and you may fall." They did in every thing agree, With the same eye each object see. "Whate'er you fancy must appear So very right my dearest dear!-- And whatsoe'er you do approve, Cannot be wrong, my sweetest love!" --Such was their billing and their cooing, As they were hast'ning on to ruin; Nor did they see that _Fashion_ laugh'd, While she their costly nectar quaff'd; Or 'mid the crowds that might attend Their banquets, they had not a friend. But such too often is the case Where Folly takes the highest place; And upstart fortune fain would be The ape of rank and family. There vulgar wealth pays dear for places Who at its table may appear } Or once or twice or thrice a year, } When luxury does the feast prepare; } And yet their host but coldly greet, If they should meet him in the street. --But true or not, howe'er that be, In this career of vanity, Winter's fine pleasures pass'd away And Summer made the country gay, While fashion now set out to grace The Country seat and Wat'ring place, VALCOUR and MADAME now were seen But where, though envied and admir'd, With the same scenes they soon were tir'd: Besides 'twas decent to retreat And give life to their ancient seat. Thus while th' astonish'd Natives stare _Woodlands_ receiv'd the tonish pair; While they the rural 'Squires surprise } With splendid hospitalities; } And even here the money flies. } The Knight when sporting in the East, Was wont to hunt the brindled beast, Or the long, pointed jav'lin plant From castled back of elephant, In the fierce tiger's spotted side, And gloried when the savage died: He therefore would not deign to share The conquest o'er a tim'rous hare; Nor push on in a break-neck pace Through all his wiles the fox to chace. But when the sportsmen left their game, And weary to his mansion came, Which they were always glad to do, Whene'er that mansion was in view, QUAE GENUS heard the orders gay To be fulfill'd without delay, As the loud and welcome brawl Re-echoed through the lofty hall,-- "Prepare, that my good friends may dine, The turkey and the smoking chine, The pasty and whate'er is best To furnish out an instant feast! Be sure 'tis your attentive task, } To give them all that they may ask, } The bowl, the tankard and the flask;" } But then the Knight in whispers hinted, "When you perceive my time is stinted, And both my deafen'd ears no more Can bear the Bacchanalian roar; When it appears the stupid asses Scarce know the bottles from the glasses, Nor can perceive, 'mid boosing laughter, That I am only sipping water; When I shall unperceiv'd retire, } Remember it is my desire, } _They do not set the house on fire_." } --Thus, when o'erwhelm'd with sporting guest, Sir CHARLES his constant wish express'd, And, after many a vain essay, Contriv'd at last to steal away, With something like an aching head, To seek the refuge of his bed. In drunken freaks QUAE GENUS knew Sense was oft gone and feeling too; That legs might tables overturn, And fallen lights would flare and burn; Nay, flaming mischief might attend On lighted snuff and candle's end. Thus to be safe, without delay The threat'ning lights he bore away, And, to avoid a falling spark, Left parties snoring in the dark. Thus stretching as their limbs were able, On chair, on floor or on table, QUAE GENUS did not own a fear That there was any danger near, So left them till the day should break And fev'rish nature bid them wake; When, yawning round the sporting closet, Some groom brought in their morning posset; And, hobbling off as they were able To mount their horses at the stable, They left the Knight their humble thanks, Hop'd Madam would excuse their pranks, And sought their homes, perhaps, to hear A wife talk loud in either ear. Such were the jovial sportsmen's meetings And these their hospitable greetings; But rural dames who were received With kindness while old _Woodlands_ liv'd, As they found such an alter'd state Ne'er enter'd twice the mansion gate: The 'Squires' wives would ne'er resort To one so chang'd to pay their court; And, though she was with title crown'd, The proud acquaintance they disown'd. Brimful of town conceits and folly, My Lady now grew melancholy; And when the sporting season came Her daily looks were not the same: That time of noisy, jovial joy, Did ev'ry lively sense annoy, Nor would she any reas'ning hear.-- "To Town we'll haste away, My Dear! Let us be gone without delay: To London let us haste away! These rooms where staring figures sprawl In ancient hangings on the wall, Nay, where at noon, the shaded light Gives dimness of approaching night, Which nought can chearful make and gay, Or give the semblance bright of day, But that well-dress'd, high-minded glee That here, alas, we never see, Which could alone from this dull room, Snatch the grim likeness of a tomb! Let us be gone without delay, To London let us haste away!" --She gave a piteous look and sigh'd, When, with soft grace, Sir CHARLES replied. "As such is your desire, My Love, To Town we quickly will remove; If it will soothe my charmer's sorrow, We will set out for Town to-morrow. But have you thought, my dearest Dear, That not a creature will be there? Will you not find we shall be hurl'd Into a lifeless, empty world; Where, till the winter near approaches You will see nought but Hackney coaches? I'm sure you'll think yourself quite undone, If you're a month alone in London. To your gay spirit Oh how dull On a soft window-seat to loll, And count with your half-sleeping eye How many _Nobodies_ go by! While mothers with their babies tell, What sick'ning stuff they have to sell, When from their ceaseless screaming noises, You ask for what Heaven gave them voices: Till like the fiddler in a rage, Which you have seen in Hogarth's page, You stop your ears, with anger burn, And cry 'to _Woodlands_, let's return.' I'd rather sit and yawn, I own, Here in the country than in town, Where to dull club-rooms I must go, } E'en in the streets no creature know, } And ride alone in Rotten-Row. } But be it as you wish."--"Then I," The Dame delay'd not to reply, "Desire such orders you will give That we, with prompt dispatch, may leave This stupid spot and hurry strait With post horse gallop through the gate, And when we've got a dozen mile, I then will thank you, Love, and smile. Yes, I will bid adieu to care, } Though not a soul in Portman-Square, } When once I see that I am there. } Believe me I would rather hear As sounds more pleasing to my ear, Fishwomen's cries along the street, Than noisy sportsmen when they meet, Whose noisy, vulgar, drunken brawl So often echoed in our Hall. The Town, perhaps, is not so full, But London never can be dull: Thin as it may be, or e'en thinner, We shall find folk to eat our dinner, And though no crowd will throng at present, Our little parties will be pleasant. The Drama too presents its play To make the evening pass away; Blue hills delight and lawns so green When they are painted on the scene; O how I like the woods and rocks When I can view them from a box!-- I'm charm'd with such a rural sight When it is seen by candle-light. We shall to pass our time contrive, And keep our pretty selves alive, Till the world rolls to Town amain:-- Then we shall be ourselves again." --They were themselves, and suffer'd pride Still to remain their fatal guide, And to bring on that period near, When Folly claim'd its full arrear. It is not needful for our rhyme To tell how long or short the time Which the vain Spendthrift Genius thought Was fit to bring their schemes to nought. All we shall say is, with the song, "The days of pleasure ne'er are long." And, if to proverbs we resort, "The days of sorrow ne'er are short." And here it is but truth to tell, That our QUAE GENUS acted well. For never, as his duty call'd, When home affairs were so enthrall'd, That ere the Winter months would end There would be no more coin to spend, Nor credit found to give the swing To gay manoeuvres through the Spring, He did not from his master's ears Conceal the state of his affairs; And though, too oft receiv'd with scorn, Gave hints, but still they fail'd to warn. --At length, howe'er, the period came From fashion's list to blot their name; When it was vain for pride to look In the card-rack or porter's book, While the old guard might sit and snore, But rarely summon'd to the door; That door, of late, so seldom quiet From lounging call or pleasure's riot, Unless it, with less noisy stir, Announc'd some threat'ning visiter. --Encreasing wants began to press, And all things threaten'd that distress Which vanity knows not to bear, } That pride contemplates with despair, } Yet spurns regenerating care; } And a pale demon seems to see In form of sage oeconomy. The scene thus drawing to a close, } Friends, aye, and faithful ones arose, } With their best aid to interpose, } And VALCOUR found, when least expected, That falling he was not neglected. For he was lov'd by all who knew The virtues whence his follies grew; And some of these so active were As to preserve him from the snare Of Us'rer's gripe and Lawyer's strife, That seem'd to threat his future life. They did with counsel sage persuade And brought the ready, golden aid, Which check'd the powers that did enslave him, Before it was too late to save him. The well-weigh'd scheme which prudence chose Was rather an unsav'ry dose: Madam, at first, declar'd it treason; But humbled pride was taught to reason. Enough was spar'd to share the dance And gay festivities of France; With promise, when five years were o'er, They should regain the British shore; And, on repassing _Woodlands_ gate, Would find a noble, freed estate; And, from their follies past remov'd, Reside respected and belov'd. Now, all this serious bustle over, They sought, and soon set sail from, Dover, And, in the common period, found Their footsteps meas'ring Gallic ground. QUAE GENUS saw them to the sea, Then gave a look of sympathy, And, with respectful rev'rence said, "When you again Old England tread, To re-enjoy my happy station I will quit any situation, And I dare boast you will receive me, As true and faithful as you leave me!" --To France he was not quite inclin'd, And MOLLY chose to stay behind; So both brush'd up their sep'rate graces, To go in search of _other places_.-- For, 'twas not yet our Hero's plan To set up for a GENTLEMAN. In the world's ever varying range There scarce can be a greater change Than from the hourly means of carving Without reserve, to hints of starving; From the men-cooks' superior waste To fireless kitchen's cold repast; From ham and fowl and beef and veal, To a lean shoulder's third day meal, From well-skimm'd broths, to greasy pot,-- But this was now our Hero's lot: And here, perhaps, it may be fair To ask what chance could bring him there; For expectation sure might think That he would rather soar than sink, At least, he would his rank maintain Among High-Life's domestic train, And still display the priggish air, In some fine street or splendid square, Instead of opening the door In _Humbug-Buildings_, Number FOUR; Well known, as we shall shortly see, For weighty scenes of Usury. --How he this curious post obtain'd, Without reserve will be explain'd. My Lady VALCOUR, as 'tis known To hap sometimes to Dames of Ton, When sudden wants were set on edge Might look a precious stone to pledge, To raise a hasty sum or so She did not wish Sir CHARLES to know; For little systems of disguise } Are seldom seen to cause surprise } In the best order'd families. } MOLLY she fail'd not to employ In care of any glittering toy, Which might so very useful be In moments of necessity: But this strange, awkward kind of trade Was far from pleasant to the maid, As she, to 'scape from prying eyes Was told to change her air and size, And, to perform her work complete, To be a perfect counterfeit: In short, as was not uncommon, To make herself another woman. She therefore, thought it best to ask QUAE GENUS to perform the task; And old John SQUEEZE was recommended, Who kindly to such wants attended: Though some who lov'd a joke to crack, Would laugh, and call him _Squeezing JACK_. In a snug corner of the town, To nameless spendthrifts too well known, The miser liv'd, if life it be Whose meat and drink was usury; For the old Hunx was ne'er content, Unless he gain'd his _Cent. per Cent._; And as all traffic with this Elf Was secret interchange of pelf, He fear'd not the rapacious paw Of daily violated law.-- Diamonds that did 'mong ringlets blaze, And caught the night's admiring gaze; The necklace that from snowy neck Did in its cluster'd fashions break On swelling bosom, plac'd to share The beauty nature planted there; The rows of pearl that gave a charm To the round grace of taper arm: The bright drops which each sister ear Does with an equal splendour bear; And dazzling circles that are seen Of rubies red, of em'ralds green, And sapphires blue, whose blended rays The rainbow to the hand conveys, All these, at times, are forc'd to rest Within the miser's gloomy chest: In iron darkness there to wait A longer or a shorter date, Till gold's redeeming power shall say, Come and re-brighten on the day. On errands of this grave intent, QUAE GENUS now and then was sent, And how he did his plans arrange, Or in what shape place the exchange; How he contriv'd these sly affairs, Paid soon, or lengthen'd the arrears, Of this we know not more nor less, } For we ne'er heard his tongue confess, } And 'twould be wasting time to guess. } But, somehow, he contriv'd to please, By grace or guile, old Master SQUEEZE, And by some strange, peculiar art, He gain'd upon the Us'rer's heart, If an heart such a being owns, Who chuckles when misfortune moans, At least, when that is understood To be a vessel fraught with good. But to proceed, the mind's keen eye Of _Squeezing Jack_, thought he could spy In our QUAE GENUS that quick sense, Which might reward his confidence; That wary, penetrating thought, Which could not be too dearly bought, And in his present, sickly trim, Would be of golden use to him: For he grew old and wanted aid, In his nice calculating trade. In short, in every point of view, } As one who certain fancies knew, } The old man felt that he would do, } And that he could his interest make A station at the desk to take. Not the first time on business bent, } Though 'twas the last by MOLLY sent, } Our Hero to the office went, } With his redeeming coin to pay And fav'rite gems to bear away, He was desir'd to give an ear To the proposal he should hear, When _Squeezing John_ in cautious strain Did thus his secret wish explain. "--From what I know and all I see, You soon will be at liberty, The gentry to whom you belong Will not require your service long; And 'twould be well were you to take The offer which I now shall make: That is, as you already see, To come, my friend, and live with me. I hope no thought your mind engages, About such petty things as wages, I would not wish you to receive What common spendthrift masters give; I exercise a better way All such as serve me well to pay: Your bed and board will lib'ral be, } For you will live as well as me, } Such is my home oeconomy. } As for the service you will find Its profits fully to your mind; If you my interests understand, Your own will follow hand in hand; Nay, I my promise shall maintain, That you a pretty fortune gain. All I ask is, that you will be The pattern of fidelity, Which my observing eye has seen To others you have lately been; I have, my friend, but one word more, And then my speechifying's o'er: 'Twill answer ev'ry purpose better And I shall hold myself your debtor, For reasons you shall plainly see, If you will wear your livery, For that can never be disgrace Which soon will gain superior place." QUAE GENUS thought he could but try, If but from curiosity, Though some have said that then he view'd The future freaks that he pursued. Thus at the desk he soon was seated To learn how folly could be cheated, And to consent to play the rogue With any spendthrift vice in vogue, That did in pleasure's round perplex In any form, in either sex. The gains were great, nay almost certain, While pride so slyly drew the curtain, Indeed, it was so nicely clos'd, That the rich schemes were ne'er expos'd. --At first, a kind of gen'rous feeling, A sense of honourable dealing, Dispos'd him, with some doubts, to look Into the Broker's daily book, While he oft dipp'd his pen and thought, Ere he the huge per-centage wrote: Nay, he could pity the distress Which did upon their bosoms press, When, thus to pay for ill-bought pleasure, They yielded up their gayest treasure. --But then he mutter'd, "Where's the shame? Others, like us, would do the same: If we were now to shut up shop, Others into the place would pop; Extravagance would have its run And fools speed on to be undone. And their sad wants would be supplied, } If _John_ had laid his schemes aside, } Or had turn'd Methodist and died." } Thus interest to our Hero clung To stifle sense of right and wrong; And so at once he bade adieu To Conscience for a year or two: But, when attain'd the wish'd for store, It should resume its former power. Thus, at the opening of his trade, He a most curious bargain made With the Divinity within, To help him on through thick and thin. But now, a Fair One will appear, About her four-and-twentieth year; Though, whatsoe'er may be her age, She must be brought upon the stage, Blooming and gay and form'd to please, By the old man was call'd his niece, And, though there were some doubts we know, It turn'd out she was truly so. All saw that he was fond of Miss, Would often give and take a kiss, And even with his money part, To purchase smiles and make her smart. Abroad she was not us'd to roam But Novels read and stay'd at home. The pantry's boon, so lean and spare, Was forc'd on her unwilling care; For when Old Avarice complain'd Of the great cost his life sustain'd, He ne'er forgot, 'mong human ills, The baker's and the butcher's bills: But 'twas her interest to be The slave of his oeconomy. --An errand-man and one poor maid, Were all who gave the household aid: They were to am'rous purpose bent So fed on love and were content; And as QUAE GENUS touch'd the _Money_, Which was his fount of _Milk_ and _Honey_; His easy stomach never car'd How lean the joint on which he far'd. --It was his interest to agree, In all things with Miss EMILY, As she could humour Uncle SQUEEZE, And now and then possess the keys: Nor could she shape her main design Unless QUAE GENUS would combine The hobbling _Old One_ to deceive, And let in _Friends_ without his leave. She gave him physic, tuck'd his bed, The pillow smooth'd to rest his head; Then all around the curtains drew, And having spoke the night's adieu, Would gaily hasten down below To smile upon the favour'd beau Whom her commanding Billet-doux Had summon'd to an interview. From Uncle JOHN's great hoard of wealth, And the old man's declining health, 'Twas thought she soon would be a prize Which smart young men might idolize; That a great fortune Miss would be From heirdom or by legacy: While lovers, therefore, not a few, Had pass'd before her in review, Her kind warm heart might not disown That she had fix'd her thoughts on one; And he it was who had the power To share with her an evening hour. But to the point, which even love Could not from her keen thoughts remove: The Lady did not long delay Thus the prime secret to convey, "I have a precious plan, QUAE GENUS, And if 'tis manag'd well between us, We may, as I know how, contrive, To make our mutual int'rests thrive. I have already something done, As you will hear, for _Number ONE_, And there's another scheme will do, As you will know, for _Number TWO_. My uncle's wealth is that of _Croesus_, But how he'll leave it, Heaven bless us, I know not, nay, the trembling elf, May not as yet be sure himself; Though he, perhaps, may leave the whole To Charity, to save his soul.-- Some folk have thought to make a will, Is signal given for Death to kill, But should he an intestate, die, The long expecting family, Will feed the greedy, gaping maw, Of griping, grinding, hungry Law. For though I am the next of kin, Such various claimants will rush in, Such troops of distant, country cousins, Will haste by scores, at least by dozens; So many Lawyers may appear, To promise each an ample share, That in what way these things may end, If fortune be my foe or friend, I wish, by all means, to ensure Some independent sinecure, And as you must the labour bear, You will a just advantage share. But not an atom of his wealth Must we attempt to take by stealth, No, though we could this night convey, As a sure, undiscover'd prey, His iron chest with all the gold And brilliant treasure it may hold. I only ask my views to aid But a small portion of his trade, And while above his riches flow, We may make mod'rate gains below, And what of that by us is done, Must be from funds which are our own." --The parties were at once agreed, And the scheme fail'd not to succeed: Nay, had stern fate the stroke delay'd, A decent fortune they had made; But as it was, their transient gain Gave them no reason to complain. --Now, ere twelve months or more were past, JOHN SQUEEZE, alas! had breath'd his last; And though they search'd the mansion round, A Will was no where to be found; And relatives in numbers came, Their rights to prove, their shares to claim; While the shrewd Miss AMELIA SQUEEZE Lock'd ev'ry box and kept the keys. --With angry threats the house resounded, It was confusion worse confounded; While she secure in prudent savings, Calmly beheld their idle ravings, As different ways they did pursue, Which diff'rent Lawyers bade them do. --And here we cannot overlook The wary way the lady took. Her favourite swain, it must be known, A Pleader was of some renown; To whom this offer she propos'd, With which the learned Lawyer clos'd. "If of the wealth of Old JOHN SQUEEZE, Of whom you know I am the Niece, You prove me to be lawful Heir, My charms and fortune you shall share." --Thus she was left amid the paws With chance that when ten years were past, A husband she might get at last. --Not as such union often ends, She and QUAE GENUS parted friends: But ere Old SQUEEZE'EM was dispos'd, Ere the cold marble o'er him clos'd, Our Hero had a gracious tender From _JACOB LEVI, Money-Lender_. He, having had some kind of feeling With JOHN in his usurious dealing, Observ'd QUAE GENUS, who had been Just such an useful go-between, As would find favour in the sight Of the keen, cautious Israelite, Who, therefore, with inviting grace, Offered him his vacant place. The proverb says it is a curse To go at once from bad to worse, And though, at first, he did not feel it, Time was determin'd to reveal it. --Of late, or more or less, 'tis true, Distress was in his frequent view, But then in its prevailing feature, It was but of a transient nature. A proud man for a whole week's date Might cease, perhaps, to eat off plate, Still, Dresden service could supply A varying scene of luxury: Or vanity might not resort To aid the splendour of a Court, From absent state of decoration, Required by certain rank and station: But, for a time, well-fram'd excuses Custom or fashion ne'er refuses; When soon again the plate is seen, The silver-smith has made it clean, And in a week, or month, or so, It will resume its usual show. Again the glitt'ring gems display At the gay Fete the dazzling ray, On having done the appointed duty To ease the wants of pride and beauty. But now another scene succeeds, } The pledge is turn'd from glitt'ring beads } To mortgages and title-deeds; } The short-liv'd search of ready-rhino By imps of Loo or of Cassino; Or to stop short a lawyer's threats, And dunning for a tradesman's debts; These yield to frightful views of ruin, Which threaten absolute undoing; That grasp at family estates Of honour'd name and ancient dates, And hasten on the heirs in fee To gallop fast to beggary. QUAE GENUS, was brimful of zeal To seize each turn of Fortune's wheel, And eager to fulfil his plan Of rising to a gentleman: But though gold roll'd beneath his eye, Though fees were paid and bribes were high, His heart, which had not lost its feeling, Shrunk from the base, remorseless dealing, That gloating avarice employ'd O'er the rich ruins it enjoy'd. While, therefore, some kind, gen'rous sense His heart felt of benevolence, And ere of honour quite bereft, He the rapacious LEVI left, In hope he might obtain a place He should not think as a disgrace; Nor of success had he to fear From VALCOUR'S written character; Where all his virtues were pourtray'd, In such a view that he was made In every domestic sense A paragon of excellence. But sad to tell, it was not long Before temptations, more than strong, Were urg'd by a kind, zealous friend, Who us'd on bus'ness to attend Old LEVI'S Levees: He display'd In artful whisper, the sure trade, Which, manag'd as he could define, Would shortly prove a golden mine. "Think not," he said, "that I am canting; Money, my friend, is all that's wanting. A certain sum could I command, I soon would purchase house and land. Ere a short time had onward run, I would strut forth a BUCK OF TON; The world, with its dull pride, defy, And jostle fools of quality." QUAE GENUS felt his brooding plan To be a finish'd GENTLEMAN, At that same word his spirit started, And instantly he grew great hearted. "Your scheme," he said, "at once explain: If gainful, you shall share the gain." "But hear me out," it was replied, "And then you will be satisfied. Know, you must an assistant be At a club's gaming revelry. O check, I pray, your staring eyes, From looking on me with surprise; Let not the scheme I offer freeze you, Hear, and then do as it may please you! Think not I would your hand entice To deal the card or shake the dice; You must employ a knowing friend, And such a one I can commend; He's wary, and suspicion guards, By shrewdly managing his cards; Whate'er he does is done with ease, And heaps his gains by slow degrees, Till he has such a sum attain'd By which his object may be gain'd, Then one successful effort make, And seize a fortune in the stake. He watches those who love to drink, And sticks to such as cannot think: He turns his skilful inclination To young men who are prone to passion; He has cool words for those who're heated, Whose pride will not believe they're cheated; In short, he can a card entice, And fix good-fortune on the dice. With him you may your money trust; He will be generous as he's just: Proceed at once on manly ground And trust him with five hundred pound; With that, my friend, let him alone, He'll use it as it were his own." QUAE GENUS enter'd on his place And acted with becoming grace; But with his keen, suspicious eye He saw what look'd like treachery, Which wak'd the fancy to be thrifty, So, of his pounds he gave but fifty. --On his official duties bound, He pac'd the hubbub-table round, And with attentive leering kenn'd His trusty, confidential friend, Whose frequent nods and silent grinning Full plainly told, he had been winning; But, when QUAE GENUS ask'd th' amount, His friend thus settled the account. "It does my very heart-strings grieve That you have nothing to receive: Two hours ago my luck was crost, And then your fifty pounds were lost; For when with your advance I play'd Fortune became an arrant jade: Though since 'tis true that I have won, But then the risk was all my own; And, if you had but ventur'd more, Your purse might now be running o'er. With a round sum to-morrow night, Fortune may set all matters right: As 'tis in war, so 'tis with gold, She fails not to protect the bold." Our Hero was not such a _Flat_ As to sit down content with that: He first determin'd to resist Or with a cudgel or a fist: But on reflection, felt an awe Of the grim, prosecuting law: Besides, had he enrag'd the room, It might have prov'd his final doom: Still he for vengeance inly cried And he was shortly satisfied. --The _Bow-street_ folk he happ'd to know Were walking that way to and fro, And when more closely on the watch, He mov'd the door's unwilling latch, The myrmidons rush'd rudely in, And all above was noise and din. Candles and lamps were all put out, When it became a mingled rout, While for the money on the table Each grasp'd as much as he was able; And our QUAE GENUS had engross'd More than by _Humbug_ he had lost; Then nimbly made a safe retreat To lodgings in no distant street. Here, for some time he pac'd the room, To dissipate th' oppressive gloom That did upon his spirits light From the proceedings of the night. "Indeed," he said, "what then was done I do not wish to look upon, Nay I would from my mem'ry cast My curious ways for some time past, But certain, busy reasons tell Such effort is impossible. All therefore, that I now can do Is the forthcoming time to woo With those endearments which may prove QUAE GENUS worthy of its love: With that just sense of what is right, That makes the moral lamp burn bright." Such pensive musings on him wrought Till he his welcome pillow sought, When, as absorb'd in sleep he lay, Fancy did on his spirits play, And in a strange and fearful dream A form did on his vision beam, With ghastly look as it were come From the pale confines of the tomb. He seem'd with one uplifted hand Instant attention to command, The other, as he solemn stood, Folded around the flowing shroud; And thus QUAE GENUS seem'd to hear The hollow voice that pierc'd his ear. "I am thy foster-parent's shade, } Who, in the earth, has long been laid, } And let his counsels be obey'd. } 'Tis SYNTAX who before thee stands, And wait with awe his grave commands. Fool as thou art, in thy misdoing Art thou not hast'ning to thy ruin? Am I call'd hither to accuse Thy erring ways, and idle views? Do I the wretched agent see Of gambling fraud and usury? And is it thus you form the plan To vault into a Gentleman? SYNTAX thy memory must own As the sole parent thou hast known, Whose mercy did the Foundling save From menace of an infant's grave. Better, perhaps, his fond regard Had not thy sad condition spar'd, If what of future life may last, Wakes no contrition for the past. Hear me, and tremble as I speak, Though you may human laws escape; The life you lead is not forgiven By the offended laws of Heaven. If such your doings, I can ne'er Petition for your pardon there. The present means which you possess, If rightly us'd, will give success; Nay, if you cease to roam abroad, And turn from folly's wand'ring road; If you keep all things right at home, Much unexpected good may come. QUAE GENUS, to my words attend, The errors of your life amend; Resist the world's seducing power, Or fear me at the midnight hour." --Thus as he thought the vision spake, The curtains round him seem'd to shake; And frowning, as in angry mood, At the bed's foot the figure stood, When, in a misty gleam of light, It seem'd to vanish from his sight. He woke in such an agitation His night-cap stream'd with perspiration; He started with a fearful stare, Not knowing if to pray or swear. He did from further sleep refrain As he perhaps should dream again, And Sommerden's departed Rector Might read another curtain-lecture. But when as through the shutter's crack He saw the beams of Phoebus break, Up he arose, the bell he rung, And, "Breakfast," issued from his tongue: The loud command was soon obey'd, And morning meal in order laid. On sofa stretch'd, he munch'd the toast, And sipp'd the Bohea, doubly dos'd With cordial drops, we won't say gin, Which he pour'd plentifully in, And did his trem'rous nerves redeem } By power of the reviving stream, } From the dire horrors of the dream. } --His spirits thus with strength recruited, He turn'd his mind to what was suited To the condition chance had bound him, And perils which might still surround him: Of his late playmates what became When power broke up the midnight game; And if pursued by any danger, To which as yet he was a stranger. But soon he found, enquiry made, The Bow-street spirits all were laid; Nor was it to the party known, By whom the mischief had been done.-- Thus, from all legal threat secure, He felt determin'd to abjure The course of life he had pursued, Nor suffer knav'ry to delude His conduct into any plan That might disgrace a Gentleman; The character which his fond thought Had to a flatt'ring crisis brought, When he might try, and not in vain, The wish'd for honour to maintain. Besides, in favour of his scheme, He felt the warnings of the dream, As he their meaning understood Foreboded much of future good. At length his boasting fancies tired Of all to which his pride aspired; And, having nothing else to do, He sauntered forth to take a view Of what a saunter might present For serious thought or merriment; When, as he careless stroll'd along, Half-humming some new-fangled song, He heard a voice that did proclaim His own but too familiar name. 'Twas Mr. CARMINE, who was known An artist of the first renown For portraiture of living faces, Whose pencil gave and heighten'd graces, Who, 'mid the hurry of the street, Did sauntering QUAE GENUS greet: When, having sought a place of quiet, Free from the passing, bustling riot, In civil tones the man of art Began his Queries to impart. "Your family, I hope, are well, And will you Lady VALCOUR tell, If it so please her you may come And fetch her fine resemblance home: Nay she may have forgot, I fear, That the last sitting's in arrear: Give but the hint as I demand And you shall feel my grateful hand." --QUAE GENUS hasten'd to reply With the gay VALCOURS' history, And fear'd that, for a year or two, The picture must _in statu quo_ Within his gallery remain, At least, till they came home again. "Well then," said CARMINE, "tell me friend, What fortunes on your steps attend." "Sir," he replied, "'tis Fortune's pleasure I should enjoy a state of leisure. Sir CHARLES, so generous and kind, Wish'd not that I should stay behind, Nay, would have paid me high to go, As I've a paper that will shew: But certain schemes play'd on my brain Which fix'd my purpose to remain, And yet, with all my honest care, I have not brought one scheme to bear." "My friend," the artist said, "if you Have not a better scheme in view, My place, unless I greatly err, Would suit your turn and character 'Tis but to know and to make known The beauties by my pencil shewn, And lard, as you the occasion see, With strokes of modest flattery. Take care you manage well your tongue To please the old as well as young, And study the expressive grace That's seen to beam on any face; When, in fair words and cautious mood You may mark the similitude Between the charms that smiling live, And such as art like mine can give. Nor to the sex your hints confine, The ermin'd sage and grave divine, The chubby face of childhood too Attention must be made to woo, While I shall to your mind impart The nomenclature of my art;-- And if, as I presume you will, Display the show with ready skill, You'll gain, Good Fellow, three-fold wages. --Now turn the offer in your mind, And, if your prudence is inclin'd To take it, you will let me know To-morrow how your wishes flow." What though it was his warm desire From days of service to retire; Though he now hop'd the time drew nigh To change his humble destiny, He ask'd permission of his pride That one more service might be tried, As in the class he hop'd to move It might a source of knowledge prove. --Where could he such examples see As in an artist's gallery? For while he look'd at forms and faces He might learn all the tonish graces, Whatever manners could bestow, } What attitudes were best to show; } In short, all that he sought to know. } For the fine folk who visit there Come deck'd with all becoming care, That the chaste pencil may not err From truth of form and character, Which not alone, while yet they live, The canvas may be proud to give, But offer to the admiring eye Of an unborn posterity! "O," he exclaim'd, "this is the plan, } I all its various merits scan, } 'Tis HALF-WAY to a _Gentleman_!" } --Nay, to be brief, the following day Beheld him all in due array, And soon alert, submissive, smart, } Well vers'd in all the slang of art; } He to perfection play'd his part. } In mildest tone would just express The charms a canvas may possess, Where Loves and Graces seem to smile And do th' enchanted eye beguile. Though still he ne'er forgot his duty To one who might have been a beauty, There he did not throw out his hints Of charming smiles and rosy tints, But to her portrait would refer For force and grace of character. Still his own thoughts ne'er went astray, } He rather told what others say, } What my Lord B. prais'd yesterday. } Thus he contriv'd, it seems, to please CARMINE's fine folk, of all degrees, And what he gain'd, he now might say, He got it in an honest way. From all he did the Artist thought He had a real treasure got; Nor had QUAE GENUS any cause To grumble at domestic laws; For all who serv'd them were content With the well-rang'd establishment. Above, was all that taste could show, And ease and comfort reign'd below; For CARMINE sought not cost to spare, And splendid plenty revell'd there. --O Discretion, what thy powers, To watch o'er life's fantastic hours, To check warm nature's glowing heat When passions in the bosom beat, And whim and fancy's busy train Play their vagaries through the brain! But that comptroller of the will, That sober judge 'tween good and ill, Or from his folly or his pride QUAE GENUS seem'd to throw aside. This was the spot where he might stay, } Where duty was improving play, } Till hope should paint the wish'd-for way. } But whimsies did his wits employ The play-game of an idle boy, For which if, at his earliest school, Thus he had dared to play the fool, He would have felt the smarting fate That does on thoughtless culprit wait. --The easy, morning duties done, The after-day was all his own, When, as it surely may be thought He might have some improvement sought: But no, his genius seem'd to chuse His luckless leisure to amuse, In changing, when brimfull of glee, The system of the Gallery; Would make the pictures change their places, And with his chalk deform their faces, (For, from a boy, whate'er he saw, With a rude outline, he could draw,) Turn down the portraits in their frames, And look and laugh and call them names. Though if no other harm were done, Unknown he might have had his fun: But hence the mischief did ensue, The names he call'd were written too: In short, he turn'd the painter's school Completely into ridicule, And, by a TITLE or a SCROLL, He strove to stigmatize the whole. --He would a _Lawn-rob'd Prelate_ place As if he ogled _Caelia's_ face, Exclaiming "There's no greater bliss, No, not in Heaven, than _Caelia's Kiss_;" While _Caelia_ might be made to say "_Hands off, my pious Lord, I pray! Remember what you ought to feel-- The good book says you must not steal; And steal you will, if you receive it, For hang me, FUSTY, if I give it_." --He then, perhaps, would run his rig, With _Cap and Bells_ on _Judge's Wig_; When thus his fancy might indite, And in a well turn'd label write,-- "_Now should MY LORD be in a fury, And shake that WIG_, he'd fright the JURY_." --The portrait of an AGED DAME Might have this added to her name,-- "_Your Crutch-stick tells you scarce can walk, But still you bore all ears with talk; A most incorrigible Hag, Who nothing but your TONGUE can wag_." --A MARRIED PAIR together plac'd, And with their household emblems grac'd, Though looking in each other's faces, He would remove to sep'rate places, And then contrive to make them say, "_How shall we, Sir, this act repay? Our Home Cabals we now shall smother, At this nice distance from each other; Thus far removed we shall agree,-- 'Tis just as we both wish to be._" --A LORD MAYOR's brow he would adorn With honours of a double Horn; Then from a long scroll make him cry, "_Make room for Cuckolds, here comes I_." --A LAWYER, clad in wig and band, With briefs and papers in his hand, QUAE GENUS would contrive to trace A JANUS with a _Double Face_, And each face with a ready tongue To plead the cause or right or wrong, Exclaiming in both scrolls--"_'Tis We, And waiting for a Double Fee_." Such was his wit, which sometimes told Its thoughts in flashes far too bold: Which the Muse knows would not be meet For her Chaste Spirit to repeat. --Thus when the Monkey's hand had done With this display of idle fun, And in his vacant hour of sense Had triumph'd in Impertinence; He would repair his saucy tricks, The pictures in their places fix, Wipe out the mischief of the chalk And bid the portraits cease to talk; Then with a military air, Aloud command them--"AS YOU WERE."-- --Now it, at least, was once a week, He did this gay amusement seek, When CARMINE'S absence gave the power Thus to pass off his leisure hour, As different faces might present Fresh subjects for his merriment. But those foul imps who oft molest, With awkward thoughts, the human breast, (As the expression's not so civil, We will not hint it is the devil,) Will, as their trade is to deceive, Fast in the lurch their vot'ries leave; And soon QUAE GENUS was betray'd Into the trap his folly laid. One vernal eve, he had o'erflow'd With chalk and chatter ill-bestow'd, When call'd off for we know not what, The unfinish'd mischief was forgot; And in the morning, ere the clout Had duly wip'd his folly out, A party, who from town were going, Came, just to pay what might be owing: At the same time to represent Where all their portraits might be sent. --One _Elder Lady_ rubb'd her eyes, With equal anger and surprize, While she could scarce believe she read, The _Witch_ of _Endor_ o'er her head. --Another, not of younger age, Could not restrain her glowing rage, When _Mother RED CAP_ was the name Which chalk had given to the Dame; And then she scream'd aloud,--"_Forsooth, A Pipe is put into my mouth, Whose nauseous fumes around me fly To stamp me with vulgarity_!" --With them there was a sweet young lady, In beauty's bloom and vernal gay day; Her portrait in all stature stood, With all the grace of attitude, And charms to turn, though not of stone, But she, in all her beauty's pride, A _Wheel-barrow_ was made to guide, While ruby lips were seen to cry, "_Sheep's hearts for those who want to buy_!" The marble urn which stood behind her, Was turn'd into a rude _Knife-Grinder_, And at no very far approach Was seen a passing _Hackney Coach_, While all the lawns and groves so sweet Were scrawl'd into a _London Street_. --Anger in diff'rent tones were heard, And when CARMINE in haste appear'd, Aghast he stood, then vengeance vow'd, Declar'd his innocence--and bow'd; But in a few short minutes prov'd The wicked lines might be remov'd. If water is not just at hand, _Saliva's_ always at command, Which gives the tints a brighter glow, And leaves a kind of varnish too. This, with his handkerchief applied, Soon wip'd the saucy chalk aside. The Dame exclaim'd,--"_Pray look, d'ye see, Still more affronts, my Lady B----: This is the height of all disgrace, The Painter's spitting in my face_." CARMINE, without a word, went on, And when his cleansing skill was shown, When witticisms disappear'd, And each offending line was clear'd, The sudden change appear'd to please, And angry words began to cease. But still he thought he ought to show The threat'ning terms he could bestow. The maids, each answ'ring to her name, Aloud their innocence proclaim: The housekeeper and sturdy cook Propose to swear on HOLY BOOK, They could not do it:--Heaven forbid it! And then they told,--QUAE GENUS _did it_: On which, the solemn Dames insist Such Impudence should be dismiss'd. But though they saw the alter'd show } Restor'd to all its pristine glow, } They let th' astonish'd artist know } Th' insulted portraits should not stay Where they then were another day. Thus porters, order'd to the door, } Away each fine resemblance bore, } That they might be defac'd no more.-- } --The Dames departed in a huff, With _fanning_ cool'd,--consol'd with _snuff_: While Miss, beneath her bonnet's poke, Smil'd as if _she_ enjoy'd the joke. Our Hero now was seen to wait The threat'nings of impending fate: That fate, but in the mildest tone, CARMINE delay'd not to make known. "As you vie with me in my art, 'Tis clear, my friend, that we must part: Your genius is so full of sport That you must go,--I'm sorry for't! Such tricks will bring, as you must see, Disgrace upon the Gallery; Indeed, by your confounded fun, Mischief may be already done! You talk'd of schemes when you came here, But, faith, this scheme may cost me dear. As tricks like these you chuse to play, 'Twere well that you should march away; So go, where, spite of common sense, Your jokes may pass without offence. Few words are best,--my mind to tell: Pack up your Chalk,--and so farewell!" --QUAE GENUS the command obey'd, As pleas'd to go as if he stay'd. Here then his _final Service_ ends:-- But MAN and MASTER parted friends. Life, as a witty Bard has shewn, Who dealt in just comparison, Is but a busy pantomime, Whose actions vary with the time; Where they who turn from side to side, According to the wind and tide, Are more ingenious in their art Than such as act but one grave part; Who, as their years pass onward, seem To glide along one gentle stream. But here we stop not to contend Whether, to answer Life's great end, 'Tis best from place to place to range, Or fix to one, and never change. Suffice it, that, from choice or chance, QUAE GENUS hurried through some dance Of early life, and, as we see, Not knowing what the next would be: But now, disdaining future tricks, He felt a firm resolve to fix Upon a steady, better plan, Of living like a _Gentleman_. Whether he knew to calculate The means required for such a state, The curious eye will shortly see, In his approaching History. BUTLER, the Author of HUDIBRAS. It has been well observ'd by some, "All countries are a wise man's home." As it is said of diff'rent nations, The same is true of various stations Which man is destin'd to fulfil, Or with, or e'en against his will; If Reason happens to provide A steersman who is fit to guide The vessel o'er life's flowing main, And sure at last the port to gain. How much our Hero had amass'd, By ways and means now gone and pass'd, We know not, as we never heard The hoarded sums he had prepar'd; But as he had a sense of craving, And with it, too, a knack of saving, He must have got a heap of Cash, Which, for a time, would make a dash. The _Valcour_ wardrobe almost new, } The gifts of service, laid _perdu_, } Would serve him for a year or two; } And by some _Snip's_ contriving art, Would fit him well and make him smart: But stumbling-blocks were found to lay Before him, and impede his way. Manners and matter he possest, His early life had given the best; And while he as a servant mov'd, His knowledge of the world improv'd: But still his face and form were known In certain quarters of the town, And the first object to his fame Was to discard his present name; For he ne'er did a Father know, The source from whence a name should flow; And by QUAE GENUS nought was meant-- It was a boon by accident, Which he might, if he pleas'd, disuse, And any other title chuse. Through the _Directory_ he waded, Till his poor eyes were sadly jaded; Then in the finer streets he stroll'd Where Names on _Door Plates_ are enroll'd: But then he fear'd a name to own, Which would, perhaps, be too well known, And cause enquiries, that might be The source of some perplexity. Reason, at length, rous'd the intention Of yielding to his own invention, To eke out from the alphabet, A name he never heard of yet; And which his fancy might suggest As one to suit his project best. FREE-BORN he thought would do as well As any other he could tell, When, his right Christian name of JOHN Form'd the becoming union; Then nothing more he could desire Than trim these names with an ESQUIRE; And to let the report be spread, That some rich relative was dead, And 'twas his Fortune and his Fate To get the name and an estate. Should it be ask'd where _that_ might lay, He had prepar'd himself to say, (As if half earnest--half in joke, The smiling answer might be spoke,) "'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere, Or in some country in the air; But should you come to _number three_ In such a street, you there will see How that estate appears to thrive: On _Thursday_ next I dine at _five_." Thus he would find none to suspect him, Or, dinners given, to neglect him. He now to Coffee Houses went, With looks assuming calm content, And such as those are seen to wear, Who easy independence share. At reading-rooms he frequent sat, And read or join'd in social chat; Acquaintance made, no arduous task, Of those he did to dinner ask. In gay apartments then he shone In a good quarter of the town, But distant, as we may conceive, From where his masters us'd to live. _Miss Emily_, the blooming niece } Who made some figure in the piece, } And, at no very distant page, Was seen to figure on the stage; The Lady all her points had carried, Was rich, and had the _Pleader_ married; Had chang'd her uncle's name of _Squeeze'em_ To her shrewd husband's, Lawyer _Seize'em_: Who, by his cunning and his skill, Had brought all contests to her will, When he had got his promis'd fee To her, with smiles of gay content, The _'Squire_ his eager footsteps bent, And did in lofty tone proclaim His change of fortune as of name; And told her it would be his pride, At a small Fete would she preside, Which he propos'd in style to give, Where he would all her friends receive; For this was now the only way He had to make his party gay: And the first flourish of his plan To figure as a _Gentleman_. --She smil'd and said she'd bring him plenty, Then ask'd at once his cards for twenty. --The fete was given,--the dance, the song, And feasting did the night prolong, Which pleasure gave to full two score, Whom he had never seen before;-- But, his great object to maintain, These he must strive to see again; At all their doors his cards present, And thus, by various compliment, To form a circle of such friends As would secure his serious ends, In social ease to pass the day, And often find an evening gay. --But _'Squire Free-born_ quickly found He did not tread on solid ground, And 'gan to fear he should not see The way to that society, Which forms of life the happiest measure: By mutual interchange of pleasure. --'Twas but slight chat if he should meet His new acquaintance in the street; He seldom found, or more or less, But gen'ral forms of _politesse_, And that, too often, at the best, Was but in flimsy style exprest. --Ladies would ask him to the play, To take his arm and let him pay; And when to cards, he always lost More than the wine and biscuits cost. He found, as yet, but little done-- 'Twas neither common sense nor fun, Where kind regard would ne'er encrease, And int'rest wak'd the wish to please; Where words were either cold or hearty, As he propos'd to give a party; And a good supper was the charm That did to transient friendship warm, For that, alas, no longer lasted, Than while they thought on what they tasted. _'Squire Free-born_ soon began to feel A relaxation in his zeal To push away that class among Who did his evening parties throng, From whom no fair return was made, And mod'rate fashion was display'd. Manners were ap'd, but in a way That did vulgarity betray; And the best show that he might see, Was dash of awkward finery:-- Besides, a rude and rough event Gave spirit to his discontent. --He call'd, one day, where, on admission, The parties were in sad condition; It was a scene of mutual flame, 'Tween _Start-up_ and his lovely dame. He was a clerk on public duty, And she a most conceited beauty: When, as he enter'd, her sharp tongue Began in tones both harsh and strong,-- "_Pray, FREE-BORN, do you think it breeding, That he should thus be always reading?_ _When he does from his office come 'Tis thus he sits hum-drum at home, As if he thought so low my wit I'm not for conversation fit; Nor does he seem to rate me higher Than to trace figures in the fire!" --"Call you, hum-drum, that information So suited to official station_," He sternly said, "_which now engages Attention to these curious pages_!" --"_My mind_," she cried, "_was in the dark When I was married to a Clerk:-- O had I join'd a fool instead Of one to office breeding bred! He, who in honour should protect me, You see, Sir, how he dares neglect me!_" --In terms polite to praise and blame, _Free-born_ now hop'd to quench the flame, And therefore offer'd, nothing loth, To give a little spice of both. "Madam, by persons of discerning, My friend is known for store of learning; While you are bless'd with those rare charms, A Prince might wish to fill his arms." He gently smil'd and so did she, At this same two-fold flattery, Which, in a moment, seem'd to smother The flames of anger 'gainst each other: He therefore ventur'd to proceed, But did not now so well succeed. "You ask me to unfold my thought, Which is with truth and friendship fraught. We all well know, in life's great stake, There's such a Rule as _give and take_; A maxim, with your good in view, I recommend to both of you. On this, for peace, fix your reliance, And learn to practise kind compliance. If he is haughty, soothe his pride, Nor with disdainful glances chide. When you are angry, he must chase } All frownings from that lovely face, } With tender words and soft embrace. } Both of you now are in the wrong, _He_ with his BOOK,--_you_ with your TONGUE." But, ere he could his speech conclude, With scornful look and accents rude, Again the furious Dame began:-- Thus, 'gainst his betters, to let loose His vulgar tongue in such abuse. My husband to be thus belied, Who is my love, my boast, my pride!_" When _Start-up_ foam'd,--"_You risk your life, In treating thus my darling wife; Who, I proclaim, as 'tis my duty, Has charms superior to her beauty!_" Then each gave each a warm embrace, And both star'd in poor _Free-born's_ face, The one as if _he_ wish'd to beat him, The other as if _she_ could have eat him. He then, as suiting her desire, Threw the base volume in the fire, When she----"_Thus ends a petty fuss Which may cross those who love like us; Though I might wish it had not been By such a saucy booby seen_." --_Free-born_, but not from sense of fear, Now thought it best to disappear; And as they rang the clam'rous bell, He heard them both the servant tell-- "Discharg'd you shall be, if the door Is open'd to that varlet more." --Such vulgar threat the _'Squire_ amus'd, For he no more would be refus'd By those whose silly actions prove That they could scold, and lie, and love: But still he rather felt the wrongs Which had proceeded from the tongues Of those who had no fair pretence At what he said to take offence: A pretty way to make amends For having treated them as friends; In short, he thought it best to fly His late acquir'd society: Pert Lawyers and such busy men As in some office wield the pen; Who, when their daily labour's done, Put their best coats and faces on; Leave home, where tallow dimly lights 'em, For wax, when some dull fool invites 'em, The plenteous evening to prolong In lively glee or tender song, Or in some funny tale to shine, And give a current to the wine. There, too, their wives and sisters flow, } Gay, scanty finery to show, } In gawdy trim and furbelow; } Who can, perhaps, the music play, And scream the carol of the day; Nay, work a waltz, while staring eyes Proclaim their gentle ecstasies. At length the shawls and wrappers come, When in their hacks they trundle home. --Though, after all, whate'er his aim, Whate'er his fancy chose to claim, 'Twas not amiss;--this _first degree_ In what is call'd society, Where step by step he must advance To higher place in fashion's dance: But with the folk, he 'gan to find, Who din'd with him, he never din'd, And got no more than casual tea For what his guests thought luxury; And, in a snug, familiar way, For all they gave, they made him pay. Besides, he sometimes felt offence, At what he thought impertinence: Such as they were, both great and small, He cut acquaintance with them all. His purse had thus indulg'd his whim, But they ne'er heard again from him. He now suspected that his plan, Of turning to a _Gentleman_, Was not so easy to be brought To such success as he had thought. But still he ventur'd to turn over New plans by which he might discover Some means to realize his scheme, } But it, at times, began to seem } Somewhat, indeed, too like a dream. } To thinking minds it is not strange That man is seen so soon to change, And, when he gets on random chace, To move so quick from place to place. If no fix'd principles he trust Which Reason says are true and just, The busy world will not restrain him, Nor in one beaten path maintain him. Now here, now there, he is as oft Seen to sink low as rise aloft. As he moves on, how he will vary From sober thought to gay vagary; Nay, seem the tempers to unite Of Dons 'bout whom historians write; The one whose name our laughter cheers, And he who pass'd his time in tears. What wonder then that we should see In _Free-born_, that variety, Which, in his disappointed mind, Nature may bid us look and find: Though he must guess profoundly well, Who could th' approaching change foretell. He long since felt it as a folly To think again on _pretty Molly_, But when his project seem'd to fail, Her image did again prevail; And humbler views began to find A passage to his wav'ring mind. Instead of striving to pursue What he now fear'd would never do, He fancied that a tender wife Might give a charm to rural life. _Molly_ he fear'd not he could move To bless a home with married Love, And that a cottage might be found, With garden green and meadow ground; Where he might form his fragrant bowers, And deck the pretty lawn with flowers; Beneath a beech-tree read his book, } And sometimes angle in the brook: } Nay, even wield a shepherd's crook. } Money he had, and so had she, And, with a due economy, Far from the noisy world remov'd, And by each other fondly lov'd, They might pass on in plenteous ease, And lead a life of smiling peace. He slept, and, in a dream, he swore, } He saw his _Parent-Friend_, once more-- } Not looking as he did before, } But all so smirking, blithe and gay; When, sitting on a cock of hay, The prong and rake he seem'd to wield, As he were master of the field: He spoke not, but he seem'd to speak,-- "_This is the life, boy, you must seek_." --Such was another strong emotion To aid the new, romantic notion, And think of nought but Cottage Life, With pretty MOLLY for his Wife. He turn'd this over in his mind, And ev'ry hour felt more inclin'd To take the Maiden by surprize, And this fond dream to realize. Sweet MOLLY now was gone from town As waiting-maid to _Lady Brown_, Who lives a portion of the year At her fine place in Devonshire; Nor did _fond Corydon_ delay To write his mind another day: While, to amuse th' impatient hours, He fill'd his room with shrubs and flowers: Branching _Geraniums_ were seen To make his ev'ry window green, And something like a picture wear Of future scenery he might share. Our time does like our watches go Sometimes too fast,--sometimes too slow; But to the _'Squire_, for he was still A _'Squire_, though now against his will, As if his feet were hung with lead; But he went on:--An answer came, Sign'd MOLLY, with no other name! He thought it odd, but did not wait To make it matter of debate, So quick his hurry to be shown The passion which the page would own. He read,--"_I've heard, bless Heav'n, my friend! } (With thanks for what you might intend,) } Your serving days are at an end: } Thus I believ'd, and find it true, I could no longer think of you. It seems to be your prosp'rous fate To come into a great estate; And so I thought it Heaven's decree, You ought no more to think of me. Besides, as you have never wrote, I fancied Molly was forgot; When soon a tender lover came, A learned man, of preaching fame; He press'd me,--I was not obdurate, And so, I'm married to a CURATE! The match my Lady much approv'd, And my good Husband's so belov'd, Our kind SIR JOHN has given his word That he shall shortly be preferr'd._ Poor _Corydon_ could read no more, } But, in a rage the letter tore, } And kick'd the fragments round the floor: } Toss'd some things up, and some things down, Curs'd both the _Country_ and the _Town_; With pots and pans did battle rage-- Drove the geraniums from the stage, And wish'd no object now to see _Of ruralized felicity_. The country letter turn'd the tide To rush upon his wounded pride: At once he thought it more than folly Thus to have offer'd love to _Molly_. Nay, he began to smile at length; And, to regain becoming strength, He took to the well-known resort Of season'd dish and good _Old Port_: When as he sat, with uplift eyes, } And, thro' the window, view'd the skies, } He ventur'd to soliloquize. } "My _genteel folk_ I have declin'd, At least, the sort which I could find; And just as much dispos'd to sneeze But still I've got a heap of _Cash_, And, while it lasts, will make a _Dash_! But here one firm resolve I make,-- _I never will my Elbow shake_; And if I take care not to _play_, } I shall get something for my pay: } It will not _all_ be thrown away! } Who knows what CUPID, too, may do? For I may _win_ if I should _woo_; And e'en, in spite of this same _Hump_, _Fortune_ may turn me up a trump. --My standard now shall be unfurl'd, And I will rush into the world: Nay, when I have the world enjoy'd, With emptied purse and spirits cloy'd, I then can trip it o'er the main: VALCOUR will take me back again; Once more his humble friend receive, With all the welcome he can give: We know not what from ill may screen us, And I, once more, shall be QUAE GENUS." --He spoke, and seem'd to close his plan Of keeping up the _Gentleman_. The Sun had sunk beneath the west, To go to bed and take his rest, As Poets feign, in THETIS lap, Where he ne'er fails to have a nap; When, with his second bottle rallied, Our Hero rose, and out he sallied In search of any lively fun, That he, perchance, might hit upon. --As through a court he chanc'd to pass, He saw a gay, well-figur'd lass, Who, in her floating fripp'ry shone, With all the trim of fashion on. She had descended from a coach, And did a certain door approach, With tripping step and eager haste, When soon th' illumin'd arch she pass'd: And still he saw, in height of feather, Small parties enter there together, While jovial gentlemen appear'd, Who, as they came, each other cheer'd. --He asked, where these fine Ladies went? The watchman said,--"For merriment; And should a little dancing fit you, A crown, your honour, will admit you." --The 'Squire then rapp'd, the door was op'd, He gave his coin, and in he popp'd: The music sounded in the hall, And smiling faces grac'd the ball, Where, as he lov'd a merry trip With some _gay Miss_ he chose to skip, But as they _Waltz'd_ it round in pairs A noise was heard upon the stairs, And strait a magistrate appear'd With solemn aspect; while, uprear'd, Official staves in order stand, To wait the laws' so rude command. --Sad hurry and confusion wait On this their unexpected state; When there broke forth, as it might seem, From snow-white throats, a fearful scream; Nor, to add horror, was there wanting Some strong appearances of fainting: But Justice, with its iron brow Unfeeling scowl'd on all the show. In shriller tones the ladies cried, In diff'rent key the beaux replied, Though some consoling bev'rage quaff, Give a smart twirl, nor fear to laugh: While coarser voices,--"hold your tongue, Pack up your alls and come along." Then, of fair culprits full a score, And of their dancing partners more, Beneath stern power's relentless rod, Were rang'd, and order'd off to QUOD. They march'd away in long procession To take the fruits of their transgression:-- Staffmen did at their head appear, And watchmen lighted up the rear. Our Hero felt the ridicule Of having idly play'd the fool, And, as he handed on his _Belle_, He could not but compare the smell That rotten root and trodden leaf Do to th' offended senses give Of those who, by the lamp's pale light, Through Covent-Garden stroll at night, With all the garlands which he weav'd Ere Molly's letter was receiv'd: And all the fragrance of the flowers He thought to cull in Molly's bowers; Nay, which, but the preceding morning, His promis'd hopes had been adorning. It was indeed a noisome change, O it was strange, 'twas passing strange! But still the watch-house made amends, Such as they were, they gave him friends. Which here, I'm not suppos'd to think Were such as save from ruin's brink; But lively sprites who have a taste To hurry on the stream to waste. Thus, when the welcome morn was come, And Justice sent the party home; He and two blades of certain feather Propos'd to pass the day together: The one, more grave, declar'd his breed, Famous on t'other side the _Tweed_, The other lively, brisk and airy, Boasted his birth in _Tipperary_; Though whether this were truly so, 'Tis from their words alone we know: But they were easy, free and jolly, Decided foes to melancholy, And seem'd well-form'd to aid a day In passing pleasantly away. --But first the TRIO thought it best To snatch some hours' refreshing rest, When, as it was in Summer's pride, } They pass'd their jovial hours beside } The crystal _Thames_ imperial tide; } And as the river roll'd along, Made the banks echo with their song. --At length it was a rival jest Who of the three could sing the best. --The sturdy Scot the song began, And thus th' harmonious contest ran. WALLACE, who fought and bled, he sung, Whose name dwells on a nation's tongue. The 'SQUIRE, in boist'rous tone declar'd, And neither lungs nor quavering spar'd, That Britain triumph'd o'er the waves And Britons never would be slaves. Then ERIN'S SON, with sweeter voice, Exclaim'd, "I'll make you both rejoice; O with a famous song I'll treat you, And then you both shall say I've beat you Your verses are old-fashion'd prosing, My song is of my own composing; And though 'tis to lov'd ERIN'S fame, To all three Kingdoms 'tis the same." The hearers both politely bow'd, } When he, of his fam'd subject proud, } Pour'd forth his accents deep and loud. } QUAE GENUS committed, with a riotous dancing Party, to the It has long been agreed by all persons of learning Who in stories of old have a ready discerning, That in every country which travellers paint, There has always been found a protector or saint. Derry down, etc. St. George for Old England, with target and lance, St. David o'er Wales, so long known to preside, And St. Patrick, Hibernia's patron and pride. Derry down, etc. He was gallant and brave as a saint ought to be, For St. George was not braver or better than he, He would drink and would sing and would rattle like thunder, Though 'twas said, he was, now and then given to blunder. Derry down, etc. But the jests of his friends he took in good part, For his blunders were nought but th' excess of his heart; Though there was but one blunder he ever would own, And that was when he saw all the claret was gone. Derry down, etc. He'd fight for his country's religion and laws, And when beauty was injur'd he took up the cause, For the gallant St. Patrick, as ev'ry one knows, Was fond of a pretty girl under the rose. Derry down, etc So many his virtues, it would be too long To rehearse them at once in a ballad or song; Then with laughter and mirth let us hallow his shrine, And drown all his Bulls in a bumper of wine. Derry down, etc. Then St. _Patrick_, St. _George_ and St. _Andrew_ shall be The Protectors of Kingdoms so brave and so free: Thus in vain will the thunders of _Denis_ be hurl'd, For our _Trio of Saints_ shall give laws to the world. Derry down, etc. Hard went the hands upon the board, And ERIN'S praises were _encor'd_. Thus when the pleasant song was heard, HIBERNIA'S minstrel was preferr'd; Nor from the voice or in the eye Was there a hint of jealousy: Nay, while they took their parting glass, These sentiments were heard to pass. May challenge all the world at blows: _English_ and _Irish_ names are known,-- There's _Marlborough_ and _Wellington_; And O, what men of glorious name Do _Scotia's_ annals give to Fame!" QUAE GENUS engaged with jovial Friends: Or ... Who sings best?] With friends like these the 'Squire began His new career, and thus it ran, With others whom he chanc'd to light on In trips to _Tunbridge_ or to _Brighton_, SWELLS at most public places known And as gay triflers 'bout the town; Who might, perhaps, at times resort To _Billiard-rooms_ or _Tennis-court_, Where lively grace, and easy skill Might flatter Fortune to their will. _Freeborn_ these gay companions sought, Who soon their brisk disciple taught How to direct his lively course By the snug compass in his purse; In short, who tutor'd his quick sense } In the gay world to make pretence } By modest, well-dress'd impudence. } --Ye _Dandies_, _Bucks_ or by what name _Bond Street_ re-echoes with your fame; In five-cap'd coats you bang at random, With such nice skill that you may break Your own, or _Dulcinea's_ neck: Or, when lock'd arm in arm you meet, From the plain causeway to the street, Drive Ladies in their morning walk, While you enjoy your lounging talk: Then saunter off to pass your hours In roving through those gaudy bowers Where purchas'd pleasure seems design'd To occupy the thoughtless mind: And, having idled through the day, } To quicken dull night's weary way, } You seek the mask, the dance or play;-- } With you our Hero did contrive To keep himself and time alive; But now and then too prone to trace Those scrapes that border on disgrace, And threat the unreflecting plan Of the best would-be Gentleman! From such as these he was not free, } As we, I fear, shall shortly see, } In this so busy history. } --To him no social life was known, His home, his friends were through the town Who were seen wand'ring here and there, Caring for no one, no one's care; Prepared no pleasures to receive But coin could buy or chance might give; And would prove lively or were dull, As the silk purse was drain'd or full. For though deck'd out with all the art That Fashion's journeymen impart, They never pass'd the tonish wicket Of High-life, but by purchas'd ticket Obtain'd by the resistless bribe To Traitors of the livried tribe, Which, by some bold disguise to aid, Might help them through a masquerade; Or, with some sly, well-fram'd pretence And varnish'd o'er with impudence, A proud admittance might obtain With chance to be turn'd out again: Nor was the luckless _Freeborn_ spar'd, When he the saucy trial dar'd. --One night, the hour we need not tell, Into a trap the coxcomb fell. As through the streets he rattled on Lamps with inviting brilliance shone; The music's sound, the portal's din Told 'twas a joyous scene within: The second bottle of the night, Might have produced a double sight, And two-fold courage to pursue The splendid prospect in his view, He, therefore bade the Hack approach, And at the door present the coach; Then made a push, got through the hall, And quickly mingled with the ball. --Whether his face was too well known Among the dashers of the town, Who do not an admittance gain Among the more distinguish'd train, Whose social habits will exclude The mere street-trampling multitude, Who, like the insects of a day, Make a short buzz and pass away: Or whether the intruding sinner Eat as he seem'd to want a dinner; Or if it did his fancy suit To line his pocket with the fruit; Or if he let some signal fly, Not usual in such company, Or if his spirits were so loud As to alarm the polish'd crowd; Whatever was the Spell that bound him, Suspicion more than hover'd round him; For, he replied with silent stare, } As he was taken unaware, } When he was ask'd how he came there. } Nor did he show a visage bold When, in a whisper, he was told, But still with steady look express'd By the stern Master of the feast, If he wish'd not to play a farce To make his pretty figure scarce. --That such a part he might not play } Which menac'd e'en the least delay, } He thought it best to glide away; } And, to avoid the threat'ning rout, As he push'd in, he darted out. A tonish Matron who ne'er fail'd Where she was ask'd and cards prevail'd, My Lady Dangle was her name, And 'twas the fancy of the dame Still to retain the antique plan At night to dance in a _Sedan Sedans_, so known the fair to coop, When clad in the expanding hoop, Snug chairs borne on by sturdy feet, Once seen in ev'ry courtly street; And one a most uncommon sight, Was waiting at the door to-night; Which, in all due array, was come, To bear my _Lady Dangle_ home. The Chairmen lifted up the top, When _Freeborn_, with a sprightly hop, And his cloak wrapp'd around his face, Made bold to seize the vacant place: The bearers, not intent to know, Whether it were a _Belle_ or _Beau_, Went on--a cheary footman bore A flambeau, blund'ring on before: While, ere the 'Squire, in this sad scrape, Had time to plan his next escape, A heap of Paviour's stones which lay Directly in the Chairmen's way, Gave them a fall upon the road, With their alarm'd, mistaken load. Each Watchman sprang his rousing rattle, But as no voices call'd for battle, They did the best without delay To set the party on their way: While the attendants on the chair, Half-blinded by the flambeau's glare, First rais'd their weighty forms and then Set the _Sedan_ upright again: Nor e'er attempted to explore The hapless head that burst the door. But such was _Freeborn's_ falling fate, Which such confusion did create Within the region of his brain, He did not know his home again: Nay, when the wearied Chairmen stopp'd, Into the house he stagg'ring popp'd; Then to and fro got up the stairs, And, straddling o'er opposing chairs, He star'd, but knew not he was come } To Lady Dangle's Drawing Room, } But wildly thought himself at home. } Then on a sofa threw his length, Thus to regain exhausted strength, And grunted, groan'd and drew his breath, As if it were the hour of death. Sir David Dangle, whom the gout Had kept that night from going out, Was sitting in all sick-man's quiet, Nor dreaming of a scene of riot When, waken'd into wild amaze, He did on the strange vision gaze, While the bold reprobate intrusion Threw all the house into confusion. In rush'd domestics one and all, Who heard the bell's alarming call; While stamping crutch and roaring voice Encreas'd the Knight's awak'ning noise That he might quick assistance stir Against this unknown visiter. But while the household struggled hard To keep him still, and be his guard, Till he thought fit to lay before 'em The cause of all his indecorum; My Lady came to set all right And check the hurry of the night: She then, to soothe his rude alarms Clasp'd her dear Knight within her arms, Those arms which, for full forty years, As from tradition it appears, Had sometimes strok'd his chin and coax'd him, And now and then had soundly box'd him. "It is," she said, "some heated rake, Who has occasion'd the mistake. But loose your hands, I do protest, To be thus us'd, he's too well drest For though his face I do not know } He does some air of fashion show, } Playing his pranks incognito." } --"It may be so," the Knight replied, And then he shook his head and sigh'd: "I'm not a stranger to the game, When I was young, I did the same." --Beside Sir David, Madam sat: To charm his flurry with her chat Her tongue pour'd forth its ready store And talk'd the busy evening o'er; Their biscuits took and, nothing loth, Moisten'd them well with cordial broth; Thus, till bed call'd, enjoy'd their quaffing, He with hoarse chuckle--she with laughing. As he his innocence had vow'd, Our Hero press'd his hands and bow'd, Nay look'd, with humble, downcast eye, Besides, he well knew how to bribe The service of the liv'ried tribe; So, without fear of ill to come, He was convey'd in safety home. --With the next noon his morning came, And serious thoughts began to claim Attention to the Life he past, And how much longer it might last: For the hard blow he had receiv'd, By the chair's fall, had so aggriev'd The Pericranium's tend'rest part That it requir'd a Surgeon's art, Who, to relieve the threat'ning pains Applied the leeches to his veins, He then with blistering proceeded, The strong Cathartic next succeeded, With light debarr'd to either eye, And undisturb'd tranquillity: Such was the system to restore His health to what it was before. Thus bound to silence and confin'd It was a period for the mind To yield to those reflecting powers Which flow from solitary hours. 'Tis said by one, no chattering dunce That changes seldom come at once; And to those changes we refer Which work in human character. Reason at once does not disown us, Nor instant folly seize upon us; It is by a progressive course That habit sinks from bad to worse, And thus the happier impulse moves By which the character improves: The struggle that controuls the will From ill to good, from good to ill, Is not a contest for the power That lasts but through a transient hour. Virtue's fine ardor does not yield But after many a well-fought field;-- Nor do the baser passions cool Till they despair to overule, By secret spell or Virtue's fire, The glowing of the heart's desire. Thus, as through pictur'd life we range, We see the varying landscape change, But, as the diff'rent scenes we view, If we have hearts we feel them too: And then, how charming is the sight When Virtue rises to its height And triumphs o'er the conquer'd foe That flaps its baffled wing below. What though such images as these May look to Eccentricities Beyond the reach of those whose claim Is shelter'd by a borrow'd name: Yet still our system may apply The force of its philosophy To ev'ry track of human life, Where the heart feels conflicting strife; In short, where 'tis the painful lot, And in what bosom is it not, To struggle in the certain feud Between the evil and the good, That in our mortal nature lies With all its known propensities: Nor shall we on our Hero trample As an inadequate example. He'll serve as well as brighter tools To give an edge to moral rules, And _Freeborn's_ frolics may prevail To give a spirit to the tale Which in its fashion and its feature Bears, as we trust, the stamp of nature. --Besides, it surely has appear'd, He was at first in virtue rear'd, Nor do we fear, however cross'd, His Virtue has been wholly lost: Nor will our kind and honest muse The hope, nay the belief refuse, That, after all his follies past, Much good may still remain at last Which might, with Reason's aid, at length, Be felt in more than former strength. How this may happen we shall see In our progressive history. QUAE GENUS turned out of a house which he mistakes for his own.] Thus he, for many a night and day, In strict, prescriptive silence lay, For he all talking was forbid No friends must visit, if they did, All Galen's efforts would be vain For the re-settling of his brain; And when acquaintance chanc'd to come It must be said, "He's not at home:" Nay, his kind friends, when it appear'd, That e'en his life was rather fear'd, And that his hospitable fare Might quickly vanish into air: Though as the knocker still was tied, They just ask'd if he liv'd or died. But other reasons soon prevail That made his vain pretensions fail To ask them now and then to dine, And prove their welcome by his wine. For when they left him others came, More constant in their wish and aim; Who, while the Doctor order'd pills, Would call, perhaps, to leave their bills; And sometimes in the way of trade Might ask the favour to be paid. These things, as he lay still in bed, Would sometimes tease his shaken head, And force him to consult his hoard, } To know what hopes that might afford } When he to health should be restor'd. } --That time arriv'd and he was free From offering another fee, But then he found more clumsy hands Ready to grasp enlarg'd demands. --In all the playgames he had sought He found, at last, as might be thought, In worst of scrapes he now was left, Our 'Squire, alas, was deep in debt, And which was worse, of the amount, He could not pay the full account: Nor were his drooping spirits cheer'd When ev'ry day a Dun appear'd. There were no frolics now to charm The mind from feeling the alarm, At thought so painful to endure Th' afflicting thought of being poor. But though Discretion oft had fail'd him, And Folly's Gim-crack schemes assail'd him Though his whole conduct might not bear The scrutinizing eye severe: Yet honour was not dispossest Of a snug corner in his breast, Which there an influence did maintain, And, call'd to speak, spoke not in vain; For he refus'd, at once, to hear What smiling Knaves pour'd in his ear, To scrape the relics of his hoard, Make a long skip and get abroad; Seize the first favourable wind, And laugh at those he left behind. --The counsel given, was given in vain; He met it with a just disdain, Bore with mild humour each sly sneer, And smil'd when Folly chose to jeer; Resolv'd to pay to his last groat, Though standing in his only coat. --'Twas thus he thought in temper cool, "I may be call'd vain, silly fool, And something more I might deserve, But I would dig or almost starve, Rather than in that concert join, Which sprightly vagabonds design." --Suspicion may be sometimes led To doubt the vows which, on the bed Of pain and sickness, may be made, } When, by a trait'rous world betray'd } Hope's future prospects sink and fade. } For when Contrition views the past, Because the passing day's o'ercast Yet does no more its place retain When smiling hours return again, 'Tis but an hypocritic art To mock the world and cheat the heart. But our sick Hero, as the verse Will, with unvarnish'd truth, rehearse, An eye of tearful sorrow threw } O'er some past years' reproachful view, } And trembling at the future too. } Thus, of some awkward fears possess'd, He held a council in his breast, And felt the way to be pursued Was now to do the best he could, And call on Justice to receive The only tribute he could give. Thus, at once, honest and discreet, He call'd his Creditors to meet To hear proposals which he thought They would receive as just men ought: Nay, fancied, when he told his tale, That lib'ral notions would prevail; Nor could his gen'rous mind foresee The fruits of his integrity: For when he walk'd into the room He found th' invited guests were come, Who soon began in hideous measure, To play away their loud displeasure, Not unlike _Andrews_ at a fair Who to make gaping rustics stare, Expand their lanky, lanthern jaws That fire may issue from their maws. One darted forth revengeful looks, Another pointed to his books Wherein a charge was never made, } That did not honour to his trade; } And curs'd th' accounts which were not paid, } Nor fail'd to wish he could convey them, We'll not say where, who did not pay them. A _third_, as hard as he was able, Struck his huge fist upon the table. While, beastly names from many a tongue, Around the room resounding rung. As _Freeborn_ had not quite possest The hope that he should be carest, He rather look'd with down-cast eye, To win by his humility, And put on a repentant face As suited to the awkward place: Nay, his high spirits he prepar'd And call'd discretion for their guard In case, though it was not expected, Decorum should be quite neglected:-- But when the Butcher strok'd his sleeve, } Brandish'd his steel and call'd him thief, } Belching forth mutton, veal and beef; } When touch'd by such a market sample They join'd to follow his example; When stead of praise for honest doing } And the fair course he was pursuing } They loos'd their banter on his ruin; } His prudence then was thrown aside From sense of irritated pride, And, patient bearing quite exhausted, He thus the angry circle roasted.-- "You all in your abuse may shine, But know--_Abuse will never coin_! Remember you have had my trade, For some few years, and always paid; While for your charges you must own, I let them pass, nor cut them down, And Customers, such fools like me Are Prizes in your Lottery. Put but your loss and gain together, I should deserve your favour, rather Than this rude and unseemly treating, As if I gain'd my bread by cheating. You know, you set of thankless calves, You are well paid if paid by halves; And spite of knowing nods and blinking, I have been told, and can't help thinking, All that now may remain to pay The claims which bring me here to-day, A just Arithmetic would tell Will pay your honours very well! But I have done--nay, I shall burst He threw himself into a chair, While each at each began to stare; When, from a corner of the room, A milder voice appear'd to come, And, without prefatory art, Was heard opinions to impart Which as he spoke them, did not fail O'er the loud rancour to prevail. "I cannot but refuse My honest vote to your abuse; And had I thought it was your plan Thus to foul-mouth a _Gentleman_, (And such he is, I'll boldly say, By all he has propos'd to-day) I would have stay'd and minded home, Nor to this boist'rous Meeting come! You could not give a harder banging To one whose deeds had call'd for hanging. What I've to say there's no denying-- Nor will I please you now by lying. For no short time, you all can tell, We each charg'd high and he paid well; Nay, now that he is gone to pot He gives us all that he has got, And with a pittance is content To take him to the Continent: Nor by sly tricks does he deceive ye But gives you all that he can give you; And, if again of wealth possest, I doubt not but he'll pay the rest; Now he who does the best he can, I'm certain he's a _Gentleman_. For me, whate'er may be your will, I'll take his terms and trust him still; And my best judgement recommends The same right conduct to my friends." Much more the lib'ral tradesman said And still continued to persuade With arguments that bore the test From that known power call'd Interest, Which, by degrees, becalm'd the riot, And clos'd the scene in gen'ral quiet. Thus, grumb'ling o'er, with parting glass, The settling hour was seen to pass, And soon dismiss'd our _Freeborn_ home To meditate on times to come, _With the first pleasure man can know, Of doing what he ought to do_. Whether it was his ready way, As we know not, we cannot say-- But as he saunter'd through a court, A passage of no small resort, Well known to Lawyer's daily tread, As to the _King's-Bench Walks_ it led, A Placard of no common size Compell'd the gaze of passing eyes: When, as he read, he saw it bore The well-known name he whilom bore, While there was forc'd upon his view The _Rev'rend_ DOCTOR SYNTAX too; Nay, as he thought, it seem'd to be Nor was it sure an idle whim To think that it belong'd to him. The Advertisement did address, In all the pomp of printing press, Th' important loss which was sustain'd And the reward that might be gain'd By those who should the loss restore To those who did th' event deplore. Then o'er and o'er he read the paper That set his spirits in a caper; For when he trac'd the pedigree, He whisper'd to himself--"'_Tis_ ME." Nor do I from the hope refrain, } Nor do I think I boast in vain,-- } QUAE GENUS is _Himself again_!" } But here it may become the verse, The Placard's purpose to rehearse, This ADVERTISEMENT courts regard "_Upwards of TWENTY YEARS ago, Or more or less it may be so, Some one had ventur'd to expose In clean and decent swaddling clothes, An INFANT, laid before the door Mark'd number THREE in number FOUR, Of Chambers which distinction claim, And Paper Buildings is their name: Now any one who can but give } Assurance that He still doth live, } The above reward will then receive. } QUAE GENUS is the Foundling's name, Which, if alive, he best can claim, For now at least it is not known That he can any other own. The kind_ Protector _of his_ Birth } _Was a Divine of highest worth-- } Who held preferment in the North_-- } _SYNTAX was his much-honour'd name, Nor is he now unknown to Fame. But time has long since laid his head On his last low and silent bed; And search has hitherto been vain, The Foundling's present state to gain. A Laundress now is still alive Who can some information give, And BETTY BROOM is the known name Of the communicating Dame To whose kind care deliver'd first, The Babe was given to be nurs'd. Th' exposure she can well display As if it were but yesterday, But further knowledge is requir'd And what events may have conspir'd To shape his Life--If he should live, 'Tis what this paper asks to give. Who has such tidings and will tell 'em, With all due proofs, to Mr. VELLUM, Or sent by Post to his abode, Near_ Shoreditch Church _in_ Hackney Road, _Will the remuneration prove That's fully stated as above._" Again he read the paper o'er, Resolv'd its purport to explore, And strait to _Number_ THREE repairs When hobbling down the ancient stairs, He met the Matron whom he sought, And told his story as he ought, A rapid sketch--nor did it fail To be an interesting Tale: Which when she heard, against the wall The broom she held was seen to fall, And scarce her old arms could prevail To bear the burthen of her pail. Her glasses then she sought to place On the _Proboscis_ of her face; Not that a likeness she should see 'Tween riper years and infancy. But now her heart began to melt At _Recollections_ that she felt, And thus she wish'd to tell them o'er, As she had often done before. "What, though so many years are gone, And you to man's estate are grown, Since I, in all its infant charms, Dandled the Foundling in my arms, Were I but certain it was _you_, Yes I would hug--and kiss you too." --But though he vow'd and did exclaim He was the very--very same; And though he put forth ev'ry grace } With which his words could gild his face, } He could not gain a kind embrace; } Though twenty-five don't often sue To claim a kiss from sixty-two: But some suspicions had possess'd The avenues to _Betty's_ breast; For she liv'd where her open ear Was practis'd ev'ry day to hear Of art array'd in fairest guise And truth o'erthrown by artifice. Thus what could the old Matron do? She fear'd him false, and wish'd him true: Then turn'd him round, but look'd aghast, As at his back her eye she cast; When she thus spoke, and heav'd a sigh, "I hope it is not treachery! Before that door the child lay sprawling, And mov'd the Doctor with its squalling: But, before Heaven I can swear, It then was as a Cherub fair; Strait as a little arrow he, In perfect form and symmetry; And from its neck unto its rump, Believe me, he had no such hump As that, though hid with every care, Your injur'd form is seen to bear; And cannot but appear to be A natural deformity. How this change came of course you know,-- With the poor child it was not so;-- Prepare its Hist'ry to explain, Or you will visit here in vain. --My good young man, strive not to cheat, Nor think to profit by deceit: You have with knowing folk to do, Not to be foil'd by such as you. I own you tell a moving tale, But Facts alone will now prevail: You will be sifted up and down Till e'en your marrow-bones are known. --I've not another word to say; To _Master Vellum_ take your way, You'll find him at his snug abode For, when the infant first was left, Of all parental care bereft, The Bookseller and I, between us, Had much to do with dear QUAE GENUS: For to his shop I us'd to go 'Twas then in _Paternoster Row_, As he the money did supply For the poor Foundling's nursery. --O, if he finds your story true, } It will, indeed, be well for you! } I will then hug and kiss you too!" } He took his leave--she gave a blessing As good, perhaps, as her caressing. In haste, and on his great intent To _Vellum_ He his footsteps bent; Who had long since left off the trade By which he had a fortune made: But why we do the old Man see A figure in this history, Becomes a duty to explain, Nor shall it be employ'd in vain: And now, as brief as can be told, We must the Mystery unfold; And, since so many years are o'er, Why it was not explain'd before. Though he who length of life has seen, Must have a cold observer been; Whose languid or incurious eye Has not the power to descry, On what a chain of odds and ends The course of Human Life depends. But now we quit the beaten road And turn into an _Episode_, Nor fear the track, though we shall draw The picture of a _Man of Law_; For we have seldom had to do With one so gen'rous, just and true; So he was thought by grateful fame, And _Fairman_ was the good man's name. If in that long-suspected trade An honest fortune e'er was made 'Twas that he could in Honour boast As Justice always tax'd the cost. 'Twas his to bid Contention cease And make the Law a Friend to peace: He strove to silence rising feud, And all his practice led to good: By mildest means it was his aim To silence each opposing claim; To take Injustice by the brow And make it to right reason bow: Nay, where in courts he must contend, He saw no foe, and knew no friend. He fail'd not by his utmost power To wing with speed Law's ling'ring hour; A busy foe to dull delay, He spurr'd each process on its way; Nor were his words, by skill made pliant, Arrang'd to flatter any Client: Whene'er he claim'd his well-earn'd Fee, _Justice_ and _Law_ would answer--_Yea_. And when Oppression knit its brow --When summon'd to the great _Assize_, Held in the Court above the skies, He will not be afraid to hear The VERDICT which awaits him _there_. --Such was the Man who soon would own QUAE GENUS as his darling Son. The man of pure and simple heart Through Life disdains a double part, Nor does he need a mean device His inward bosom to disguise: Thus as he stands before mankind His actions prove an honest mind. But though 'gainst Reason's rigid rule He may have play'd the early fool, As wise men may, perhaps, have done In the long race which they have run; For Passion, which will act its part In the best regulated heart, Is, as we may too often see Beset with Nature's frailty. Yet Virtue in its course prevails; } The better impulse seldom fails } When smiling Conscience holds the scales: } Nay, through the venial errors past, Maintains its influence to the last, And thus, with righteous hope endued, Rests on _predominating good_. Something like this we hope to see In our progressive History. One morn as worthy _Fairman_ lay Courting his pillow's soft delay, Enjoying, in his mind's fair view, Good he had done, or meant to do; A Letter came, as it appear'd, Sign'd by a name, he'd never heard, To beg he instant would attend An old and long-forgotten friend, Matter of import to unfold Which could by her alone be told, Whose trembling hand in Nature's spite Had strove the wretched scrawl to write. She wish'd into his ear to pour The tidings of a dying hour, Which she was anxious to impart To the recesses of his heart. This Summons the good man obey'd And found upon, a sick-bed laid, A female form, whose languid eye Seem'd to look bright when he drew nigh. --"Listen," she said, "I humbly pray, Though short the time, I've much to say. My features now no longer bear The figure when you thought them fair: MARIA was my borrow'd name } When passion shook my early claim } To woman's glory, that chaste fame } Which when once lost, no power should give, But to repent--the wish to live. A mother's lab'ring pangs I knew, And the child ow'd its life to you. Though ever gen'rous, just and kind Here doubt perplex'd your noble mind, And had dispos'd you to believe That I was false, and could deceive: But now, if solemn oaths can prove, And if my dying words can move, Should he be living, I'll make known The Babe I bore to be _your own_. Scarce was it born, but 'twas my care That you a parent's part should bear. My quiv'ring hands then wrapp'd it o'er, } I trembling plac'd it on the floor } And gave a signal at the door: } When I, my eyes bedimm'd with tears, And flurried by alarming fears, In a dark night mistook the stair And left it to a stranger's care. Such was my error, as I thought The child was harbour'd where it ought; And, O my friend, how well I knew The helpless would be safe with YOU:-- And when, by secret means, I heard It was receiv'd and would be rear'd, I doubted not you did prepare The blessings of a parent's care. --I was content, and join'd the train Of warring men who cross'd the main; And since, for twenty years or more, I've follow'd Camps on India's shore; But when, how chang'd by years of pain, I saw my native land again, I look'd, how vainly, for the joy Of seeing my deserted Boy! Think how my disappointment grew, } When, from a strict research, I knew } He never had been known to you! } But, favour'd by the will of Heaven, To Mercy's hand he has been given; Though of his first or latter years No record of him yet appears: At least, beyond the earliest day As in his cot the Infant lay, And when his smiling place of rest Was on a fondling nurse's breast! I the child's story, but in vain, Have strove with anxious heart to gain; For she who gave him milk still lives And tells all that her mem'ry gives. But of your child what is become, Whether he has a house or home, Whether he sails the ocean o'er } Or wanders on some desert shore, } Whether he lives or breathes no more, } If you've the heart that once I knew May shortly be made known to you: For, with the means which you possess, He may be found your age to bless. I only ask of Heaven to live To see him your embrace receive; And, dare I hope the joy, to join A mother's fond embrace with thine: Then may my pilgrim wanderings cease, And I, at length, shall die in peace! --Thus I have my last duty done, And may kind Heaven restore your Son!--" --She spoke--the tale she did impart Sunk deep into the good man's heart; For, as he said, there did not live To close his eyes one relative. He then in eager speech declar'd No cost, no labour should be spar'd The Boy to find, and should he be What his fond eyes might wish to see, His Father's name he soon would bear, And of his fortune be the Heir. --No time was lost--what could be done, To give her ease and find her Son, Was soon employ'd in ev'ry way That public notice could display. The good man now the subject weigh'd, Then call'd in VELLUM to his aid, And did, with anxious wish commend The office to his long-known friend, To set afloat enquiry due If what MARIA told were true; Nor did he think of pains or cost To find the stray-sheep that was lost. "To you," he said, "I give the task, The greatest favour I can ask, To trace, if 'tis in any power, The _Foundling_ from that favor'd hour When DOCTOR SYNTAX first receiv'd The child and all its wants reliev'd; And you, at once, call'd in to share The wishes of his guardian care. Believe me that my high-wrought feeling, Which you must see there's no concealing," (For the tear glisten'd in his eye, And his breast spoke the long-drawn sigh) "Disdains at once all sordid sense Which hesitates at recompence: O what would I refuse to give Should he be blest with worth and live! Indulge my whims--nor let me know } Or what you've done or what you do, } Till you can answer--_Yea_ or _No_. } Till your grave voice attests my claim To bear a parent's tender name: Nor let the claimant here be shown, Till he is prov'd to be my own." VELLUM began by exercising His well-known zeal in advertising; Nay, did, from _Kent_, to the _Land's-End_, QUAE GENUS and his birth extend, And as the _King's Bench Walks_ had been Of his first days the curious scene, Within those environs were spread The grand _Placards_ which he had read; And did a forc'd attention call To many a window, many a wall, Whose tempting story to rehearse Has wak'd an effort in our verse. QUAE GENUS' plain, consistent tale Seem'd with old VELLUM to prevail; And rather tallied with the view Of what, in former times, he knew: But, that same _Hump_ his shoulders bore, And oft had been his foe before, Forbad the Laundress to bestow A favouring opinion now; The want of which kept things aloof From certain and substantial proof. For though the Doctors in the North, } Men of acknowledg'd skill and worth, } Were ready to confirm on oath, } That, 'twas disease which gave the blow And bent the strait back to a bow; Yet this same Hump of direful note Still stuck in _Betty's_ doubtful throat, For all that she would say or swear Was, when the Child was in her care, To the most, keen, observing eye, His back bore no deformity; And thus continued the suspense From want of better evidence. --_Vellum_ was not without a fear, That, from the Gout's attack severe, The anxious Father's self might die Before truth clear'd the Mystery, And had, from doubt reliev'd, made known The Child as his begotten Son-- Besides on his discovery bent, To _Oxford_ when kind _Vellum_ went, To seek his venerable Friend, The well-known Rev'rend DOCTOR BEND, Who would have set all matters right, He died on the preceding night. But still, as we pass on our way, What changes mark life's transient day; The sun-beams gild the o'erhanging cloud, The mists the glitt'ring rays enshroud; And, while from storms of beating rain } We strive some shelter to obtain, } The scene is chang'd--'tis bright again. } Hence 'tis we share th' uncertain hour Of joys that smile, of cares that lour. Thus, while Enquiry seem'd to wear The very aspect of Despair, A sudden instantaneous thought Was to OLD BETTY'S mem'ry brought, That a _Ripe_ STRAWBERRY, blushing red, As it grew on its verdant bed, By Nature's whimsey, was impress'd Not on the cheek or on the breast But _Betty_ said, "'Tis I know where, } And could I once but see it there, } On Bible Book, ay, I would swear, } The young man is the child who left, And, of a mother's care bereft, Was by the Doctor given to me To nurse his tender Infancy." --QUAE GENUS now was call'd to tell What he knew of this secret spell. When he without delay declar'd What of the mark he oft had heard By gamesome play-fellows at school When he was bathing in the pool; And though he sometimes strove to feel it, Its strange position did conceal it From his own eyes, though, as a joke, It often did a laugh provoke. Then did he to her wish display, What the verse hides from open day; To turn away her curious eye } From this same blushing STRAWBERRY. } Nay, when she saw the mark, she swore She oft had kiss'd it o'er and o'er; And, were he not to manhood grown, She'd do what she so oft had done. O she exclaim'd with tears of joy, QUAE GENUS is the very boy Whom their so anxious wishes sought And was to full discovery brought. --Nor was this all, at the strange show Old VELLUM wip'd his moisten'd brow, And said, with an uplifted eye, "Here ends this curious Mystery." When he again, the Symbol saw In its right place without a flaw, At once he did remember well, SYNTAX would smiling oft foretell, This mark might to _the Foundling_ show To whom he did existence owe. "'Tis all fulfill'd, the proof is shewn,-- The FATHER may embrace _his Son_!" As _Vellum_, thought another hour Should not delay that darling power He to his friend's impatient ear In all due substance did declare The Hist'ry of QUAE GENUS past, With all the proofs from first to last, As on his own conviction shone That he was truly _Fairman's_ Son: When the good man, with brighten'd eye, And the heart's tend'rest sympathy, As he look'd upwards thus express'd The joy that revell'd in his breast. "From all I've heard and you have shown With zeal and friendship rarely known, To the fond truth I'm reconcil'd That poor QUAE GENUS is my Child, Confirm'd by all his Mother said, As I sat by her dying bed; And ere another sun shall shine, I'll prove, at least, I think him mine, By giving him a rightful claim To share my fortune and my name. You then, my friend, may bring him here, 'Tis a strange task, but do not fear, At this so unexpected hour, My firmness will relax its power,-- Though I'm beneath a certain course Of medicine, of promis'd force On which I have a firm reliance To bid the tort'ring Gout defiance, My vig'rous spirits will sustain The shock of joy as well as pain." --_Vellum_, with pleasure now withdrew To shape the approaching Interview,-- And suit QUAE GENUS to a change: So unexpected and so strange; But how can we relate the scene That is about to intervene Where we shall see in different parts The weeping eyes, the melting hearts, Affection's warm and yielding sense And looks of cold indifference, While Reason yields, with ample fee, To be the dupe of Quackery. This to describe with all the rest The verse, we trust, will do its best; But if the labour it refuses We'll scout OLD POLL and his NINE MUSES, And leave our JOHN TROT lines to tell The Story and, we hope, as well. An _Empiric_ had hither bent His journey from the Continent, Who boasted, by his Chymic skill, Disease was subject to his will; And that his cunning had found out It seems this wonderful receipt Form'd a warm-bath for legs and feet; And ev'ry day, for a full hour, The period might be less or more, The Patient sat, but ill at ease His legs immers'd up to his knees, Each in a pail just plac'd before him Fill'd with a fluid to restore him. _Fairman_, who dup'd by Quack'ry's lures, Had often sought for promis'd cures Thought it would be no harm to try The efforts of this Remedy. --But _Vellum_ eager to make known This curious pair as SIRE and SON. Did not consult his better reason Respecting the right place and season, But a most heedless moment sought When he QUAE GENUS trembling brought, While the Old Man up to his knees Was bathing for expected ease, And thought of nothing but the ails He hop'd to drown within the pails. Then _Vellum_ said, my Duty's done Behold, my friend and see your Son! QUAE GENUS, kneeling on the floor, Began a blessing to implore! The good man said, I ask of Heaven That its protection may be given To this my long-lost, darling Boy Of coming time my only joy! 'Twas then he press'd the frizzled hair And sunk back senseless in his chair. The good old _Bookseller_ amaz'd On the strange, motley picture gaz'd, And _Betty Broom_ began to vow "'Twere pity he should die just now." While the staid Cook, whose ev'ry feature Scarce knew a change from sober nature, Was to expression ne'er beguil'd, Who never wept nor ever smil'd Then calmly said, but said no more, "I never saw him so before:"-- While, "look! behold! see he revives!" QUAE GENUS cried--"my Father lives!" Were there combin'd--what could be wanting To make the melting scene complete, But coffin and a winding-sheet? Nor were those symbols long to seek, For, in a short and happy week, Which was in warm affection past, The exulting Father breath'd his last. Here then we make a pause to ask How Fortune will achieve its task, And, to indulge the curious view, What track the Fancy must pursue, From such a change in the affairs Of the poor Foundling on the stairs. Whether the passions active strife Will check repose and trouble life; Whether the inmate of his breast Will lead to turbulence or rest, Make him repose beneath the shade At ease and indolently laid; Whether the mind will yield to pleasure In that seducing form and measure, Which strews temptations ev'ry hour And gold commands with ready power: --But other notions we had brought The proofs of our prophetic thought; That, not without a gleam of pride, He would chuse Reason for his guide. When with a plenteous income arm'd And hospitable bosom warm'd, He from the gay world would retire And turn into a Country 'Squire; Then, with those charms which heighten life, And blossom in a pleasing wife, Enjoy that calm and tranquil state } That does on Independence wait, } Nor spurns the low, nor courts the great: } And though not from those frailties free The Lot of man's infirmity, He might pass on to rev'rend age, And die a Christian and a sage. --Thus we our Hero's picture drew As hope inspir'd, for future view, Such as the coming years might see, Such as we hop'd that he would be. But soon appear'd a threat'ning storm That did the expected scene deform, And many a cloud began to lour That veils the intellectual hour, Though gleams of light would oft controul The darksome chaos of the soul: And a bright, instantaneous ray Would gild a cloud and chear the day; And now and then a serious thought Was to its proper object brought. Whene'er, oppress'd with sudden gloom, In solemn steps he pac'd the room; Then, his looks beaming with content, He turn'd to Joy and Merriment, And Reason, for a wav'ring hour, Would seem to re-assume its power. Yet social habits he disclaim'd, Wept when he prais'd, laugh'd when he blam'd, And, sometimes frowning, would declare Life was not worth the liver's care. --Whether it was the sudden change, So unexpected and so strange, Or the accession large of wealth Broke in upon his reason's health, Or the concussion of his brain } Which the night's frolic did sustain, } Our science knows not to explain. } Old _Betty_ thought it must be Love, Which she would undertake to prove, As in his freaks that seem'd like folly He sung and danc'd and talk'd of _Molly_, And frequently was seen to scrawl Figures in chalk upon the wall, Then fancy that he scatter'd flowers And sat in gay and fragrant bowers. --Whate'er the hidden cause might be, } No sage experience could foresee } A cure for his Infirmity. } He now grew worse from day to day, And Nature hasten'd to decay: It soon was seen, no art could save QUAE GENUS from an early grave. --Old _Vellum_ did not quit his care And _Betty Broom_ was always there. The FOUNDLING'S Life she had attended, As it began, and as it ended: His earliest days her cares embrac'd, Her aged eyes wept o'er his last: They did his dying hour behold! --Reader Farewell,----The Story's told!

P. L. Jacob

Histoire de la prostitution chez tous les peuples du monde depuis l'antiquité la plus reculée jusqu'à nos jours, tome 3/6

1806

SCENE I.--_An Antique Room: Midnight._ _Reading from a paper on which he has been writing_. As a wild maiden, with love-drinking eyes, Sees in sweet dreams a beaming Youth of Glory, And wakes to weep, and ever after, sighs For that bright vision till her hair is hoary; Ev'n so, alas! is my life's-passion story. For Poesy my heart and pulses beat, For Poesy my blood runs red and fleet, One passion eats the rest. My soul is follow'd By strong ambition to out-roll a lay, Whose melody will haunt the world for aye, Charming it onward on its golden way. Oh, that my heart were quiet as a grave Asleep in moonlight! For, as a torrid sunset boils with gold Up to the zenith, fierce within my soul A passion burns from basement to the cope. Poesy! Poesy! I'd give to thee, As passionately, my rich-laden years, My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys, As Hero gave her trembling sighs to find Delicious death on wet Leander's lip. Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth, Is my poor life, but with one smile thou canst Clothe me with kingdoms. Wilt thou smile on me? Wilt bid me die for thee? O fair and cold! As well may some wild maiden waste her love Upon the calm front of a marble Jove. I cannot draw regard of thy great eyes. I love thee, Poesy! Thou art a rock, I, a weak wave, would break on thee and die. There is a deadlier pang than that which beads With chilly death-drops the o'er-tortured brow, When one has a big heart and feeble hands,-- A heart to hew his name out upon time As on a rock, then in immortalness To stand on time as on a pedestal; When hearts beat to this tune, and hands are weak, We find our aspirations quenched in tears, The tears of impotence, and self-contempt That loathsome weed, up-springing in the heart, Like nightshade 'mong the ruins of a shrine; I am so cursed, and wear within my soul A pang as fierce as Dives' drowsed with wine, Lipping his leman in luxurious dreams; Waked by a fiend in hell!---- To fling a Poem, like a comet, out, Far-splendouring the sleepy realms of night. I cannot give men glimpses so divine, As when, upon a racking night, the wind Draws the pale curtains of the vapoury clouds, And shows those wonderful, mysterious voids, Throbbing with stars like pulses.--Naught for me But to creep quietly into my grave; Or calm and tame the swelling of my heart With this foul lie, painted as sweet as truth. That "great and small, weakness and strength, are naught, That each thing being equal in its sphere, The May-night glow-worm with its emerald lamp, Is worthy as the mighty moon that drowns Continents in her white and silent light." This--this were easy to believe, were I The planet that doth nightly wash the earth's Fair sides with moonlight; not the shining worm. But as I am--beaten, and foiled, and shamed, The arrow of my soul which I have shot To bring down Fame, dissolved like shaft of mist-- This painted falsehood, this most damned lie, Freezes me like a fiendish human face, With all its features gathered in a sneer. Oh, let me rend this breathing tent of flesh; Uncoop the soul--fool, fool, 't were still the same, 'T is the deep soul that's touch'd, _it_ bears the wound; And memory doth stick in 't like a knife, Keeping it wide for ever. [_A long pause._ I am fain To feed upon the beauty of the moon! Sorrowful moon! seeming so drowned in woe, A queen, whom some grand battle-day has left Unkingdomed and a widow, while the stars, Thy handmaidens, are standing back in awe, Gazing in silence on thy mighty grief! All men have loved thee for thy beauty, moon! Adam has turned from Eve's fair face to thine, And drunk thy beauty with his serene eyes. Anthony once, when seated with his queen, Worth all the East, a moment gazed at thee: She struck him on the cheek with jealous hand, That pale and squeamish beauty of the night Has had thine eyes too long; thine eyes are mine! Alack! there's sorrow in my Anthony's face! Dost think of Rome? I'll make thee, with a kiss, Richer than Caesar! Come, I'll crown thy lips." How tenderly the moon doth fill the night! Not like the passion that doth fill my soul; It burns within me like an Indian sun. A star is trembling on the horizon's verge, That star shall grow and broaden on the night, Until it hangs divine and beautiful In the proud zenith-- Might I so broaden on the skies of fame! O Fame! Fame! Fame! next grandest word to God! I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool--so tries Some lonely wanderer 'mong the desert sands By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphynx, Staring right on with calm eternal eyes. _A Forest._ WALTER _sleeping beneath a tree._ _Enter_ LADY _with a fawn._ Halt! Flora, halt! This race Has danced my ringlets all about my brows, And brought my cheeks to bloom. Here will I rest And weave a garland for thy dappled neck. I look, sweet Flora, in thine innocent eyes, And see in them a meaning and a glee Fitting this universal summer joy: Each leaf upon the trees doth shake with joy, With joy the white clouds navigate the blue, And, on his painted wings, the butterfly, Most splendid masker in this carnival, Floats through the air in joy! Better for man, Were he and Nature more familiar friends! His part is worst that touches this base world. Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure, Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the shore Is gross with sand. On, my sweet Flora, on! Ha! what is this? A bright and wander'd youth, Thick in the light of his own beauty, sleeps Like young Apollo, in his golden curls! At the oak-roots I've seen full many a flower, But never one so fair. A lovely youth, With dainty cheeks and ringlets like a girl, And slumber-parted lips 'twere sweet to kiss! Ye envious lids! I fain would see his eyes! Must be a sight. So, here's a well-worn book, From which he drinks such joy as doth a pale And dim-eyed worker who escapes, in Spring, The thousand-streeted and smoke-smothered town, And treads awhile the breezy hills of health. she reads._ The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, The churlish thistles, scented briers, The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires, Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea, Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally Suns and their bright broods swim. This mighty sea of Love with wondrous tides, Is sternly just to sun and grain; 'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,-- 'Tis in my blood and brain. All things have something more than barren use; There is a scent upon the brier, A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, Cold morns are fringed with fire; The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breathed flowers; In music dies poor human speech, And into beauty blow those hearts of ours, When Love is born in each. Life is transfigured in the soft and tender Light of Love, as a volume dun Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendour In the declining sun. Driven from cities by his restless moods, In incense-glooms and secret nooks, A miser o'er his gold--the lover broods O'er vague words, earnest looks. Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip; Across his midnight sea of mind A Thought comes streaming, like a blazing ship Upon a mighty wind, A Terror and a Glory! Shocked with light, His boundless being glares aghast; Then slowly settles down the wonted night, All desolate and vast. Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give. This world is very lovely. O my God, I thank Thee that I live! Ringed with his flaming guards of many kinds, The proud Sun stoops his golden head, Grey Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the winds Shriek out, "The Day is dead." I gave this beggar Day no alms, this Night Has seen nor work accomplished, planned, Yet this poor Day shall soon in memory's light A summer rainbow stand! There is no evil in this present strife; From th' shivering Seal's low moans, Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life, To stars upon their thrones, The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise; Dark moral knots, that pose the seer, If _we_ are lovers, in our wider eyes Shall hang, like dew-drops, clear. Ye are my menials, ye thick-crowding years! Ha! yet with a triumphant shout My spirit shall take captive all the spheres, And wring their riches out. God! what a glorious future gleams on me; With nobler senses, nobler peers, I'll wing me through Creation like a bee, And taste the gleaming spheres! While some are trembling o'er the poison-cup, While some grow lean with care, some weep, In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up, As in a robe, and sleep. Oh, 'tis a sleeping Poet! and his verse Sings like the syren-isles. An opulent Soul Dropt in my path like a great cup of gold, All rich and rough with stories of the gods! Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair, And ever young, and ever beautiful: I'd have all Poets to be like to this,-- Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love. Love! Love! Old song that Poet ever chanteth, Of which the listening world is never weary. Soul is a moon, Love is its loveliest phase. Alas! to me this Love will never come Till summer days shall visit dark December. Woe's me! 'tis very sad, but 'tis my doom To hide a ghastly grief within my heart, And then to coin my lying cheek to smiles, Sure, smiles become a victim garlanded! WALTER (_awakening_). Fair lady, in my dream Methought I was a weak and lonely bird, In search of summer, wander'd on the sea, Toiling through mists, drenched by the arrowy rain, Struck by the heartless winds: at last, methought I came upon an isle in whose sweet air I dried my feathers, smoothed my ruffled breast, And skimmed delight from off the waving woods. Thy coming, lady, reads this dream of mine: I am the swallow, thou the summer land. Sweet, sweet is flattery to mortal ears, And, if I drink thy praise too greedily, My fault I'll match with grosser instances. Do not the royal souls that van the world Hunger for praises? Does not the hero burn To blow his triumphs in the trumpet's mouth? And do not poets' brows throb feverous Till they are cooled with laurels? Therefore, sir, If such dote more on praise than all the wealth Of precious-wombed earth and pearled mains, Blame not the cheeks of simple maidenhood. Fair sir, I am the empress of this wood! The courtier oaks bow in proud homages, And shake down o'er my path their golden leaves. Queen am I of this green and summer realm. This wood I've entered oft when all in sheen The princely Morning walks o'er diamond dews, And still have lingered, till the vain young Night Trembles o'er her own beauty in the sea. And as thou passest some mid-forest glade, The simple woodman stands amazed, as if An angel flashed by on his gorgeous wings. I am thine empress. Who and what art thou? Art thou Sir Bookworm? Haunter of old tomes, Sitting the silent term of stars to watch Your own thought passing into beauty, like An earnest mother watching the first smile Dawning upon her sleeping infant's face, Until she cannot see it for her tears? And when the lark, the laureate of the sun, Doth climb the east, eager to celebrate His monarch's crowning, goeth pale to bed,-- Art thou such denizen of book-world, pray? Books written when the soul is at spring-tide, When it is laden like a groaning sky Before a thunder-storm, are power and gladness, And majesty and beauty. They seize the reader As tempests seize a ship, and bear him on With a wild joy. Some books are drenched sands, On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps, Like a wrecked argosy. What power in books! They mingle gloom and splendour, as I've oft, In thund'rous sunsets, seen the thunder-piles Seamed with dull fire and fiercest glory-rents. They awe me to my knees, as if I stood In presence of a king. They give me tears; Such glorious tears as Eve's fair daughters shed, When first they clasped a Son of God, all bright With burning plumes and splendours of the sky, In zoning heaven of their milky arms. How few read books aright! Most souls are shut By sense from grandeur, as a man who snores, Night-capped and wrapt in blankets to the nose, Is shut in from the night, which, like a sea, Breaketh for ever on a strand of stars. Lady, in book-world have I ever dwelt, This book has domed my being like a sky. And who was its creator? He was one Who could not help it, for it was his nature To blossom into song, as 'tis a tree's To leaf itself in April. Did he love? Ay; and he suffered.--His was not that love That comes on men with their beards. His soul was rich; And this his book unveils it, as the night Her panting wealth of stars. The world was cold, And he went down like a lone ship at sea; And now the fame that scorned him while he lived Waits on him like a menial.---- Lay on her back and watched the shining stars, A Soul from its warm body shuddered out To the dim air and trembled with the cold; Through the waste air it passed as swift and still, As a dream passes through the lands of sleep, Till at the very gates of spirit-world 'Twas asked by a most worn and earnest shape That seemed to tremble on the coming word, About an orphan Poem, and if yet A Name was heard on earth. 'Tis very sad, And doth remind me of an old, low strain, I used to sing in lap of summers dead, When I was but a child, and when we played Like April sunbeams 'mong the meadow-flowers; Or romped i' the dews with weak complaining lambs; Or sat in circles on the primrose knolls, Striving with eager and palm-shaded eyes, 'Mid shouts and silver laughs, who first should catch The lark, a singing speck, go up the blue. I'll sing it to thee; 'tis a song of One-- (An image slept within his soul's caress, Like a sweet thought within a Poet's heart Ere it is born in joy and golden words)-- Of One whose naked soul stood clad in love, Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire. I'll sing it to thee. [LADY _sings._ In winter when the dismal rain Came down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines, A Poet sat in his antique room, His lamp the valley kinged, 'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he found Truth, fresh and golden-winged. When violets came and woods were green, And larks did skyward dart, A Love alit and white did sit, Like an angel on his heart. From his heart he unclasped his love Amid the trembling trees, And sent it to the Lady Blanche On winged poesies. The Lady Blanche was saintly fair, Nor proud, but meek her look; In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clear As pebbles in a brook. Her father's veins ran noble blood, His hall rose 'mid the trees; Like a sunbeam she came and went 'Mong the white cottages. The peasants thanked her with their tears, When food and clothes were given,-- "This is a joy," the Lady said, "Saints cannot taste in Heaven!" They met--the Poet told his love, His hopes, despairs, his pains,-- The Lady with her calm eyes mocked The tumult in his veins. He passed away--a fierce song leapt From cloud of his despair, As lightning, like a bright, wild beast, Leaps from its thunder-lair. He poured his frenzy forth in song,-- Bright heir of tears and praises! Now resteth that unquiet heart Beneath the quiet daisies. The world is old,--Oh! very old,-- The wild winds weep and rave; The world is old, and grey, and cold, Let it drop into its grave! Our ears, Sir Bookworm, hunger for _thy_ song. I have a strain of a departed bard; One who was born too late into this world. A mighty day was past, and he saw nought But ebbing sunset and the rising stars,-- Still o'er him rose those melancholy stars! Unknown his childhood, save that he was born 'Mong woodland waters full of silver breaks; That he grew up 'mong primroses moon-pale In the hearts of purple hills; that he o'er ran Green meadows golden in the level sun, A bright-haired child; and that, when these he left To dwell within a monstrous city's heart, The trees were gazing up into the sky, Their bare arms stretched in prayer for the snows. When first we met, his book was six months old, And eagerly his name was buzzed abroad; Praises fell thick on him. Men said, "This Dawn Will widen to a clear and boundless Day; And when it ripens to a sumptuous west With a great sunset 'twill be closed and crowned." Lady! he was as far 'bove common men As a sun-steed, wild-eyed and meteor-maned, Neighing the reeling stars, is 'bove a hack With sluggish veins of mud. More tremulous Than the soft star that in the azure east Trembles with pity o'er bright bleeding day, Was his frail soul; I dwelt with him for years; His pearls were plentier than my pebble-stones. He was the sun, I was that squab--the earth, And basked me in his light until he drew Flowers from my barren sides. Oh! he was rich, And I rejoiced upon his shore of pearls, A weak enamoured sea. Once did he say, "My Friend! a Poet must ere long arise, And with a regal song sun-crown this age, As a saint's head is with a halo crown'd;-- One, who shall hallow Poetry to God And to its own high use, for Poetry is The grandest chariot wherein king-thoughts ride;-- One, who shall fervent grasp the sword of song As a stern swordsman grasps his keenest blade, To find the quickest passage to the heart. A mighty Poet whom this age shall choose To be its spokesman to all coming times. In the ripe full-blown season of his soul, He shall go forward in his spirit's strength, And grapple with the questions of all time, And wring from them their meanings. As King Saul Called up the buried prophet from his grave To speak his doom, so shall this Poet-king Call up the dead Past from its awful grave To tell him of our future. As the air Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart of love-- Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake Reflects the flower, tree, rook, and bending heaven, Shall he reflect our great humanity; And as the young Spring breathes with living breath On a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantly Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he breathe life Through every theme he touch, making all Beauty And Poetry for ever like the stars." His words set me on fire; I cried aloud, "Gods! what a portion to forerun this Soul!" He grasped my hand,--I looked upon his face,-- A thought struck all the blood into his cheeks, Like a strong buffet. His great flashing eyes Burned on mine own. He said, "A grim old king, Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds, Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day; But in the sunset he was ebbing fast, Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand held His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood, That seemed to mourn him with its drooping head; His right, his broken brand; and in his ear His old victorious banners flap the winds. He called his faithful herald to his side,-- 'Go! tell the dead I come!' With a proud smile, The warrior with a stab let out his soul, Which fled and shrieked through all the other world, 'Ye dead! My master comes!' And there was pause Till the great shade should enter. Like that herald, Walter, I'd rush across this waiting world And cry, '_He_ comes!'" Lady, wilt hear the song? In the street, the tide of being, how it surges, how it rolls! God! what base ignoble faces, God! what bodies wanting souls, 'Mid this stream of human being, banked by houses tall and grim, Pale I stand this shining morrow with a pant for woodlands dim, And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood, in heart, in brain, One blest hour we sat together in a lone and silent place, "Passion as it runs grows purer, loses every tinge of clay, As from Dawn all red and turbid flows the white transparent Day, And in mingled lives of lovers, the array of human ills All my blood was in a moment glowing in my ardent face! Half-blind, I looked up to the host of palpitating stars, "I will risk all in this moment, I will either lose or find." "Dost thou love me?" then I whispered; for a minute after this, I rushed into the desert, where I stood with hopeless eyes, Glaring on vast desolations, barren sands, and empty skies! Soon a trembling naked figure, to the earth my face was bowed, Weary eyes are looking eastward, whence the golden sun upsprings, O! those souls of ours, my brothers! prisoned now in mortal bars, All unknown as royal Alfred in the Saxon neatherd's hut, In the Dark house of the Body, cooking victuals, lighting fires, Swelters on the starry stranger, to our nature's base desires. From its lips is 't any marvel that no revelations come? Throw the Present! 'tis thy servant only when 'tis overcast,-- Give battle to the leagued world, if thou'rt worthy, truly brave, Then on edge of glowing heaven smiles in triumph on the night. Lo! the song of Earth--a maniac's on a black and dreary road-- Rises up, and swells, and grandeurs, to the loud triumphal ode-- Earth casts off a slough of darkness, an eclipse of hell and sin, Lo! I see long blissful ages, when these mammon days are done, Stretching like a golden ev'ning forward to the setting sun. He sat one winter 'neath a linden tree In my bare orchard: "See, my friend," he said, "The stars among the branches hang like fruit, So, hopes were thick within me. When I'm gone The world will like a valuator sit Upon my soul, and say, 'I was a cloud That caught its glory from a sunken sun, And gradual burn'd into its native grey.'" On an October eve, 'twas his last wish To see again the mists and golden woods; Upon his death-bed he was lifted up, The slumb'rous sun within the lazy west With their last gladness filled his dying eyes. No sooner was he hence than critic-worms Were swarming on the body of his fame, And thus they judged the dead: "This Poet was An April tree whose vermeil-loaded boughs Promised to Autumn apples juiced and red, But never came to fruit." "He is to us But a rich odour,--a faint music-swell." "Poet he was not in the larger sense; He could write pearls, but he could never write A Poem round and perfect as a star." "Politic i' faith. His most judicious act Was dying when he did; the next five years Had fingered all the fine dust from his wings, And left him poor as we. He died--'twas shrewd! And came with all his youth and unblown hopes On the world's heart, and touched it into tears." Would'st thou, too, be a poet? A passion has grown up to be a King, Ruling my being with as fierce a sway As the mad sun the prostrate desert sands, And it is _that_. Hast some great cherished theme? Lovely in God's eyes, where, in barren space, Unwrinkled as a dew-drop, and as fair, In my poor eyes, my loved and chosen theme Is lovely as the universe in His. Wilt write of some young wanton of an isle Whose beauty so enamoured hath the sea, It clasps it ever in its summer arms And wastes itself away on it in kisses? Or the hot Indes, on whose teeming plains The seasons four knit in one flowery band Are dancing ever? Or some older realm? I will begin in the oldest; far in God. When all the ages, and all suns, and worlds, And souls of men and angels, lay in Him Like unborn forests in an acorn cup. And how wilt thou begin it? With old words! With the soliloquy with which God broke The silence of the dead eternities. At which most ancient words, O beautiful! With showery tresses like a child from sleep, The loveliest born of God. Then your first chorus Must be the shoutings of the morning stars! What martial music is to marching men Should Song be to Humanity. In song The infant ages born and swathed are. A beauteous menial to our wants divine, A shape celestial tending the dark earth With light and silver service like the moon, Is Poesy; ever remember this-- How wilt thou end it? When the great universe subsides in God, Ev'n as a moment's foam subsides again Upon the wave that bears it. Why, thy plan Is wide and daring as a comet's path! And doubtless 'twill contain the tale of earth By way of episode or anecdote. This precious world which one pale marred face Dropt tears upon. This base and beggar world To your rich soul! O! Marc Anthony, With a fine scorn did toss your world away For Cleopatra's lips!--so rich, so poor. _Antique Room._ WALTER _pacing up and down._ Thou day beyond to-morrow! though my life Should cease in thee, I'd dash aside the hours That intervene to bring thee quicklier here. Again to meet her in the windy woods! When last we met she was as marble, calm: I, with thick-beating heart and sight grown dim, And leaping pulses and loud-ringing ears, And tell-tale blood that rushed into my face, And blabbed the love secreted in my heart. She must have understood that crimson speech, And yet she frowned not. No, she never frowned I think that I am worthy to be loved. Oh, could I lift my heart into her sight, As an old mountain lifts its martyr's cairn Into the pure sight of the holy heavens! Would she but love me, I would live for her! Were she plain Night, I'd clothe her with my stars. My spirit, Poesy, would be her slave, 'Twould rifle for her ocean's secret hoards, And make her rough with pearls. If Death's pale realms Contained a gem out-lust'ring all the world, I would adventure there, and bring it her. My inmost being dwells upon her words, "Wilt trim a verse for me by this night week? Make it as jubilant as marriage bells; Or, if it please you, make it doleful sad As bells that knoll a maiden to her grave, When the spring earth is sweet in violets, And it will fit _one_ heart, yea, as the cry Of the lone plover fits a dismal heath." I'll write a tale through which my passion runs, Like honeysuckle through a hedge of June. A silent isle on which the love-sick sea Dies with faint kisses and a murmured joy, In the clear blue the lark hangs like a speck, And empties his full heart of music-rain O'er sunny slopes, where tender lambkins bleat, And new-born rills go laughing to the sea, O'er woods that smooth down to the southern shore, Waving in green, as the young breezes blow O'er the sea sphere all sweet and summer smells. Not of these years, but by-gone minstrel times, Of shepherd-days in the young world's sunrise, Was this warm clime, this quiet land of health, By gentle pagans filled, whose red blood ran Healthy and cool as milk,--pure, simple men: Ah, how unlike the swelterers in towns! Who ne'er can glad their eyes upon the green Sunshine-swathed earth; nor hear the singing rills, Nor feel the breezes in their lifted hair. A lovely youth, in manhood's very edge, Lived 'mong these shepherds and their quiet downs; Tall and blue-eyed, and bright in golden hair, With half-shut dreamy eyes, sweet earnest eyes, That seemed unoccupied with outward things, Feeding on something richer! Strangely, oft, A wildered smile lay on his noble lips. The sunburnt shepherds stared with awful eyes As he went past; and timid girls upstole, With wond'ring looks, to gaze upon his face, And on his cataract of golden curls, Then lonely grew, and went into the woods To think sweet thoughts, and marvel why they shook With heart-beat and with tremor when he came, And in the night he filled their dreams with joy. But there was one among that soft-voiced band Who pined away for love of his sweet eyes, And died among the roses of the spring. When Eve sat in the dew with closed lids, Came gentle maidens bearing forest flowers To strew upon her green and quiet grave. They soothed the dead with love-songs low and sweet; Songs sung of old beneath the purple night, Songs heard on earth with heart-beat and a blush, Songs heard in heaven by the breathless stars. Thought-wrapt, he wandered in the breezy woods In which the Summer, like a hermit, dwelt. He laid him down by the old haunted springs, Up-bubbling 'mid a world of greenery, Shut-eyed, and dreaming of the fairest shapes That roam the woods; and when the autumn nights Were dark and moonless, to the level sands He would betake him, there to hear, o'er-awed, The old Sea moaning like a monster pained. One day he lay within the pleasant woods On bed of flowers edging a fountain's brim, And gazed into its heart as if to count The veined and lucid pebbles one by one, Up-shining richly through the crystal clear. Thus lay he many hours, when, lo! he heard A maiden singing in the woods alone A sad and tender island melody, Which made a golden conquest of his soul, Bringing a sadness sweeter than delight. As nightingale, embowered in vernal leaves, Pants out her gladness the luxurious night, The moon and stars all hanging on her song, She poured her soul in music. When she ceased, The charmed woods and breezes silent stood, As if all ear to catch her voice again. Uprose the dreamer from his couch of flowers, With awful expectation in his look, And happy tears upon his pallid face, With eager steps, as if toward a heaven, He onward went, and, lo! he saw her stand, Fairer than Dian, in the forest glade. His footsteps startled her, and quick she turned Her face,--looks met like swords. He clasped his hands, And fell upon his knees; the while there broke A sudden splendour o'er his yearning face; 'Twas a pale prayer in its very self. "I know thee, lovely maiden!" then he cried; "I know thee, and of thee I have been told: Been told by all the roses of the vale, By hermit streams, by pale sea-setting stars, And by the roaring of the storm-tost pines; And I have sought for thee upon the hills, In dim sweet dreams, on the complacent sea, When breathless midnight, with her thousand hearts, Beats to the same love-tune as my own heart. I've waited for thee many seasons through, Seen many autumns shed their yellow leaves O'er the oak-roots, heard many winters moan Through the leafless forests drearily. Now am I joyful, as storm-battered dove That finds a perch in the Hesperides, For thou art found. Thou, whom I long have sought, My other self! Our blood, our hearts, our souls, Shall henceforth mingle in one being, like The married colours in the bow of heaven. My soul is like a wide and empty fane, Sit thou in 't like a god, O maid divine! With worship and religion 'twill be filled. My soul is empty, lorn, and hungry space; Leap thou into it like a new-born star, And 'twill o'erflow with splendour and with bliss. More music! music! music! maid divine! My hungry senses, like a finch's brood, Are all a-gape. O feed them, maid divine! Feed, feed my hungry soul with melodies!" Thus, like a worshipper before a shrine, He earnest syllabled, and, rising up, He led that lovely stranger tenderly Through the green forest toward the burning west. He never, by the maidens of the isle Nor by the shepherds, was thereafter seen 'Mong sunrise splendours on the misty hills, Or stretched at noon by the old haunted wells, Or by the level sands on autumn nights. I've heard that maidens have been won by song. O Poesy, fine sprite! I'd bless thee more If thou would'st bring that lady's love to me, Than immortality in twenty worlds. I'd rather win her than God's youngest star, With singing continents and seas of bliss.---- Thou day beyond to-morrow, haste thee on! _The Banks of a River._--WALTER _and the_ LADY. The stream of sunsets? 'Tis that loveliest stream. I've learned by heart its sweet and devious course By frequent tracing, as a lover learns The features of his best-beloved's face. In memory it runs, a shining thread, With sunsets strung upon it thick, like pearls. From yonder trees I've seen the western sky All washed with fire, while, in the midst, the sun Beat like a pulse, welling at ev'ry beat A spreading wave of light. Where yonder church Stands up to heaven, as if to intercede For sinful hamlets scattered at its feet, I saw the dreariest sight. The sun was down, And all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, "Behold! the barren beach of hell At ebb of tide." The ghost of one bright hour Comes from its grave and stands before me now. 'Twas at the close of a long summer day, As we were sitting on yon grassy slope, The sunset hung before us like a dream That shakes a demon in his fiery lair; The clouds were standing round the setting sun Like gaping caves, fantastic pinnacles, Citadels throbbing in their own fierce light, Tall spires that came and went like spires of flame, Cliffs quivering with fire-snow, and peaks Of piled gorgeousness, and rocks of fire A-tilt and poised, bare beaches, crimson seas, All these were huddled in that dreadful west, All shook and trembled in unsteadfast light, And from the centre blazed the angry sun, Stern as the unlashed eye of God a-glare O'er evening city with its boom of sin. I do remember, as we journeyed home, (That dreadful sunset burnt into our brains), With what a soothing came the naked moon. She, like a swimmer who has found his ground, Came rippling up a silver strand of cloud, And plunged from the other side into the night. I and that friend, the feeder of my soul, Did wander up and down these banks for years, Talking of blessed hopes and holy faiths, How sin and weeping all should pass away In the calm sunshine of the earth's old age. Breezes are blowing in old Chaucer's verse, 'Twas here we drank them. Here for hours we hung O'er the fine pants and trembles of a line. Oft, standing on a hill's green head, we felt Breezes of love, and joy, and melody, Blow through us, as the winds blow through the sky. Oft with our souls in our eyes all day we fed On summer landscapes, silver-veined with streams, O'er which the air hung silent in its joy-- With a great city lying in its smoke, A monster sleeping in its own thick breath; And surgy plains of wheat, and ancient woods, In the calm evenings cawed by clouds of rooks, Acres of moss, and long black strips of firs, And sweet cots dropt in green, where children played To us unheard, till, gradual, all was lost In distance-haze to a blue rim of hills, Upon whose heads came down the closing sky. Beneath the crescent moon on autumn nights We paced its banks with overflowing hearts, Discoursing long of great thought-wealthy souls, And with what spendthrift hands they scatter wide Their spirit-wealth, making mankind their debtors: Affluent spirits, dropt from the teeming stars, Who come before their time, are starved, and die, Like swallows that arrive before the summer. Or haply talked of dearer personal themes, Blind guesses at each other's after fate; Feeling our leaping hearts, we marvelled oft How they should be unleashed, and have free course To stretch and strain far down the coming time-- But in our guesses never was the _grave_. The tale! the tale! the tale! As empty halls Gape for a coming pageant, my fond ears To take its music are all eager-wide. Within yon grove of beeches is a well, I've made a vow to read it only there. As I suppose, by way of recompense, For quenching thirst on some hot summer day. Memories grow around it thick as flow That well is loved and haunted by a star. The live-long day her clear and patient eye Is open on the soft and bending blue, Just where she lost her lover in the morn. But with the night the star creeps o'er the trees And smiles upon her, and some happy hours She holds his image in her crystal heart. Beside that well I read the mighty Bard Who clad himself with beauty, genius, wealth, Then flung himself on his own passion-pyre And was consumed. Beside that lucid well The whitest lilies grow for many miles. 'Tis said that, 'mong the flowers of perished years, A prince woo'd here a lady of the land, And when with faltering lips he told his love, Into her proud face leapt her prouder blood; She struck him blind with scorn, then with an air As if she wore the crowns of all the world, She swept right on and left him in the dew. Again he sat at even with his love, He sent a song into her haughty ears To plead for him;--she listened, still he sang. Tears, drawn by music, were upon her face, Till on its trembling close, to which she clung Like dying wretch to life, with a low cry She flung her arms around him, told her love, And how she long had loved him, but had kept It in her heart, like one who has a gem And hoards it up in some most secret place, While he who owns it seeks it and with tears. Won by the sweet omnipotence of song! He gave her lands! she paid him with herself. Brow-bound with gold she sat, the fairest thing Within his sea-washed shores. Most fit reward! A poet's love should ever thus be paid. Ha! Dost thou think so? Yes. The tale! the tale! On balcony, all summer roofed with vines, A lady half-reclined amid the light, Golden and green, soft-showering through the leaves, Silent she sat one-half the silent noon; At last she sank luxurious in her couch, Purple and golden-fringed, like the sun's, And stretched her white arms on the warmed air, As if to take some object wherewithal To ease the empty aching of her heart. "Oh, what a weariness of life is mine!" The lady said, "soothing myself to sleep With my own lute, floating about the lake To feed my swans; with nought to stir my blood, Unless I scold my women thrice a-day. Unwrought yet in the tapestry of my life Are princely suitors kneeling evermore. I, in my beauty, standing in the midst, Touching them, careless, with most stately eyes. Oh, I could love, methinks, with all my soul! But I see nought to love; nought save some score Of lisping, curl'd gallants, with words i' their mouths Soft as their mothers' milk. Oh, empty heart! Oh, palace, rich and purple-chambered! When will thy lord come home? "When the grey morn was groping 'bout the east The Earl went trooping forth to chase the stag; I trust he hath not, to the sport he loves Better than ale-bouts, ta'en my cub of Ind. My sweetest plaything. He is bright and wild As is a gleaming panther of the hills,-- Lovely as lightning, beautiful as wild! His sports and laughters are with fierceness edged; There's something in his beauty all untamed, As I were toying with a naked sword, Which starts within my veins the blood of earls. I fain would have the service of his voice To kill with music this most languid noon." She rang a silver bell: with downcast eyes The tawny nursling of the Indian sun Stood at her feet. "I pr'ythee, Leopard, sing; Give me some stormy song of sword and lance, Which, rushing upward from a hero's heart, Straight rose upon a hundred leaguered hills, Ragged and wild as pyramid of flame. Or, better, sing some hungry lay of love Like that you sang me on the eve you told How poor our English to your Indian darks; Shaken from od'rous hills, what tender smells Pass like fine pulses through the mellow nights; The purple ether that embathes the moon,-- Your large round moon, more beautiful than ours; Your showers of stars, each hanging luminous, Like golden dewdrops in the Indian air." "I know a song, born in the heart of love, Its sweetest sweet, steeped ere the close in tears. 'Twas sung into the cold ears of the stars Beside the murmured margent of the sea. 'Tis of two lovers, matched like cymbals fine, Who, in a moment of luxurious blood, Their pale lips trembling in the kiss of gods, Made their lives wine-cups, and then drank them off, And died with beings full-blown like a rose; A mighty heart-pant bore them like a wave, And flung them, flowers, upon the next world's strand. Night the solemn, night the starry, 'Mong the oak-trees old and gnarry; By the sea-shore and the ships, 'Neath the stars I sat with Clari; Her silken bodice was unlaced, My arm was trembling round her waist, I plucked the joys upon her lips; Joys that plucked still grow again! Canst thou say the same, old Night? Ha! thy life is vain. Oh, that death would let me tarry Like a dewdrop on a flower, Ever on those lips of Clari! Our beings mellow, then they fall, Like o'er-ripe peaches from the wall; We ripen, drop, and all is o'er; On the cold grave weeps the rain; I weep it should be so, old Night. Ah! my tears are vain. Night the solemn, night the starry, Say, alas! that years should harry Gloss from life and joy from lips, Love-lustre from the eyes of Clari! Moon! that walkest the blue deep, Like naked maiden in her sleep; Star! whose pallid splendour dips In the ghost-waves of the main. Oh, ye hear me not! old Night, My tears and cries are vain." He ceased to sing; queenly the lady lay, One white hand hidden in a golden shoal Of ringlets, reeling down upon her couch, And heaving on the heavings of her breast, The while the thoughts rose in her eyes like stars, Rising and setting in the blue of night. "I had a cousin once," the lady said, "Who brooding sat, a melancholy owl, Among the twilight-branches of his thoughts. He was a rhymer, and great knights he spoiled, And damsels saved, and giants slew--in verse. He died in youth; his heart held a dead hope, As holds the wretched west the sunset's corpse: He went to his grave, nor told what man he was. He was unlanguaged, like the earnest sea, Which strives to gain an utterance on the shore, But ne'er can shape unto the listening hills The lore it gathered in its awful age; The crime for which 'tis lashed by cruel winds; The thought, pain, grief, within its labouring breast. To fledge with music, wings of heavy noon, I'll sing some verses that he sent to me:-- Where the west has sunset-bloomed, Where a hero's heart is tombed, Where a thunder-cloud has gloomed, Seen, becomes a part of me. Flowers and rills live sunnily In gardens of my memory. Through its walks and leafy lanes, Float fair shapes 'mong sunlight rains; Blood is running in their veins. One, a queenly maiden fair, Sweepeth past me with an air, Kings might kneel beneath her stare. Round her heart, a rosebud free, Reeled I, like a drunken bee; Alas! it would not ope to me. One comes shining like a saint, But her face I cannot paint, For mine eyes and blood grow faint. Eyes are dimmed as by a tear, Sounds are ringing in mine ear, I feel only, she is here, That she laugheth where she stands, That she mocketh with her hands; I am bound in tighter bands. Laid 'mong faintest blooms is one, Singing in the setting sun, And her song is never done. She was born 'mong water-mills; She grew up 'mong flowers and rills, In the hearts of distant hills. There, into her being stole Nature, and embued the whole, And illumed her face and soul. She grew fairer than her peers; Still her gentle forehead wears Holy lights of infant years. Her blue eyes, so mild and meek, She uplifteth, when I speak, Lo! the blushes mount her cheek. Weary I of pride and jest, In this rich heart I would rest, Purple and love-lined nest. "My dazzling panther of the smoking hills, When the hot sun hath touched their loads of dew, What strange eyes had my cousin, who could thus (For you must know I am the first o' the three That pace the gardens of his memory) Prefer before the daughter of great earls, This giglot, shining in her golden hair, Haunting him like a gleam or happy thought; Or her, the last, up whose cheeks blushes went As thick and frequent as the streamers pass Up cold December nights. True, she might be A dainty partner in the game of lips, Sweet'ning the honeymoon; but what, alas! When redhot youth cools down to iron man? Could her white fingers close a helmet up, And send her lord unkissed away to field, Her heart striking with his arm in every blow? Would joy rush through her spirit like a stream, When to her lips he came with victory back: Acclaims and blessings on his head like crowns, His mouthed wounds brave trumpets in his praise, Drawing huge shoals of people, like the moon, Whose beauty draws the solemn-noised seas? Or would his bright and lovely sanguine-stains Scare all the coward blood into her heart, Leaving her cheeks as pale as lily leaves? And at his great step would she quail and faint, And pay his seeking arms with bloodless swoon? My heart would leap to greet such coming lord, Eager to meet him, tiptoe on my lips." "This cousin loved the Lady Constance; did The Lady Constance love her cousin, too?" "Ay, as a cousin. He woo'd me, Leopard mine, I speared him with a jest; for there are men Whose sinews stiffen 'gainst a knitted brow, Yet are unthreaded, loosened by a sneer, And their resolve doth pass as doth a wave: Of this sort was my cousin. I saw him once, Adown a pleached alley, in the sun, Two gorgeous peacocks pecking from his hand; At sight of me he first turned red, then pale. I laughed and said, 'I saw a misery perched I' the melancholy corners of his mouth, Like griffins on each side my father's gates.' And, 'That by sighing he would win my heart, Somewhere as soon as he could hug the earth, And crack its golden ribs.' A week the boy Dwelt in his sorrow, like a cataract Unseen, yet sounding through its shrouding mists. Strange likings, too, this cousin had of mine. A frail cloud trailing o'er the midnight moon, Was lovelier sight than wounded boar a-foam Among the yelping dogs. He'd lie in fields, And through his fingers watch the changing clouds, Those playful fancies of the mighty sky, With deeper interest than a lady's face. He had no heart to grasp the fleeting hour, Which, like a thief, steals by with silent foot, He scarce would match this throned and kingdom'd earth Against a dew drop. "Who'd leap into the chariot of my heart, And seize the reins, and wind it to his will, Must be of other stuff, my cub of Ind; White honour shall be like a plaything to him, Borne lightly, a pet falcon on his wrist; One who can feel the very pulse o' the time, Instant to act, to plunge into the strife, And with a strong arm hold the rearing world. In costly chambers hushed with carpets rich, Swept by proud beauties in their whistling silks, Mars' plait shall smooth to sweetness on his brow; His mighty front whose steel flung back the sun, When horsed for battle, shall bend above a hand Laid like a lily in his tawny palm, With such a grace as takes the gazer's eye. His voice that shivered the mad trumpet's blare,-- A new-raised standard to the reeling field,-- Shall know to tremble at a lady's ear, To charm her blood with the fine touch of praise, And as she listens--steal away the heart. If the good gods do grant me such a man, More would I dote upon his trenched brows, His coal-black hair, proud eyes, and scornful lips, Than on a gallant, curled like Absalom, Cheek'd like Apollo, with his luted voice. "Canst tell me, Sir Dark-eyes, Is 't true what these strange-thoughted poets say, That hearts are tangled in a golden smile? That brave cheeks pale before a queenly brow? That mail'd knees bend beneath a lighted eye? That trickling tears are deadlier than swords? That with our full-mooned beauty we can slave Spirits that walk time, like the travelling sun, With sunset glories girt around his loins? That love can thrive upon such dainty food As sweet words, showering from a rosy lip, As sighs, and smiles, and tears, and kisses warm?" The dark Page lifted up his Indian eyes To that bright face, and saw it all a-smile; And then half grave, half jestingly, he said,-- "The devil fisheth best for souls of men When his hook is baited with a lovely limb; Love lights upon the heart, and straight we feel More worlds of wealth gleam in an upturned eye, Than in the rich heart of the miser sea. Beauty hath made our greatest manhoods weak. There have been men who chafed, leapt on their times, And reined them in as gallants rein their steeds To curvetings, to show their sweep of limb; Yet love hath on their broad brows written 'fool.' Sages, with passions held in leash like hounds; Grave Doctors, tilting with a lance of light In lists of argument, have knelt and sighed Most plethoric sighs, and been but very men; Stern hearts, close barred against a wanton world, Have had their gates burst open by a kiss. Why, there was one who might have topped all men, Who bartered joyously for a single smile This empired planet with its load of crowns, And thought himself enriched. If ye are fair, Mankind will crowd around you thick as when The full-faced moon sits silver on the sea, The eager waves lift up their gleaming heads, Each shouldering for her smile." The lady dowered him with her richest look, Her arch head half aside, her liquid eyes, From 'neath their dim lids drooping slumberous, Stood full on his, and called the wild blood up All in a tumult to his sun-kissed cheek, As if it wished to see her beauty too-- Then asked in dulcet tones, "Dost think _me_ fair?" "Oh, thou art fairer than an Indian morn, Seated in her sheen palace of the east. Thy faintest smile out-prices the swelled wombs Of fleets, rich-glutted, toiling wearily To vomit all their wealth on English strands. The whiteness of this hand should ne'er receive A poorer greeting than the kiss of kings; And on thy happy lips doth sit a joy, Fuller than any gathered by the gods, In all the rich range of their golden heaven." "Now, by my mother's white enskied soul!" The lady cried, 'twixt laugh and blush the while, "I'll swear thou'st been in love, my Indian sweet. Thy spirit on another breaks in joy, Like the pleased sea on a white-breasted shore-- That blush tells tales. And now, I swear by all That thou dost keep her looks, her words, her sighs, Her laughs, her tears, her angers, and her frowns, Balmed between memory's leaves; and ev'ry day Dost count them o'er and o'er in solitude, As pious monks count o'er their rosaries. Now, tell me, did she give thee love for love? Or didst thou make Midnight thy confidant, Telling her all about thy lady's eyes, How rich her cheek, how cold as death her scorn? My lustrous Leopard, hast thou been in love?" The Page's dark face flushed the hue of wine In crystal goblet stricken by the sun; His soul stood like a moon within his eyes, Suddenly orbed; his passionate voice was shook By trembling into music.--"Thee I love." "Thou!" and the Lady, with a cruel laugh, (Each silver throb went through him like a sword,) Flung herself back upon her fringed couch. From which she rose upon him like a queen, She rose and stabbed him with her angry eyes. "'Tis well my father did not hear thee, boy, Or else my pretty plaything of an hour Might have gone sleep to-night without his head, And I might waste rich tears upon his fate. I would not have my sweetest plaything hurt. Dost think to scorch me with those blazing eyes, My fierce and lightning-blooded cub o' the sun? Thy blood is up in riot on thy brow, I' the face o' its monarch. Peace! By my grey sire, Now could I slay thee with one look of hate, One single look! My Hero! my Heart-god! My dusk Hyperion, Bacchus of the Inds! My Hercules, with chin as smooth as my own! I am so sorry maid, I cannot wear Thou art too bold, methinks! Didst never fear That on my poor deserts thy love would sit Like a great diamond on a threadbare robe? I tremble for 't. I pr'ythee, come to-morrow And I will pasture you upon my lips Until thy beard be grown. Go now, sir, go." As thence she waved him with arm-sweep superb, The light of scorn was cold within her eyes, And withered his bloom'd heart, which, like a rose, Had opened, timid, to the noon of love. The lady sank again into her couch, Panting and flushed; slowly she paled with thought; When she looked up the sun had sunk an hour, And one round star shook in the orange west. The lady sighed, "It was my father's blood That bore me, as a red and wrathful stream Bears a shed leaf. I would recall my words, And yet I would not. Into what angry beauty rushed his face! What lips! what splendid eyes! 'twas pitiful To see such splendours ebb in utter woe. His eyes half-won me. Tush! I am a fool; The blood that purples in these azure veins, Rich'd with its long course through a hundred earls, Were fouled and mudded if I stooped to him. My father loves him for his free wild wit; I for his beauty and sun-lighted eyes. To bring him to my feet, to kiss my hand, Had I it in my gift, I'd give the world, Its panting fire-heart, diamonds, veins of gold; Its rich strands, oceans, belts of cedared hills, Whence summer smells are struck by all the winds. But whether I might lance him through the brain With a proud look,--or whether sternly kill Him with a single deadly word of scorn,-- Or whether yield me up, And sink all tears and weakness in his arms, And strike him blind with a strong shock of joy-- Alas! I feel I could do each and all. I will be kind when next he brings me flowers, Plucked from the shining forehead of the morn, Ere they have oped their rich cores to the bee. His wild heart with a ringlet will I chain, And o'er him I will lean me like a heaven, And feed him with sweet looks and dew-soft words, And beauty that might make a monarch pale, And thrill him to the heart's core with a touch; Smile him to Paradise at close of eve, To hang upon my lips in silver dreams." What, art thou done already? Thy tale is like A day unsealed with sunset. What though dusk? A dusky rod of iron hath power to draw The lightnings from their heaven to itself. The richest wage you can pay love is--love. Then close the tale thyself, I drop the mask; I am the sun-tanned Page; the Lady, thou! I take thy hand, it trembles in my grasp; I look in thy face and see no frown in it. O may my spirit on hope's ladder climb From hungry nothing up to star-packed space, Thence strain on tip-toe to thy love beyond-- The only heaven I ask! My God! 'tis hard! When I was all in leaf the frost winds came, And now, when o'er me runs the summer's breath, It waves but iron boughs. What dost thou murmur? Thy cheeks burn mad as mine. O untouched lips! I see them as a glorious rebel sees A crown within his reach. I'll taste their bliss Although the price be death---- LADY (_springing up_). Walter! beware! These tell-tale heavens are list'ning earnestly. O Sir! within a month my bridal bells Will make a village glad. The fainting Earth Is bleeding at her million golden veins, And by her blood I'm bought. The sun shall see A pale bride wedded to grey hair, and eyes Of cold and cruel blue; and in the spring A grave with daisies on it. [_A pause._ O my friend! We twain have met like ships upon the sea, Who hold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet; One little hour! and then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam, To meet no more. We have been foolish, Walter! I would to God that I had never known This secret of thy heart, or else had met thee Years before this. I bear a heavy doom. If thy rich heart is like a palace shattered, Stand up amid the ruins of thy heart, And with a calm brow front the solemn stars. 'Tis four o'clock already. She, the moon, Has climbed the blue steep of the eastern sky, And sits and tarries for the coming night. So let thy soul be up and ready armed, In waiting till occasion comes like night; As night to moons to souls occasion comes. I am thine elder, WALTER! in the heart, I read thy future like an open book: I see thou shalt have grief; I also see Thy grief's edge blunted on the iron world. Be brave and strong through all thy wrestling years, A brave soul is a thing which all things serve; When the great Corsican from Elba came, The soldiers sent to take him, bound or dead, Were struck to statues by his kingly eyes: He spoke--they broke their ranks, they clasped his knees, With tears along a cheering road of triumph They bore him to a throne. Know when to die! Perform thy work and straight return to God. Oh! there are men who linger on the stage To gather crumbs and fragments of applause When they should sleep in earth--who, like the moon, Have brightened up some little night of time, And 'stead of setting when their light is worn, Still linger, like its blank and beamless orb, When daylight fills the sky. But I must go. Nay, nay, I go alone! Yet one word more,-- Strive for the Poet's crown, but ne'er forget How poor are fancy's blooms to thoughtful fruits; That gold and crimson mornings, though more bright Than soft blue days, are scarcely half their worth. Walter, farewell! the world shall hear of thee. I have a strange sweet thought. I do believe I shall be dead in spring, and that the soul Which animates and doth inform these limbs Will pass into the daisies of my grave: If memory shall ever lead thee there, Through daisies I'll look up into thy face And feel a dim sweet joy; and if they move, As in a little wind, thou'lt know 't is I. [LADY _goes._ WALTER (_after a long interval, looking up_). God! what a light has passed away from earth Since my last look! How hideous this night! How beautiful the yesterday that stood Over me like a rainbow! I am alone. The past is past. I see the future stretch All dark and barren as a rainy sea. WALTER, _wandering down a rural lane. Evening of the same day as Scene IV._ Sunset is burning like the seal of God Upon the close of day.--This very hour Night mounts her chariot in the eastern glooms To chase the flying Sun, whose flight has left Footprints of glory in the clouded west: Swift is she haled by winged swimming steeds, Whose cloudy manes are wet with heavy dews, And dews are drizzling from her chariot wheels. Soft in her lap lies drowsy-lidded Sleep, Brainful of dreams, as summer hive with bees; And round her in the pale and spectral light Flock bats and grisly owls on noiseless wings. The flying sun goes down the burning west, Vast night comes noiseless up the eastern slope, And so the eternal chase goes round the world. Unrest! unrest! The passion-panting sea Watches the unveiled beauty of the stars Like a great hungry soul. The unquiet clouds Break and dissolve, then gather in a mass, And float like mighty icebergs through the blue. Summers, like blushes, sweep the face of earth; Heaven yearns in stars. Down comes the frantic rain; We hear the wail of the remorseful winds In their strange penance. And this wretched orb Knows not the taste of rest; a maniac world, Homeless and sobbing through the deep she goes. O thou bright thing, fresh from the hand of God, The motions of thy dancing limbs are swayed By the unceasing music of thy being! Nearer I seem to God when looking on thee. 'Tis ages since he made his younger star. His hand was on thee as 'twere yesterday, Thou later Revelation! Silver Stream, Breaking with laughter from the lake divine Whence all things flow! O bright and singing babe! What wilt thou be hereafter?--Why should man Perpetuate this round of misery When he has in his hand the power to close it? Let there be no warm hearts, no love on earth. No Love! No Love! Love bringeth wretchedness. No holy marriage. No sweet infant smiles. No mother's bending o'er the innocent sleep With unvoiced prayers and with happy tears. Let the whole race die out, and with a stroke, A master-stroke, at once cheat Death and Hell Of half of their enormous revenues. One of my peasants. 'Tis a fair eve. How sweet the smell of beans upon the air; The wheat is earing fairly. We have reason For thankfulness to God. WALTER (_looking upward_). We _have_ great reason; For He provides a balm for all our woes. He has made Death. Thrice blessed be His name! He has made Heaven---- To yawn eternities. Did I say death? O God! there is no death. When our eyes close, we only pass one stage Of our long being.--Dost thou wish to die? I trust in God to live for many years, Although with a worn frame and with a heart Somewhat the worse for wear. O fool! fool! fool! These hands are brown with toil; that brow is seamed, Still must you sweat and swelter in the sun, And trudge, with feet benumbed, the winter's snow, Nor intermission have until the end. Thou canst not draw down fame upon thy head, And yet would cling to life! I'll not believe it; The faces of all things belie their hearts, Each man's as weary of his life as I. This anguish'd earth shines on the moon--a moon. The moon hides with a cloak of tender light A scarr'd heart fed upon by hungry fires. Black is this world, but blacker is the next; There is no rest for any living soul: We are immortals--and must bear with us Through all eternity this hateful being; Restlessly flitting from pure star to star, The memory of our sins, deceits, and crimes, Eating into us like a poisoned robe. Yet thou canst wear content upon thy face And talk of thankfulness! O die, man, die! Get underneath the earth for very shame. at its close her Father presents her to_ WALTER. Is this thy answer? [_Looks at her earnestly._ O my worthy friend, I lost a world to-day and shed no tear; Now I could weep for _thee_. Sweet sinless one! My heart is weak as a great globe, all sea. It finds no shore to break on but thyself: So let it break. looking fearfully up at him._ _A Room in London._ WALTER _reading from a manuscript._ My head is grey, my blood is young, Red-leaping in my veins, The spring doth stir my spirit yet To seek the cloistered violet, The primrose in the lanes. In heart I am a very boy, Haunting the woods, the waterfalls, The ivies on grey castle-walls; Weeping in silent joy When the broad sun goes down the west, Or trembling o'er a sparrow's nest. The world might laugh were I to tell What most my old age cheers,-- Mem'ries of stars and crescent moons, Of nutting strolls through autumn noons, Rainbows 'mong April's tears. But chief, to live that hour again, When first I stood on sea-beach old, First heard the voice, first saw out-rolled The glory of the main. Many rich draughts hath Memory, The Soul's cup-bearer, brought to me. I saw a garden in my strolls, A lovely place, I ween, With rows of vermeil-blossomed trees, With flowers, with slumb'rous haunts of bees, With summer-house of green. A peacock perched upon a dial, In the sun's face he did unclose His train superb with eyes and glows, To dare the sun to trial. A child sat in a shady place, A shower of ringlets round her face. She sat on shaven plot of grass, With earnest face, and weaving Lilies white and freaked pansies Into quaint delicious fancies, Then, on a sudden leaving Her floral wreath, she would upspring With silver shouts and ardent eyes, To chase the yellow butterflies, Making the garden ring; Then gravely pace the scented walk, Soothing her doll with childish talk. And being, as I said before, An old man who could find A boundless joy beneath the skies, And in the light of human eyes, And in the blowing wind, There, daily were my footsteps turned, Through the long spring, until the peach Was drooping full-juiced in my reach.-- Each day my old heart yearned To look upon that child so fair, That infant in her golden hair. In this green lovely world of ours I have had many pets, Two are still leaping in the sun, Three are married; _that_ dearest one Is 'neath the violets. I gazed till my heart grew wild, To fold her in my warm caresses, Clasp her showers of golden tresses,-- Oh, dreamy-eyed child! O Child of Beauty! still thou art A sunbeam in this lonely heart. When autumn eves grew chill and rainy, England left I for the Ganges; I couched 'mong groves of cedar-trees, Blue lakes, and slumb'rous palaces, Crossed the snows of mountain-ranges, Saw wild flocks and wild-eyed shepherds, Princes charioted by leopards, In the desert met the lion, The mad sun above us glaring,-- Child! for thee I still was caring. Home returned from realms barbaric, By the shores of Loch Lubnaig, A dear friend and I were walking ('Twas the Sabbath), we were talking Of dreams and feelings vague; We paused by a place of graves, Scarcely a word was 'twixt us given, Silent the earth, silent the heaven, No murmur of the waves, The awed Loch lay black and still In the black shadow of the hill. We loosed the gate and wandered in, When the sun eternal Was sudden blanched with amethyst, As if a thick and purple mist Dusked his brows supernal. Soon like a god in mortal throes, City, hill, and sea, he dips In the death-hues of eclipse; Mightier his anguish grows, Till he hung black, with ring intense, The wreck of his magnificence. Above the earth's cold face he hung With a pale ring of glory, Like that which cunning limners paint Around the forehead of a saint, Or brow of martyr hoary. And sitting there I could but choose,-- That blind and stricken sun aboon, Stars shuddering through the ghostly noon, 'Mong the thick-falling dews,-- To tell, with features pale and wild, About that Garden and that Child. When moons had waxed and waned, I stood Beside the garden gate, The Peacock's dial was overthrown, The walks with moss were overgrown, _Her_ bower was desolate. Gazing in utter misery Upon that sad and silent place, A woman came with mournful face, And thus she said to me,-- "Those trees, as they were human souls, All withered at the death-bell knolls." I turned and asked her of the child. "She is gone hence," quoth she, "To be with Christ in Paradise. Oh, sir! I stilled her infant cries, I nursed her on my knee. Though we were ever at her side, And saw life fading in her cheek, She knew us not, nor did she speak, Till just before she died; In the wild heart of that eclipse, These words came through her wasted lips:-- 'The callow young were huddling in the nests, The marigold was burning in the marsh, Like a thing dipt in sunset, when He came. My blood went up to meet Him on my face, Glad as a child that hears its father's step, And runs to meet him at the open porch. I gave Him all my being, like a flower That flings its perfume on a vagrant breeze; A breeze that wanders on and heeds it not. His scorn is lying on my heart like snow, My eyes are weary, and I fain would sleep; The quietest sleep is underneath the ground. Are ye around me, friends? I cannot see, I cannot hear the voices that I love, I lift my hands to you from out the night! Methought I felt a tear upon my cheek; Weep not, my mother! It is time to rest, And I am very weary; so, good night!' "My heart is in the grave with her, The family went abroad; Last autumn you might see the fruits, Neglected, rot round the tree-roots; This spring no leaves they shewed. I sometimes fear my brain is crost: Around this place, the churchyard yonder, All day, all night, I silent wander, As woeful as a ghost---- God take me to His gracious keeping, But this old man is wildly weeping!" That night the sky was heaped with clouds; Through one blue gulf profound, Begirt with many a cloudy crag, The moon came rushing like a stag, And one star like a hound. Wearily the chase I eyed, Wearily I saw the Dawn's Feet sheening o'er the dewy lawns. O God! that I had died. My heart's red tendrils were all torn And bleeding on that summer morn. WALTER (_after a long silence, speaking abstractedly, and with frequent pauses_). Twice hath the windy Summer made a noise Of leaves o'er all the land from sea to sea, And still that Child's face sleeps within my heart Like a young sunbeam in a gloomy wood, Making the darkness smile--I almost smile At the strange fancies I have girt her with; The garden, peacock, and the black eclipse, The still old graveyard 'mong the dreary hills, Grey mourners round it--I wonder if she's dead? She was too fair for earth. Ah! she would die Like music, sunbeams, and the pallid flowers That spring on Winter's corse--I saw those graves With Him who is no more. They are all dead, The beings whom I loved, and I am sad, But would not change my sadness for a life Without a fissure running through its joy. This very hour a suite of sumptuous rooms O'erflows with music like a cup with wine; Outside, the night is weeping like a girl At her seducer's door, and still the rooms Run o'er with music, careless of her woe. I would not have my heart thus. This poor rhyme My misery tricked out in a quaint disguise. Oh, it did happen on a summer day When I was playing unawares with flowers, That happiness shot past me like a planet, And I was barren left! _Enter_ EDWARD, _unobserved._ Walter's love-sick for Fame: A haughty mistress! How this mad old world Reels to its burning grave, shouting forth names, Like a wild drunkard at his frenzy's height, And they who bear them deem such shoutings _Fame_, And, smiling, die content. What is thy thought? 'Tis this, a sad one:--Though our beings point Upward, like prayers or quick spires of flame, We soon lose interest in this breathing world. Joy palls from taste to taste, until we yawn In Pleasure's glowing face. When first we love, Our souls are clad with joy, as if a tree, All winter-bare, had on a sudden leapt To a full load of blooms; next time 'tis nought. Great weariness doth feed upon the soul; I sometimes think the highest-blest in heaven Will weary 'mong its flowers. As for myself, There's nothing new between me and the grave But the cold feel of Death. Watch well thy heart! It is, methinks, an eager shaking star, Not a calm steady planet. I love thee much, But thou art all unlike the glorious guide Of my proud boyhood. Oh, he led me up, As Hesper, large and brilliant, leads the night! Our pulses beat together, and our beings Mixed like two voices in one perfect tune, And his the richest voice. He loved all things, From God to foam-bells dancing down a stream, With a most equal love. Thou mock'st at much; And he who sneers at any living hope Or aspiration of a human heart, Is just so many stages less than God, That universal and all-sided Love. I'm wretched, Edward! to the very heart; I see an unreached heaven of young desire Shine through my hopeless tears. My drooping sails Flap idly 'gainst the mast of my intent. I rot upon the waters when my prow Should grate the golden isles. What wouldst thou do? Thy brain did teem with vapours wild and vast. But since my younger and my hotter days (As nebula condenses to an orb), These vapours gathered to one shining hope, Sole-hanging in my sky. What hope is that? To set this Age to music--The great work Before the Poet now--I do believe When it is fully sung, its great complaint, Its hope, its yearning, told to earth and heaven, Our troubled age shall pass, as doth a day That leaves the west all crimson with the promise Of the diviner morrow, which even then Is hurrying up the world's great side with light. Father! if I should live to see that morn, Let me go upward, like a lark, to sing One song in the dawning! Ah, my ardent friend! You need not tinker at this leaking world, 'Tis ruined past all cure. Edward, for shame! Not on a path of reprobation runs The trembling earth. God's eye doth follow her With far more love than doth her maid, the moon. Speak no harsh words of Earth, she is our mother, And few of us, her sons, who have not added A wrinkle to her brow. She gave us birth, We drew our nurture from her ample breast, And there is coming, for us both, an hour When we shall pray that she will ope her arms And take us back again. Oh, I would pledge My heart, my blood, my brain, to ease the earth Of but one single pang! So would not I. Because the pangs of earth shall ne'er be eased. We sleep on velvets now, instead of leaves; The land is covered with a net of iron, Upon whose spider-like, far-stretching lines, The trains are rushing, and the peevish sea Frets 'gainst the bulging bosoms of the ships, Whose keels have waked it from its hour's repose. Walter! this height of civilisation's tide Measures our wrong. We've made the immortal Soul Slave to the Body. 'Tis the Soul has wrought And laid the iron roads, evoked a power Next mightiest to God, to drive the trains That bring the country butter up to town; Has drawn the terrible lightning from its cloud, And tamed it to an eager Mercury, Running with messages of news and gain; And still the Soul is tasked to harder work, For Paradise, according to the world, Is scarce a league a-head. The man I loved Wrought this complaint of thine into a song, Which I sung long ago. We must reverse The plans of ages. Let the Body sweat, So that the soul be calm, why should _it_ work? Say, had I spent the pith of half my life, And made me master of our English law, What gain had I on resurrection morn, But such as hath the body of a clown, That it could turn a summerset on earth? A single soul is richer than all worlds, Its acts are only shadows of itself, And oft its wondrous wealth is all unknown; 'Tis like a mountain-range, whose rugged sides Feed starveling flocks of sheep; pierce the bare sides, And they ooze plenteous gold. We must go down And work our souls like mines, make books our lamps, Not shrines to worship at, nor heed the world-- Let it go roaring past. You sigh for Fame; Would serve as long as Jacob for his love, So you might win her. Spirits calm and still Are high above your order, as the stars Sit large and tranquil o'er the restless clouds That weep and lighten, pelt the earth with hail, And fret themselves away. The truly great Rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, Nor seek the confirmation of the world. Wouldst thou be calm and still? I'd be as lieve A minnow to leviathan, that draws A furrow like a ship. Away! away! You'd make the world a very oyster-bed. I'd rather be the glad, bright-leaping foam, Than the smooth sluggish sea. O let me live To love and flush and thrill--or let me die! And yet, what weariness was on your tongue An hour ago!--you shall be wearier yet. _A Balcony overlooking the Sea_--EDWARD _and_ WALTER _seated._ The lark is singing in the blinding sky, Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, He decorates her tawny brow with shells, Retires a space, to see how fair she looks, Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair-- All glad, from grass to sun! Yet more I love Than this, the shrinking day, that sometimes comes In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark peers, It seems a straggler from the files of June, Which in its wanderings had lost its wits, And half its beauty; and, when it returned, Finding its old companions gone away, It joined November's troop, then marching past; And so the frail thing comes, and greets the world And all the while it holds within its hand A few half-withered flowers. I love and pity it! Air is like Happiness or Poetry. We see it in the glorious roof of day, We feel it lift the down upon the cheek, We hear it when it sways the heavy woods, We close our hand on 't--and we have it not. I'd be above all things the summer wind Blowing across a kingdom, rich with alms From ev'ry flower and forest, ruffling oft The sea to transient wrinkles in the sun, Where ev'ry wrinkle is a flash of light. Like God, I would pervade Humanity, From bridegroom dreaming on his marriage morn, To a wild wretch tied on the farthest bough Of oak that roars on edge of an abyss, The while the desperate wind with all its strength Strains the whole night to drive it down the gulf, Which like a beast gapes wide for man and tree. I'd creep into the lost and ruined hearts Of sinful women dying in the streets,-- Of pinioned men, their necks upon the block, Axe gleaming in the air. Away, away! Break not, my Edward, this consummate hour; For very oft within the year that's past I've fought against thy drifts of wintry thought Till they put out my fires, and I have lain, A volcano choked with snow. Now let me rest! If I should wear a rose but once in life, You surely would not tear it leaf from leaf, And trample all its sweetness in the dust! Thy dreary thoughts will make my festal heart As empty and as desolate's a church When worshippers are gone and night comes down. Spare me this happy hour, and let me rest! The banquet you do set before your joys Is surely but indifferently served, When they so readily vacate their seats. WALTER (_abstractedly_). Would I could raise the dead! I am as happy as the singing heavens-- There was one very dear to me that died, With heart as vacant as a last-year's nest. Oh, could I bring her back, I'd empty mine, And brim hers with my joy!--enough for both. EDWARD (_after a pause_). The garrulous sea is talking to the shore, Let us go down and hear the greybeard's speech. I shall go down to Bedfordshire to-morrow. Will you go with me? Whom shall we see there? Why, various specimens of that biped, Man. I'll show you one who might have been an abbot In the old time; a large and portly man, With merry eyes, and crown that shines like glass. No thin-smiled April he, bedript with tears, But appled-Autumn, golden-cheeked and tan; A jest in his mouth feels sweet as crusted wine. As if all eager for a merry thought, The pits of laughter dimple in his cheeks. His speech is flavorous, evermore he talks In a warm, brown, autumnal sort of style. A worthy man, Sir! who shall stand at compt With conscience white, save some few stains of wine. Commend me to him! He is half right. The Past Is but an emptied flask, and the rich Future A bottle yet uncorked. Who is the next? Old Mr. Wilmott; nothing in himself, But rich as ocean. He has in his hand Sea-marge and moor, and miles of stream and grove, Dull flats, scream-startled, as the exulting train Streams like a meteor through the frighted night, Wind-billowed plains of wheat, and marshy fens, Unto whose reeds on midnights blue and cold, Long strings of geese come clanging from the stars. Yet wealthier in one child than in all these! Oh! she is fair as Heaven! and she wears The sweetest name that woman ever wore. And eyes to match her name--'Tis Violet. If like her name, she must be beautiful. And so she is; she has dark violet eyes, A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek The blushing blood miraculous doth range From tender dawn to sunset. When she speaks Her soul is shining through her earnest face, As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud-- My tongue's a very beggar in her praise, It cannot gild her gold with all its words. Hath unbreeched Cupid struck your heart of ice? You speak of her as if you were her lover. Could _you_ not find a home within her heart? No, no! you are too cold, you never loved. There's nothing colder than a desolate hearth. A desolate hearth! Did fire leap on it once? My hand is o'er my heart--and shall remain.-- Let the swift minutes run, red sink the sun, To-morrow will be rich with Violet. So be it, large he sinks! Repentant Day Frees with his dying hand the pallid stars He held imprisoned since his young hot dawn. Now watch with what a silent step of fear They'll steal out one by one, and overspread The cool delicious meadows of the night. And lo, the first one flutters in the blue With a quick sense of liberty and joy! (_Two hours afterwards_), WALTER. The rosy glow has faded from the sky, The rosy glow has faded from the sea. A tender sadness drops upon my soul, Like the soft twilight dropping on the world. Behold yon shining symbol overhead, Clear Venus hanging in the mellow west, Jupiter large and sovereign in the east, With the red Mars between. See yon poor star That shudders o'er the mournful hill of pines! 'Twould almost make you weep, it seems so sad. 'Tis like an orphan trembling with the cold Over his mother's grave among the pines. Like a wild lover who has found his love Worthless and foul, our friend, the sea, has left His paramour the shore; naked she lies, Ugly and black and bare. Hark how he moans! The pain is in his heart. Inconstant fool! He will be up upon her breast to-morrow, As eager as to-day. Like man in that. We cannot see the lighthouse in the gloom, We cannot see the rock; but look! now, now, It opes its ruddy eye, the night recoils, A crimson line of light runs out to sea, A guiding torch to the benighted ships. O God! 'mid our despairs and throbs and pains, What a calm joy doth fill great Nature's heart! Thou look'st up to the night as to the face Of one thou lov'st; I know her beauty is Deep-mirrored in thy soul as in a sea. What are thy thinkings of the earth and stars? A theatre magnificently lit For sorry acting, undeserved applause? Dost think there's any music in the spheres? Or doth the whole creation, in thine ear, Moan like a stricken creature to its God, Fettered eternal in a lair of pain? I think--we are two fools: let us to bed. What care the stars for us? She grows on me like moonrise on the night-- My life is shaped in spite of me, the same As ocean by his shores. Why am I here? The weary sun was lolling in the west, Edward and I were sauntering on the shore Yawning with idleness; and so we came To kill the tedium of slow-creeping days. On such slight hinges an existence turns! How frequent in the very thick of life We rub clothes with a fate that hurries past! A tiresome friend detains us in the street, We part, and turning, meet fate in the teeth. A moment more or less had 'voided it. Yet through the subtle texture of our souls, From circumstance each draws a different hue. The sunlight falls upon a bed of flowers, From the same sunlight one draws crimson deep, Another azure pale. Edward and I See Violet each day, her silks brush both, She smiles on both alike--My heart! she comes. O God! I'd be the very floor that bears Such a majestic thing! Now feed, my eyes, On beauteous poison, Nightshade, honey sweet. There is a ghastly chasm in the talk, As if a fate hung in the midst of us, Its shadow on each heart. Why, this should be A dark and lustrous night of wit and wine, Rich with quick bouts of merry argument, And witty sallies quenched in laughter sweet, Yet my voice trembles in a solitude, Like a lone man in a great wilderness. Arthur, you once could sing a roaring song, That to the chorus drew our voices out; 'Twere no bad plan to sing us one to-night. Come, wash the roughness from your throat with wine. What sort of song, Sirs, shall I sing to you-- Dame Venus panting on her bed of flowers, Or Bacchus purple-mouthed astride his tun? Now for a headlong song of blooded youth, Give 't such a welcome as shall lift the roof off-- Sweet friends, be ready with a hip hurrah! ARTHUR _sings._ A fig for a draught from your crystalline fountains, Your cold sunken wells, In mid forest dells, Ha! bring me the fiery bright dew of the mountains, When yellowed with peat-reek, and mellowed with age, O, richest joy-giver! Rare warmer of liver! Diviner than kisses, thou droll and thou sage! Fine soul of a land struck with brightest sun-tints, Of dark purple moors, Of sleek ocean-floors, Of hills stained with heather like bloody footprints; In sunshine, in rain, a flask shall be nigh me, Warm heart, blood and brain, Fine Sprite deify me! I've drunk 'mong slain deer in a lone mountain shieling, I've drunk till delirious, While rain beat imperious, And rang roof and rafter with bagpipes and reeling. I've drunk in Red Rannoch, amid its grey boulders: Where, fain to be kist, Through his thin scarf of mist, Ben-More to the sun heaves his wet shining shoulders! I've tumbled in hay with the fresh ruddy lasses, I've drunk with the reapers, I've roared with the keepers, And scared night away with the ring of our glasses! In sunshine, in rain, a flask shall be nigh me, Warm heart, blood, and brain, Fine Sprite deify me! Come, string bright songs upon a thread of wine, And let the coming midnight pass through us, Like a dusk prince crusted with gold and gems! Our studious Edward from his Lincoln fens, And home quaint-gabled hid in rooky trees, Seen distant is the sun in the arch of noon, Seen close at hand, the same sun large and red, His day's work done, within the lazy west Sitting right portly, staring at the world With a round, rubicund, wine-bibbing face-- Ha! like a dove, I see a merry song Pluming itself for flight upon his lips. EDWARD _sings._ My heart is beating with all things that are, My blood is wild unrest; With what a passion pants yon eager star Upon the water's breast! Clasped in the air's soft arms the world doth sleep, Asleep its moving seas, its humming lands; With what an hungry lip the ocean deep Lappeth for ever the white-breasted sands; What love is in the moon's eternal eyes, Leaning unto the earth from out the midnight skies! Thy large dark eyes are wide upon my brow, Filled with as tender light As yon low moon doth fill the heavens now, This mellow autumn night! On the late flowers I linger at thy feet, I tremble when I touch thy garment's rim, I clasp thy waist, I feel thy bosom's beat-- O kiss me into faintness sweet and dim! Thou leanest to me as a swelling peach, Full-juiced and mellow, leaneth to the taker's reach. Thy hair is loosened by that kiss you gave, It floods my shoulders o'er; Another yet! Oh, as a weary wave Subsides upon the shore, My hungry being with its hopes, its fears, My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest, Yet strong as is despair, as weak as tears, Doth faint upon thy breast! I feel thy clasping arms, my cheek is wet With thy rich tears. One kiss! Sweet, sweet, another yet! I sang this song some twenty years ago, (Hot to the ear-tips, with great thumps of heart), On the gold lawn, while, Caesar-like, the sun Gathered his robes around him as he fell. Struck by some country cousin, a rosy beauty Of the Dutch-cheese order, riched with great black eyes, Which, when you planned a theft upon her lips, Looked your heart quite away! Oh, Love! oh, Wine! thou sun and moon o' our lives, What oysters were we without love and wine! Our host, I doubt not, vaults a mighty tun, Wide-wombed and old, cobwebbed and dusted o'er. Broach! and within its gloomy sides you'll find A beating heart of wine. The world's a tun, A gloomy tun, but he who taps the world Will find much sweetness in 't. Walter, my boy, Against this sun of wine's most purple light Burst into song. I fear, Sir, I have none. Hang nuts in autumn woods? Then 't is your trade, Spin us a new one. Come! some youth love-mad, Reading the thoughts within his lady's eyes, Earnest as One that looks into the Book, Seeking the road to bliss-- Clothe me this bare bough with your sunny flowers. The evening heaven is not always dressed With frail cloud-empires of the setting sun, Nor are we always in our singing-robes. I have no song, nor can I make you one; But, with permission, I will tell a tale. If short and merry, Heaven speed your tongue; If long and sad, the Lord have mercy on us! Within a city One was born to toil, Whose heart could not mate with the common doom To fall like a spent arrow in the grave. 'Mid the eternal hum, the boy clomb up Into a shy and solitary youth, With strange joys and strange sorrows, oft to tears He was moved, he knew not why, when he has stood Among the lengthening shadows of the eve, Such feeling overflowed him from the sky. 'Mong crowds he dwelt, as lonely as a star Unsphered and exiled, yet he knew no scorn. Once did he say, "For me, I'd rather live With this weak human heart and yearning blood, Lonely as God, than mate with barren souls; More brave, more beautiful, than myself must be The man whom truly I can call my Friend; He must be an Inspirer, who can draw To higher heights of Being, and aye stand O'er me in unreached beauty, like the moon; Soon as he fail in this, the crest and crown Of noble friendship, he is nought to me. What so unguessed as Death? Yet to the dead It lies as plain as yesterday to us. Let me go forward to my grave alone, What need have I to linger by dry wells?" Books were his chiefest friends. In them he read Of those great spirits who went down like suns, And left upon the mountain-tops of Death A light that made them lovely. His own heart Was richer far than fifty years to come. Alchymist Memory turned his past to gold. When morn awakes against the dark wet earth, Back to the morn she laughs with dewy sides, Up goes her voice of larks! With like effect Imagination opened on his life, _It_ lay all lovely in that rarer light. He was with Nature on the sabbath-days; Far from the dressed throngs and the city bells He gave his hot brows to the kissing wind, While restless thoughts were stirring in his heart. "These worldly men will kill me with their scorns, But Nature never mocks or jeers at me; Her dewy soothings of the earth and air Do wean me from the thoughts that mad my brain. Our interviews are stolen, I can look, Nature! in thy serene and griefless eyes But at long intervals; yet, Nature! yet, Thy silence and the fairness of thy face Are present with me in the booming streets. Yon quarry shattered by the bursting fire, And disembowelled by the biting pick, Kind Nature! thou hast taken to thyself; Thy weeping Aprils and soft-blowing Mays, Thy blossom-buried Junes, have smoothed its scars, And hid its wounds and trenches deep in flowers. So take my worn and passion-wasted heart, Maternal Nature! Take it to thyself, Efface the scars of scorn, the rents of hate, The wounds of alien eyes, visit my brain With thy deep peace, fill with thy calm my heart, And the quick courses of my human blood." Thus would he muse and wander, till the sun Reached the red west, where all the waiting clouds, Attired before in homely dun and grey, Like Parasites that dress themselves in smiles To feed a great man's eye, in haste put on Their purple mantles rimmed with ragged gold, And congregating in a shining crowd, Flattered the sinking orb with faces bright. As slow he journeyed home, the wanderer saw The labouring fires come out against the dark, For with the night the country seemed on flame: Innumerable furnaces and pits, And gloomy holds, in which that bright slave, Fire, Doth pant and toil all day and night for man, Threw large and angry lustres on the sky, And shifting lights across the long black roads. Dungeoned in poverty, he saw afar The shining peaks of fame that wore the sun, Most heavenly bright, they mocked him through his bars, A lost man wildered on the dreary sea, When loneliness hath somewhat touched his brain, Doth shrink and shrink beneath the watching sky, Which hour by hour more plainly doth express The features of a deadly enemy, Drinking his woes with a most hungry eye. Ev'n so, by constant staring on his ills, They grew worse-featured; till, in his great rage, His spirit, like a roused sea, white with wrath, Struck at the stars. "Hold fast! Hold fast! my brain! Had I a curse to kill with, by yon Heaven! I'd feast the worms to-night." Dreadfuller words, Whose very terror blanched his conscious lips, He uttered in his hour of agony. With quick and subtle poison in his veins, With madness burning in his heart and brain, With words, like lightnings, round his pallid lips, He rushed to die in the very eyes of God. 'Twas late, for as he reached the open roads, Where night was reddened by the drudging fires, The drowsy steeples tolled the hour of One. The city now was left long miles behind, A large black hill was looming 'gainst the stars, He reached its summit. Far above his head, Up there upon the still and mighty night, God's name was writ in worlds. Awhile he stood, Silent and throbbing like a midnight star, He raised his hands, alas! 'twas not in prayer-- He long had ceased to pray. "Father," he said, "I wished to loose some music o'er Thy world, To strike from its firm seat some hoary wrong, And then to die in autumn with the flowers, And leaves, and sunshine I have loved so well. Thou might'st have smoothed my way to some great end-- But wherefore speak? Thou art the mighty God. This gleaming wilderness of suns and worlds Is an eternal and triumphant hymn, Chanted by Thee unto Thine own great self! Wrapt in Thy skies, what were my prayers to Thee? My pangs? My tears of blood? They could not move Thee from the depths of Thine immortal dream. Thou hast forgotten me, God! Here, therefore, here, To-night upon this bleak and cold hill-side, Like a forsaken watch-fire will I die, And as my pale corse fronts the glittering night, It shall reproach Thee before all Thy worlds." His death did not disturb that ancient Night. Scornfullest Night! Over the dead there hung Greats gulfs of silence, blue, and strewn with stars-- No sound--no motion--in the eternal depths. Now, what a sullen-blooded fool was this, At sulks with earth and Heaven! Could he not Out-weep his passion like a blustering day, And be clear-skied thereafter? He, poor wretch, Must needs be famous! Lord! how Poets geck At Fame, their idol. Call 't a worthless thing, Colder than lunar rainbows, changefuller Than sleeked purples on a pigeon's neck, More transitory than a woman's loves, The bubbles of her heart--and yet each mocker Would gladly sell his soul for one sweet crumb To roll beneath his tongue. Alas! the youth Earnest as flame, could not so tame his heart As to live quiet days. When the heart-sick Earth Turns her broad back upon the gaudy sun, And stoops her weary forehead to the night, To struggle with her sorrow all alone, The moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain, Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow, Till she is calm. But in _his_ sorrow's night He found no comforter. A man can bear A world's contempt when he has that within Which says he's worthy--when he contemns himself, There burns the hell. So this wild youth was foiled In a great purpose--in an agony, In which he learned to hate and scorn himself, He foamed at God, and died. Rain similes upon his corse like tears-- The youth you spoke of was a glowing moth, Born in the eve and crushed before the dawn. He was, methinks, like that frail flower that comes Amid the nips and gusts of churlish March, Drinking pale beauty from sweet April's tears, A Lapland fool, Who, staring upward as the Northern lights Banner the skies with glory, breaks his heart, Because his smoky hut and greasy furs Are not so rich as they. Mine is pathetic-- A ginger-beer bottle burst. And mine would be The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night. _approaches_ WALTER. Did you know well that youth of whom you spake? Know him! Oh, yes, I knew him as myself-- Two passions dwelt at once within his soul, Like eve and sunset dwelling in one sky. And as the sunset dies along the west, Eve higher lifts her front of trembling stars, Till she is seated in the middle sky, So gradual, one passion slowly died, And from its death the other drew fresh life, Until 't was seated in his soul alone-- The dead was Love--the living, Poetry. Alas! if Love rose never from the dead. There stood a wrinkled worldling ripe for hell. When with his golden hand he plucked that flower, And would have smelt it, lo! it paled and shrank, And withered in his grasp. And when she died, The rivers of his heart ran all to waste; They found no ocean, dry sands sucked them up. Lady! he was a fool--a pitiful fool. She said she loved him, would be dead in spring-- She asked him but to stand beside her grave-- She said she would be daisies--and she thought 'Twould give her joy to feel that he was near. She died like music; and, would you believe 't? He kept her foolish words within his heart As ceremonious as a chapel keeps A relic of a saint. And in the spring What found he there? Laugh till your sides ache! Oh, he went, poor fool! But he found nothing save red-trampled clay, And a dull sobbing rain. Do you not laugh? Amid the comfortless rain he stood and wept, Bare-headed, in the mocking, pelting rain. He might have known 'twas ever so on earth. You cannot laugh yourself, Sir, nor can I. Her unpolluted corse doth sleep in earth, Like a pure thought within a sinful soul. Dearer is earth to God for her sweet sake. 'Tis said our nature is corrupt; but she O'erlaid hers with all graces, ev'n as Night You cannot see 'tis black. How looked this youth? Did he in voice or mien resemble you? Was he about your age? Wore he such curls? Such eyes of dark sea-blue? Why do you ask? I thought just now you might resemble him. Were you not brothers?--twins? Or was the one A shadow of the other? What mean you? That like the moon you need not wrap yourself In any cloud; you shine through each disguise; You are a masker in a mask of glass. You've such transparent sides, each casual eye May see the heaving heart. Oh, misery! Is 't visible to thee? 'Tis clear as dew! Mine eyes have been upon it all the night, Unknown to you. The sorrowful alone Can know the sorrowful. What woe is thine, That thou canst read me thus? A new-born power, Whose unformed features cannot clearly show Whether 'tis Joy or Sorrow. But the years May nurture it to either. To thee I'm bare. My heart lies open to you, as the earth To the omniscient sun. I have a work-- The finger of my soul doth point it out; I trust God's finger points it also out. I must attempt it; if my sinews fail, On my unsheltered head men's scorns will fall, Like a slow shower of fire. Yet if one tear Were mingled with them, it were less to bear. I'll give thee tears.-- That were as queenly Night And hail them on this sordid thing, the earth. Thy tears keep for a worthier head than mine. I will not cope with you in compliment. I'll give you tears, and pity, and true thoughts; If you are desolate, my heart is open; I know 'tis little worth, but any hut, However poor, unto a homeless man, Is welcomer than mists or nipping winds. But if you conquer Fame---- With eager hands I'll bend the awful thing into a crown, And you shall wear it. Lay it upon _her_ grave. [_Another silence._ Run out again! We should he jovial as the feasting gods, We're silent as a synod of the stars! The night is out at elbows. Laughter's dead. To the rescue, Violet! A song! a song! VIOLET _sings._ Upon my knee a modern minstrel's tales, Full as a choir with music, lies unread; My impatient shallop flaps its silken sails To rouse me, but I cannot lift my head. I see a wretched isle, that ghost-like stands, Wrapt in its mist-shroud in the wint'ry main; And now a cheerless gleam of red-ploughed lands, O'er which a crow flies heavy in the rain. I've neither heart nor voice! You've sat the night out, Masters! See, the moon Lies stranded on the pallid coast of morn. Methinks our merriment lies stranded, too. Draw the long table for a game of bowls. You will be captain, Edward,--Gods! he yawns. Your thunder, Jove, has soured these cream-pots all. To bed! To bed! You loved, then, very much, this friend of thine? The sound of his voice did warm my heart like wine. He's long since dead; but if there is a heaven, He's in its heart of bliss. How did you live? We read and wrote together, slept together; We dwelt on slopes against the morning sun, We dwelt in crowded streets, and loved to walk While Labour slept; for, in the ghastly dawn, The wildered city seemed a demon's brain, The children of the night its evil thoughts. Sometimes we sat whole afternoons, and watched The sunset build a city frail as dream, With bridges, streets of splendour, towers; and saw The fabrics crumble into rosy ruins, And then grow grey as heath. But our chief joy Was to draw images from everything; And images lay thick upon our talk, As shells on ocean sands. From everything! Here is the sunset, yonder grows the moon, What image would you draw from these? Why, this. The sun is dying like a cloven king In his own blood; the while the distant moon, Like a pale prophetess, whom he has wronged, Leans eager forward, with most hungry eyes, Watching him bleed to death, and, as he faints, She brightens and dilates; revenge complete, She walks in lonely triumph through the night. Give not such hateful passion to the orb That cools the heated lands; that ripes the fields, While sleep the husbandmen, then hastes away Ere the first step of dawn, doing all good In secret and the night. 'Tis very wrong. Would I had known your friend! 'Tis better as it is. Why is it so? Because you would have loved him, and then I Would have to wander outside of all joy, Like Neptune in the cold. [_A pause._ Do you remember You promised yesterday you'd paint for me Three pictures from your life? I'll do so now. On this delicious eve, with words like colours, I'll limn them on the canvass of your sense. Be quick! be quick! for see, the parting sun But peers above yon range of crimson hills, Taking his last look of this lovely scene. Dusk will be here anon. And all the stars! Great friends of yours; you love them overmuch. I love the stars too much! The tameless sea Spreads itself out beneath them, smooth as glass. You cannot love them, lady, till you dwell In mighty towns; immured in their black hearts, The stars are nearer to you than the fields. I'd grow an Atheist in these towns of trade, Were 't not for stars. The smoke puts heaven out; I meet sin-bloated faces in the streets, And shrink as from a blow. I hear wild oaths, And curses spilt from lips that once were sweet, And sealed for Heaven by a mother's kiss. I mix with men whose hearts of human flesh, Beneath the petrifying touch of gold, Have grown as stony as the trodden ways. I see no trace of God, till in the night, While the vast city lies in dreams of gain, He doth reveal himself to me in heaven. My heart swells to Him as the sea to the moon; Therefore it is I love the midnight stars. I would I had a lover who could give Such ample reasons for his loving me, As you for loving stars! But to your task. Wilt listen to the pictures of my life? Patient as evening to the nightingale! 'Mong the green lanes of Kent--green sunny lanes-- Where troops of children shout, and laugh, and play, And gather daisies, stood an antique home, Within its orchard, rich with ruddy fruits, For the full year was laughing in his prime. Wealth of all flowers grew in that garden green, And the old porch with its great oaken door Was smothered in rose-blooms, while o'er the walls The honeysuckle clung deliriously. Before the door there lay a plot of grass, Snowed o'er with daisies,--flower by all beloved, And famousest in song--and in the midst, A carved fountain stood, dried up and broken, On which a peacock perched and sunned itself; Beneath, two petted rabbits, snowy white, Squatted upon the sward. A row of poplars darkly rose behind, Around whose tops, and the old-fashioned vanes, White pigeons fluttered, and o'er all was bent The mighty sky, with sailing sunny clouds. One casement was thrown open, and within, A boy hung o'er a book of poesy, Silent as planet hanging o'er the sea. In at the casement open to the noon Came sweetest garden-odours, and the hum-- The drowsy hum--of the rejoicing bees, Heavened in blooms that overclad the walls; And the cool wind waved in upon his brow, And stirred his curls. Soft fell the summer night. Then he arose, and with inspired lips said,-- "Stars! ye are golden-voiced clarions To high-aspiring and heroic dooms. To-night, as I look up unto ye, Stars! I feel my soul rise to its destiny, Like a strong eagle to its eyrie soaring. Who thinks of weakness underneath ye, Stars? A hum shall be on earth, a name be heard, An epitaph shall look up proud to God. Stars! read and listen, it may not be long." VIOLET (_leaning over him_). I'll see that grand desire within your eyes-- Oh, I only see myself! Could you look through my heart as through mine eyes, You'd find yourself there, too. Hush, flatterer! Yet go on with your tale. Three blue days passed, Full of the sun, loud with a thousand larks; An evening like a grey child walked 'tween each. 'Twas in the quiet of the fourth day's noon, The boy I speak of slumbered in the wood. Like a dropt rose at an oak-root he lay, A lady bent above him. He awoke; She blushed like sunset, 'mid embarrassed speech; A shock of laughter made them friends at once, And laughter fluttered through their after-talk, As darts a bright bird in and out the leaves. All day he drank her splendid light of eyes; Nor did they part until the deepening east Gan to be sprinkled with the lights of eve. Go on! go on! June sang herself to death. They parted in the wood, she very pale, And he walked home the weariest thing on earth. That night he sat in his unlighted room, Pale, sad, and solitary, sick at heart, For he had parted with his dearest friends, High aspirations, bright dreams golden-winged, Troops of fine fancies that like lambs did play Amid the sunshine and the virgin dews, Thick-lying in the green fields of his heart. Calm thoughts that dwelt like hermits in his soul, Fair shapes that slept in fancifullest bowers, Hopes and delights,--He parted with them all. Linked hand in hand they went, tears in their eyes, As faint and beautiful as eyes of flowers, And now he sat alone with empty soul. Last night his soul was like a forest, haunted With pagan shapes; when one nymph slumbering lay, A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limbs Sinking full softly in the violets dim; When timbrelled troops rushed past with branches green. One in each fountain, riched with golden sands, With her delicious face a moment seen, And limbs faint-gleaming through their watery veil. To-night his soul was like that forest old, When these were reft away, and the wild wind Running like one distract 'mong their old haunts, Gold-sanded fountains, and the bladed flags. It is enough to shake one into tears. A palace full of music was his heart, An earthquake rent it open to the rain; The lovely music died--the bright throngs fled-- Despair came like a foul and grizzly beast, And littered in its consecrated rooms. Nature was leaping like a Bacchanal On the next morn, beneath its sky-wide sheen The boy stood pallid in the rosy porch. The mad larks bathing in the golden light, The flowers close-fondled by the impassioned winds, The smells that came and went upon the sense, Like faint waves on a shore, he heeded not; He could not look the morning in the eyes. That singing morn he went forth like a ship; Long years have passed, and he has not returned, Beggared or laden, home. Ah, me, 'tis sad! And sorrow's hand as well as mine has been Among these golden curls. 'Tis past, 'tis past; It has dissolved, as did the bank of cloud That lay in the west last night. I yearned for love, As earnestly as sun-cracked summer earth Yearns to the heavens for rain--none ever came. Oh, say not so! I love thee very much; Let me but grow up like a sweet-breathed flower Within this ghastly fissure of thy heart! Do you not love me, Walter? By thy tears I love thee as my own immortal soul. Weep, weep, my Beautiful! Upon thy face There is no cloud of sorrow or distress. It is as moonlight, pale, serene, and clear. Thy tears are spilt of joy, they fall like rain From heaven's stainless blue. Bend over me, my Beautiful, my Own. Oh, I could lie with face upturned for ever, And on thy beauty feed as on a star! Thy face doth come between me and the heaven-- Start not, my dearest! for I would not give Thee in thy tears for all yon sky lit up For a god's feast to-night. And I am loved! Why did you love me, Violet? The sun Smiles on the earth, and the exuberant earth Returns the smile in flowers--'twas so with me. I love thee as a fountain leaps to light-- I can do nothing else. Say these words again, And yet again; never fell on my ear Such drops of music. Alas! poor words are weak, So are the daily ills of common life, To draw the ingots and the hoarded pearls From out the treasure-caverns of my heart. Suffering, despair, and death alone can do it: Poor Walter! [_Kisses him._ Gods! I could out-Anthony Anthony! This moment I could scatter Kingdoms life halfpence. I am drunk with joy. This is a royal hour--the top of life. Henceforth my path slopes downward to the grave-- All's dross but love. That largest Son of Time, Who wandered singing through the listening world, Will be as much forgot as the canoe That crossed the bosom of a lonely lake A thousand years ago. My Beautiful! I would not give thy cheek for all his songs-- Thy kiss for all his fame. Why do you weep? To think that we, so happy now, must die. That thought hangs like a cold and slimy snail On the rich rose of love--shake it away-- Give me another kiss, and I will take Death at a flying leap. The night is fair, But thou art fairer, Violet! Unloose The midnight of thy tresses, let them float Around us both. How the freed ringlets reel Down to the dewy grass! Here lean thy head, Now you will feel my heart leap 'gainst thy cheek; Imprison me with those white arms of thine. So, so. O sweet upturned face! (_Kisses her._) If God Told you to-night He'd grant your dearest wish, What would it be? That He would let you grow To your ambition's height. What would be yours? A greater boon than Satan's forfeit throne! That He would keep us beautiful and young For ever, as to-night. Oh, I could live Unwearied on thy beauty, till the sun Grows dim and wrinkled as an old man's face. Our cheeks are close, our breaths mix like our souls. We have been starved hereto; Love's banquet's spread, Now let us feast our fills. _A Bridge in a City_--_Midnight_--WALTER _alone._ Adam lost Paradise--eternal tale Repeated in the lives of all his sons. I had a shining orb of happiness, God gave it me; but sin passed over it As small-pox passes o'er a lovely face, Leaving it hideous. I have lost for ever The Paradise of young and happy thoughts, And now stand in the middle of my life Looking back through my tears--ne'er to return. I've a stern tryst with Death, and must go on, Though with slow steps and oft-reverted eyes. 'Tis a thick, rich-hazed, sumptuous autumn night; The moon grows like a white flower in the sky; The stars are dim. The tired year rests content Among her sheaves, as a fond mother rests Among her children; all her work is done. There is a weight of peace upon the world; It sleeps: God's blessing on it. Not on _me_! Oh, as a lewd dream stains the holy sleep, I stain the holy night, yet dare not die! I knew this river's childhood, from the lake That gave it birth, till, as if spilt from heaven, It floated o'er the face of jet-black rocks, Graceful and gauzy as a snowy veil. Then we were pure as the blue sky above us, Now we are black alike. This stream has turned The wheels of commerce, and come forth distained; And now trails slowly through a city's heart, Drawing its filth as doth an evil soul Attract all evil things; putrid and black It mingles with the clear and stainless sea. So into pure eternity my soul Will disembogue itself. Good men have said That sometimes God leaves sinners to their sin,-- He has left me to mine, and I am changed; My worst part is insurgent, and my will Is weak and powerless as a trembling king When millions rise up hungry. Woe is me! My soul breeds sins as a dead body worms! They swarm and feed upon me. Hear me, God! Sin met me and embraced me on my way; Methought her cheeks were red, her lips had bloom; I kissed her bold lips, dallied with her hair: She sang me into slumber. I awoke-- It was a putrid corse that clung to me, That _clings_ to me like memory to the damned, That rots into my being. Father! God! I cannot shake it off, it clings, it clings;-- I soon will grow as corrupt as itself. [_A pause._ God sends me back my prayers, as a father Returns unoped the letters of a son Who has dishonoured him. Have mercy, Fiend! Thou Devil, thou wilt drag me down to hell. Oh, if she had proclivity to sin Who did appear so beauteous and so pure, Nature may leer behind a gracious mask. And God himself may be----I'm giddy, blind, The world reels from beneath me. (_An outcast approaches._) Wilt pray for me? 'Tis a dreadful thing to pray. Why is it so? Hast thou, like me, a spot upon thy soul That neither tears can cleanse nor fires eterne? But few request _my_ prayers. I request them. For ne'er did a dishevelled woman cling So earnest-pale to a stern conqueror's knees, Pleading for a dear life, as did my prayer Cling to the knees of God. He shook it off, And went upon His way. Wilt pray for me? Sin crusts me o'er as limpets crust the rocks. I would be thrust from ev'ry human door; I dare not knock at heaven's. Poor homeless one! There is a door stands wide for thee and me-- The door of hell. Methinks we are well met. I saw a little girl three years ago, With eyes of azure and with cheeks of red, A crowd of sunbeams hanging down her face; Sweet laughter round her; dancing like a breeze. I'd rather lair me with a fiend in fire Than look on such a face as hers to-night. But I can look on thee, and such as thee; I'll call thee "Sister;" do thou call me "Brother." A thousand years hence, when we both are damned, We'll sit like ghosts upon the wailing shore, And read our lives by the red light of hell. Shall we not, Sister? O thou strange, wild man! Let me alone: what would you seek with me? Your ear, my Sister. I have that within Which urges me to utterance. I could accost A pensive angel, singing to himself Upon a hill in heaven, and leave his mind As dark and turbid as a trampled pool, To purify at leisure.--I have none To listen to me, save a sinful woman Upon a midnight bridge.--She was so fair, God's eye could rest with pleasure on her face. Oh, God, she was so happy! Her short life, As full of music as the crowded June Of an unfallen orb. What is it now? She gave me her young heart, full, full of love: My return--was to break it. Worse, far worse; I crept into the chambers of her soul, Like a foul toad, polluting as I went. I pity her--not you. Man trusts in God; He is eternal. Woman trusts in man, And he is shifting sand. Poor child, poor child! We sat in dreadful silence with our sin, Looking each other wildly in the eyes: Methought I heard the gates of heaven close, She flung herself against me, burst in tears, As a wave bursts in spray. She covered me With her wild sorrow, as an April cloud With dim dishevelled tresses hides the hill On which its heart is breaking. She clung to me With piteous arms, and shook me with her sobs, For she had lost her world, her heaven, her God, And now had nought but me and her great wrong. She did not kill me with a single word, But once she lifted her tear-dabbled face-- Had hell gaped at my feet I would have leapt Into its burning throat, from that pale look. Still it pursues me like a haunting fiend: It drives me out to the black moors at night, Where I am smitten by the hissing rain, And ruffian winds, dislodging from their troops, Hustle me shrieking, then with sudden turn Go laughing to their fellows. Merciful God! It comes--that face again, that white, white face, Set in a night of hair; reproachful eyes, That make me mad. Oh, save me from those eyes! They will torment me even in the grave, And burn on me in Tophet. Where are you going? My heart's on fire by hell, and on I drive To outer blackness, like a blazing ship. _Night._--WALTER, _standing alone in his garden._ Summer hath murmured with her leafy lips Around my home, and I have heard her not; I've missed the process of three several years, From shaking wind-flowers to the tarnished gold That rustles sere on Autumn's aged boughs. I went three years ago, and now return, As stag sore-hunted a long summer day Creeps in the eve to its deep forest-home. [_A pause._ This is my home again! Once more I hail The dear old gables and the creaking vanes. It stands all flecked with shadows in the moon, Patient, and white, and woeful. 'Tis so still, It seems to brood upon its youthful years, When children sported on its ringing floors, And music trembled through its happy rooms. 'Twas here I spent my youth, as far removed From the great heavings, hopes, and fears of man, As unknown isle asleep in unknown seas. Gone my pure heart, and with it happy days; No manna falls around me from on high, Barely from off the desert of my life I gather patience and severe content. God is a worker. He has thickly strewn Infinity with grandeur. God is Love; He yet will wipe away Creation's tears, And all the worlds shall summer in His smile. Why work I not? The veriest mote that sports Its one-day life within the sunny beam Has its stern duties. Wherefore have I none? I will throw off this dead and useless past, As a strong runner, straining for his life, Unclasps a mantle to the hungry winds. A mighty purpose rises large and slow From out the fluctuations of my soul, As, ghost-like, from the dim and tumbling sea Starts the completed moon. [_Another pause._ I have a heart to dare, And spirit-thews to work my daring out; I'll cleave the world as a swimmer cleaves the sea, Breaking the sleek green billows into froth, With tilting full-blown chest, and scattering With scornful breath the kissing, flattering foam, That leaps and dallies with his dipping lip. Thou'rt distant, now, O World! I hear thee not; No pallid fringes of thy fires to-night Droop round the large horizon. Yet, O World! I have thee in my power, and as a man By some mysterious influence can sway Another's mind, making him laugh and weep, Shudder or thrill, such power have I on thee. Much have I suffered, both from thee and thine; Thou shalt not 'scape me, World! I'll make thee weep; I'll make my lone thought cross thee like a spirit, And blanch thy braggart cheeks, lift up thy hair, And make thy great knees tremble; I will send Across thy soul dark herds of demon dreams, And make thee toss and moan in troubled sleep; And, waking, I will fill thy forlorn heart With pure and happy thoughts, as summer woods Are full of singing-birds. I come from far, I'll rest myself, O World! awhile on thee, And half in earnest, half in jest, I'll cut My name upon thee, pass the arch of Death, Then on a stair of stars go up to God. _An Apartment_--CHARLES _and_ EDWARD _seated._ Have you seen Walter lately? Very much; I wintered with him. What was he about? He wrote his Poem then. That was a hit! The world is murmuring like a hive of bees: He is its theme--to-morrow it may change. Was it done at a dash? It was; each word sincere, As blood-drops from the heart. The full-faced moon, Set round with stars, in at his casement looked, And saw him write and write: and when the moon Was waning dim upon the edge of morn, Still sat he writing, thoughtful-eyed and pale; And, as of yore, round his white temples reeled His golden hair, in ringlets beautiful. Great joy he had, for thought came glad and thick As leaves upon a tree in primrose-time; And as he wrote, his task the lovelier grew, Like April unto May, or as a child, A-smile in the lap of life, by fine degrees Orbs to a maiden, walking with meek eyes In atmosphere of beauty round her breathed. He wrote all winter in an olden room, Hallowed with glooms and books. Priests who have wed Their makers unto Fame, Moons that have shed Eternal halos around England's head; Books dusky and thumbed without, _within_, a sphere Smelling of Spring, as genial, fresh, and clear, And beautiful, as is the rainbowed air After May showers. Within this pleasant lair He passed in writing all the winter moons; But when May came, with train of sunny noons, He chose a leafy summer-house within The greenest nook in all his garden green; Oft a fine thought would flush his face divine, As he had quaffed a cup of olden wine, Which deifies the drinker: oft his face Gleamed like a spirit's in that shady place, While he saw, smiling upward from the scroll, The image of the thought within his soul; There, 'mid the waving shadows of the trees, 'Mong garden-odours and the hum of bees, He wrote the last and closing passages. He is not happy. Has he told you so? Not in plain terms. Oft an unhappy thought, Telling all is not well, falls from his soul Like a diseased feather from the wing Of a sick eagle; a scorched meteor-stone Dropt from the ruined moon. What are these thoughts? I walked with him upon a windy night; We saw the streaming moon flee through the sky, Pursued by all the dark and hungry clouds. He stopped and said: "Weariness feeds on all. God wearies, and so makes a universe, And gathers angels round him.--He is weak; I weary, and so wreak myself in verse,---- Away with scrannel-pipes. Oh, for mad War! I'd give my next twelve years to head but once Ten thousand horse in a victorious charge. Give me some one to hate, and let me chase Him through the zones, and finding him at last, Make his accursed eyes leap on his cheeks, And his face blacken, with one choking gripe." Savage enough, i' faith! He often said, His strivings after Poesy and Fame Were vain as turning blind eyes on the sun. His Book came out; I told him that the world Hailed him a Poet. He said, with feeble smile, "I have arisen like a dawn--the world, Like the touched Memnon, murmurs--that is all." He said, as we were lying on the moss, (A forest sounding o'er us, like a sea Above two mermen seated on the sands,) "Our human hearts are deeper than our souls, And Love than Knowledge is diviner food-- Oh, Charles! if God will ever send to thee A heart that loves thee, reverence that heart. We think that Death is hard, when he can kill An infant smiling in his very face: Harder was I than Death.--In cup of sin I did dissolve thee, thou most precious pearl, Then drank thee up." We sat one eve, Gazing in silence on the falling sun: We saw him sink. Upon the silent world, Like a fine veil, came down the tender gloom; A dove came fluttering round the window, flew Away, and then came fluttering back. He said, "As that dove flutters round the casement, comes A pale shape round my soul; I've done it wrong, I never will be happy till I ope My heart and take it in."--'Twas ever so; To some strange sorrow all his thoughts did tend, Like waves unto a shore. Dost know his grief? I dimly guess it; a rich cheek grew pale, A happy spirit singing on her way Grew mute as winter. Walter, mad and blind, Threw off the world, God, unclasped loving arms, Rushed wild through Pleasure and through Devil-world, Till he fell down exhausted.--Do you know If he believes in God? He told me once, The saddest thing that can befall a soul Is when it loses faith in God and Woman; For he had lost them both. Lost I those gems-- Though the world's throne stood empty in my path, I would go wandering back into my childhood, Searching for them with tears. Let him go Alone upon his waste and dreary road, He will return to the old faith he learned Beside his mother's knee. That memory That haunts him, as the sweet and gracious moon Haunts the poor outcast Earth, will lead him back To happiness and God. May it be so! _Afternoon._--WALTER _and_ VIOLET _entering the garden from the This is the dwelling you have told me of,-- Summer again hath dressed its bloomy walls, Its fragrant front is populous with bees; This is the garden--all is very like, And yet unlike the picture in my heart; I know not which is loveliest. I see Afar the wandering beauty of the stream, And nearer I can trace it as it shows Its broad and gleaming back among the woods. Is that the wood you slept in? And every nook and glade and tangled dell, From its wide circle to its leafy heart, Is as familiar to me as my soul. Memories dwell like doves among the trees, Like nymphs in glooms, like naiads in the wells; And some are sweet, and sadder some than death. I could have sworn the world did sing in air, I was so happy once. The eagle drinks The keen blue morning, and the morn was mine. I bathed in sunset, and to me the night Was a perpetual wonder and an awe. Oft, as I lay on earth and gazed at her, The gliding moon with influence divine Would draw a most delicious tide of tears And spill it o'er my eyes. Sadness was joy Of but another sort. My happiness Was flecked with vague and transitory griefs, As sweetly as the shining length of June With evanescent eves; and through my soul At intervals a regal pageant passed, As through the palpitating streets the corse Of a great chieftain, rolled in music rich, Moves slow towards its rest. In these young days Existence was to me sufficient joy; At once a throne and kingdom, crown and lyre. Now it is but a strip of barren sand, On which with earnest heart I strive to rear A temple to the Gods. I will not sadden you. This is the fountain: once it flashed and sang (Possessed of such exuberance of joy) To golden sunrise, the blue day, and when The night grew gradual o'er it, star by star,-- Now it is mute as Memnon. Sad again! Its brim is written over--o'er and o'er; 'Tis mute; but have you made its marble lips As sweet as Music's? Miserable words! The offspring of some most unhappy hours. To me this fountain's brim is sad as though 'Twere splashed with my own blood. "Nature cares not Although her loveliness should ne'er be seen By human eyes, nor praised by human tongues. The cataract exults among the hills, And wears its crown of rainbows all alone. Libel the ocean on his tawny sands, Write verses in his praise,--the unmoved sea Erases both alike. Alas for man! Unless his fellows can behold his deeds He cares not to be great." 'Tis very true. The next is written in a languid hand: "Sin hath drunk up my pleasure, as eclipse Drinks up the sunlight. On my spirit lies A malison and ban. What though the Spring Makes all the hills and valleys laugh in green,-- Is the sea healed, or is the plover's cry Merry upon the moor? I now am kin To these, and winds, and ever-suffering things." Oh, I could blot these words out with my tears! So could I when I wrote them. What is next? "A sin lies dead and dreadful in my soul, Why should I gaze upon it day by day? Oh, rather, since it cannot be destroyed, Let me as reverently cover it As with a cloth we cover up the dead, And place it in some chamber of my soul, Where it may lie unseen as sound, yet _felt_,-- Making life hushed and awful." No more. No more. Let God wash out this record with His rain! This is the summer-house. [_They enter._ It is as sweet As if enamoured Summer did adorn It for his Love to dwell in. I love to sit And hear the pattering footsteps of the shower, As he runs over it, or watch at noon The curious sunbeams peeping through the leaves. I've always pictured you in such a place Writing your Book, and hurrying on, as if You had a long and wondrous tale to tell, And felt Death's cold hand closing round your heart. Have you read my Book? I have. It is enough. The Book was only written for two souls, And they are thine and mine. For many weeks, When I was dwelling by the moaning sea, Your name was blown to me on ev'ry wind, And I was glad; for by that sign I knew You had fulfilled your heart, and hoped you would Put off the robes of sorrow, and put on The singing crown of Fame. One dreary morn Your Book came to me, and I fondled it, As though it were a pigeon sent from thee With love beneath its wing. I read and read Until the sun lifted his cloudy lids And shot wild light along the leaping deep, Then closed his eyes in death. I shed no tear, I laid it down in silence, and went forth Burdened with its sad thoughts: slowly I went; And, as I wandered through the deepening gloom, I saw the pale and penitential moon Rise from dark waves that plucked at her, and go Sorrowful up the sky. Then gushed my tears-- The tangled problem of my life was plain-- I cried aloud, "Oh, would he come to me! I know he is unhappy; that he strives As fiercely as that blind and desperate sea, Clutching with all its waves--in vain, in vain. He never will be happy till he comes." As I went home the thought that you would come Filled my lorn heart with gladness, as the moon Filled the great vacant night with moonlight, till Its silver bliss ran o'er--so after prayer I slept in the lap of peace--next morn you came. And then I found you beautiful and pale-- Pale as that moonlight night! O Violet, I have been undeceived. In my hot youth I kissed the painted bloom off Pleasure's lips And found them pale as Pain's,--and wept aloud. Never henceforward can I hope to drain The rapture of a lifetime at a gulp. My happiness is not a troubled joy; 'Tis deep, serene as death. The sweet contents, The happy thoughts from which I've been estranged, Again come round me, as the old known peers Surround and welcome a repentant spirit, Who by the steps of sorrow hath regained His throne and golden prime. The eve draws nigh! The prosperous sun is in the west, and sees From the pale east to where he sets in bliss, His long road glorious. Wilt thou sing, my love, And sadden me into a deeper joy? VIOLET _sings._ The wondrous ages pass like rushing waves, Each crowned with its own foam. Bards die, and Fame Hangs like a pallid meteor o'er their graves. Religions change, and come and go like flame. Nothing remains but Love, the world's round mass It doth pervade, all forms of life it shares, The institutions that like moments pass Are but the shapes the masking spirit wears. Love is a sanctifier; 'tis a moon, Turning each dusk to silver. A pure light, Redeemer of all errors---- What ails you, Violet? Has music stung you like a very snake? Why do you weep? Walter! dost thou believe Love will redeem all errors? Oh, my friend, This gospel saves you! doubt it, you are lost. Deep in the mists of sorrow long I lay, Hopeless and still, when suddenly _this_ truth Like a slant sunbeam quivered through the mist, And turned it into radiance. In the light I wrote these words, while you were far away Fighting with shadows. Oh! Walter, in one boat We floated o'er the smooth, moon-silvered sea; The sky was smiling with its orbs of bliss; And while we lived within each other's eyes, We struck and split, and all the world was lost In one wild whirl of horror darkening down; At last I gained a deep and silent isle, Moaned on by a dim sea, and wandered round, Week after week, the happy-mournful shore, Wond'ring if you had 'scaped. Thou noble soul, Teach me, for thou art nearer God than I! My life was a long dream; when I awoke, Duty stood like an angel in my path, And seemed so terrible, I could have turned Into my yesterdays, and wandered back To distant childhood, and gone out to God By the gate of birth, not death. Lift, lift me up By thy sweet inspiration, as the tide Lifts up a stranded boat upon the beach. I will go forth 'mong men, not mailed in scorn, But in the armour of a pure intent. Great duties are before me and great songs, And whether crowned or crownless, when I fall It matters not, so that God's work is done. I've learned to prize the quiet lightning-deed, Not the applauding thunder at its heels Which men call Fame. Our night is past; We stand in precious sunrise, and beyond A long day stretches to the very end. Look out, my beautiful, upon the sky! Venus upon her brow. I never gaze Upon the evening but a tide of awe, And love, and wonder, from the Infinite, Swells up within me, as the running brine From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea, Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream Until it threats its banks. It is not joy, 'Tis sadness more divine. How quick they come,-- World after world! See the great moon above Yon undistinguishable clump of trees Is slowly from the darkness gathering light! You used to love the moon! This mournful wind Has surely been with Winter, 'tis so cold; The dews are falling, Violet! Your cloak-- Draw it around you. Let the still night shine! A star's a cold thing to a human heart, And love is better than their radiance. Come! Let us go in together. To-day a chief was buried--let him rest. His country's bards are up like larks, and fill With singing the wide heavens of his fame. To-night I sit within my lonely room, The atmosphere is full of misty rain, Wretched the earth and heaven. Yesterday The streets and squares were choked with yellow fogs, To-morrow we may all be drenched in sleet! Stretched like a homeless beggar on the ground, The city sleeps amid the misty rain. Though Rain hath pitched his tent above my head, 'Tis but a speck upon the happy world. Since I've begun to trace these lines, Sunrise Has struck a land and woke its bleating hills; Afar upon some black and silent moor The crystal stars are shaking in the wind; An ocean gurgles, for the stooping moon Hath kissed him into peace, and now she smooths The well-pleased monster with her silver hand. Come, naked, gleaming Spring! great crowds of larks Fluttering above thy head, thy happy ears Loud with their ringing songs, Bright Saviour, come! And kill old Winter with thy glorious look, And turn his corse to flowers! I sit to-night As dreary as the pale, deserted East, That sees the Sun, the Sun that once was hers, Forgetful of her, flattering his new love, The happy-blushing West. In these long streets Of traffic and of noise, the human hearts Are hard and loveless as a wreck-strewn coast. Eternity doth wear upon her face The veil of Time. They only see the veil, And thus they know not what they stand so near. Oh, rich in gold! Beggars in heart and soul! Poor as the empty void! Why, even I, Sitting in this bare chamber with my thoughts, Am richer than ye all, despite your bales, Your streets of warehouses, your mighty mills, Each booming like a world faint heard in space: Your ships; unwilling fires, that day and night Writhe in your service seven years, then die Without one taste of peace. Do ye believe A simple primrose on a grassy bank Forth-peeping to the sun, a wild bird's nest, The great orb dying in a ring of clouds, Like hoary Jacob 'mong his waiting sons; The rising moon, and the young stars of God, Are things to love? With _these_ my soul is brimmed; With a diviner and serener joy Then all thy heaven of money-bags can bring Thy dry heart, Worldling! The terror-stricken rain Flings itself wildly on the window-panes, Imploring shelter from the chasing wind. Alas! to-night in this wide waste of streets It beats on human limbs as well as walls! God led Eve forth into the empty world From Paradise. Could our great Mother come And see her children now, what sight were worst; A worker woke by cruel Day, the while A kind dream feeds with sweetest phantom-bread, Him, and his famished ones; or when the Wind, With shuddering fingers, draws the veil of smoke, And scares her with a battle's bleeding face? Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England! Oh, I know a tale Of those far summers when she lay in the sun, Listening to her own larks, with growing limbs, And mighty hands, which since have tamed the world, Dreaming about their tasks. This dreary night I'll tell the story to my listening heart. I sang 't to thee, O unforgotten Friend! (Who dwellest now on breezy English downs, While I am drowning in the hateful smoke) Beside the river which I long have loved. O happy Days! O happy, happy Past! O Friend! I am a lone benighted ship; Before me hangs the vast untravelled gloom, Behind, a wake of splendour, fading fast Into the hungry gloom from whence it came. Two days the Lady gazed toward the west, The way that he had gone; and when the third From its high noon sloped to a rosy close, Upon the western margin of the isle, Feeding her petted swans by tossing bread Among the clumps of water-lilies white, She stood. The fond Day pressed against her face; His am'rous, airy fingers, with her robe Fluttered and played, and trembling, touched her throat, And toying with her ringlets, could have died Upon her sweet lips and her happy cheeks! With a long rippling sigh she turned away, And wished the sun was underneath the hills. Anon she sang; and ignorant Solitude, Astonished at the marvel of her voice, Stood tranced and mute as savage at the door Of rich cathedral when the organ rolls, And all the answering choirs awake at once. Then she sat down and thought upon her love; Fed on the various wonders of his face To make his absence rich. "'Tis but three days Since he went from me in his light canoe, And all the world went with him, and to-night He will be back again. Oh, when he comes, And when my head is laid upon his breast, And in the pauses of the sweetest storm Of kisses that e'er beat upon a face, I'll tell him how I've pined, and sighed, and wept, And thought of those sweet days and nights that flew O'er us unheeded as a string of swans, That wavers down the sky toward the sea,-- And he will chide me into blissful tears, Then kiss the tears away." Quick leapt she up, "He comes! he comes!" She laughed, and clapt her hands, A light canoe came dancing o'er the lake, And he within it gave a cry of joy. She sent an answer back that drew him on. The swans are scared,--the lilies rippled--now Her happy face is hidden in his breast, And words are lost in joy. "My Bertha! let Me see myself again in those dear orbs. Have you been lonely, love?" She raised her head, "You surely will not leave me so again! I'll grow as pale 's the moon, and my praised cheeks Will be as wet as April's if you do." As when the moon hath sleeked the blissful sea, A light wind wrinkles it and passes off, So ran a transient trouble o'er his face. "My Bertha! we must leave this isle to-night. Thy shining face is blanked! We will return Ere thrice the day, like a great bird of light Flees 'cross the dark, and hides it with his wings." "Ah, wherefore?" "Listen, I will tell you why. "I stood afar upon the grassy hills, I saw the country with its golden slopes, And woods, and streams, run down to meet the sea. I saw the basking ocean skinned with light. I saw the surf upon the distant sands Silent and white as snow. Above my head A lark was singing, 'neath a sunny cloud, Around the playing winds. As I went down There seemed a special wonder on the shore, Low murmuring crowds around a temple stood: There was a wildered music on the air, Which came and went, yet ever nearer grew, When, lo! a train came upward from the sea With snowy garments, and with reverend steps, Full in their front a silver cross they bore, And this sweet hymn they strewed along the winds. 'Blest be this sunny morning, sweet and fair! Blest be the people of this pleasant land! Ye unseen larks that sing a mile in air, Ye waving forests, waving green and grand, Ye waves, that dance upon the flashing strand, Ye children golden-haired! we bring, we bring A gospel hallowing.' Then one stood forth and spoke against the gods; He called them 'cruel gods,' and then he said, 'We have a Father, One who dwells serene, 'Bove thunder and the stars, Whose eye is mild, And ever open as the summer sky; Who cares for everything on earth alike, Who hears the plovers crying in the wind, The happy linnets singing in the broom, Whose smile is sunshine.' When the old man ceased, Forth from the murmuring crowd there stepped a youth, As bright-haired as a star, and cried aloud, 'Friends! I've grown up among the wilds, and found Each outward form is but a window whence Terror or Beauty looks. Beauty I've seen In the sweet eyes of flowers, along the streams, And in the cold and crystal wells that sleep Far in the murmur of the summer woods; Terror in fire and thunder, in the worn And haggard faces of the winter clouds, In shuddering winds, and oft on moonless nights I've heard it in the white and wailing fringe That runs along the coast from end to end. The mountains brooded on some wondrous thought Which they would ne'er reveal. I seemed to stand Outside of all things; my desire to know Grew wild and eager as a starving wolf. To gain the secret of the awful world, I knelt before the gods, and then held up My heart to them in the pure arms of prayer-- They gave no answer, or had none to give. Friends! I will test these sour and sullen gods: If they are weak, 'tis well, we then may list Unto the strangers; but if my affront Draw angry fire, I shall be slain by gods, And Death may have no secrets. A spear! a steed!' A steed was brought by trembling hands, he sprang And dashed towards the temple with a cry. A shudder ran through all the pallid crowds. I saw him enter, and my sight grew dim, And on a long-suspended breath I stood, Till one might count a hundred beats of heart: Then he rode slowly forth, and, wondrous strange! Although an awful gleam lay on his face, His charger's limbs were drenched with terror-sweat. Amid the anxious silence loud he cried, 'Gods, marvellously meek! Why, any child May pluck them by the beard, spit in their face, Or smite them on the mouth; they can do nought, But sit like poor old foolish men, and moan. I flung my spear.'--Here, as a singing rill Is in the mighty noise of ocean drowned, His voice was swallowed in the shout that rose, And touched the heavens, ran along the hills, Thence came on after silence, strange and dim. A voice rose 'mong the strangers like a lark, And warbled out its joy, then died away. And the old man that spoke before went on, And, oh! the gentle music of his voice Stirred through my heart-strings like a wind through reeds. He said, 'It was God's hand that shaped the world And laid it in the sunbeams:' and that 'God, With His great presence fills the universe. That, could we dwell like night among the stars, Or plunge with whales in the unsounded sea, He still would be around us with His care.' And also, 'That, as flowers come back in Spring, We would live after Death.' I heard no more. I thought of thee in this delightful isle, Pure as a prayer, and wished that I had wings To tell you swiftly, that the death we feared Was but a grey eve 'tween two shining days, That we would love for ever! Then I thought Our home might be in that transparent star Which we have often watched from off this verge, Stand in the dying sunset, large and clear-- The humming world awoke me from my dream. I saw the old gods tumbled on the grass Like uncouth stones, they threw the temple wide, And Summer, with her bright and happy face, Looked in upon its gloom, and pensive grew. The while among the tumult of the crowds, Divinest hymns the white-robed strangers sang. I wearied for thee, Bertha! and I came. Wilt go and hear these strangers?" She turned on him A look of love--a look that richly crowned A moment heavenly rich, and murmured "Yes." He kissed her proudly, while a giddy tear, Wild with its happiness, ran down her cheek And perished in the dew. They took their seats, And as the paddles struck, grey-pinioned Time Flew through the gates of sunset into Night, And held through stars to gain the coasts of Morn. 'Tis done! The phantoms of my soul have fled Into the night, and I am left alone With that sweet sadness which doth ever dwell On the brink of tears; I stare i' th' crumbling fire Which from my brooding eye takes strangest shapes. The Past is with me, and I scarcely hear Outside the weeping of the homeless rain. Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara,-- High-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold! 'Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer shaw, In soft green light his passion he has told. When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold, The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear Framed passion-trembled ditties manifold; Silent she sat his am'rous breath to hear, With calm and steady eyes, her heart was otherwhere. He sighed for her through all the summer weeks; Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs Bore glorious apples with smooth-shining cheeks, Earl Gawain came and whispered, "Lady, rouse! Thou art no vestal held in holy vows; Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath." Her father's blood leapt up unto her brows-- He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath, Came charging like a star across the lists of death, Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke: And then she sat, her hands clasped round her knee: Like one far-thoughted was the lady's look, For in a morning cold as misery She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea; Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud, High on the poop a man sat mournfully: The wind was whistling thorough mast and shroud. And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud:-- "Didst look last night upon my native vales, Thou Sun! that from the drenching sea hast clomb? Ye demon winds! that glut my gaping sails, Upon the salt sea must I ever roam, Wander for ever on the barren foam? O happy are ye, resting mariners. O Death, that thou wouldst come and take me home! A hand unseen this vessel onward steers, And onward I must float through slow moon-measured years. "Ye winds! when like a curse ye drove us on, Frothing the waters, and along our way, Nor cape nor headland through red mornings shone, One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray, One howled, 'Upon the Deep we are astray.' On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight: In one short hour my hair was stricken grey, For all the crew sank ghastly in my sight As we went driving on through the cold starry night. "Madness fell on me in my loneliness, The sea foamed curses, and the reeling sky Became a dreadful face which did oppress Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. It fled, when I burst forth into a cry-- A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep; I hid, but in all corners they did pry, And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap; They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep. "Strange constellations burned above my head, Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew, Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled, As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through, Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue." The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea, My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you! The wind blows shrill between my love and me." Fond heart! the space between was but the apple-tree. There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest; Like washing water on the figured sands, His being came and went in sweet unrest, As from the mighty shelter of his breast The Lady Barbara her head uprears With a wan smile, "Methinks I'm but half blest: Now when I've found thee, after weary years, I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears." The broken moon lay in the autumn sky, And I lay at thy feet; You bent above me; in the silence I Could hear my wild heart beat. I spoke; my soul was full of trembling fears At what my words would bring: You raised your face, your eyes were full of tears, As the sweet eyes of Spring. You kissed me then, I worshipped at thy feet Upon the shadowy sod. Oh, fool, I loved thee! loved thee, lovely cheat! Better than Fame or God. My soul leaped up beneath thy timid kiss: What then to me were groans, Or pain, or death? Earth was a round of bliss, I seemed to walk on thrones. And you were with me 'mong the rushing wheels, 'Mid Trade's tumultuous jars; And where to awe-struck wilds the Night reveals Her hollow gulfs of stars. Before your window, as before a shrine, I've knelt 'mong dew-soaked flowers, While distant music-bells, with voices fine, Measured the midnight hours. There came a fearful moment: I was pale, You wept, and never spoke, But clung around me as the woodbine frail Clings, pleading, round an oak. Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul, And flung thee from myself; I spurned thy love as 'twere a rich man's dole,-- It was my only wealth. I spurned thee! I, who loved thee, could have died, That hoped to call thee "wife," And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side, Through all the shocks of life! Too late, thy fatal beauty and thy tears, Thy vows, thy passionate breath; I'll meet thee not in Life, nor in the spheres Made visible by Death. I cannot deem why men toil so for Fame. A porter is a porter though his load Be the oceaned world, and although his road Be down the ages. What is in a name? Ah! 'tis our spirit's curse to strive and seek. Although its heart is rich in pearls and ores, The Sea complains upon a thousand shores; Sea-like we moan for ever. We are weak. We ever hunger for diviner stores. I cannot say I have a thirsting deep For human fame, nor is my spirit bowed To be a mummy above ground to keep For stare and handling of the vulgar crowd, Defrauded of my natural rest and sleep. There have been vast displays of critic wit O'er those who vainly flutter feeble wings, Nor rise an inch 'bove ground,--weak Poetlings! And on them to the death men's brows are knit. Ye men! ye critics! seems 't so very fit They on a storm of laughter should be blown O'er the world's edge to Limbo? Be it known, Ye men! ye critics! that beneath the sun The chiefest woe is this,--When all alone, And strong as life, a soul's great currents run Poesy-ward, like rivers to the sea, But never reach 't. Critic, let that soul moan In its own hell without a kick from thee. Kind Death, kiss gently, ease this weary one! Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas-streets, But I am sitting in my silent room, Sitting all silent in congenial gloom. To-night, while half the world the other greets With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats, I sit and muse on my poetic doom; Like the dim scent within a budded rose, A joy is folded in my heart; and when I think on Poets nurtured 'mong the throes, And by the lowly hearths of common men,-- Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode With gorgeous music growing to a close, Deep-muffled as the dead-march of a god,-- My heart is burning to be one of those. Beauty still walketh on the earth and air, Our present sunsets are as rich in gold As ere the Iliad's music was out-rolled; The roses of the Spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet Friend! Oh, dearer this to me Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon, Or noble music with a golden ending. Last night my cheek was wetted with warm tears, Each worth a world. They fell from eyes divine. Last night a loving lip was pressed to mine, And at its touch fled all the barren years; And softly couched upon a bosom white, Which came and went beneath me like a sea, An emperor I lay in empire bright, Lord of the beating heart, while tenderly Love-words were glutting my love-greedy ears. Kind Love, I thank thee for that happy night! Richer this cheek with those warm tears of thine Than the vast midnight with its gleaming spheres. Leander toiling through the moonlight brine, Kingdomless Anthony, were scarce my peers. I wrote a Name upon the river sands With her who bore it standing by my side, Her large dark eyes lit up with gentle pride, And leaning on my arm with clasped hands, To burning words of mine she thus replied, "Nay, writ not on thy heart. This tablet frail Fitteth as frail a vow. Fantastic bands Will scarce confine these limbs." I turned love-pale, I gazed upon the river'd landscape wide, And thought how little _it_ would all avail Without her love. 'Twas on a morn of May, Within a month I stood upon the sand, Gone was the name I traced with trembling hand,-- And from my heart 'twas also gone away. Like clouds or streams we wandered on at will, Three glorious days, till, near our journey's end, As down the moorland road we straight did wend, To Wordsworth's "Inversneyd," talking to kill The cold and cheerless drizzle in the air, 'Bove me I saw, at pointing of my friend, An old fort like a ghost upon the hill, Stare in blank misery through the blinding rain, So human-like it seemed in its despair-- So stunned with grief--long gazed at it we twain. Weary and damp we reached our poor abode, I, warmly seated in the chimney-nook, Still saw that old Fort o'er the moorland road Stare through the rain with strange woe-wildered look. Sheath'd is the river as it glideth by, Frost-pearl'd are all the boughs in forests old, The sheep are huddling close upon the wold, And over them the stars tremble on high. 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Katharine S. (Katharine Sarah) Macquoid

Pictures in Umbria

1824

Dear boy, ten summers--ten swift summers now Have come and gone since last I said good-bye, Ten idle, wasted summers gone, and how I hardly know, so swift the seasons fly: So swift the seasons come, so swift they go, That scare it seems one brief, one little day, Since boyish voices bid us come and play: And little girls did seem to lure us so. These idle words of mine can penetrate, Thou knowest, then, that tears have wet mine eyes, Thou knowest that I felt thy ruthless fate; And yet, dear boy, I sometimes feel that thou Art happier there than I who mourn thee now. A Visit from a Cricket Come walk a mile with me--'Tis January; The knee-deep snow lies heavy on the ground And hark!--the icy winds--how swift they hurry Over the fields with melancholy sound; And save these winds or some forsaken raven, Winging its way along yon frozen hill, Nature is hush'd--her dormant image graven In marble masks on woodland, lake and rill. And look!--the trees their naked trunks are swaying, As bitterly each blast goes howling by, And hark!--the music in the hemlocks playing, Like some lost spirit banished from the sky, And see the smoke from yonder chimney curling, Hugs the broad roofs, deep-burden'd with the snow, While clouds of snow are round the low eaves whirling. How cold it is!--Come, let us homeward go There will we find the cheerful fire still burning, There ruddy warmth will make our faces glow, And there kind hearts will welcome our returning; Come!--let us hasten through the drifty snow. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis February; The sun is creeping slowly toward the North, And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry, And prophets of the Spring are waking forth-- The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow Beside his open villa, dark and cold, And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow, And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold. And hark!--the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly, And merry chickadees are piping loud, E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly, And the great trees are low before him bow'd; And see!--the Lady of the South is creeping Higher and higher--'Tis the hour of noon, And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping,-- Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune. Yet, as the sun is with the day declining, Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West, Where the snow-fairies are again designing Another robe for Nature's barren breast. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis March and windy, And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast, And hark!--the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday, Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast; Louder and louder now the winds are wailing, Faster and faster wings the frozen snow, Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing, As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro. But see!--the sun above the clouds is creeping, And look!--soft flakes are falling, one by one, And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping, While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done. And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning, Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills, And hark!--the robin from the South returning, Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills, And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping, Gathers the sap that sings a merry song, While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping, And noisy squirrels leap the trees among. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis April weather; A voice like Spring is calling: Let us go Where violets are blooming on the heather, And song-birds bend the branches to and fro; For everywhere the very ground is springing, And everywhere the grass is getting green-- How can I now--how can I keep from singing When all the world is like a fairy scene! The buds in all the trees, are ripe for bursting, And fleecy catkins flutter everywhere, And every little flower seems a-thirsting For something sweet and beautiful and fair. But look!--to Westward--see!--an April shower Sudden has gathered, darkening the sun, Yet wait!--beside me lifts a gentle flower, That lights my pathway, blossoming alone; And hark!--O hark, the meadow-lark is singing, Greeting the storm from yon tall maple tree, While, like a herald in its homeward winging, Wheels a lone flicker o'er the darkening lea. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis merry May-time; The little lambs are gamboling on the green,-- Nature is glad--it is her hour of playtime, And now, or never, her true heart is seen; The butterflies are floating down from heaven, And humming-birds again are on the wing,-- And the kind swallows, seventy times seven, Fill all the air with merry murmuring. And see the lilacs by yon cottage blooming!-- How sweet the air is!--sweetness everywhere, For look!--rich apple-blossoms are perfuming This little lane that leads to woodlands fair,-- Here honeysuckle-bells are softly swinging, And pink azaleas perfume all the wood, And, in the trees, the vireos are singing Incessantly their songs of solitude, While round the hill, as slow our steps are wending, We hear a sweet Voice calling,--"Come, O come!" For see!--the sun is in the West decending, And happy hearts are waiting us at home. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis June,--fair June-day, And Nature smiles--her magic hands are still, For not a ripple stirs yon lake at noon-day, And not a breeze disturbs this woody hill; But hark!--what idle dreamer there is drumming? It is--it is a pheasant calling--"Come!" And listen!--like a low voice sweetly humming Is heard the brook within its forest home. But wait!--We cannot wait--'Twill soon be Summer, So let us now enjoy these days of June, For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer, Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune; And see ye not yon oriole high swinging His basket from that tall and leafy tree-- O Comrade, Comrade!--Time is swiftly winging,-- 'Twill not be always June with you and me; Spring-time is passing--Summer is a-coming, And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams, And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams! O Comrade!--Comrade!--let us not be weary, But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom, Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary, Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom! For see!--each flower lifts a golden chalice Inviting us to drink--Shall we pass by, With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky? Come walk a mile with me--'Tis July weather; The western sun is burning round and bright, And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight; But hark!--in yonder broad and sunlit meadow The sound of busy mowers fill the air, While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow, Is heard the locust piping shrilly there. And see, how strong men lift the scented grasses! And how they pile the wagons with the hay! How fast the rake, with rolling burden, passes! How regular the long, round winrows lay! And see!--the sun--the great round sun is setting, Like a red rose upon the distant hill, Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill; But come!--for darkness soon will gather round us, And we must pass through yonder woodlands there; And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us, And then--then--home we shall together share. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis August. Listen! The meadow-quail is whistling merrily, And see!--the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten On grass and shrub and bush and bending tree; And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty, For everywhere this morning we may go One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty, Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow. Yes, oaten fields are white and ripe for reaping, And green things paling in the garden there Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping, And harvest-time is on us unaware; The early apples even now are falling, The tassel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye, The purpling grape--all, all are sadly calling That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die. But hark!--what sound is that!--it seems like thunder, And yet 'tis but the wind, within the trees,-- The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,-- A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis sweet September; And quietly the clouds are gliding by, And silent runs the brook that, you remember, And overhead, the first red leaf is falling, And, underfoot, the flowers are fading fast, While in the air I hear a strange, sad calling That tells me Summer is forever past. And yet how peaceful seems the face of Heaven, How calm the earth is--Nature is at rest, And all the hopes that unto Spring were given, Folds Autumn now in silence to her breast; The birds are singing, yet not half so sweetly As when they sung their song at opening Spring, And flowers are blooming, yet not so completely As when the birds were first upon the wing; And I am singing--but the fading glory Of Autumn-time subdues my idle song, For what is Autumn but the sweet sad story Of leaves that fade and lives that last not long. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis now October; And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green. Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober, And prophesy too plainly the unseen; For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,-- Giving a glory to the fading leaf! Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly, Nature should plainly tell us life is brief. The flowers, too, are fading--and are dying, The leaves are falling, and incessantly, And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying, And the blue-jays once more are calling me; But Winter!--Winter soon, too soon, is coming, For see!--see there,--the frost is on the grass! And the wild-bee--I hear no more its humming As once I did, wherever I might pass; And robin--he is gone, and all the singing Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear, While the dry leaves, to barren branches clinging, Full plainly speak the passing of the year. Come walk a mile with me--November!--Faintly The long, blue hills lift to the eastern sky; 'Tis Indian-summer now--this day seems saintly, Like some good martyr e'er he goes to die; The skies are cloudless; not a breeze is blowing, And silent is each bare and leafless form; The brooks--how quiet!--I like not their flowing, For oh,--it is the calm before the storm. Yes, yes--e'en now--to Westward--look! a figure Is sudden forming, stretching forth a wand, Shaping a shape as of some giant, bigger Than any fabled thing from Fairyland; Higher and higher that strange shape is lifting, Swifter and swifter its fleet heralds run, Wider and wider its white breath is drifting As lower sinks the slow decending sun; And now--the storm!--the storm is on us. Hurry! Yet see!--the myriad snow-flakes--see them come! O Comrade!--See!--it is young Winter's flurry-- And yet 'tis but the storm that drives us home. Come walk a mile with me--'Tis dark December; The cold, rough winds are never, never still; O for the days of Spring I well remember! O for the flowers that blossomed on the hill!-- And wish you not that you,--you too were playing Upon the hillside, building castles there, Dreaming sweet dreams, as when we went a-Maying, Midst singing birds and blossoms sweet and fair? But hark, the wind!--and see, the falling snow-flakes! How thick they come--how beautiful they seem! Yet I am weary--weary of the snow-flakes-- O Comrade!--tell me,--is it all a dream; O Comrade!--Comrade!--Winter is upon us; Our hopes, like snow-flakes, now are falling fast, Our dreams are broken--God have mercy on us!-- We must not perish in the wintry blast-- For see, O see!--the sun,--the sun is shining! 'Tis noon, and lo!--yon glorious orb of day Is turning backward, a New-year designing-- So shall all Winters turn to Spring alway. And so shall Winter be an emblem only Of the dark days that meet us, one and all, Making our little lives seem sad and lonely, Until the New-Year answers to our call, Until another Spring renewing Nature; Renews our hopes that were so desolate Giving us faith that not one living creature Is blindly born to blindly meet its fate. Almighty organ of America, E'er mortal man thy voice did hear Thy notes, full clear, Rose with voluptious music on the air, Till angels, wondering, hesitated there, And rude barbarians fell in fear Beside thy god-like amphitheatre. Thus, when thy ancient spirit touch'd those keys, Those smoothly polished keys, Those swift and mighty keys A powerful yet a pleasing note was found That gave to Silence round A song whereof no mortal heard a sound, But which did Heaven please Through the long centuries, And unto these. Then, when the red-men's blue-eyed brother came Beside this shrine, thy temple here to claim, Such glory here to see; Thy awful music's note Upon his spirit smote Subduing stronger passions of the mind, Until, like prisoners, suffering there confined, Those gentler melodies Within his bosom there, Ascended with thy voice to heav'n In one triumphant prayer. Then louder, ye organ of America, Still louder sound thy anthems on the sky; And thou, Niagara, e'er thy spirit die, Wake!--wake the courts of Heaven with thy lay, Till the dear angels learn like thee to pray For all the world to-day; Yet louder, ye organ of America, Still louder, let thy Spirit from those keys,-- Those smoothly polished keys, Those swift and heavy keys,-- Strike, with inspiring fingers, Heaven-and-earth's triumphant harmonies. When the Frost-spirit, with her icy wand, Strikes the cold Northwind, bringing frost and snow, She sends her Fairies through the frozen land To deck with sculpture all the world below; Soon every bank, so lately green with grass, Like streets of marble to the margin lies, And here and there, wherever one may pass, Frail, fairy structures magic-like arise; The slender willows, bow'd in artless grief, Appear in white, as pledge of Winter's care, And every idle reed and clinging leaf Have spirits, full as bright, beside them there; While pine and hemlock, shorn of all their green, Stand out like sculptur'd Druids of the wood; And the small beeches, hovering between, Seem children of some banish'd brotherhood; The broken stumps become as kingly chairs, The fallen logs, great pillars, round and white, And the dead branches, Oriental stairs That lead to rooms all glittering with light; Each mossy knoll becomes a marble mound, Th' unlettered stones, all artless works of art, And e'en the brooklets in the forest round Are set with diamonds dear to Nature's heart. When, in the days gone by, down the Delaware The high Spring-floods, with an angry roar Were running like breakers far up the shore, Then the riverman by his chimney-seat Would feel his stout heart strangely beat-- So 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, The raft and the river for rivermen. When the creeks flow'd wild round the Delaware, And the sky showed blue through the sharp Spring air, And the rafts were waiting the raftmen there, Then these rivermen were ill-content Until their backs to the oars were bent-- So 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, The raft and the river for rivermen. When, in days gone by, down the Delaware Those great rafts tethered against the shore, Were loosed like chafing steeds once more, Then out of the valleys, and off the hills The raftmen came flocking with school-boy wills-- And 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, The raft and the river for rivermen. Life is a school, and all that tread the earth Are pupils in it. Its lessons all should learn, And few there be who escape them--and they are fools. At birth this school begins, at death it ends, And many terms there be,--and faithful teachers Not a few. Necessity is one; For e'en the babe when first it feels the cool And earthly air, and sees the light of day, Shrinks from their touch, and cries aloud--herewith It doth begin to learn the alphabet Of life. Then hunger comes; and so to ease Itself the babe doth learn to love the things That give it life. Thus hour by hour, and day By day it gathers knowledge at the school But knows it not--even as wiser men, Of knowledge full, know scarcely what they do. And months pass by--the babe becomes a child, Eager to learn, to imitate, to know, Lisping the lessons of a higher grade, Repeating words of wisdom, gems of truth That others think the little thing should know; Until at length in childish innocence It leaves the kindergarten of the world, And knocks upon the door of adult life, And enters there, flushed with the lulling sense Of something new. The playthings are forgot; The little bells no longer please the ear, The little books no longer feed the mind, The little seats no longer suit the child, The little friends no longer stir the soul, For it hath learned the alphabet of life, And put aside the primer once for all. There is a longing now for deeper life That fills the heart to overflow--there is A tumult now within the swollen veins, When, for the first, they feel a larger life In unison close beating to its own-- There is a hatred of authority And of restraint--a satisfaction now As of a soul enamoured with itself, A soul insolvent on the rising tide Of pure existence, with such a stubborness As mocks advice and takes a happy pace, Securer of its own security. And like the waters of a swollen stream, That leaves its early channels far behind, Youth ventures into unknown paths, full fed By surging hopes, by sudden, deep desires, By wild ambitions and a thousand things, Unnamed and nameless--rivulets of life That ever empty in this stirring stream. Now would the student leave his school, and play Among the hills, or in the valley's shade,-- Now would the scholar chafe at books And knowledge and authority--rough banks Until the floods of Springtime can abate, And in a clearer, safer channel course again. So, with life's lessons still unlearned Full many a scholar e'en would graduate With highest honors, and in his pride And surety of knowledge be a god To give advice to those who should advise; Forth full of wisdom would he quickly go, And even issue take with all the world, But when this truant-fever runs its course, This hey-day of existence has its turn, Back to the school the skulking scholar comes, Like a whipped cur, and willing to be taught By those same teachers he so lately spurn'd, And left for larger things. For manhood now Is here--the errors and the follies, everyone, By the wise student surely now are seen, And in the book of life he reads with ready eye The rules and lessons, and considers well His bold instructors,--Want,--Adversity,-- And Disappointment, with her heavy hand; The whip of Scorn, and Sorrow's bitter book, And Sickness' long and tedious term, And all the various teachers of the school. And if perchance these lessons be forgot, These, his instructors, will rehearse him well, Lest he forget in later life these things, And be a dullard in the school of schools, A freshman wise in his own foolishness. So manhood comes--and so it surely goes, From grade to grade and term to term, With all the questions and perplexing rules, And devious methods of the Master-mind, Who holds the key to all the questionings, Yet leaves the student to himself alone, Half puzzled by the figures on the dial That tell the hour when he shall graduate Above earth's petty problems, and shall hold A clearance to that life which is to come, And whereunto he graduates, perchance, A better man. A better man--if not, So shall he go again in that same grade Where like a laggard half-asleep in school, He wakes to find himself a scholar still, With all the vexing problems yet unsolved, Which, in his idleness and lust of life, Were left until the morrow, and the sun To usher in another dreamless day. So manhood comes--and so it surely goes, Till those who here have studied to become Proficient in the lessons of this life, Shall be excused from school, and left to play By running brooks and hills that shout for joy, And living waters wild in their delight. So is it meet that all should labor now To learn these lessons well, so, when the day Of graduation comes, a Voice will say:-- Well-done; perfect in life, perfect in death; Receive thy rich reward, for thou hast found-- Perfection is the only key to Heaven. Thou shrill-voiced cricket there In yonder corner, Thou remindest me Of joys departed, and of fair And fallen summer. O little mourner, Cease thy pensive fluting, Lest a flood of melancholy, Sad as thine, That to my heart is suiting, Encompass me--it is unholy Thus to pine For fallen joys or days departed, E'en though thou art so broken-hearted, For moments are divine. Silent art thou?--thanks to thee, O little cricket Underneath my chair; Thanks to thee--yet would I see Thy shadow less--out to yon thicket! There let thy dull repining Drive where the winds are driven, Nor deign to bring Thy sorrows back--let such be given To those in shades reclining Who love to sing, With thee, of dear departed Summer, And hear again her sad funereal drummer, Thou little, mournful thing. One moment stay--why comest thou With doleful ditty Unbidden to my room; Wee, dusky mourner, do not go, But say--what is it claims thy pity, And sets thee telling, telling Such a solemn story So to me, As if there knelling, knelling Of some departed glory Dear to thee? O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle, And admit life is a riddle, And Heaven holds the key. Thou mindest not; for hark!--again Resounds thy racket Shriller than before; Singst thou this sad strain As if befitting to thy ebon jacket, With carvings curious, And a color glossy, Like old wine-- Tiny thing, be not so furious And uneedful noisy; Cease to pine For something fled--for joys or hopes departed, Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted, O mourner most divine. Sweet Inez, would that I might pledge My thoughts to thee with line on line, And prove, if tender words can prove, That all my tender thoughts are thine. Would that my feeble pen might pluck From the green fields of poetry, Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deck Thy name so near, so dear to me. Would that my hand might gather here From the sweet fields of tender thought, Some blossom, fragrant as the rose, Some lily, lovely as I ought. But why should I commit a sin By wishing any flower for thee; Thou art more beautiful, I know, Than all the flowers of poetry. What shall I then with thee compare, To make a true comparison-- The dawning day, the dying light, The rising or the setting sun? At morn I see the early sun Appear with glory in her eye, But looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee, for thee sigh. At noon I see that fervid orb Proclaim the sultry hour of day, But looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee, turn away. At length I see that same bright sun Descend below the western blue, Yet looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee love thee, too. Fade then, ye flowers of the field, And sink, ye dying beams of light, But let, O let my Inez be Forever present to my sight. Two thousand years!--two thousand years Since Mary, with a mother's fears, Brought forth for all humanities The Christian of the centuries; And now men turn from toil away To celebrate his natal day By feasting happy hours away And giving gifts with lavish hand, Throughout the length of every land;-- A noble custom nobly born In Bethlehem one holy morn, But intermingling with the good, A pagan custom long has stood, As you and I and all may see-- This war against the greenwood tree, This robbing of posterity,-- Until the burden of my rhyme Is of this crime of Christmastime. The skies are white with soft moonlight; In Christian lands the lamps burn bright, In splendor gleaming from the walls Of parlors and of festive halls; Or yet, amid some snow-white choir, Sweet maidens sing the world's desire, Till, answering in low refrain, The people all repeat the strain Of "peace on earth, to men good-will," When sudden all the hall is still. Then tender music, soft and low, Heavenward seems to float and flow, But--mid these glittering lights, O see The stately form of greenwood tree! Whose graceful arms are drooping wide As grieving this fair Christmastide. The hills are white with lovely light, And everywhere the stars burn bright In splendor gleaming on the wood, Where once, in loyal familyhood, The evergreens together stood, But--now no vespers, sweet or low, In happy measures upward flow, For there--by Heaven's lights, O see The absence of the greenwood tree! Whose noble form once waiving wide, This melancholy waste did hide. Yet here and there a lonely tree Still sounds a mournful melody, And answering, in low refrain, The winds repeat the solemn strain, Until the hills conscious of harm, Awaken in a wild alarm, Until, with trumpets to the sky, They echo up to Heaven the cry:-- Ye Forests, rouse--shake off thy shroud, And sound a protest, long and loud; Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chide This carelessness of Christmastide-- And Man, thou prodigal of Time, Bestir thyself--and heed my rhyme, And curb this crime of Christmastime. Beyond the beams of brightening day A lonely miner, moving slow Along a darkly winding way, Is daily seen to go, Where shines no sun or cheerful ray To make those gloomy caverns gay. For there no glorious morning light Is burning in a cloudless sky And there no banners flaming bright, Are lifted heaven-high, But that lone miner, far from sight, Treads boundless realms of boundless night. There neither brook nor lovely lawn Allures the miner's weary eye, For, having caught one glimpse of dawn, With many an anxious sigh, Those precious lights are left in pawn To be by fainter hearts withdrawn. Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower Dare penetrate that fearful gloom, Where, low beneath a crumbling tower, Or dark, resounding room, Yon miner, in some evil hour, A ruined prisoner may cower. Yet, while the day is speeding on, Far from those skies that shine so clear, Far from the glory of the sun And happy birds that cheer-- Hark!--through those echoing caves, anon The hammer's merry monotone. There, far from every happy sound Of blithesome bird or cheerful song, In yonder solitudes profound, The miner, all day long, Hears his own music echo round Those deep-voiced caverns underground. There, in that gloom which doth affright Faint-hearted, sky-enamoured men, The miner, with his little light, Hews out a hollow den, And seems to find some keen delight Where others see but noisesome night. Thus many a heart, along life's way, Must labor where no cheerful sun Of golden hopes or pleasures gay, Shines till the day is done, For where the deepest shadows play The purest hearts are led astray. Yet some, unseen by careless Fate, Know naught of gloom or sorrow here. But happily, with hearts elate, They walk a charmed sphere, And lightly laugh, or lightly prate Of lonely souls left desolate. So are we miners, great and small, By sunny slope or lower gloom, And day by day we hear a call As from the distant tomb, But, when the evening shadows fall, The lights of home will gleam for all. Love of country is the life of war; Love not your country then, If loving it should lead you into war; Oh do not be deceived--Love is broader,-- Love is broader than a wheatfield, Love is broader than a landscape; Do not be misled--love the world; Begin at home--love your birthplace, Then your county, then your state, Then your country, then the countries Of your brothers and sisters, who look So much like you--like hands, like feet, Like ears, like eyes, like lips; like sorrows, Like hopes, like joys; like body, mind And spirit, for the spirit of one man Differeth not from the spirit of another, Or high or low, or rich or poor, being The same yesterday, to-day and forever. Love of country is the life of war; Love not your country then, If loving it should lead you into war-- Should lead you into hatred Of your neighbor's country--lead you To strike down even unto death Your brother who so resembles you, Made in your image, and in the likeness Of the living God. "Titanic!--rightly named, sir"--says the captain of the ship, "And the safest of all vessels--now mark her maiden trip," And all think as the captain thinks--all her two thousand souls As steadily out o'er the sea the stately vessel rolls. For she is shod with iron and her frame is built of oak, And stout hearts man the vessel, wherefore the captain spoke; And with naught for pleasure lacking, so stately and so fair, She seems a floating palace--fit for angels living there. And praise be to her makers, and good-will to her crew, And safety to her passengers"--take this as our adieu. O there were pleasant partings as the vessel sail'd away, And there was joy in every heart that pleasant April day, And there were happy thoughts of home--of meeting kith and kin, For the stately vessel soon would be her harbor safe within. And so blue the sky above them and so blue the wave beneath, That all,--all thought of living and no one thought of death, As, hour by hour, the vessel left England far behind, And, hour by hour, the ship sped on as speeds an ocean wind. And no one thought of danger--until with thunderous roar, The great ship struck the rock-like ice, and shook from floor to floor. Then there was breaking timbers, and bulging plates of steel, And noise of great commotion along that vessel's keel-- Then there were cries of anguish, and curses from rough men, And earnest prayers for safety--O prayers for safety then. For women wept in terror, and stout men drop'd a tear, And the shouting and the tumult was maddening to hear, Yet there amidst that seething the life-boats, one by one, Were set adrift at midnight--where cold sea-rivers run. Then, on that fated vessel, the thousand waited there In hope some sea-born sister would snatch them from despair, But no ship came to aid her, and, in the dead of night, The noble ship Titanic sank suddenly from sight. O midway in old ocean, in her darkest, deepest gloom, A thousand brave hearts bravely went down to meet their doom,-- And what a tragic picture!--Oh, what a solemn sight Upon that fated vessel with the stars still shining bright! Then there was time for thinking--O time enough to spare, And there was time for cursing and time enough for pray'r,-- Time,--time for retrospection, and time enough to die, Time, time for life's great tragedy--and time to reason why. That was the greatest battle that ever yet was fought; That was the greatest picture on any canvas wrought; That was the greatest lesson that mortal man can teach; That was the greatest sermon that priests of earth can preach. Yet no one fought that battle with saber or with gun, And no one saw that picture, save those brave hearts alone, And no one read that lesson there written in the dark, And no one heard that sermon that went straight to its mark. Nor shall we know their story, the saddest of the sea, Or shall we learn the sequel, the sorrow yet to be, But long shall we remember how brave men bravely died For some poor, lowly woman with a baby at her side. And when the world gets scorning the greatest of the great, When poverty sits cursing the man of large estate, O then let men remember, how, in that awful hour, The wealth of all the world was powerless in its power. War is hell!--war is hell!-- This is what the war-men yell Yet they love to be in hell, Love to hear the iron hail Strike, till even strong men quail; Love the dying soldier's knell, Ringing shot and shrieking shell, Love to hear the battle-cry, Love to see men fight and die With the struggle in their eye-- War is hell--war is hell,-- This is what the war-men yell. War is wrong--war is wrong; This the burden of my song: War is wrong--war is wrong-- Sound the pean, human tongue; Let the message far be flung-- Sound it, sound it heaven-high, Sound it to the starry sky, And Heaven, repeat the echoing, Till all the earth of peace shall sing. Peace loves day, but war loves night; Peace loves calmness, war--to fight In the wrong or in the right; Peace the hungry man gives bread, War would give a stone instead; Peace is honest--not so war, Crying--any way is fair; Peace loves life--War loves the dead With a halo overhead; Peace pleads justice--War cries might In the wrong or in the right; Peace pleads--love your fellow-man, War cries--kill him if you can; Peace no evil thing would slight, Yet while daring dares not fight, Knowing might makes nothing right; Peace means liberty and life, War means enmity and strife; Peace means plenty, peace means power, War means--hell, and would devour All who do not trust its power; Peace means joy and love tomorrow, War means hatred, death and sorrow; Peace says--Bless you--men are brothers, War says--Damn you, and all others. War is hell, war is hell!-- This is what the war-men yell; War is wrong, war is wrong-- This the burden of my song; War is wrong, war is wrong, There never was a just one, There never was a just one, True as two from two leaves none, True as days are never done, True as rivers downward run, True as heaven holds the sun,-- War is wrong, war is wrong, There never was a just one, There never was a just one, Sound the message, human tongue, Sound it, sound it heaven-high, Sound it to the starry sky, And Heaven, repeat the echoing Till all the earth of peace shall sing. Blest is that man who first cries peace, But curst is he who first cries war, For war is murder. It must cease Forever and from everywhere. Philanthropist, far-sighted millionaire, Lover of prose and friend of poetry, What needs my pen in furtherance declare Thou art also a friend of liberty,-- Thou art, indeed, a very Prince of Peace, Who, conscious of the uselessness of war, Believest man's red carnage soon should cease, And nations now for nobler things prepare: What needs my pen in furtherance recite Thy kindly interest in the weal of man-- Yet, lacking need, I nothing lose to write, But rather gain in praising as I can, For, if thy wealth the world sweet peace may give, Perhaps my lines in praise of peace may live. Munn's Review

Walter Robert-tornow

Geflügelte Worte Der Citatenschatz des deutschen Volkes

_All rights reserved_ A long grim corridor--a sullen bar Of light athwart the darkness--where no fleet Pale sunshine spreads for dark his winding sheet A light, not born of noon nor placid star Glows lurid thro' the gloom--while from afar, Beats marching of innumerable feet. Is this the place where tragic armies meet? The throb of terror that presages war?-- I strain to see, then softly on my sight There falls the vision, manifold they come-- White listless Day chained to her brother Night-- And as they meet the air where each one dies, They turn and smile at me--with weary eyes. And shall it be that these undaunted snows That poise so lightly on the mountains' crest-- A lily laid to cheer its lonely breast-- Shall their chill smile still face the wind, that blows Across the field whereon no blossom grows, And light the land where no gay life may rest Save glowing hasty fingers of the West, When our two hearts lie cold beneath the rose? These silver flakes of ancient hoary frost, Surviving all our joys' supremest powers, And though the petals of your lips be lost And gone the summer of your golden head, This pale eternal growth of winter's flowers Shall still live on--though our sweet love be dead. He had a vision of a golden throne Fronting an altar; both alike were bare, But o'er the purple of the regal chair Blazed the device, "I wait for him alone Who with the world has held his soul his own." He sadly turned, this height he could not dare. But--Stay--the text upon the altar there-- "I wait for him who has not made a moan Howe'er his kind have used his heaven-sent dower. Fear not, and burn thine incense, lowly heart." And sudden brightness turns the averted face, To holy sense of majesty and power-- And a voice:--"Master--this indeed thou art." Wondrous music trembles thro' the space. You have not ceased for me. Though stern-browed Fate Laid our two paths apart; when in the West She gave you over to the seas, and great Wide winds of enterprise, and set your breast Against the suns and shadows of the earth; Then with a gilded largess, led my ways Toward the time-worn East, who paints her dearth With purple vain imaginings; the praise Of all her languid incense and the pride Of ancient mysteries and hopeless creeds Hold for my heart no spell when warm and wide I see across the blue of Isis' veil The thunderous breakers of your ocean pale And glints of prairie sun through river reeds. The pallid waves caress the paler sand, Falter and tremble, then reluctant wane, Fearing advance, yet venturing again. Grey deep sea waves that never knew the land, Tired with the tumult, stretch a crooked hand To win a precious sweet surcease from pain, But, glancing back upon the mighty main, Perforce return to swell the strong command. So fretful Life sees Death's cold sands and faints To fling thereon the wearing of her wave, Yet, turning ere she finds the gloomy shore, Seeing ahead the idle senseless grave, Behind--the Kings, the Patriots and the Saints, She sighing turns to face the fight once more. I asked for water and they brought me wine; Gleamed thro' the purple beads, as if unrolled-- One saw the sun-rays of a life-time shine. So drinking, I forgot my dream divine Of crystal purity, for in my hold Were wealth and Fame and Passions manifold Which with the draught I fancied might be mine. "Ah, Youth," I said, "Ah, Faith and Love!" I said; "These are but broken lances in the strife! What shall remain when all these things are sped?" Then crashed the dream. I clutched the hand of Fate Amid the ruins of my shattered life, And found the Gods had cheated, all too late. Cruel and fair! within thy hollowed hand My heart is lying as a little rose, So faint and faded, scarce could one suppose It might look in thine eyes and understand The song they sing unto a weary land, Making it radiant, yet because I dare, To love thee, being weak, lose not thine air Of passive distance, fateful and most grand. Pity me not, nor turn away awhile Till absence's cloud has caught my passion up. Ah, be not kind! for love's sake, be not kind! Grant me the tragic deepness of the cup, And when thine eyes have flashed and made me blind, Kill me beneath the shadow of thy smile. A vast screen of unequal downward lines, An orange purple halo 'round the rain, Twists from a space whose very size is pain. Here in this vortex day with night combines; Ruby and Emerald glint their blazing spines; Closing and smothering, wheels a brazen main, A shuddering sea of silence; in its train A Thought--a cry, whose snake--fear trembling twines Around--above--alive yet uttered not; But my heart hears--and shrieking dies of dread, Then soaring breaks its bands and o'er the rim White winged it rends the dark with jagged blot, Glimpsing the iris gateway barred ahead, And, gazing thro', the eyes of cherubim. I will not look for him--I will not hear My heart's loud beating, as I strain to see Across the rain forlorn and hopelessly, Nor starting, think 'tis he that draws so near. I will forget how tenderly and dear He might in coming hold his arms to me, For I will prove what woman's pride can be When faint love lingers in the darkness drear. I will not--Ah, but should he come to-night I think my life might break thro' very bliss, This little will should so be torn apart That all my soul might fail in golden light And let me die--So do I long for this. Ah, love, thine eyes!--Nay, love--Thy heart, thy heart! I have a dream, that somewhere in the days, Since when a myriad suns have burned and died, There was a time my soul was not for pride Of spendthrift youth, the pensioner who pays Dole for the pain of searching thro' the haze Where joy lies hidden. As the puff balls ride, The wandering wind across the Summer's side-- So winged my spirit in a golden blaze Of pure and careless Present--Future naught Who now am old. Now years like flashes seem, Lambent or grey on the great wall of Thought-- This is a song a poet may have sung-- No proof remains, I have but dreamed a dream. Ah love, my love, upon this alien shore I lean and watch the pale uneasy ships Slip thro' the waving mist in strange eclipse, Like spirits of some time and land of yore. I did not think my heart could love thee more, And yet, when lightlier than a swallow dips, The wind lays ghostly kisses on my lips I seem to know of love the eternal core. Here is no throbbing of impassioned breath To beat upon my cheek, no pulsing heart Which might be silenced by the touch of Death, No smile which other smile has softly kissed Or doting gaze which Time must draw apart, But spirit's spirit in the trailing mist. High on the mountain's slope I pause and turn-- Over my head, by the rough crag-points high, Seems rent and torn the tender hovering sky, Till almost--thro'--I see a Heaven-spark burn; Then downward to the sleeping world I yearn Whose eyes so heavy droop they may not try To catch the higher gleam--and live thereby-- Youth passes graveward--and they never learn. Then faint with brooding o'er a careless earth I turn to Nature and her broad warm breast, Strive for a friendship with her sun-burnt mirth, Teach my sad soul to catch her cadence deep, Dream that in her absorbed my heart must rest; But Nature smiles, and turns once more in sleep. Beloved, when the tides of life run low As sobbing echoes of a dead refrain, And I may sit and watch the silent rain And muse upon the fulness of my woe, Then is my burden lighter, for I know The roses of my heart shall bloom again The fairer for this plenitude of pain, And Summer shall forget the chilly snow. But when life calls me to its revels gay And I must face the world's wide-gazing eyes Nor find sweet rest by night or peace by day, E'en seems your love, where I would turn for aid, As distant as the blue in sunny skies; Then am I very lonely and afraid. Earth holds no sweeter secret anywhere Than this my brook, that lisps along the green Of mossy channels, where slim birch trees lean Like tall pale ladies whose delicious hair Lures and invites the kiss of wanton air. The smooth soft grasses, delicate between The rougher stalks, by waifs alone are seen, Shy things that live in sweet seclusion there. And is it still the same, and do these eyes Of every silver ripple meet the trees That bend above like guarding emerald skies? I turn--who read the city's beggared book And hear across the moan of many seas The whisper and the laughter of my brook. Give me thy hand, Beloved! Here where still The night wind hovers 'neath the pallid moon Give me this fleeting moment; all too soon The listless day will break upon the hill; This last sweet night is mine. The tremulous thrill Upon thy lips is all the precious boon I begged of Heaven, the garish sun of noon Is theirs--the rest--mine is this moment's will. Our love could never be the love of day. I have not claimed the welcome of thy lips; No touch save fluttering hand, and for the pay I gave my minstrelsy of sea and sky. Once more thine eyes! Now sun-stained finger tips, Send through the hush of dawn a glad good-bye. Ah--she was fair, this daughter of a queen! The gem of pride upon her brow serene! Sleeping soft moonstone, emerald's baleful green, A single sapphire, singing soft and low Of wars for beauty's sake in years ago, And flaming opal--wed with tourmaline. Yet was there one great stone she might not wear, And so her eyes were weary, and her mouth Curved in the listless line of vain desire. No diamond pure was hers the right to bear, But--crimson poison petal of the South-- The ruby shone in deep unholy fire. Let fall the pinchbeck hair about her face And croons a love song. In a far-off place Where she was strutting in her silken gown She met the Youth. His face was young and brown. "Good day to you," she cried, the frosty lace About her shoulders trembled. Ah--disgrace! He turned, and left her weeping in the town. She smiles not any more, her heart disdains The wind's rough courting, loud and indiscreet. Her tears dissolve the earth in ceaseless rains And though her searching steps be light and fleet Through frowning city or soft country lanes, Now never more may Spring and Autumn meet. This moment I so careless threw away, Tossed to the ages, with a spendthrift hand, Little I recked the labour that had planned This flash eternal of a Summer day; AEons of sequent toil had passed to pay Wealth to the freighted instant. Slow and grand Wavers a solemn dirge across the land, One soul, in my lost moment, found a way To throw the mock to Time, and call him slave. And I--a pauper still--gaze wise at last To all the grey horizon line of nought. But from the heart I deemed an empty grave Gleams forth like spark my precious gem of past Shrined in the setting of a deathless thought. I dreamed that love came, as the oak trees grow, By the chance dropping of a tiny seed; And then from moon to moon with steady speed, Tho' torn by winds and chilled with heedless snow, The sap of pulsing life would upward flow, 'Till in its might the heavens themselves could read Portents of power that they must learn to heed. This was my dream--the waking proved not so-- For love came like a flower, and grew apace; I saw it blossom tenderly and frail Till the dear Spring had run its eager race, Then the rough wind tossed wide the petals red; The seeds fell far in soil beyond my pale. I know not, now, if love be lost, or dead. The purple stretches of the evening sky Lean to the fair white city waiting here, Flecking with gold the marble's lifted tier, Down the blue marsh where crows to Southward fly. Flanked by dim ramparts, where the tide dreams by, High from the city's heart, a lifted spear, In its straight splendour makes the heavens seem near, Symbol of man-made force that shall not die. To the tall crest we gaze in self-command, Assured the world's our own and we may dare To raise our Babel thro' forbidden aisles And hold the skirt of knowledge in our hand, Great in our moment, spurn the world's despair; While Heaven looks down through calm unmeasured miles. Kiss me but once--and in that space supreme My whole dark life shall quiver to an end, Sweet Death shall see my heart and comprehend That life is crowned--and in an endless gleam Will fix the colour of the dying stream That Life and Death may meet as friend with friend An endless immortality to blend; Kiss me but once, and so shall end my dream. And then Love heard me and bestowed his kiss, And straight I cried to Death: I will not die! Earth is so fair when one remembers this; Life is but just begun! Ah, come not yet! The very world smiles up to kiss the sky And in the grave one may forget--forget. The sun rose dimly thro' the pallid rain, Dear Heart--and have we strength to face the day? The times and life alike are old and grey, All worn with long monotonies of pain. Lo--we are working out the curse of Cain, Who never felt the fire of passion's sway. Ah--show us crimson in some tragic way That we may live!--Fate laughed in her disdain. A thread of scarlet clashed upon mine eyes Hung for a moment and was swept behind, And blankly I beheld the hopeless skies For day by contrast now is grimmest night-- Remembering light as do the newly blind I pray for death to hide the bitter sight. The ruddy banners of the Autumn leaves Toss out a challenge to the waiting snows, Where Winter stalks from o'er the mountain rows; This fiery blaze his onward march receives, A mock defence his coward heart believes, And turns him sulking to his moated close. Now Man the confidence of Nature knows, And feels the mighty heart that loves and grieves. Not as in rude young March or hoyden June, Hard in their beauty, laughing thro' their days; Their fine indifference is out of tune. In the dark paths we tread in hope and fear Look we to Autumn and her gracious ways, The great last swan-song of the dying year. Love, when you leave me, as with moon-bent tide The glad waves leave the beaches of my heart; Slowly and indolently they depart Ripple by ripple, till the light has died And left the naked sands forlorn to bide The sea's return. No might of human power Can fill the empty waste, nor take one hour From that long durance in Earth's prison wide. But when you come again, and hold your hands Dear hands, outstretched to take me, then, the waves, They turn, full flooded on the fainting sands, And all the dimpled hollows smile again, And brimmed with life, the deep mysterious caves Forget the distant night of lonely pain. Does the pearl know, that in its shade and sheen The dreamy rose, and tender wavering green, Are hid the hearts of all the ranging seas-- That Beauty weeps for gifts as fair as these? Does it desire aught else when its rare blush Reflects Aurora in the morning's hush, Encircling all perfection can bestow-- Does the pearl know? Does the bird know, when thro' the waking dawn He soaring sees below the silvered lawn, And weary men who wait to watch the day Steal o'er the heights where he may wheel and stray? Can he conceive his fee divine to share, As a free joyous peer with sun and air, And pity the sad things that creep below-- Does the bird know? Does the heart know, when filled to utter brim, The least quick throb, a sacrificial hymn To a great god who scorns the frown of Jove That here it finds the awful power of love? Think you the new-born babe in first wise sleep Fathoms the gift the heavens have bade him keep Yet if this be--if all these things are so-- Does the heart know? The gold-red leaves have burned To their last great glow, and died And underfoot By the strong oak's root They are seized by the angry wind and spurned And into a common grave have turned For Summer--warm and wide. A year must a sapling wage Its life with the sun and rain, Then its tender youth Without reck or ruth Is frozen and beaten to harsh old age By a stroke of Nature mother's rage And the sturdy fight seems vain. It wails to the oak o'erhead As the coffin-cold wraps round "The end of life Is toil and strife And the secret of being, I have found Is a seed in the wind and a log on the ground. I hope I will soon be dead." "Peace little struggler--sleep"-- And the great oak croons a song, "Death is but night And a cradle white For one dark space may the shadows creep, Then Spring will rise from her dungeon keep And life wake, wise and strong." Sweet Lady Night is paling white. Why lags her Lord and Master? Ah--may he not come faster. But hush--the tender rosy blush Her beauty fair adorning Her love steps o'er the mountain's rim, They kiss--and here's the morning. A Man once loved a Woman, in the days of old, Our bond is the strongest in the world, they said-- The Angels up above Are jealous of our love, Perhaps they are wishing we were dead, overhead. So they loved for a Time and the passing of a Time, And the Angel of Indifference, smiling down, saw their fire, And he covered for a space With his sombre wings his face, That they twain might have of love all desire, without tire. But love's perfect joy within them burned at last to a flame Till they longed for a breeze that would gently cool the heart. For absence! cooling snow They sighed apart and low, Tho' they murmured still their love, hand and heart loth to part. But at length they prayed together to the calm Angel--pale, Ah--we yearn, scorched and weary, for the peace of thy breast. For that land where love seems But the shadow of dreams, Where all sleep in the silver of the West, give us rest. And he heard, and he bore them to the cool grey heights, Where all men may drift and himself alone stands fast, And gave them for their token The peace of dreams unbroken Where their souls, his faithful vassals, rest at last, from the past. The winds have chilled the loving odorous South, All wan and grey she seeks a place to die, Her tossing hair, her pleading passionate mouth, Pity that things so fair in death must lie; But Winter holds and kills her with a sigh. One kiss he lays upon her lips so proud, Shuts the blue eyes and winds her sombre shroud. I walk between the narrow way of yew. The glowing amaranth droops upon its stalk, The shivering birds are timorous and few, And waifs of Summer strew th' untended walk; With vague sweet forms I seem to pass and talk. The ladies of those days in Summer's prime Whose smiles prevailed not for the frown of Time. Their little tripping feet reluctant turned Down the dark paths they had not known before; Behind them all the glow of living burned, But they must enter thro' the gloomy door, And leave behind the loves that plead no more, The dear frivolity of wiles and ways They neither need nor know in these grim days. Here in their garden's close I spend no tear, No smile--too rare the heights for such display. But on the frosted hedges' lifted spear And with my head a little bowed, I lay A pale camelia, proud and cold as they Who wait beneath their ashen pall of snow-- Perhaps the fair dead dames will see and know. There's a wild little gnome in the wood Who sings as he digs a grave Of Hope that soars and Hope that flies And Hope that singes her wings, and lies In peace where the willows wave. And he croons in the pauses of toil, A shivering song of Fears, The lean black shades of Hope so fair Who weave her nets with her golden hair And harry her down the years. And he knows she will perish at last, He has carved her name on the stone While the trees draw near and forget to sleep, And the little leaves bend their heads and weep, For Hope that must die alone. The great bleak trees stand up against the sky Lifting their naked arms in ceaseless prayer To the unpitying heavens, that they might die, Rather than drag their weary lives out there. Thro' starless nights the untold hours wear on, All awful phantom shapes affright the wood-- And morning light but brings th' unwinking sun, To torture with its glare their solitude. In those grim wilds no sweet-voiced bird will sing, No flowers will bloom within those trackless lands, Nor is there trace of any living thing, Save those gaunt giants, holding up their hands. And when they fall, still round the unknown spot Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground They end the life which is--and yet is not,-- A riddle where no meaning shall be found. Trilled forth the Nightingale In sweetest sleep of day-- Unto his love, the rose, Ah golden heart, unclose! For love, my fairest rose, will last for aye. So, thro' the waning night She learned to wear her crown; Yielded her heart's sweet strife And found that love was life Set to the time the dear bird lilted down. But when the morning came The red sun burned above; Hid are the night birds all, Flower petals fade and fall; The rose is dead--and what became of love! The wind is howling in angry pain, Ah me, and I cannot rest; On such a night home is best, Why does she stand in the same old place With the smile of smiles on her cold white face And call me thro' the rain? Ah--the Wind has died from the Fear of her smile-- And I creep quite still-- On over the hill, To where she stands 'mid the scented yew And where I now am standing too, And she sees me all the while. A little green snake curls thro' her hair-- The scent of the yew is strong and sweet-- Her eyes have drawn me to her feet, And I lie along on the drenching ground And worship--and watch the snake curl round, His tongue shoots thro' the air. Now--slowly she takes her eyes from me, And I dream and wait, Till in shades of hate My love of her smile has faded quite And I spring to kill her, there in the night-- But only the yew I see. The strong brave Night is dead. Its endless deeps Of patient tenderness, the moon-bright still When every silver lake and purple hill Hold wise unfathomed converse with the steeps Of starry heaven, are past. All nature weeps And draws the veiling grey of morning mist Upon the lips that Night's last clouds have kist-- The Night that watched so well the world who sleeps. The Night is dead--Alas--and pallid Day is but the corpse laid out in cold array, The white sad emblem of the heart we knew. Through half-closed lids the eyes shine palely blue; The gleaming grave clothes cover all the rest. So cruel still lies now the air's sweet breast And trees and hills fold down calm hands and eyes, That none may guess their secret mysteries. Softly sighs the gracious wind-- Dash of rose, in deeps of sky, Love is fair and love is kind,-- Singing free--I passed him by. Shredded clouds are whirled in air, Winter stalks adown the gale Tossing wide Love's golden hair-- Cease the singing--Love grows pale. Howls the grey sky to the sea-- Loose the storm-dogs from their bed. Turned I back--and woe is me-- I must die--for Love is dead. Sigh not for love, the ways of love are dark! Sweet Child--hold up the hollow of your hand And catch the sparks that flutter from the stars! See how the late sky spreads in flushing bars! They are dead roses from your own dear land Tossed high by kindly breezes: lean, and hark, And you shall know how morning glads her lark! The timid Dawn, herself a little child Casts up shy eyes in loving worship--dear, Is it not yet enough? the Spring is here And would you weep for Winter's tempest wild Sigh not for love, the ways of love are dark! Sweet, in the golden morning of my days, With young tempestuous joy I reared my head To gaze adown the splendid sunlit ways Where all the fires of fame burned glory red, I recked not where the sounding arches led, Save at the end I gain my august bays. But as of old, when through the patient night, Fair losing or fair gaining, till the morn, Great Israel strove to break the angel's might, Till spent and failing, in his heavenly scorn, Th' immortal wrestler touched the earthly born, Striking him powerless, winning thus the fight. So did false Fortune, when I strove and fought, Smiling 'neath half-closed eyelids, when seemed won, For a brief hour, the beckoning goal I sought-- Then with frustrating touch dimmed all my sun Blotted the work and faith so brave begun; But what I gained was none too dearly bought. I have no wreath to lay before your feet; There shines no future, and the past is dead; But you have heard me, and I love you--Sweet. The low sun crowns with gold your gracious head, The heavy lilies nod upon their bed-- I look at you, and find my life complete. Broad browed beneath a cloud of dusky hair Her eyes are midnight seas that never sleep But see beyond the dull world's heavy air The mystery of ages buried deep. The faint sweet shadows trembling round her mouth Lighten with youth and love the Sphinx's face. And as she moves, a soft wind from the South Floating, flower-laden seems--so sweet her grace. Aloof she stands, from idle mirth and tears And keeps the white sails of her spirit furled, Altho' a girl, pure from the stain of years, Little sad face, come close, so close to mine, See through these eyes the sweetness of the day, Feel how the sunbeams dance in Summer's wine, Hold fast my hands and let our pulse combine And with my steps dance down the happy way; For youth is love and love is light and gay, Little sad face. Little sad heart, come close, so close to mine, And know the utmost limits of the will Of all the worlds, till soft thy heart divine A joy which can encompass grief like thine; Hide in my breast, and let faint pulses thrill, For youth is love, and love is great and still, Little sad heart. Little sad soul, which ne'er can come to mine, So great in loneliness of grey despair, There is not one whose spirit may entwine With thee--the world looks on without a sign; Go--hide thy face within thy tossing hair, Thyself veil close with smiles, for none will care, Little sad soul. These slanting lines of hoary rain Are as my grizzled hair; The face of earth is old with pain As mine--with dull despair. And yet, one sun will gild the air, Earth's tears were not in vain: No smile can ease mine eyes of care Or make me young again! I have seen what the seraphs have seen As they gaze thro' the limitless air-- Thro' the wind and the clouds to the lean Pale face of the moon, and the bare Bright flame of the sun, unaware, I have seen what the seraphs have seen! Thro' the limitless spaces of air The brave mists that waver and wane Are patient and pallid and fair. I have fathomed the pride and the pain Of the snows and compassionate rain Thro' the limitless spaces of air. I have known them, the brave mists that wane And the glory and peace of the skies. Where all strife and impatience are vain And ahush are all passionate sighs, For I gazed in the deeps of Love's eyes, And I know what no seraphs shall gain! A lass from the woods With a leaf in her hair! And the rain of the night And the wind of the morn, They both quivered right; For my spirit forlorn In a garment of white And a laugh newly born Sprang in maddest of moods Like a blossom in air To the kiss of the sun And the curl of the breeze, Caught the cobwebs begun In the hush of the trees All my beatings were one With the swirl of the seas. Dead the creature that broods In a tangle of care; There's a lass from the woods With a leaf in her hair. Was there another Spring than this? I half remember through the haze Of glimmering nights and golden days, A broken pinioned birdling's note, An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat, A wandering through rain-beaten ways! Lean closer, love--I have thy kiss! Was there another Spring than this? The ruddy poppies bend and bow Diane! do you remember? The sun you knew shines proudly now The lake still lists the breezes' vow; Your towers are fairer for their stains, Each stone you smiled upon remains. Sing low, where is Diane? Diane do you remember? I come to find you through the years-- Diane! do you remember? For none may rule my love's soft fears. The ladies now are not your peers, I seek you thro' your tarnished halls, Pale sorrow on my spirit falls High, low--where is Diane? Diane do you remember? I crush the poppies where I tread-- Diane! do you remember? Your flower of life--so bright, so red-- She does not hear--Diane is dead. I pace the sunny bowers alone Where nought of her remains but stone. Sing low--where is Diane? Diane does not remember. If you were but a rose--dear love-- And I your bird, with dip of wing To tell a promise of the Spring And with a golden swift caress My happy careless love confess, No pain such gentle vows could bring, No tears should stay my flight above, If you were but a rose--dear love. Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day Why shall not we whose hearts are light Put by the coming of the night, Catch glints of rapture from the sky, The scents that swing where lilies lie, And ring them to a garland white To ease the pain of life away? Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day! Her hair was twined with vine leaves thro' the gold, The leopard skin about her shoulders flung Showed gleams of her as marble--fair and cold; I breathed not--listening to the song she sung. Hither and thither thro' the solemn world, Glory of purple, passionate blazing red Glints thro' the gloom, and thro' the grey is swirled-- Ah! but the leaves twined sweet about her head. "Heedless--men pass me in their search for life, Hunting for altars to their souls' fine fires, Crying the sun or joy of toil and strife And know not that 'tis I--their heart desires. They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast, The haze and perfume of a Summer's day, The silver stealing o'er the twilight West Are joys more rich than all the world's display." Mist on the sea; like a great bird's pendulous wing, Broken and hushed; it trails on the face of the main, Down comes the sun, a red shot from a merciful sling Burning its heart with swift death as an end to the pain. A red rose cloud upon the evening sky, A gallant cloud which dies in foremost fight, Too proud for prisons of triumphant night. Knowing no pause, no strain of changing years, Its little hour too short for dreams or tears, The faithful sun its first and latest light-- Who would not so be glad to fight and die! A red rose cloud upon the evening sky. Love is a broken lily, A pale and crownless rose With golden heart made chilly By traitor touch of snows. So sleep my heart--lie sleeping Nor open weary eyes, For waking is but weeping Love is a cadence trailing Where broken music falls, A hapless shadow sailing Across deserted walls. So still my heart lie sleeping Till love's hot sun be set, For waking is but weeping. Asleep--sad eyes forget. Dear Love--do you wake in that land where my waking is done? Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast, And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best, Wakeful--sighing my name? Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head, And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed; Then I sigh and awake. For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn, And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born, For a woman's sweet sake. Perhaps you are singing--and winding the garlands of May; Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day, Or give you pause to your song. Is so terribly long. Than these that lie upon my lurid halls. The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls. The spell which night may cast upon her thralls Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand. My wealth great kings have prayed for--in their pride, Bowing before me. Nay--I hate the place. I am no queen at heart--my laughter died That I might wear my crown with regal grace The very flowers which smile on my sad face I am afraid of. See! they are the worst Of all my fears; so fair--yet black accurst. The languid passion-poppy sways and dips To show the black heart bursting into flame. The crimson evil of a satyr's lips A sneering nodding finger-post of shame; A thousand other flowers without a name Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind. The grass is not the grass that overhead Cooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows; But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes. Ah--horrid soil! for everything that grows In this confine but mocks in wicked scorn The fairness of the land where I was born.

Gustaf Erik Eurén

Kaffe ja Tupakki

1818

"Many people read a song Who will not read a sermon." _To the casuals now enjoying hospital hospitality at Kenilworth _Pick it up, Buddy, it's a dud._ My wish most dear for your New Year I'm quite sincere in giving; When next we meet, on Easy Street I hope that you'll be living. P. S.--_And I hope I meet you soon._ Am I thankful? Friends still loyal, Coin in banks-- Stop this minute! I'll give thanks. What of troubles Lately past? Well, at least they Didn't last. Not a single Scar remains, Nor remembrance Of the pains. So, I'm thinking That from me There is due great Gobs of glee. Though a slacker, From this day I'll be grateful-- I thank you for the hickeydee, The thingamabob you sent; The trickamadoo's the very thing On which my heart was bent. The dofunny's style and color Puts all dodads to shame; The jiggermaree's the swellest thing That ever bore that name. Appreciation's most sincere, But I'll no longer lie-- Pray be a sport and tell me quick: What is the thing?--and why? I'm daily robbing Peter for to pay I swear it's hard them both to satisfy; Pauls in legions me pursue, but the Peters are so few-- I lie awake at night and wonder why. The hope of every Peter is some day Then little Peters must be set to sprout. Ev'ry chance of Paul for pay would forever pass away The day the tribe of Peter petered out. I have eaten grits and gravy in the Southland now and then, I have lived on California's luscious fruits; I've inhaled long-stringed spaghetti in Italia, and again In the Klondike once I dined on cowhide boots. Of course I've supped at Rector's, at the Cecil, and the rest; Tackled truffles and de foie gras in Paree; I have bolted guava jelly and tortillas, Madrid's best, And I've chop-sticked bird's-nest soup a la Chinee. But of all the palate-ticklers on the whole world's bill of fare, Not a gustatory stimulant that I know can compare With a little dab of taffy on a spoon. If a man is grouched or peevish, if in doling cash he's slow-- Just a little bit of taffy--presto! won!! Every married woman knows it--every girlie ought to know: If you feed a man of taffy he's undone. When a man tries introspection, then he stacks up mighty small; So he keeps from this self-searching all he can; Yet a feeling lies inherent, never's lost in him at all, That he'd like to be a bigger, better man. So when other people tell him that he's bigger, nicer far, Or a better chap than he himself can see, It's not Vanity that does it, but his Better Self you view As he smiles and purrs and pleases all he can. As a corking good investment I would hand this tip to you: Just try always feeding taffy to a man. With an appetite voracious he will gulp it from the spoon, And when all's gone he'll loudly cry for more. _Some serious thoughts on the psychology of Respectability._ My life is one long battle, I see the right, yet do the wrong-- This much too frequently. I have the foolish habit, That oft brings me disgrace, Of cutting off my Roman nose To spite my ugly face. I'm daily robbing Peter Though cosmos out of chaos It never makes at all. I jump out of the skillet Into the fire that's hot; With fingers burned I dread the blaze. But quit it? I guess not! And so goes on the battle Old Satan pulling fiercely 'gainst I sat me down in pride to gloat Upon the column that you wrote, In which you, sir, were pleased to quote From me and him, The _tout ensemble_ did impel My manly chest to heave and swell; The combination "liked me well;" It seemed a great But soon in deep humility My head was bowed, and I could see The difference 'tween little ^{me} I lacked the art To touch the heart You seem to write with greatest ease, Of cheerful mien, of birds and bees, And out-of-doorsy things one sees-- And so does Riley. With master-stroke, To common folk I take a hack-saw and a square And cut my rhymes with greatest care; 'Tis harder work for me, I swear, And yet I fail To hit the nail You write in prose--a rhymer he-- And yet 't has always seemed to me Your souls alike must surely be-- Yours, sir, and Riley's. You love each thing Of which you sing-- _Wherein the Jumbler finds the Cheeruptimistic Lore a bore._ If You'd Marry _Advice to wimmin "On Marriage," by the Jumbler._ If the fish won't take your bait, Do not tarry. 'Twill never do to sit and wait, If you'd marry. Gather up your hook and line, Somewhere 'round the water's fine; Change your bait and keep on tryin'! That's the system! Should one rise in reach of you, Oh, be prayerful! Take your gaff and run him through, But be careful! Hold him tight for all you're worth, Of marryin' men there's now a dearth, And then--there're widows still on earth!! Curses on 'em! If a widow steals a beau That you're landing, Practice up a knock-out blow-- Him demanding. A perfect lady, though you've been, Just you cave her features in! Killin' widows ain't no sin-- Never will be! _The Jumbler, with one eye on the calendar, tells the thoughts he Saint Valentine, that good old gink, Gives license free to say with ink The things you feel, the thoughts you think. So timid youths, of courts afraid, Select this day to tell a maid Things otherwise best left unsaid. This custom all the judges know, And breach-of-promise suits don't go-- So that's "how comes" what's writ below: I love you, dear, to beat the Dutch! I love you, dear, gosh-awful much! Now could you love, obey--and such? With love my heart seems 'bout to burst-- But I've now said all that I durst. With love to all,--_John Safety First_. _The Jumbler again mounts_ PEGASUS, _and carries us through the Realm of Dreams, where we come in touch with the Life Romantic._ _The Jumbler recites:_ O little girl with wondrous eyes And charms of Graces Three! "How have you come, why have you come To mean so much to me?" Unrest within my heart you've raised-- And yet, how sweet it seems! My hopes, My dear, this much I know: You're mine, all mine, in dreams. O little maid, dear, dearest maid, Should you be lost to me Were I to wake and straightway go And tell my love to thee? What powers or aid could I invoke? Alas! dear one, it seems The risk's too great of losing all-- So mine still stay in dreams. _The Jumbler wakes up and credits himself with a big heart._ This man, O girl with charms untold, Has dreamed of Love and You; And can it be somewhere's a land Where these dreams may come true? Ah, if there be, then willingly To rainbow's end he'll go, Or far's the place where seas begin-- For, Girl, he loves you so! And he, dear one, a king can be-- Yes, by one way alone: That you, his Queen, through love for him, Should raise him to your throne. But whether he be king or serf, Of this be sure: thou art A mighty queen, whose realm is wide-- You reign o'er all his heart. In the land of In-a-minute, the land of Lots-of-time, The land of What's-the-hurry? Manna-land sublime; The land of Sleep-a-whole-lot,--to me it ofttimes seems I sure should like to live there, for I'd have time for DREAMS. (_Here the Jumbler becomes personal_): Now I'd not waste a minute if I lived in that clime, But say good-bye to worry, and dream--well all the time. And what, dear, do you reckon my fancy'd bring to view? The answer is so easy: Sweetheart, I'd dream of YOU. Aw, cut it, kid! Dis lovin' gag Don't make no hit wid me; I've went de route and ought ter know-- Fer, ain't I married? Gee! Dere's nuthin to it, foolish man; None of 'em's what dey seems, De game's a bunk, Kid, all way tru-- Wake up, fergit dem dreams! _Most earnestly the Jumbler presents his views on Serious Matters pertaining to Love and Life._ "Good-bye," I said to Mary, And I put them from me harshly And turned myself away. For my _all in all_ was Maizie-- I swore it on that day. But time came when my spirit Grew weary of its pace, And I cried, "Come back, dear ex-ones, I'm sick of just one face!" But they replied, "We cannot, Another has your place." A man by Nature ne'er was meant To love one maid alone-- E'en if by doing so he'd gain A seat upon a throne. Polygamous when 'comes to love-- (Be diff'rent no man can) Monogony's monotony When 'plied to love of man! Yet here am I! ('gainst Nature's law)-- _Mirabile dictu_-- Loving one maid, and just ONE (_sic_), Exclusively and true! As other men, I liv'd and lov'd Until you came my way-- Now all my love is yours, O Queen, Forever and a day! Dear, dear dead loves, one last farewell! Your graves no more I'll tend; Your ghosts, whom I have welcomed oft, Their visits now must end. Sweet girls, whom I have lov'd--and lost-- Loved? Yes, but for a day-- I now have found my Queen of Hearts Whom I can love alway. I once thought that I lov'd you well-- But O! the love I feel For my dear Queen is diff'rent quite-- And it's the love that's real. My Queen now has each thought, each dream; No more I'll think of you-- Love was, love's past for all save her-- So, ex-loves all, adieu. Hundreds of maids in this world have been born With many a charm that allures, dear; Hundreds are radiant, fair as the morn-- But never were eyes just like yours dear. Hundreds boast beauty of form and of face, Which always devotion assures, dear; Hundreds personification of grace, But none has a smile just like yours, dear. Hundreds accomplished in letters and song, And hundreds attractive and clever; Daily I walk through this limitless throng, Yet find none compares with you--ever. If from these hundreds an artist should mould A composite maid, near perfection; Stand her beside you, to choose I be told-- My dear, can't you guess my selection? Hundreds and millions of maids there may be, And yet, without you I'd be lonely. Pray be convinced, for I speak truthfully: Dear, you are the ONE AND THE ONLY. I wander into my garden, My garden of loves that are dead, And stop at a withered rose bush That once grew a blossom of red. How passionately, true I loved it, Thought without it I could not abide-- How bitter it is to remember In a night it had withered and died. The violet that grew on the hillside I loved with a love that was true; But 'twas snatched from me e'en as I held it-- O, Violet, dear, how I loved you! And dearest of all, the sweet June Rose, As a bud she'd come out first that year; But I lost her just as I'd plucked her-- The heartless and pitiless dear! The lily and pink that I worshipped Each deigned but a season to stay, And returned not again though I waited And longed for them many a day. Dear loves that are dead, hear me say it: A loving good-bye to you all! No more shall I visit this garden, For my true love grows just o'er the wall. Having loved you has made my love stronger For her whom I now so adore; I'd truly not know how to love her Had I not loved you-all before. Good-bye, then, again, fairest garden; Good-bye to you all, fickle dears; Dear Rosemary, last, fondest treasure, Will be faithful to me through the years. The Weatherman's in direst straits; All wrong are his predictions; And so his maledictions. Now I can give the answer to This scientific gent: 'Tis not from meteoric change-- But just 'cause SHE has went. I've read by hundreds love-stuff books, But ne'er believed one bit When sun was made to cease to shine When "SHE" made her exit. But now I know that they were right; From Sol no rays are sent; It's dull and gray and dismal quite-- And all 'cause SHE has went. I cannot read, nor write, nor think Since SHE has went, Oh, dear! Of compensation, though, there's heaps: For, well, she once was here! So I'll not mind the fierce heart pain That naught seems to allay. She's went, ah me! but I shall hope That she'll come back some day. She's coming-- The woman I loved and lost! Widowed at last and once more free. One hand, two, or arms? Ah, me! Our meeting, her greeting--.... O what will it be? She's coming-- The woman I loved--and love! Long have I waited so hopelessly; One year, all--yet faithfully. Returning! I'm yearning.... Be kind, gods, to me! Yes, coming! O woman beloved of all, Come to arms that still ache so for thee! One age, two, ETERNITY For loving, for LOVING (_Rendered by the Jumbler during the Intermission_). _The Jumbler turns some anatomical terms._ The night has a thousand eyes, The day to one lays claim; The big brown pair that you, dear, wear Sure puts them all to shame. It seems 'bout a thousand years My heart you've trod in dust; But lend an ear and listen, dear: The end of waste is bust. Though I've heard a thousand noes-- As someone knows is true-- An aye once said, we'll soon be wed, Or I'll be ever blue. Thinner yet and thinner-- I would be like thee. I am nearly drowned in Perspiration's sea. From my adiposeness I'd be set clear free-- Though it means my joining Broomstick cavalry. My nose is red, I'm feeling blue! If you had bawled I guess so'd you ... be feelin' blue. BECAUSE I Have Just Run Into a Nest of Crying Women. I went to a Niobe party, Where all were expected to bawl; There were peachy repiners and whiners in minors-- Your "Uncle" wailed loudest of all. Nobody loves a man that's bald, I've often heard it said; But why does Love, then, laugh at locks?-- It makes me scratch my head. A simple truth I give to you To always recollect; There is one thing--and that's Friendship-- Will not thrive on neglect. An order of Hoover's I think is quite good; "Don't feed your dear husband-- But husband your food." "It must be fine," the Sweet Thing cried, "To write a poem like his'n." "It should be fine," the man replied, "Plus thirty days in prison." Maids, they say, like shadows are: (I wonder if it's true). Follow, and they run away; Retreat, they follow you! If you ask my wish sincerest, I will quickly make reply: May you live--yes, live _forever_-- And be happy till you die. Our queasy queen of the cuisine A queer, querulous creature has long been; In her quite quiet way she quickly quit on Sunday-- Quid est? Quid nunc? Why--quondam! Prissy, persnickety people there be, Fastidious, finical ones, we see; But the fussiest man in town by far, Is he who washes his little Ford car. A little ENCOURAGEMENT, dear, And havoc you'd play With my heart. I'm away To the umbrageous dingles, through fear. Three things my nature cannot stand-- I'll name them, if you please: NEGLECT's the worst of these. Tell me, please, sir, Mr. Captain-- It's advice I'm lookin' fer-- Is it true carbolic acid Is good for cooties, sir? Are you serious, poor rookie, Or are you making fun? What you mention isn't _good_ at all-- It _kills_ 'em every one. "Look twice before you leap, son," My mother oft told me. Each time I take a second look, A second girl I see. The only thing that's better-- You'll think me quite a dunce-- Would be to have diplopia, Then I'd see two at once. Napoleon was a wise old guy; A saying of his ran Like this: "To all who would be safe, Don't write, just send a man!" From time an infant draws first breath And 'gins its virgin squaking, Each mother proud, not saving one, Translates all goos as talking. This goo means this, a girr means that-- A new word every minute-- It yells! Says pa, "My dear, you're right, There's surely something in it." (A pin, perhaps). Milk-Latin talk lasts 'bout a year, And then, strict truth I'm telling, A plain "Mam-ma" may strike your ear-- In interim of yelling. The next few years great strides are made; Mamma is fair ecstatic, For now it talks as good as dad-- 'Cept 'course, it's not grammatic. And then comes slang, and cussing, too-- If it's a boy, the latter-- But if a girl, the whole day through It's giggle, chatter, chatter. And now it's grown, and still it talks! But will somebody answer: How much is said that tends to help Despondent fellow-man, sir? And words of comfort, love and cheer Are all not slow in giving? Yet it's the joy we scatter here That makes our lives worth living. From birth till death it's talk, talk, talk! But listen, please, and ponder: What would it mean if speech meant thought? The Man Who Made Umph-ta-ta Smile _If to Heaven you would go--Smile._ A god once was made and heathen had prayed To him throughout many a year; His face was distort with a frown of the sort That gave them all quakings of fear. The rulers in line, of whom there'd been nine, Each published this royal decree: _The man who'll beguile our fierce god to smile May claim the King's crown as his fee_. From all the world o'er had come by the score The jester, the fool and the clown; With quip and with jest had each tried his best, Yet not one displaced the god's frown. Joe Miller and Twain had been quoted in vain, (Each man as he failed was exiled.) But failures all scored, the god still looked bored, Then I appeared--and he smiled! When his visage had cleared, the heathen all cheered And each wore a smile good to see; With shouting and song they bore me along Till straight to the King they'd brought me. The King then stepped down, said "Sir, here's my crown, And gold you shall have by the pile, But tell me, I pray, just what did you say That made our god, Umph-ta-ta, smile?" "Your crown and your pelf, Sire, keep for yourself," I said, "but pray listen to me: I just made the trial--_a smile for a smile_-- And succeeded, Good King, as you see. Of pomp, Noble Sire, and of power I should tire, And soon think them not worth my while, Contented I'll be if 't can be said of me: 'He's the man who makes everyone smile'. "Pray heed me, O King, a smile, Sire is the thing That will win you a smile in return; Just try it and see, and I'm sure you'll agree 'Tis a thing that all people should learn. Your wise pulpiteers may belabor your ears With all the orthodox doctrines extant, But if t' Heaven you'd go, then you might as well know 'Nless you smile throughout life--well, you _can't_! _There's nothing worth while can't be won with a smile_-- A maxim you prove when you try-- I must now be gone to pass the word on; There're others who need it. Good-bye!" My story you've heard--well, then, just one word:-- Is anyone now within sight? Just smile on him, do--why, _he's smiling at you_! Your very first test proves I'm right. _Unlike George Cohan, the Jumbler doesn't love himself._ 'Tis torrid here and all have gone To seashore on a trot; I'm left alone, alas! and I'm The only friend I've got. I've walked with me and talked with me Until I'm satiate; I'm sick and tired and bored with me; The thought of me I hate. Divorce I'd have 'tween self and me; For happiness I'd strike; We're surely incompatible 'Cause too darned much alike. C'est la Guerre _After throwing his friends into fits, the Jumbler decides his Soldier-French won't go._ There are some folks, alas! I know Who Fletcherize the calico And pull out wads of hair When now and then, as if by chance, I lapse into the speech of France. But--blame it on _la guerre_. My accent's not Parisian, yet It's _tres bien_, so said Lizette-- And surely she should know. She never frowned and said _non, non!_ But she would smile and say, "_Bon bon!_" _Oui, oui_, I get you, Bo! _Jolie_ Jeanne plays the Marseillaise! I ball myself in many ways When this I try to say. I say just like the Frenchies do-- Admit it, _s'il vous plait_. Yet if each time I _parlez vous_ These friends must throw a fit or two And shock their systems so, I think I'll stick to plain _Anglais_ And say _adieu_ to all _Francais_-- My Soldier-French won't go! "Well, you may talk Of woman's wiles Of all these lat- Est skinny styles; Rave over girls Built like a slat; But I must say I like 'em fat!" A girl that's fat? No lap, no waist Nor high nor low; An oozing mass When weather's hot-- You like this type? Well, I do not! For me, a girl That's sylph-like made, Who's just the same In sun or shade; And as for me, And I'm no churl, Where there's no waist-- Then there's no girl! No hefty bunch Of av'rdupois, No dray-horse girl Shall share my joys; But pocket-size, A featherweight, Will find me most Ol' Miss Propri'ty up an' say: "Why will you chilluns ack this way? Whenever I go out to walk I see you two--an' people talk! "Miss Grundy says to me today: 'They go to ride, an' _stay_ an' _stay_. How come her pa don't take a hand An' call 'em down to beat the band?' "I've tol' you time an' time again A man should call but _now and then_, Unless the priest has called the banns An' date's been set for jinin' han's. "'Tain't proper, no, an' it ain't right To call or ride mos' ev'ry night. Hear now the last word that I'll say: _You break my rules--then you must pay!_" Ol' Miss Propri'ty, who are you That you should tell us what to do? Your mammy was a prissy scold, Yer dad a crabbed "sis," I'm told. You stick to rules your grandma 'ranged, Despite the fac' that times have changed. Propriety, Convention--these Are how determined, if you please? Ol' Miss, if true I love this maid Should I go slow and be afraid Of what the neighbor-folk will say? Nay, nay, a girl's not won that way! There're nine and ninety swains, they say, Who'd steal this maid. If I make hay I needs must work despite the fogs, And though it's raining cats and dogs. Ol' Miss, if you could see her eyes With laughter lit, or in surprise, Or questioning, or looking grave, Or beckoning--just hear me rave-- Could see the beauty of her face, Her winsome ways, her lissom grace-- Ah, Miss, your rules you'd cast aside And daily beg, "Dear, please come ride." Then why not I? I'm human, too. It's right for me if right for you. You see I've got so much to say I've _gotta_ see her ev'ry day. Ol' Miss she say, "My boy, you're right; I now see things in diff'rent light. My laws still rule the other guy, But to your case they don't apply. So tell her _my_ permission's got To call on her a nawful lot. You've found me easy, have you lad? All right, then try convincing DAD." _In a versatile manner the Jumbler approaches sundry themes, wherein is revealed his love for Home, Country and Eats._ _The Jumbler found the niche in which he fit--for just one day._ I'm something over eighteen, yet I'm under forty-five! I've no flat feet, no leaky valves, No wife and babes alive. With no dependent, no defect, Not e'en a near-sight eye, Methinks quite soon I'll hear you say: "So long! Good luck! Good-bye!" My putteed calves will look a sight-- I'm long, but short on weight-- My feet won't fit the Munson last, My rising hour is eight. The army is gwine ter git me, My name's done been enrolled. I'd like to be a baby gal Not more'n one year old! I'm old enough, I'm young enough To do some thing, I guess; So I'll just stop my foolish talk And say, "I'm ready, yes!" There's not a job, there's not a niche But needs some man to fit. For you and me there's just one thing: They found a job, they found the niche They said that I would fit; And in Argonne one foggy morn They said, "Now do your bit!" Old Jerry seemed to know I'd come; His shells all came my way! I didn't last one day! Harry had two Munson feet That grew like ice and snow At bare suggestion of the thought That he to War should go. But when the Draft got him one day His face grew stern and grim; And ere he'd been in camp a month They'd made a _man_ of him. 'Twas "Captain Harry" soon in France. Midst fighting over there He got two wounds, a D. S. C., The moral in this simple tale You've guessed, I have no doubt: _You cannot tell whats in a man Until he's tested out._ When first the Flu our old town hit I said I'd keep from getting; So I went home and with great care I shut out drafts and shut out air. I sprinkled sulphur in my shoes, Then loaded up on blockade booze, Some calomel and "C.C." pills, Then castor oil up to my gills. Each hour on soda I did feast; I swallowed cakes of Fleischmann's yeast; I ate ten onions, mighty nigh, Then drank a slug of Good Old Rye; Some asafoet'da round my neck, Then took quinine, about a peck. To keep from feeling all forlorn I fraternized with Barleycorn; Then aspirin, say twenty grains, And codeine to keep off pains. I chewed tobacco, smoked it, too, Then took a dip of Mountain Dew. I crawled in bed to get a rest, Vick's Vaporub smeared on my chest. I changed to woolen underduds And carried 'round two Irish spuds; I sprayed and gargled, wore a mask, Snuffed Listerine, then tried my flask. I felt my pulse; at tongue a look, And then my temper'ture I took. But strange to say quite sick I grew-- _The doctor says I've got the Flu!_ I guess he's right, but this is sure: Right now I need the likker cure. I wonder if I'd stayed up town, Cut out the dope, kept worry down, Stayed right at work, not had a drink-- Would I have Flu? What do you think? Why will so many people now Give way to frenzied fear? Why will they act as though they thought Swift Death were lurking near? E'en if Disease now stalks abroad And Death rides on the air, 'Tis not the time for craven acts, But courage everywhere. I wonder if they stop to think How soon the war'd be won If sons of theirs showed half the fear That they of late have done? And why fear death--eternal life? I would not be the one To strive to stay on this poor earth With sacred tasks undone. So, why not chirk up just a bit And say good-bye to fear? The world now needs much cheering up-- Pray help supply the cheer. Eat What's Set Before You As children ofttimes we were wont To criticise and fuss About the victuals that were cooked And served by ma to us: "Too salty" this, and "too sweet" that; "You've had this twice since Sunday; You always have what others like, You might please me just one day." And so it went till pa would say:-- 'Twas meant you could not doubt it-- "Just eat what's set before you and Say nothin' 'tall about it." Now we are grown and, seems to me, Too often we're inclined To criticise the things Fate gives, And think this life a grind. Some things may not just suit our taste, Some e'en be quite unpleasant; Someone may get the bigger share And failure seem e'er present; But then, let's think of pa's advice:-- It's sound, pray never doubt it-- "Just eat what's set before you and Say nothin' 'tall about it." Life's road is rough--but what of that? The man who'll growls forswear Will top the hills ahead the crowd All smiles, with breath to spare. And so it goes this wide world o'er-- 'Tis true for saint and sinner-- The man who silently will "dig" Will always prove the winner. That's why I say take pa's advice:-- Try once and you'll not doubt it-- "Just eat what's set before you and Say nothin' 'tall about it." There is a dame I know you know, Who'll make big talk, will brag and blow About the waffles that she makes, Also her corn and buckwheat cakes-- But always my cake's dough. She tells of this or that one who At breakfast, once ate twenty-two! And when she feared that he would bust He raved and railed and almost cussed, And said he wa'n't half through. I've hinted and I've begged this dame To just for once treat me the same. But always she the question begs, Or's out of cream, or maybe eggs, Or some excuse as lame. Yet here am I, so thin and pale, While she, dear soul, is plump and hale. If she's the best cook in the South, Why let me stand with watering mouth?-- She should be sent to jail! Now, I'm from out Missouri way, Where "Please show me," is what they say. I'm hungry and too weak to walk, So "Please feed me, or stop your talk!" I'll tell her this today. A pawfull and a mawfull I Must have or else I fear I'll die. Her talk does naught but aggravate; It does not help my famished state Nor hunger satisfy. Unless I get a waffle quick, Unless I get it awful quick, I'd better beat her up, I guess, And mar her beauty more or less-- Unless I get it quick! Damfino Jones, a mental drone, Had no opinion of his own; He grew to manhood meek and mild, But he was Indecision's child, It was the same in weal or woe: He "wasn't sure," or "didn't know." In business he would hesitate To buy or sell until too late; So, naturally he ran in debt-- But hasn't run back out as yet. When asked when he a debt would pay He "couldn't just exactly say." In romance he just "couldn't just exactly say." If he loved Blanche or Isabel-- He married Jane, and, safe to say, 'Twas she who kept the wolf at bay. And with religion, mixed he got When asked if orthodox or not. In politics he'd weigh and weigh, And then not vote on 'lection day. And so he wavered till he died And never did one thing decide. Now I don't know, but it is said He isn't now quite sure he's dead. Take note of men who've made success: They tell you "No" or tell you "Yes" Right off the bat, nor step aside When faced with questions to decide; While men like Jones just paw the air And never do get anywhere. This truth shines out like bright new tin: _Think for yourself if you would win_. I have a friend called "Silent Bill," Aged ten, so says the Bible; To me, in years, no word he's said-- Strange truth and not base libel. He seems quite bright, and sees and hears-- In fact you'd think him normal; But not a sound comes from his lips, Not e'en to greeting formal. When he's at home, so I am told, It's talk, talk, talk, and chatter; Explain, what is the matter? Am I an ogre fierce and wild With looks and mien ferocious That cause to cling unto its roof The tongue of this precocious? "Oh, no!" says he, "you're not to blame." (The answer comes by proxy.) "The fault's not yours, but all guilt lies With my dear mother, foxy. I'd like to talk of lots of things-- But ain't my ma the limit? She starts her tongue--so what's the use? I'm out, 'less I butt-in it." "It's 'seen not heard,' so I've been told, Or else a strapping vi'lent. I fear the gad, and that's why I Remain still Bill-the-silent. Now, when you scrap about her size I'm mum, but try to figger How she could squeeze in through the door If she were any bigger." "But when she twits you 'bout the thatch You've lost from off your attic, I'd like to reprimand her then In language quite emphatic. I've waited long and ground my teeth, And frowned upon her patter; But I'm convinced she'll ne'er run down-- She's stuffed with ceaseless chatter." Dear Silent Bill, stay silent still; To change, pray do not bother; You're dearer far just as you are; I'd true not have you other. _The Jumbler, like Foss, loses a boy._ I have a friend called "Buster"-- A little child last Fall-- But now he's grown so very big I scarce know him at all. Almost a man! His folks are proud And fairly beam with joy; But I--I feel I'd rather cry; For I--I've lost my _boy_. No more he'll perch upon my knee And ask me to relate How Li Chi Fair and Chang-the-Good Were saved from saddest fate. He'll treat with sneering scorn And say, "Now please do stop and think How long since I was born." Time flies so fast it takes my breath! Soon he'll forget it all-- The rhymes we wrote, the games we played, None, none will he recall. The world may praise him as a MAN-- God knows I wish him joy-- But I--I'll brush away a tear And long for Buster _Boy_. A new kid's come to our house; A peach, I'm here to tell; And things are topsy-turvy like-- Still--_Father's doing well_! 'Twas 3 A. M. this morning That it began to squall; Some neighbors got excited-- But Dad wa'n't feased at all. Twas--oh, yes, quite expected-- And welcome, I opine; And bibs and socks and--things are made, And--_Daddy's feeling fine_! Another Christmas present! Gee, that's hard luck for fair! The Old Man says, "Mere bagatelle, Why should a fawther care?" How's Mother? Oh, she's so-so! The Kid? Well, it will do. Of Papa we are glad to state That he will sure pull through. Then, here's a cheer for Mother; One for the Kid we give; Now ready--give a score of them: _Doc says that Pa will live_! We've got a nice red moo-cow-moo, But doesn't seem just right. She eats green grass the whole day through Then gives us milk that's white. "Red cows, when on blue-grass are fed, Give white milk." Is this true? I am so green, when this I read It straightway made me blue. We also, have a moo-cow-moo. She isn't red, but black; The milk she gives, it isn't white, But blue,--alas, alack! Methinks that _you'd_ be black and blue Had you your due, young fellow; But matters not the shade or hue, Just so you're never yellow! When "dis ol' waggin am done broke down," I feel 'twould be a sin To hold your love through Pity's sake For what I once had been. "Yours till death!" is what they say; But isn't it enough To say, "Dear Girl, I sure am yours Until the wheels fall off?" _And here the Jumbler entertains the children with a few Nursery rhymes:_ THE EVENING BATH (Apartment Next Door). I try to read--but really, what's the use? You'd think, I swear, 'twas Bedlam broken loose; A scream! And then I hear, "Oh mercy! Ouch! My ear! I surely cannot stand all this abuse! You're gouging me and pulling out my hair; My skin's rubbed off--'tis more than I can bear! Now really you're not heeding or you'd see my nose is bleeding! I believe you would kill me if you dared!" I jump up from my chair and grab my gun; I must be quick or murder will be done; I rush across the hall and loudly 'gin to call: "Unnatural parent, wouldst thou slay thy son?", Upon the door I then begin to beat, And straightway hear the scamper of bare feet; Then "Mother" stood and laughed, said, "Surely you've gone daft-- She calmed herself and then she sweetly said, "I always scrub 'em 'fore they go to bed; But don't see why my daughter should have such fear of water; And Buster,--why, it simply drives him mad! I really don't see what I'm going to do, Despite the fact it greatly worries you; Of course it may seem mean but I'm going to keep them clean-- And I don't know how unless I scrub 'em down." So "Cleanliness is next to Godliness!" It may be so; but really I confess What matter, pray, if streaks run 'round the neck And dirt be under nails, about a peck? I'd rather, oh, yes, quite, that they were black than white-- If I disturbed the town when bathing them. Oh, run! Oh, mercy, run! you little children, Just as fast and quickly as you can! For here comes the Dirty-Neck Policeman, And I'm sure I see the Black-Hand man. So, scrub, scrub, scrub your little hannies, And your necks, pray don't forget them, dears; These men will surely get you if you're dirty; They'll pay no attention to your tears. The Dirty-neck Policeman he jes' grabs you, And if he finds your neck's not clean and white, He carries you away in spite of begging, And keeps you from your mother all that night! Next day his ugly wife gets soap and water, And scrubs you with a great big curry-comb; And if you cry she fills your mouth with soap-suds, Till you promise you will keep clean when you get home. The Black-hand Man keeps hidin' 'round the corner, A-lookin' at your knuckles and your nails; And if they're dirty he jes' rushes at you And grabs you with a hook--he never fails! And then he sits down on you when he's caught you, Sandpapers you until you're bleedin', My! And he jes' laughs and chuckles while he's working, And rubs you all the harder if you cry! So it's best to keep quite clean, or you'll be sorry; You never know just when you may get caught; The Dirty-neck Policeman's mighty watchful, And the Black-hand Man's a-hidin' 'round a lot! "Aw, youse kids make me orful tired, Talkin' 'bout Sandy Claws! Huh! Don'tcher know he's jest a fake, And nothin' 'cept our pas? "When your ma tells you all this rot, Don't believe her no more; Get wise! I've watched and seen pa work-- Dere bluffin' makes me sore." "O Jim! You shouldn't say such things!" The rest intreated him, "For if you do you'll make him mad, And he'll forget you, Jim." "Of course Old Santa's sure-nuff true, An' comes 'round every year An' brings you things, if you are good-- We think him just a dear. "The fairies, you'll be saying next, Are make-believes also. Just 'cause you're tough (our mas say so) Is no sign that you know." Well, Christmas morning came, and Jim His stockings rushed to see. He took one look and then he cried, "They're empty as can be!" But then he found, by hunting 'round, A suit of underwear, A tooth-brush and a handkerchief Upon a kitchen chair. He cried and cried and then ran out-- Was anxious so to see If others in the neighborhood Had fared the same as he. But Mary had a baby doll, And Jamie had a sled; Virginia had some roller skates, An air-gun had small Fred. Besides, much candy they all had, And lots and lots of toys And things that Santa always brings To real good girls and boys. "Now fellers, w'at's the answer, say? I'm mad enough to swear! I _needed_ skates--why did I _get_ A suit of underwear? "It seems that you-uns ev'ry one Has got most everything That you have said for weeks you hoped That Sandy Claws would bring." The answer is, dear children: Old Santa Claus don't doubt. For if you do--the truth I tell-- Like Jim, you'll be left out! When Dad gets out his safety The family 'gin to quake; They huddle 'round the doorway, Nor dare the silence break. When Dad gets out his safety, A hush falls on the air And Fido runs to hide him Beneath a friendly chair. Then Ma, she tiptoes gently To fetch him water hot, And lest he want for towels She lays him out a lot. One of us goes for talcum, And one for shaving soap; Another gets witch hazel, Cold cream and smelly dope. Then we withdraw us quickly And watch him from afar; A safety's mighty dang'rous-- It wouldn't do to jar. With face all white and soapy He scrapes his cheeks and chin; The way he frowns and winces It surely hurts like sin. But when the job is over And Dad looks clean and young, We all resume our breathing, And songs of praise are sung. As Dad cleans up his safety You ought to see him strut And brag about how easy 'tis His face to never cut. When Dad's put 'way his safety He laughs with fiendish glee To think the grasping barber From him will get no fee. But ev'ry silver lining Has dark clouds lurking near: Tomorrow morn Dad's safety Brings back our hour of fear. Come, bear with me, I'll tell to you Of Big Black Bears with children two; Of Father Bear, too ready to dare, And Mother, and the cross she bare. A lively time these children had, of pleasures had no lack; The thing that tickled them the most was bareback pick-a-pack. This man Bear was, oh! so wicked and sly, He'd steal and then tell you a barefaced lie; The older he grew the more he would fight-- Stuck on himself 'cause he could read and write. This Big Black Bear was a grouchy bear, And a cross old bear was he; He snapped and clawed and bristled and pawed And growled ferociously! This Big Black Bear broke open the door And walked right into the groc'ry store; He ate all the sugar, he ate all the ham, And left not a cent for the groc'ryman. He wrapped up honey and choice candies And he then left a note: "Just charge 'em, please; I'm gaunt and sore, I've come a distance, And take enough for bare existence." The grocer, next morn, collected some men And tracked the foot-prints right up to the den; The Cubs, when they came, were out all alone, But raced through cubbyholes cut in the stone. The Bears laid low, kept out of sight, Cubs snuggled down like it was night. "All right," said the men, "we'll sure get you yet!" And then went to work a big trap to set. They got it all fixed and placed on the ground, And then lots of honey scattered around; And then, lest some traveler its sight should miss, They nailed up a sign that looked just like this: As soon as they had gone quite a while Old Pa Bear sneaked out, then called with a smile; "Come out, hustle up, there's nothing to fear; There's honey enough for all of us here!" "To me," says Ma, "this thing spells ruin; I feel that there is trouble brewin'!" "Tut, tut!" says Pa, "just like a fool! 'Tis plain you never went to school. If you could read you'd plainly see That this was sent a gift to me. 'Bee-ware' is honey, surely you know; And 'For-Bear' is what it says below. Now cubbies, you see how much you need To learn right soon to write and to read. So study real hard, become a power-- A Cub reporter, some day, or maybe the bar." "Dip in," said he, "la, la it's swell!" And then let out an awful yell!!---- For the trap had sprung and caught him fair---- The fam'ly quickly ran to the lair. Then ping!! crack!! crack!! a loud report!! "All in!" cried they, "Oh, my, what sport!" They skinned him and carried away the dead; But not a pall-bearer once bared his head. On this Bear's sad end the grocer oft does gloat-- What's now left of Pa is a big winter coat. When the weather's cold (not immodest nor sin) The Grocer comes forth just in his bear skin. The Cubs, thus bereft, were frightened quite, They sobbed and they cried with all of their might. "Come, Bairns," said Ma, "let's off to the wood; I'll get you a new pa who'll do as Bears should." She did it and made a most excellent wife, And all are now living the happiest life. _Impelled by lonesomeness, the Jumbler is inspired to this bit of Feeling mighty lonely; Yes, getting pow'ful blue; Dearie, here's the answer: I'm missing, missing you. Rain beats 'gainst the window, Or skies are bright and blue; Doesn't seem to matter-- I'm missing, missing you. Days are long and tiresome, And nights seem endless, too; Slumber is a stranger-- I'm missing, missing you. Writing rhyme is easy, 'Bout all that I can do; Ev'ry word in English Now wants to rhyme with _You_. If I thought, my dearie, That you missed me, too, I should then be happy In missing, missing you. Joy lives close to Sadness, The steps are short and few: Changing just one letter Myself _vs._ Me If You'd Marry The Man Who Made Umph-ta-ta Smile C'est la Guerre Eat What's Set Before You

Various

Punch or the London Charivari, Vol.107, September 1, 1894

"_For long with horror she has viewed The naked Truth for being nude_" "_Far long with horror she has viewed The naked Truth for being nude_" FRONTISPIECE "_Her wardrobe, though extremely small, sufficed a somewhat simple need_" _14_ "_Were she to mingle with her ink a little milk of human kindness_" _28_ "_And so be daily left her side to travel o'er the ocean far_" _50_ "_Where the spinsters at tea are collected, her arrival is bailed with delight_" _58_ "_How glad the happy pair must be that Hymen's bonds have set them free_" _80_ "_Small wonder she receives a shock each time she views thy billycock_" _98_ "_'She is mine!' he announces, adjourning to the distant horizon afar_" _104_ Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited For such viands as your poet can provide, (Which, as critics have occasionally stated, Must be trying to a delicate inside,) Once again are opportunities afforded Of a banquet, or a _dejeuner_ at least, Once again your toleration is rewarded By a literary feast! You may think that Rudyard Kipling's work is stronger, Or that Chaucer's may be rather more mature; Byron's lyrics are indubitably longer, Robert Browning's just a trifle more obscure; But 'tis certain that no poems are politer, Or more fitted for perusal in the home, Than the verses of the unassuming writer Of this memorable tome! Austin Dobson is a daintier performer, Andrew Lang is far more scholarly and wise, Mr. Swinburne can, of course, be somewhat warmer, Alfred Austin more amusing, if he tries; But there's no one in the world (and well you know it!) Who can emulate the bard of whom we speak, For the literary methods of _our_ poet Are admittedly unique! Tho' he shows no sort of penitence at breaking Ev'ry rule of English grammar and of style, (Not a rhyme is too atrocious for his making, Not a metre for his purpose is too vile!) Tho' his treatment is essentially destructive, And his taste a thing that no one can admire, There is something incontestably seductive In the music of his lyre! Gentle Reader, some apologies are needed For depositing this volume on your desk, Since the author has undoubtedly exceeded All the limits of legitimate burlesque, And we look with very genuine affection To a Public who, for better or for worse, Will relieve us of this villainous collection Of abominable verse! "_Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited_" I always love to picture Eve, Whatever captious critics say, As one who was, as I believe, The nicest woman of her day; Attractive to the outward view, And such a perfect _lady_ too! Unselfish,--that one can't dispute, Recalling her intense delight, When she acquired some novel fruit, In giving all her friends a bite; Her very troubles she would share With those who happened to be there. Her wardrobe, though extremely small, Sufficed a somewhat simple need; She was, if anything at all, A trifle _under_dressed, indeed, And never visited a play In headgear known as "matinee." Possessing but a single _beau_, With only one _affaire de c[oe]ur_, She promptly married, as we know, The man who first proposed to her; Not for his title or his pelf, But simply for his own sweet self. He loved her madly, at first sight; His callow heart was quite upset; He thought her nearly, if not quite, The sweetest soul he'd ever met; She found him charming--for a man, And so their young romance began. Their wedding was a trifle tame-- A purely family affair-- No guests were asked, no pressmen came To interview the happy pair; No crowds of curious strangers bored them, The "Eden Journal" quite ignored them. They had the failings of their class, The faults and foibles of the youthful; She was inquisitive, alas! And he was--not exactly truthful; But never was there man or woman So truly, so intensely _human_! And, hand in hand, from day to day, They lived and labored, man and wife; Together hewed their common way Along the rugged path of Life; Remaining, though the seasons pass'd, Friends, lovers, to the very last. So, side by side, they shared, these two, The sorrow and the joys of living; The Man, devoted, tender, true, The Woman, patient and forgiving; Their common toil, their common weather, But drew them closelier still together. And if they ever chanced to grieve, Enduring loss, or suff'ring pain, You may be certain it was Eve Brought comfort to their hearts again; If they were happy, well I know, It was the Woman made them so. And though the anthropologist May mention, in his tactless way, That Adam's weaknesses exist Among our modern Men to-day, In Women we may still perceive The virtues of their Mother Eve! "_Her wardrobe, though extremely small, sufficed a somewhat simple need_" In the old town of Coventry, so people say, Dwelt a Peer who was utterly lacking in pity; Universally loathed for the rigorous way That he burdened the rates of the City. By his merciless methods of petty taxation, The poor were reduced to the verge of starvation. But the Earl had a wife, whom the people adored, For her kindness of heart even more than her beauty, And her pitiless lord she besought and implored To remit this extortionate "duty"; But he answered: "My dear, pray reflect at your leisure, What _you_ deem a 'duty,' to _me_ is a pleasure!" At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm, And she closed her entreaties, one day, by exclaiming:-- "If you take off the tax, I will gladly perform Any task that you like to be naming!" "Well, if that be the case," said the nobleman, "I've a Good mind just to test you, my Lady Godiva! "To your wishes, my dear, I will straight acquiesce, On the single condition--I give you fair warning-- That you ride through the City, at noon, in the dress That you wear in your bath of a morning!" "Very well!" she replied. "Be it so! Though you drive a Hard bargain, my lord," said the Lady Godiva. So she slipped off her gown, and her shoulders lay bare, Gleaming white like the moon on Aonian fountains; When about them she loosened her curtain of hair, 'Twas like Night coming over the mountains! And she blushed, 'neath the veil of her wonderful tresses, As blushes the Morn 'neath the Sun's first caresses! Then she went to the stable and saddled her steed, Who erected his ears, till he looked like a rabbit, He was somewhat surprised, as he might be, indeed, At the lady's unusual "habit"; But allowed her to mount in the masculine way, For he couldn't say "No," and he wouldn't say "Neigh!" So she rode through the town, in the heat of the sun, For the weather was (luckily) warm as the Tropics, And the people all drew down their blinds--except one, On the staff of the local "Town Topics." (Such misconduct produced in the eyes of this vile one A cataract nearly as large as the Nile one!) Then Godiva returned, and the Earl had to yield, (And the paralyzed pressman dictated his cable;) The tax was remitted, the bells were repealed, And the horse was returned to the stable; While banners were waved from each possible quarter, Except from the flat of the stricken reporter. Now the Moral is this--if I've fathomed the tale (Though it needs a more delicate pen to explain it):-- You can get whatsoever you want, without fail, If you'll sacrifice _all_ to obtain it. You should _try_ to avoid unconventional capers, And be sure you don't write for Society papers. "_At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm_" A very Woman among Men! Her paeans, sung in ev'ry quarter, Almost persuade Le Gallienne To go and get his hair cut shorter; When Kipling hears her trumpet-note He longs to don a petticoat. Her praise is sung by old or young, Where'er old England's mother-tongue Is (ungrammatically) spoken: In that supremely simple set Which loves the penny novelette. When Anglo-Saxon peoples kneel Before their literary idol, It makes all rival authors feel Depressed and almost suicidal; They cannot reach within a mile Of her sublime suburban style. Her modest, unobtrusive ways, In sunny Stratford's guide-books graven, Her brilliance, lighting with its rays The birthplace of the Swan of Avon, Must cause the Bard as deep a pain As his resemblance to Hall Caine. Mere ordinary mortals ask, With no desire for picking quarrels, Who gave her the congenial task Of judging other people's morals? Who bade her flay her fellow-men With such a frankly feline pen? And one may seek, and seek in vain. The social set she loves to mention, Those offspring of her fertile brain, Those creatures of her fond invention. (She is, or so it would appear, Unlucky in her friends, poor dear!) For tho', like her, they feel the sway Of claptrap sentimental glamour, And frequently, like her, give way To lapses from our English grammar, The victims of her diatribes Are not the least as she describes. To restaurants they seldom go, Just for the sake of over-eating; While ladies don't play bridge, you know, Entirely for the sake of cheating; And husbands can be quite nice men, And wives _are_ faithful, now and then. Were she to mingle with her ink A little milk of human kindness, She would not join, I dare to think, To chronic social color-blindness An outlook bigoted and narrow As that of some provincial sparrow. But still, perhaps, it might affect Her literary circulation, If she were tempted to neglect Her talent for vituperation; Since work of this peculiar kind Delights the groundling's curious mind. For while, of course, from day to day, Her popularity increases, As, in an artless sort of way, She tears Society to pieces, Her sense of humor, so they tell us, Makes even Alfred Austin jealous! Yet even bumpkins, by and by, (Such is the spread of education) May view with cold, phlegmatic eye The fruits of her imagination, And learn to temper their devotion With slight, if adequate, emotion. Dear Miss Corelli:--Should your eyes Peruse this page ('tis my ambition!), Be sure that I apologize In any suitable position For having weakly imitated The style that you yourself created. I cannot fancy to attain To heights of personal invective Which you, with subtler pen and brain, Have learnt to render so effective; I follow dimly in your trail; Forgive me, therefore, if I fail! "_Were she to mingle with her ink A little milk of human kindness_" Have you a pain all down your back? A feeling of intense prostration? Are you anaemic, for the lack Of proper circulation? With bloodshot eye and hand unsteady? Pray send at once for Mrs. Eddy. Of what is known as Christian Science; And you can lean on Mrs. E. With absolute reliance; For she will shortly make it plain That there is no such thing as pain. The varied ailments on your list Which cause you such extreme vexation Are nothing more, she will insist, Than mere imagination. 'Tis so with illness or disease; Nothing exists ... except her fees! A friend of mine had not been taught This doctrine, I regret to say. He fell downstairs, or so he thought, And broke his neck, one day. Had Mrs. Eddy come along, She could have shown him he was wrong. She could have told him (or his wraith) That stairs and necks have no existence, That persons with sufficient faith Can fall from any distance, And that he wasn't in the least What local papers called "deceased." Of ills to which the flesh is heir She is decidedly disdainful; But once, or so her friends declare, Her teeth became so painful That, tho' she knew they couldn't be, She had them taken out, to see. Afflictions of the lame or halt, Which other people view with terror, To her denote some moral fault, Some form of mental error. While doctors probe or amputate, She simply heals you while you wait. My brother, whom you may have seen, Possessed a limp, a very slight one; His leg, the left, had always been Much shorter than the right one; But Mrs. Eddy came his way, And ... well, just look at him to-day! At healing she had grown so deft That when she finished with my brother, His crippled leg, I mean the left, Was _longer_ than the other! And now he's praying, day and night, For faith to lengthen out the right. So let it be our chief concern To set diseases at defiance, Contriving, as the truths we learn Of so-called Christian Science, To live from illnesses exempt,-- Or else to die in the attempt! When lovely Woman stoops to smoke (A vice in which she often glories), Or sees the somewhat doubtful joke In after-dinner stories, Who is it to her bedroom rushes To hide the fervor of her blushes? When Susan's skirt's a trifle short, Or Mary's manner rather skittish, Who is it, with a fretful snort (So typically British), Emits prolonged and startled cries, Suggestive of a pained surprise? Who is it, tell me, in effect, Who loves to centre her attentions On all who wilfully neglect Society's conventions, And seems eternally imbued With saponaceous rectitude? 'Tis Mrs. Grundy, deaf and blind To anything the least romantic, Combining with a narrow mind A point of view pedantic, Since no one in the world can stop her From thinking ev'rything improper. The picture or the marble bust At any public exhibition Evokes her unconcealed disgust And rouses her suspicion, If human forms are shown to us _In puris naturalibus_. The bare, in any sense or shape. She looks upon as wrong or faulty; Piano-legs she likes to drape, If they are too decoll'te; For long with horror she has viewed The naked Truth, for being nude. On modern manners that efface The formal modes of introduction She is at once prepared to place The very worst construction,-- And frowns, suspicious and sardonic, On friendships that are termed Platonic. The English restaurants must close At twelve o'clock at night on Sunday, To suit (or so we may suppose) The taste of Mrs. Grundy; On week-days, thirty minutes later, Ejected guests revile the waiter. A sense of humor she would vote The sign of mental dissipations; She scorns whatever might promote The gaiety of nations; Of lawful fun she seems no fonder Than of the noxious _dooblontonder_! And if you wish to make her blench And snap her teeth together tightly, Say something in Parisian French, And close one optic slightly. "Rien ne va plus! Enfin, alors!" She leaves the room and slams the door! O Mrs. Grundy, do, I beg, To false conclusions cease from rushing, And learn to name the human leg Without profusely blushing! No longer be (don't think me rude) That unalluring thing, the prude! No more patrol the world, I pray, In search of trifling social errors, Let "What will Mrs. Grundy say?" No longer have its terrors; Leave diatribe and objurgation The bride grows pale beneath her veil, Who listens to the tragic tale Who lived and died (so says report) A widow of the herbal sort. Her husband upon canvas wings Would brave the Ocean, tempest-tost; He had a cult for finding things Which nobody had ever lost, And Mrs. C. grew almost frantic When he discovered the Atlantic. But nothing she could do or say Would keep her Christopher at home; Without delay he sailed away Across what poets call "the foam," While neighbors murmured, "What a shame!" And wished their husbands did the same. He ventured on the highest C's That reared their heads above the bar, Knowing the compass and the quays Like any operatic star; And funny friends who watched him do so Would call him "Robinson Caruso." But Mrs. C. remained indoors, And poked the fire and wound the clocks, Amused the children, scrubbed the floors, Or darned her absent husband's socks. (For she was far too sweet and wise To darn the great explorer's eyes.) And when she chanced to look around At all the couples she had known, And realized how few had found A home as peaceful as her own, She saw how pleasant it may be To wed a chronic absentee. Her husband's absence she enjoyed, Nor ever asked him where he went, Thinking him harmlessly employed Discovering some Continent. Had he been always in, no doubt, Some day she would have found him out. And so he daily left her side To travel o'er the ocean far, And she who, like the bard, had tried To "hitch her wagon to a star," Though she was harnessed to a comet, Got lots of satisfaction from it. To him returning from the West She proved a perfect anti-dote, Who loosed his Armour (beef compress'd) And sprayed his "automobile throat"; His health she kept a jealous eye on, And played PerUna to his lion! And when she got him home again, Entrusted to her husband's care, Her monetary wealth was "far Beyond the dreams of caviar!" A melancholy thing it is How few have known or understood The manifold advantages Of such herbaceous widowhood! (What is it ruins married lives But husbands ... not to mention wives?) O wedded couples of to-day, Pray take these principles to heart, And copy the Columbian way Of living happily apart. And so, to you, at any rate, Shall marriage be a "blessed state." "_And so he daily left her side To travel o'er the ocean far_" I should like to remark that Dame Rumor Is the most unalluring of jades. She has little or no sense of humor, And her fables are worse than George Ade's. (Or rather, I mean, if the reader prefers, That the fables of Ade are much _better_ than hers!) Her appearance imbues one with loathing, From her jaundiced, malevolent eyes To the tinsel she cares to call clothing, Which is merely a patchwork of lies. For her garments are such that a child could see through, And her blouse (need I add?) is the famed Peek-a-boo! She is wholly devoid of discretion, She is utterly wanting in tact, She's a gossip by trade and profession, And she much prefers fiction to fact. She is seldom veracious, and always unkind, And she moves to and fro with the speed of the wind. She resembles the men who ('tis fabled) Tumble into the Packingtown vats, Who are boiled there, and bottled, and labelled For the tables of true democrats: Pickled souls who are canned for the public to buy, And (like her) have a finger in every pie! With a step that is silent and stealthy, Or an earsplitting clamor and noise, She disturbs the repose of the wealthy, Or the peace which the pauper enjoys. And, however securely the doors may be shut, She can always gain access to palace or hut. Where the spinsters at tea are collected, Her arrival is hailed with delight; She is welcomed, adored, and respected In each newspaper office at night; For her presence imprints an original seal On an otherwise commonplace journal or meal. She has nothing in common with Virtue, And with Truth she was never allied; If she hasn't yet managed to hurt you, It can't be from not having tried! For the poison of adders is under her tongue, And you're lucky indeed, if you've never been stung. Are you statesman, or author, or artist, With a perfectly blameless career? Are your talents and wits of the smartest, And your conscience abnormally clear? "He's a saint!" says Dame Rumor, and smiles like the Sphinx. "He's a hero!" (She adds:) "What a pity he drinks!" Gentle Reader, keep clear of her clutches! O beware of her voice, I entreat! Be you journalist, dowager duchess, Or just merely the Man in the Street. And I beg of you not to encourage a jade Who, if once she is started, can _never_ be stayed. "_Where the spinsters at tea are collected, Her arrival is hailed with delight_" more advantageous results might be obtained if, instead of filling children's minds with such nonsense as fairy-tales, stories were read to them about Julius Caesar.] O my Brothers, do you hear the children weeping? Do you note the teardrops tumbling from their eyes? To the school-house they reluctantly are creeping, Discontented with the teaching it supplies. At the quality of modern education Little urchins may with justice look askance, Since it panders to a child's imagination, And encourages romance. Do you see that toddling baby with a bib on, How his eyes with silent misery are dim? He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon; But his teachers give him nothing else but Grimm! What a handicap to infantile ambition! 'Tis enough to make the brightest bantling fume, To be gammoned with an Andrew Lang edition, When he longs for Hume, sweet Hume! See that tiny one, what boredom he expresses! What intolerance his frequent yawns evince Of the fairy-tales where beautiful princesses Are delivered from a dragon by a prince! How he curses the pedantic institution Where he can't obtain such volumes as "Le Cid," Or that masterpiece on "Social Evolution" By another kind of Kidd! Do you hear the children weeping, O my Brothers? They are crying for Max Mueller and Carlyle. Tho' Hans Andersen may satisfy their mothers, They are weary of so immature a style. And their time is far too brief to be expended On such nonsense as their "rude forefathers" read; For they know the days of sentiment are ended, And that Chivalry is dead! Oh remember that the pillars of the nation Are the children that we discipline to-day; That to give them a becoming education You must rear them in a reasonable way! Let us guard them from the glamour of the mystics, Who would throw a ray of sunshine on their lives! Let us feed each helpless atom on statistics, And pray Heaven he survives! Let us cast away the out-of-date traditions, Which our poets and romanticists have sung! Let us sacrifice the senseless superstitions That illuminate the fancies of the young! If we limit our instruction to the "reals," We may prove to ev'ry baby from the start, The futility of cherishing ideals In his golden little heart! "_He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon_" point at which the cleverness of the young will amount to a social problem. Already things are getting uncomfortable for persons of age and sobriety, whose notion of happiness is to ruminate a few solid and simple ideas in freedom from disturbance.--_Macmillan's Magazine._] O my Children, do you hear your elders sighing? Do you wonder that senility should find Your encyclopaedic knowledge somewhat trying To the ordinary mind? In the heyday of a former generation, Some respect for our intelligence was shown; And it's hard for us to cotton To the fact that _you've_ forgotten More than _we_ have ever known! O my Children, do you hear your elders snoring, When the "chassis" of your motors you discuss? Do you wonder that your "shop" is rather boring To such simple souls as us? Do you marvel that your dreary conversation Should evoke the yawns that "lie too deep for tears," When you lecture to your betters About "tanks" and "carburettors," About "sparking-plugs" and "gears"? O my Children, in the season of your nonage, (Which delightful days no longer now exist!) We could join with other fogeys of our own age In a quiet game of whist. _Now_, at bridge, our very experts are defeated By some beardless but impertinent young cub, Who converts our silent table To a very Tow'r of Babel, O my Children, we no longer are respected! 'Tis a fact we older fellows must deplore, Whose opinions and whose judgments are neglected, As they never were before. We may tender good advice to our descendants; We may offer them our money, if we will; Lo, the one shall be forsaken, And the other shall be taken (Like the women at the mill!). O my Children, note the moral (like a kernel) I have hidden in the centre of my song! Do not contradict a relative maternal, If she happens to be wrong! Be indulgent to the author of your being; Never show him the contempt that you must feel; Treat him tolerantly, rather, Since a man who is _your_ father Can't be wholly imbecile! O my Children, we, the older generation, At whose feet you ought (in theory) to sit, Are bewildered by your mental penetration, We are dazzled by your wit! But we hopefully anticipate a future When the airship shall replace the motor-'bus, And _your_ children, when they meet you, Shall inevitably treat you Just as you are treating us! "As us" is not grammar.--Publishers' Reader. Hail, bride and bridegroom of the West! Your troth irrevocably plighted! Your act of Union doubly blest, Your single States United, With full approval and assent Of populace and President! Let Spangled Banners wave on high, To greet the maiden as she passes! See how the proud Proconsul's eye Grows dim behind his glasses! How fond the heart that beats beneath Those pleated Presidential teeth! The bishop has received his cheque, The final slipper has been thrown; With rice down each respective neck, The couple stand alone. To them, at last, the fates provide A privacy so long denied. Letters and wires, from near and far, Lie thickly piled on ev'ry table; The peaceful message from the Czar, The Kaiser's kindly cable; The well-expressed congratulations Rich gifts, as countless as the sand That cloaks the desert of Sahara, From fish-slice to piano (grand), From toast-rack to tiara, Still overwhelm the lucky maid (With heavy duties to be paid!). See, hand-in-hand, the couple stand! (The guests their homeward journey take, Concealing their emotion--and Some lumps of wedding cake!) How glad the happy pair must be That Hymen's bonds have set them free! Free of the curious Yellow Press, Free of the public's prying gaze, Of all the troubles that obsess The path of fiances! Alone at last, and safely screen'd From onslaughts of the kodak-fiend! The Bride, who bore without demur The wiles of artists photographic, Of vulgar crowds that gaped at her, Congesting all the traffic, Can shop, once more, in perfect peace, Without the help of the police. Arrayed in stylish trav'lling dress, Behold, with blushes she departs! The free Republican Princess A captive Queen of Hearts! (Captive to Cupid, need I say? But Queen in ev'ry other way!) And this must surely be the hour For Anglo-Saxons, ev'rywhere, With cousinly regard, to show'r Good wishes on the pair; Borne on the bosom of the breeze, Our blessings speed across the seas! (Pray pardon my redundant lyre) May your united lives be blest With all your hearts' desire! Accept the warm felicitations Of fond, if distant, blood-relations! "_How glad the happy pair must be That Hymen's bonds have set them free_" My Offspring:--Ere you raise the glass, To irrigate your ardent throttle; Ere once again you gladly pass The bottle; Take heed that your prevailing passion Be not completely out of fashion. No longer does the Prodigal Expend his nights in drunken frolic; Or pass his days in revels al-Coholic; For, nowadays, a glass _de trop_ Is not considered _comme il faut_. No longer do the youthful fall, Like leaf or partridge in October; For they, if anything at all, Are sober. (I mean the boys,--don't be absurd! And not the foliage or the bird.) No longer arm-in-arm they roam, Despite constabulary warning, Declaring that they won't go home Till morning! With bursts of bacchanalian song, And jokes as broad as they are long. No more they wander to-and-fro, Exchanging incoherent greetings-- The kind in vogue at Caledo- (Behavior that we all condemn, Especially at 3 a. m.). Yes; fashions change--and well they may! No longer, at the dinner-table, Do persons drink as much as they Are able; And seek the hospitable floor, When they have drunk a trifle more. My nasal hue, incarnadine, Shall not, perhaps, be wholly wasted, If sons of mine but leave their wine And vanquish, with deserving merit, The varied vices they inherit. Yes, Offspring, I rejoice to think That, shunning my example truly, You never may be led to drink It is indeed a blessed thought! Now, will you kindly pass the port? position. To be sure, they are frequently invited to functions, where they are treated with insistent affability by persons belonging to the higher classes; but the sort of position to be obtained in this way is insecure, and unpleasant to any save those of adamantine cheek.--_Current Magazine._] Dear Lady,--When you bade me come To grace your crowded "Kettledrum," And mingle in the best society; When Melba sang, and Elman played, And waiters handed lemonade (Tempering music with sobriety), I never had the least suspicion Of my precarious position. But now, with opened eyes, I leap To this conclusion, shrewd and deep, (What cerebral agility!): Your compliments were insincere, Your hospitality was mere "Insistent affability!" And I, a foolish man of letters, Who thought to mingle with his betters! Ah me! How pride precedes a fall! That one who haunted "rout" or ball, When invitations were acquirable, Should see himself as others see, Becoming suddenly, like me, A social "undesirable"; Invading the selectest clique With truly adamantine cheek! How proud an air I used to wear! When titled persons turned to stare, I blushed like a geranium. When lovely ladies softly said: "Oh, Duchess, did you see his head?" "What a capacious cranium!" "Yes; isn't that the man who writes?" "I wonder why they look such frights!" I used to bridle coyly when Some schoolmate, of the Upper Ten (They were not over-numerous!), Would slap my back, and shout "By Jove! "Ain't you a literary cove?" (As tho' 'twere something humorous!) "Those books of yours are grand, you bet! What? No, I haven't read them yet." But now I realize my fate; A stranger at the social gate (Tho' treated with civility); The choicest circles I frequent Must be the ones my brains invent, With fictional futility; The only Royalties I know Are those my publisher can show! The garden-party, and the tea, Are surely not for men like me Such entertainments are taboo, And might debase my talents to Additional inanities. The Poet has no business there: _Que ferait-il dans cette galere?_ Ah, lonely is the Author's lot! Assuming, if he hath it not, A suitable humility. For when his daily work is done, He must inevitably shun The homes of the Nobility, As, with dejected steps, he passes To supper with the middle classes! "_I wonder why they look such frights_" O youth uncouth, who slouchest by, Along the crowded public street, An eyeglass in thy languid eye, Brown boots upon thy feet, A loose umbrella in thy grip, A toothpick pendent from thy lip. Much I deplore thy clumsy gait, Thy drab sartorial display, So wholly inappropriate To this august highway; How can a man in such attire Set any spinster's heart on fire? Thou art in dress no epicure, By weight of fashions overladen; Thy tawdry togs do not allure The soul of every maiden; They sound no echoing color-note To her tempestuous petticoat. Her stylish skirt, her dainty blouse, Are crepe-de-chine, or bombazine; Compare the texture of thy trous: With _their_ chromatic sheen; To what abysm of taste we reach Think what she pays her _modiste_ for Those hats of questionable shapes, Surmounted by a seagull or Some imitation grapes! Small wonder she receives a shock Each time she views thy "billycock"! Observe how like an autumn leaf The colors of the male canary, The garb of each New Zealand chief Who woos his Little Maori; The savage mind has thus designed A dress to please its womankind. And tho' I would not have thee go As far as primal man or beast, To lovely woman thou should'st show _Some_ deference at least, And give a thought of what to wear Upon the public thoroughfare. And should'st thou wish to walk aright, Let Mr. Beerbohm be thy mould; Sedate yet courtly, and polite As any beau of old; Yea, plant thy footsteps in the tracks Of our inimitable Max! Enclose thy larynx in a stock (As though afflicted with the fever); And in the place of "billycock" Procure a bristling "beaver"; And practise, not I hope in vain, The "conduct of a clouded cane." If thou consentest thus to act, In scorn of popular convention, Thy bearing shall indeed attract Much feminine attention; As day by day, in brilliant hue, Thy figure fills Fifth Avenue. These ones were.--H. G. "_Small wonder she receives a shock each time she views thy billycock_" When the shadow-shapes shone like a shaddock, Where the sunset had kissed them to flame, On his palfrey, the pick of the paddock, With his sword in its scabbard, he came! In the glamour of amorous passion He would blaze like a seasoned cigar; And he fought in a similar fashion, By the fences and fens unaffrighted, And unstopt by the stream in its spate, In a lather, at last, he alighted, And he knocked at the Netherbys' gate. 'Twas too late! (As he doubtless had dreaded.) He perceived his particular "star" To a blackguard about to be wedded, But he passed through the portal so proudly To the room where the gifts were displayed, That old Netherby called to him loudly (For the bridegroom, poor fool, was afraid). "Is it blood you are bent upon shedding? With a murder this marriage to mar? Or to waltz do you wish at the wedding, He replied, "Tho' 'twere useless to smother My love for the maid at your side; Tho' my Helen be bound to another, I shall trust to the turn of the tied. As I drink to her squint and her freckles, I'll remark how few ladies there are Who would shrink from a share of the shekels Then he pledged her in port, so politely (Tho' her mother lamented his taste), And she smiled at him ever so slightly, As he settled his arm round her waist. When he drew her direct to the dancers, The Bohemian band struck a bar, And she found herself leading the Lancers Oh, the beauty and grace are so vivid Of this perfectly parallel pair, That the parents grow purple and livid, And the bridegroom is tearing his hair; While the bridesmaids talk ten to the dozen, Saying: "Goodness, what gabies we are, Not to marry our exquisite cousin Then the girl by her partner is beckoned To the door, where a charger they find; To the saddle he springs in a second, And he lifts her up lightly behind; "She is mine!" he announces, adjourning To the distant horizon afar, "Till the cattle to roost are returning!" O the tumult! The tumbling of tables! O the stress of the scene that succeeds! O the stir on the stairs,--in the stables! O the stamping and saddling of steeds! But the bride has eluded them surely; In the room of some kind Registrar, She is now being wedded securely "Till the cows come home": an old English saying, denoting eternity. "'_She is mine!' he announces, adjourning To the distant horizon afar_" _Abbreviation's Artful Aid_ The Bard, at times Is stumped for rhymes, Without the least excuse. He can defy Such moments by Abbreviation's use, And gain the grat: Of friend or neighb: Of extra lab: So simp: a rule May seem pecul: And make the crit: indig: What matter if The scans: is diff: The meaning too ambig:? The net result, Lacon: and punct: Is worth a mult: Of needless unct: We long for sile: From folks who pile Their worldly Pel: on Oss: Extremely nox: And quite intox: By their exhub: verbos: We curse their imp: In manner dras: And fail to symp: With their loquac: Applause is tep: For periphrastic Pol: Reviewers sniff At auth: prolif: With semiannual vol: But we can pard: However peev: The minor bard Who will abbrev: In close propinq: The Poet, lucky fell:! Avoiding troub: May give his pub: The cred: for some intell: And like an orph: In pose recumb: In arms of Morph: Securely slumb: Let corks explode: With brand: and sod: Ye wearers of the mot:! Decant the cham: (What matt: the dam:?) And empt: the flowing bott:! And ne'er surren: The Laureate's palm, His haunch of ven: And butt of Malm:! _Author's Aftword_ How I have labored, night and day, Just like the hero of a novel, To drive the hungry wolf away From my baronial hovel, To keep the bailiffs from my home, By finishing this bulky tome. To such a trying mental strain My intellect is far from fitted, Tho' if I had an ounce more brain I should be quite half-witted, And when I wander in my mind I am most difficult to find. The sort of life for which I care Is one combining Peace and Plenty With _laisser aller_, _laisser faire_, And _dolce far niente_. (The heart of ev'ry Bridge-fiend jumps: _Dolce_ ... 'tis sweet to make "No Trumps.") I shrink from work in any shape,-- Too clearly do these pages show it,-- But work is what one can't escape And critics I may well defy To find a minor bard than I. I ought to live out 'Frisco way, Where working is considered silly, As Greeley (Horace) used to say,-- "Go West, young man" (I understand), "Go West and blow up with the land!" Were I as full of zeal and fun As Balzac, who could drudge so gaily, Or diligent as Peter Dunne, I might accomplish daily In Ella Wheeler Wilcox fashion; But, as it is, I sit and toil, Consuming time and ink and curses And pints of precious midnight oil To perpetrate these verses. If _writing_ them be dull indeed, Alas! what must they be to _read_!

J.-C.-L. Simonde de (Jean-Charles-Léonard Simonde) Sismondi

Storia delle repubbliche italiane dei secoli di mezzo, v. 7

1773

"The mountains lay in calm repose Slumbering 'neath their robes of white." Oh that my words were now written! Oh that they were inscribed in a book!--JOB xix, 23. Books have, from time immemorial, been the conservators of human wisdom, the repositories of information, the mentors of youth and accomplished speedy reforms. They have precipitated wars, incited Books have been written on every conceivable subject, under all proverbial. Some, as the bards and minnesingers of old who in consisting of equal parts of slang, profanity and questionable manifestly unjust and misleading. The men who flocked to the early gold excitements, and who questioned. valley. A few, a very few in comparison with the less fortunate interior of his cabin discloses an ample stock of newspapers and "Full many a gem of purest ray serene. The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." _II._ _A Chapter from an Old Man's Life_ _28_ _III._ _The Prisoner_ _36_ _IV._ _A Sequel of the Lost Cause_ _49_ _VI._ _The Rescue_ _65_ _VII._ _The Blight of War_ _72_ _VIII._ _The Story of an Exile_ _93_ _IX._ _Conclusion_ _115_ _"The mountains lay in calm repose Slumbering 'neath their robes of white."_ _Title._ _"As stormy cowls their summits hid."_ _17_ _"Exceeding the tremendous height Of brother peaks, on left and right."_ _26_ _"Beseamed with countless scars and rents From combat with the elements."_ _30_ _"He towered with mute and massive form A challenge to the gathering storm."_ _40_ _"With swift and spoliating flow, Uprooting many a noble tree, To strew the desert's waste below, With scattered drift-wood and debris."_ _50_ _"Arrayed in Nature's pristine dress This was, indeed, a wilderness."_ _62_ _"We grew as two twin pines might grow, Upon some isolated edge, Of some lone precipice or ledge."_ _70_ _"The noble spruce and stately fir Stood draped in feathery garniture."_ _114_ _"From the mountain peaks crested with snow."_ _120_ _"High up on the cliffs in their dwellings Which were apertures walled up with rocks, Lived this people, sequestered and happy; Their dwellings now serve the wild fox."_ _126_ _"As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall From the mountain peaks stern and hoary."_ _130_ _"I love the lake in the mountain's lap."_ _134_ "As stormy cowls their summits hid." Reflecting, in their crystal snows, The mountains lay in calm repose Slumbering 'neath their robes of white. The stars grew dim,--a film instead, The twinkling heavens overspread, Through which their eyes essayed to peer, Each moment less distinct and clear, Till, when the stellar beacons failed, A darkness unrelieved, prevailed. Out of the ambient depths of gloom, Bereft of its accustomed bloom, Came day-break, comfortless and gray. Sped the nocturnal shades away, Unveiling, with their winged retreat, A twilight sad and incomplete. Reluctantly, as dawn aspired, The shadows lingered, then retired As vanquished armies often yield Upon a well-contested field, And sullenly retrace their course Before an overwhelming force. Within the east no purple light Proclaimed the passing of the night; No crimson blush appeared to warn The landscape of returning morn. Discarding all the gorgeous dyes, Wherewith the sunset tints the skies, And mingling with the azure blue, The warp and woof of sober hue; The fairies of the air, I wist, Had spun a silvery web of mist, Whose texture, ominous and gray, Obscured the glories of the day. Such was the dreary winter's day, Which dawned with dull and leaden sky; No cheerful penetrating ray Flashed from the sun's resplendent eye. In vain, through rift and orifice, He strove with radiant beam to kiss Each mountain peak and dizzy height, Apparelled in their garbs of white, And crown each brow, so bleak and cold, With burnished diadem of gold. Ascending in aerial flight, The wheel of fire did not appear, To dissipate the fogs of night And clarify the atmosphere. Seeking with fervent ray and fierce, The canopy of cloud to pierce, The orb of day, stripped of his flame, A circle, ill-defined, became, As through the ever-thickening haze, His feeble outline met the gaze. This faded till his glowing face Left no suggestive spot or trace, No corollary on the pall Which settled and pervaded all. As stormy cowls their summits hid, In turret, tower and pyramid, Of stately and majestic mien, Was nature's architecture seen. From yawning chasm and abyss, Rose minaret and precipice, Carved by the tireless hand of time, In forms fantastic, yet sublime, While spires impregnable and high, Were profiled on the lowering sky. Exceeding the tremendous height Of brother peaks, on left and right, In his commanding station placed, The giant of the rocky waste With awe-inspiring aspect stood, The sentry of the solitude, Guarding the mountainous expanse With his imposing battlements. In rock-ribbed armor panoplied, With rugged walls on every side, Beseamed with countless scars and rents, From combat with the elements, He towered with mute and massive form, A challenge to the gathering storm. This overshadowing mountain peak In solemn silence seemed to speak A prophecy of arctic doom; As in his frigid splendor dressed, He reared aloft his frozen crest, Surmounted by a snowy plume. His wrinkled and forbidding brow A sombre shadow seemed to throw O'er other crags as wild and stern, Which frowned defiance in return. The wind, lugubrious and sad, In doleful accents, soft and low, Mourned through the dismal forests, clad In weird habiliments of snow, As if, forsooth, the sylvan ghosts Had mobilized in pallid hosts, To haunt their rugged solitudes, The spectres of departed woods. And with uninterrupted flow The streamlet, underneath the snow, Answered the wind's despondent moan With plaint of gurgling monotone; Or, locked in winter's stern embrace, No longer trickled in its bed, But found a frigid resting place In stationary ice, instead. The crystal snowflakes gently fell, Enrobing mountain, plain and dell, In mantle spotless and complete, As nature in her winding sheet. Layer upon layer fell fast and deep Till every cliff, abrupt and steep, Was crowned with coronal of white. Capricious gusts, which whirl and sift, Built comb and overhanging drift, From feathery flakes so soft and light. More thickly flew the snow and fast; The wind developed and the blast Soon churned the tempest, till the air Seemed but a white and whirling glare, Through which the penetrating eye No shape nor contour might descry. The poor belated traveller, Who braved the rigor of that day, Might thank his bright protecting star,-- If orbs of pure celestial ray, Far in the scintillating skies, Preside o'er human destinies,-- That he, bewildered and distressed, Had warded off exhaustion's rest, And in that maze of pine and fir Escaped an icy sepulchre. When driving snows accumulate, They yield to the tremendous weight. And down the mountain's rugged sides The mass with great momentum slides, Cleaving the fragile spruce and pine, Which stand in its ill-fated line, As bearded grain, mature and lithe, Goes down before the reaper's scythe. Or, when the cyclone's baleful force, In flood of atmospheric wrath, Pursues its devastating course, Leaving but ruin in its path; Despoiling in a moment's span The most exalted works of man; Or waters, suddenly set free, When some black thunder cloud is rent, Rush down a wild declivity With irresistible descent, Depositing on every hand A layer of sediment and sand; With swift and spoliating flow, Uprooting many a noble tree, To strew the desert wastes below With scattered drift-wood and debris; Such is the dreadful avalanche, Which rends the forest, root and branch. From dangers in such varied form, And the discomforts of the storm, Small wonder 'twas the mountaineer Left not his fireside's ruddy cheer; But from behind the bolted door Discerned the tempest's strident roar, Or heard the pendent icicle, Which, from the eaves, in fragments fell, As some more formidable blast In paroxysmal fury passed. It shook with intermittent throes, Of boisterous, spasmodic power, A most substantial hut, which rose, As summer breeze sways grass or flower And e'en the dull immobile ground Trembled in sympathy profound. Such was the fury of the storm, As if the crystal flakes had met With militating hosts, to swarm In siege about its parapet. When every rampant onslaught failed, The blast in wanton frenzy wailed. As if with unspent rage the wind Felt much disgruntled and chagrined, And though of nugatory force, Could vent its spleen with accents hoarse. As some beleaguered tower of old Besieged by warriors stern and bold, Who dashed against its walls of stone, Which were not swayed nor overthrown; As vicious strokes delivered well, Innocuous and futile fell. Then watched the walls withstand the strain, And cursed and gnashed their teeth in vain. Beneath a massive pinnacle, Whose weird, forbidding shadows fell, And gulch and forest overcast With mantle ominous and vast, Nestling amid the spruce and pine, Which fringe the edge of timberline, This miner's cabin, quaint and rude, From the surrounding forest hewed, With primitive, yet stable form, Withstood the onslaught of the storm, And at the entrance of a dell Stood as a rustic sentinel. Beneath a pine's protecting skirt, It reared its modest roof of poles, Laid close, then overlaid with dirt, To cover up the cracks and holes; The intervals between the logs Were daubed with mud from mountain bogs. The ground did service as a floor In this, as many huts before; So beaten down beneath the tread, It more resembled tile instead. The plastic clay, compressed and sleek, Was level and as hard as brick. Protruding boulders, smooth and bare, Exposed their faces here and there; And with their surfaces displayed, A primitive mosaic made. And, terminating in a stack, Some feet above the cabin's roof, The fireplace, comfortless and black, Arose the dingy form uncouth. This object of depressing gloom, Built in the corner of the room, When filled with lurid tongues of flame, A cheerful cynosure became. The furnishings within were crude; A table fastened to the wall Had been with some exertion hewed From aspen timbers straight and tall, And was, in lieu of table legs, Supported by protruding pegs. A cracker box, with shelves inside, The leading corner occupied, And made an ample cupboard there, Where tin supplanted chinaware. A frying pan, which from a nail Suspended, dripped a greasy trail. Framed from the hemlock's poles and boughs, The rustic bunks within the house Were not elaborate affairs; While boxes filled the place of chairs. Tacked on the unpretentious wall Were advertisements, great and small, While lithograph and crayon scenes, Clipped from the standard magazines, Comprised a mimic gallery, Which broke the wall's monotony. No carpets were upon that floor, But at the bottom of the door The rug, against its yawning crack, Consisted of a gunny-sack. Nor was there lock upon that door, The guardian of sordid pelf; The traveller, distressed and sore, Might enter there and help himself. Within this weather-beaten hut Of logs, by many a tempest tried, With doors and windows closely shut, To keep the genial warmth inside; A group of hardy mountaineers, Blockaded by the winter's snow, Sat by the fireside's ruddy glow. Some old, and old beyond their years, As disappointments, toil and strife, Which constitute the miner's life, Must operate with process sure, Toward age, unduly premature; For years, in stern privation spent, Are traced in seam and lineament, Which gives the patriarchal face Its rugged dignity and grace. "Exceeding the tremendous height Of brother peaks, on left and right." Although by fond illusions led, Through phantasies of empty air, Which mark an ultimate despair, The miner still sees hope ahead. The prospector could never cope With dangers and realities, But for the visionary hope Which both deceives and mollifies, Alluring him with siren song Her vague uncertain paths along. Yet some, this stalwart group among, Were adolescent,--even young. For hearts, which youthful breasts conceal, Oft burn with energetic zeal, To ope, with labor's patient key, The mountain's hidden treasury. Most furiously it blew and snowed, Most cheerily the firelight glowed, And as the forked tongues of flame, In fierce combustion, writhed and burned, Nor moment's space remained the same, The conversation swayed and turned. For tales were told of avalanche, Of army scenes, of mine and ranch, Of wily politician's snares, Of gold excitements, smallpox scares, Of England's debt and grizzly bears. When all but three their stories told Of tropic heat, or arctic cold, The conversation dragged at length, An interim for future strength. Outspoke a voice: "Let Uncle Jim Some past experience relate, For Fate has kindly granted him, At least, diversity of fate." As ample wreaths of curling smoke From his time-honored meerschaum broke, A kindly-faced, gray-bearded man Rose up and sadly thus began,-- "You ask a tale,--well, I'll express The reason why in manhood's prime I left a more congenial clime And sought this rugged wilderness." But, gentle reader, don't expect A tale in mongrel dialect, Who lived as anchorite or monk, Once led the senior class at Yale, And had his sheepskin in his trunk. There, while the crackling flames leaped high, And serpentine gyrations played Around the logs of hemlock, dry, And with the tempest seethed and swayed, As curled the drowsy wreaths of smoke Above his pipe, the old man spoke: "'Twas on a day about like this, When, fresh from youthful haunts and scenes, I first beheld yon precipice, And sought these gulches and ravines, To pan, despite the frost and cold, For shining particles of gold; And hewed the rocker and the sluice From out the native pine and spruce. Arrayed in nature's pristine dress This was indeed a wilderness. Nor eye of eagle ever viewed A more forbidding solitude, Nor prospect more completely drear Confronted hardy pioneer. Why came I here? My simple tale Goes back to a New England vale. It is, though simple tale it be, A life's unwritten tragedy: A story, with few incidents, But many years of penitence. As one, for some foul crime pursued, Doth flee, in frenzy rash and blind To wilderness or solitude, I fled, to leave my past behind. I loved a maid, both fair and true, Just where, it matters not, nor who. For forty years, with silent tread, Have silvered many a raven head, Since on her wealth of auburn hair The moonlight shimmered, soft and fair, As where the pine and hemlock stood And sighed in answer to the breeze, With but the stars as witnesses, Our troth was plighted in the wood; A simple rustic tale in truth, Of love and sentimental youth. "Beseamed with countless scars and rents From combat with the elements." Love is the subtle mystery, The charm, the esoteric spell, Which lures the seraph from on High. To leave the Throne of Light,--for Hell,-- And with resistless shackles binds, In viewless thrall, the captive minds. For who can fathom love's caprice, Supplant her fervid wars with peace, And passion's ardent flame command? Or who presume to understand And read with cabalistic art The hieroglyphics of the heart? Nor eye of regent, skilled to rule, Nor sage from earth's profoundest school, Nor erudite philosophy On wisdom's heights, pretend to see The fervent secrets of the breast, Which rankle mute and unexpressed. Nor the angelic hosts above In their exuberance of love, Nor demons from the pit can span The depths of woman's love for man. And men, of love's sweet flame bereft, Have but the brutal instincts left. She, too, my youthful love returned, Each breast with throb responsive yearned, The oracles of passion sweet, All augured happiness complete. But, ere the nuptial knot was bound, A whispered rumor crept around, A whispered rumor, such as rise From nothing to colossal size; Though none their origin can trace, Nor ferret out the starting place, Which start sometimes, in idle jest, When knowing looks imply the rest. The lightest rumor, or the worst, May be discredited at first, But oft repeated and received Is soon unconsciously believed. Though inconsistent and abstract, Fanned by insinuating tongues, Imaginary faults and wrongs Soon gain the currency of fact. The purest acts are misconstrued By the lascivious and lewd, And envy loves to lie in wait With fangs imbrued in venomed hate. This slander, born of jealousy, Was told as solemn truth to me, By tongues I deemed immaculate. Alas! that shafts from falsehood's bow Should undetected cleave the air, Or wanton hands in malice sow The tares of discord and despair. For every seed of falsehood sown Brings forth a harvest of its own, And ears, most ready to believe, Are difficult to undeceive. Alas! that shafts from falsehood's tongue Should fall suspicious ears among, And be received, and nursed, forsooth, As arrows of unblemished truth: Maligning spotless innocence, With grave impeachments of offence. Their crime, of heinous crimes the worst, With multiplied damnation cursed, Who, lost to every sense of shame, Assassinate a woman's name. For such, with trumped-up calumnies, Would drag an angel from the skies, And stain its vestal robes of white With slander's sable hues of night, Holding to ridicule and shame The ruins of a once fair name. Who so, from slander's chalice sips, May greet you with a friendly kiss, Nor may the foul, envenomed lips Betray the adder's sting and hiss. The fairest flowrets of the field The rankest poisons often yield, And falsehood loves to hide her tooth 'Neath the habiliments of truth. This scandal, venomous and vile, Had no foundation but a smile, But on it wagging tongues had built A massive pyramid of guilt. In evil hour, I, too, believed For fabrications more absurd Than the aspersions I had heard Have wiser ears than mine deceived. I fought suspicion, vainly tried To cast each rising doubt aside. But he who lists to tales of ill Believes in part, despite his will. Then in my face, as in a book, She read one sad distrustful look, A look of pity, yet of doubt, For silence cries most loudly out, And who can smile with visage bright To shield misgivings black as night? Unhappy trait that in us lies! We doubt the verdict of our eyes; We doubt each faculty and sense, Yet credit sham and false pretence. We question Truth, and much prefer To list to Falsehood, than to her: And that, which most substantial seems, We doubt, yet place our faith in dreams. We doubt the pearl of purest white, We doubt the diamond clear and bright, And yet accept the base and flawed, Yes, revel in all forms of fraud. That moment's lack of confidence, The shadow of remote offence, Cost each the sweetest joys of life, Cost her a husband, me a wife. Ere yet that month its course had spent, In time's continuous descent, Her face had been forever hid Beneath the sod and coffin lid. Then slanderous tongues forgot their lies, And wagged in glowing eulogies. Though tears, the pearls of sorrow be, And many o'er her grave were shed, Mine was a tearless agony, A deeper, dry-eyed grief instead. That rumor, void of fact or proof, Too late betrayed the cloven hoof. Too late, alas! 'twas given me To recognize its falsity. Within a rural burial place, A rude, though quaint, necropolis, Where, through the growth of hemlock trees, Is borne the requiem of the breeze; Where stand the funeral pines as plumes, Above the scattered graves and tombs, And sigh, with drooping branches spread, In sylvan dirges for the dead; Beneath a fir tree's sombre shade, My last adieu to her was made. Close by the slab of graven stone, Which marks her place of silent rest, I knelt at midnight, and alone, Then rose and started for the West." The wind in temporary lull, Had dwindled to a plaintive moan; As if in mournful monotone, Her cup of anguish being full, Sad nature's fountain-heads of bale Had overflowed with plaint and wail. In palpitating throbs of woe, It now arose and whirled the snow With triple energy renewed, Filling the dismal solitude With woeful shriekings of despair, As demon orgies in the air, And culminated in a roar More violent than aught before. At length another timely lull Made human voices audible. As Uncle Jim resumed his seat, A voice cried out for Russian Pete. Of Russian Pete but little had been known, He liked to read and be so much alone; No more his close associates could tell, Save that he spoke the English language well. About this stranger with the clever tongue, An air of mystery and sadness clung. His name, so long and unpronounceable, Which none could frame, much less presume to spell, Waiving abridgment, partial or complete, Was, by the boys, transformed to "Russian Pete." Now Russian Pete was tall and strong of limb, Nor more than half as old as Uncle Jim, Of noble stature and commanding brow, With knees which in no genuflections bow. His face was sad, the index of a breast Where memory's fires were raging unsuppressed. With eyes which search in closest scrutiny, Nor yet offend the object they would see. One, who from feature, act and equipoise, Had known life's sorrows better than its joys. A man whom you would notice in the street, And know the second time if you should meet. This man of mystery and intellect Arose, and stood in manhood's poise erect. In tone of voice so musical and clear It might have charmed the most exacting ear, And wealth of language few can hope to reach, Nor trace of foreign accent in his speech, He forthwith spake: "My simple tale shall be, Not one of love, but dire captivity. Like Uncle Jim's, however, it contains The cause why I forsook my native plains. No tender web of sentiment, but one By treachery and machination spun. Across the sea, in distant realms afar, In the remote dominions of the Czar, Past where the Dnieper rolls his murky flood, Surcharged with fertilizing silt and mud, Past the dark forests and productive plains, Which he with many a tributary drains; Within that city whose inhabitants, With flaming torch, withstood the arms of France, Preferring ruin to the victor's boast, Or occupation by an alien host. Fair Moscow, which became a funeral pyre, And perished in her self-ignited fire, That her invaders, chilled by snow and sleet, Might sink in irretrievable defeat. A few years since, the date concerns us not, A minor detail readily forgot, Beneath the shadow of her noblest spire, There dwelt two students, children of one sire. With prospects fair at manhood's budding edge, In caste esteemed of no base parentage; Two students, versed in languages, and planned For consul service in a distant land, As foreign usages are studied most, When one aspires to diplomatic post. Thus eagerly, did we acquire the tongue Of you, whom I address and live among. With lucubrations diligent, we sought Our ways up varied avenues of thought, Until by prejudice no longer bound, We stood at last upon dissenting ground; Or wavered, where reluctant doubts confuse, In that strange zone of ruminating views, Where progress and established custom meet; Yes, crossed its boundaries with reckless feet. In that stern Empire, on disruption's brink, Some things you may,--and some you may not,--think; Express yourself, and instantly disgraced, Your steps may point toward a Siberian waste; Your substance confiscated by a court Where equity is but a theme for sport; Extol your theories, proffer your advice, And chains or banishment may be the price. For despot hands, since might's initial sway, Have fashioned chains for worthier hands than they; And oftentimes beneath the tyrant's heel Are crushed the lives which strive for human weal; Who dare to hold the gonfalon aloft For human rights and progress, yes, how oft Since Cain that fratricidal murder wrought, Have death and durance been the price of thought! He who espouses radical reform Invites upon his head the gathering storm; Each forward step from Custom's hackneyed school, Draws forth the floods of scorn and ridicule; Witness the dungeon, guillotine and rack, Chains for the feet and scourges for the back; Bestrewn with insult, diatribe and cuff, The pathway of reform was ever rough; And when reforms, as tidal waves have come, The foremost breakers dash to martyrdom. Perhaps, in youth's enthusiastic heat We may have been a little indiscreet, When we, thus inexperienced and young, Against oppression dared to raise the tongue. Perhaps 'twere best to tarnish manhood's brow With servile adulation, and to bow With craven salaam and obeisance, down In sycophantic homage to a crown. What, though the diadem its blazon rears Above a population's groans and tears! What, though the paths of tyranny be strew'd With suspirations of the multitude! If one but bask within the regal smile, Why strive against injustice, fraud and guile? Or, why enlist the sympathetic pen, Though thrones may crush the liberties of men? One inadvertent hour, some chance remark Was misconstrued with application dark; For little is required as an excuse When private ends are furthered by abuse; Suspicion's tunes are played with greatest ease, When jealousy manipulates the keys. What followed, it were wearisome to tell, Save that we found ourselves within a cell, Charged with sedition and conspiracy, By those more likely to conspire than we. "He towered with mute and massive form A challenge to the gathering storm." Three days were we, in custody detained, In stern abeyance formally constrained. Within a court, where no protesting word From prisoner or counsel may be heard; A court, where no forensic eloquence May quash the allegations of offence; Our doom was sealed, by a capricious judge Who thereby satisfied a family grudge. The sentence passed, the stalwart Cossack guard Straightway transferred us to a prison yard. There parted we, before its grated door; They dragged him in,--and he was seen no more. Another door, with dull metallic sound Was closed, and I was hurried underground, Through labyrinth of passages and halls, Past dingy arches and protruding walls, Where gloom perpetual the eye obscures, Through damp recesses, nooks and apertures, With foul effluvia and odors filled, By darkness, dampness and decay distilled. For noisome vapors float in gaseous waves, In cavern depths of men-created caves, And generate in humid warmth or cold The loathsome mildew and corrupting mould. At length, through cruel maze of grate and stone, By paths circuitous and ways unknown, We reached the cell,--as hideous a den, As ever held unwilling beasts or men. And soon with manacles securely bound, Myself its only occupant I found. A dungeon, dimly lighted and obscure, With pools of water, stagnant and impure, Whose noxious exhalations permeate The deadened air, which could not circulate: And laden with malignant slime and ooze, Upon the walls discharged in baneful dews: Or else precipitate, with vapory loss, Enrobed the cruel stones with pendent moss. And water, foul as e'er offended lip, Fell from the roof with intermittent drip. Remote from daylight, dismal and unsunned, Decompositions stored a teeming fund Of molecules and organisms strange, In an invisible but constant change. As stagnant waters generate a froth, These, with spontaneous and fungous growth, Had draped the dungeon's limited expanse With toadstool, bulb and foul protuberance. These from the air its milder virtues drank, Supplanting ichors, venemous and dank, Whose essence deleterious, the while, Exudes in savors and miasmas vile. High on the wall, a double-grated slit A slender ray of sunshine would admit On pleasant mornings, when the sky was clear From leaden fogs and hazy atmosphere. A ray of sunlight, yes, a welcome ray, A wholesome beam, but just too far away. Although I tugged at the remorseless chain And strove to reach that sunbeam, 'twas in vain; The lambent gleam which broke into the cell Alone on toad and savage rodent fell. In vain I wrenched the manacles, in vain I sought to rend the cruel gyves in twain, Strove, with contortions painful and extreme, To lay my head within this gladsome beam, Or even touch it with the finger-tip; In vain,--no galling chain relaxed its grip. A ray of sunlight just beyond my reach, Like Tantalus, as ancient classics teach, When for duplicity and theft immersed, In rippling waters, doomed to ceaseless thirst,-- For as his parching lips essayed to drink, The mocking waters would recede, or sink; Though luscious fruits hung pendent in his sight, To coax the palate and the appetite, Whene'er his hand reached forth with eager thrust, Those selfsame fruits resolved to baleful dust. That sunbeam, though an aggravation fair, Still closed the floodgates of complete despair. The deluge, which engulfs and overwhelms. With final resource and expedient And all her vials of expectation spent, Fate, in her changeable kaleidoscope, Evolves new turns to reestablish hope. That ray of sunshine, as an angel's smile, Beaming in love amid surroundings vile, Came, morn by morn, to mitigate and bless; A benediction in my bitterness. Time after time, when the approaching night Had banished every modicum of light, And clothed each outline with her sable guise, I watched the greenish glow of reptile eyes, Nor dared to slumber, till exhaustion's sleep Benumbed my senses with its stupors deep. Then, conjured by the witcheries of night, Came pleasant dreams and visions of delight, Those iridescent phantasies of air, Which mock the troubled breast in its despair; Then waking, the delusive phantoms flown, A prisoner upon a floor of stone. My fare was still the captive's mouldy crust, My chains still reeked with clotted gore and rust, The rigid shackles still retained their clutch, And clammy walls repulsed the friendly touch. Day after day, besmeared with filth and slime, In foul monotony I passed the time, Battling with vermin foes, a teeming brood, Prolific and not easily withstood: An evil pest, ubiquitous and rife, In the fecundity of insect life. In agony of body and of brain, Each breath a stifling gasp and twinge of pain, Cursing my fortune, though each fevered curse Redounding, made my agony the worse; For fits of anger seldom mollify, When vacancy reiterates the cry, Or walls of cold, unsympathetic stone Respond but hollow echoes of a groan. Though limbs as free and restless as the wind Are not to shackles readily resigned, Complaint, with oath and bitterness replete, In prisoner is doubly indiscreet. The imprecation, born of righteous wrath, Subtracts no obstacle from any path. Bereft of star or luminary bright, No night so dark as artificial night; No glittering constellations kindly throw Their twinkling beacons o'er the void below; No satellite with pale invasive beam Breaks through the darkness awful and extreme; No comet, through the vast sidereal waste, Pursues its orbit with unbridled haste; No silvery moon, through the dissembling shroud, May shine or burst through orifice of cloud In mellow radiations, soft and sweet; Darkness most dense, oppressive and complete. No friendly voice might penetrate the gloom, Nor break the silence of that fetid tomb, With genial converse, which in some degree Makes men forget their depth of misery. Silence, most tragic, horrible, profound, Except the sharp and intermittent sound Of rodent feet, and noise of creeping things, The squeak of vampires and their whirr of wings; Or cries of swift pursuit, or of despair, Rang out upon the pestilential air, As ever and anon a dying squeak Told of the strong prevailing o'er the weak; For might obtains along the selfsame plan With ruthless vermin and enlightened man. Yet man in his dominion absolute, Removed above the province of the brute, From social claims and attributes released, Has little to distinguish from the beast. With all associative wants denied, And his gregarious longings unsupplied, By human comradeship, affection springs Well up in effluent love for baser things. For 'neath the polish and embellishments Of cultivation and intelligence, There lies a basic bond of sympathy, For man and beast are friends in misery. Yes, friends, the most ill-favored shape which squirms In reptile folds, repulsive snakes and worms, Soon lose their dread repugnance, one and all, To solitary man in prison thrall. Through the long hours of physical distress, In my extremity of loneliness, I felt companionship in this abode, For e'en the vicious rat and sluggish toad. Thrice sixty days of corporal decay And mental anguish, slowly wore away; Thrice sixty nights of filthy durance passed, Each day and night more hopeless than the last. My limbs, no longer brawny and alert, Were famine-wasted, loathsome and inert. With shaggy beard and matted unkempt hair, With face no longer rubicund and fair, Which haggard and emaciated shone, And through the sallow skin disclosed the bone. Thus languished nature in enforced decay, Till hope's last beacon light had burned away. Though never exculpated from offence, Time brought conditional deliverance; A writ of amnesty, the Czar's decree, Within its gracious scope included me. Released at last by ukase absolute, But famished, homeless, sick and destitute. What followed would be tedious to recite, The sequel, but the incidents of flight. Alone, an outcast from my native hearth, An aimless wanderer upon the earth, Blown as the desert shifts a grain of sand, Borne by each wanton gale, from land to land. A keen observer of the play of life, Withal a nether factor in its strife. Watching existence as a game of chess, Where love, hate, smile, tear, insult and caress Hold us by turns in various forms of check; Some sort of yoke is worn by every neck. Kings, queens and knights, exalted castles see, Undone by pawns and powers of base degree. Positions gained at a tremendous cost, By one false move may be forever lost; Each studied movement, each strategic course, Is shaped by contact with opposing force, And moves which seem fortuitous and blind Are often those most cunningly designed. In devious ways we may not understand, Our steps are ordered by an Unseen Hand. Proud queens, subservient pawns, with varied role, Are vain components of the wondrous whole; Life's pantomime, in figures complicate; Men are but puppets on the wires of fate. My native land, henceforth no longer mine, My footsteps, seeking an adopted shrine, Have found a home, within the mountain West, Where Truth may preach her gospel unsuppressed." * * * * * All eyes were now on Russian Pete, Who quietly resumed his seat. At the conclusion of his tale The wind had risen to a gale, And mourned as though in sympathy With human woe and misery. Or as the winds, for some offence To man, or his creations done, Now wailed a frenzied penitence In anguish-laden orison. The elements petitioning The pardon of their stormy king, E'en as the supplicating cries Might from the damned in torment rise, And cleave the palpitating air With hopeless accents of despair. As Uncle Jim stirred up the fire With observation taciturn, All watched the crackling hemlock burn Till some one called for Dad McGuire. Now, Dad McGuire was old, and bent of form, Tanned by exposure to the sun and storm; Of grizzled beard and seam-indented brow, The furrows traced by Time's remorseless plough; Hardy and gnarled as the mountain oak, Bent by the hand of Time but still unbroke; Bowed by the weight of years and labors done, A man whose course had neared the setting sun; His face a blending of the calm and sad, Paternal-looking, so they called him "Dad." This man, so near his journey's close, With great deliberation rose, Coughed once or twice and scratched his nose; Then, as became a veteran, Surveyed his hearers and began; Declared the reasons why their feet This rugged wilderness have trod, And left for aye their native sod, I, too, will recapitulate That chapter, from my book of fate. Where Rappahannock's silver stream Reflects the moon's resplendent beam, And sheds a mellow lustre o'er The trees and shrubs that fringe the shore; Where Nature's lavish hand bestows The crystal dews and generous showers; Where lily, hollyhock and rose, And many-tinted herbs and flowers Combining, form a floral scene On background of eternal green; Where through the solemn night is heard The warbling plaint of feathered throats, As whippoorwill and mockingbird Pour forth their wealth of liquid notes, While the accompanying breeze Sighs through the underbrush and trees, And rippling waters blend their tune, In salutation to the moon; Where singing insects, bugs and bees Mingle their droning harmonies, With croakings of loquacious frogs In the adjacent swamps and bogs; Where from the water, air and ground, Rises a symphony of sound; Mid nature's fond environment, My boyhood's happy hours were spent. But now, my narrative begins: I had a brother, we were twins, Sunburnt and freckled, light of heart, Resembling each other so That few could tell the two apart. We grew, as two twin pines might grow, Upon the isolated edge Of some lone precipice or ledge, That overlooks the vale below; Remote from every wooded strip, With but each other's fellowship, In solitary station placed, With branches locked and interlaced, As sworn to cherish and defend Each other, to the bitter end. "With swift and spoliating flow, Uprooting many a noble tree, To strew the desert's waste below, With scattered drift-wood and debris." The course of uneventful life Ran smoothly on, unmarred by strife, Till childish fancy disappeared, As manhood's sterner age was neared; Then in a city's bustling mart, The cords of fate drew us apart, Through paths of accident and chance, Environment and circumstance; Within their complicated maze, We reached that parting of the ways, Where sentiment is nipped by frost, Where ties of consanguinity Disrupt, and often disagree, Or, through indifference are lost. We happened that eventful spring, To hold a family gathering, To reunite each severed tie So soon to be dissolved for aye. As famines, with their blight respond, When some vile genius waves his wand, And leave a ghastly aftermath Of bleaching bones to mark their path; Or demon hands, in foul offence, Pour out the vials of pestilence, To reap, with desolating breath, A harvest of untimely death; The throes of internecine war Now rent the nation to its core, And smote, with decimating hand The best and bravest of the land, Estranging, never to amend, Father from son and friend from friend; Dissolving many sacred cords Of love in bitterest enmity. Lips once replete with friendly words Now challenged as an enemy; We, who had never quarrelled before, Parted in wrath, and met no more. His firm convictions led him where A banner floated in the air, In silken corrugations curled, The admiration of a world; Beneath its constellated stars, Its azure field and crimson bars, Although no message ever came To tell his fate, or spread his fame, I know that 'mid the shot and shell He served the cause he fought for, well. For aught I know, his manly form Went down before some leaden storm, And lay with mangled flesh and bone Among the numberless unknown, Who filled the trenches where they died, Uncoffined, unidentified. The voice of duty led me where The strains of Dixie filled the air, Where curling smoke in graceful rings Rose on the evening's silent wings, And hovering o'er the mist and damp, Betrayed the presence of the camp. I pass the story of the war,-- The cause we lost, but struggled for Through four long years, in southern fens,-- To wiser tongues and abler pens. Through four long years of tragedy, I fought, bled, marched and starved with Lee, Till Appomattox's final day, I, in a uniform of gray, Before the cannon's yawning mouth, Defended my beloved South. The struggle ending, in complete, Although most honorable defeat, Footsore and hungry, broken, sad, In ragged regimentals clad, Towards Rappahannock's silver flood, I plodded homeward through the mud, To find a desolated home, The final page in war's red tome. That day, as I remember well, The splashing rain in torrents fell; The pregnant clouds discharged their debt Of moist, apologetic tears, As if in passionate regret For rain withheld in famine years, And from exuberance of grief In drizzling penance found relief; Or, as if tears from unseen eyes Were wafted downward from the skies, The carnage of remorseless war: The sorrow of the elements For human woe and violence. The roads which thread the country lanes, Had turned to sheets of liquid mud, As if to cover up the stains Of civil war and human blood. That evening, as a pall of cloud Enveloped nature as a shroud, Bedraggled and dispirited, My footsteps to the old home led: Again I stood before the door I left in wrath, four years before: But what a change! The vandal torch Had long devoured the roof and porch: The gray disintegrating walls Still swayed and tottered in the air, Or lay in heaps within its halls, In melancholy ruin there: The towering chimney, black and tall, Stood, as if mourning o'er its fall: And through the dismal mist and rain, The windows, void of sash and pane, Seemed staring at the gathering night, In wild expression of affright. The fields my infancy had known, With briar and weed were overgrown; The sunlight, heralding the morn, No longer smiled on waving corn. I wandered, aimlessly around, Yet heard not one familiar sound, No stamp of hoof nor flap of wing, No low of cow, nor bleat of sheep, Nor any tame domestic thing; Silence, most horrible and deep. No pony whinnied in its stall, Nor neighed in answer to my call; No purr of cat, nor bark of dog, Naught but the croaking of the frog; No voice of relative or kin, No father paused and stroked his chin, Then rushed with recognizing grasp To hold his son within his clasp; No mother, with her silvered hair, Rocked in the same old rocking chair. First at the ruins, then the ground, I gazed in turn, mechanically, Till, startled by a mournful sound, A piteous and plaintive cry, I turned, and peering through the storm, Discerned the outlines of a form, Bewailing o'er the ruins there In accents of complete despair. I knew her voice, and felt her woe, She was my nurse, poor Aunty Chloe! Between her sobs disconsolate, This freed, but ever faithful slave, Told of my aged parents' fate, Then led me to the double grave. I, who through four long tragic years, Had never yielded once to tears, Clasping her hand, so kind and true, Wept with the rain, and she wept too. Ere daybreak, with increasing light, Evolved from disappearing night The morn, in radiant splendor dressed, I, too, had started for the West." * * * * * Ere the conclusion of the narrative, Through every crack and cranny of the door The snow had sifted in, as through a sieve, And piled in little cones upon the floor. Without, the raging tempest still assailed; Within, the fire to glowing coals had failed. All smoked, and with their eyes on Dad McGuire, Waited for some one else to build the fire. Such close attention had his tale received, It seemed as if 'twas partially believed; Few of the tales which we enjoy the most In verity, may that distinction boast. The dying embers shed their mellow glow Upon the aged face of Dad McGuire, As he swept out the little piles of snow And laid a hemlock log upon the fire. Then followed disconnected colloquies And witticisms in the form of jest; The joke is always where the miner is, The form of levity he loves the best, For cutting truths have thereby been conveyed, Where delicacy all other forms forbade. As some fierce gale that bows the gnarled oak, Sinks till it scarcely sways the underbrush, The laughter, incident to jest and joke, Subsided to a calm and tranquil hush. All husbanded their energy and strength And smoked in silence for a moment's length. Just then a crashing sound was heard, That caused each ruddy cheek to blanch, Though no one moved nor spoke a word, All listening to the avalanche With apprehensive ears intent, Knew what a mountain snowslide meant. Nor marvel that each visage paled, Nor that the hardy sinews quailed; These terrors of the solitude The mountain's timbered slopes denude, Sweeping the frozen spruce and fir As with a snowy scimitar; Nor can the stately pines prevent Its irresistible descent; A foe admitting no defence. A moment passed in dire suspense, And at its expiration brief, Each heaved a breath of deep relief; The snowslide, terrible and vast, Had precipice and chasm leapt, And down the rugged mountains swept, Missing the cabin as it passed. The cabin clock had indicated five When due composure was at length restored; As evidence that all were still alive, Queries were made about the "festive board," As sailors shipwrecked on some barren rock, After the first excitement of the shock, Mingle their words of gratitude and prayer With speculations on the bill of fare. No depth of danger man is called to face, No exultation nor extreme disgrace, No victory nor depression of defeat Can shake recurrent Hunger from her seat. The cabin oracle so often used, A pack of playing cards, was soon produced. A turn at whist the afternoon before, Told who should cut the wood and sweep the floor. As one of the disasters of defeat, Washing the dishes fell to Russian Pete. A game of freeze-out, played with equal zeal, Decided who should cook the evening meal; Conspiring cards electing Uncle Jim, The culinary task devolved on him. Accordingly, with acquiescent nod, Abiding by the fortunes of the game, This patriarch, so venerable and odd,-- Whose skill in cooking was of local fame, Knocked out the ashes from his meerschaum pipe And laid it tenderly upon the shelf, Took a preliminary wash and wipe, And squinting in the mirror at himself, Like most of those possessed of little hair, Brushed what he still had left with greatest care. Small use for comb or brush had Uncle Jim, His capillary wealth, a grayish rim Or hirsute chaplet, as it had been called By other miners less completely bald, Fringing his head an inch above the ears, Marked off his shining pate in hemispheres. His flowing beard, of venerable air, Enjoyed a strict monopoly in hair, As if the raven curls that once adorned His occiput, that habitation scorned And took, as an expression of chagrin, A change of venue to his ample chin. When Uncle Jim was duly washed and groomed, The running conversation was resumed, And as the veteran his task pursued, Mixing the biscuit dough with judgment good, All smoked and talked, excepting Dad McGuire, Who, helping Uncle Jim, stirred up the fire, Raking the embers in a little pile, Then warmed the old Dutch oven up a while, And after greasing with a bacon rind, The biscuit dough was to its depths consigned. Soon from within the oven, partly hid By embers piled upon the cumbrous lid, The baking powder biscuits nestling there With wholesome exhalations charged the air. A pot of beans suspended by a wire Swung like a pendulum above the fire, And answered every flame's combustive kiss With roundelay of bubble and of hiss, While in the esculent commotion swam The residue of what was once a ham. Though epicures, who yearn for fowl and fish, May scorn this plain and inexpensive dish, So free from the extravagance of waste, Yet succulent and pleasant to the taste, Of all the varied products of the soil, The bean is most esteemed by those who toil. Removed, in place less prominent and hot, One might have seen the old black coffee pot, And watched the puffs of aromatic steam Rise on the background of the firelight's gleam. A pleasant sibilation filled the room, As with an unctuous savor or perfume The bacon sizzled in the frying-pan, The bane and terror of dyspeptic man; But those who labor for their daily bread Of sedentary ills have little dread. The simple yet salubrious repast Was on the rustic table spread at last. No cut-glass flashed and sparkled in the light, Nor burnished silver service met the sight. No butter dish, nor sugar bowl was seen, The grains of sugar, white and saccharine, Imprisoned in a baking powder can, Rose in a wilderness of pot and pan. The butter firkin stood upon a shelf Where every one could reach and help himself. The nibbling rodent and destructive moth Found naught to lure them in the shape of cloth. No tablespread of costly linen lent Its white disguise or figured ornament To catch the bacon or the coffee stain. Nor was there cup or plate of porcelain, For empty cans, stripped of their labels, bare, And pie tins held the same positions there. All congregated 'round the simple spread And ate the beans and baking powder bread, With all the satisfaction and delight That crown the hungry miner's appetite; Not gluttony, that enemy to health, That often follows in the trail of wealth, But wholesome relish, which the laboring poor Enjoy, who eat their fill, but eat no more. "Arrayed in Nature's pristine dress This was, indeed, a wilderness." The final course was ushered in at last, When apple sauce around the board was passed; As Uncle Jim stretched forth his hand across The table to the dish of apple-sauce, And on his ample pie tin placed some more, A hurried knock resounded from the door, And Steve McCoy, a miner in the camp, With brow from snow and perspiration damp, Rushed in, from out the white and whirling waste, In the excitement incident to haste, And waiving further ceremony cried:-- "Our cabin has been taken by a slide!" Steve as a snowy Santa Claus appeared, Pulling the icicles from off his beard, Relating, in his intervals of breath, His tale of dire disaster and of death; He, and his partner "Smithy," were on shift Within the tunnel working in a drift, Chasing a stringer in their search for ore, Within the hill a thousand feet or more. The rock was hard and both of them were tired, The holes were blasted as the work required; Then to their consternation and surprise, Upon emerging from the tunnel's mouth, No hospitable cabin met their eyes Upon the hillside, sloping toward the south; The hut of logs where they had cooked and slept Had been from human eyes forever swept. Their partners, it were reason to presume, Were suffocating in a snowy tomb. "Smithy" had gone to Uncle Bobby Green, Whose cabin lay the nearest to the scene, To summon help, and get the boys to go To probe with poles and shovels in the snow, To find the living, or if life had sped, To make the avalanche yield up its dead. Of partners, Steve and Smithy had but two, Uncle and nephew, patriarch and youth, Both men of strict integrity and truth. Four other miners on another lease Dwelt with the boys in harmony and peace. Two strangers, who arrived the night before, Had been invited, till the storm was o'er, To share their hospitality. Their fate Had raised the list of dead, perhaps, to eight. Ere Steve had panted forth his final word, The boys had risen up with one accord; The rescue must be tried at any cost, The chance, however slight, must not be lost. Steve as a runner who has reached his goal, Leaned half exhausted on his snowshoe pole, The while his sturdy auditors began To don their caps and mittens, to a man, Then wrapping mufflers 'round their ears and throats, Put on their clumsy, canvas overcoats. Thanks to the providence of Dad McGuire, Who always kept a stock of baling wire And odds and ends of everything around, Their feet were quickly and securely bound With canvas ore sacks or with gunny-sacks, A thing the miner's wardrobe seldom lacks. Forth to the rescue went the miners bold, Regardless of the tempest wild and brisk, Regardless of the driving snow and cold, Regardless of the hazard and the risk; Facing with stalwart resolution brave The snowy fate of those they strove to save. One form of courage nerves the soldier's arm, Excitement overcomes the wild alarm Which at the onset e'en the bravest feel, Though self-possession may that fear conceal. The unromantic dangers of the storm Require another and a sterner form, For no emotion nerves the craven breast To tempt the snowslide on the mountain's crest; That noblest element unnoticed thrives Beneath the surface in unnumbered lives; At danger's call the sympathetic bond Leaps to the surface, as the waves respond When one has tossed a pebble in a pond; For man has ever since the world began Laid down his life to save his fellow-man; Heroes are they, no praise commensurate, Who do their duty in the face of fate. Through gloomy forests, intricate and dark, Which skirt the confines of the mountain park, With arduous climb and hazardous ascent Up through the gulch precipitous and wild To where the avalanche its force had spent, In silent haste the rescue party filed. On such occasions little may be said, The sternest use subdued and whispered breath, For silence seems contagious from the dead, A vague, unconscious reverence for death. Facing the inconvenience of the blast, Which whirled the drifting snowflakes as it passed, The party shovelled; and with one accord Abstained from converse, no one spoke a word Till hours of strenuous search disclosed to sight Six corpses from their sepulchre of white. The other two, who by some wondrous means, Escaped with but some trifling cuts and sprains, Were in the meantime by their fellows found, Dazed and exhausted in the gulch below, For storm-bewildered men will grope around Describing circles in the blinding snow, Until they sink, their vital forces spent, And crystal snowflakes weave their cerement. Six pairs of skies, each improvised a sled, On which were placed the stark and staring dead; As flickering lanterns flashed a ghostly glow Upon them in their winding-sheets of snow, The sad procession now retraced its course Back through the dismal forest, while the blast Wailed forth a requiem in accents hoarse, Which shuddering pines re-echoed as it passed. With sorely overtaxed and waning strength, As some spent swimmer struggling to the shore, The weary party found its way at length, Back through the forest to the cabin's door. As Uncle Jim, whose life was ever spent In ministering to others, had been sent Ahead, the dying coals had been renewed With fresh supplies of pine and aspen wood, And blazed a cheery invitation forth To those who sought the comfort of the hearth. Norwegian snowshoes. The two survivors were the strangers who Had just arrived the afternoon before; Their names nor antecedents no one knew, But western miners do not close the door On weary travellers, whosoe'er they be, No matter what their race or pedigree; The one credential needed in the west Is--human being, storm-bound and distressed. The rescued miners, much benumbed and chilled, To show some signs of conscious life began; So Dad McGuire, in therapeutics skilled To cure the maladies of beast or man, Pursuant of his self-appointed task, From out some secret depths produced a flask, Which to the rescued miners he applied As guaranteed to warm them up inside. By way of chance digression, should you ask The nature of the liquid in the flask, Which, evidently, the boys had used before, We must admit, the empty bottle bore, Like most of bottles used in mining camps, The revenue collector's excise stamps. The senior of the rescued men appeared In age to crowd the three-score years and ten; Of stalwart form, with whitened hair and beard, The peer of multitudes of younger men, In matters appertaining to physique; He first recovered and essayed to speak. As Dad McGuire and kind old Uncle Jim Were ministering as best they could to him, In kindly interest they inquired his name, "John T. McGuire," the labored answer came. As Dad McGuire leaned over him to hear, His gaze descried a mole behind his ear, Then with an exclamation of surprise, As one who scarcely can believe his eyes, He turned the stranger over on his back, Found two more moles,--and cried--"My brother Jack!" * * * * * Erratic as the vacillating wind, Are the mysterious wanderings of the mind. When reason lays her golden veil aside, What vagaries and aberrations glide Through the disordered precincts of the brain! What phantoms rise and disappear again! What curious blendings of reality And fact, with wildest flights of phantasy! The flickerings of reason's feeble light And relaxation into mental night, Seem as a beacon on some rock-bound coast, Which flutters, wanes and disappears almost, Then with a flash illuminates the shore, Gleams for a moment and is seen no more; Or on some starless midnight, when the storm Dissolves in chaos each familiar form, And robes the landscape in cimmerian pall, The lightnings play,--then darkness covers all. Unlocked by fever and delirium, And with the nervous tension overwrought, Oft gives expression to the secret thought. 'Twas thus the junior of the rescued men, A modern Hercules, both fair and young, With accent truly cosmopolitan, Raved both in English and some unknown tongue. His accents wild and unintelligible, Devoid of meaning, on his hearers fell, With the exception of the practised ear Of Russian Pete, who stood beside him there, And seemed from his expression to detect Some most familiar tongue or dialect. When reason, with a penetrating gleam, Burst through the canopy of mental gloom, As one awakening from a hideous dream, He started up and stared about the room, Until he chanced to catch the kindly eyes Of Russian Pete, which kindled with surprise. A look of mutual recognition passed Between the men, so strangely joined at last. All that the congregated miners heard Was one, presumably a Russian word, And Russian Pete, with joy-illumined face, Held his lost brother in his kind embrace. * * * * * Dazed by exhaustion, comatose and deep, The two survivors, while the tempest roared, Were through the gentle ministry of sleep To normal strength unconsciously restored. "We grew as two twin pines might grow, Upon the isolated edge, Of some lone precipice or ledge." prevailed. All watched the pitch ooze from the knots and burn, Or All eyes now sought the brother of McGuire, Who sat apart, some distance from the fire Smoking in silence, while the flickering light Mingled its crimson with his locks of white; He, with his flowing, patriarchal beard, A sage, from some forgotten age, appeared, Or wrinkled seer from some enchanted clime, Whose eye could pierce the veil of future time. There in the ever thickening haze of smoke, He, being three times importuned,--awoke. As from his corncob pipe and nostrils broke The spiral wreaths of blue tobacco smoke, Which formed a smoky halo, as they spread A foot above his venerable head, Resembling halos which the artist paints O'er angel heads, or mediaeval saints, This man of years, so calm and circumspect, Stroked his long beard, yawned twice and stood erect. Like to a wizard, or magician old, With some mysterious secret to unfold, This man, whose bearing would command respect, Stepped forth and eyed his listeners direct; Then waiving preludes or apologies, Addressed his auditors in terms like these: "These lips, which now their secret shall reveal, For more than forty years have worn a seal. For years as hunter, pioneer and scout, I roamed the western solitudes about, Not caring whether fortune smiled or not, If memory's painful twinges were forgot. I sought, as many other men have done, Within the wilderness,--oblivion. Work is the only sure iconoclast For the unpleasant memories of the past; So as a placer miner, prospector, And half a dozen avocations more, Within the city, and the solitude, The star-eyed Goddess of Success I wooed. Twice was I numbered with the men of wealth, Twice lost I all, including strength and health. For wealth, when fortune's fickle wheel revolves Adversely, into empty air dissolves. Till fate so strangely led my footsteps here, Mine was, indeed, a versatile career. Yet none my antecedents ever guessed, Nor learned from me the cause that led me west. This hair and beard which envy not to-night The drifting snowbanks their unbroken white, Methinks, as memory scans the backward track, Vied with the raven's glossy coat of black, When I, with some adventurous emigrants, First crossed the plain's monotonous expanse, To leave my former history behind. But who can regulate his peace of mind, Or drop the morbid burdens of the breast By simply going east or coming west? 'Way down upon the Rappahannock's shore, Enshrined in memory, though seen no more, There lies an old plantation. There I drew My infant breath, and into manhood grew. Its fields are overgrown with willows now, For more than forty years unturned by plough, While war's red desolation razed to earth The old stone manor-house that claimed my birth. Ah, yes! 'Tis forty years ago, or more, Since, standing near the old paternal door, One pleasant morning in the early spring, With some few friends and kinfolks visiting, Two mounted neighbors stopped in passing by, And reining up their horses hurriedly Told us the news, which like a cannon ball Sped through the land, announcing Sumter's fall. The animus with which their comments fell, I heard months later in the rebel yell. In civil war or fratricide is found No place for such as seek a middle ground. Though lines of demarcation intervene, No peaceful neutral zone may lie between. 'Tis not an easy thing to breast the tide Of public sentiment, and to decide In opposition, though the cause be right, When crossing public sentiment means fight. 'Tis easier to let the moving throng Without resistance carry you along. When he who hesitates, or turns around, May in the grist of public wrath be ground. But men there are you cannot drive in flocks; They dash like breakers, or resist like rocks. Within my breast I fought my sternest fight, I could not view the southern cause as right, And yet I loved the people of the south; Debating thus I opened not my mouth. Both in my waking hours and in my dreams, I heard the arguments of two extremes. My conscience said: 'A uniform of blue Awaits your coming, wear it and be true.' My interests argued: 'Though the cause be wrong, Your people have espoused it right along. Your worthy family has for many years Seen sorrow only in the white man's tears. Desertion means to wear the traitor's brands, And face your friends with muskets in their hands, To slay them with the bayonet and ball, Or by, perhaps, your brother's hand to fall.' I heard the clarion accents of the fife Fan into flames the dormant coals of strife. With blast prophetic and reverberant swell, I heard the bugle's echoing voice foretell The coming conflict, while the brazen notes Were answered by the cheers from many throats. I heard the measured rattle of the drum, Proclaiming that the day of wrath had come. I heard harangues, incendiary and loud, Meet with the approbation of the crowd. I saw the faltering and irresolute, Greeted with jeer and deprecating hoot. I saw the threatening clouds of war increase, Yet prayed for peace, where there could be no peace. The winds of slavery their seed had sown; That seed to rank maturity had grown; The cup was full, and now from branch and root, The whirlwind came to strip its lawful fruit. I saw my friends and neighbors march away With martial tread, in uniforms of gray. I saw them raise their caps in passing by And fair hands wave their kerchiefs in reply. Then I, who had in military schools Received some insight into army rules, And, being of a martial turn of mind, Was offered a commission, and,--declined. My declination was a shock to all, 'Coward!' said they, 'to shun your country's call,-- Then stay at home, from wounds and scars exempt, But pay the price,--your former friends' contempt.' That action was, for me, the Rubicon, Which crossed, I had no choice but follow on. But what a change! The penalty was high, My childhood's friends now passed me coldly by. I, who had been a social favorite, Received no salutation when we met. Fair ones, who used to smile, now looked askance, Or eyed me with a cold indifference. My action seemed base cowardice in their eyes, They knowing not my secret sympathies. Though of a family rich and widely known, I stood in the community, alone, Like a pariah none would recognize, Inaction was enough to ostracize. I seemed to see, like Hagar's fated son, Against me raised the hand of every one. The time had come when I must make my choice, Defend one side with musket and with voice; Then I, to conscience and convictions true, Seemed an apostate,--for I chose the blue. There are inscriptions on the scrolls of fate Which seem too bitter even to relate. I waive the details,--better to conceal The secret skeletons, than to reveal. I shall not tell you how my brother stormed, When he of my intentions was informed. I pass the story, how my ringing ears Were filled with threats, entreaties and with sneers. And how with tear-stained face the maiden came, Who was to be my bride and bear my name; How she appealed to sentiment and pride, Plead, supplicated,--then forsook my side; And how one evening, in an angry burst, My sire pronounced his favorite son accurst; And how a mother, clinging to her child, Saw son and father still unreconciled; And how that father, pointing to the door, Forbade that son to cross the threshold more; 'Go, go!' said he, 'but never more return! Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn! But never while the golden sun doth shine, Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' I state not what in anger I replied, For anger in my breast has long since died. Renounced, despised and disinherited, I trod the path of duty where it led, And ten days later, in the rain and damp, Stood as a sentry near a Union camp. Fain from my recollections would I blot These images, which time erases not, And leave to history's undying page, The recitation of those acts of rage. Incarnadined with human blood appears The record of the four succeeding years. Black with the ruins of the vandal flame, A carnival of misery and shame. I must abridge, and if my hearers please, Confine myself to generalities. From first Manassas to the Wilderness, A period of some four years,--more or less, But anyway, till long in sixty-four, A musket or a shoulder-strap I bore. Though years have passed, I have remembrance yet Of musketry and glistening bayonet. As retrospective moods attune the ear To memory's voice, again I seem to hear The cannon's deep and minatory roar, Like breakers dashing on a rock-bound shore. The bursting bomb and fulminating shell, Again their stories of destruction tell. Again to-night, with memory's eye I view The sanguinary scenes of sixty-two, The march of infantry, the reckless dash Of cavalry, with onslaught fierce and rash; I see their sabres, glittering and bare, Flash from their scabbards in the smoky air; I hear the clatter of the horses' hoofs, And see the smoke expand in greyish puffs; As rifles flash and speed the deadly ball, I see the riders from their horses fall; Yet forward moves the furious attack, The opposing column wavers and falls back; I see the impact, combat hand to hand, Horses and riders writhing on the sand; I see the steeds with perspiration wet, Sink on the well-directed bayonet; I see them, wounded by the fatal lunge, Become unmanageable and madly plunge; Foaming and snorting with the sudden pain, They trample on the wounded and the slain; I see their riders in the stirrups stand And grasp their pistols with the bridle hand; I see the pistols flash and sabres thrust, A scene of wild confusion, smoke and dust; I hear the bugle sounding a retreat, They now retire, their victory complete; But mark the price paid for their brief success; Horses with blood-stained saddles,--riderless. I see an army bivouac on the field, To nature's obdurate demands they yield, And on the ground, from sheer exhaustion spent, They lie without protecting roof or tent. So silently their prostrate forms are spread, One may not tell the sleeping from the dead. I see, before the campfire's fitful gleam, The sentry pace, as in a waking dream, Yet manfully subduing the fatigue Of battle, and the march of many a league, For no excitement or emotion serves To buoy his spirits or sustain his nerves. Weak from the loss of their accustomed rest, With heavy eyes and aching bones distressed, The while their weary comrades soundly sleep, The sentinels their lonely vigils keep, As from the glittering expanse of skies, The stars look down with cold, impassive eyes. I see brigades, magnificent and large, With bristling bayonets prepare to charge; I see their banners in the distance gleam, Reflecting back the sun's resplendent beam; Within the shelter of the rifle pits, Another army with composure sits, While ever and anon a rifle's crack Seems to invite the spirited attack. From a commanding, wooded eminence, By nature calculated for defence, Upon the advancing regiments I see The murderous belching of artillery; I see their proud and militant array, Before the deadly grapeshot melt away; Before the rifle's supplementing breath, Whole columns sink in ghastly heaps of death; I see them close their gaps and press ahead, But only to augment the list of dead; I see them, stretched upon the burning sands, Clutching the air with lacerated hands; From underneath the mutilated heap, The wounded, with great difficulty, creep; Dragging a helpless arm, or shattered limb, With reeling brain and sight confused and dim, They grope, they crawl, or limp with painful tread; Their uniforms no longer blue, but red; And pinioned underneath the ghastly pile, I hear them struggle for release the while; But fainter, ever fainter grow their cries, Fainter, and fainter still, their groans arise; Weaker and weaker are their throes, until With one last quivering throb, they too, are still. I see the vultures, as they scent afar Their portion in the reeking spoils of war; Far in the distance scattering specks appear, Which multiply in size as they draw near, Until they balance with their pinions spread, Or circle 'round the dying and the dead. This is the realistic side of war, Which most men overlook and all abhor, Which differs from the sentiments conveyed By spotless uniforms on dress parade. War is a crucible that tries men's souls, A drama, stern in all its various roles; Though saturated with all forms of crime, 'Tis celebrated in heroic rhyme; Though opposite to every humane thought, With murder, pillage and destruction fraught, In literature, in history and art, It forms the theme, or plays a leading part; Though at the best, deplorable and bad, 'Tis yet with sentiment and romance clad; Thus are the gory deeds of sword and fire, Commemorated by the bardic lyre. Its eras, though with tragedy replete, Form stepping-stones whereon ambitious feet May mount to prominence, perhaps to fame, And write in crimson an illustrious name. 'Tis said that heroes are the fruits of war, No matter what the struggle may be for, As men will fight to make, or unmake laws, Will fight for, or against the worthiest cause. They must have heroes, though to make them drains The life-blood from the nation's noblest veins. And though no vocal adulations rise, Their heroes many men apotheosize. Man is so strangely constituted, he Must hero-worshipper, or hero be,-- So give him heroes, let the armies bleed, And he will worship them with word and deed; Though down within their breasts most men prefer To be the hero, than the worshipper. To gain the plaudits of the multitude, The warrior, with ambitious zeal imbued, Climbs upward, and accomplishing his ends To take his share of worship condescends, Forgetting that his honors are bedewed With human tears and based on human blood. Some streaks, in military pomp, we see, That savor much of pride and vanity, As thirst for notoriety and fame Has often fanned the patriotic flame. Though one might think that men would be content To pluck one star from glory's firmament, Yet, when they mount the ladder a few rounds, Their envy and ambition know no bounds. To wear the epaulette and strut with pride, Makes men forget that war is homicide. Some call it fate, some call it destiny, Some call it accident; what'er it be, It seems that some have been created for The honors, some, the sacrifice of war. When I enlisted as a raw recruit, Promotion was no object of pursuit, But liking honor more than sacrifice, On shoulder-straps I soon cast envious eyes. For one rash act,--'twas counted bravery, Good fortune made a corporal of me. Soon, as if favored by some lucky charm, I wore a sergeant's stripes upon my arm. Twice was I wounded, twice resumed the field Before my wounds had been completely healed. I carry yet, and shall until I die, A musket ball, encysted in my thigh. Twice was I captured, twice as prisoner Drank I the dregs from out the cup of war. As if some guardian star my course arranged, Once I escaped, and once was I exchanged. Then, as lieutenant, rose I from the ranks, Received a medal and a vote of thanks. The ladder of promotion, round by round, I soon ascended and henceforth was found Among the few selected favorites Whom fortune decks with stars and epaulettes. Though liking not the role of matador, Within the ruthless theatre of war, From private soldier every part I played, Until my sword directed a brigade. I wore, the night before I started west, Four medal decorations on my breast. The war progressed, for time rolls on the same In peace or war, and sixty-three became A chapter in the annals of the past. When sixty-four was ushered in at last, To write in characters of blood and fire Its page of human immolation, dire, The waiting army lay encamped, before The Rapidan's inhospitable shore. The first few weeks, devoid of incident, Were in the army's winter quarters spent, Until the winter, on his snowy wing, Retired before the genial breath of spring. In speculation on the moves to come, But showered prognostications of defeat, Succeeded by the usual retreat, When rumors of offensive action planned As spring approached, were spread through each command. Until the troops were mobilized and massed, Until the final orders had been passed, The veterans, who had remembrance still, But soon the dreadful Wilderness campaign, With its long lists of wounded and of slain, Vied with the carnage of the year before, If it be possible to measure gore. The tactics had been changed, for no retreat Was ordered, as the sequel of defeat; Instead of faltering or turning back, There came another furious attack, Another movement with invasive tread, And, Spottsylvania claimed its heaps of dead. Defeated, but uncrushed and undismayed, The weakened corps, including my brigade, With sadly thinned and decimated ranks, Was hurled once more against the rebel flanks. There in a hurricane of shot and shell, One-half of its surviving numbers fell; 'Twas thus Cold Harbor's quarry made complete The trio of victorious defeat. Three Southern victories, yet like a knell Upon the Southern ear these triumphs fell; For those who perished in that dismal waste, Had fallen and could never be replaced. Though stubbornly contested inch by inch, The lines were tightened like a horse's cinch. We watched the Southern forces day by day, From natural abrasion, wear away. One evening as the disappearing light, Unveiled the beauties of a cloudless night, With much diminished numbers, my brigade Its camp beside the Rappahannock made, Some five miles distant from the spot of earth Associated with my humble birth. Next morning, ere the twinkling stars had set, While officers and men were sleeping yet, A courier rode up to my command, And placed a cipher message in my hand; Then spurring well his horse of dapple grey, With parting salutation rode away. This was the import of that message stern: 'Lay waste the district. All the fences burn. Leave not a house or stable unconsumed.' My father's house among the rest was--doomed. I read that message and my anger blazed, My home to be, by my own orders, razed! A vision rose before my swimming brain, I saw the old parental roof again, I saw my father, as in days of yore, Smoking his pipe beside the open door; I saw his gaze, with penetrating look, Fixed on the pages of some wholesome book; I saw my mother sit beside him, there, Recumbent in her old reclining chair. The vision changed,--I saw her parting tears, My father's parting curse rang in my ears; 'Go! Go!' said he, 'but nevermore return, Go, slay your neighbors, pillage, sack and burn, But never while the golden sun doth shine Be welcomed home as son and heir of mine.' I felt but little longing to return, And less desire to pillage, sack and burn. And yet,--those cruel orders I must give, No power had I to voice the negative. In commonplace affairs of life, 'tis true, Men may elect to do, or not to do. In military operations, they Have no alternative, but to obey. Ah! Fain, from that impending holocaust Would I have snatched them! Rather had I lost The tinselled honors and the epaulettes, And doffed my uniform without regrets, Than harm by word or deed that aged sire; Yet I must start, who fain would quench the fire. I read and read that cipher message there, How many times, I have not to declare, But over and again I scanned the lines, And pondered well its symbols and its signs; Ironclad were they, from every standpoint viewed, Admitting not of choice or latitude; So, to the officers of my command, I gave their orders, with a trembling hand, And swift as horseflesh ever travelled, went To seek the corps commander in his tent, To crave this boon, or favor, at his hand,-- My father's house be still allowed to stand. 'Twas long before I gained an audience; I felt, but cannot picture the suspense Of that long hour's involuntary wait; Too late, my heart would beat, too late, too late! I took a seat and pulled my watch out once; 'Too late, too late,' the timepiece ticked response! I paced the ground with quick, impatient tread; 'Too late, too late, too late,' my footsteps said! 'Too late, too late, too late!' With fluttering beat My heart responded to my echoing feet. The General, who a kindly heart possessed, No sooner heard, than granted my request; 'Twas but a moment's work to mount my steed, And spur him to his maximum of speed; The faithful creature seemed to understand And needed little urging from my hand, As down the turnpike, toward my childhood's home, He fairly flew, his bridle white with foam; His hoofbeats, as we clattered o'er the ground, Returned a dull, premonitory sound, Which seemed to echo and accentuate The burden of my heart, 'Too late! Too late!' The fences, near the turnpike, as we passed, Were by my orders disappearing fast; The rails were piled in heaps and soon became A prey to war's red ally,--vandal flame. Houses, familiar to my childish sight, Glowed strangely with an unaccustomed light, While from adjacent barns and hay-ricks broke Incipient tongues of flame and clouds of smoke. The orders, ruthless and inflexible, Were by the soldiers executed well. Still down the turnpike dashed my sweating horse, I plied the cruel spurs with double force, When in the distance there appeared to view The old stone manor-house my childhood knew. My spirit sank,--though I was not surprised, My worst misgivings had been realized, For from the roof and upper windows came Dense clouds of smoke and lurid sheets of flame. It had its portion in the common fate, 'Too late!' the mocking hoof-beats rang, 'Too late!' We passed a company, on their return From executing those instructions stern; It was the company of my brigade Wherein I first was a lieutenant made; Its officers and men I knew by name; They cheered me when their captain I became; They cheered me when I left a major's tent, To be the colonel of their regiment. They did my bidding. How could I condemn! They honored me and I respected them; And yet, these favorites of my command Had not one hour before applied the brand Which was transforming with its wand of fire My father's house into--his funeral pyre. That they had met resistance, I could see, For wounded men, in number two or three, Were by their comrades carted in advance, While one more limped behind the ambulance. Upon a stretcher carried in their van, The soldiers bore the body of a man; He was their captain, and my bosom friend; He plied that torch,--and met a bloody end. I plunged the spurs, but not without remorse, Into his steaming flanks and urged my horse, Which I disliked to tax beyond his strength; Such speed had he maintained, that now, at length, He was compelled to pant and hesitate; With labored effort we dashed through the gate, Or where the gate had been an hour before, For gate and fence alike, were seen no more, Save in the scattered bonfires, while at most All that remained was here and there a post. There was a fascination in that sight Which seemed to conquer and unnerve me, quite; A sense of horror, not akin to fear, Possessed my being as we galloped near; All sorts of evil pictures filled my mind, As one who seeks, yet dreads what he may find; As we drew nearer, I remember well, With hissing crash the roof collapsed and fell; Dismounting, I the premises surveyed, And viewed the havoc and destruction made; Crushed by the disappointment, the suspense, And failure of my planned deliverance, I moved about with apprehensive tread, To seek my relatives, alive or dead; And, near a haystack's smouldering ruins found My father's body, weltering on the ground; A musket tightly clenched within his hand, Slain by the troopers of my own command; His whitened locks were streaked with crimson stains, The same red blood then coursing through my veins. Close by his side, a form with silvered hair, Caressed his brow, with dazed, abstracted air; 'Twas she who nursed my being into life, The highest type of mother and of wife; Our glances met, yet e'er I framed to speak, She started up, then with a piercing shriek Fell back, expiring on the speechless clay Of him whose life so lately ebbed away. As campfires gleamed, and heaven's orb, serene With borrowed radiance, o'erflowed the scene, Within a grave, beneath the crimson sands, I laid them both to rest with my own hands. In lieu of prayer, or solemn dirge, was heard The twittering cadence of the mockingbird, Uniting with the sentry's muffled tread, Which seemed a measured requiem for the dead, As, side by side, in death's eternal sleep, I laid them tenderly, nor paused to weep, For feelings which in tears find no relief Had dried the very fountainheads of grief. I shaped a double mound above their clay, Planted a wooden cross,--and went my way. That night I tore the medals from my breast, Resigned my sword and started for the West." Such was the tragic story told, And, tired from standing on his feet, This patriarch so gray and old Relit his pipe and took a seat. As one, inert and overtaxed From strenuous toil, he soon relaxed Into that dull composure, which Fatigue accords to poor and rich. The observation could detect No levity nor disrespect, Nor through his story was there heard Remark or interruptive word, His voice and bearing as he spoke, Admitting not of jest or joke. The common feeling seemed to be Respect and deepest sympathy. As childish incidents recurred In memory to Dad McGuire, As one who neither saw nor heard He sat, intent upon the fire; Yet watched the ever-changing blaze With that intensity of gaze Which shows the things the eyes have caught Are not the subjects of the thought, But far beyond their metes and bounds The vision rests on other grounds. This story of a life rehearsed, Left other eyes bedimmed and blurred; Each with his silent thoughts conversed And none presumed to speak a word, Lest sympathy the tears provoke. Old Uncle Jim forgot to smoke And though he had replenished it, Still left his meerschaum pipe unlit, Till as the watchdog suddenly Wakes up with apprehensive sniff, He started from his reverie And took an unsuccessful whiff; But embers which the fire supplied Soon changed the fragrant charge inside With alternating draw and whiff, Into a meerschaum Teneriffe. All smoked, excepting Dad McGuire, Who stirred the embers of the fire, And placed thereon what seemed to be, The remnants of a hemlock tree; 'Twas one of those ungainly stumps, Composed of twisted knots and bumps, Which every boy or even man, In chopping wood, skips if he can; 'Twas such a chunk as may be seen After the woodpile's chopped up clean; The log they split the blocks upon And leave when all the rest is gone. This chunk, which none of them could split, Though many had attempted it, By divers and ingenious ways, Was soon enveloped in a blaze, Which shed its glare into the night, As beacons radiate their light. Reclining by his brother's side, Abstracted and preoccupied, The Russian, rubicund and hale, Was importuned to tell his tale, And slightly coughing from the smoke, Forthwith in faultless diction spoke: "My brother's story you have heard, The same should mine be, word for word, Up to that dismal dungeon grate, Which he presumed had sealed my fate. I doubt not he related well The horrors of that loathsome cell, So that description, now by me, Would fruitless repetition be. Sufficient be it to declare That brief was my detention there. Though discontent the action was Which constituted my offence, I felt the weight of Russian laws When chained to other malcontents. Before the chains had time to rust I plodded through the mud and dust As many exiles erst had trod, Their footprints often stained with blood. With clanking chains and painful stride, With Cossack guards on either side, We marched in silence, in the reach Of sabres that discouraged speech. A sad procession, for full well Our destinations could we tell. Down country lane and village street We limped with bruised and blistered feet, In single file, as some infirm Though monstrous centipede or worm, Beset by some tormenting foe, Might move with locomotion slow, And tortured by its enemy, Propel its foul dimensions by. Past where the Urals, bleak and high, Invade the cerulean sky With summits desolate and gray, With weary tread we wound our way. Where intertwining branches made A vernal canopy of shade, The song-birds, from their arches high Mocked at our chains, as we passed by; The only forms of earth or air, Deprived of rightful freedom there. At night in forest depths profound, We lay upon the cheerless ground, Where on our route we chanced to be, Nor couch nor coverlet had we Between us and the turf or stones, To soothe our tired and aching bones. Our limbs emaciated grew, Ragged were we and dirty, too, As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains, We dragged our grievous weight of chains. As passed the autumn months away Six leagues we measured every day, Six leagues our loads were daily borne, On shoulders galled and callous-worn. Each morning was our march begun, Before the advent of the sun, While every evening in the west He sank, before we paused for rest. Time and again upon the road, The weaker dropped beneath their load, And fainting from fatigue and pain, They sank, but rose not up again. Where the Pacific's broad expanse Of sleeping waters, calm and fair, Divide the mighty continents With their pelagic barrier; Upon the Asiatic shore, Some twelve leagues from the sea or more, In course of time, our weary line Was halted at a penal mine. 'Twas there within a log stockade Constructed in a manner crude, That we our habitation made Through many months of servitude. A mine's a mine the world around, A cheerless place wherever found, Dismal and dark beyond compare And charged with foul, unwholesome air, Which fills the lungs at every breath With germs of an untimely death. In caverns subterranean, With limbs not bound by gyve or chain, Of those who toil, few are the men Who reach the threescore years and ten. Such was the smoke-polluted mine Wherein we slaved from morn till night, Or when the sun had ceased to shine We toiled till his returning light, Then dragged each one his ball and chain Back to his bed of straw again. Day after day could there be seen The same monotonous routine; Such was the drudging life we led Till hope from every bosom fled, And each became as time rolled on A spiritless automaton. The details of a captive's lot I fear would interest you not, So your forbearance I beseech, While, in impromptu forms of speech, I strive in simple terms to shape The narrative of my escape. From out the realms of tropic heat, Invading with contagious feet, Came there a plague, one summer-tide. Up from the south with fatal stride It stalked, and poured its vials forth Upon the sparsely settled North; A wave of pestilence and fear Swept o'er the northland far and near; The frenzied peasants, in their fright, Sought safety in promiscuous flight; In consternation and alarm, To seek immunity from harm, They left the sick in their distress, And fled into the wilderness; As if, within the solitude, The Nemesis, which had pursued, Might satiate its deadly wrath, And deviate or change its path, And its malignant steps retrace Back to the southern starting-place. The able-bodied left behind The paralyzed, the halt and blind; The well in abject terror fled, Forsook the dying, while the dead, Unburied in the summer breeze, Became a nidus of disease, Wherefrom fresh seeds of pestilence Were scattered by the elements. Of those who felt its loathsome breath, But few escaped a speedy death; So rapid were the ravages Of that distemper or disease, That many, stricken in the night, Expired before the dawn of light; For some, who in the morning time Stood well and strong in manhood's prime, The noontide brought the fatal scourge, And evening zephyrs played the dirge; Those who survived the plague direct Oft died from hunger and neglect; The convalescents woke and found No ministering forms around, No watcher sitting by the bed, Alone were they, save for the dead; They called, but Echo's voice alone Answered the supplicating moan; They prayed, but no one heard their prayer, Then perished from the want of care. The suffering of the stricken then, Defies descriptive word or pen; I see with memory's vision yet The beads of suppurating sweat Stand on the burning brows of those Smitten with agonizing throes; As racking tortures permeate Each swollen and distorted shape, With thirst which none may mitigate, They call for drink with mouths agape; Yet naught may succor such distress, Save coma and unconsciousness; When these the intellect benumb, The sense and feeling overcome, Within its tuneful cavern hung No longer rests the fluent tongue, But swollen by the pain and drouth, Protrudes from out the parching mouth; The burning and discolored lip Imagined moisture tries to sip; Again they vainly strive to speak Their fevered incoherencies, But vocal organs parched and weak Respond but labored gasp and wheeze. I scent the putrefying air, And see the horror and despair Depicted on the lineaments Of every stricken countenance; I see them writhe, then suddenly, With ghastly leer convulse and die. As stagnant waters generate A fungous and unsightly freight Of morbid scum and slimy moss, Of origin spontaneous; So latent germs, unnoticed, lurk In readiness for deadly work; When these the right conditions find, And spread infection to the wind, Chronologers, both far and near, Record an epidemic year. Within the bounds of our stockade, The plague its foul appearance made, And soon inoculated there, Its virus to the very air, Till e'en the genial summer breeze Seemed a dispenser of disease; Then, as impartial lightnings strike The nobleman and serf alike, Within this filthy prison yard, It smote both prisoner and guard; The difference of race, of lot, Of rank was speedily forgot, As discipline succumbed to dread And officers and soldiers fled, Save such as, fallen by the way, Helpless and unattended lay, Till death brought silence and relief, From agony intense, though brief. Within the walls of the stockade Not one unstricken person stayed, Except some convicts who remained For one good reason:--we were chained. Our dingy quarters, floor and bed, Were filled with dying and with dead; The only shelter we could claim, A fetid lazar-house became. I need not tell you how the air Was filled with accents of despair, How clamor and entreaty smote The air, from blistered tongue and throat, As burning rash and ghastly rheum Supplanted nature's ruddy bloom; How moan and outcry, curse and prayer Were mingled with each other there; Some raved in dialects unknown, Or terms provincial, while the groan, The common tongue of suffering men, Was echoed ever and again. Some, with reluctant clutch and gasp, Saw life receding from their grasp; And some, with stoic countenance, Maintained a stern indifference, For what are death's abstruse alarms, When life is shorn of all its charms; As zealots, when they come to die, Lift their enraptured gaze on high, And clasp to the expiring breast Some crucifix or icon blest, And mutter with stertorious breath Some sacred word or shibboleth, Then sink expectant and resigned, As if in death a boon to find, Some in excruciating pain, Welcomed its foul destroying breath And sought from cruel gyve and chain Emancipation, though in death. 'Tis not my purpose to declare The horrors which befell us there, As passed the fatal hours away, Of that most memorable day. Each hour increased our dire distress, Yet found our numbers less and less, Till when the shadows overspread, The major number were the dead. But three survived that awful night, To gaze upon the morning light; And when the noonday breezes blew, That three had been reduced to two; And ere the setting of the sun I was the sole remaining one. Succeeded pandemonium. There when my last companion died, Chained to a corpse on either side, Strange as may seem the miracle, I never felt more strong and well, Nor held my life in less esteem; In that position most extreme, By silent death surrounded, I Enjoyed a weird immunity. 'Twould serve no purpose to recite My feelings, as approaching night, With his impenetrable pall, Descended and enveloped all. I sat alone in fear and dread, Chained to the floor,--and to the dead. A gruesome and revolting sight Is horrifying in the light, But when dissembling night conceals, The breast a double terror feels. That darkness, black beyond compare, Seemed a fit mantle for despair. Few are the words when hope has failed; An awful quietude prevailed; I sat, a mute and helpless lump, And felt my heart's pulsating thump, With movement regular and strong, Propel life's crimson flood along, But made no sound until the spell Of silence was unbearable. I spoke, but all the ears in reach Were deaf to every charm of speech; I shouted till the roof, the floor And walls resounded with the roar; I called the dead men at my side, But Echo's voice alone replied; I was alone, nor man nor brute Was there, save those so stark and mute; My voice upon my listening ear Fell, most unnatural and queer, As if with weird, uncanny sound The walls responsive voices found, And echoed back the tones at will, To mock those tongues so cold and still; Though these vociferations made My spirit none the less afraid, The silence seemed more terrible; Words fail me as I strive to tell How in my desperation, I Abandoned hope, yet could not die. I never craved the morning light, As through that terrifying night, For gentle but erratic Sleep Withheld her respite soft and deep, As in that charnel house I lay, Till twilight ushered in the day. When daylight had returned again I strove with the relentless chain, Twisted and tugged until at length A more than ordinary strength Possessed my arm, and at one stroke The rivets weakened, bent and broke; One master wrench and from the floor, The ring which held the chain I tore; I dragged the dead men o'er the ground Till forge and anvil I had found; There with the hammer, rasp and file I wrought with diligence the while; At some expense of time and pains, I disengaged the cruel chains, And stood once more erect and free: Thus ended my captivity. A guard lay prostrate on the sand, His rifle in his lifeless hand; I wrenched it from his rigid clutch, Then played the ghoul in self-defence, For clothing and accoutrements Escaped not my despoiling touch; I breathed the air of liberty, Alone I stood, but armed and free. To mislead any watchful eyes, I donned a militant disguise, And, in the dead man's uniform, Was soon prepared for strife or storm. Unseen, unhindered, unpursued, I soon was in the solitude, Contending with impediments, Which every wilderness presents. Primeval forests, through which poured Rivers unknown to bridge or ford; Swamps, overgrown with weeds and moss, Almost impossible to cross; A waste of fallen trees and logs, Rank vegetation, stagnant bogs; Decaying leaves, profusely spread, Which rustled at the slightest tread, While underbrush and thicket made A thorny maze or barricade, Through which 'twas difficult to force A passage or retain one's course. There my experience began, Along the lines of primal man; My fare, as I remember well, Was strictly aboriginal, For stupid grouse and ptarmigan Were easily approached and slain; And, as a relish for such food, I had the berries of the wood. Through arches of umbrageous shade I journeyed onward undismayed, And undisturbed by man or beast, Made daily progress toward the east, Till viewing the Pacific shore, Northward along the coast I bore. I kept that course for many days, Where none but savage eyes might gaze; Full many a mile my footsteps led Through regions uninhabited, Till where Kamschatka's barren rocks Resist the sea's aggressive shocks, One gloomy afternoon, I stood And watched the wide and trackless flood. 'Twould make a tedious tale, I fear, Not meet for recitation here, Should I endeavor to relate The details of a hermit's fate. To all appearance I was free; A plethora of liberty Is little consolation, where One lonely recluse breathes the air; For solitary mortals find But little joy and peace of mind; When freedom is enjoyed alone, Its fondest attributes are flown; Men of companions destitute Sink to the level of the brute; Their sacred essence seems to be Dependent on community. Each morning, in the reddening skies, Alone, I watched the sun god rise, While every evening in the west, Alone, I watched him sink to rest. To catch a passing ship, in vain I hourly scanned the watery plain, Till one fair morn a distant sail Brought the conclusion of my tale. The whaler, such she proved to be, Steered landward through a rippling sea, And made directly for the shore; She anchored, then I saw them lower The ship's long-boat; at a command I saw them row, then saw them land. Fearing occasion might require The service of a signal fire, A mass of driftwood I had heaped; Behind that pile I hid and peeped. From that concealed position, I, Watching with closest scrutiny, Discovered that the squad of ten Were not my fellow-countrymen. Their purpose I could now discern; Each wielded till their willing hands Had delved a grave within the sands. Six of the party I espied Returning to the long-boat's side, Where from its bottom they began To raise the body of a man, In canvas strips securely sewed, All ready for its last abode; From every motion it would seem The object of sincere esteem. From my location I could see Them balance it most tenderly, As on six shoulders broad and strong, They bore it sorrowfully along, While wind and ever-restless surge Joined in a requiem or dirge. The sun through hazy Autumn skies Shone on the simple obsequies, As round the open grave they stood, In reverential attitude, And shovelled in the brown sea sand; One, with a prayer-book in his hand, Essayed the role of corybant; Omitting the accustomed chant, He read a burial service there, Concluding with its words of prayer: 'Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!' These words of that abiding trust, In life beyond the fleeting span Which heaven has accorded man; Elysian fields, where perfect peace Succeeds life's transitory lease; The inextinguishable fire Of faith, the daughter of desire, Glows brightest, when the faltering breath Is conscious of approaching death; Bent 'neath the weight of many years, The form of hoary age appears, E'en as the failing hourglass shows That life is drawing to its close, And when the final sands are spent, The trembling limbs make their descent Into the shadows, while the ray Of faith illuminates the way. Vain introspection, which descries No light behind the mysteries Of death, engenders in the breast But vacant yearnings and unrest; Relying on the eye of hope, We look beyond our mundane scope, And with enraptured vision see The fore-gleams of futurity. With eager eyes I watched them stand, Upon that barren waste of sand, Until the final words of prayer Had died away upon the air. Their words, euphonious and clear, Were wafted to my listening ear, Borne on a favorable breeze Which blew directly from the seas; My breast, with deep emotion stirred, I recognized their every word, An English burial ritual read, On this wild shore, above the dead. This dissipated every fear, I knew deliverance was near; My secret would be safe among The scions of the English tongue. Forever from the light of day They laid his pallid form away, While every word and action proved Their rites were over one they loved. Soon from the level of the ground, There rose another silent mound, To teach, beside that northern sea, Its lesson of mortality. Death on that dismal northern main, In binding with its silent chain Forever their lamented mate, Had freed me from a sterner fate. Leaving my earstwhile hiding place, I stood before them face to face; Then in their own vernacular, Gave proper salutation there. 'Twas plain that they regarded me As human salvage, which the sea Had, in some evil moment, tossed Upon that bleak and barren coast, Like broken wreckage or debris, Cast up by the capricious sea. With frank but sympathetic eyes, They watched me with no small surprise, While I rehearsed without delay, My story as a castaway. Repairing to the ship's long-boat, Which soon was in the surf afloat, I bade farewell to Russian soil In language not intensely loyal. They ministered to my distress, From ample stores of food and dress, Performed such acts of kindness then As might beseem large-hearted men; Nor was there aught perfunctory In their solicitude for me; Their acts were of their own accord, Without suspicion of reward. "The noble spruce and stately fir Stood draped in feathery garniture." Although possessed of little skill In nautical affairs, to fill A seaman's watch I volunteered, As we toward Arctic waters steered, Pursuant of the spouting whale; I plied each task with rope and sail, And ere we reached a harbor bar, Was rated as a first-class tar; By sufferance of as brave a crew As ever sailed a voyage through, The two succeeding years I passed In northern seas before the mast; Two years from that eventful day We moored in San Francisco Bay. I bade the sea farewell for aye, Bade my deliverers good-bye, With fervent pressure of the hand, Then straight betook myself to land. Seeking a home with freedom blest, I've cast my fortunes with the West." Concluding, he resumed his seat Beside his brother, Russian Pete; Yet ever and anon expressed His views on points of interest, And details, which this narrative In its abridgment may not give, As Dad McGuire and Uncle Jim By turns interrogated him. To say his hearers listened well, Were too self-evident to tell, For some who dozed before he spake, Woke up and then remained awake. As all the inclination felt, To play a game, the cards were dealt; The winners, it was understood, To be exempt from chopping wood; While he who made the lowest score Must build the fire and sweep the floor. Time spread his wings, the moments flew Unheeded for an hour or two, Until at length the measured stroke Of twelve, in timely accents broke From an old clock upon the shelf, As old as Uncle Jim himself; A good old clock, as old clocks go, But usually too fast or slow, But near enough the proper time To serve the purpose of this rhyme. The honors passed to Russian Pete, When Dad McGuire sustained defeat, As mighty warriors often do, In some Chalons, or Waterloo; The fortunes of the final game, Adding fresh laurels to his fame; Then all abstained from further play, And forthwith put the cards away. 'Twas passing late, the dying fire Served as the summons to retire, And soon the gentle wand of sleep, Which works the dream god's drowsy will, Laden with slumbers soft and deep, Passed over them and all was still. * * * * * The storm was over, far and near, The heavens shone, so cold and clear That nebulae and satellites, Unseen on ordinary nights, Now filled the broad expanse of sky With unaccustomed brilliancy; The astral vacuums and voids, Were filled with discs and asteroids; Dissevering the firmament, The Milky Way disclosed to sight Its pearly avenue of white With planetary crystals blent; Transparently it shone, and pale, As some celestial gauze or veil; A silvery baldric o'er the gold Of constellations manifold. A silence, undisturbed, prevailed, The wind no longer moaned and wailed, The elements had worked their will And now were motionless and still; From forest growth or underbrush No whisper broke the solemn hush; The tempest king on airy waves, Retreated to his secret caves, And chained the winds, which his behest Had lately stirred to wild unrest. The clouds had vanished, not a trace Remained upon the arch of space, To interpose a curtain rude Between earth and infinitude; Pellucid as the vault o'erhead, The snows a layer of beauty spread, Save where the genii of the storm Had fashioned in fantastic form, With alternating whirl and sift, The pendent comb and massive drift. The wilderness of ice and snow, Transfigured with a mellow glow, Received from the translucent skies The stellar groups and galaxies; A record of the starry waste, By Nature's faultless pencil traced; The vernal phalanxes of pine, In cassocks clear and crystalline, Seemed as a mirror, in whose sheen The glimmering lamps of night were seen. The replica of pearl and gem, In heaven's twinkling diadem; Golconda's treasury displayed, On background of the forest shade. Divested of their transient green, By Autumn winds in wanton rage, The aspen's leafless limbs were seen Festooned with frosty foliage; As fell upon their vestal white, The placid moon's aspiring light, The noble spruce and stately fir, Stood draped with feathery garniture; Configurated and embossed, With lace and tapestry of frost, In quaint and curious design, The willows and the underbrush, Were crystallized in silvery plush, And shimmered in the cold moonshine. The azure dome of space o'erhead, With scintillating grandeur spread, Looked down with cold inquiring eyes, On earth with all her mysteries; The while reflecting in their snows, The mountains lay in calm repose, Slumbering 'neath their robes of white. I will sing of a quaint old tradition, A legend romantic and strange, Which was whispered to me by the pine trees High up on the wild mountain range. Far away in the mystical Westland, From the mountain peaks crested with snow, Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores, the river of woe. Time was when this river of sorrow Had never a thought to be sad, But meandered in joy through the meadows, With bluebell and columbine clad. Her ripples were ripples of laughter, And the soft, dulcet voice of her flow Was suggestive of peace and affection, Not accents of anguish and woe. Long ago, ere the foot of the white man Had left its first print on the sod, A people, both free and contented, Her mesas and canon-ways trod. Then Dolores, the river of sorrow, Was a river of laughter and glee, As she playfully dashed through the canons In her turbulent rush to the sea. High up on the cliffs in their dwellings, Which were apertures walled up with rocks, Lived this people, sequestered and happy; Their dwellings now serve the wild fox. They planted the maize and potato, The kind river caused them to grow, So they worshipped the river with singing Which blent with its musical flow. This people, so artless and peaceful, Knew nothing of carnage and war, But dwelt in such quiet and plenty They knew not what weapons were for. They gathered the maize in its season, Unmindful of famine or foe And chanted their thanks to the spirits That dwelt in the canons below. But one evil day from the Northland Swept an army in battle array, Which fell on this innocent people And massacred all in a day. Their bodies were cast in the river, A feast for the vultures, when lo! The laughter and song of the river Were changed to the wailing of woe. Gone, gone are this people forever, Not a vestige nor remnant remains To gather the maize in its season And join in the harvest refrains; But the river still mourns for her people With weird and disconsolate flow, Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores--the river of woe. "From the mountain peaks crested with snow."] Great Shepherd of the countless flocks of stars, Which range the azure province of the sky, Who marked the course for Jupiter and Mars, Nor leads the comet from its path awry; Though flaming constellations at Thy call Pass into being, or created, fall; Thou, who hast caused the firmament to be, In humbler pathways, Father, lead Thou me. Thou, who hast framed the eagle's wing to soar Above the verdant prospects of the plain; Whose law hath shaped the pebbles on the shore, The stately forests and the bearded grain; Whose hand hath formed the silvery satellite To shed her tender moonbeams o'er the night; Thou who hast placed the islands in the sea, With that same Wisdom, Father, lead Thou me. There's a pathos in the solemn desolation Of the mountain cabin sinking in decay, With its threshold overgrown with vegetation, With its door unhinged and mouldering away. There's a weird and most disconsolate expression In the sashless windows with their vacant stare, As in mute appeal, or taciturn confession Of a wild and inconsolable despair. With its ridgepole bent and broken in the centre, From its roof of dirt and weight of winter snows; Where the only voice to greet you as you enter Is the wind which down the crumbling fireplace blows; Where the chipmunk chatters in loquacious wonder, As unwonted steps invade his solitude; Where the mountain rat secretes his varied plunder In the chimney corners, primitive and rude. Where the spider spins his web in grim seclusion, To entrap the fly and vacillating moth; From the rotten floor, in poisonous profusion Spring the toadstools, with their foul and fungous growth. Void of symmetry and semblance of equation, And the sun, at each matutinal invasion, Shine as through a dismal dungeon's grated bars. But no predatory hand in wanton malice Hath in vandal hour this dereliction wrought, But the hand which crumbles pyramid and palace, The hand of Time with rust and ruin fraught; Thus the proud or unpretentious habitation Shall succumb to age and melancholy mould; All are subject to the same disintegration, For the occupant and house alike grow old. I love to sit by the waterfall, And list to its laughing story, As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall, From the mountain peaks stern and hoary; Or watch the spray as the colors play, When the glorious sunlight kisses, And tints confuse into rainbow hues To embellish the wild abysses. I love the rose and the columbine, Whose delicate beauty pleases; I love the breath of the fragrant pine, As it floats on the morning breezes; I love the sound from the depths profound, When the Thunder-God is bringing His crystal showers, to the tinted flowers, In their sweet profusion springing. I love the lake in the mountain's lap; Without a flaw or error Recording the clouds, which the peaks enwrap, And the trees, as a crystal mirror; The wild delights of the mountain heights Thrill my breast with a keen devotion, As songbirds love the blue arch above, Or the mariner loves the ocean. On the margin of the mystic shores of rest, Where imagination mollifies the breast, Where the fondest dreams their pleasant vigils keep, In the vestibule of slumber, soft and deep, Lies a neutral zone, salubrious and sweet,-- Where the realms of lethargy and action meet,-- 'Tis the borderland of sleep. Here the halcyon delights float by and fade, Or the evil visions hover and invade; Here the bosom entertains its secret guest, With the silent plaint of agony suppressed, As unwelcome thoughts rise from the dust and mould, Of the vanished years in pantomime unrolled, In this borderland of rest. Neither wakeful, nor in sentient repose, Nor in apathy, complete and comatose; As when Lethe with her mild nepenthic surge, Doth in chaos of forgetfulness submerge, But a drowsy consciousness, a blend of dreams, With reality's extravagant extremes; Such the zone on slumber's verge. Speeds the day in silent flight, on the sombre wings of night, As the dying sunlight glimmers in the west; Soon the shadows cease to creep, for the sun has gone to sleep, And the scene is wrapped in somnolence and rest. From a solitary star, in the realms of space afar, Faintly twinkling through the shadows of the night, See the stellar force increased, till the scintillating east Seems a galaxy of constellations bright. With its glittering display, see the gorgeous Milky Way, Which in twain the vaulted universe divides, As the bridal veil serene of some fair celestial queen, All the heavens seem in tune, and the vacillating moon Bathes the landscape with her floods of silvery light; Though the scenes of day are fair, naught in splendor can compare "High up on the cliffs in their dwellings, Which were apertures walled up with rocks, Lived this people, sequestered and happy; Their dwellings now serve the wild fox." Father, at Thy altar kneeling, Sin-defiled; Seeking there the balm of healing, To Thy Fatherhood appealing, See Thy child. I am weary of transgressions; I have sinned; Prone to vice and indiscretion, Vacillation, misimpression, As the wind. Neither sins nor imperfections I conceal; Evil thoughts, impure reflections, Faults in manifold directions, Can I feel. I am tired of life's illusion, I would rest; Leave its turmoil and confusion, Fain would know the blest seclusion Of Thy breast. Through the shadows of the valley As I speed, Bid my faltering courage rally, To resist each adverse sally; Wilt Thou lead? For I know that Thou art reigning Over all; With this confidence remaining, Let me feel Thy Hand sustaining Lest I fall. A dream is the ghost of a fond delight, An echo of former smiles or tears, Wafted to us on the wings of night From the silent bourne of the vanished years. A dream is a perished joy, restored From the mystical regions beyond our ken, Which we fain would press as a thing adored, To our breasts, ere it fades and is lost again. A dream is a buried hope exhumed, 'Tis an iridescent thing of air, Which mocks at the spirit, by fate entombed In the catacombs of a mute despair. A dream is a reflex view of life, A blending of fancy with solemn truth, A retrospection of mundane strife, Old age re-living the scenes of youth. Our dreams are but mirrors for our desires; The proud ambition, the lofty aim Achieved in our sleep, but the night expires And the dull existence plods on the same. A dream is a feeble ray of light, A rift in the shadows through which we grope, An evidence that eternal night Can never extinguish the star of hope. As fall the dews of slumber soft and deep, On wilderness and populated town, Bound by the sweet influences of sleep, Proud reason abdicates her golden crown; Dark Lethe, of oblivious renown, Fain would I quaff from thy forgetful streams, In willing thralldom would I lay me down, To court the fair companionship of dreams, And bask within their iridescent beams. Or linger in the vestibule of sleep, Where blow the winds of memory from the past, Ere yet the languid shades of slumber deep Have o'er the sense their dormant shadows cast; Or muse upon the infinite and vast, Till speculations various confuse, And thought, unmerciful iconoclast, With shattered images the path bestrews, Yet leads to chaos of conflicting views. Now vanish all remembrance of the day, Complete immunity pervade the mind, Let fond imagination hold her sway, With rule uncircumscribed and unconfined; Or soaring on the wings of fancy, wind Through mystic realms of interstellar space, Where visions of supernal beauty bind The drowsy consciousness in sweet embrace; But dreamland fades, and morning comes apace. "As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall From the mountain peaks stern and hoary." That faith is true whatever it may be, What ethics or traditions it may teach, Whose whispers soothe the secret misery And mollify with soft, persuasive speech. That faith is true that lightens pain and care, That false, which adds one burden to the load, Whate'er its ornaments of psalm and prayer, A travesty on reason and on God. That faith is true that buoys the sinking breast, When in the throes of some great agony, That comforts the afflicted and distressed, And reconciles the trembling soul to die. That faith is true that when the chilling blasts Of final dissolution overwhelm Life's fragile bark, and shiver hull and masts, Sees but the hand of Love upon the helm. The bard who versifies for hire, When no exalted thoughts inspire, Tho' rhyme and metre be exact, Conveys a sense of something lacked; When moved by no poetic fire, He twangs a dull and tuneless lyre. "If a man die, shall he live again?"--Job xiv. 14. The query which thy fevered organs framed, Unanswered still re-echoes in our ears. Thy desolate interrogating cry, Born of affliction, grievous and extreme, Bridging the gulf of fleeting centuries, Finds our weak tongues as impotent as thine, To voice reply in accents void of doubt. Though in our breasts awakening response, 'Tis but a repetition of thy plaint, A faint reverberation of thy cry. We peer into the darkness, but descry Nor form, nor semblance, with our bootless gaze; We call and list with ears attuned to hear; No sound is wafted, and no glimmering ray Breaks from that night, unlit by moon or star; Nor gleam, nor spark, nor modicum of light Is flashed from out the precincts of the tomb. Death is the final principle of life, The culmination of vicissitude, The silent archer, whose unerring shaft Doth pierce at last the most unyielding breast; The reaper after whose fell harvesting, No gleaner bends nor follows in his wake. The gold of Ophir, and the pearls of Ind, The sapphires and the rubies of the East, Or all the treasures, which the fabled Gnomes, In subterranean vaults and passages Have guarded, multiplied by countless sums, With Euclid's most exalted numeral In computation, as the multiple Of least proportion, for the passing breath Can purchase neither respite nor reprieve, Nor can prolong it, by one feeble gasp. Nor fragrant balm, nor sweet preservative, Nor caustic alkaloid, nor bitter herb From Nature's various dispensary, Elixir, lotion, nor restorative, Nor prophylactic nor catholicon Nor pharmacy's most potent stimulant Of that mysterious thing we call the Soul. Nor exorcism, nor the mystic power Of incantation, nor of talisman, Nor words of solemn theurgy pronounced, Can break or dissipate that pallid spell; Nor necromancy, nor phylactery, Nor touch of magic wand, nor subtle force Of conjuration, nor of sorcery, prevails Against the shadows of the tomb; Nor all the baleful arts of witchery, Nor amulet withstand the charm of death. Yea, man who rules the passive elements, Enchaining them to service at his will, Himself to death must yield obedience. Yea, man who, through all disadvantages And obstacles, has hewed his way aloft, From out the labyrinth of ignorance, Who sways the sceptre over conquered realms, Of latent energy and unseen force, Without condition or conceding term, Surrenders to that sombre potentate. Nor can in earth's remotest solitude, In forest depths or undiscovered isle, In dismal cavern or secretive cave Escape the mandate of that grizzly King. Nor wing of eagle, nor the fabled wings Of hippogrif, of such velocity As clothes the lightning and the thunderbolt, Outstrip in speed the shadowy wings of death. We pass along an ever-travelled road, Worn by the silent and continuous tread Of throngs innumerable, of every clime; The countless generations of the past, The uncomputed hosts and multitudes Who trod the earth in ages most remote, And those whose pale emaciated forms The generous earth hath recently received, The myriads of every race and tongue Who have preceded us, have sent no word Of cheer or comfort from that silent strand, And no directions for our timorous steps. "I love the lake in the mountain's lap." Grim Dissolution knows no favorites, But in his multiplicity of shapes Invades alike, with stern resistless step, The squalid hovel with its noisome air, And palace most replete with opulence; Those of exalted station, and the hordes To whom existence means but servitude, Who see the golden sun arise and bring No intermission from their ceaseless toil, Who hope for respite only with the night; Those who in dread reluctance shrank from death, And those who neither knew nor cared the hour, To life and death alike indifferent, Or fain themselves would snap the fragile thread; Mankind in all conditions and degrees Of culture, affluence and penury, Of multiform endowments and desires, With differing talents and proclivities, Yea, all varieties and types of men, With pathways various and diversified, Have found their paths converging at the grave. Each, as the gathering shadows of the night, In solemn chaos of unfathomed gloom, Descend in sombre, melancholy pall, And mark apace life's transitory eve, Must quaff, alike, the bitter draught of death, The one libation in which all who breathe May in all equity participate. Each, at the expiration of his span, Has found the same relentless terminal, And faltering on dissolution's brink, With what of strength, or guilt or innocence Did mark the tenor of his brief career, Has passed up to the margin of the grave, Then disappeared forever. We know not, yet in verity we feel That, though of most immediate concern, And shrouded deep in sable mystery, Though most abstruse, intangible and strange, 'Tis not of our volition and control! It therefore proves, as life doth ever prove, With all abundant plenitude of proof, A Force superior to human strength, And should afford no premises for fear.

Wilmer M. (Wilmer Mateo) Ely

The Boy Chums in the Florida Jungle or, Charlie West and Walter Hazard with the Seminole Indians

Life's Treasures Mi-Lady's Shoe Winter's Sorrows Napoleon's Tomb My Boyhood's Home The Gondolier's Song Words to Mendelssohn's "Consolation" An Actor's Epitaph Life's Voyage in Vain Death's Courtship From the year 1820 many caravans made their way over the trail to forty-six days out from St. Louis. caravans moving from Western Missouri to Santa Fe, as far as the Arkansas River. In spite of this protection, however, attacks by In 1843, the American traders commenced to establish regular twenty miles. Breakdowns on this plain were frequent, and the Indians most and finally Santa Fe, a distance of 750 miles from Independence, Missouri, the starting point. track, and will be able to people it with the historic traditions NOTE.--The greater part of the information given in this brief history is taken from _Twitchell on Leading Facts of New Mexico There are moanings on the trail, From west and eastward bounders, The host that's passed forever, That shall never know it more; From men and fragile women, From pioneers and traders, Whose dying word was "Never," Whose pale souls went on before. And its ruts flow deep with tears For the countless lowly biers, Of those who died upon it, In the agony of fears. Oh! the rumbling caravan-- The women under cover, While the men before them scan, For Indians or water, For the're mounds along the trail, It's thousand miles of stretches, Of man, and child and mother, Fair flowers and hardened wretches; Where the sandstorms blow and blow, And obliterate all traces. Moving twenty miles a day, With mules and horses straining Through the deep and parching sand, The wagon wheels a-squeaking, With the hot sun beating down On whitened bones a bleaching. Stretching all along the trail, From caravans forgotten, Where none lived to tell the tale. Oh! the tide of misery, And tears forever flowing, From the women folk inside, Through the long, dark hours of night, Or moonlight's eerie bleaches, Praying God to send the light. The grey of early morning, While a rifle shot rings out, The Indians are coming, And the men go driving on, The tired horses running, For the goal they never reach. Oh! that never ending trail, Through canyon and arroya, And that cursed, cruel plain, The parched wastes of the desert, A mile above sea-level, Not a tree or shrub upon it, Without a drop of water, 'Tween the Arkansas river And the spring at Cimarron, Where they'll never drink again. Through buff'lo grass and cacti, To ruins of the Pecos, With the blue skies overhead, And the horses breathing hard, Rolls the caravan along. A country in the making, And the women try to sing, God bless them, they are helping, Those tender friends of man, To keep his heart from breaking, With the wagon broken down, And not a blade for grazing. There are ghosts upon the trail, The myriads that trod it, And they pass without salute In a never ending line, In wagon and on horseback; Some going West, some Eastward. Strange spectres in the moonlight, Brave men and noble women, Young girls and little children, All long ago forgotten. And the past rolls back again, With Indians approaching, Creeping closer to the trail. The children and the women, Oh! 'tis hard that they should die. Then the musket shots ring out From cool men bent on killing, Fighting for the ones they love, Though ten to one outnumbered, Until morning tints the sky And with it ends the combat. Then the town of Santa Fe, Oh! Father, in Thy mercy-- And the women laugh and sing, The tired men are weeping, A thousand times repeated, As men entered Santa Fe. The cursed trip was over, Save to those left on the way, The pioneer martyrs Of the trail to Santa Fe. There are faces that pass in a moment, But his face will live till I die. He'd a beard and blue eyes like the Saviour, At least like the face we all know, And we met in the cool of the morning, We met about two years ago. And my heart bade me call out "Good morning," "Good morning," he answered to me. But I saw his blue eyes looking elsewhere, Like one who was trying to see. He had come from a hut without windows, A mud hut with only a door, Yet his face was the face of the Saviour, And I fain would speak to him more. So I stopped, for his smile had a sweetness That entered the gates of my soul; I was hungry to know where it came from, That I might its wonders extol. And we talked of the beautiful morning, The scent of the grass and the flowers, And he spoke like a man of refinement, Like one to whom knowledge was power, Of the glory of God and His wonders, And we talked for more than an hour. I forgot that the speaker was sightless, Or a mud hut his dwelling here. Could it be he was just a blind beggar? Was a greater One standing near? And he talked of the hills in their grandeur, As sentinels watching mankind, Of the plains and vales, of sunshine and flowers, Which he only saw in his mind. And he spoke of the poor and the lowly, Of God's mercy to such as he, Of his gratitude to his Creator, Gratitude, though he could not see. And I stretched out my arms to that beggar, From Syria, over the sea, With the beard and the eyes of our Saviour-- At least they looked like that to me. He had taught me a wonderful lesson, The burden a Christian could bear, Who from out the dark caverns of blindness Saw only the things that were fair. And I asked my dear Father forgiveness, My fetters of sin to unbind, That he'd make me to see like that beggar, For I was the one who was blind. Here oft my eyes have met the break of day; The red sun rising through the morning mist, Over the mountains, and the mesa kissed, Down to the valley, where the shadows deep Dissolved, and woke the city from its sleep. Facing the East, the first faint streak of dawn Sought my closed eyes and ope'd them to the morn. Then like the passing shadow of a cloud Revealed the world beneath the lifted shroud, The glories of the proud Sandia Range, Whose rugged grandeur God alone can change. Sweet was the air that in my casement swept, And in the court below a fountain leap't, Which on the harp of life sweet music made, And soothed me in my slumbers as it played. The songs of gentle rain, of woodland stream, Entranced me nightly in a murmuring dream. The doves upon the roof made music too, And sweet it was to hear them bill and coo. Into my open window Nature smiled, And all the world seemed pure and undefiled. Naught can describe those joys of early morn, When from the night another day was born. When cares that come oppress and burden me, I'll pray to God to send me memory, Where precious moments came at break of day, Thither my soul shall fly where'er I be, And bring that joy of morning back to me. In our home in the West, on the edge of the mesa, When our day's work is done, and the voices are still, Comes faintly the scent of the lilacs of Shawmont We knew in our youth, at the house on the hill. Back to those halls, now so silent and empty, Where voices of children once merrily rang; To those dear dead windows still facing the garden, Where the woodthrush, the robin and oriole sang. Back to the solemn old bell in the tree forks, Which summoned us home to the noonday repast; Whose music had rung in the morning of centuries, And yet was as sweet as the day it was cast. From our home on the mesa we still hear it calling, Long, long is the journey, o'er mountain and plain; But it's only in memory--past to the present-- And only in fancy we hear it again. The scent of the lilacs, the voices of children; The chirp of the tree-toad, the song of the stream; The path through the woods, where as lovers we wandered, Confusingly call like a voice in a dream. Call to us here in our home on the mesa, From out the dear past in the house on the hill, And in fancy we dwell in the home by the Schuylkill, When our day's work is done and the voices are still. Oh! what a jolly fellow is the western tumbleweed, As he rolls across the mesa with the breeze; He'll even try to race a train, no matter what it's speed, You can see him from the window jump the trees. Just where the fellow's bound for it's a little hard to say, For his heart seems full of joyousness and life, As he capers like a schoolboy out for a holiday-- Some say the beggar's looking for a wife. Methought 'twas God, Himself, For as I reached the "El Tovar" And passed toward the Canyon's brink, I seemed to stand upon the bar Of Heaven--too dazed to think. The melodies of every clime Ring out so true and sweet, They make the world akin in song, Bring joy with every beat. They breathe the incense of the morn, The fragrance of the night, They weave the mystery of love, In garlands of delight. Oh! sweet uplifting melodies, That soothe the human soul; The young and old, the rich, the poor, Are one 'neath their control. The melodies of younger days, The sweetest ever sung, The melodies of memories That make the ages young. Oh! crowd us, blessed melodies, Come to us one by one; Bring back the tender thoughts of life, When it had scarce begun. And in one long, delicious dream We live the past again, In melodies of memories, In happiness and pain. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" Better hurry--do not be late. Best of food is on the table, Eat as much as you are able-- "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" A welcome waits at every plate. Shining silver, spotless linen, Waitresses, all pretty women-- "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!" Ascending sweet from one to eight, Descending just as sweet to one-- The chimes have stopp'd, the meal's begun. The golden sun is setting in the quiet, silent West, The feathered songster's voice is hushed within its cozy nest, And the evening breeze comes stealing o'er the fields of new-mown As Phoebus folds his wings and bids farewell the dying day. The gloaming shadows thicken 'round the house beneath the hill, The water ripples softly 'neath the wheel that works the mill; Then over all comes darkness, and the landscape fades from sight, In childhood days I met a little Miss, Whose pouting lips were luscious as the dew. I begged that she would give me just one kiss-- She gave me two. One night I gazed with rapture on the moon, And there I found surcease from all my cares. The face I saw within, it was not his-- 'Twas hers. In spirit land, I know not where, I only know she comes to me In memory-- When I was young and she was fair. It matters not How great our treasures, The cares of life Outweigh its pleasures. Two boys were up for burglary, and crowded was the Court, With half the town of Elkington, who came to see the sport. Oh! what a wondrous judge he was, no guilty e'er got free, His instinct read between the lines what no one else could see, And these two boys on whom he gazed with comprehensive stare, Raised not their eyes to his stern face, for mercy was not there. "No counsel, Judge," the prosecutor said in careless way; A case was just a case to him, who tried them every day. "We'll see to it," the Judge replied, as often times before. He had imposed the maximum--the law allowed no more. Said, "Judge, they have no counsel, and it seems unfair to me. The Commonwealth has two shrewd men." The Judge replied, "What And Juror No. 3 came back, "Why, Mr. Todd and you." "Let me correct you," said the Judge, amid the courtroom din; "The Court administers the law when all the facts are in." Then turning to the crier he said, "Keep order in the Court; Now Mr. Todd, begin the case, the time is getting short." Just then a woman's helpless cry fell on the Judge's ear, And both the lads within the dock were seen to shed a tear. And Juror No. 3 stood up and said, "Where is the friend? I call on Thee, Lord Jesus, the prisoners to defend." The Judge sat upright on the bench, a greater One than he Was in the court to help the lads, summoned by Juror 3. The case was tried and verdict found, "Guilty" the foreman said, And not a juror disagreed--the Judge bowed low his head. Then to the bar there came the man, whose house the lads had robbed. Gazing on Juror No. 3, "Forgive them, Judge," he sobbed. "I forgive them as Our Master would, as I hope He'll pardon me." And the light on the face of Juror 3 was wonderful to see. Not a day goes by, but I read somewhere In this wonderful world of ours, That some lowly being has raised his soul And become as the Norman towers. From out of the sweat and the slavish grind, From the depths where but hope is known, There has risen a star, serene and pure, That reacheth the Heavenly throne. And no one knoweth his neighbor's lot, Or divineth the Father's will, For he who sits in the gloom tonight May tomorrow walk on the hill; For swift as the flash of a falcon's wing, In the gloaming homeward flight, Comes the change that lifteth the downcast up, And the darkness turns to light. I only know you by the crease And dents across your dainty shoe. And yet there's something in that crease-- A fairy phantom of the mind, Above thy shoe a form I see, Another worships at thy shrine-- Beside the sea, beside the sea, I seemed to hear my mother's voice. She had been sleeping twenty years, And yet her voice came back to me, Beside the sea, beside the sea. There's a bitterness and sorrow in the Winter's leaden air, A chilling sort of something that's akin to human care, A tender gray of sadness, like a voice of bygone gladness, In the ashen sombre atmosphere that lingers everywhere. There are tear-drops on the eyelid, in the Winter's leaden air, A sympathetic chord is touched that finds expression there; Reality seems clearer, and the end of all seems nearer, In the sober, flinty ether, supernaturally bare. Kisses sweet behind the door-- She was three and I was four; Kisses still are sweet to me, Though she now is fifty-three. Kisses sweet behind the door-- I was three and he was four; Kisses still are sweet to me, Though he is more than fifty-three. From out the caverns of mysterious thought Appeared a form who said, "I'm Memory." "Go back!" cried I, "I care not for the past, Send me the form who knows what's yet to be." A shadow rose and said, "You call, I'm here; Thy future leads thee to the Stygian shore, And none shall weep for thee a single tear." "Avaunt!" I cried, "I will not hear thee more." I see thee, dear "Old Penn," in silhouette, Far back along the road on which I came; And memories, fragrant as the violet, Are interwoven with thine honored name. I've thrilled at "Harvard" and at good old "Yale," Proud have I been to meet their doughty men, But in the world there's just one nightingale-- My Alma Mater, my own honored "Penn." Here pause and gaze, ye travelers young and old, On this dull marble hewn in sacred mould, Mark that inscription on the graven stone, Within sleeps he, who stood 'mongst men alone. Within sleeps he who at Marengo fought, Whose skill and courage set his foes at naught; Scarce fought a battle, but the day he won. Who, living, loved the cannon's deadly roar, And made his trumpets heard on every shore; Who, with his eagle banner, never furled, His conquering legions over-ran the world. Proud Austria humbled lay beneath his feet, And Russia's legions fled in swift retreat; He saw the world, ambition swelled his heart, He longed for all, nor cared to have a part. So lost he all, insatiate from the first, When his proud deeds like fire on Europe burst. A soldier, statesman, Emperor, _toute chose_ King, Before nor since has lived so grand a thing. He died in exile from his glorious France, On lonely isle, his life a leaden trance; The sea around, walled in on every side, His proud heart broke, and so the hero died. Within this marble rest the mummied bones Of him who held in life a dozen thrones; Approach with awe and reverential tread, Here sleeps the mightiest of the living--dead. 'Neath the sorrows that grim want imposes, Imperious stalks decay; Hunger's terrors have withered the roses That bloomed and then faded away. The hearts which with young life once budded, The fond hopes which happiness kissed, Are dissolved in the tears which have flooded The homes of the poor in our midst. Oh! joy, for a fancied rest Instead of this grind, a toy. God seems to know what is best, But would I were still a boy. Oh! man, and a heartsick smile, Has something gone wrong ahead? Why! life is scarcely worth while, If man can wish himself dead. Oh! well, poor fellow, I know Some have it better than you. But, man! wherever you go, The satisfied are the few. Go seek ye, and ye shall find The light of eternal joy. When Faith once enters the mind, Again you will be a boy. The same voice speaks as the days of eld, Since the human race began, Enmeshed in the woof and weave of life, Designed in the form of man. It spoke the dawn of his natal day, It is speaking today as then, The voice that speaks is the voice of God, From out of the mouths of men. The fragrance of a cigarette, The incense of a morning fair; The odor of the mignonette, The perfume of a woman's hair, The sunset dancing on the sea, White bolles of cirrus in the sky, Bring back fond memories to me. Ask not! I cannot tell you why. She stood by the stile in the twilight dim, With a soft look in her eye; 'Twas a tryst, she waited alone for him, Her lover, a warrior bold and grim, 'Neath that beauteous evening sky. "Why tarries my lord?" quoth the maiden fair, "My love, my love, come to me!" In her eyes came a look so sweet and rare, As she gazed to the wood, through the scented air, Till her eyes could no longer see. Still she waited there for her warrior bold, "He will come to-night!" said she. Then up rode a knight in armor of gold: "Your warrior died like a knight of old, On the battlefield," said he. Thou hast the wit and charming grace To match with speech thy lovely face-- A maid whom men adore. Yet I do prophesy this night, Before the dawn of next year's light That thou wilt be no "More." Oh, Gondolier, turn thy boat again, That I may see the sunlight on its prow, The light that I have tried to paint in vain, The light of Heaven--there! 'tis shimmering now. Let us go a-maying, love; All the world is playing, love, This God-sent happy day. Let us be together, love, Ever and forever, love, Forever and for aye. I sat beside her in the gloaming light, And neither spoke--'twas by Geneva's lake. We sat, and neither spoke, and then came Night. Oh, many a time in the silent night I sigh for the days gone by, When a happy boy with gay delight I hailed the cuckoo's cry. And the dear old woods that I loved so well, Where the stock-dove built its nest; The rippling stream and the hermit's cell, Its green and shady crest. The stately home 'neath the elms so tall, The lawn with its cool bright turf; The old peach tree by the garden wall, Each has its own sweet worth. For my head is bent with the weight of years, As white as the falling snow; My stream of life through this vale of tears Will soon have ceased to flow. The pewter pots were shining on the shelves behind the bar, Like the gold and silver lining of a sunset cloud afar, And the pine log fire burned brightly with its blaze of light and A cheerful, ruddy glamor lighted up the tavern walls, And, shooting through the open door, lit up the silent halls, To where the old clock's pendulum swung slowly to and fro, With measured beat, that seemed to speak of the days of long ago. For the jovial face and the merry laugh of the host of yesterday Alone in his chamber he watched the sun slope down to his Western His thoughts were of the days gone by--as the host of the Jolly He had raised his tankard high and drank to the health of the old And the biggest hearted fellow that e'er waved the "Hark! Away!" There was Jones, the hunting parson, with his jovial, ringing laugh, Who could preach a right good sermon and an honest bumper quaff. Then there was Billy Foster, who was only twenty-two, And portly old Judge Horner, who in the room below, Had smoked and drank full many a night in the days of long ago. breath. "Ah! good old friend," the huntsman cried, "since you have called Get down the pewter pots that we may drink a funeral bier-- For I have ridden hard today to reach the Swan this night, And what I ask is nothing more than what is only right." His kinsman, riding up the road, with doctors from afar, Reined up to watch the lights that burned so brightly in the bar; And drank the foaming liquor down, his first and only love. Just then the sound of horses' hoofs the sick man heard without, And he and Death, in one glad breath, sent up a hunting shout-- "It's bold Squire Thornleigh's raw-boned gray, or Parson Jones's Yoick's tally-ho fills loud the room as he springs up from bed, And the bugle horn sounds merrily in the chamber of the dead; Gay prancing steeds and huntsmen bold ride blithely by his side, His kinsmen heard that hunting shout, that old familiar cry, And in they rushed--too late--too late--to see the good man die. Two empty tankards on the floor was all that they could see, And how the host of the Jolly Swan died--is still a mystery. I see thy face, I see thy face. The sea is rolling on the bar, Low hang the clouds, afar, afar, Thy skiff bounds swiftly in the race, Tis death that leads thee, Tamaca. Under the lindens we wandered, Gaily my love and I; Light through the shimmering leaflets Fell like a kiss from the sky. On to her soft, golden tresses, Into her eyes divine, Smothered her form with caresses, Blended her shadow with mine. Under the lindens we wandered; Fifty years had gone by; Light through the cold, naked branches Fell like a pall from the sky. Old and forsaken, our children Had left us to starve and to die; But we lived in the past one sweet moment 'Neath the lindens, my love and I. Mine to-night, For tomorrow's light Our dream will end, and waking bring dull pain. Oh! the happy past, Far too sweet to last, For 'tis decreed we shall not meet again. In thy dear eyes My heaven lies, And yet forever I must say good-bye; With your lips to mine, And my heart to thine, With this last embrace would God I could die. Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. The woodbine turns to listen to thy voice; The subtle beauty of such love as ours Makes every living thing rejoice. Blending sweet heaven with our earthly love, Locked in each other's arms, our prayers to God Rise from our souls unto his throne above In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him. Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. The nightingale doth listen in the grove To music sweeter than the breath of flowers, Unto the melody of love. Holy as triumphs of an angel hand, Strained heart to heart, for love is God's command, Mute in the fulness of our joy, we stand In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him. We were alone--my wife and I-- God from above looked down on us, Never a word did either speak, Dry lay the salt from the tears on her cheek, Joy was afar from us. Silence held sway, the sin was mine, Pride was my sin--alas! for me, Pride that strangled the man within, That silenced the truth and increased my sin, She had done naught to me. Someone's speaking. Who dares intrude? Reckless being, away from here. "Reckless"--that little form in white? Clinging to her, crying "Mother, good night!" Low hung my head in shame. "Mother," I cried, "can you forgive?" With faltering step I went to her, And never a word did mother speak, But the salt grew wet on her glowing cheek, And joy came back to us. May I take your hand in mine, For this fairy-like retreat In the country fresh and sweet, Is what I've longed to meet, Yes, I came here from the town, Without an aim in view, I have roved the country through, And by chance I've met with you, You were born upon the farm, Why, how happy you must be In the country pure and free! I am filled with ecstasy, Do I like the city belles, Well! some I do, and yet, Why you needn't pout and fret, For I am still to let, I am longing for a kiss, Yes, I'm asking with my eyes In a tongue that never lies, And in words I can't disguise, Oh! is what I say quite true, Ah! Why should Phyllis doubt With that pretty little pout? I know what I'm about, Now what age am I, you ask, Well, I've just turned twenty-two, And I'd like to marry you. Now, I'm married. Ah! Who to? That little Miss. Though strong emotion sweeps the heart, Though anguish wings the brow, Hold back the words whose cruel smart Hurts no one worse than thou Pause, pause until the morrow brings Reflection, thoughts more kind, Then from calm reason's crystal springs Distill from out thy mind. A wound received from warrior's sword May heal within a day, But the wound of some light, thoughtless word May be a wound for aye. Goodnight, my love, a fond goodnight, The moon shines down on thee. But soon that cloud shall hide its light, And thy dear face from me, And thy dear face from me. Goodnight again, my beauteous flower, Farewell, my gentle dove; The night speeds on, 'tis now the hour When we must part, my love-- When we must part, my love. Sleep, softly sleep, luxurious rest, Sweet dreams, dear love, be thine. May each unconscious thought be blest With love, sweet love of mine-- Goodnight, sweet love of mine. Avaunt! ye tears, 'tis not the soul That crumbles 'neath the grassy sod. Now dost thou learn how vain to weep, When death means, "God"? Tasmania, a large, beautiful island to the southeast of Australia, when discovered by Van Dieman, was peopled with a magnificent race of savages, resembling somewhat the American Indian. Civilization, with its attendant advantages and evils, proved too much for the primitive child of the forest. The last Tasmanian, a woman, died in 1885, and the once splendid race is now extinct. Alone she sits, nor marks the dying day. Alone on earth, she bows her weary head, And dusky spirits bear her soul away; A race extinct. The last Tasmanian dead. Where are thy dark sons, Tasmania, Tasmania? Where are the lords who once swayed o'er thy shore? Gone to their fathers; Oh! weep ye, Tasmania, Weep for the race thou shalt see never more. Weep for the race on thy fair bosom nourished, Tutored by nature, untrammeled, so free; Kings of thy green hills and valleys they flourished, Kings who now sleep in their graves by the sea. Proud were the race who knew not their beginning, To whom the long past was as sealed as their fate, Who counted their seasons when insects were winging, The time by the shadows, the suns for their date. Skilled were thy dark sons, Tasmania! Tasmania! Virtuous, gentle and peaceful their ways; Till civilization o'ertook thee, Tasmania, And civilized habits renumbered their days. Set is the sun of thy people, Oh, country! Strangers now trample unawed o'er they race; Forgotten, the dusky-hued sons that a century Past were the monarchs of all thy sweet place. Soft may they sleep by thy shores, Oh! Tasmania, Where sea-dirges swell for the child of the past; Sleep as thy guardian spirits, Tasmania, Hovering round thy dear land to the last. Tall elms on either side with stately heads, With here and there an oak of ancient days, Sweet briar hedges flanked with clover beds, In which the feathered songster trills his lays. Lord, my poor heart, with sadness now is breaking, Longing for light, that I may find belief, Aching for rest from these tumultuous doubtings, Seeking to find the path that leads to peace. But Oh! dear Lord, my soul refuses comfort; Vainly I strive for the goal beyond this sad, sweet world. Rest for eternity. Grant then, Oh! Lord, the enlightenment of sorrow, That gentle faith which comes through grief alone; Ripened in hours of darkest tribulation, When my poor soul stood face to face with Thee. On her beautiful puoka (head) Hung her raven-black rauoko (hair) While love filled her mokoikoi (heart) Her alabaster kiri (skin) Gleamed on her kapu hivi (shoulder). And her petticoats came down to her kuri (knee). Sweet was her aerero (tongue); White were her even niho (teeth), And graceful her kakari munava (waist); Voluptuous her ngutu (lips) And shapely were her heru (legs). Well developed were her kiko ua-ua (muscles). Oh, this maid of Rapa Nin (island) Bore a rima tuhi hana (ring). Beloved was she by a tangala (man), Who in his little vaka (boat) Caught a wedding gift of ika (fish) And breathed his tale of love in her ringa (ear). Here lies a body whose majestic grace Drew from his fellow-man unstinted praise; Who lured emotion from her hiding place, And thrilled the world with deeds of other days. He that possessed, which unto Art is dear, A grand conception of unvarnished truth; He oft provoked a smile, more oft a tear, Sublime and beauteous in his manly youth. Full in the zenith of his great renown, God gave to him his final part to play; While Death untimely rung the curtain down On that great scene where man doth pass away. The rustling leaves soft whisper o'er his head, And robins fill the air with sweetest sound; Within the theatre of the mighty dead The actor sleeps beneath the sacred ground. There are sounds of martial music, But the laugh is hushed within, As the soldier boys march bravely down the street; A little child is weeping, As she listens to the din, Of kettle-drum and tramp of many feet. "Oh! my papa! Oh! my papa!" Wailed the tiny little mite. "You have gone and left poor mamma all alone; Come back, my darling papa, Oh! do come home tonight, And see how good your little girl has grown. "I won't be naughty, papa, And I won't make any noise, When papa's head is aching him so bad; I will walk about so quietly And put away my toys, Your little girl won't make her father sad." But the tiny voice fell empty, On the shadows in the room, And the music in the distance fainter grew; This is but a single instance Of the scenes within the gloom, Which the loved ones left behind are passing through. With eyes upcast to the glistening stars, Full of a strange mysterious awe, I watch the lights on the heavenly bar, And think of the ships that are sailing in, Cargoless, empty, their voyage in vain. Born on some distant mountain top, A happy wanderer from its birth, From stone to stone with merry laugh It dances o'er its mother earth. Then with some gathering streamlet meets, With bubbling laughter on they fling Their glittering sprays through sweet retreats, And cool abodes of sylvan king. The mighty river next appears, And to its arms the youngsters race, Then separate with baby tears, While current marshalls each in place. And last the ocean heaves in view, Then dies for aye the streamlet's span; Death is the ocean, all life through, Whose outstretched arms wait every man. Dry thine eyes, love; cease thy weeping, For thy boy will soon be sleeping Safe within the angels' keeping-- Dry thine eyes. Hold my hand; the tide is flowing, Down the stream my boat is going, On the banks the kine are lowing, In the skies. See, my love, the shadows creeping, Round my bed while I am sleeping, List! I hear a sound of weeping! Now it dies. Raise me up, the day is breaking; Streaks of gray proclaim its waking; Sleep my weary eyes forsaking, In the light. Raise me up that I may, nearer, Watch the shades becoming clearer; Ebbing life seems growing dearer. But my sight Fails again; the sombre fretting Changes now to golden netting. See! the blood-red sun is setting! Love, good-night. Unto God my soul is winging; I can hear the angels singing; Joy bells overhead are ringing! Dry thine eyes. When aloft two young hearts are soaring To those realms of pleasure and pain, The law and the prophets ignoring, There's a something recalls them again. And the truths that we see in reflection, Sad but sweetly encircle the soul, For honor's more kind than affection That creates, then destroys the loved goal. Orb of some mighty potent power In thine exalted sphere, Thy soft light maketh sweet the hour Within the fairy woodland bower, To maidenhood, so dear. Empress of Night, thy beauteous spell Superb and matchless given, Thy light the lover loves so well, The gentle tale of old to tell While earth becomes, his Heaven. Luna, thou goddess of the night, Chaste harbinger of love, I feel in thy sweet fairy light My heart again grow glad and bright, When thou dost ride above. Awake, fond heart, to life again, For why should sorrow ever Enshroud the past with endless pain, Cause bitter tears to flow in vain For those passed o'er the river? The dead are gone--they ne'er return, Life's troubles here are ended; And though to see them back we yearn, Christ's teachings lead us to discern 'Tis not what God intended. Who can the curtain thrust aside, Or gaze through Death's dark portals? Short space on earth doth each abide, Then comes his call to swell the tide, Whose waves are dying mortals. We all must die, mayhap this night Our souls are drifting thither, Where those dear loved ones lost to sight Await us there in glory bright, Across the shining river. Dead in his chair. The sun's expiring rays With crimson glow lights up the rigid face, And in the unclosed eyes that look afar A blood-red sunbeam finds a resting place. Dead! with the pen still clutched in pulseless hand, "Dear wife," sole words before his sightless gaze. One nerveless arm hangs strangely by the chair, While at his frozen feet a kitten plays. Dead! Can it be, with children's shouts without? So still he sits. How painful is the light, And deeper glows the crimson on his face, The sun has set, Goodnight. The funeral march, it suiteth not my mood, Its Stygian tones are those on which men brood. Beyond its solemn measure lies the tomb, And shades dissolving in eternal gloom. Nay! rather let me hear some lively air, Whose Springtime notes suggest a morning fair, Filled with the pulsing joys that life can give, On this old earth, for oh! 'tis sweet to live. The corn may spring, the corn may spring, And thou beside the river walk; Yet sad must be the song you sing, A withered flower on the stalk. The elms overhead are sighing, The solemn rooks around are flying, And once 'twas here we walked alone, In that sweet hush of eventide, Before thy heart had turned to stone, Before thy love for me had died. The elms overhead are sighing, The solemn rooks around are flying, Beyond the fence in peace I sleep, And soughing breezes kiss my grave. I hear my name, and thou dost weep, For I was fair and thou wert brave. The elms overhead are sighing, The solemn rooks around are flying, I hear thee coming through the gate, I feel thee kneeling at my head. I hear thy cry, "Too late! Too late!" I love her now and she is dead. The elms overhead are sighing, The solemn rooks around are flying, I'll sing you a song about great Attila, A mighty man was he. He was King of the Huns, had seventy sons, And daughters one hundred and three, three, three, All nations vowed him a very fine fellow, With them he couldn't agree; One Autumn so mellow, he conquered Torcello A. D. four hundred and forty-three, So he left a son to watch over the place, Though round it flowed the sea, And all over the place sprang the Kingly race Of Torcellani--that's me, me, me, Midst pastoral lands and purling recluse streams There dwells the maiden queen of recreant dreams, Gentian by name, a maid most wondrous fair, With eyes like astral and her glorious hair, Tangled with moonbeams, disputes the right Of other garb to veil the beauteous sight. Her skin, as white as Ida's Cretean snow, Outlines a form of soft voluptuous flow Of grace majestic, contours fair to see, Exquisite in their matchless symmetry; While, crowning all, a sweet and noble grace Marks every movement and o'erspreads her face. And having this described this noctal flower, The Muse will now define sweet Gentian's power. From out her bower of amaranthine hue She peers with eyes of soft, exquisite blue, And breathing gently, like a zephyr's kiss, Enjoys alone the core of perfect bliss. Queen of a land, to every mortal given A glimpse, at least, of what perchance is heaven; Queen of a land of terror, shame and crime, From life to death, and all that marketh time. Queen of a land more wondrous than our own Sweet Gentian reigns, and sways the realm alone. Mistress of nations, every soul on earth Becomes her vassal at the hour of birth. Kings are her subjects, as the peasant boy, And brilliant minds with her a fancy toy. Once steeped in sleep, all minds become as one, For Gentian's spell o'er man has then begun. No longer cares of base terrestrial clay Torment the soul with visions of the day. Earth is no more, the river crossed is deep, Man dies each time his head is bowed in sleep, And Gentian paints the sphere to suit her mind Capricious as the sex of womankind. Now steeped in bliss she leads the love-sick swain And gives the kiss for which he sighed in vain. The maid who but that morn his glances fled Caresses lovingly his restless head. The hapless poet who is lost to fame Hears in his sleep his own illustrious name, And, laurel crowned, looks back with scornful eye Into a past of mean obscurity. The ship-wrecked boy on some far distant shore In happy dreamland sees his home once more, His mother's face aglow with pride and joy As to her breast she clasps her sailor boy, And summer seas beat on the golden sand That forms the shore of Gentian's wonderland. The ruined merchant's heart again grows light, As fortune smiles on him at dead of night, And sheriff's sales and judgment notes confessed No longer break the weary toiler's rest. Proudly he says, "My word is now my bond," And coins the yellow dross with Gentian's wand. The holy man, by church ordained a priest, In dreams partaketh of the merry feast, And sparkling glances when the hour is late Make roguish havoc with the celibate. "Avaunt!" he cries, "such joys are not for me." And wakes in prayer upon his bended knee. The scientist retires with addled brain To dream his fretful genius o'er again, When from Cimmerian darkness breaks a light The Atlantic bridged bursts on his 'stonished sight. And then his mind is turned to stranger things, As up he soars on his invented wings. Begrimed with coal, the miner goes to rest And sharp-drawn breaths inflate his manly chest. Sudden, the clothes are rudely thrust aside, His eyes with terror now stand open wide; The roof is falling, God! the whole mine shakes! A loud explosion, 'tis a dream, he wakes. A little elf, a girl, a tiny tot, With waxen face, indents the baby cot, And visions fair regale her infant sight Of cakes and candy through the silent night. Sleep, little angel, Gentian marks thy worth, A sleeping child, the sweetest thing on earth. 'Midst dirt and filth, at night the city gloom Steals weird and sickly to a garret room, Where, breathing hard upon a mattress bare, A girlish form is outlined sleeping there. One of the lost, polluted, base, defiled, Yet once she slept, a little angel child. And now she moves, sweet Gentian enters in, And she is pure again and free from sin. The dry, parched lips with innocence now speak, And balmy breezes fan the fevered cheek. The little white-washed cottage standeth near And mother's voice sounds sweetly on her ear, While from the fields the scent of new mown hay Comes strong and lusty at the close of day. Her little sisters and her brothers wait For her to join them at the garden gate, And in her sleep her laugh is undefiled, For she is once again a little child. The anxious farmer sees his fallow land Yield heavy crops beneath the reaper's hand, And barren orchards bend beneath the weight Of golden fruit, 'twas joy to cultivate. No landlord's agent doth his peace invade. He dreams of ownership, and taxes paid. The country parson turns and twists in bed, As mighty thoughts run rampant through his head. He mounts the village pulpit wreathed in smiles, And proudly gazes down the crowded aisles. Forgot is life, with its unvarnished views And vault-like echoes from the empty pews, The church is filled, his lips now move in prayer, And touched is every heart that's gathered there. Not satisfied, his sermon follows next, And from a flower he takes his simple text. Now thrills his audience with his eloquence, And marvels greatly at his common sense; And as he speaks with love of our dear Lord, He sees ahead his well-earned, just reward. A scholar, preacher, helper of the sick, He gets at last a lawn-sleeved bishopric, But soon as he the pastoral crosier takes, The country parson to himself awakes. The hapless monarch on his bed of down His mind expands with liberty of thought, And heart proclaims his king-ship dearly bought. In sleep alone, his deep-drawn sighs confess His heart's desire, domestic happiness. "Domestic happiness," sweet Gentian sings, "Belongs to laborers, and not to kings." And so she bids us with a graceful ease Assume a virtue of some dread disease, Which pleases best the tricky fairy's mind, Who hurts so much and yet can be so kind. Well do we know how perfect is her will Who makes us love the rival we would kill, Or vice versa, which more awful seems She makes us kill our rival in our dreams. Ah! gentle Gentian, what a power is thine, To be so cruel and yet so divine. There is a grandeur in the man, Who views with calm that endless sleep; Who looks beyond the taking off, Conceives the goal beyond the deep. Life is a sarcasm rare, It stands in a class of its own, While love thrills the heart of the fair Decay is at work on the bone. That instant the clasp is undone The mantle of life slips away, And beauty men worshipped of yore Becomes but inanimate clay. There's reason in all things save death, And no one knows why that should be; What is there mysterious in breath, That it should so suddenly flee? Nay, ask not the bent, aged form, The cripple, the starving, the weak, But he whose life-blood courses warm, With health in his eye, on his cheek. Go ask him what thinks he of death, He will laugh in his heart for reply, With sarcasm bating his breath, He will tell you he's ready to die. "Your soul! your soul!" the preachers cry. "What is a soul?" is man's reply. "To know his soul, must man not die?" "What is a soul?" I'm glad you ask. The soul is life, the form, the mask. The answer was not such a task. The soul is in the ambient air, Down in the earth, in landscape fair. 'Tis in the sea, 'tis everywhere. To know his soul man must not die, For 'tis the life he liveth by, Connecting him with God on high. Theme by uncounted thousands written, Theme that bewildered all their senses, Theme on which vapory thought condenses; Stupendous, contradictory, thrilling, A most mysterious part fulfilling; An endless night that has no morning, Though millions tear-dimmed wait its dawning; A theme divine, in doubt distressing, A curse to some, to more a blessing; Where life began--and where it ceases? The more we think the light decreases. Conflicting doubts half smother reason, Which complicates with age and season, Until, with aching brain confessing, The greatest sage returns to guessing. Happy that simple-hearted creature Who in the Bible finds a teacher. Oh! Death sublime, the end of our tempestuous struggle here, Enfolding arms, and breast on which to lay our troubled head, Eternal Gates! through which we turn our face from earthly cares, And when the curfew of our life Proclaims that even-tide has come, And peaceful shadows end the strife, The day is done, The goal is won. Life has been thy courtship, sad thy smile, Persistent wooer, always by my side; Pray leave me with the things of earth awhile, Said I that I e'er loved thee? Then I lied. So weak, dear Lord, so tired, And Thou so great and strong. Wilt Thou not stretch Thine hand to earth, To help a soul along? "Christ was born today!" Hear the joy bells ringing, "Christ was born today!" Hear the children singing. "Christ was born today, Christ was born today!" "Christ was born today!" Hear the love-bells ringing; "Christ was born today!" Hear the old folks singing. "Christ was born today, Christ was born today!" "Christ was born today!" Joy and gladness bringing, "Christ was born today!" All the world is singing. "Christ was born today!" Forever and for aye, "Christ was born today!" I've girded on my armor, To battle for the Lord; Though all the world oppose me, I will uphold His Word. Though tired, wounded, bleeding, My sword still flashes free. I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus, Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me? His name is on my banner In letters writ in gold; The glorious name of JESUS Let all the world behold, And in the mighty combat My leader's face I see. I stand for Thee, Lord Jesus, Wilt Thou, Lord, stand for me? It is the Lord of Heaven tonight Who's speaking unto me, And I can see His radiant light With great intensity. He's here beside me now, He takes my trembling hands. Shout out--let all the world shout out, My Saviour understands. Many there are who would love to see Things as they are, Things as they are. Life is not what we want it to be. Not what we want it to be: God, give us light, God, give us sight, God, send us peace ere the coming of night. Many there are who desire to do That which is right, That which is right. Vainly we strive with this end in view, Strive with this end in view: Strength to us send, Be our Protector, dear Lord, to the end. Through all the bitter cares of life, One sadder sight I see; My own dear Saviour, on the Cross, Who died on Calvary. What are my aches to His? Then why should I despair? The One who gave His life for all Will help our Cross to bear. Into the valley of my soul, Where deep the shadows lie, There comes a shout from Calvary: "Look upward to the sky! Look up, Oh! fainting heart, His outstretched arms receive; For Christ is coming down to earth, Look up, faint heart! Believe!"

Friedrich Gerstäcker

Ein Parcerie-Vertrag

1816

Tear the red rose to pieces if you will, The soul that is the rose you may not kill; Destroy the page, you may, but not the words That share eternal life with flowers and birds. And the least words of Sappho--let them fall, Cast where you will, some bird will rise and call, Some flower unfold in some forsaken spot. Hill hyacinth, or blue forget-me-not. Aphrodite, serene Weaver of spells, at thy portal Hear me and slay not, O Queen! As in the past, hither to me From thy far palace of gold, Drawn by the doves that o'erflew me, Come, as thou earnest of old. Swiftly thy flock bore thee hither, Smiling, as turned I to thee, Spoke thou across the blue weather, "Sappho, why callest thou me?" "Sappho, what Beauty disdains thee, Sappho, who wrongest thine heart, Sappho, what evil now pains thee, Whence sped the dart? "Flies from thee, soon she shall follow, Turns from thee, soon she shall love, Seeking thee swift as the swallow, Ingrate though now she may prove." Come, once again to release me, Join with my fire thy fire, Freed from the torments that seize me, Give me, O Queen! my desire! That man, whoever he may be, Who sits awhile to gaze on thee, Hearing thy lovely laugh, thy speech, Throned with the gods he seems to me; For when a moment to mine eyes Thy form discloses, silently I stand consumed with fires that rise Like flames around a sacrifice. Sight have I none, bells out of tune Paler than grass in later June, Yet daring all (To thee I come). O Muse, upon thy golden throne, Far in the azure, fair, alone. Sing what the Teian sweetly sang,-- The Teian sage whose lineage sprang Where blooms the myrtle in the gay Land of fair women far away. I loved thee, Atthis, once, once long ago. Goddess of Cyprus come (where beauty lights The way) and serve in cups of gold these lips With nectar, mixed by love with all delights Of golden days, and dusk of amorous nights. I have a daughter, Clais fair, Poised like a golden flower in air, Lydian treasures her limbs outshine (Clais, beloved one, Clais mine!) Pandion's daughter--O fair swallow, Why dost thou weary me-- (Where should I follow?) Sweet mother, at the idle loom I lean, Weary with longing for the boy that still Remains a dream of loveliness--to fill My soul, my life, at Aphrodite's will. Workmen lift high The beams of the roof, Like Ares from sky Comes the groom to the bride. Than men who must die Stands he taller in pride, Children astray to their mothers, and goats to the herd, Sheep to the shepherd, through twilight the wings of the bird, All things that morning has scattered with fingers of gold, All things thou bringest, O Evening! at last to the fold. Maidenhood! Maidenhood! where hast thou gone from me. I shall return to thee, I who have gone from thee, never again. The stars around the fair moon fade Against the night, When gazing full she fills the glade And spreads the seas with silvery light. Cool murmur of water through apple-wood Troughs without number The whole orchard fills, whilst the leaves Lend their music to slumber. With flowers fair adorn thy lustrous hair, Dica, amidst thy locks sweet blossoms twine, With thy soft hands, for so a maiden stands Accepted of the gods, whose eyes divine Are turned away from her--though fair as May She waits, but round whose locks no flowers shine. What country maiden charms thy heart, However fair, however sweet, Who has not learned by gracious Art To draw her dress around her feet? As on the hills the shepherds trample the hyacinth down, Staining the earth with darkness, there where a flower has blown. Hateful my face is to thee, Hateful to thee beyond speaking, Atthis, who fliest from me Like a white bird Andromeda seeking. As wind upon the mountain oaks in storm, So Eros shakes my soul, my life, my form. He who is fair is good to look upon; He who is good is fair, though youth be gone. Over the fisher Pelagon Meniscus his father set The oar worn by the wave, the trap, and the fishing net;-- For all men, and for ever, memorials there to be Of the luckless life of the fisher, the labourer of the sea. This is the dust of Tunas, who, unwed, Passed hence to Proserpina's house of gloom. In mourning all her sorrowing playmates shed Their curls and cast the tribute on her tomb. Dead shalt thou lie for ever, and forgotten, For whom the flowers of song have never bloomed; A wanderer amidst the unbegotten, In Hades' house a shadow ay entombed. Death is an evil, for the gods choose breath; Had Death been good the gods had chosen Death. Seet violet-weaving Sappho, whose soft smile My tongue should free, Lo, I would speak, but shame holds me the while I gaze on thee. Hadst thou but felt desire of noble things, Hadst not thy tongue proposed to speak no good, Thy words had not been destitute of wings, Nor shame thine eyes subdued. Then the full globed moon arose, and there The women stood as round an altar fair. And thus at times, in Crete, the women there Circle in dance around the altar fair; In measured movement, treading as they pass With tender feet the soft bloom of the grass. All delicacy unto me is lovely, and for me, Thy wings are as the midday fire, Thy splendour as the sun above. Like the sweet apple that reddens At end of the bough-- Far end of the bough-- Left by the gatherer's swaying, Forgotten, so thou. Nay, not forgotten, ungotten, Ungathered (till now). Methinks hereafter in some later spring Echo will bear to men the songs we sing. For thee, unto the altar will I lead A white goat-- To the altar by the sea; And there, where waves advance and waves recede, A full libation will I pour for thee. Friend, face me so and raise Unto my face thy face, Unto mine eyes thy gaze, Unto my soul its grace. The moon has set beyond the seas, And vanished are the Pleiades; Half the long weary night has gone, Time passes--yet I lie alone. I think not with these two White arms to touch the blue. Singing, O shell, divine! Let now thy voice be mine. Never on any maiden, the golden sun shall shine, Never on any maiden whose wisdom matches thine. I spoke with Aphrodite in a dream. When anger stirs thy breast, (For words, once spoken, rest Beyond recall). (Where the willows sigh The call still comes Through spring's sweet mystery.) They say, 'neath leaf and blossom Leda found in the gloom An egg, white as her bosom, Under an iris bloom. Now Love has bound me, trembling, hands and feet, O Love so fatal, Love so bitter-sweet. Come to me, O ye graces, Delicate, tender, fair; Come from your heavenly places, Muses with golden hair. If love thou hast for me, not hate, Arise and find a younger mate; For I no longer will abide Where youth and age lie side by side. From heaven returning; Red of hue, his chlamys burning Against the blue. Upstanding, as the Lesbian singer stands Above the singers of all other lands. Voiceless I speak, and from the tomb reply Unto AEthopia, Leto's child, was I Vowed by the daughter of Hermocleides, O virgin queen, unto my prayer incline, Bless him and cast thy blessing on our line. Bride, around whom the rosy loves are flying, Sweet image of the Cyprian undying, The bed awaits thee; go, and with him lying, Give to the groom thy sweetness, softly sighing. May Hesperus in gladness pass before thee, And Hera of the silver throne bend o'er thee. Ambrosia there was mixed, and from his station Hermes the bowl for waiting gods outpoured; Then raised they all their cups and made oblation, Blessing the bridegroom (by the bride adored). Tender Adonis stricken is lying. Beat your breasts, maidens, Adonis is dying, Rending your garments (the white fragments strew). With eyes of darkness, The sleep of night. Thy form is lovely and thine eyes are honeyed, O'er thy face the pale Clear light of love lies like a veil. Bidding thee rise, With outstretched hands, Before thee Aphrodite stands. Joy born of marriage thou provest, Bridegroom thrice blest, Holding the maiden thou lovest Clasped to thy breast. Those unto whom I have given, These have my heart most riven. Upon thy girl friend's white and tender breast, Sleep thou, and on her bosom find thy rest. Phaon, most lovely, closest to my heart, Can your dear eyes forget, or must I stand Confessed in name, beloved that thou art, Lost to my touch and in another land. Sappho now calls thee, lyre and Lyric Muse Forgotten, and the tears born of her wrongs Blinding her eyes, upturned but to refuse Phoebus, the fountain of all joyous songs. I burn, as when in swiftness, past the byres, Flame takes the corn, borne by the winds that blow; For what are AEtna's flames to my desires, Thou, who by AEtna wanderest, O Thou! The Lyric Muse has turned, as I from her, Peace, Peace alone can join us once again, The blue sea in its solitude lies fair, But, desolate, I turn from it in pain. My blameless love for them is now no more, Before my love for thee all loves depart, Cold wanderer thou upon a distant shore. O thou art lovely! wert thou garbed like him, Apollo by thy side a shade would be. Garland thy tresses with the ivy dim And Bacchus would be less himself, by thee. Apollo, yet, who bent, as Bacchus fell, One to the Cretan, one to Daphne's fire, Beside me, what are they? I cast my spell O'er seas and lands, the music of my lyre Echoes across the world where mortals dwell, Renders the earth in tune with my desire. Alcaeus strikes Olympus with his song, Boldly and wild his music finds its star. Unto the human does my voice belong And Aphrodite smiles on me from far. Have I no charms? has genius lost her touch To turn simplicity to beauty's zone? Am I so small, whose towering height is such That in the world of men I stand alone? Yea, I am brown--an AEthiopian's face Turned Perseus from his path, a flame of fire. White doves or dark, which hath the finer grace? Are they not equal, netted by desire? If by no charm except thine own sweet charm Thou can'st be moved, ah then, alas, for me! Fires of the earth thy coldness will not warm, And Phaon's self must Phaon's lover be. Yet once, ah once! forgetful of the world, You lay engirdled by this world of mine, Those nights remain, be earth to darkness hurled, Deathless, as passion's ecstasy divine. My songs around you were the only birds, My voice the only music, in your fire With kisses, burning yet, you killed my words And found my kisses sweeter than desire. I filled you with delight, when close embraced; In the last act of love I gave you heaven, And yet again, delirious as we faced, And yet again, till in exhaustion, even Love's self half died and nothing more remained, But earth and life half lost, and heaven gained. And now, Sicilian girls--O heart of mine, Why was I born so far from Sicily?-- Sicilian girls, unto my words incline, Beware of smiles, of insincerity, Beware the words that once belonged to me, The fruits of passion and the seeds of grief; O Cyprian by the fair Sicilian sea, Sappho now calls thee, turn to her relief! Shall Fortune still pursue me, luckless one, With hounds of woe pursue me down the years? Sorrow was mine since first I saw the sun, The ashes of my parents knew my tears. My brother cast the gifts of life away For one unworthy of all gifts but gold, Grief follows grief and on this woeful day An infant daughter in my arms I hold. Fates! What more can ye do, what more essay? Phaon! ah yes, he is the last, I know. The first, the all, the grave that once was gay, The dark veil o'er my purple robe ye throw, My curls no more are curls, nor scent the air The gold that bound these locks of mine so fair Has parted for the wind these locks to blow. All arts of love were mine when he was by, Phaon! when I was born, the mystic three Called Aphrodite on my birth to gaze, And then the Cyprian, turning, called on thee To be my fate and fill my dreams and days. Thou for whose sake Aurora's eyes might turn From Cephalus, or Cynthia give thee sleep, Pouring oblivion from night's marble urn, Bidding Endymion to watch thy sheep! --Lo! as I write I weep, and nought appears But Love, half veiled by broken words and tears. You! you! who left me without kiss or tear Or word, to murmur softly like a child Begotten of thy voice, deception were Less cruel far than silence, you who smiled Falsely so often, had you no false phrase-- You who so often had false tales to tell-- No voice there, at the parting of our ways, To say "Farewell, O Love!" or just "Farewell"! I had no gift to give you when you passed, And wrongs were all the gifts received from thee, I had no words to tell you at the last But these: "Forgo not life, forget not me." And when I heard, told by some casual tongue, That thou wert gone, Grief turned me then to stone, Voiceless I stood as though I ne'er had sung, Pulseless and lost, for ever more alone. Without a sigh, without a tear to shed, Grief held me, Grief who has no word to say. Then, rising as one rises from the dead, My soul broke forth as one breaks forth to slay. Rending and wounding all this frame of mine, Cursing the Gods, the moments and the years, Now like the clouds of storm, where lightnings shine, Uplifted, then resolving into tears. Debased, when turns my brother in his scorn My grief to laughter, pointing to my child; Till madness takes me as the fire the corn And, in reviling thee, I stand reviled. Ah! but at night, At night I turn to thee. In dreams our limbs are joined, as flame with flame, In dreams again your arms are girdling me, I taste your soul in joys I blush to name. Ah! but the day that follows on the night, The emptiness that drives me to the plain To seek those spots that knew my lost delight, The grotto that shall shield us not again. Here lies the grass we pressed in deeds of love, Lips, limbs entwined--I kiss the ground to-day. The herbs lie withered, and the birds that move Are songless, and the very trees are grey. Night takes the day and falls upon the groves, The nightingale alone is left to cry, Lamenting, in the song that sorrow loves, To Tereus she calls, to Phaon, I. There is a spring, through whose cool water shows The sand like silver, clear as seen through air. There is a spring, above whose mirror grows A lotus like a grove in flower fair. Here, as I lay in tears, a spirit stood Born of the water, then she called to me, Sappho, pursuing Love, by Grief pursued, Sappho, beside the blue Leucadian sea There stands a rock, and there above the caves, Whose wandering echoes reach Apollo's fane, Down leaping to the blue and breaking waves, Lovers find sleep, nor dream of love again. Deucalion here found ease from Pyrrah's scorn, Sappho arise, and where the sharp cliffs fall, Thy body, that had better not been born, Cast to the waves, the blue, blue waves that call. I rise, and weeping silently, I go. My fear is great, my love is greater still. Better oblivion than the love I know, Kinder than Phaon's is the blue wave's will. Ye favouring breezes, guard me on this day, Love, lend your pinions, waft me o'er the sea Where, lovely Phoebus, on thy shrine I'll lay My lyre, with this inscription unto thee: "Sappho to Phoebus consecrates her lyre, Unto the God the gift, the fire to fire." But must I go? O Phaon, Phoebus' self to me is less Than Phaon--will you cast me down below All broken, for the cruel rocks to press This breast, that loved thee, ruined?--Ah! the song Born of the Muses leaves me and the lyre Is voiceless--they no more to me belong, And in this darkness dies the heavenly fire. No more the groves shall answer to my song, No more these hands shall wake the lyre to tell Of Love, of Life--to Phaon they belong, And he has fled. O Loveliness, return, Make once again my soul to sing in joy, Feed once again this heart with fires that burn, Gods! can no prayers avail but to destroy, No songs bring back the lost, no sighs recall The lost that was my love, my life, my all? Return! Return! Raise to the wind thy sail, Across the sea bring back to me the years, Eros shall lend to thee the favouring gale, The track is sure where Aphrodite steers. Let thy white sail be lifted on the rim Of sky that marks the dark dividing seas. Failing that far-off sail, remain the dim Blue depths where once Deucalion found release. Failing that far-off sail, the waves shall give Death, or Forgetfulness, whilst still I live.

Various

The American Joe Miller A Collection of Yankee Wit and Humor

All rights reserved INTRODUCTORY NOTE xi APPLE BLOSSOMS, _Carbon photograph (page 294)_ _Frontispiece_ WILD APPLE TREE, _Colored plate_ excursion to Canada with his friend Ellery Channing, and sent his swallowed and digested." Thoreau appears to have taken Greeley's FRIEND THOREAU.... I am sorry you and C. cannot agree so as to have your whole MS. printed. It will be worth nothing elsewhere after having partly appeared in _Putnam's_. I think it is a mistake to conceal the authorship of the several articles, making them all (so to speak) _editorial_; but _if_ that is done, don't you see that the elimination of very flagrant heresies (like your defiant Pantheism) becomes a necessity? If you had withdrawn your MS. on account of the abominable misprints in the first number, your ground would have been far more tenable. However, do what you will. Yours, "Natural History of Massachusetts" was contributed to _The Dial_, publication in _The Dial_. "The Landlord" was printed in _The After his death the interest which had already been growing was Many of Thoreau's poems, including his translations from the brother's death (several appeared in the _Boston Commonwealth_ in collection, however, no more than its predecessors pretends to afternoon. The country was new to me beyond Fitchburg. In Ashburnham and military trees appeared very numerous, for our rapid progress Westmore-land, as if it were purely American, and he had made a Ludlow, Mount Holly, and beyond, there is interesting mountain scenery, not rugged and stupendous, but such as you could easily latter with rosy spots or cheeks only, blushing on one side like canopy, as under a tent whose curtain is raised. As you approach Lake Champlain you begin to see the New York another day. accompanying a war-party of the Canadian Indians against the fertile in corn, such as I have eaten in this country, with an The number of French-Canadian gentlemen and ladies among the political reasons; and therefore we were tied to our seats. The impression of a seaport,--to which ships of six hundred tons can hurrahed their welcome; first the broadcloth, then the homespun. hardly long enough for an airing, and then filled with a bustling inferior. "Truth never fails her servant, sir, nor leaves him With the day's shame upon him." I was obliged to frame some sentences that sounded like French in comparison that it is the fruit of the sweet viburnum (_Viburnum Lentago_), which with us rarely holds on till it is ripe. interesting object. I heard something in the night about the boat farmhouses are never above five arpents, and sometimes but three thousand natives of Ireland; one thousand five hundred natives of constructed. Keeping on about a mile we came to the Plains of manoeuvred very well, and if the precision of their movements was stationed at Gibraltar. As if his regiment, having perchance been horses were introduced in 1665. morning, we were taking a walk in Canada, in the Seigniory of Beauport, a foreign country, which a few days before had seemed almost as far off as England and France. Instead of rambling to atmosphere that made me think of the fur-trade, which is so My pack, in fact, was soon made, for I keep a short list of those foot-traveler is made with a handkerchief, or, if he study particular, but everywhere where our umbrella and bundle were. It established through the politeness of all parties, that we were After breakfast we proceeded to the fall, which was within half a mountain-ash with its berries. Every emigrant who arrives in this magnificently in a vast white sheet, making its contribution with Hierosme Lalemant says in 1648, in his Relation, he being Superior: "All those who come to New France know well enough the inhabitants see little or nothing of the world over the walls of quarter of a mile from the road, to the top of the bank, to find Canadians of those days, at least, possessed a roving spirit of adventure which carried them further, in exposure to hardship and authorities had taken the right steps to prevent the youth from ranging the woods (_de courir les bois_), they would have had an excellent militia to fight the Indians and English. The road in this clayey-looking soil was exceedingly muddy in characteristic winter dress of the Canadian, and I have since Catholic Church. The churches were very picturesque, and their counterpart has existed in Normandy for a thousand years. At the friar-like personage, in his sacerdotal robe, appeared. To our touching your hat, you may go smoothly through all Canada East. A arbor-vitae, firs, birches, beeches, two or three kinds of maple, At twilight we reached a bridge over a little river, the boundary When we inquired here for a _maison publique_ we were directed provisions; and there were no taverns, because there were no In the morning, after a breakfast of tea, maple-sugar, bread and butter, and what I suppose is called _potage_ (potatoes and meat boiled with flour), the universal dish as we found, perhaps the carpenter who made the church. There were one or two villagers at Catholic country, and there was no trace of any other religion. I competent to say; I only know that it is not made impure by being The falls, which we were in search of, are three miles up the St. channels, how far down I do not know, but far enough for all our comparatively untrodden wilderness. names, it was they. They have preceded the pioneer on our own frontiers, and named the _prairie_ for us. _La Riviere au Chien_ Yet the impression which this country made on me was commonly withal,--notwithstanding what I have said about Hudson's Bay,--it _Bartholomy_, etc., etc.; as if it needed only a little foreign Germany. I could not at once bring myself to believe that the inhabitants who pronounced daily those beautiful and, to me, significant names lead as prosaic lives as we of New England. In though we saw and heard of but this one. Ask the inhabitants respecting any stream, if there is a fall on it, and they will perchance tell you of something as interesting as Bashpish or the writing what was otherwise unintelligible. The geography getting thenceforward went on swimmingly, by turns handling the chalk and long-handled griddle, and commenced a series of revolutions and flannel, and homespun, or _petite etoffe_. place,"--a right which, however, is said to be seldom exercised. churches," etc.,--a tax to which they are not subject if the The population which we had seen the last two days--I mean the reluctance of the seigniors and peasants. It has been observed by contrary, that the French in Canada, in many respects, follow the savages who should be brought to the knowledge of the faith, and disappearing in what is called the Saxon current. selling strong water, and collecting its furs, and converting its heroic missionary with the _eau d'immortalite_. It was freedom to There was apparently a greater equality of condition among the regarded as a poor man. From McCulloch's Geographical Dictionary we learn that across; yet the wind was not to be compared with that of the day believe that I was the only visitor then in the city who got in beside the common garden flowers, the usual complement of cannon In short, I observed everywhere the most perfect arrangements for The citadel of Quebec says, "I _will_ live here, and you shan't prevent me." To which you return, that you have not the slightest abandoning the wall around the Upper Town, and confining the fortifications to the citadel of forty acres. Of course they will fortifications in my mind with the dismantled Spanish forts to be government of the country? The inhabitants of California succeed assault the citadel! Why, I should as soon expect to find the You might venture to advertise this farm as well fenced with substantial stone walls (saying nothing about the eight hundred Highlanders and Royal Irish who are required to keep them from principal exports must be _gun_ny bags, verdigris, and iron rust. It was evident that, both on account of the feudal system and the citizen, probably a rebel, there,--certainly if he were already a bottles, and then asked for a bill of fare; was told to walk up continually coming and going with their motley crews and cargoes, crookneck seeds should be such as had grown in Canada. Too much has not been said about the scenery of Quebec. The history, sees the level lines of the citadel amid the cloud-built The most interesting object in Canada to me was the River St. appeared in 1570,--in which the famous cities of "Norumbega" and explorers declared that the summer in that country was as warm as explorers saw many whales and other sea-monsters far up the St. blancs_." Several whales have been taken pretty high up the river hundred and five (?) miles wide. According to Captain Bayfield's broadest estuary of the South American rivers, is ninety-two waterfalls." describe. But we merely slept and woke again to find that we had permitted to be awake in the scenery of a dream. Many vivacious Lombardy poplars along the distant shores gave them a novel and remarkably high wall and higher monument. The family returned to Europe. He could not have imagined how dead he would be in a few extensive island; the noble sea of the St. Lawrence swelling into the southwest," toward that land whither Donnacona had told the Within the circuit of this plodding life, There enter moments of an azure hue, Untarnished fair as is the violet Or anemone, when the spring strews them By some meandering rivulet, which make The best philosophy untrue that aims But to console man for his grievances. I have remembered, when the winter came, High in my chamber in the frosty nights, When in the still light of the cheerful moon, On every twig and rail and jutting spout, The icy spears were adding to their length Against the arrows of the coming sun, How in the shimmering noon of summer past Some unrecorded beam slanted across The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew; Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind, The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill, Its own memorial,--purling at its play Along the slopes, and through the meadows next, Until its youthful sound was hushed at last In the staid current of the lowland stream; Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned, And where the fieldfare followed in the rear, When all the fields around lay bound and hoar Beneath a thick integument of snow. So by God's cheap economy made rich To go upon my winter's task again. seasons, our interest would never tire. Much more is adoing than cheering; men are degraded when considered as the members of a political organization. On this side all lands present only the circumstances. The spruce, the hemlock, and the pine will not pleasure, the sources of the myriad sounds which crowd the summer "We pronounce thee happy, Cicada, For on the tops of the trees, Drinking a little dew, Like any king thou singest, For thine are they all, Whatever thou seest in the fields, And whatever the woods bear. Thou art the friend of the husbandmen, In no respect injuring any one; And thou art honored among men, Sweet prophet of summer. The Muses love thee, And Phoebus himself loves thee, And has given thee a shrill song; Age does not wrack thee, Thou skillful, earthborn, song-loving, Unsuffering, bloodless one; Almost thou art like the gods." Alternate with these if you can. His steady sails he never furls At any time o' year, And perching now on Winter's curls, He whistles in his ear. As the spring advances, and the ice is melting in the river, our Behold, how, Spring appearing, The Graces send forth roses; Behold, how the wave of the sea Is made smooth by the calm; Behold, how the duck dives; Behold, how the crane travels; And Titan shines constantly bright. The shadows of the clouds are moving; The works of man shine; The earth puts forth fruits; The fruit of the olive puts forth. The cup of Bacchus is crowned, Along the leaves, along the branches, The fruit, bending them down, flourishes. feathers of the head and neck. It reminds me of the Argonautic expedition, and would inspire the dullest to take flight over Each summer sound Is a summer round. response and expression for every mood in the depths of the wood. Sometimes I hear the veery's clarion, Or brazen trump of the impatient jay, And in secluded woods the chickadee Doles out her scanty notes, which sing the praise Of heroes, and set forth the loveliness Of virtue evermore. The phoebe still sings in harmony with the sultry weather by the Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays The vireo rings the changes sweet, During the trivial summer days, Striving to lift our thoughts above the street. congregate; you may stand and count them as they fly low and straggling over the landscape, singly or by twos and threes, at intervals of half a mile, until a hundred have passed. Thou dusky spirit of the wood, Bird of an ancient brood, Flitting thy lonely way, A meteor in the summer's day, From wood to wood, from hill to hill, Low over forest, field, and rill, What wouldst thou say? Why shouldst thou haunt the day? What makes thy melancholy float? What bravery inspires thy throat, And bears thee up above the clouds, Over desponding human crowds, Which far below Lay thy haunts low? The late walker or sailor, in the October evenings, may hear the murmurings of the snipe, circling over the meadows, the most It appears from the Report that there are about forty quadrupeds years in this vicinity. Among the rivers which empty into the In the fall, if a meadow intervene between their burrows and the around their lodges in the spring. The Penobscot Indian wears the entire skin of a muskrat, with the The bear, wolf, lynx, wildcat, deer, beaver, and marten have When I see a fox run across the pond on the snow, with the carelessness of freedom, or at intervals trace his course in the expression that it would not be quite inaudible at any distance. I have experienced such simple delight in the trivial matters of "Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud?" Early in the spring, after the ice has melted, is the time for fence. I see the civil sun drying earth's tears, Her tears of joy, which only faster flow. The river swelleth more and more, Like some sweet influence stealing o'er The passive town; and for a while Each tussock makes a tiny isle, Where, on some friendly Ararat, Resteth the weary water-rat. No ripple shows Musketaquid, Her very current e'en is hid, As deepest souls do calmest rest When thoughts are swelling in the breast, And she that in the summer's drought Doth make a rippling and a rout, Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff, Unruffled by a single skiff. But by a thousand distant hills The louder roar a thousand rills, And many a stream with smothered hum, Doth swifter well and faster glide, Though buried deep beneath the tide. Our village shows a rural Venice, Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is; As lovely as the Bay of Naples Yon placid cove amid the maples; And in my neighbor's field of corn I recognize the Golden Horn. Here Nature taught from year to year, When only red men came to hear,-- Methinks 't was in this school of art Venice and Naples learned their part; But still their mistress, to my mind, Her young disciples leaves behind. distinctness, and he enjoys the opportunity which so many have especially the perch, which, his dark bands being exaggerated, purveyor has been there before me; my most delicate experience is hoar-frost as is very uncommon here or anywhere, and whose full winter forever, is waiting to be filled. This foliate structure is common to the coral and the plumage of As confirmation of the fact that vegetation is but a kind of crystallization, every one may observe how, upon the edge of the In the Report on the Invertebrate Animals, this singular fact is That common mussel, the _Unio complanatus_, or more properly _fluviatilis_, left in the spring by the muskrat upon rocks and The works we have placed at the head of our chapter, with as much perfect Indian wisdom. _Reports--on the Fishes, Reptiles, and Birds; the Herbaceous This bird, which is so well described by Nuttall, but is The needles of the pine All to the west incline. Summer and winter our eyes had rested on the dim outline of the With frontier strength ye stand your ground, With grand content ye circle round, Tumultuous silence for all sound, Ye distant nursery of rills, Monadnock, and the Peterboro' hills; Like some vast fleet, Sailing through rain and sleet, Through winter's cold and summer's heat; Still holding on, upon your high emprise, Until ye find a shore amid the skies; Not skulking close to land, With cargo contraband, For they who sent a venture out by ye Their honesty. Ships of the line, each one, Ye to the westward run, Always before the gale, Under a press of sail, With weight of metal all untold. I seem to feel ye, in my firm seat here, Immeasurable depth of hold, And breadth of beam, and length of running gear. Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure In your novel western leisure; So cool your brows, and freshly blue, As Time had nought for ye to do; For ye lie at your length, An unappropriated strength, Unhewn primeval timber, For knees so stiff, for masts so limber; The stock of which new earths are made One day to be our western trade, Fit for the stanchions of a world Which through the seas of space is hurled. While we enjoy a lingering ray, Ye still o'ertop the western day, Reposing yonder, on God's croft, Like solid stacks of hay. Edged with silver, and with gold, The clouds hang o'er in damask fold, And with such depth of amber light The west is dight, Where still a few rays slant, That even heaven seems extravagant. On the earth's edge mountains and trees Stand as they were on air graven, Or as the vessels in a haven Await the morning breeze. I fancy even Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven; And yonder still, in spite of history's page, Linger the golden and the silver age; Upon the laboring gale The news of future centuries is brought, And of new dynasties of thought, From your remotest vale. But special I remember thee, Wachusett, who like me Standest alone without society. Thy far blue eye, A remnant of the sky, Seen through the clearing or the gorge Or from the windows of the forge, Doth leaven all it passes by. Nothing is true, But stands 'tween me and you, Thou western pioneer, Who know'st not shame nor fear By venturous spirit driven, Under the eaves of heaven. And canst expand thee there, And breathe enough of air? Upholding heaven, holding down earth, Thy pastime from thy birth, Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other; May I approve myself thy worthy brother! wayfarer; or in September, when the women and children, and the inhabitants; not _Way_-tatic, _Way_-chusett, but _Wor_-tatic, We could get no further into the Aeneid than -- atque altae moenia Romae, -- and the wall of high Rome, "He shook honey from the leaves, and removed fire, And stayed the wine, everywhere flowing in rivers; That experience, by meditating, might invent various arts By degrees, and seek the blade of corn in furrows, And strike out hidden fire from the veins of the flint." "The sultry sun had gained the middle sky, And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh," "Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way." occasion to remember the small, drooping, bell-like flowers and At intervals we heard the murmuring of water, and the slumberous mountain-ash intermingled, among which we found the bright blue "And he had lain beside his asses, On lofty Cheviot Hills: "And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, Among the rocks and winding _scars_; Where deep and low the hamlets lie Beneath their little patch of sky And little lot of stars." Who knows but this hill may one day be a Helvellyn, or even a Not unconcerned Wachusett rears his head Above the field, so late from nature won, With patient brow reserved, as one who read New annals in the history of man. visible, and numerous sheets of water were brought to light. "Et jam summa procul villarum culmina fumant, Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae." And now the tops of the villas smoke afar off, And the shadows fall longer from the high mountains. things for the statesman and philosopher. The improvements of features in common. There is an unexpected refinement about this confused material of thought, and we found ourselves mechanically "Sweavens are swift, sayd lyttle John, As the wind blows over the hill; For if it be never so loud this night, To-morrow it may be still." "His shoote it was but loosely shott, Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, For it mett one of the sheriffe's men, And William a Trent was slaine." Leaving the Nashua, we changed our route a little, and arrived at Under the one word "house" are included the schoolhouse, the Hospitality shining afar in all countries, as well Mahometan and Who has not imagined to himself a country inn, where the traveler beast." At three miles he passes a cheerless barrack, standing In these retired places the tavern is first of all a inhabitant of the land to him a stranger, and represent its human "A semely man our Hoste was, with alle, For to han been a marshal in an halle. A large man he was, with eyen stepe; A fairer burgeis was ther non in Chepe: Bold of his speche, and wise, and well ytaught, And of manhood him lacked righte naught. Eke thereto was he right a mery man, And after souper plaien he began, And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges, Whan that we hadden made our reckoninges." He is the true house-band, and centre of the company,--of greater proposes that each shall tell a tale to while away the time to "Now, by my fader's soule that is ded, But ye be mery, smiteth of my hed: Hold up your hondes withouten more speche." exempted from taxation and military duty. The wind has gently murmured through the blinds, or puffed with We sleep, and at length awake to the still reality of a winter Silently we unlatch the door, letting the drift fall in, and step The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell, The stiffened air exploring in the dawn, And making slow acquaintance with the day Delaying now upon its heavenward course, In wreathed loiterings dallying with itself, With as uncertain purpose and slow deed As its half-wakened master by the hearth, Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts Have not yet swept into the onward current Of the new day;--and now it streams afar, The while the chopper goes with step direct, And mind intent to swing the early axe. First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad His early scout, his emissary, smoke, The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof, To feel the frosty air, inform the day; And while he crouches still beside the hearth, Nor musters courage to unbar the door, It has gone down the glen with the light wind, And o'er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath, Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill, And warmed the pinions of the early bird; And now, perchance, high in the crispy air, Has caught sight of the day o'er the earth's edge, And greets its master's eye at his low door, As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky. The sun at length rises through the distant woods, as if with the respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, a Puritan toughness. All followed us into that by-place. gathered the robin and the lark. At length, having reached the edge of the woods, and shut out the In this glade covered with bushes of a year's growth, see how the distinct. Water turns to ice, rain to snow. The day is but a Scandinavian night. The winter is an arctic summer. "The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants." The gray squirrel and rabbit are brisk and playful in the remote As the day advances, the heat of the sun is reflected by the perchance, or was the wadding of his gun, sitting on a log in the After two seasons, this rude dwelling does not deform the scene. Already the birds resort to it, to build their nests, and you may scarred edges and veins is its log rolled up. scenery, and as momentous as the conquest of kingdoms. When Winter fringes every bough With his fantastic wreath, And puts the seal of silence now Upon the leaves beneath; When every stream in its penthouse Goes gurgling on its way, And in his gallery the mouse Nibbleth the meadow hay; Methinks the summer still is nigh, And lurketh underneath, As that same meadow mouse doth lie Snug in that last year's heath. And if perchance the chickadee Lisp a faint note anon, The snow is summer's canopy, Which she herself put on. Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees, And dazzling fruits depend; The north wind sighs a summer breeze, The nipping frosts to fend, Bringing glad tidings unto me, The while I stand all ear, Of a serene eternity, Which need not winter fear. Out on the silent pond straightway The restless ice doth crack, And pond sprites merry gambols play Amid the deafening rack. Eager I hasten to the vale, As if I heard brave news, How nature held high festival, Which it were hard to lose. I gambol with my neighbor ice, And sympathizing quake, As each new crack darts in a trice Across the gladsome lake. One with the cricket in the ground, Resounds the rare domestic sound Along the forest path. easiest passage. In winter, nature is a cabinet of curiosities, full of dried specimens, in their natural order and position. The meadows and thought that rivers would be empty and dry in midwinter, or else frozen solid till the spring thawed them; but their volume is not Far over the ice, between the hemlock woods and snow-clad hills, "Drooping the lab'rer ox Stands covered o'er with snow, and _now_ demands The fruit of all his toil." cheerful snow. Is there no religion for the temperate and frigid "The full ethereal round, Infinite worlds disclosing to the view, Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole." Every man is entitled to come to Cattle-Show, even a Therefore, it would seem that I have some title to speak to you attention, for the few moments that are allotted me, to a purely scientific subject. When, hereabouts, a single forest tree or a forest springs up extensive and regular. asserting that they come from seeds, though the mode of their centuries, or perhaps been called into activity by the heat of a planted and raised. regularly planted each year by various quadrupeds and birds. In this neighborhood, where oaks and pines are about equally dispersed, if you look through the thickest pine wood, even the seemingly unmixed pitch pine ones, you will commonly detect many thither, but which are overshadowed and choked by the pines. The immediately spring up to trees. I affirmed this confidently many years ago, and an occasional creation. If the squirrel was killed, or neglected its deposit, a still. After seven or eight years, the hard woods evidently find such a locality unfavorable to their growth, the pines being allowed to stand. As an evidence of this, I observed a diseased red maple oaks,"--"an abstract of the practice adopted by the government I think that I may venture to say that every white pine cone that The nuts thus left on the surface, or buried just beneath it, are gathered, with the husk on, and the heap should be turned over frequently in the course of the winter." instances of this kind. How commonly in the fall you see the disseminating forest trees and other nuciferous and hard-seeded vegetables on which they feed. Their chief employment during the autumnal season is foraging to supply their winter stores. In replant all the cleared lands." states that "very few acorns of any species will germinate after having been kept a year," that beech mast "only retains its vital Several men of science, Dr. Carpenter among them, have used the inland in Maine. extinct plants, it occurred to me last fall that some new or rare unearthed it. A little mysterious hoeing and manuring was all the perchance sprung from America at first, and returned to it with ancestors did here and in France. It is true, we are but faint-hearted crusaders, even the walkers, fourth estate, outside of Church and State and People. We have felt that we almost alone hereabouts practiced this noble "When he came to grene wode, In a mery mornynge, There he herde the notes small Of byrdes mery syngynge. "It is ferre gone, sayd Robyn, That I was last here; Me lyste a lytell for to shote At the donne dere." that--sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, How womankind, who are confined to the house still more than men, evening of life approaches, till at last he comes forth only just But the walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking accompanied by an increased sensibility to certain impressions. When we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods: what would groves and walks of Platanes," where they took _subdiales something out of the woods? I suspect myself, and cannot help a quite familiar to you. I can easily walk ten, fifteen, twenty, any number of miles, commencing at my own door, without going by any house, without Some do not walk at all; others walk in the highways; a few walk Where they once dug for money, But never found any; Where sometimes Martial Miles Singly files, I fear for no good: No other man, O man of wild habits, Partridges and rabbits, Who hast no cares Only to set snares, Who liv'st all alone, Close to the bone, And where life is sweetest Constantly eatest. When the spring stirs my blood With the instinct to travel, I can get enough gravel Nobody repairs it, For nobody wears it; It is a living way, As the Christians say. Not many there be Who enter therein, Only the guests of the What is it, what is it, But a direction out there, And the bare possibility Of going somewhere? Great guide-boards of stone, But travelers none; Cenotaphs of the towns Named on their crowns. It is worth going to see Where you _might_ be. What king Did the thing, I am still wondering; Set up how or when, By what selectmen, They're a great endeavor To be something forever; Blank tablets of stone, Where a traveler might groan, And in one sentence Grave all that is known; Which another might read, In his extreme need. I know one or two Lines that would do, Literature that might stand All over the land, Which a man could remember Till next December, And read again in the spring, After the thawing. If with fancy unfurled You leave your abode, You may go round the world settle,--varies a few degrees, and does not always point due southwest or west. Eastward I go only by force; but westward I go thither; but I believe that the forest which I see in the western wilderness, and ever I am leaving the city more and more, and shoreless sea." It is unmitigated East where they live. We go eastward to realize history and study the works of art and I know not how significant it is, or how far it is an evidence of particular chip, with its tail raised for a sail, and bridging estate here, and, if I were a broker, I should probably take that "Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken strange strondes." paradise, appear to have been the Great West of the ancients, "And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropped into the western bay; At last _he_ rose, and twitched his mantle blue; To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new." confirm his observations. Humboldt came to America to realize his described. The geographer Guyot, himself a European, goes To use an obsolete Latin word, I might say, _Ex Oriente lux; ex Occidente_ FRUX. From the East light; from the West fruit. Sir Francis Head, an English traveler and a Governor-General of broader." This statement will do at least to set against Buffon's without fear of wild beasts. thoughts will be clearer, fresher, and more ethereal, as our sky,--our understanding more comprehensive and broader, like our To Americans I hardly need to say,-- "Westward the star of empire takes its way." Our sympathies in Massachusetts are not confined to New England; though we may be estranged from the South, we sympathize with the Soon after, I went to see a panorama of the Mississippi, and as I Cliff,--still thinking more of the future than of the past or displaced by the children of the northern forests who were. Ben Jonson exclaims,-- "How near to good is what is fair!" So I would say,-- How near to good is what is _wild_! steppes of Tartary say, "On reentering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and turmoil of civilization oppressed and Confucius and the rest, and out of such a wilderness comes the Reformer eating locusts and wild honey. thinking in Hamlet and the Iliad, in all the scriptures and English literature, from the days of the minstrels to the Lake Poets,--Chaucer and Spenser and Milton, and even Shakespeare, surrounding Nature. The West is preparing to add its fables to those of the East. The present,--the poets of the world will be inspired by American mythology. knowledge of a previous state of organic existence." The Hindoos I love even to see the domestic animals reassert their native anger, or aroused by any passion or inspiration. I seem to hear Useful Knowledge treats its cattle. commonly. "Gentle breeze, that wanderest unseen, And bendest the thistles round Loira of storms, Traveler of the windy glens, Why hast thou left my ear so soon?" I took a walk on Spaulding's Farm the other afternoon. I saw the thinking. They had no idle thoughts, and no one without could see recollect myself. It is only after a long and serious effort to recollect my best thoughts that I become again aware of their cohabitancy. If it were not for such families as this, I think I should move out of Concord. We hug the earth,--how rarely we mount! Methinks we might elevate before,--so much more of the earth and the heavens. I might have The merit of this bird's strain is in its freedom from all driving us home at evening. "But see the fading many-colored woods Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark;" and in the line in which he speaks of "Autumn beaming o'er the yellow woods." October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight. By the twentieth of August, everywhere in woods and swamps we are spreading panicle of purple flowers, a shallow, purplish mist commonly of a sober and humble color. With its beautiful purple blush it reminds me, and supplies the In most plants the corolla or calyx is the part which attains the flower-like sepals, all on the same plant. excites me like that of the poke-weed stems. Think what refuge there is for one, before August is over, from Wherever I walk these afternoons, the purple-fingered grass also presidency of the andropogons. leaves. These bright standards are now advanced on the distant hillsides, not in large armies, but in scattered troops or single By the twenty-fifth of September, the red maples generally are The whole tree thus ripening in advance of its fellows attains a beauty of some meadowy vale, and the expression of the whole surrounding forest is at once more spirited for it. neglected none of its economies, but added to its stature in the virtue which belongs to a maple, by a steady growth for so many clear. Its _virtues_, not its sins, are as scarlet. yellow, scarlet, and crimson fires, of all tints, mingled and As I go across a meadow directly toward a low rising ground this By the sixth of October the leaves generally begin to fall, in successive showers, after frost or rain; but the principal _Lycopodium lucidulum_ looks suddenly greener amid them. In dense wooded, large fleets of leaves are floating on its surface, as it lofty prows and poops, like the stately vessels of the ancients, What wholesome herb drinks are to be had in the swamps now! What It is pleasant to walk over the beds of these fresh, crisp, and scarlet cheeks. Yet, standing on the east side of the Common just straight poles with their tops cut off, which they called sugar steadily drinking in this color, and by these teachers even the shops and city windows. It is a pity that we have no more _red_ paint-boxes as we do, we might supply these natural colors to the commerce,--chocolate, lemon, coffee, cinnamon, claret? (shall we cabinet-keepers, virtuosos, and maids-of-honor,--to the Nabobs, chromatic nomenclature. But of much more importance than a knowledge of the names and congregation of wearied woodchoppers, or of proprietors come to No annual training or muster of soldiery, no celebration with its A village needs these innocent stimulants of bright and cheering prospects to keep off melancholy and superstition. Show me two What meant the fathers by establishing this _perfectly living_ institution before the church,--this institution which needs no "Wrought in a sad sincerity; Themselves from God they could not free; They _planted_ better than they knew;-- The conscious _trees_ to beauty grew." Or bring one home, and study it closely at your leisure, by the leaves, that they might learn to draw firmly and gracefully. archipelago. But it requires a particular alertness, if not devotion to these phenomena, to appreciate the wide-spread, but late and unexpected prospects. It is remarkable that the latest bright color that is comparatively (created for the near-sighted, who walk amid the impounded herbs? beauty visible to us in the landscape as we are prepared to heads,--and then we can hardly see anything else. In my botanical knowledge! How differently the poet and the naturalist look at objects! corn-fields. The sportsman trains himself, dresses, and watches It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple tree is It appears that apples made a part of the food of that unknown shriveled crab-apple has been recovered from their stores. Niebuhr observes that "the words for a house, a field, a plow, plowing, wine, oil, milk, sheep, apples, and others relating to considered a symbol of peace no less than the olive. Theophrastus knew and described the apple tree as a botanist. The apple tree (_Pyrus malus_) belongs chiefly to the northern indigenous in North America. The cultivated apple tree was first Not only the Indian, but many indigenous insects, birds, and quadrupeds, welcomed the apple tree to these shores. The tent "At Michaelmas time, or a little before, Half an apple goes to the core." A week or two later, as you are going by orchards or gardens, There is thus about all natural products a certain volatile and ethereal quality which represents their highest value, and which There is another thinning of the fruit, commonly near the end of people are busy picking up the windfalls, and this will make them It would be well, if we accepted these gifts with more joy and Devonshire take a large bowl of cider, with a toast in it, and 'Here's to thee, old apple tree, Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, And whence thou mayst bear apples enow! Hats-full! caps-full! Bushel, bushel, sacks-full! And my pockets full, too! Hurra!'" "Stand fast, root! bear well, top! Pray God send us a good howling crop: Every twig, apples big; Every bough, apples enow!" Herrick sings,-- "Wassaile the trees that they may beare You many a plum and many a peare; For more or less fruits they will bring As you so give them wassailing." experience, such ravages have been made! Going up the side of a cliff about the first of November, I saw a When I go by this shrub thus late and hardy, and see its dangling sometimes run wild and maintain themselves. cultivation." It is found from western New York to Minnesota, and encroaching grass and some other dangers, at first. In two years' time 't had thus Reached the level of the rocks, Admired the stretching world, Nor feared the wandering flocks. But at this tender age Its sufferings began: There came a browsing ox And cut it down a span. brought you here brought me," he nevertheless browses it again, reflecting, it may be, that he has some title to it. thorniness, however, there is no malice, only some malic acid. lichens, and you see thousands of little trees just springing up between them, with the seed still attached to them. The cows continue to browse them thus for twenty years or more, Thus the cows create their own shade and food; and the tree, its hour-glass being inverted, lives a second life, as it were. In spite of wandering kine, and other adverse circumstances, that memorable varieties than both of them. perfect fruit on the ungrateful earth. Poets and philosophers and "highest plot To plant the Bergamot." The time for wild apples is the last of October and the first of children as wild as themselves,--to certain active boys that I What if some of these wildings are acrid and puckery, genuine _verjuice_, do they not still belong to the _Pomaceae_, which are out-of-doors. labeled, "To be eaten in the wind." atmosphere, who knows but you could whistle an octave higher and clearer? flattened and tamed. "Nor is it every apple I desire, Nor that which pleases every palate best; 'Tis not the lasting Deuxan I require, Nor yet the red-cheeked Greening I request, Nor that which first beshrewed the name of wife, Nor that whose beauty caused the golden strife: No, no! bring me an apple from the tree of life." So there is one _thought_ for the field, another for the house. I stem-dimple to the blossom end, like meridional lines, on a house. There is, first of all, the Wood Apple (_Malus sylvatica_); the Blue-Jay Apple; the Apple which grows in Dells in the Woods "Not if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, An iron voice, could I describe all the forms And reckon up all the names of these _wild apples_." By the middle of November the wild apples have lost some of their carries home his apples. He says,--"His meat is apples, worms, or state, and your jaws are the cider-press. Others, which have more It is a fruit never carried to market, that I am aware of,--quite "Be ye ashamed, O ye husbandmen; howl, O ye vinedressers.... Chancing to take a memorable walk by moonlight some years ago, I According to Pliny, there is a stone in Arabia called Selenites, Is not the midnight like Central Africa to most of us? Are we not beauty awake while they are asleep,--if I add to the domains of poetry. Night is certainly more novel and less profane than day. I soon shutter, occasionally. Why not walk a little way in her light? unnoticed? naturally reproached or nicknamed as moonshine by such. They are reaches me from the star of least magnitude. Stars are lesser or inhabitants. "The moon gravitates toward the earth, and the earth Many men walk by day; few walk by night. It is a very different frogs, and the intenser dream of crickets. But above all, the "not believe that the great architect With all these fires the heavenly arches decked Only for show, and with these glistering shields, T' awake poor shepherds, watching in the fields." He'll "not believe that the least flower which pranks Our garden borders, or our common banks, And the least stone, that in her warming lap Our mother earth doth covetously wrap, Hath some peculiar virtue of its own, And that the glorious stars of heav'n have none." expressed: "_Sapiens adjuvabit opus astrorum quemadmodum agricola "gives us his blaze again, Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. Now through the passing cloud she seems to stoop, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime." Diana still hunts in the New England sky. "In Heaven queen she is among the spheres. She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure. Eternity in her oft change she bears; She Beauty is; by her the fair endure. "Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide; Mortality below her orb is placed; By her the virtues of the stars down slide; By her is Virtue's perfect image cast." conservative. Consider the moonlight, so civil, yet so savage! "In such a night let me abroad remain Till morning breaks, and all's confused again." glaring. When Ossian, in his address to the sun, exclaims,-- "Where has darkness its dwelling? Where is the cavernous home of the stars, When thou quickly followest their steps, Pursuing them like a hunter in the sky,-- Thou climbing the lofty hills, They descending on barren mountains?" KRATOS _and_ BIA (Strength and Force). _Kr._ We are come to the far-bounding plain of earth, To the Scythian way, to the unapproached solitude. Hephaistus, orders must have thy attention, Which the Father has enjoined on thee, this bold one To the high-hanging rocks to bind In indissoluble fetters of adamantine bonds. For thy flower, the splendor of fire useful in all arts, Stealing, he bestowed on mortals; and for such A crime 't is fit he should give satisfaction to the gods; That he may learn the tyranny of Zeus To love, and cease from his man-loving ways. _Heph._ Kratos and Bia, your charge from Zeus Already has its end, and nothing further in the way; But I cannot endure to bind A kindred god by force to a bleak precipice,-- Yet absolutely there's necessity that I have courage for these things; For it is hard the Father's words to banish. High-plotting son of the right-counseling Themis, Unwilling thee unwilling in brazen fetters hard to be loosed I am about to nail to this inhuman hill, Where neither voice [you'll hear], nor form of any mortal See, but, scorched by the sun's clear flame, Will change your color's bloom; and to you glad The various-robed night will conceal the light, And sun disperse the morning frost again; And always the burden of the present ill For a god, not shrinking from the wrath of gods, You have bestowed honors on mortals more than just, For which this pleasureless rock you'll sentinel, Standing erect, sleepless, not bending a knee; And many sighs and lamentations to no purpose Will you utter; for the mind of Zeus is hard to be changed; And he is wholly rugged who may newly rule. _Kr._ Well, why dost thou delay and pity in vain? Why not hate the god most hostile to gods, Who has betrayed thy prize to mortals? _Heph._ The affinity indeed is appalling, and the familiarity. _Kr._ I agree, but to disobey the Father's words How is it possible? Fear you not this more? _Heph._ Ay, you are always without pity, and full of confidence. _Kr._ For 't is no remedy to bewail this one; Cherish not vainly troubles which avail naught. _Heph._ O much hated handicraft! _Kr._ Why hatest it? for in simple truth, for these misfortunes Which are present now Art's not to blame. _Heph._ Yet I would 't had fallen to another's lot. _Kr._ All things were done but to rule the gods, For none is free but Zeus. _Heph._ I knew it, and have naught to say against these things. _Kr._ Will you not haste, then, to put the bonds about him, That the Father may not observe you loitering? _Heph._ Already at hand the shackles you may see. _Kr._ Taking them, about his hands with firm strength Strike with the hammer, and nail him to the rocks. _Heph._ 'T is done, and not in vain this work. _Kr._ Strike harder, tighten, nowhere relax, For he is skillful to find out ways e'en from the impracticable. _Heph._ Ay, but this arm is fixed inextricably. _Kr._ And this now clasp securely, that He may learn he is a duller schemer than is Zeus. _Heph._ Except him would none justly blame me. _Kr._ Now with an adamantine wedge's stubborn fang Through the breasts nail strongly. _Heph._ Alas! alas! Prometheus, I groan for thy afflictions. _Kr._ And do you hesitate? for Zeus' enemies Do you groan? Beware lest one day you yourself will pity. _Heph._ You see a spectacle hard for eyes to behold. _Kr._ I see him meeting his deserts; But round his sides put straps. _Heph._ To do this is necessity, insist not much. _Kr._ Surely I will insist and urge beside; Go downward, and the thighs surround with force. _Heph._ Already it is done, the work, with no long labor. _Kr._ Strongly now drive the fetters, through and through, For the critic of the works is difficult. _Heph._ Like your form your tongue speaks. _Kr._ Be thou softened, but for my stubbornness Of temper and harshness reproach me not. _Heph._ Let us withdraw, for he has a net about his limbs. _Kr._ There now insult, and the shares of gods Plundering on ephemerals bestow; what thee Can mortals in these ills relieve? Falsely thee the divinities Prometheus Call; for you yourself need one _foreseeing_ In what manner you will escape this fortune. PROMETHEUS, _alone_. O divine ether, and ye swift-winged winds, Fountains of rivers, and countless smilings Of the ocean waves, and earth, mother of all, And thou all-seeing orb of the sun I call. Behold me what a god I suffer at the hands of gods. See by what outrages Tormented the myriad-yeared Time I shall endure; such the new Ruler of the blessed has contrived for me, Unseemly bonds. Alas! alas! the present and the coming Woe I groan; where ever of these sufferings Must an end appear. But what say I? I know beforehand all, Exactly what will be, nor to me strange Will any evil come. The destined fate As easily as possible it behooves to bear, knowing Necessity's is a resistless strength. But neither to be silent nor unsilent about this Lot is possible for me; for a gift to mortals Giving, I wretched have been yoked to these necessities; Within a hollow reed by stealth I carry off fire's Stolen source, which seemed the teacher Of all art to mortals, and a great resource. For such crimes penalty I pay, Under the sky, riveted in chains. Ah! ah! alas! alas! What echo, what odor has flown to me obscure, Of god, or mortal, or else mingled,-- Came it to this terminal hill A witness of my sufferings, or wishing what? Behold bound me an unhappy god, The enemy of Zeus, fallen under The ill will of all the gods, as many as Enter into the hall of Zeus, Through too great love of mortals. Alas! alas! what fluttering do I hear Of birds near? for the air rustles With the soft rippling of wings. Everything to me is fearful which creeps this way. _Ch._ Fear nothing; for friendly this band Of wings with swift contention Drew to this hill, hardly Persuading the paternal mind. The swift-carrying breezes sent me; For the echo of beaten steel pierced the recesses Of the caves, and struck out from me reserved modesty; And I rushed unsandaled in a winged chariot. _Pr._ Alas! alas! alas! alas! Offspring of the fruitful Tethys, And of him rolling around all The earth with sleepless stream children, Of Father Ocean; behold, look on me; By what bonds embraced On this cliff's topmost rocks I shall maintain unenvied watch. _Ch._ I see, Prometheus; but to my eyes a fearful Mist has come surcharged With tears, looking upon thy body Shrunk to the rocks By these mischiefs of adamantine bonds; Indeed, new helmsmen rule Olympus; And with new laws Zeus strengthens himself, annulling the old, And the before great now makes unknown. _Pr._ Would that under earth, and below Hades, Receptacle of dead, to impassable Tartarus he had sent me, to bonds indissoluble Cruelly conducting, that neither god Nor any other had rejoiced at this. But now the sport of winds, unhappy one, A source of pleasure to my foes, I suffer. _Ch._ Who so hard-hearted Of the gods, to whom these things are pleasant? Who does not sympathize with thy Misfortunes, excepting Zeus? for he in wrath always Fixing his stubborn mind, Afflicts the heavenly race; Nor will he cease, until his heart is sated; Or with some palm some one may take the power hard to be taken. _Pr._ Surely yet, though in strong Fetters I am now maltreated, The ruler of the blessed will have need of me, To show the new conspiracy by which He's robbed of sceptre and of honors, And not at all me with persuasion's honey-tongued Charms will he appease, nor ever, Shrinking from his firm threats, will I Declare this, till from cruel Bonds he may release, and to do justice For this outrage be willing. _Ch._ You are bold; and to bitter Woes do nothing yield, But too freely speak. But my mind piercing fear disturbs; For I'm concerned about thy fortunes, Where at length arriving you may see An end to these afflictions. For manners Inaccessible, and a heart hard to be dissuaded has the son _Pr._ I know, that--Zeus is stern and having Justice to himself. But after all Gentle-minded He will one day be, when thus he's crushed, And his stubborn wrath allaying, Into agreement with me and friendliness Earnest to me earnest he at length will come. _Ch._ The whole account disclose and tell us plainly, In what crime taking you Zeus Thus disgracefully and bitterly insults; Inform us, if you are nowise hurt by the recital. _Pr._ Painful indeed it is to me to tell these things, And a pain to be silent, and every way unfortunate. When first the divinities began their strife, And discord 'mong themselves arose, Some wishing to cast Kronos from his seat, That Zeus might reign, forsooth, others the contrary Striving, that Zeus might never rule the gods; Then I, the best advising, to persuade The Titans, sons of Uranus and Chthon, Unable was; but crafty stratagems Despising with rude minds, They thought without trouble to rule by force; But to me my mother not once only, Themis, And Gaea, of many names one form, How the future should be accomplished had foretold, That not by power nor by strength Would it be necessary, but by craft the victors should prevail. Such I in words expounding, They deigned not to regard at all. The best course, therefore, of those occurring then Appeared to be, taking my mother to me, Of my own accord to side with Zeus glad to receive me; And by my counsels Tartarus' black-pitted Depths conceals the ancient Kronos, With his allies. In such things by me The tyrant of the gods having been helped, With base rewards like these repays me; For there is somehow in kingship This disease, not to trust its friends. What then you ask, for what cause He afflicts me, this will I now explain. As soon as on his father's throne He sat, he straightway to the gods distributes honors, Some to one and to another some, and arranged The government; but of unhappy mortals account Had none; but blotting out the race Entire, wished to create another new. And these things none opposed but I, But I adventured; I rescued mortals From going destroyed to Hades. Therefore, indeed, with such afflictions am I bent, To suffer grievous, and piteous to behold, And, holding mortals up to pity, myself am not Thought worthy to obtain it; but without pity Am I thus corrected, a spectacle inglorious to Zeus. _Ch._ Of iron heart and made of stone, Whoe'er, Prometheus, with thy sufferings Does not grieve; for I should not have wished to see These things, and having seen them I am grieved at heart. _Pr._ Indeed to friends I'm piteous to behold. _Ch._ Did you in no respect go beyond this? _Pr._ True, mortals I made cease foreseeing fate. _Ch._ Having found what remedy for this all? _Pr._ Blind hopes in them I made to dwell. _Ch._ A great advantage this you gave to men. _Pr._ Beside these, too, I bestowed on them fire. _Ch._ And have mortals flamy fire? _Pr._ From which, indeed, they will learn many arts. _Ch._ Upon such charges, then, does Zeus Maltreat you, and nowhere relax from ills? Is there no term of suffering lying before thee? _Pr._ Nay, none at all, but when to him it may seem good. _Ch._ And how will it seem good? What hope? See you not that You have erred? But how you've erred, for me to tell Not pleasant, and to you a pain. But these things Let us omit, and seek you some release from sufferings. _Pr._ Easy, whoever out of trouble holds his Foot, to admonish and remind those faring Ill. But all these things I knew; Willing, willing I erred, I'll not deny; Mortals assisting I myself found trouble. Not indeed with penalties like these thought I That I should pine on lofty rocks, Gaining this drear unneighbored hill. But bewail not my present woes, But alighting, the fortunes creeping on Hear ye, that ye may learn all to the end. Obey me, obey, sympathize With him now suffering. Thus indeed affliction, Wandering round, sits now by one, then by another. _Ch._ Not to unwilling ears do you urge And now with light foot the swift-rushing Seat leaving, and the pure ether, Path of birds, to this peaked Ground I come; for thy misfortunes I wish fully to hear. _Oc._ I come to the end of a long way Traveling to thee, Prometheus, By my will without bits directing This wing-swift bird; For at thy fortunes know I grieve. And, I think, affinity thus Impels me, but apart from birth, There's not to whom a higher rank I would assign than thee. And you will know these things as true, and not in vain To flatter with the tongue is in me. Come, therefore, Show how it is necessary to assist you; For never will you say, than Ocean There's a firmer friend to thee. _Pr._ Alas! what now? And you, then, of my sufferings Come spectator? How didst thou dare, leaving The stream which bears thy name, and rock-roofed Caves self-built, to the iron-mother Earth to go? To behold my fate Hast come, and to compassionate my ills? Behold a spectacle, this, the friend of Zeus, Having with him stablished his tyranny, With what afflictions by himself I'm bent. _Oc._ I see, Prometheus, and would admonish Thee the best, although of varied craft. Know thyself, and fit thy manners New; for new also the king among the gods. For if thus rude and whetted words Thou wilt hurl out, quickly may Zeus, though sitting Far above, hear thee, so that thy present wrath Of troubles child's play will seem to be. But, O wretched one, dismiss the indignation which thou hast, And seek deliverance from these woes. Like an old man, perhaps, I seem to thee to say these things; Such, however, are the wages Of the too lofty speaking tongue, Prometheus; But thou art not yet humble, nor dost yield to ills, And beside the present wish to receive others still. But thou wouldst not, with my counsel, Against the pricks extend your limbs, seeing that A stern monarch irresponsible reigns. And now I go, and will endeavor, If I can, to release thee from these sufferings. But be thou quiet, nor too rudely speak. Know'st thou not well, with thy superior wisdom, that On a vain tongue punishment is inflicted? _Pr._ I congratulate thee that thou art without blame, Having shared and dared all with me; And now leave off, and let it not concern thee. For altogether thou wilt not persuade him, for he's not easily persuaded, But take heed yourself lest you be injured by the way. _Oc._ Far better thou art to advise those near Than thyself; by deed and not by word I judge. But me hastening by no means mayest thou detain, For I boast, I boast, this favor will Zeus Grant me, from these sufferings to release thee. _Pr._ So far I praise thee, and will never cease; For zeal you nothing lack. But Strive not; for in vain, naught helping Me, thou 'lt strive, if aught to strive you wish. But be thou quiet, holding thyself aloof, For I would not, though I'm unfortunate, that on this account Evils should come to many. _Oc._ Surely not, for me too the fortunes of thy brother Atlas grieve, who towards the evening-places Stands, the pillar of heaven and earth Upon his shoulders bearing, a load not easy to be borne. And the earth-born inhabitant of the Cilician Caves seeing, I pitied, the savage monster With a hundred heads, by force o'ercome, Typhon impetuous, who stood 'gainst all the gods, With frightful jaws hissing out slaughter; And from his eyes flashed a Gorgonian light, Utterly to destroy by force the sovereignty of Zeus; But there came to him Zeus' sleepless bolt, Descending thunder, breathing flame, Which struck him out from lofty Boastings. For, struck to his very heart, His strength was scorched and thundered out. And now a useless and extended carcass Lies he near a narrow passage of the sea, Pressed down under the roots of Aetna. And on the topmost summit seated, Hephaistus Hammers the ignited mass, whence will burst out at length Rivers of fire, devouring with wild jaws Fair-fruited Sicily's smooth fields; Such rage will Typhon make boil over With hot discharges of insatiable fire-breathing tempest, Though by the bolt of Zeus burnt to a coal. _Pr._ Thou art not inexperienced, nor dost want My counsel; secure thyself as thou know'st how; And I against the present fortune will bear up, Until the thought of Zeus may cease from wrath. _Oc._ Know'st thou not this, Prometheus, that Words are healers of distempered wrath? _Pr._ If any seasonably soothe the heart, And swelling passion check not rudely. _Oc._ In the consulting and the daring What harm seest thou existing? Teach me. _Pr._ Trouble superfluous, and light-minded folly. _Oc._ Be this my ail then, since it is Most profitable, being wise, not to seem wise. _Pr._ This will seem to be my error. _Oc._ Plainly homeward thy words remand me. _Pr._ Aye, let not grief for me into hostility cast thee. _Oc._ To the new occupant of the all-powerful seats? _Pr._ Beware lest ever his heart be angered. _Oc._ Thy fate, Prometheus, is my teacher. _Pr._ Go thou, depart; preserve the present mind. _Oc._ To me rushing this word you utter. For the smooth path of the air sweeps with his wings The four-legged bird; and gladly would In the stalls at home bend a knee. _Ch._ I mourn for thee thy ruinous And tear-distilling from my tender Eyes a stream has wet My cheeks with flowing springs; For these, unenvied, Zeus By his own laws enforcing, Haughty above the gods That were displays his sceptre. And every region now With groans resounds, Mourning the illustrious And ancient honor Of thee and of thy kindred; As many mortals as the habitable seat Of sacred Asia pasture, With thy lamentable Woes have sympathy; And of the Colchian land, virgin Inhabitants, in fight undaunted, And Scythia's multitude, who the last Place of earth, about Maeotis lake possess, And Arabia's martial flower, And who the high-hung citadels Of Caucasus inhabit near, A hostile army, raging With sharp-prowed spears. Only one other god before, in sufferings Subdued by injuries Of adamantine bonds, I've seen, Titanian Atlas, who always with superior strength The huge and heavenly globe On his back bears; And with a roar the sea waves Dashing, groans the deep, And the dark depth of Hades murmurs underneath The earth, and fountains of pure-running rivers Heave a pitying sigh. _Pr._ Think not, indeed, through weakness or through pride That I am silent; for with the consciousness I gnaw my heart, Seeing myself thus basely used. And yet to these new gods their shares Who else than I wholly distributed? But of these things I am silent; for I should tell you What you know; the sufferings of mortals too You've heard, how I made intelligent And possessed of sense them ignorant before. But I will speak, not bearing any grudge to men, But showing in what I gave the good intention; At first, indeed, seeing they saw in vain, And hearing heard not; but like the forms Of dreams, for that long time, rashly confounded All, nor brick-woven dwellings Knew they, placed in the sun, nor woodwork; But digging down they dwelt, like puny Ants, in sunless nooks of caves. And there was naught to them, neither of winter sign, Nor of flower-giving spring, nor fruitful Summer, that was sure; but without knowledge Did they all, till I taught them the risings Of the stars, and goings down, hard to determine. And numbers, chief of inventions, I found out for them, and the assemblages of letters, And memory, Muse-mother, doer of all things; And first I joined in pairs wild animals Obedient to the yoke; and that they might be Alternate workers with the bodies of men In the severest toils, I harnessed the rein-loving horses To the car, the ornament of over-wealthy luxury. And none else than I invented the sea-wandering Flaxen-winged vehicles of sailors. Such inventions I wretched having found out For men, myself have not the ingenuity by which From the now present ill I may escape. _Ch._ You suffer unseemly ill; deranged in mind You err; and as some bad physician, falling Sick you are dejected, and cannot find By what remedies you may be healed. _Pr._ Hearing the rest from me more will you wonder What arts and what expedients I planned. That which was greatest, if any might fall sick, There was alleviation none, neither to eat, Nor to anoint, nor drink, but for the want Of medicines they were reduced to skeletons, till to them I showed the mingling of mild remedies, By which all ails they drive away. And many modes of prophecy I settled, And distinguished first of dreams what a real Vision is required to be, and omens hard to be determined I made known to them; and tokens by the way, And flight of crooked-taloned birds I accurately Defined, which lucky are, And unlucky, and what mode of life Have each, and to one another what Hostilities, attachments, and assemblings; The entrails' smoothness, and what color having They would be to the divinities acceptable; Of the gall and liver the various symmetry, And the limbs concealed in fat; and the long Flank burning, to an art hard to be guessed I showed the way to mortals; and flammeous signs Explained, before obscure. Such indeed these; and under ground Concealed the helps to men; Brass, iron, silver, gold, who Would affirm that he discovered before me? None, I well know, not wishing in vain to boast. But learn all in one word, _All arts to mortals from Prometheus_. _Ch._ Assist not mortals now unseasonably, And neglect yourself unfortunate; for I Am of good hope that, from these bonds Released, you will yet have no less power than Zeus. _Pr._ Never thus has Fate the Accomplisher Decreed to fulfill these things, but by a myriad ills And woes subdued, thus bonds I flee; For art 's far weaker than necessity. _Ch._ Who, then, is helmsman of necessity? _Pr._ The Fates three-formed, and the remembering Furies. _Ch._ Than these, then, is Zeus weaker? _Pr._ Ay, he could not escape what has been fated. _Ch._ But what to Zeus is fated, except always to rule? _Pr._ This thou wilt not learn; seek not to know. _Ch._ Surely some awful thing it is which you withhold. _Pr._ Remember other words, for this by no means Is it time to tell, but to be concealed As much as possible; for keeping this do I Escape unseemly bonds and woes. _Ch._ Never may the all-ruling Zeus put into my mind Force antagonist to him. Nor let me cease drawing near The gods with holy sacrifices Of slain oxen, by Father Ocean's Ceaseless passage, Nor offend with words, But in me this remain And ne'er be melted out. 'Tis something sweet with bold Hopes the long life to Extend, in bright Cheerfulness the cherishing spirit. But I shudder, thee beholding By a myriad sufferings tormented.... For, not fearing Zeus, In thy private mind thou dost regard Mortals too much, Prometheus. Come, though a thankless Favor, friend, say where is any strength, From ephemerals any help? Saw you not The powerless inefficiency, Dream-like, in which the blind ... Race of mortals are entangled? Never counsels of mortals May transgress the harmony of Zeus. I learned these things looking on Thy destructive fate, Prometheus. For different to me did this strain come, And that which round thy baths And couch I hymned, With the design of marriage, when my father's child With bridal gifts persuading, thou didst lead Hesione the partner of thy bed. _Io._ What earth, what race, what being shall I is this I see in bridles of rock Exposed? By what crime's Penalty dost thou perish? Show, to what part Of earth I miserable have wandered. Ah! ah! alas! alas! Again some fly doth sting me wretched, Image of earth-born Argus, cover it, earth; I fear the myriad-eyed herdsman beholding; For he goes having a treacherous eye, Whom not e'en dead the earth conceals. But me, wretched from the Infernals passing, He pursues, and drives fasting along the seaside Sand, while low resounds a wax-compacted reed, Uttering sleep-giving law; alas! alas! O gods! Where, gods! where lead me far-wandering courses? In what sin, O son of Kronos, In what sin ever having taken, To these afflictions hast thou yoked me? alas! alas! With fly-driven fear a wretched Frenzied one dost thus afflict? With fire burn, or with earth cover, or To sea monsters give for food, nor Envy me my prayers, king. Enough much-wandered wanderings Have exercised me, nor can I learn where I shall escape from sufferings. _Ch._ Hear'st thou the address of the cow-horned virgin? _Pr._ And how not hear the fly-whirled virgin, Daughter of Inachus, who Zeus' heart warmed With love, and now the courses over long, By Here hated, forcedly performs? _Io._ Whence utterest thou my father's name? Tell me, miserable, who thou art, That to me, O suffering one, me born to suffer, Thus true things dost address? The god-sent ail thou'st named, Which wastes me stinging With maddening goads, alas! alas! With foodless and unseemly leaps Rushing headlong, I came, By wrathful plots subdued. Who of the wretched, who, alas! alas! suffers like me? But to me clearly show What me awaits to suffer, What not necessary; what remedy of ill, Teach, if indeed thou know'st; speak out, Tell the ill-wandering virgin. _Pr._ I'll clearly tell thee all you wish to learn. Not weaving in enigmas, but in simple speech, As it is just to open the mouth to friends. Thou seest the giver of fire to men, Prometheus. _Io._ O thou who didst appear a common help to mortals, Wretched Prometheus, to atone for what do you endure this? _Pr._ I have scarce ceased my sufferings lamenting. _Io._ Would you not grant this favor to me? _Pr._ Say what you ask; for you'd learn all from me. _Io._ Say who has bound thee to the cliff. _Pr._ The will, indeed, of Zeus, Hephaistus' hand. _Io._ And penalty for what crimes dost thou pay? _Pr._ Thus much only can I show thee. _Io._ But beside this, declare what time will be To me unfortunate the limit of my wandering. _Pr._ Not to learn is better for thee than to learn these things. _Io._ Conceal not from me what I am to suffer. _Pr._ Indeed, I grudge thee not this favor. _Io._ Why, then, dost thou delay to tell the whole? _Pr._ There's no unwillingness, but I hesitate to vex thy mind. _Io._ Care not for me more than is pleasant to me. _Pr._ Since you are earnest, it behooves to speak; hear then. _Ch._ Not yet, indeed; but a share of pleasure also give to me. First we'll learn the malady of this one, Herself relating her destructive fortunes, And the remainder of her trials let her learn from thee. _Pr._ 'T is thy part, Io, to do these a favor, As well for every other reason, and as they are sisters of thy father. Since to weep and to lament misfortunes, There where one will get a tear From those attending, is worthy the delay. _Io._ I know not that I need distrust you, But in plain speech you shall learn All that you ask for; and yet e'en telling I lament The god-sent tempest, and dissolution Of my form--whence to me miserable it came. For always visions in the night, moving about My virgin chambers, enticed me With smooth words: "O greatly happy virgin, Why be a virgin long? is permitted to obtain The greatest marriage. For Zeus with love's dart Has been warmed by thee, and wishes to unite In love; but do thou, O child, spurn not the couch Of Zeus, but go out to Lerna's deep Morass, and stables of thy father's herds, That the divine eye may cease from desire." With such dreams every night Was I unfortunate distressed, till I dared tell My father of the night-wandering visions. And he to Pytho and Dodona frequent Prophets sent, that he might learn what it was necessary He should say or do, to do agreeably to the gods. And they came bringing ambiguous Oracles, darkly and indistinctly uttered. But finally a plain report came to Inachus, Clearly enjoining him and telling Out of my home and country to expel me, Discharged to wander to the earth's last bounds; And if he was not willing, from Zeus would come A fiery thunderbolt, which would annihilate all his race. Induced by such predictions of the Loxian, Against his will he drove me out, And shut me from the houses; but Zeus' rein Compelled him by force to do these things. Immediately my form and mind were Changed, and horned, as you behold, stung By a sharp-mouthed fly, with frantic leaping Rushed I to Cenchrea's palatable stream, And Lerna's source; but a herdsman born-of-earth Of violent temper, Argus, accompanied, with numerous Eyes my steps observing. But unexpectedly a sudden fate Robbed him of life; and I, fly-stung, By lash divine am driven from land to land. You hear what has been done; and if you have to say aught, What's left of labors, speak; nor pitying me Comfort with false words; for an ill The worst of all, I say, are made-up words. Ne'er, ne'er did I presume such cruel words Would reach my ears, nor thus unsightly And intolerable hurts, sufferings, fears with a two-edged Goad would chill my soul; Alas! alas! fate! fate! I shudder, seeing the state of Io. _Pr._ Beforehand sigh'st thou, and art full of fears, Hold till the rest also thou learn'st. _Ch._ Tell, teach; for to the sick 't is sweet To know the remaining pain beforehand clearly. _Pr._ Your former wish ye got from me With ease; for first ye asked to learn from her Relating her own trials; The rest now hear, what sufferings 't is necessary This young woman should endure from Here. But do thou, offspring of Inachus, my words Cast in thy mind, that thou may'st learn the boundaries of the way. First, indeed, hence towards the rising of the sun Turning thyself, travel uncultivated lands, And to the Scythian nomads thou wilt come, who woven roofs On high inhabit, on well-wheeled carts, With far-casting bows equipped; Whom go not near, but to the sea-resounding cliffs Bending thy feet, pass from the region. On the left hand the iron-working Chalybes inhabit, whom thou must needs beware, For they are rude and inaccessible to strangers. And thou wilt come to the Hybristes river, not ill named, Which pass not, for not easy is 't to pass, Before you get to Caucasus itself, highest Of mountains, where the stream spurts out its tide From the very temples; and passing over The star-neighbored summits, 't is necessary to go The southern way, where thou wilt come to the man-hating Will inhabit, by the Thermedon, where's Salmydessia, rough jaw of the sea, Inhospitable to sailors, stepmother of ships; They will conduct thee on thy way, and very cheerfully. And to the Cimmerian isthmus thou wilt come, Just on the narrow portals of a lake, which leaving It behooves thee with stout heart to pass the Moeotic straits; And there will be to mortals ever a great fame Of thy passage, and Bosphorus from thy name 'T will be called. And leaving Europe's plain The continent of Asia thou wilt reach.--Seemeth to thee, forsooth, The tyrant of the gods in everything to be Thus violent? For he a god, with this mortal Wishing to unite, drove her to these wanderings. A bitter wooer didst thou find, O virgin, For thy marriage. For the words you now have heard Think not yet to be the prelude. _Pr._ Again dost shriek and heave a sigh? What Wilt thou do when the remaining ills thou learn'st? _Ch._ And hast thou any further suffering to tell her? _Pr._ Ay, a tempestuous sea of baleful woe. _Io._ What profit, then, for me to live, and not in haste To cast myself from this rough rock, That rushing down upon the plain I may be released From every trouble? For better once for all to die, Than all my days to suffer evilly. _Pr._ Unhappily my trials would'st thou hear, To whom to die has not been fated; For this would be release from sufferings; But now there is no end of ills lying Before me, until Zeus falls from sovereignty. _Io._ And is Zeus ever to fall from power? _Pr._ Thou would'st be pleased, I think, to see this accident. _Io._ How should I not, who suffer ill from Zeus? _Pr._ That these things then are so, be thou assured. _Io._ By what one will the tyrant's power be robbed? _Pr._ Himself, by his own senseless counsels. _Io._ In what way show, if there's no harm. _Pr._ He will make such a marriage as one day he'll repent. _Io._ Of god or mortal? If to be spoken, tell. _Pr._ What matters which? For these things are not to be told. _Io._ By a wife will he be driven from the throne? _Pr._ Ay, she will bring forth a son superior to his father. _Io._ Is there no refuge for him from this fate? _Pr._ None, surely, till I may be released from bonds. _Io._ Who, then, is to release thee, Zeus unwilling? _Pr._ He must be some one of thy descendants. _Io._ How sayest thou? that my child will deliver thee from ills? _Pr._ Third of thy race after ten other births. _Io._ This oracle is not yet easy to be guessed. _Pr._ But do not seek to understand thy sufferings. _Io._ First proffering gain to me, do not then withhold it. _Pr._ I'll grant thee one of two relations. _Io._ What two propose, and give to me my choice. _Pr._ I give; choose whether thy remaining troubles I shall tell thee clearly, or him that will release me. _Ch._ Consent to do her the one favor, Me the other, nor deem us undeserving of thy words; To her indeed tell what remains of wandering, And to me, who will release; for I desire this. _Pr._ Since ye are earnest, I will not resist To tell the whole, as much as ye ask for. To thee first, Io, vexatious wandering I will tell, Which engrave on the remembering tablets of the mind. When thou hast passed the flood boundary of continents, Towards the flaming orient sun-traveled ... Passing through the tumult of the sea, until you reach The Gorgonian plains of Cisthene, where The Phorcides dwell, old virgins, Three, swan-shaped, having a common eye, One-toothed, whom neither the sun looks on With his beams, nor nightly moon ever. And near, their winged sisters three, Dragon-scaled Gorgons, odious to men, Whom no mortal beholding will have breath; Such danger do I tell thee. But hear another odious sight; Beware the gryphons, sharp-mouthed Dogs of Zeus, which bark not, and the one-eyed Arimaspian Host, going on horseback, who dwell about The golden-flowing flood of Pluto's channel; These go not near. But to a distant land Thou 'lt come, a dusky race, who near the fountains Of the sun inhabit, where is the Aethiopian river. Creep down the banks of this, until thou com'st To a descent, where from Byblinian mounts The Nile sends down its sacred palatable stream. This will conduct thee to the triangled land Nilean, where, Io, 't is decreed Thou and thy progeny shall form the distant colony. If aught of this is unintelligible to thee, and hard to be found out, Repeat thy questions, and learn clearly; For more leisure than I want is granted me. _Ch._ If to her aught remaining or omitted Thou hast to tell of her pernicious wandering, Speak; but if thou hast said all, give us The favor which we ask, for surely thou remember'st. _Pr._ The whole term of her traveling has she heard. But that she may know that not in vain she hears me, I'll tell what before coming hither she endured, Giving this as proof of my relations. The great multitude of words I will omit, And proceed unto the very limit of thy wanderings. When, then, you came to the Molossian ground, And near the high-ridged Dodona, where Oracle and seat is of Thesprotian Zeus, And prodigy incredible, the speaking oaks, By whom you clearly, and naught enigmatically, Were called the illustrious wife of Zeus About to be, if aught of these things soothes thee; Thence, driven by the fly, you came The seaside way to the great gulf of Rhea, From which by courses retrograde you are now tempest-tossed. But for time to come the sea gulf, Clearly know, will be called Ionian, Memorial of thy passage to all mortals. Proofs to thee are these of my intelligence, That it sees somewhat more than the apparent. But the rest to you and her in common I will tell, Having come upon the very track of former words. There is a city Canopus, last of the land, By Nile's very mouth and bank; There at length Zeus makes thee sane, Stroking with gentle hand, and touching only. And, named from Zeus' begetting, Thou wilt bear dark Epaphus, who will reap As much land as broad-flowing Nile doth water; And fifth from him, a band of fifty children Again to Argos shall unwilling come, Of female sex, avoiding kindred marriage Of their cousins; but they, with minds inflamed, Hawks by doves not far left behind, Will come pursuing marriages Subdued with woman's hand with night-watching boldness. For each wife shall take her husband's life, Staining a two-edged dagger in his throat. Such 'gainst my foes may Cypris come.-- But one of the daughters shall love soften Not to slay her bedfellow, but she will waver In her mind; and one of two things will prefer, To hear herself called timid, rather than stained with blood; She shall in Argos bear a royal race.-- Of a long speech is need this clearly to discuss. From this seed, however, shall be born a brave, Famed for his bow, who will release me From these sufferings. Such oracle my ancient Mother told me, Titanian Themis; But how and by what means, this needs long speech To tell, and nothing, learning, wilt thou gain. _Io._ Ah me! ah wretched me! Spasms again and brain-struck Madness burn me within, and a fly's dart Stings me,--not wrought by fire. My heart with fear knocks at my breast, And my eyes whirl round and round, And from my course I'm borne by madness' Furious breath, unable to control my tongue; While confused words dash idly 'Gainst the waves of horrid woe. _Ch._ Wise, wise indeed was he, Who first in mind This weighed, and with the tongue expressed, To marry according to one's degree is best by far; Nor, being a laborer with the hands, To woo those who are by wealth corrupted, Nor, those by birth made great. Never, never me May you behold the sharer of Zeus' couch. Nor may I be brought near to any husband among those from heaven, Not content with man, through marriage vexed With these distressful wanderings by Here. But for myself, since an equal marriage is without fear, I am not concerned lest the love of the almighty Gods cast its inevitable eye on me. Without war, indeed, this war, producing Troubles; nor do I know what would become of me; For I see not how I should escape the subtlety of Zeus. _Pr._ Surely shall Zeus, though haughty now, Yet be humble, such marriage He prepares to make, which from sovereignty And the throne will cast him down obscure; and Father Kronos' Curse will then be all fulfilled, Which falling from the ancient seats he imprecated. And refuge from such ills none of the gods But I can show him clearly. I know these things, and in what manner. Now, therefore, Being bold, let him sit trusting to lofty To fall disgracefully intolerable falls; Such wrestler does he now prepare, Himself against himself, a prodigy most hard to be withstood; Who, indeed, will invent a better flame than lightning, And a loud sound surpassing thunder; And shiver the trident, Neptune's weapon, The marine earth-shaking ail. Stumbling upon this ill he'll learn How different to govern and to serve. _Ch._ Ay, as you hope you vent this against Zeus. _Pr._ What will be done, and also what I hope, I say. _Ch._ And are we to expect that any will rule Zeus? _Pr._ Even than these more grievous ills he'll have. _Ch._ How fear'st thou not, hurling such words? _Pr._ What should I fear, to whom to die has not been fated? _Ch._ But suffering more grievous still than this he may inflict. _Pr._ Then let him do it; all is expected by me. _Ch._ Those reverencing Adrastia are wise. _Pr._ Revere, pray, flatter each successive ruler. Me less than nothing Zeus concerns. Let him do, let him prevail this short time As he will, for long he will not rule the gods,-- But I see here, indeed, Zeus' runner, The new tryant's drudge; Doubtless he brings some new message. _Her._ To thee, the sophist, the bitterly bitter, The sinner against gods, the giver of honors To ephemerals, the thief of fire, I speak; The Father commands thee to tell the marriage Which you boast, by which he falls from power; And that, too, not enigmatically, But each particular declare; nor cause me Double journeys, Prometheus; for thou see'st that Zeus is not appeased by such. _Pr._ Solemn-mouthed and full of wisdom Is thy speech, as of the servant of the gods. Ye newly rule, and think forsooth To dwell in griefless citadels; have I not seen Two tyrants fallen from these? And third I shall behold him ruling now, Basest and speediest. Do I seem to thee To fear and shrink from the new gods? Nay, much and wholly I fall short of this. The way thou cam'st go through the dust again; For thou wilt learn naught which thou ask'st of me. _Her._ Ay, by such insolence before You brought yourself into these woes. _Pr._ Plainly know, I would not change My ill fortune for thy servitude, For better, I think, to serve this rock Than be the faithful messenger of Father Zeus. Thus to insult the insulting it is fit. _Her._ Thou seem'st to enjoy thy present state. _Pr._ I enjoy? Enjoying thus my enemies Would I see; and thee 'mong them I count. _Her._ Dost thou blame me for aught of thy misfortunes? _Pr._ In plain words, all gods I hate, As many as well treated wrong me unjustly. _Her._ I hear thee raving, no slight ail. _Pr._ Ay, I should ail, if ail one's foes to hate. _Her._ If prosperous, thou couldst not be borne. _Her._ This word Zeus does not know. _Pr._ But time growing old teaches all things. _Her._ And still thou know'st not yet how to be prudent. _Pr._ For I should not converse with thee a servant. _Her._ Thou seem'st to say naught which the Father wishes. _Pr._ And yet his debtor I'd requite the favor. _Her._ Thou mock'st me verily as if I were a child. _Pr._ And art thou not a child, and simpler still than this, If thou expectest to learn aught from me? There is not outrage nor expedient, by which Zeus will induce me to declare these things, Before he loose these grievous bonds. Let there be hurled, then, flaming fire, And the white-winged snows, and thunders Of the earth, let him confound and mingle all. For none of these will bend me till I tell By whom 't is necessary he should fall from sovereignty. _Her._ Consider now if these things seem helpful. _Pr._ Long since these were considered and resolved. _Her._ Venture, O vain one, venture, at length, In view of present sufferings to be wise. _Pr._ In vain you vex me, as a wave, exhorting. Ne'er let it come into thy mind that I, fearing Zeus' anger, shall become woman-minded, And beg him, greatly hated, With womanish upturnings of the hands, To loose me from these bonds. I am far from it. _Her._ Though saying much I seem in vain to speak; For thou art nothing softened nor appeased By prayers; but champing at the bit like a new-yoked Colt, thou strugglest and contend'st against the reins. But thou art violent with feeble wisdom. For stubbornness to him who is not wise, Itself alone, is less than nothing strong. But consider, if thou art not persuaded by my words, What storm and triple surge of ills Will come upon thee, not to be avoided; for first this rugged Cliff with thunder and lightning flame The Father'll rend, and hide Thy body, and a strong arm will bury thee. When thou hast spent a long length of time, Thou wilt come back to light; and Zeus' Winged dog, a bloodthirsty eagle, ravenously Shall tear the great rag of thy body, Creeping an uninvited guest all day, And banquet on thy liver black by eating. Of such suffering expect not any end, Before some god appear Succeeding to thy labors, and wish to go to rayless Hades, and the dark depths of Tartarus. Therefore deliberate; since this is not made Boasting, but in earnest spoken; For to speak falsely does not know the mouth Of Zeus, but every word he does. So Look about thee, and consider, nor ever think Obstinacy better than prudence. _Ch._ To us indeed Hermes appears to say not unseasonable things, Self-will, to seek prudent counsel. Obey; for it is base to err, for a wise man. _Pr._ To me foreknowing these messages He has uttered, but for a foe to suffer ill From foes is naught unseemly. Therefore 'gainst me let there be hurled Fire's double-pointed curl, and air Be provoked with thunder, and a tumult Of wild winds; and earth from its foundations Let a wind rock, and its very roots, And with a rough surge mingle The sea waves with the passages Of the heavenly stars, and to black Tartarus let him quite cast down my Body, by necessity's strong eddies. Yet after all he will not kill me. _Her._ Such words and counsels you may hear From the brain-struck. For what lacks he of being mad? And if prosperous, what does he cease from madness? Do you, therefore, who sympathize With this one's suffering, From these places quick withdraw somewhere, Lest the harsh bellowing thunder Stupefy your minds. _Ch._ Say something else, and exhort me To some purpose; for surely Thou hast intolerably abused this word. How direct me to perform a baseness? I wish to suffer with him whate'er is necessary, For I have learned to hate betrayers; Nor is the pest Which I abominate more than this. _Her._ Remember, then, what I foretell; Nor by calamity pursued Blame fortune, nor e'er say That Zeus into unforeseen Ill has cast you; surely not, but yourselves You yourselves; for knowing, And not suddenly nor clandestinely, You'll be entangled through your folly In an impassable net of woe. _Pr._ Surely indeed, and no more in word, Earth is shaken; And a hoarse sound of thunder Bellows near; and wreaths of lightning Flash out fiercely blazing, and whirlwinds dust Whirl up; and leap the blasts Of all winds, 'gainst one another Blowing in opposite array; And air with sea is mingled; Such impulse against me from Zeus, Producing fear, doth plainly come. O revered Mother, O Ether Revolving common light to all, You see me, how unjust things I endure! Equally by night always, And by day, having the sun, the good Lead a life without labor, not disturbing the earth With violent hands, nor the sea water, For a scanty living; but honored By the gods, who take pleasure in fidelity to oaths, They spend a tearless existence; While the others suffer unsightly pain. But as many as endured threefold Probation, keeping the mind from all Injustice, going the way of Zeus to Kronos' tower, Where the ocean breezes blow around The island of the blessed; and flowers of gold shine, Some on the land from dazzling trees, And the water nourishes others; With garlands of these they crown their hands and hair, According to the just decrees of Rhadamanthus, Whom Father Kronos, the husband of Rhea, Having the highest throne of all, has ready by himself as his assistant judge. Peleus and Kadmus are regarded among these; And his mother brought Achilles, when she had Persuaded the heart of Zeus with prayers, Who overthrew Hector, Troy's Unconquered, unshaken column, and gave Cycnus To death, and Morning's Aethiop son. Always around virtues labor and expense strive toward a work Covered with danger; but those succeeding seem to be wise even to the citizens. Dangerless virtues, Neither among men, nor in hollow ships, Are honorable; but many remember if a fair deed is done. Ancient sayings of men relate, That when Zeus and the Immortals divided earth, Rhodes was not yet apparent in the deep sea; But in salt depths the island was hid. And, Helios being absent, no one claimed for him his lot; So they left him without any region for his share, The pure god. And Zeus was about to make a second drawing of lots For he said that within the white sea he had seen a certain land springing up from the bottom, Capable of feeding many men, and suitable for flocks. And straightway he commanded golden-filleted Lachesis To stretch forth her hands, and not contradict The great oath of the gods, but with the son of Kronos Assent that, to the bright air being sent by his nod, It should hereafter be his prize. And his words were fully performed, Meeting with truth. The island sprang from the watery Sea; and the genial Father of penetrating beams, Ruler of fire-breathing horses, has it. A man doing fit things He named the Hill of Kronos, for before nameless, While Oenomaus ruled, it was moistened with much snow; And at this first rite the Fates stood by, And Time, who alone proves Unchanging truth. With the javelin Phrastor struck the mark; And Eniceus cast the stone afar, Whirling his hand, above them all, And with applause it rushed Through a great tumult; And the lovely evening light Of the fair-faced moon shone on the scene. When, having done fair things, O Agesidamus, Without the reward of song, a man may come To Hades' rest, vainly aspiring He obtains with toil some short delight. But the sweet-voiced lyre And the sweet flute bestow some favor; For Zeus' Pierian daughters Have wide fame. O ye, who inhabit for your lot the seat of the Cephisian Streams, yielding fair steeds, renowned Graces, Ruling bright Orchomenos, Protectors of the ancient race of Minyae, Hear, when I pray. For with you are all pleasant And sweet things to mortals; If wise, if fair, if noble, Any man. For neither do the gods, Without the august Graces, Rule the dance, Nor feasts; but stewards Of all works in heaven, Having placed their seats By golden-bowed Pythian Apollo, They reverence the eternal power August Aglaia and song-loving Euphrosyne, children of the mightiest god, Hear now, and Thalia loving song, Beholding this band, in favorable fortune Lightly dancing; for in Lydian Manner meditating, I come celebrating Asopichus, Since Minya by thy means is victor at the Olympic games. Now to Persephone's Black-walled house go, Echo, Bearing to his father the famous news; That seeing Cleodamus thou mayest say, That in renowned Pisa's vale His son crowned his young hair With plumes of illustrious contests. Thou extinguishest even the spear-like bolt Of everlasting fire. And the eagle sleeps on the sceptre of Zeus, The king of birds. Whatever things Zeus has not loved Are terrified, hearing The voice of the Pierians, On earth and the immeasurable sea. A plain-spoken man brings advantage to every government,-- To a monarchy, and when the Impetuous crowd, and when the wise, rule a city. As many, therefore, as came suffering From spontaneous ulcers, or wounded In their limbs with glittering steel, Or with the far-cast stone, Or by the summer's heat o'ercome in body, Or by winter, relieving he saved from Various ills; some cherishing With soothing strains, Others having drunk refreshing draughts, or applying Remedies to the limbs, others by cutting off he made erect. But even wisdom is bound by gain, And gold appearing in the hand persuaded even him, with its bright reward, To bring a man from death Already overtaken. But the Kronian, smiting With both hands, quickly took away The breath from his breasts; And the rushing thunderbolt hurled him to death. It is necessary for mortal minds To seek what is reasonable from the divinities, Knowing what is before the feet, of what destiny we are. Do not, my soul, aspire to the life Of the Immortals, but exhaust the practicable means. The Immortals distribute to men With one good two Evils. The foolish, therefore, Are not able to bear these with grace, But the wise, turning the fair outside. But thee the lot of good fortune follows, or surely great Destiny Looks down upon a king ruling the people, If on any man. But a secure life Nor to godlike Cadmus, Who yet are said to have had The greatest happiness Of mortals, and who heard The song of the golden-filleted Muses, On the mountain, and in seven-gated Thebes, When the one married fair-eyed Harmonia, And the other Thetis, the illustrious daughter of wise-counseling And the gods feasted with both; And they saw the royal children of Kronos On golden seats, and received Marriage gifts; and having exchanged Former toils for the favor of Zeus, They made erect the heart. But in course of time His three daughters robbed the one Of some of his serenity by acute Sufferings; when Father Zeus, forsooth, came To the lovely couch of white-armed Thyone. And the other's child, whom only the immortal Thetis bore in Phthia, losing His life in war by arrows, Being consumed by fire excited The lamentation of the Danaans. But if any mortal has in his Mind the way of truth, It is necessary to make the best Of what befalls from the blessed. For various are the blasts Of high-flying winds. The happiness of men stays not a long time, Though fast it follows rushing on. Humble in humble estate, lofty in lofty, I will be; and the attending daemon I will always reverence in my mind, Serving according to my means. But if Heaven extend to me kind wealth, I have hope to find lofty fame hereafter. They are the fame of men-- From resounding words which skillful artists Sung, we know. For virtue through renowned Song is lasting. But for few is it easy to obtain. He bestowed the lyre, And he gives the muse to whom he wishes, Bringing peaceful serenity to the breast. The phantom of a shadow are men. He reared the white-armed child Cyrene, Who loved neither the alternating motion of the loom, Nor the superintendence of feasts, With the pleasures of companions; But, with javelins of steel And the sword contending, To slay wild beasts; Affording surely much And tranquil peace to her father's herds; Spending little sleep Upon her eyelids, As her sweet bedfellow, creeping on at dawn. Fortunate and celebrated By the wise is that man Who, conquering by his hands or virtue Of his feet, takes the highest prizes Through daring and strength, And living still sees his youthful son Deservedly obtaining Pythian crowns. The brazen heaven is not yet accessible to him. But whatever glory we Of mortal race may reach, He goes beyond, even to the boundaries Of navigation. But neither in ships, nor going on foot, Couldst thou find the wonderful way to the contests of the If, being beautiful, And doing things like to his form, The child of Aristophanes Went to the height of manliness, no further Is it easy to go over the untraveled sea, One with native virtues Greatly prevails; but he who Possesses acquired talents, an obscure man, Aspiring to various things, never with fearless Foot advances, but tries A myriad virtues with inefficient mind. Yellow-haired Achilles, meanwhile, remaining in the house of Being a boy played Great deeds; often brandishing Iron-pointed javelins in his hands, Swift as the winds, in fight he wrought death to savage lions; And he slew boars, and brought their bodies As soon as six years old. And all the while Artemis and bold Athene admired him, Slaying stags without dogs or treacherous nets; For he conquered them on foot. Whatever virtues sovereign destiny has given me, I well know that time, creeping on, Will fulfill what was fated. No image-maker am I, who being still make statues Standing on the same base. But on every Merchant-ship and in every boat, sweet song, Go from Aegina to announce that Lampo's son, Has conquered the pancratian crown at the Nemean games. One the race of men and of gods; And from one mother We all breathe. But quite different power Divides us, so that the one is nothing, But the brazen heaven remains always A secure abode. Yet in some respect we are related, Either in mighty mind or form, to the Immortals; Although not knowing To what resting-place, By day or night, Fate has written that we shall run. In secret votes the Danaans aided Ulysses; And Ajax, deprived of golden arms, struggled with death. Surely, wounds of another kind they wrought In the warm flesh of their foes, waging war With the man-defending spear. Virtue increases, being sustained by wise men and just, As when a tree shoots up with gentle dews into the liquid air. There are various uses of friendly men; But chiefest in labors; and even pleasure Requires to place some pledge before the eyes. Once they led to seven-gated Thebes an army of men, not according Brandishing his lightning, impel to march But to apparent destruction The host made haste to go, with brazen arms And horse equipments, and on the banks Of Ismenus, defending sweet return, Their white-flowered bodies fattened fire. For seven pyres devoured young-limbed Zeus rent the deep-bosomed earth With his mighty thunderbolt, And buried him with his horses, Ere, being struck in the back By the spear of Periclymenus, his warlike Spirit was disgraced. For in daemonic fears Flee even the sons of gods. Nevertheless, I give thee Thy choice of these: if, indeed, fleeing Death and odious age, You wish to dwell on Olympus, With Athene and black-speared Mars, Thou hast this lot; But if thou thinkest to fight For thy brother, and share All things with him, Half the time thou mayest breathe, being beneath the earth, And half in the golden halls of heaven. The god thus having spoken, he did not Entertain a double wish in his mind. And he released first the eye, and then the voice, Of brazen-mitred Castor. One reward of labors is sweet to one man, one to another,-- To the shepherd, and the plower, and the bird-catcher, And whom the sea nourishes. But every one is tasked to ward off Grievous famine from the stomach. Fond of gain, nor a laboring woman; Nor were the sweet-sounding, Soothing strains Of Terpsichore sold, With silvered front. But now she directs to observe the saying Of the Argive, coming very near the truth, Who cried, "Money, money, man," Being bereft of property and friends. "If ever, O Father Zeus, thou hast heard My supplication with willing mind, Now I beseech thee, with prophetic Prayer, grant a bold son from Eriboea To this man, my fated guest; Rugged in body As the hide of this wild beast Which now surrounds me, which, first of all My contests, I slew once in Nemea; and let his mind agree." To him thus having spoken, Heaven sent A great eagle, king of birds, And sweet joy thrilled him inwardly. The children of the Athenians laid the shining Foundation of freedom, And in Plataea, making it firm As adamant. Having risen he went Over land and sea, And stood over the vast summits of mountains, And threaded the recesses, penetrating to the foundations of the groves. Heaven being willing, even on an osier thou mayest sail. "Were it the will of heaven, an osier bough Were vessel safe enough the seas to plough."] Honors and crowns of the tempest-footed Horses delight one; Others live in golden chambers; And some even are pleased traversing securely The swelling of the sea in a swift ship. This I will say to thee: The lot of fair and pleasant things It behooves to show in public to all the people; But if any adverse calamity sent from heaven befall Men, this it becomes to bury in darkness. Pindar said that "hopes were the dreams of those awake." To Heaven it is possible from black Night to make arise unspotted light, And with cloud-blackening darkness to obscure The pure splendor of day. First, indeed, the Fates brought the wise-counseling Uranian Themis, with golden horses, By the fountains of Ocean to the awful ascent Of Olympus, along the shining way, To be the first spouse of Zeus the Deliverer. And she bore the golden-filleted, fair-wristed Hours, preservers of good things. Equally tremble before God And a man dear to God. [This and the following are fragments of Pindar found in ancient O Nature! I do not aspire To be the highest in thy quire,-- To be a meteor in the sky, Or comet that may range on high; Only a zephyr that may blow Among the reeds by the river low; Give me thy most privy place Where to run my airy race. In some withdrawn, unpublic mead Let me sigh upon a reed, Or in the woods, with leafy din, Whisper the still evening in: Some still work give me to do,-- Only--be it near to you! For I'd rather be thy child And pupil, in the forest wild, Than be the king of men elsewhere, And most sovereign slave of care: To have one moment of thy dawn, Than share the city's year forlorn. Whate'er we leave to God, God does, And blesses us; The work we choose should be our own, God leaves alone. If with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything, The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope, Listening behind me for my wit, With faith superior to hope, More anxious to keep back than forward it, Making my soul accomplice there Unto the flame my heart hath lit, Then will the verse forever wear,-- Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ. Always the general show of things Floats in review before my mind, And such true love and reverence brings, That sometimes I forget that I am blind. But now there comes unsought, unseen, Some clear divine electuary, And I, who had but sensual been, Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary. I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before; I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. I hear beyond the range of sound, I see beyond the range of sight, New earths and skies and seas around, And in my day the sun doth pale his light. A clear and ancient harmony Pierces my soul through all its din, As through its utmost melody,-- Farther behind than they, farther within. More swift its bolt than lightning is. Its voice than thunder is more loud, It doth expand my privacies To all, and leave me single in the crowd. It speaks with such authority, With so serene and lofty tone, That idle Time runs gadding by, And leaves me with Eternity alone. Then chiefly is my natal hour, And only then my prime of life; Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 'T is peace's end, and war's beginning strife. 'T hath come in summer's broadest noon, By a gray wall or some chance place, Unseasoned time, insulted June, And vexed the day with its presuming face. Such fragrance round my couch it makes, More rich than are Arabian drugs, That my soul scents its life and wakes The body up beneath its perfumed rugs. Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid, The star that guides our mortal course, Which shows where life's true kernel's laid, Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force. She with one breath attunes the spheres, And also my poor human heart, With one impulse propels the years Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start. I will not doubt for evermore, Nor falter from a steadfast faith, For though the system be turned o'er, God takes not back the word which once he saith. I will, then, trust the love untold Which not my worth nor want has bought, Which wooed me young, and wooes me old, And to this evening hath me brought. My memory I'll educate To know the one historic truth, Remembering to the latest date The only true and sole immortal youth. Be but thy inspiration given, No matter through what danger sought, I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven, And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought. Fame cannot tempt the bard Who's famous with his God, Nor laurel him reward Who hath his Maker's nod. The god of day his car rolls up the slopes, Reining his prancing steeds with steady hand; The lingering moon through western shadows gropes, While morning sheds its light o'er sea and land. Castles and cities by the sounding main Resound with all the busy din of life; The fisherman unfurls his sails again; And the recruited warrior bides the strife. The early breeze ruffles the poplar leaves; The curling waves reflect the unseen light; The slumbering sea with the day's impulse heaves, While o'er the western hill retires the drowsy night. The seabirds dip their bills in Ocean's foam, Far circling out over the frothy waves,-- Low in the eastern sky Is set thy glancing eye; And though its gracious light Ne'er riseth to my sight, Yet every star that climbs Above the gnarled limbs Of yonder hill, Conveys thy gentle will. Believe I knew thy thought, And that the zephyrs brought Thy kindest wishes through, As mine they bear to you; That some attentive cloud Did pause amid the crowd Over my head, While gentle things were said. Believe the thrushes sung, And that the flower-bells rung, That herbs exhaled their scent, And beasts knew what was meant, The trees a welcome waved, And lakes their margins laved, When thy free mind To my retreat did wind. It was a summer eve, The air did gently heave While yet a low-hung cloud Thy eastern skies did shroud; The lightning's silent gleam, Startling my drowsy dream, Seemed like the flash Under thy dark eyelash. From yonder comes the sun, But soon his course is run, Rising to trivial day Along his dusty way; But thy noontide completes Only auroral heats, Nor ever sets, To hasten vain regrets. Direct thy pensive eye Into the western sky; And when the evening star Does glimmer from afar Upon the mountain line, Accept it for a sign That I am near, And thinking of thee here. I'll be thy Mercury, Distinguished by thy face The earth shall learn my place; As near beneath thy light Will I outwear the night, With mingled ray Leading the westward way. Still will I strive to be As if thou wert with me; Whatever path I take, It shall be for thy sake, Of gentle slope and wide, As thou wert by my side, Without a root To trip thy gentle foot. I'll walk with gentle pace, And choose the smoothest place, And careful dip the oar, And shun the winding shore, And gently steer my boat Where water-lilies float, And cardinal-flowers Stand in their sylvan bowers. Brother, where dost thou dwell? What sun shines for thee now? Dost thou indeed fare well, As we wished thee here below? What season didst thou find? 'Twas winter here. Are not the Fates more kind Than they appear? Is thy brow clear again As in thy youthful years? And was that ugly pain The summit of thy fears? Yet thou wast cheery still; They could not quench thy fire; Thou didst abide their will, And then retire. Where chiefly shall I look To feel thy presence near? Along the neighboring brook May I thy voice still hear? Dost thou still haunt the brink Of yonder river's tide? And may I ever think That thou art by my side? What bird wilt thou employ To bring me word of thee? For it would give them joy-- 'T would give them liberty-- To serve their former lord With wing and minstrelsy. A sadder strain mixed with their song, They've slowlier built their nests; Since thou art gone Their lively labor rests. Where is the finch, the thrush, I used to hear? Ah, they could well abide The dying year. Now they no more return, I hear them not; They have remained to mourn, Or else forgot. When life contracts into a vulgar span, And human nature tires to be a man, I thank the gods for Greece, That permanent realm of peace. For as the rising moon far in the night Checkers the shade with her forerunning light, So in my darkest hour my senses seem To catch from her Acropolis a gleam. Greece, who am I that should remember thee, Is my life vulgar, my fate mean, Which on such golden memories can lean? One more is gone Out of the busy throng That tread these paths; The church-bell tolls, Its sad knell rolls To many hearths. Flower-bells toll not, Their echoes roll not Upon my ear; There still, perchance, That gentle spirit haunts A fragrant bier. Low lies the pall, Lowly the mourners all Their passage grope; No sable hue Mars the serene blue Of heaven's cope. In distant dell Faint sounds the funeral bell; A heavenly chime; Some poet there Weaves the light-burthened air Into sweet rhyme. Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide; Mortality below her orb is placed. The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray Mounts up the eastern sky, Not doomed to these short nights for aye, But shining steadily. She does not wane, but my fortune, Which her rays do not bless; My wayward path declineth soon, But she shines not the less. And if she faintly glimmers here, And paled is her light, Yet alway in her proper sphere She's mistress of the night. Thank God who seasons thus the year, And sometimes kindly slants his rays; For in his winter he's most near And plainest seen upon the shortest days. Who gently tempers now his heats. And then his harsher cold, lest we Should surfeit on the summer's sweets, Or pine upon the winter's crudity. A sober mind will walk alone, Apart from nature, if need be, And only its own seasons own: For nature leaving its humanity. Sometimes a late autumnal thought Has crossed my mind in green July, And to its early freshness brought Late ripened fruits, and an autumnal sky. The evening of the year draws on, The fields a later aspect wear; Since Summer's garishness is gone, Some grains of night tincture the noontide air. Behold! the shadows of the trees Now circle wider 'bout their stem, Like sentries that by slow degrees Perform their rounds, gently protecting them. And as the year doth decline, The sun allows a scantier light; Behind each needle of the pine There lurks a small auxiliar to the night. I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay Around, beneath me, and on high; It rocks the night, it soothes the day, And everywhere is Nature's lullaby. But most he chirps beneath the sod, When he has made his winter bed; His creak grown fainter but more broad, A film of autumn o'er the summer spread. Small birds, in fleets migrating by, Now beat across some meadow's bay, And as they tack and veer on high, With faint and hurried click beguile the way. Far in the woods, these golden days, Some leaf obeys its Maker's call; And through their hollow aisles it plays With delicate touch the prelude of the Fall. Gently withdrawing from its stem, It lightly lays itself along Where the same hand hath pillowed them, Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng. The loneliest birch is brown and sere, The farthest pool is strewn with leaves, Which float upon their watery bier, Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves. The jay screams through the chestnut wood; The crisped and yellow leaves around Are hue and texture of my mood, And these rough burs my heirlooms on the ground. The threadbare trees, so poor and thin, They are no wealthier than I; But with as brave a core within They rear their boughs to the October sky. Poor knights they are which bravely wait The charge of Winter's cavalry, Keeping a simple Roman state, Discumbered of their Persian luxury. I saw the civil sun drying earth's tears, Her tears of joy that only faster flowed. Fain would I stretch me by the highway-side To thaw and trickle with the melting snow; That mingled, soul and body, with the tide, I too may through the pores of nature flow. The rabbit leaps, The mouse out-creeps, The flag out-peeps Beside the brook; The ferret weeps, The marmot sleeps, The owlet keeps In his snug nook. The apples thaw, The ravens caw, The squirrels gnaw The frozen fruit. To their retreat I track the feet Of mice that eat The apple's root. The snow-dust falls, The otter crawls, The partridge calls, Far in the wood. The traveler dreams, The tree-ice gleams, The blue jay screams In angry mood. The willows droop, The alders stoop, The pheasants group Beneath the snow. The catkins green Cast o'er the scene A summer's sheen, A genial glow. Poor bird! destined to lead thy life Far in the adventurous west, And here to be debarred to-night From thy accustomed nest; Must thou fall back upon old instinct now, Well-nigh extinct under man's fickle care? Did heaven bestow its quenchless inner light, So long ago, for thy small want to-night? Why stand'st upon thy toes to crow so late? The moon is deaf to thy low feathered fate; Or dost thou think so to possess the night, And people the drear dark with thy brave sprite? And now with anxious eye thou look'st about, While the relentless shade draws on its veil, For some sure shelter from approaching dews, And the insidious steps of nightly foes. I fear imprisonment has dulled thy wit, Or ingrained servitude extinguished it. But no; dim memory of the days of yore, By Brahmapootra and the Jumna's shore, Where thy proud race flew swiftly o'er the heath, And sought its food the jungle's shade beneath, Has taught thy wings to seek yon friendly trees, As erst by Indus' banks and far Ganges. If I am poor, It is that I am proud; If God has made me naked and a boor, He did not think it fit his work to shroud. The poor man comes direct from heaven to earth, As stars drop down the sky, and tropic beams; The rich receives in our gross air his birth, As from low suns are slanted golden gleams. Yon sun is naked, bare of satellite, Unless our earth and moon that office hold; Though his perpetual day feareth no night, And his perennial summer dreads no cold. Mankind may delve, but cannot my wealth spend; If I no partial wealth appropriate, No armed ships unto the Indies send, None robs me of my Orient estate. "Have you not seen, In ancient times, Pilgrims pass by Toward other climes, With shining faces, Youthful and strong, Mounting this hill With speech and with song?" "Ah, my good sir, I know not those ways; Little my knowledge, Tho' many my days. When I have slumbered, I have heard sounds As of travelers passing These my grounds. "'T was a sweet music Wafted them by, I could not tell If afar off or nigh. Unless I dreamed it, This was of yore: I never told it To mortal before, Never remembered But in my dreams What to me waking A miracle seems." In this roadstead I have ridden, In this covert I have hidden; Friendly thoughts were cliffs to me, And I hid beneath their lee. This true people took the stranger, And warm-hearted housed the ranger; They received their roving guest, And have fed him with the best; Whatsoe'er the land afforded To the stranger's wish accorded; Shook the olive, stripped the vine, And expressed the strengthening wine. And by night they did spread o'er him What by day they spread before him;-- That good-will which was repast Was his covering at last. The stranger moored him to their pier Without anxiety or fear; By day he walked the sloping land, By night the gentle heavens he scanned. When first his bark stood inland To the coast of that far Finland, Sweet-watered brooks came tumbling to the shore The weary mariner to restore. And still he stayed from day to day If he their kindness might repay; But more and more The sullen waves came rolling toward the shore. And still the more the stranger waited, The less his argosy was freighted, And still the more he stayed, The less his debt was paid. So he unfurled his shrouded mast To receive the fragrant blast; And that sane refreshing gale Which had wooed him to remain Again and again, It was that filled his sail And drove him to the main. All day the low-hung clouds Dropt tears into the sea; And the wind amid the shrouds Sighed plaintively. My life more civil is and free Than any civil polity. Ye princes, keep your realms And circumscribed power, Not wide as are my dreams, Nor rich as is this hour. What can ye give which I have not? What can ye take which I have got? Can ye defend the dangerless? Can ye inherit nakedness? To all true wants Time's ear is deaf, Penurious states lend no relief Out of their pelf: But a free soul--thank God-- Can help itself. Be sure your fate Doth keep apart its state, Not linked with any band, Even the noblest of the land; In tented fields with cloth of gold No place doth hold, But is more chivalrous than they are, And sigheth for a nobler war; A finer strain its trumpet sings, A brighter gleam its armor flings. The life that I aspire to live No man proposeth me; No trade upon the street Wears its emblazonry. When the world grows old by the chimney-side Then forth to the youngling nooks I glide, Where over the water and over the land The bells are booming on either hand. Now up they go ding, then down again dong, And awhile they ring to the same old song, For the metal goes round at a single bound, A-cutting the fields with its measured sound, While the tired tongue falls with a lengthened boom As solemn and loud as the crack of doom. Then changed is their measure to tone upon tone, And seldom it is that one sound comes alone, For they ring out their peals in a mingled throng, And the breezes waft the loud ding-dong along. When the echo hath reached me in this lone vale, I am straightway a hero in coat of mail, I tug at my belt and I march on my post, And feel myself more than a match for a host. Who equaleth the coward's haste, And still inspires the faintest heart; Whose lofty fame is not disgraced, Though it assume the lowest part. If thou wilt but stand by my ear, When through the field thy anthem's rung, When that is done I will not fear But the same power will abet my tongue. I've searched my faculties around, To learn why life to me was lent: I will attend the faintest sound, And then declare to man what God hath meant. No generous action can delay Or thwart our higher, steadier aims; But if sincere and true are they, It will arouse our sight, and nerve our frames. Great God! I ask thee for no meaner pelf Than that I may not disappoint myself; That in my action I may soar as high As I can now discern with this clear eye; And next in value, which thy kindness lends, That I may greatly disappoint my friends, Howe'er they think or hope it that may be, They may not dream how thou 'st distinguished me; That my weak hand may equal my firm faith, And my life practice more than my tongue saith; That my low conduct may not show, Nor my relenting lines, That I thy purpose did not know, Or overrated thy designs. [Five stanzas of this poem appear in _Week_, pp. 46, 47.] [The last four lines appear in _Week_, p. 54.] ["The first four of these stanzas (unnamed by Thoreau) were ["These stanzas formed part of the original manuscript of the essay on 'A Winter Walk,' but were excluded by Emerson." (Note in [In _The Dial_ this line reads, "Only the promise of my heart."] ["A copy of this hitherto unpublished poem has been kindly furnished by Miss A. J. Ward." (Note in _Poems of Nature_.)] "Ah, 't is in vain the peaceful din" "But since we sailed" "Here then an aged shepherd dwelt" "On Ponkawtasset, since we took our way" "Who sleeps by day and walks by night" "An early unconverted Saint" "Low in the eastern sky" (TO THE MAIDEN IN THE EAST) "Dong, sounds the brass in the East" "Greece, who am I that should remember thee" "Some tumultuous little rill" "I make ye an offer" "Conscience is instinct bred in the house" (CONSCIENCE) "Such water do the gods distill" "That Phaeton of our day" "Then spend an age in whetting thy desire" "Though all the fates should prove unkind" "With frontier strength ye stand your ground" (MOUNTAINS) "The western wind came lumbering in" "Then idle Time ran gadding by" "Now chiefly is my natal hour" "Away! away! away! away!" "Ply the oars! away! away!" (RIVER SONG, part) "Since that first 'Away! away!'" (RIVER SONG, part) "Low-anchored cloud" (MIST) "Man's little acts are grand" "Our uninquiring corpses lie more low" "The waves slowly beat" "Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze" (HAZE) "Where gleaming fields of haze" "Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter" (BOAT SONG) "This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome" "True kindness is a pure divine affinity" "Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy" (SYMPATHY) "My love must be as free" (FREE LOVE) "The Good how can we trust?" "Nature doth have her dawn each day" "Let such pure hate still underprop" (FRIENDSHIP) "Men are by birth equal in this, that given" "My life has been the poem I would have writ" "I hearing get, who had but ears" "Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend" "Oft, as I turn me on my pillow o'er" "I am the autumnal sun" (NATURE'S CHILD) "A finer race and finer fed" "I am a parcel of vain strivings tied" (SIC VITA) "All things are current found" "Men say they know many things" "What's the railroad to me?" "It is no dream of mine" "Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird" (SMOKE) "Die and be buried who will" "We pronounce thee happy, Cicada" (from Anacreon) "His steady sails he never furls" RETURN OF SPRING (from Anacreon) "Each summer sound" "Sometimes I hear the veery's clarion" "Upon the lofty elm tree sprays" (THE VIREO) "Thou dusky spirit of the wood" (THE CROW) "I see the civil sun drying earth's tears" (THE THAW, part) "The river swelleth more and more" (A RIVER SCENE) "The needles of the pine" "With frontier strength ye stand your ground" (MOUNTAINS) "Not unconcerned Wachusett rears his head" "The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell" (SMOKE "When Winter fringes every bough" (STANZAS WRITTEN AT "In two years' time 't had thus" Achilles, The Youth of, translation, 385. Acre, an, as long measure, 60. Aeschylus, The Prometheus Bound of, translation, 337-375. Aesculapius, translation, 380. Agriculture, the task of Americans, 229-231. Ajax, The Treatment of, translation, 387. American, money in Quebec, 24; Amphiaraus, The Death of, translation, 387. Apollo, translation, 383. the fruit and flavor of the, 308-314; with a better house than any in Canada, 100. Ash trees, 6. Aurora of Guido, The, verse, 399. Bartram, William, quoted, 199. Bathing feet in brooks, 140. "Behold, how spring appearing," verse, 109. Birch, yellow, 6. Birds and mountains, 149. Bittern, booming of the, 111. Black Knight, The, verse, 415, note. Blueberries, and milk, supper of, 144. Books on natural history, reading, 103-105. Bouchette, Topographical Description of the Canadas, quoted, 41, Brand's Popular Antiquities quoted, 297, 298. "Brother, where dost thou dwell?" verse, 403. Butternut tree, 6. Caen, Emery de, quoted, 52. Canada, apparently older than the United States, 80, 81; the French in, a nation of peasants, 82. love of neighborhood, 42, 43; vegetables and trees, 47, 48; Cane, a straight and a twisted, 184, 185. the view from, 88. Castor and Pollux, translation, 388. Chalmers, Dr., in criticism of Coleridge, 324. Champlain, Samuel, quoted, 8; whales in map of, 91. Chateau Richer, church of, 46, 49; Chaudiere River, the, 21; Cherry-stones, transported by birds, 188. Clothes, bad-weather, 28; _Coureurs de bois_, and _de risques_, 43. Crickets, the creaking of, 108. Crookneck squash seeds, Quebec, 87. not imported from Europe, 113. Dogs in harness, 30. Drake, Sir Francis, quoted, 325. Dubartas, quoted, translation of Sylvester, 328, 329. East Main, Labrador and, health in the words, 104. Edda, the Prose, quoted, 291. Eggs, a master in cooking, 61, 62. Elysium, translation, 375. Eyes, the sight of different men's 285-288. Fall of the Leaf, The, verse, 407. Falls, a drug of, 58. Fishes, described in Massachusetts Report, 118. Foreign country, quickly in a, 31. Forests, nations preserved by, 229. Fortifications, ancient and modern, 77, 78. in the New World, English and, 66-68; the, spoken in Quebec streets, 86, 87. Friends, The Value of, translation, 387. Froissart, good place to read, 23. Funeral Bell, The, verse, 405. Fur Countries, inspiring neighborhood of the, 105. Geese, first flock of, 110. Gesner, Konrad von, quoted, 318. "Great God! I ask thee for no meaner pelf," verse, 418. Greece, The Freedom of, translation, 390. Grey, the traveler, quoted, 94. Grippling for apples, 309. Height of Glory, The, translation,384. Hercules, names the Hill of Kronos, translation, 377. Hercules' Prayer concerning Ajax, son of Telamon, translation, "His steady sails he never furls," verse, 109. _Hortus siccus_, nature in winter a, 179. American compared with Canadian, 100. Hunt House, the old, 201. Hypseus' Daughter Cyrene, translation, 383. "I saw the civil sun drying earth's tears," verse, 409. "I see the civil sun drying earth's tears," verse, 120. Ice, the booming of, 176. Ice formations in a river-bank, 128, 129. "If thou wilt but stand by my ear," verse, 418. "If with light head erect I sing," verse, 396. Imitations of Charette drivers, Yankee, 99. "In this roadstead I have ridden," verse, 414. "In two years' time 't had thus," verse, 303. Independence, verse, 415. Inn, inscription on wall of Swedish, 141. Inspiration, quatrain, 418. Invertebrate Animals, Report on, quoted, 129. "I've searched my faculties around," verse, 418. Jesuit Relations, quoted, 96. Jesuits' Barracks, the, in Quebec, 24. Joel, the prophet, quoted, 322. Josselyn, John, quoted, 2. on sea-plants near Quebec, 93. heads like, 4. Kent, the Duke of, property of, 38. Knowledge, the slow growth of, 181; Labrador and East Main, health in the words, 104. Lalement, Hierosme, quoted, 22. "Low in the eastern sky," verse, 400. McCulloch's Geographical Dictionary, quoted, 49. McTaggart, John, quoted, 94. MacTavish, Simon, 98. Man, The Divine in, translation, 386. Map, drawing, on kitchen table, 60; of Canada, inspecting a, 95. Maple, the red and sugar, 6; Maranon, the river, 93. Merrimack River, the, 147. Midnight, exploring the, 323. Miller, a crabbed, 69. Mississippi, discovery of the, 90; extent of the, 93; a panorama of the, 224. Montcalm, Wolfe and, monument to, 73, 74. the mixed population of, 17, 18; and its surroundings, beautiful view of, 98; Moonlight, reading by, 145. Muse, The Venality of the, translation, 389. "My life more civil is and free," verse, 415. Names, poetry in, 20; Natural history, reading books of, 103, 105. Nature, health to be found in, 105; man's work the most natural, compared with that of, 119; the hand of, upon her children, 124, 125; different methods of work, 125; the civilized look of, 141; the winter purity of, 167; New things to be seen near home, 211, 212. Niebuhr, Barthold Georg, quoted, 290. Niepce, Joseph Nicephore, quoted, 238. "No generous action can delay," verse, 418. "Not unconcerned Wachusett rears his head," verse, 144. Old Marlborough Road, The, verse, 214. Olympia at Evening, translation, 378. Omnipresence, verse, 417. "O Nature! I do not aspire," verse, 395. Origin of Rhodes, translation, 376. Orinoco, the river, 93. Patent office, seeds sent by the, 203. Peleus and Cadmus, translation, 381. Penobscot Indians, use of muskrat-skins by, 116, 117. Pindar, Translations from, 375. Pine cone, stripped by squirrels, 196. Plain and mountain, life of the, 151. Pliny, the Elder, quoted, 292. Point Levi, by ferry to, 70; "Poor bird! destined to lead thy life," verse, 411. Potherie, quoted, 52. Prometheus Bound of Aeschylus, The, translation, 337. harbor and population of, 22; fine view of, 49; reentering, through St. John's Gate, 69; lights in the lower town, 71; landing again at, 72; walk round the Upper Town, 72-76; artillery barracks, 75; mounted guns, 76; origin of word, 88; departure from, 95. Raleigh, Sir Walter, quoted, 329. Reports on the natural history of Massachusetts, 103, 114, 118, Return of Spring, verse, 109. Richelieu or St. John's River, 8. Richelieu Rapids, the, 21. River, the flow of a, 178. Riviere du Sud, the, 92. Riviere more meandering than River, 56. lodgings in village of, 49-51; interior of the church of _La Bonne_, 51, 52; St. Charles River, the, 30. St. Helen's Island (Montreal), 11. cottages along the, 21; banks of the, above Quebec, 40, 41; Saunter, derivation of the word, 205, 206. Scotchman dissatisfied with Canada, a, 75. Scriptures, Hebrew, inadequacy of regarding winter, 183. Sea-plants near Quebec, 93. Seeds, the transportation of, by wind, 186, 187; Sign language, 61. Silliman, Benjamin, quoted, 98. Smoke, winter morning, 165; Snipe-shooting grounds, 48. not recognized in Hebrew Scriptures, 183. Society, health not to be found in, 105. "Sometimes I hear the veery's clarion," verse, 112. Squash, the large yellow, 203. with nuts under snow, 195; pine cones stripped by the, 196; with filled cheek-pouches, 198. Tamias, the steward squirrel, 198. Tavern, the gods' interest in the, 153; "Thank God, who seasons thus the year," verse, 407. "The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray," verse, 406. "The god of day his car rolls up the slopes," verse, 399. "The needles of the pine," verse, 133. "The river swelleth more and more," verse, 120. "The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell," verse, 165. Thoreau, Henry David, leaves Concord for Canada, 25th September, leaves Quebec for Montreal on return trip, 95; leaves Montreal for Boston, 99; total expense of Canada excursion, 100, 101; walk from Concord to Wachusett and back, 133-152; observation of a red squirrel, 190, 191; experience with government squash-seed, 203. "Thou dusky spirit of the wood," verse, 113. To a Stray Fowl, verse, 411. To Aristoclides, Victor at the Nemean Games, translation, 384. To My Brother, verse, 403. To the Maiden in the East, verse, 400. To the Lyre, translation, 379. Traveling outfit, the best, 31-34. the suggestions of, 125; Tree-tops, things seen and found on, 245, 246. Turtle, the snapping, 124. "Upon the lofty elm tree sprays," verse, 112. Vegetation, the type of all growth, 128. Wachusett, a view of, 138; birds or vegetation on summit of, 143; Walls, Quebec and other, 74. "We pronounce thee happy, Cicada," verse, 108. general tendency towards the, 219-224. Westmoreland, etymology of, 6. "Whate'er we leave to God, God does," verse, 396. "When life contracts into a vulgar span," verse, 404. "When the world grows old by the chimney-side," verse, 417. "When winter fringes every bough," verse, 176. "Where they once dug for money," verse, 214. "Who equaleth the coward's haste," verse, 417. "Whoa," the crying of, to mankind, 235. nature a _hortus siccus_ in, 179; as represented in the almanac, 182; ignored in Hebrew revelation, 183; "With frontier strength ye stand your ground," verse, 133. "Within the circuit of this plodding life," verse, 103. Wolfe and Montcalm, monument to, 73. Woodchopper, winter to be represented as a, 182.

The President's Commission on the Assassination of President Kennedy

Warren Commission (6 of 26): Hearings Vol. VI (of 15)

Stray Sonnets written by F. S. Love them by H. D. Though all the light were lifted from the land, And a great darkness lay upon the sea; Though, groping each for some not-careless hand, I felt sad men pass over wearily; Though it were certain dawn would not come in With the next hour; that after many days Would no moon rise where the grey clouds grew thin, Nor any stars resume their ancient ways: Though all my world was thus, and I more blind Than the dead, blundering planets raining past, I know I should not fancy Time unkind; For you, as once of old you came, at last Would surely come, and with unfaltering faith Lead me beyond the dominance of death. Why should we fear? The sun will surely rise, If we but wait, to light us on our way. Think you none hearkeneth to us who pray, That no God's heart is softened by our cries? Did we not learn that He was kind and wise And loved our souls? And shall your bodies say "There is no light. The tales they told us,--they Were only dreams, dreamed in the House of Lies." Nay, listen not to what your body saith, But by the memory of those antique years When it was evil and of little faith And led the soul along a way of tears, Let your soul chant--as one that hath no fears-- "We know that Thou art stronger, God, than death." I question not, Beloved, nor deny That you had God's own right of punishment; Yet now my sins and days are over and spent Find you the hours so pleasant that go by? Would not the colour of the fields and sky, The odour of the woods, bring more content Now, if a little pity had been lent Then, unto love, to judge a life awry? Upon a day the young June grasses seem Quite still that keep the edge of the still stream; I think you go down close to them, and say: "O little grasses, waiting patiently, I come to tell you this is God's decree: '_I comfort him who suffered yesterday?_'" O ye disconsolate and heavy-souled, That evening cometh when ye too shall learn The pangs of one who may no more return, To live again the uneven days of old. Ye too shall weary of the myrrh and gold (Seeing the gods and their great unconcern), And, as I yearn to-day, your feet shall yearn To touch that Earth which ye afar behold. Think now upon your grievous things to bear,-- Some goal unwon, some old sin's lurid stain, Your vistaed paths,--are they not fair as hope? But I between dead suns must peer, and grope Among forsaken worlds, one glimpse to gain Of my old place--the heaviest shadow there. I would not have thee, dear, in darkness sit, On days like this, hand clasped in quiet hand, Remembering mournfully that fragrant land-- Each day therein, the joy we had of it. Rather, while still the lamps are trimmed and lit, Bid strangers to the feasts that once we planned, Merry the while! Until the dust's demand My soul, not thine, shall separately submit. So, when thou comest (for I at last will call And thou shalt hear, and linger not at all), Still to thy throat, thine arms, thy loosened hair Will cling the savour of the World's fresh kiss, So sweet to me! and doubly sweet for this-- That thou for mine shouldst leave a place so fair! When in the old years I had dreams of thee Thy dark walls stood in a most barren place; And he within (was his wan face _my_ face?) Wandered alone and wept continually. There was no bird to hear, nor sun to see, Nor green thing growing; nor for his release Came sleep; neither forgetfulness nor peace: Whereby I knew that none had sinned as he. To-day I met him where white lilies gleam; Across our path we watched the sparrows flit; Until--the sunlight strong in our dry eyes-- He paused with me beside a green-edged stream, Moaning, "I know, where its young waters rise, Remembering, one leaneth over it." Often between the midnight and the morn I wake and see the angels round my bed; Then fall asleep again, well-comforted. I wait not now till that clear dawn be born Shall lead my feet (O Love, thine eyes are worn With watching) where her feet have late been led; Nor lie awake, saying the words she said-- (Her yellow hair.--Have ye seen yellow corn?) I fall asleep and dream and quite forget, For here in heaven I know a new love's birth Which casteth out all memory. And yet (As I had loved her more, O Christ, on earth, Hadst Thou not been so long unsought, unmet) Some morrow Thou shalt learn my worship's worth. She pauseth; and as each great mirror swings (O ruined Helen, O once golden hair) I see OEnone's ashes scattered there. Another, and, behold, the shadowed things Are violated tombs of shrunken kings. And yet another (O, how thou wert fair!), And I see one, black-clad, who prayeth where No sound of sword on cloven helmet rings. Yet, were I Paris, once more should I see Troy's seaward gates for us swung open wide. Or old Nile's glory, were I Anthony. Or, were I Launcelot, the garden-side At Joyous Gard. Surely; for even to me, Where Love hath lived hath Beauty never died. Were once again the immortal moment mine How should I choose my path? The path I chose (How long ago I wonder if Time knows) Even now I see. I see the old sun shine Upon the moss, thick strewn with fir and pine; The open field; the orchard's even rows; The wood again; then, where the hills unclose, Far off at first, now near, the long-sought shrine. O Time, how impotent thou art! Though thou Hast taken me from all things, and all things From me,--although the wind of thy swift wings Hath swept at last the shadow from her brow Of my last kiss, yet do I triumph now Who, choosing, paused to hear Love's counsellings. Was it last Autumn only, when I stood At the field's edge, and watched the red glow creep Among the leaves, and saw the swift flame sweep From spruce to hemlock, till the living wood Became a devastated solitude? For now, behold, old seeds, long years asleep, Wake; and a legion of young birches leap To life, and tell the ashes life is good. O Love of long ago, when this mad fire Is over, and the ruins of my soul With the Spring wind the old quest would resume,-- When age knocks at the inn of youth's desire, Shall the new growth, now worthier of the goal, Find still untenanted the chosen room? It is not that I now were happier If with the dawn my tireless feet were led Along her path, till I saw her fair head Thrown back to make the sunshine goldener: For it is well, sometimes, the things that were Are over, ere their perfectness hath fled; Lest the old love of them should fade instead, And lie like ruins round the throne of her. Now with the wisdom of increasing years I know each ancient joy a cup for tears; Yet had I drunk, while they were draughts to praise, Deeper, I were not now as men that grow Old, and sit gazing out across the snow To dream sad dreams of wasted summer days. I had not thought (ah, God! had I but known!) That this sad hour should ever me befall, When thou I judged the holiest of all Should come to be the thing I must disown. Was it not true? that April morn? thy blown Gold hair around my hair for coronal? Or is this truer?--thou at the outer wall, Unroyal, and with unrepentant moan? Yet prize I now this wisdom I have won, Who must always remember? Nay! My tears Must close mine eyes--as thou wouldst hide thy face If some great meteor, kindred to the sun, Should haunt the undying stars ten million years To fall, some noon, dead in thy market place. When Time is done at last, and the last Spring Fadeth on earth, and thy gaze seeketh mine, Watch well for one whose face beareth for sign The legend of a soul's refashioning: As I shall watch for one whose pale hands bring The first faint violet, and know them thine Grown pitiful and come to build Love's shrine Where the old Aprils wait, unfaltering. Then the great floods between us will retire, And the long path I follow down will grow To be the path thy climbing feet desire; Until we meet at last, made glad, and know The cleansing hands that made my soul as snow Have kept alive in thine the ancient fire. Such space there is, such endless breadth of time Between me and my world of yesterday, I half forget what sounds these be that stray About my chamber, and grow and fall and climb. Listen!--that sweet reiterated chime, Doth it not mark some body changed to clay? That last great chord, some anguish far away? Hark! harmony ever now and faultless rhyme. O Soul of mine, among these lutes and lyres, These reeds, these golden pipes, and quivering strings, Thou knowest now that in the old, old years We who knew only one of all desires Came often even to music's furthest springs-- To pass, because their waters gleamed like tears. Mine gold is here; yea, heavy yellow gold, Gathered ere Earth's first days and nights were fled; And all the walls are hung with scarfs of red, Broidered in fallen cities, fold on fold; The stained window's saints are aureoled; And all the textures of the East are spread On the paved floor, whereon I lay my head, And sleep, and count the coloured things of old. Once, when the hills and I were all aflame With envy of the pageant in the West (Except the sombre pine-trees--whence there came, Continually, the sigh of their unrest), A lonely crow sailed past me, black as shame, Hugging some ancient sorrow to his breast. As when the tideless, barren waters lay About the borders of the early earth; And small, unopened buds dreamt not the worth Of their incomparable gold array; And tall young hemlocks were not set a-sway By any wind; and orchards knew no mirth At Autumn time, nor plenteousness from dearth; And night and morning, then, were the first day, --Even so was I. Yet, as I slept last night, My soul surged towards thy love's controlling power; And, quickened now with the sun's splendid might, Breaks into unimaginable flower, Knowing thy soul knows this for beacon-light-- The culmination of the harvest hour. Because your strife and labour have been vain, Ye who have striven, shall I forego, forget The far-off goal where to my feet were set In the old days when life was first made plain? Upward in April, who, meeting with the rain, Did turn, the first shy mayflowers still are met? I who have sought, yea, who am seeking yet, What pain have I like unto your sore pain? So let me go as one yearning, that braves, With shipmen that have knowledge of the sea, The wind disastrous and the ponderous waves (Because his love dwells in some far countree), Crying, "Not one of all your million graves Is deep enough to keep my love from me!" From north, from east, the strong wind hurries down Against the window-pane the sleet rings fast; The moon hath hid her face away, aghast, And darkness keeps each corner of the town. The garden hedges wear a heavy crown, And the old poplars shriek, as night drifts past, That, leagues on desolate leagues away, at last One comes to know he too must surely drown. And yet at noon, to-morrow, when I go Out to the white, white edges of the plain, I shall not grieve for this night's hurricane, Seeing how, in a little hollow, sinks the snow Around the southmost tree, where a lean crow Sits noisily impatient for the rain. And if it be I shall not sing again, And thou have wonder at my silent ways, I pray thee think my days not weary days, Seeing that words are nought, nor may remain, Why should I strive with Time? Come blame, come praise, I am but one of them his might betrays At last, when all men learn that all was vain. And yet one thing Time cannot wrest from me. Therefore, cry out, yea, even to the throng That pauseth not for echo of a song, "O, your red gold is very fair. But he Is glad as heaven to loiter and dream along His Lady Beauty's path continually."

Manuel Saurí

La Caza de La Perdiz Con Escopeta, Al Vuelo y con Perro de Muestra

The King's Hostel Swing open wide, O Gate, That I may enter in And see what lies in wait For me who have been born! Her word I only scorn Who spake of death and sin. I know what is behind Your heavy brazen bars; I heard it of the wind Where I dwelt yesterday: The wind that blows alway Among the ancient stars. Life is the chiefest thing The wind brought knowledge of, As it passed, murmuring: Life, with its infinite strength, And undiminished length Of years fulfilled with love. The wind spake not of sin That blows among the stars; And so I enter in (Swing open wide, O Gate!) Fearless of what may wait Behind your heavy bars. _Let us rise up and live!_ Behold, each thing Is ready for the moulding of our hand. Long have they all awaited our command; None other will they ever own for king. Until we come no bird dare try to sing, Nor any sea its power may understand; No buds are on the trees; in every land Year asketh year some tidings of some Spring. Yea, it is time,--high time we were awake! Simple indeed shall life be unto us. What part is ours?--To take what all things give; To feel the whole world growing for our sake; To have sure knowledge of the marvellous; To laugh and love.--_Let us rise up and live!_ _Let us rule well and long_. We will build here Our city in the pathway of the sun. On this side shall this mighty river run; Along its course well-laden ships shall steer. Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear, Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done; Under our sway all far things fall and near! All time is ours! _Let us rule long and well!_ So we have reigned for many a long, long day. No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell, Who dares to stop us on our royal way? "O King, last night within thy garden fell, From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray." _Let us lie down and sleep!_ All things are still, And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet. No more is heard the sound of hurrying feet Athrough the land their echoes once did fill. Even the wind knows not its ancient will, For each ship floats with undisturbed sheet: Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greet His handmaiden, the utmost western hill. Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold! Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair; We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere! O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled! Across even you long shadows soon must sweep. We too have lived. _Let us lie down and sleep!_ _Nay, let us kneel and pray!_ The fault was ours, O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we. The Spring was with us and we praised not thee; We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers. We built us many ships, and mighty towers, And held awhile the whole broad world in fee: Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree! The stars, the winds,--all they were subject-powers. All things we had for slave. We knew no God; We saw no place on earth where His feet trod-- This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway, Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep. We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep, O Unknown God,--_Let us kneel down and pray!_ Because I ever have gone down Thy ways With joyous heart and undivided praise, I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness, Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!" (At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand, Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand: The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindness Lay still upon the unawakened land; But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed, Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid: I knew that it was one might never falter Although the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.) "O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing: Send out Thy rapid messengers to bring Me to the shadows which about Thine altar Are ever born and always gathering. "For I am weary now, and would lie dead Where I may not behold my old days shed Like withered leaves around me and above me; Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!" "O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind" (The Body's words were borne in on the wind); "Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love me Although I sin, and lead me who am blind; Because of all these things, hear me who pray! Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more day To worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living. Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey." (The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold; And over them both was shed the sun's red gold; And though I knew this day had in its giving Unnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold, I counted it a sad and bitter thing That this weak, drifting Soul must alway cling Unto this Body--wrought in such a fashion It must have set the gods, even, marvelling. And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries, As it turned round and saw the eastern skies) "O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passion For this that has grown perfect in mine eyes! "O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair, This Body Thou hast given me to wear,-- Lest I fall out of love with death and dying, And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear! "Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so-- O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow! O Lord, forget the words I have been crying, And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!" (At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand, Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand, Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonder As they beheld the glorious eastern land; I saw them, in the strong light of the sun, Go down into the day that had begun; I knew, as they, that night might never sunder This Body from the Soul that it had won.) To-morrow, and a year is born again! (To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.) Will it bring joys the old year did not know, Or will it burthen us with the old pain? Shall we seek out the Spring--to see it slain? Summer,--and learn all flowers have ceased to grow? Autumn,--and find it overswift to go? (The memories of the old year yet remain.) To-morrow, and another year is born! (Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!) Let us go forth and welcome in the morn, Following bravely on where Hope hath led. (O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!) O Love, we shall not be uncomforted! He walked by me with open eyes, And wondered that I loved it so; Above us stretched the gray, gray skies; Behind us, foot-prints on the snow. Before us slept a dark, dark wood. Hemlocks were there, and little pines Also; and solemn cedars stood In even and uneven lines. The branches of each silent tree Bent downward, for the snow's hard weight Was pressing on them heavily; They had not known the sun of late. (Except when it was afternoon, And then a sickly sun peered in A little while; it vanished soon And then they were as they had been.) There was no sound (I thought I heard The axe of some man far away) There was no sound of bee, or bird, Or chattering squirrel at its play. And so he wondered I was glad. --There was one thing he could not see; Beneath the look these dead things had I saw Spring eyes agaze at me. The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill, Silent and all untenanted; From the trees also all glad sound hath fled, Save for the little wind that moaneth still Because it deemeth Earth is surely dead. For many days no woman hath gone by, Her gold hair knowing, as of old, The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold; --Perchance even she hath thought it best to die Because all things are sad things to behold. She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shine On face and limbs and hair! Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fair A Lady ever as this one is of mine? Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere? See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleet Past the thrush-haunted trees, How glad the lilies are that touch her knees! How glad the grasses underneath her feet! And how even I am yet more glad than these! Maiden, awake! For Christ is born again! And let your feet disdain The paths whereby of late they have been led. Now Death itself is dead, And Love hath birth, And all things mournful find no place on earth. This morn ye all must go another way Than ye went yesterday. Not with sad faces shall ye silent go Where He hath suffered so; But where there be Full many flowers shall ye wend joyfully. Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white, As if the ended night Were but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing. And ye must also sing In angel-wise: So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes. Maidens, arise! I know where many flowers Have grown these many hours To make more perfect this glad Easter-day; Where tall white lilies sway On slender stem, Waiting for you to come and garner them; Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white, Which will Him well delight; And yellow buttercups, and growing grass Through which the Spring winds pass; And mosses wet, Well strown with many a new-born violet. All these and every other flower are here. Will ye not draw anear And gather them for Him, and in His name, Whom all men now proclaim Their living King? Behold how all these wait your harvesting! Moreover, see the darkness of His house! Think ye that He allows Such glory of glad color and perfume, But to destroy the gloom That hath held fast His altar-place these many days gone past? For this alone these blossoms had their birth,-- To show His perfect worth! Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apace To that strange garden-place And gather all These living flowers for His high festival. For now hath come the long-desired day, Wherein Love hath full sway! Open the gates, O ye who guard His home, His handmaidens are come! Open them wide, That all may enter in this Easter-tide! Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing, And all your wild flowers bring And strew them on His altar; while the sun-- Seeing what hath been done-- Shines strong once more, Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror. O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun; Ye who find nothing worthy of your love But the Sun's face and the strong light thereof; Who, when the day is done, Are all uncomforted Unless the night be crowned with many a star, Or mellow light be shed From the ancient moon that gazeth from afar, With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth; O ye to whom the skies Must be forever fair to free your eyes From mortal pain;-- Have ye not known the great exceeding worth Of that soft peace which cometh with the Rain? Behold! the wisest of you knows no thing That hath such title to man's worshipping As the first sudden day The slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring; When heavy clouds and gray Come up the southern way, And their bold challenge throw In the face of the frightened snow That covereth the ground. What need they now the armies of the Sun Whose trumpets now do sound? Alas, the powerless Sun! Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past, Each morning drawing up his cohorts vast And leading them with slow and even paces To assault once more the impenetrable places, Where, crystal-bound, The river moveth on with silent sound? O puny, powerless Sun! On the pure white snow where are the lightest traces Of what thy forces' ordered ways have done? On these large spaces No footsteps are imprinted anywhere; Still the white glare Is perfect; yea, the snows are drifted still On plain and hill; And still the river knows the Winter's iron will. Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy face This day beneath the cloud's gray covering; Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgrace In which thy name is holden of the Spring. She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing, And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place; Knowing that with the clouds will come apace The Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king. For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throne When first she cometh in the young Spring-season; Gentle and mild, Yet with no dread of any revolution, And fearing not a land unreconciled, And unafraid of treason. In her dark hair Lieth the snow's most certain dissolution; And in her glance is known The freeing of the rivers from their chainings; And in her bosom's strainings Earth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown. Behold her coming surely, calmly down, Where late the clear skies were, With gray clouds for a gown; Her fragile draperies Caught by the little breeze Which loveth her! She weareth yet no crown, Nor is there any sceptre in her hands; Yea, in all lands, Whatever Spring she cometh, men know well That it is right and good for her to come; And that her least commands Must be fulfilled, however wearisome; And that they all must guard the citadel Wherein she deigns to dwell! And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly over The impressionable snow That vanisheth as woe Doth vanish from the rapt face of a lover, Who, after doubting nights, hath come to know His lady loves him so! (Yet not like him Doth the snow bear the signs of her light touch! It is all gray in places, and looks worn With some most bitter pain; As he shall look, perchance, Some early morn While yet the dawn is dim, When he awakens from the enraptured trance In which he, blind, hath lain, And knows that also he hath loved in vain The lady who, he deemed, had loved him much. And though her utter worthlessness is plain He hath no joy of his deliverance, But only asketh God to let him die,-- And getteth no reply.) Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain! And while the rain is unabated, Well-heads are born and streams created On the hillsides, and set a-flowing Across the fields. The river, knowing That there hath surely come at last Its freedom, and that frost is past, Gathereth force to break its chains; The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains! See where the shores even now were firmly bound The slowly widening water showeth black, As from the fields and meadows all around Come rushing over the dark and snowless ground The foaming streams! Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tide Lift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crack Starts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams, Glad to be free. And now the uneven rift is growing wide; The breaking ice is fast becoming gray; It hears the loud beseeching of the sea, And moveth on its way. Surely at last the work of the rain is done! Surely the Spring at last is well begun, O unavailing Sun! O ye who worship only at the noon, When will ye learn the glory of the rain? Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grass Uplooking piteous at the burnished sky, And all in vain? Have ye not seen the yellow flowers swoon Along the roadside, where the dust, alas, Is hard to pass? Have ye not heard The song cease in the throat of every bird And know the thing all these were stricken by? Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer, O pitiless and uncompassionate! Yet should the sweeping Of Death's wide wings across your face unsleeping Be felt of you to-night, And all your hair Know the soft stirring of an alien breath From out the mouth of Death, Would ye not then have memory of these And how their pain was great? Would ye not wish to hear among the trees The wind in his great might, And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies? For when could death be more desired by us (Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!) Than when the night Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain? When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass Is not yet tall, Or when all living things are harvested And with bright gold the hills are glorious, Or when all colors have faded from our sight And all is gray that late was gold and red? Have ye not lain awake the long night through And listened to the falling of the rain On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead? Have none of you, Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted And made forgetful of the day's live pain? Even _Thou_, who wept because the dark was great Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again, Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing And night a thing not wholly desolate And Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising? Did not thy hearing strain To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea, Where great tides be, And swift, white rain? Did not its far exulting teach thy soul That of all things the sea alone is free And under no control? Its liberty,-- Was it not most desired by thy soul? I say, The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea Is glad alway When the rain cometh; either tranquilly As at the first dawn of a summer day Or in late autumn wildly passionate, Or when all things are all disconsolate Because that Winter has been long their king, --Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come! Shall ye alone await the sun-shining? Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring; Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome; Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home, Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling, When ye seek out your homes because the night-- The last, dark night--falls swift across your path, And on Life's altar your last day lies slain, Will ye not cry aloud with that new might One dying with great things unfinished hath, "O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!" You are not with me though the Spring is here! And yet it seemed to-day as if the Spring Were the same one that in an ancient year Came suddenly upon our wandering. You must remember all that chanced that day. Can you forget the shy awaking call Of the first robin?--And the foolish way The squirrel ran along the low stone wall? The half-retreating sound of water breaking, Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breeze Told us the tumult many crows were making Amid innumerable distant trees; The certain presence of the birth of things Around, above, beneath, us,--everywhere; The soft return of immemorial Springs Thrilling with life the fragrant forest air; All these were with us then. Can you forget? Or must you--even as I--remember well? To-day, all these were with me, there,--and yet They seemed to have some bitter thing to tell; They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to wait One's doubtful coming whom of old they knew; Till, seeing me alone and desolate, They learned how vain was strong desire of you. Far off, to eastward, I see the wide hill sloping Up to the place where the pines and sky are one; All the hill is gray with its young budding birches And red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun. Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadow Of a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky, Born where the ploughed fields border on the river And melting into space where the pines are black and high. There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting, Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease; The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,-- I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees. And yet, should I go down beside the swollen river Where the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea, With the mind and the will to cross the new-born waters And to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me, --I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-fever And touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire; Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten, And the freedom of the logs had become my soul's desire. Summer! I praise thee, who art glorious! For now the sudden promise of the Spring Hath been fulfilled in many ways to us, And all live things are thine. Therefore, while all the earth Is glad, and young, and strangely riotous With love of thee, whose blood is even as wine, _I_ dare to sing, Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming; I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth. Yet with no scorn of any passed days Come I,--who even in April caught great pleasure,-- Making of ancient woes the stronger praise; Nor build I this new crown For my new love's fair head Of flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways, And then forgot and utterly cast down; But from the measure Of a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasure I glean, and thus my love is garlanded. Yea, with a crown such as no other queen That ever ruled on earth wore round her hair, And garments such as man hath never seen! The beauty Heaven hath For thee was magnified; I think the least of thy bright gold and green Once lived along God's best-beloved path, And angels there Passed by, and gathered those He called most fair, And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth's bride. How at thy coming we were glad again! We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee; And fain of death as one aweary of pain. Life had grown burthensome, Till suddenly we learned The joy the old brown earth has, when the rain Comes, and the earth is glad that it has come: That ecstasy The buds have, when the worn snow sets them free, The sea's delight when storm-time has returned. O season of the strong triumphant Sun! Bringer of exultation unto all! Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run. Over thy growing grain How the winds rise and cease! Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun-- There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain! Where trees are tall, Hear where young birds hold their high festival; And see where shallow waters know thy peace. Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes, Summer, that thou shouldst go another way Than ours, or shouldst our offerings despise? Come with me further still Where, in sight of the sea, This garden liveth under mellow skies; Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill, And deign to stay A moment mid its colors' glad array,-- Is not this place a pleasant one for thee? Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well! Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us? Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell? The perfect ways thereof Are thy desired ones; Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell. Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love, So, even thus, I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious, And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's! Is this the path that knew your tread, Once, when the skies were just as blue As they are now, far overhead? Are these the trees that looked at you And listened to the words you said? Along this moss did your dress sweep? And is this broken stem the one That gave its flower to you to keep? And here where the grasses knew the sun Before a sickle came to reap Did your dear shadow softly fall? This place is very like, and yet No shadow lieth here at all; With dew the mosses still are wet Although the grass no more is tall. The small brown birds go rustling through The low-branched hemlock as of old; The tree-tops almost touch the blue; The sunlight falleth down like gold On one new flower that waiteth you. O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun! Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee? This meadow is a barren thing to see, For here the reapers' toil is over and done. Of all her many birds there is but one Left to assail the last wild raspberry; The buttercups and daisies withered be, And yet thy reign hath only now begun. O sign of power and sway imperial! O sceptre thrust into the hands of Fall By Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread! O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas, Even the trees have let their glory pass, And now with thy gold hair are garlanded! O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise! The long year through thou hast been good to us. Forgive us were we ever mutinous Or unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways. Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amaze Thy passing, for thou wert imperious Indeed; and our estate seemed perilous, And we as grass the wind unseeing sways. Then, we were blind: the least among us sees, Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field, Each garden that is fast a-perishing, The promise April surely had revealed Had we had grace to bend our stubborn knees Who seek thee now with humble thanksgiving. And why shouldst thou come back to us, July, Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass? Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass? Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky? Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh; Only the wind that bloweth in, alas, Telleth of fire where many a green tree was; And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high. Must I, like him who, seeing once again The long-awaited face of his lost love, Hath little strength to thank the gods above (Remembering most the ancient passion's pain), Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,-- Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain? October's peace hath fallen on everything. In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill, With red and purple yet the heavens thrill-- The passing of the sun remembering. A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing, (In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!) Below, the little city lieth still; And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling. Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough, The cattle wander homeward slowly now; In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead. Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born; The maples will be desolate by morn. The last word of the summer hath been said. Last night the heavy moaning wind Bore unto me Warning from Him who hath designed That change shall be. Beneath these mighty hills I lay, At rest at last, And thinking on the golden day But now gone past; When softly came a faint, far cry That night made clear, "_Thy reign is over, thou must die;_ _Winter is near!_" "_Winter is near!_" Yea, all night long The burden of that weary song Of hopeless war. I prayed unto the fixed King Of changing Time For longer life, till sun-rising And morning's prime, And while to-day I watched the sun Rise, slant, and die; And now is night the stronger one. Comes, louder now,--"_Thy reign is o'er!_" Yes, Lord, I know; And here I kneel on Earth's cold floor And thank Thee for the long, long days Thou gavest me, And all the pleasant, laughing ways I walked with Thee. I have been happy since the first Glad day I rose And found the river here had burst Through ice and snows While I had slept. Blue places were Amidst the gray, Where water showed; and the water Most quiet lay. Upon the ice great flocks of crows Were clamoring-- Lest my blue eyes again should close-- The eyes of Spring. I stepped down to the frozen shore-- The snow was gone; And lo, where ice had been before, The river shone! With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds To the tall pines; These were the first of Spring's faint words And Summer's signs. And now I hear Thee--"_Thou must die!_" Ah, might I stay, That I might hear one robin's cry Bringing the day; That I might see the new grass come Where cattle range; The maples bud, wild roses bloom, Old willows change; That I might know one night in June Two found most fair, And see again the great half-moon Shine through her hair; Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie, Where orchards are, And hear some glad child's laughing cry Ring loud and far; Or even, Lord, though near my end It surely be, Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send One day to me, One day--October's brown and red Cover the hills, And all the brakes and ferns are dead, And quiet fills One place where many birds once sang? Then should I go Where heavy fir-trees overhang Their branches so, And slim white birches, quivering, Loose yellow leaves, And aspens grow, and everything For Summer grieves. Ah, there once more, ere day be done, To face the west, And see the sure and scarlet sun Sink to its rest Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer Up to the sky; To feel the last light disappear And silent die; To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come; I hear Thy call; Reach me Thy hand and guide me home, Lest I should fall.... Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead, Now come to Thee; I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said I wonder why my love for him Should grow so much these last three days, While he but stares as if some whim Had been discovered to his gaze; Some foolish whim that brings but shame Whatever time he thinks thereof,-- To him my name is now the name Of some old half-forgotten love. And yet I starve for his least kiss And faint because my love is great; I, who am now no more than this,-- An unseen beggar at his gate.... _She watched the moon and spake aloud._ _The moon seemed not to rise, but hung_ _Just underneath the long straight cloud_ _That low across the heavens swung,_ _As if to press the old moon back_ _Into its place behind the trees._ _The trees stood where the hill was black;_ _They were not vexed by any breeze._ _The moon was not as it had been_ _Before, when she had watched it rise;_ _It was misshapen now, and thin,_ _As if some trouble in the skies_ _Had happened more than it could bear,_ _Its color, too, was no more red;_ _Nor was it like her yellow hair;--_ _It looked as if its soul were dead._ I, who was once well-loved of him, Am as a beggar by his gate Whereon black carved things look grim At one who thinks to penetrate. I do not ask if I may stray Once more in those desired lands; Another night, yet one more day, For these I do not make demands; For when the ripened hour is past Things such as these are asked in vain: His first day's love,--were that the last I were repaid for this new pain. Out of his love great joy I had For many days; and even now I do not dare to be but glad When I remember, often, how He said he had great joy of me. The while he loved, no man, I think, Exceeded him in constancy; My passion, even, seemed to shrink Almost to nothing, when he came And told me all of love's strange things: The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame, Its silent hours, its rapid wings.... _The moon still waited, watching her_ _(The cloud still stretched there, close above;_ _The trees beneath); it could not stir,_ _And yet it seemed the shape thereof,_ _Since she looked first, some change had known._ _In places it had burned away,_ _And one side had much thinner grown;_ _--What light that came from it was gray._ _It was not curved from east to west._ _But lay upon its back; like one_ _Wounded, or weary of some quest,_ _Or by strong enemies undone._ _Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;_ _She knew they were burned out and dead_ _Because no clouds went, drifting by,_ _Across the light the strange moon shed._ Now, I can hope for naught but death. I would not stay to give him pain, Or say the words a woman saith When love hath called aloud in vain And got no answer anywhere. It were far better I should die, And have rough strangers come to bear My body far away, where I Shall know the quiet of the tomb; That they should leave me, with no tears, To think and think within the gloom For many years, for many years. The thought of that strange, narrow place Is hard for me to bear, indeed; I do not fear cold Death's embrace, And where black worms draw nigh to feed On my white body, then, I know That I shall make no mournful cry: But that I should be hidden so Where I no more may see the sky,-- The wide sky filled with many a star, Or all around the yellow sun, Or even the sky where great clouds are That wait until the rain be done, --That is an evil thing for me.... _Across the sky the cloud swung still_ _And pressed the moon down heavily_ _Where leafless trees grew on the hill._ _The pale moon now was very thin._ _There was no water near the place,_ _Else would the moon that slept therein_ _Have frightened her with its gray face._ How shall I wish to see the sky! For that alone mine eyes shall weep; I care not where they make me lie, Nor if my grave be digged deep, So they leave loose my coffin's lid And throw on me no mouldy clay, That the white stars may not be hid: This little thing is all I pray. Then I shall move me wearily, And clasp each bone that was my wrist, Around each slender bony knee; And wind my hair, that once he kissed, Around my body wasted thin, To keep me from the grave's cold breath; And on my knees rest my poor chin, And think of what I lose by death. I shall be happy, being dead.... _The moon, by now, had nearly gone,_ _As if it knew its time was sped_ _And feared the coming of the dawn._ _It had not risen; one could see_ _The cloud was strong to keep it back;_ _It merely faded utterly,_ _And where it was the sky grew black._ _Till suddenly the east turned gray,_ _Although no stars were overhead;_ _And though the moon had died away,_ _There came faint glimmerings of red;_ _Then larger waves of golden light_ _Heralded that the day was born,_ _And on the furthest eastern height_ _With swift feet came the waited morn._ _With swift feet came the morn, but lo!_ _Just as its triumph was begun,_ _The first wild onset of the snow_ _Strangled the glad imperial sun!_ Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray: Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay, Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way; Because the memories of the things that were-- That little blessed while with Thee and her-- Make me a heavy-hearted traveller. And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill, I--knowing that Thy will was once our will-- Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still, And only waitest--Thou and she alone-- Until I know again as I have known The glory that abideth near our throne. Let us bury him here, Where the maples are red! He is dead, And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and the year. Where the hillside is sheer, Let it echo our tread Whom he led; Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear. Ere he died, they had fled; Yet they heard his last cheer Ringing clear,-- When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy instead. Break his sword and his spear! Let this last prayer be said By the bed We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so drear: Sullen end of the year That is here, We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his slayers be dead!" They pity me who have grown old,-- So old, mine eyes may not behold If any wolf chance near the fold. They pity me, because, alas! I lie and dream among the grass, And let the herds unheeded pass. They deem I must be sorrowing, Because I note not when the Spring Is over me and everything. They know not why I am forlorn,-- How could they know?--They were not born When he rode here that April morn. They were not living when he came Into this valley, swift like flame,-- Perchance they have not heard his name! My men were very valiant men-- (Alas, that I had only ten! These people were not living then.) But when one is not yet awake His banner is not hard to take, His spears are easy things to break. And dazed men are not hard to slay When many foes, as strong as they, With swords and spears come down their way. This valley now has quiet grown; And I lie here content, alone, Dreaming of things that I have known; And count the mounds of waving grass-- (Ten,--yea, and ten more, by the Mass!) And let the restless cattle pass. _Under the sun, the Kingfisher_ _From his high place was watching her._ He knew she came from some far place; For when she threw her body down, She seemed quite tired; and her face Had dust upon it; and her gown, That had been yellow, now was brown. She lay near where the shadows lie At noontime when they meet the sun. The water floated slowly by Her feet. Her hair was all undone, And with the grass its gold was spun. The trees were tall and green behind, And hid the house upon the hill. This place was sheltered from the wind, And all the little leaves were still, And every fern and daffodil. Her face was hidden in her hands; And through the grass, and through her hair, The sunlight found the golden bands About her wrists. (It was aware, Also, that her two arms were bare.) _From his high branch, the Kingfisher_ _Looked down on her and pitied her._ He wondered who that she could be,-- This dear, strange lady, who had come To vex him with her misery; And why her days were wearisome, And what far country was her home. Her home must be far off indeed, Wherein such bitter grief could grow. Had there been no one there to plead For her when they had wronged her so? Did none her perfect honor know? Was there no sword or pennoned lance Omnipotent in hall or field For her complete deliverance? To make them cry, "We yield! we yield Were not her colors on some shield? _Had he been there? the Kingfisher,_ _How he had fought and died for her!_ A little yellow bird flew by; And where the water-weeds were still, Hovered a great blue dragon-fly; Small fishes set the streams a-thrill The Kingfisher forgot to kill. He only thought of her who lay Upon the ground and was so fair,-- As fair as she who came one day And sat long with her lover there. The same gold sun was in her hair. They had come down, because of love, From the great house on the hillside: This lady had no share thereof, For now this place was sanctified! Had this fair lady's lover died? Was this dear lady's lover dead? Had she come here to wait until Her heart and soul were comforted? Why was it not within her will To seek the lady on the hill? She, too, was lonely; for he had Beheld her just this morning, when Her last kiss made her lover glad Who went to fight the heathen-men: (He said he would return again!) That lady would have charity He knew, because her love was great; And this one--fairer even than she-- Should enter in her open gate And be no more disconsolate! _Under the sun, the Kingfisher_ _Knew no one else might comfort her._ I will go now where my dear Lady is, And tell her how I won in this great fight; Ye know not death who say this shape is his That loometh up between me and the light. As if death could wish anything of one Who hath to-day brought many men to death! Why should it not grow dark?--Surely the sun Hath seen since morning much that wearieth. Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land; Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea; And dead forgotten men stretched on the sand Close to the sea's edge, where the waves are free; What day hath seen such things and hath not fled? What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds, The flashing swords of men well-helmeted, The moans of warriors sick of many wounds? Ye know not death; this thing is but the night. Wherefore I should be glad that it is come: For when I left my Lady for this fight, I said, "At sunset I am coming home." "When you return, I shall be here," she said, "God knows that I must pray a little while." And as she put my helmet on my head, She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile. And still she waiteth underneath the trees. (When we had gone a little on our way I turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees: I heard her praying many times to-day.) Nay, nay, I need no wine! She waiteth still Watching and praying till I come to her. She saw the sun drop down behind the hill And wondereth I am a loiterer. So I must go. Bring me my shield and sword! (Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?) This day is won;--but now the great reward Cometh! O Love, thy prayers were not in vain! I am well rested now.--Nay, I can rise Without your help! Why do ye look at me With so much pain and pity in your eyes, Who gained with me to-day this victory? I think we should be glad we are not dead, --Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you, No Lady who is all uncomforted, And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through. Yea, I must go.--What? Am I tired yet? Let me lie here and rest my aching side. The thought of her hath made me quite forget How sharp his sword was just before he died. Let us make it fit for him! He will come ere many hours Are passed over. Strew these flowers Where the floor is hard and bare! Ever was his royal whim That his place of rest were fair. Such a narrow little room! Think you he will deign to use it? Yes, we know he would not choose it Were there any other near; Here there is such damp and gloom, And such quietness is here. That he loved the light, we know; And we know he was the gladdest Always when the mirth was maddest And the laughter drowned the song; When the fire's shade and glow Fell upon the loyal throng. Yet it may be, if he come, Now, to-night, he will be tired; And no more will be desired All the music once he knew; And be glad the lights are few. Heard you how the fight has gone? Surely it will soon be ended! Was their stronghold well defended Ere it fell before his might? Did it yield soon after dawn, Or when noon was at its height? Hark! his trumpet! It is done. Smooth the bed. And for a cover Drape those scarlet colors over; And upon these dingy walls Hang what banners he has won. Hasten ere the twilight falls! They are here!--We knew the best When we set us to prepare him Such a place; for they that bear him --They as he--seem weary too; Peace! and let him have his rest; There is nothing more to do. One came to me at dead of night; I heard him well as any might, Although his lips, unmurmuring. Made no sweet sounds for my delight; Also, I knew him, though long days (It seemed) had fallen across my ways Since I had felt his comforting. It was quite dark, but I could see His hair was yellow as the sun; And his soft garments, every one, Were white as angels' throats may be; And as some man whose pain is done At last, and peace is surely his, His eyes were perfect with great bliss And seemed so glad to look at me. I knew that he had come to bring The change that I was waiting for, And, as he crossed my rush-strewn floor, I had no thought of questioning; And then he kissed me, o'er and o'er, Upon the eyes; so I fell Asleep unfrightened,--knowing well That morning would fulfil the Spring. And when they came at early morn And found that I at last was dead, Some two or three knelt by my bed And prayed for one they deemed forlorn; But he they wept for only said (Thinking of when the old days were), "Alas that God had need of her The very morning Spring was born!" The long dark night crawled slowly on; I waited patiently, Knowing at last the sudden dawn, Sometime, would surely be. It came,--to tell me everything Was Winter's quiet slave: I waited still, aware that Spring Was strong to come and save. And then Spring came, and I was glad A few expectant hours; Until I learned the things I had Were only withered flowers Because there came not with the Spring As in the ancient days-- The sound of his feet pattering Along Spring's open ways; Because his sweetly serious eyes Looked into mine no more; Because no more in childish-wise He brought his gathered store Of dandelions to my bed, And violets and grass,-- Deeming I would be comforted That Spring had come to pass. And now these unused toys and I Have little dread or care For any season that drifts by The silences we share; And sometimes, when we think to pray, Across the vacant years We see God watching him at play And pitying our tears. It was quite dark within the room Wherein the Lady Alice sat; One had not seen, who looked thereat, The gathered dust upon her loom, There was such gloom. And though the hangings on the wall Were wrought so well and cunningly That many had come far to see Their glory once (for they were all Of cardinal, And gold, and silk, and curious glass) The ladies with the long red hair Thereon, the strong men fighting there, The little river edged with grass,-- Were now, alas, As if they had been always gray. Likewise the lily, whose perfume Had once been over all the room, In which dark corner now it lay,-- What man might say? She did not see these things, or know That they had changed since she had seen. She liked it best to sit between Two little firs (they used to grow, Once, long ago!) That stood each in an earthen pot Upon the window's either side. They had been green before they died, But like the rest fell out their lot,-- To be forgot. Yet what cared she for such as these, Whose window was toward the sun At sun-rising? There was not one Of them so strong and sure to please, Or bring her ease, As what she saw when she looked through Her window just before the dawn. These were the sights she gazed upon: _Sir John, whose silken pennon flew,_ _Yellow and blue,_ _And proud to be upon his lance;_ _The horse he rode being gray and white;_ _A few men, unafraid to fight,_ _Followed (there were some men in France_ _Were brave, perchance!)_ _And they were armed with swords and spears;_ _Their horses, too, were mostly gray._ _--They seemed not sad to go away,_ _For they were men had lost their fears_ _With their child-years._ _They had such hope, there was but one_ _Looked back: Sir John had strength to look._ _His men saw not that his lance shook_ _A little, for though night was done,_ _There was no sun._ _And so they rode into the dawn_ _That waited just behind the hill;_ _(In France there were some men to kill!)_ These were the things she looked upon Till they were gone. The room was dark, and full of fear; And so the Lady Alice stayed Beside the window. Here she prayed Each morning, and when night drew near, Year after year. Beside her lay some unused things: A trumpet that had long been mute; A vellum book; a little lute That once had ten unrusted strings; And four gold rings; A piece of faded cloth-of-gold; And three black pennies that were white As silver once:--the great delight She had of all these things of old Was now quite cold. Only the things that she could see Out of the window gladdened her; After the morning, those things were _A ship that rode triumphantly_ (This sight would be Plainest a little ere the noon) _On wide blue waters, with the wind_ _Strong from the west that lay behind;_ _Its sail curved like a slender moon,_ _Born into June._ _An empty ship beside the shore_ _Of some unconquered foreign land;_ _Some brave men fighting on the sand_ _As they had never fought before_ _In any war;_ _A few men fleeing to the hills_ (This came a little after noon), _God, but the fight was ended soon!_ _They were not hard to wound and kill!_ _A trumpet shrill_ _Echoes, and many knights pursue!_ _And on the hillside dead men lie,_ _Who learned before they came to die_ _The yellow flags the victors flew_ _Were crossed with blue!_ No wonder that this window-place Could make the Lady Alice glad, When sights like these were what she had! Yet there was one that made her face For a little space Grow like a face that God has known. I think she was the happiest When the sun dropped into the west; This was the thing she then was shown, And this alone: _A laden ship that followed fast_ _The way the setting sun had led;_ _In the east wind her great sail spread;_ _A brave knight standing near the mast;_ _The shore at last!_ Of all things, this the best did seem. And now the gathering darkness fell; The morn would bring him, she knew well; She slept; and in her sleep, I deem, She had one dream. Against the window-side she slept. This window-place was very strange; Since it was made it had known change. Beneath it once no women wept, And no vines crept And twisted in the broken glass. Some time ago, the little tree That she had planted tenderly Was not much higher than tall grass; But now, alas, Its branches were the greatest where Her window looked toward the sun. One branch, indeed, its way had won Into her room,--it did not bear Green leaves in here. Above the window, and inside, Great spider-webs were spun across. Where stone was, there was wet green moss Wherein small creeping things did hide Until they died. The leaves that looked toward the room Were hardly anything but veins; They had been wasted by the rains, Like some dead naked girl in the gloom Of some old tomb. But those outside were broad and green, And lived between the sun and shade. A perfect bower they had made,-- Beneath them there should sit some queen, Born to be seen! It was quite dark within the place Wherein the Lady Alice slept. I heard the girls below who wept, But God did not (of His good grace) Show me her face. _Now this is the ballad of seven men_ _Who rode to Wet Willows and back again._ It was only an hour before the dawn When they deemed it best to awaken Sir John. For they knew his sword long years had hung On the wall, unhandled. (Once he was young,-- They did not remember; the tale had been told To them by their fathers, ere they grew old-- And then his sword was a dreaded thing When the men from the North came a-warfaring!) But the women said that the things they knew Were best made known to their master, too: How, down at Wet Willows, there lay on the ground Some men who were dead and some who were bound And unable to succor the women who wept That the North-King had come while their warriors slept. So it came to pass, with the wind of the dawn, Six men with their armor girded on Had ridden around to the Eastern gate; It was there that Sir John had told them to wait. And when he came they were unafraid, And knew no envy for those who stayed Where the walls of the castle were strong and high; There were none save some women to bid them good-by, And they saw, as the sky in the East grew gray, That Sir John and his men were some miles on their way. _These things were heard and seen by the sun_ _When noon at Wet Willows was nearly done._ After the battle, the King from the North Bade his men lead the seven horses forth, And bind, one on each, the Southern man Who had dared to ride it when day began. The words that the Northern King had said Sir John and his men heard not, being dead; (Nor heard they the sobs of the women who knew That Sir John's son's son in the East was true To the cross that was white on the shield that he had); Nor knew they their home-going horses were glad; Nor did they remember the trees by the way, Or the streams that they crossed, or the dead leaves that lay By the roadside. And when the moon rose, red and near, They saw not its splendor; no more did they hear The wind that was moaning from hill unto hill: Their leader,--his will was his horse's will. In the Eastern sky faint streaks of gray Were changed to red, and it was day. The women had waited all night long Where the castle tower was high and strong; And now, at last, they beheld Sir John, And his men, and the horses they rode upon, Just crossing the brow of the nearest hill. The women's cries rose loud and shrill, And in their joy they pitied not, The men Sir John and his men had fought And slain at Wet Willows. (Sir John was not young They knew well; but the might of his sword as it swung, In the old fighting days, was a thing they well knew,-- A shield was but glass as it clove its way through!) So they who had waited and watched and prayed The long night through were no more afraid To open the gate,--for Sir John and his men Who had fought at Wet Willows were home again. Come and let me make thee glad In this house that I have made! No where (I am unafraid!) Canst thou find its like on Earth: Come, and learn the perfect worth Of the labor I have had. I have fashioned it for thee, Every room and pictured wall; Every marble pillar tall, Every door and window-place; All were done that thy fair face Might look kindlier on me. Here, moreover, thou shalt find Strange, delightful, far-brought things: Dulcimers, whose tightened strings, Once, dead women loved to touch; (Deeming they could mimic much Of the music of the wind!) Heavy candlesticks of brass; Chess-men carved of ivory; Mass-books written perfectly By some patient monk of old; Flagons wrought of thick, red gold, Set with gems and colored glass; Burnished armor, once some knight (Dead, I deem, long wars ago!) Its great strength was glad to know When his Lady needed him: (Now that both his eyes are dim Both his sword and shield are bright!) Come, and share these things with me, Men have died to leave to us! We shall find life glorious In this splendid house of love; Come, and claim thy part thereof,-- I have fashioned it for thee! I will praise God alway for each new year, Knowing that it shall be most worthy of His kindness and His pity and His love I will wait patient, till, from sphere to sphere, Across large times and spaces, ringeth clear The voice of Him who sitteth high above, Saying, "Behold! thou hast had pain enough; Come; for thy Love is waiting for thee here!" I know that it must happen as God saith. I know it well. Yet, also, I know well That where birds sing and yellow wild-flowers dwell, Or where some strange new sunset lingereth, All Earth shall alway of her presence tell Who liveth not for me this side of death.

Margaret Macarthur

History of Scotland

----Si quid novisti rectius istis, Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum.--HORAT. schoolfellow of the poet. Written by Mr. POPE. The second edition, 8vo. Written in the year 1709. With the Commentary and Notes of In the year 1709 was written the Essay on Criticism, a work which unprofitably tedious; but I cannot forbear to observe that the With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone; The huge round stone, resulting with a bound, Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground. Who does not perceive the stone to move slowly upward, and roll violently back? But set the same numbers to another sense: While many a merry tale, and many a song, Cheered the rough road, we wished the rough road long; The rough road then, returning in a round, Mocked our impatient steps, for all was fairy ground. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow; Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main; Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine. diffidence. Dryden, in his Epistle to Roscommon, says, Yet modestly he does his work survey, And calls a finished poem an essay; commentary, that the Essay was "the work of an author who had not Criticism." In the first version it is asserted that the poem was Soft were my numbers; who could take offence While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answered,--I was not in debt. Here we learn that Dennis thought meanly of Pope's Pastorals. The Pope lashed Dennis for an intemperance of manner which could be madrigals, and the very bow of the god of Love, you will be soon I never answered; I was not in debt. If wrong I smiled; if right I kissed the rod. Peace is my dear delight,--not Fleury's more, But touch me, and no minister so sore. unmeasured exaggeration was a usual fault in the satire of Pope. sincere, when they concurred in condemning his obscurity, turgid disentangling the weed from the fear of snapping the flower." The In poets as true genius is but rare. 'Tis with our judgments, as our watches; none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. ourselves which demanded to be embodied in written words. The originality, which was our glory, appeared a vice to Pope. The An exclusive partisan of classical poetry, Pope did not the less And this unpolished, rugged verse I chose, As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose. Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, And lashed so long, like tops, are lashed asleep. False steps but help them to renew the race, As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. But when t'examine ev'ry part he came. Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do. But of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.--lines 3, 4. In search of wit, these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defence.--l. 28, 29. Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense.--l. 209, 10. Some by old words to fame have made pretence, Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense.--l. 324, 5. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense.--l. 364, 5. At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little sense.--l. 386, 7. Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence.--l. 566, 7. For the worst avarice is that of sense.--l. 578, 9. Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of impotence.--l. 608, 9. Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense.--l. 653, 4. Nature to all things fixed the limits fit, And wisely curbed proud man's pretending wit.--lines 52, 3. One science only will one genius fit; So vast is art, so narrow human wit.--l. 60, 1. A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ.--l. 233, 4. Nor lose for that malignant dull delight, The gen'rous pleasure to be charmed with wit.--l. 237, 8. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T'avoid great errors, must the less commit.--l. 259, 60. Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.--l. 291, 2. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.--l. 301, 2. So schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damned for having too much wit.--l. 428, 9. Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit.--l. 448, 9. Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ: Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit.--l. 538, 9. Received his laws; and stood convinced 'twas fit, Who conquered nature, should preside o'er wit.--l. 651, 2. He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ.--l. 657, 8. increase--care, war--join, shine--disapproved, beloved--take, speak--fool, dull--satires, dedicators--read, head--speaks, makes--extreme, phlegm--find, joined--joined, mind--revive, Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always _so_; We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow, Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us _so_. False eloqu[=e]nce like th[=e] prismatic glass, Atones not f[=o]r that envy which it brings; That i[=n] proud dullness joins with quality; That not alone what t[=o] your sense is due; As down thy snowy thigh distilled the streaming flood. thought De Quincey refers to the character of Addison: Who would not laugh, if such a man there be? Who but must weep if Atticus were he? Peace to all such: but were there one whose fires _True genius kindles_, and fair fame aspires. capable of a double construction; absolute contradictions are not Know God and Nature only are the same; In man the judgment shoots at flying game. painstaking poet than Pope. His works were slowly elaborated, and Rules for the conduct of manners in a critic--1. Candour, ver. freedom of advice, ver. 578--2. When one's counsel is to be restrained, ver. 584--Character of an incorrigible poet, ver. critic, ver. 629--The history of criticism, and characters of the 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill; But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. Some few in that, but numbers err in this, Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom is the critic's share; Both must alike from heav'n derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely, who have written well. Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment too? Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind: Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light, The lines, though touched but faintly, are drawn right; But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced, } Is by ill-colouring but the more disgraced, } So by false learning is good sense defaced: } Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools. In search of wit, these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defence: Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite. All fools have still an itching to deride, And fain would be upon the laughing side. If Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite, There are who judge still worse than he can write. Some have at first for wits, then poets passed, Turned critics next, and proved plain fools at last. Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. Those half-learned witlings, num'rous in our isle, As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile; Unfinished things, one knows not what to call, Their generation's so equivocal: To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require, Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. But you who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name, Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, How far your genius, taste, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. Nature to all things fixed the limits fit, And wisely curbed proud man's pretending wit. As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains; Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid pow'r of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit; So vast is art, so narrow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confined to single parts. Like kings we lose the conquests gained before, By vain ambition still to make them more Each might his sev'ral province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand. First follow nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. Art from that fund each just supply provides; Works without show, and without pomp presides: In some fair body thus th' informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains; Itself unseen, but in th' effects remains. Some, to whom heav'n in wit has been profuse, Want as much more, to turn it to its use; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide, than spur the muse's steed; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse, Shows most true mettle when you check his course. Those rules of old discovered, not devised, Are nature still, but nature methodised; Nature, like liberty, is but restrained By the same laws which first herself ordained. Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, When to repress, and when indulge our flights: High on Parnassus' top her sons she showed, And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize, And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n, She drew from them what they derived from heav'n, The gen'rous critic fanned the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved, To dress her charms, and make her more beloved: But following wits from that intention strayed, Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid; Against the poets their own arms they turned, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned. So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctors' bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Nor time nor moths e'er spoiled so much as they; Some dryly plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made; These leave the sense, their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away. You then whose judgment the right course would steer, Know well each ancient's proper character; His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page; Religion, country, genius of his age: Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticise. Be Homer's works your study and delight, Read them by day, and meditate by night; Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, And trace the muses upward to their spring. Still with itself compared, his text peruse; And let your comment be the Mantuan muse. When first young Maro in his boundless mind A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed, Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, And but from nature's fountain scorned to draw: But when t' examine ev'ry part he came, Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design: } And rules as strict his laboured work confine, } As if the Stagyrite o'erlooked each line. } Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; To copy nature is to copy them. Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, For there's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry; in each } Are nameless graces which no methods teach, } And which a master hand alone can reach. } If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end,) Some lucky licence answer to the full Th' intent proposed, that licence is a rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, May boldly deviate from the common track. Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which, without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes, } Which out of nature's common order rise, } The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. } But though the ancients thus their rules invade, (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made,) Moderns, beware! or if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; Let it be seldom, and compelled by need; And have, at least, their precedent to plead. The critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults. Some figures monstrous and mis-shaped appear, Considered singly, or beheld too near, Which, but proportioned to their light, or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display His pow'rs in equal rank, and fair array, But with th' occasion and the place comply, Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods but we that dream. Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands; Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, Destructive war, and all-involving age. See, from each clime, the learn'd their incense bring; Hear, in all tongues consenting Paeans ring! In praise so just let ev'ry voice be joined, And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind. Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of universal praise! Whose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, And worlds applaud, that must not yet be found! O may some spark of your celestial fire, The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights; Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes,) To teach vain wits a science little known, T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own! Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recruits of needful pride; For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind: Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend and ev'ry foe. A little learning is a dang'rous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold with strange surprise, New distant scenes of endless science rise! So pleased at first the tow'ring Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: But those attained, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthened way, Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ: Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; Nor lose for that malignant dull delight, The gen'rous pleasure to be charmed with wit. But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly low, That, shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep, We cannot blame indeed, but we may sleep. In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts; 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all. Thus when we view some well-proportioned dome, (The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!) No single parts unequally surprise, All comes united to th' admiring eyes; No monstrous height, or breadth, or length, appear; The whole at once is bold, and regular. Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In ev'ry work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T' avoid great errors, must the less commit: Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know some trifles is a praise. Most critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the whole depend upon a part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, And all to one loved folly sacrifice. Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, A certain bard encount'ring on the way, Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage; Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice; Made him observe the subject, and the plot, The manners, passions, unities, what not, All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a combat in the lists left out. "What! leave the combat out!" exclaims the knight; Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. "Not so, by heav'n!" he answers in a rage, "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage." So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. "Then build a new, or act it in a plain." Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, Form short ideas; and offend in arts, As most in manners, by a love to parts. Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line; Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus unskilled to trace The naked nature, and the living grace, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dressed; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed; Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit; For works may have more wit than does 'em good, As bodies perish through excess of blood. Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress: Their praise is still,--the style is excellent; The sense, they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found: False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place; The face of nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay; But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, } Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, } It gilds all objects, but it alters none. } Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent, as more suitable: A vile conceit in pompous words expressed Is like a clown in regal purple dressed: For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort, As sev'ral garbs with country, town, and court. Some by old words to fame have made pretence, Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, } These sparks with awkward vanity display } What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; } And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. But most by numbers judge a poet's song, And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: In the bright muse, though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, } Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, } Not for the doctrine, but the music there. } These equal syllables alone require, Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire; While expletives their feeble aid do join; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes; Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," In the next line, it "whispers through the trees:" If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep," The reader's threatened, not in vain, with "sleep:" Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line, Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow: Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! The pow'r of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such, Who still are pleased too little or too much. At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little sense: Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; For fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we through mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify. Some foreign writers, some our own despise; The ancients only, or the moderns prize. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied To one small sect, and all are damned beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine, Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; Which, from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; Though each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days: Regard not then if wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true. Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town: They reason and conclude by precedent, And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. Of all this servile herd, the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with quality, A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought! The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learn'd by being singular; So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng By chance go right, they purposely go wrong: So schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damned for having too much wit. Some praise at morning what they blame at night; But always think the last opinion right. A muse by these is like a mistress used, This hour she's idolised, the next abused; While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. Ask them the cause; they're wiser still they say; And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread; Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read; Faith, gospel, all, seemed made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain, Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane. If faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn? Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit; And authors think their reputation safe, Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh. Some valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaus; But sense survived when merry jests were past; For rising merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, New Blackmores and new Milbournes must arise: Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would start up from the dead. Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue; But like a shadow, proves the substance true: For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own. When first that sun too pow'rful beams displays, It draws up vapours which obscure its rays; But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way, Reflect new glories, and augment the day. Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost, who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears, When patriarch wits survived a thousand years: Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has designed Some bright idea of the master's mind, Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, And each bold figure just begins to live, The treach'rous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away! Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-lived vanity is lost: Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; Then most our trouble still when most admired, And still the more we give, the more required; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone! If wit so much from ign'rance undergo, Ah let not learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, And such were praised who but endeavour'd well: Though, triumphs were to gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too. Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn some others down; And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools: But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill author is as bad a friend. To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise! Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the critic let the man be lost. Good-nature and good sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive, divine. But if in noble minds some dregs remain Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain; Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile obscenity should find, Though wit and art conspire to move your mind; But dulness with obscenity must prove As shameful sure as impotence in love. In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase: When love was all an easy monarch's care; Seldom at council, never in a war: Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ: Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit; The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, And not a mask went unimproved away: The modest fan was lifted up no more, And virgins smiled at what they blushed before. The following licence of a foreign reign Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; Then unbelieving priests reformed the nation, And taught more pleasant methods of salvation; Where heaven's free subjects might their rights dispute, Lest God himself should seem too absolute: Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare, And vice admired to find a flatt'rer there! Encouraged thus, wit's Titans braved the skies, And the press groaned with licensed blasphemies. These monsters, critics! with your darts engage, Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, Will needs mistake an author into vice; All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. Learn then what morals critics ought to show, For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know. 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join; In all you speak, let truth and candour shine, That not alone what to your sense is due All may allow, but seek your friendship too. Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; But you with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last. 'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed as things forgot. Without good-breeding truth is disapproved; That only makes superior sense beloved. For the worst avarice is that of sense. With mean complaisance ne'er betray your trust, Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. 'Twere well might critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens at each word you speak, And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. Fear most to tax an Honourable fool, Whose right it is, uncensured, to be dull; Such, without wit, are poets when they please, As without learning they can take degrees. Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful satires, And flattery to fulsome dedicators, Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vain: Your silence there is better than your spite, For who can rail so long as they can write? Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, And lashed so long, like tops, are lashed asleep. False steps but help them to renew the race, As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. What crowds of these, impenitently bold, In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, Still run on poets in a raging vein, Ev'n to the dregs and squeezing of the brain, Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of impotence. Such shameless bards we have; and yet, 'tis true, There are as mad, abandoned critics too. The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary. Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, Nay, showed his faults--but when would poets mend? No place so sacred from such fops is barred, Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, } It still looks home, and short excursions makes; } But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, } And never shocked, and never turned aside, Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide. But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbiassed, or by favour, or by spite; Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere; Modestly bold, and humanly severe; Who to a friend his faults can freely show, And gladly praise the merit of a foe? Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined; A knowledge both of books and human kind; Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride; And love to praise, with reason on his side? Such once were critics; such the happy few, Athens and Rome in better ages knew. The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore, Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore; He steered securely, and discovered far, Led by the light of the Maeonian star. Poets, a race long unconfined, and free, Still fond and proud of savage liberty, Received his laws; and stood convinced 'twas fit, Who conquered nature, should preside o'er wit. Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense; Will, like a friend, familiarly convey The truest notions in the easiest way. He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire; His precepts teach but what his works inspire. Our critics take a contrary extreme, They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm: Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations. See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine, And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line! Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease. In grave Quintilian's copious work, we find The justest rules, and clearest method joined: Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All ranged in order, and disposed with grace, But less to please the eye, than arm the hand, Still fit for use, and ready at command. Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, And bless their critic with a poet's fire. An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust, With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just: Whose own example strengthens all his laws; And is himself that great sublime he draws. Thus long succeeding critics justly reigned, Licence repressed, and useful laws ordained. Learning and Rome alike in empire grew; And arts still followed where her eagles flew; From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom, And the same age saw learning fall and Rome. With tyranny, then superstition joined, As that the body, this enslaved the mind; Much was believed, but little understood, And to be dull was construed to be good; A second deluge learning thus o'er-run, And the monks finished what the Goths begun. At length Erasmus, that great injured name, (The glory of the priesthood and the shame!) Stemmed the wild torrent of a barb'rous age, And drove those holy Vandals off the stage. But see! each muse, in Leo's golden days, Starts from her trance, and trims her withered bays, Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread, Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head. Then sculpture and her sister-arts revive; Stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live; With sweeter notes each rising temple rung; A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung. Immortal Vida: on whose honoured brow The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow: Cremona now shall ever boast thy name, As next in place to Mantua, next in fame! But soon by impious arms from Latium chased, Their ancient bounds the banished Muses passed. Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance, But critic-learning flourished most in France; The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys; And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised, And kept unconquered, and uncivilized; Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, We still defied the Romans, as of old. Yet some there were, among the sounder few Of those who less presumed, and better knew, Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, And here restored wit's fundamental laws. Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell "Nature's chief master-piece is writing well." Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good, With manners gen'rous as his noble blood; To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, And ev'ry author's merit, but his own. Such late was Walsh, the muse's judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame or to commend: To failings mild, but zealous for desert; The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, This praise at least a grateful muse may give: The muse, whose early voice you taught to sing, Prescribed her heights, and pruned her tender wing, (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, But in low numbers short excursions tries; Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew: Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame; Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame; Averse alike to flatter, or offend; Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend. Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, And bless their critic with a poet's fire. _i. e._ with taste, or genius. And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. that point where sense and dulness meet. Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. judiciously restrained. This only happens when nature is exactly wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. directions of judgment. Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n, These drew from them what they derived from heav'n, so that both are to be well studied. Ver. 92. _Hear how learn'd Greece, &c._] He speaks of the ancient The gen'rous critic fanned the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. For, as ignorance, when joined with humility, produces stupid His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page: Religion, country, genius of his age; Ver. 146. _If, where the rules, &c._] The first sort our author Ver. 152. _Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, &c._] He Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. Hail, bards triumphant! &c. erudition than taste, as appears from the happy similitude of an ill-nourished body, where the same words which express the cause, For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find, What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind. therefore advises to call in still more helps: Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend and ev'ry foe. to one loved folly sacrifice. Ver. 285. _Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, Form short ideas, &c._] Some to conceit alone, &c., He next describes true wit, from ver. 296 to 305, True wit is nature to advantage dressed, &c. Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent, as more suitable, &c. Smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied To one small sect, and all are damned beside. Ver. 408. _Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own_,] A second prostitution. So schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damned for having too much wit. Ask them the cause; they're wiser still they say; And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. But you with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last, Faith, gospel, all, seemed made to be disputed, &c. Ah! let not learning, &c. traced the Muses upward to their spring, stupidity of the monks might appear the more tolerable evil. J. Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence; But you with pleasure own your errors past; And make each day a critique on the last. knowledge, out of a false delicacy, and for fear of being thought Ver. 584. _'Twere well might critics, &c._] The poet having thus _The poet_--still runs on in a raging vein, &c. ver. 606, &c. A second deluge learning thus o'er-run, And the monk finished what the Goth begun. When things had long remained in this condition, and all hopes of Ver. 28. _In search of wit, these lose their common sense_,] This Ver. 32. _All fools have still an itching to deride, And fain would lie upon the laughing side._] Ver. 56. _Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid pow'r of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away._] There are whom heav'n has blest with store of wit, Yet want as much again to manage it. Some, to whom heav'n in wit has been profuse, Want as much more, to turn it to its use. For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. These leave the sense, their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away. But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. From whence we conclude that the Reverend Mr. Upton was much more And all its end at once attains. Ver. 209. _Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense._] Ver. 235. _Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where Nature moves, and rapture warms the mind_;] disposition both of matter and style, because the avoiding these Ver. 248. _The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!_] The The whole at once is bold, and regular. excellent purpose. Ver. 285. _Thus critics, &c._] In these two lines the poet finely Ver. 297. _True wit is nature to advantage dressed, &c._] This Ver. 364. _'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense._] dissonance. To remedy this abuse therefore, our poet, by the introductory line, would insinuate, that harmony is always to be The sound is still a comment to the sense. They are both well expressed, although so differently; for Lord ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way, Reflect new glories, and augment the day. To teach the world with reason to admire. Erasmus, he says, In moderation placing all my glory, Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos, Sed juvat hoc praecibus me tribuisse tuis. Printed for BERNARD LINTOTT. 1712. 8vo. Written by Mr. POPE. ----A tonso est hoc nomen adepta capillo.--OVID. felicity of invention displayed in adopting, and most artfully Loose to the wind, whose airy garments flew, Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew, Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes: That tread the ooze of the salt deep, Or run upon the sharp wind of the north, Sumite materiam vestris, qui scribitis, aequam Viribus.--BOWLES. Lock, he urged Lintot the bookseller to persuade Dennis to criticise Addison's Cato. Dennis published his Remarks, and Pope ignorant probably of its parentage, he let Dennis know that he repudiated and condemned it. The worst was to come. More than parentage,--addressing his subjects, says, Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear; Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons hear. acquainted: And all about her neck and shoulders flew A flock of little loves, and sports, and joys, With nimble wings of gold and purple hue, Whose shapes seemed not like to terrestrial boys, But like to angels playing heav'nly toys. With varying vanities from ev'ry part, They shift the moving toy-shop of their heart. That _men_ may say, when we the front-box grace, "Behold the first in virtue as in face!" The continuous raillery against female foibles is playful in its Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. Ruffhead repeated the futile objection. "Black omens" announced To the distempered mind of Dennis the sylphs appeared an absurd Without any assistance from the contents of the bag the "livid lightning had flashed from Belinda's eyes," and she had "rent the affrighted skies should be rent with screams of horror." At the "heroi-comical" to bring supernatural machinery to bear upon pretence of their quarrel." Pope erased the epithet "religious," and substituting "female sex" for "popish clergy," "ladies" for influence of good humour, and concludes with the couplet,-- Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll! Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. Dennis's pamphlet against the Rape of the Lock consisted of seven Callimachus are not mentioned by Dennis. He had only condemned a The Rape of the Lock greatly surpasses in execution the Essay on Or stain her honour or her new brocade. Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball. He first the snuff-box opened then the case. superlative language of De Quincey, Hazlitt, and Bowles. The on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beached margin of the sea, To dance their ringlets to the whistling wind. impressive passions. What he said of manners and passions was Parthenon," he said, "is more poetical than the rock on which it Your most obedient, humble servant, What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing--This verse to Caryll, Muse! is due: This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays. Say what strange motive, goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms, dwells such mighty rage? Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, And ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the day: Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground, And the pressed watch returned a silver sound. Belinda still her downy pillow pressed, Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest: 'Twas he had summoned to her silent bed The morning dream that hovered o'er her head, A youth more glitt'ring than a birth-night beau, (That ev'n in slumber caused her cheek to glow) Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say. "Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought, Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught; Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green, Or virgins visited by angel-pow'rs With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs; Hear and believe! thy own importance know, Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed, To maids alone and children are revealed. What though no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. Know then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky: These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring. Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair. As now your own, our beings were of old, And once inclosed in woman's beauteous mould; Thence, by a soft transition, we repair From earthly vehicles to these of air. Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, That all her vanities at once are dead; Succeeding vanities she still regards, And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And love of ombre, after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements, their souls retire: The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a salamander's name. Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome, In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, And sport and flutter in the fields of air. "Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced: For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. What guards the purity of melting maids, In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark, The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, When music softens, and when dancing fires? 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, Though honour is the word with men below. "Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, For life predestined to the gnomes' embrace. These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, When offers are disdained, and love denied: Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers and dukes, and all their sweeping train, And garters, stars, and coronets appear, And in soft sounds 'Your Grace' salutes their ear. 'Tis these that early taint the female soul, Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, Teach infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know, And little hearts to flutter at a beau. "Oft, when the world imagine women stray, The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, Through all the giddy circle they pursue, And old impertinence expel by new. What tender maid but must a victim fall To one man's treat, but for another's ball? When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? With varying vanities, from ev'ry part, They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. This erring mortals levity may call; Oh blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it all. "Of these am I, who thy protection claim, A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas! some dread event impend, Ere to the main this morning sun descend. But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where: Warned by the sylph, oh pious maid, beware! This to disclose is all thy guardian can: Beware of all, but most beware of man!" He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue; 'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux; Wounds, charms, and ardours, were no sooner read, But all the vision vanished from thy head. And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncovered, the cosmetic pow'rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here The various off'rings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes The busy sylphs surround their darling care, These set the head, and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; And Betty's praised for labours not her own. Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone, But ev'ry eye was fixed on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide; If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspired to deck, With shining ringlets, the smooth iv'ry neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray, Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admired; He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. Resolved to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends. For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored Propitious heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r adored, But chiefly Love--to Love an altar built, Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, And all the trophies of his former loves; With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre, And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r, The rest, the winds dispersed in empty air. But now secure the painted vessel glides, The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides: While melting music steals upon the sky, And softened sounds along the waters die; Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. All but the sylph--with careful thoughts oppressed, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. He summons straight his denizens of air; The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew, Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes; While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings, Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; His purple pinions opening to the sun, He raised his azure wand, and thus begun. "Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give ear! Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear! Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assigned By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest ether play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high, Or roll the planets through the boundless sky. Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. Others on earth o'er human race preside, Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: Of these the chief the care of nations own, And guard with arms divine the British throne. "Our humbler province is to tend the fair, Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; To save the powder from too rude a gale, Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale; To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs; To steal from rainbows ere they drop in show'rs A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. "This day, black omens threat the brightest fair That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight; But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade; Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; Or whether heav'n has doomed that Shock must fall. Haste then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. "To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail, Though stiff with hoops and armed with ribs of whale; Form a strong line about the silver bound, And guard the wide circumference around. "Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedged, whole ages, in a bodkin's eye: Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain; Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled flow'r: Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill, In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below!" He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend: Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; With beating hearts the dire event they wait, Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. Close by those meads, for ever crowned with flow'rs, Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home; Here thou, great ANNA! whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea. Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; In various talk th' instructive hours they passed, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; One speaks the glory of the British Queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen; A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; At ev'ry word a reputation dies. Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, And wretches hang that jury-men may dine; The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, And the long labours of the toilet cease. Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, Burns to encounter two advent'rous knights, At ombre singly to decide their doom; And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, Each band the number of the sacred nine. Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard Descend, and sit on each important card: First Ariel perched upon a Matadore, Then each according to the rank they bore; For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. Behold, four kings, in majesty revered, With hoary whisky and a forky beard; And four fair queens whose hands sustain a flow'r, Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band; Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; And parti-coloured troops, a shining train, Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: Now move to war her sable Matadores, In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. As many more Manillio forced to yield, And marched a victor from the verdant field. Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed. The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, Proves the just victim of his royal rage. Ev'n mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew, And mowed down armies in the fights of loo, Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; Now to the baron fate inclines the field. His warlike Amazon her host invades, The club's black tyrant first her victim died, Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride: What boots the regal circle on his head, His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; That long behind he trails his pompous robe, And of all monarchs only grasps the globe? The baron now his diamonds pours apace! Th' embroidered king who shows but half his face, And his refulgent queen, with pow'rs combined, Of broken troops, an easy conquest find. Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, With like confusion different nations fly, Of various habit, and of various dye; The pierced battalions disunited fall, In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, And wins (oh shameful chance!) the queen of hearts. At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. And now (as oft in some distempered state) On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate: An ace of hearts steps forth: the king unseen Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen: He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. Sudden these honours shall be snatched away, And cursed for ever this victorious day. For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned, The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide: At once they gratify their scent and taste, And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. Straight hover round the fair her airy band; Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned, Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. Coffee (which makes the politician wise, And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! But when to mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill! Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edged weapon from her shining case: So ladies in romance assist their knight, Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends; This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear; Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the virgin's thought: As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, He watched th' ideas rising in her mind, Sudden he viewed in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart. Amazed, confused, he found his pow'r expired, Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex wide, T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. Ev'n then, before the fatal engine closed, A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, (But airy substance soon unites again,) The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast, When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last; Or when rich china vessels fall'n from high, In glitt'ring dust, and painted fragments lie! "Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," (The victor cried,) "the glorious prize is mine! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, Or in a coach and six the British fair, As long as Atalantis shall be read, Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, While visits shall be paid on solemn days, When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze, While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!" What time would spare, from steel receives its date, And monuments, like men, submit to fate! Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy; Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, And hew triumphal arches to the ground. What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel? But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed, And secret passions laboured in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinned awry, E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair. For, that sad moment, when the sylphs withdrew, And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, As ever sullied the fair face of light, Down to the central earth, his proper scene, Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, And screened in shades from day's detested glare, She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, But diff'ring far in figure and in face. Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed; With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons, Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. There Affectation with a sickly mien, Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for show. The fair ones feel such maladies as these, When each new night-dress gives a new disease. A constant vapour o'er the palace flies; Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades, Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, And crystal domes, and angels in machines. Unnumbered throngs, on ev'ry side are seen, Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pye talks; Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, And maids turned bottles, call aloud for corks. Safe past the gnome through this fantastic band, A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. Then thus addressed the pow'r--"Hail, wayward queen! Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen: Parent of vapours and of female wit, Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit, On various tempers act by various ways, Make some take physic, others scribble plays; Who cause the proud their visits to delay, And send the godly in a pet to pray; A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. But oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame, Or change complexions at a losing game; If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude, Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin, That single act gives half the world the spleen." The goddess with a discontented air Seems to reject him, though she grants his pray'r. A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; There she collects the force of female lungs, Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. A phial next she fills with fainting fears, Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, And all the furies issued at the vent. Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. "O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cried, (While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied) "Was it for this you took such constant care The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound? For this with tort'ring irons wreathed around? For this with fillets strained your tender head, And bravely bore the double loads of lead? Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. Methinks already I your tears survey, Already hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast, And all your honour in a whisper lost! How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heightened by the diamond's circling rays, On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? Sooner shall grass in Hyde-Park Circus grow, And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!" She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: (Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, And thus broke out--"My Lord, why, what the devil! Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil. Plague on't! 'tis past a jest--nay prithee, pox! Give her the hair"--he spoke, and rapped his box. "It grieves me much," replied the peer again, "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain, But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair; Which never more its honours shall renew, Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew) That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honours of her head. But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; He breaks the phial whence the sorrows flow. Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in tears; On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said. "For ever cursed be this detested day, Which snatched my best, my fav'rite curl away! Happy! ah ten times happy had I been, If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen! Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, By love of courts to num'rous ills betrayed. Oh had I rather unadmired remained In some lone isle, or distant northern land; Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam? O had I stayed, and said my pray'rs at home! 'Twas this the morning omens seemed to tell, Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; The tott'ring china shook without a wind, Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! A sylph too warned me of the threats of fate, In mystic visions, now believed too late! See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares: These in two sable ringlets taught to break, Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands. Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!" She said: the pitying audience melt in tears, But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain, "While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan; Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began. "Say, why are beauties praised and honoured most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? Why decked with all that land and sea afford, Why angels called, and angel-like adored? Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front box grace, Behold the first in virtue as in face! Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away; Who would not scorn what housewifes' cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to grey; Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; What then remains but well our pow'r to use, And keep good humour still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude. To arms, to arms! the fierce virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. All side in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, And base and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons in their hands are found, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapped his glad wings, and sate to view the fight. Propped on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray. While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perished in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song. "O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"--was his last. Thus on Maeander's flow'ry margin lies Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again. Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. See fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord with manly strength endued, She with one finger and a thumb subdued; Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. "Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great great grandsire wore about his neck, In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bell she jingled, and the whistle blew; Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) "Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low: Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind; All that I dread is leaving you behind! Rather than so, ah let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames--but burn alive." "Restore the Lock!" she cries; and all around "Restore the Lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain, In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blessed, So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest? Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. But trust the muse--she saw it upward rise, Though marked by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confessed in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The heav'ns bespangling with dishevelled light. The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, And pleased pursue its progress through the skies. This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with music its propitious ray; This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake; This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock the muse shall consecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.--MART. What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty quarrels rise from trivial things, I sing--This verse to C----l, Muse! is due: This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays. Say what strange motive, goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t'assault a gentle belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? And dwells such rage in softest bosoms then, And lodge such daring souls in little men? Sol through white curtains did his beams display, And ope'd those eyes which brighter shine than they, Shock just had giv'n himself the rousing shake, And nymphs prepared their chocolate to take; Thrice the wrought slipper knocked against the ground, And striking watches the tenth hour resound. Belinda rose, and midst attending dames, Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames: A train of well-dressed youths around her shone, And ev'ry eye was fixed on her alone: On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those: Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forgive 'em all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspired to deck With shining ringlets her smooth iv'ry neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray, Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired; He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. Resolved to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored Propitious heav'n, and every pow'r adored, But chiefly Love--to Love an altar built, Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. There lay the sword-knot Sylvia's hands had sewn With Flavia's busk that oft had wrapped his own: A fan, a garter, half a pair of gloves, And all the trophies of his former loves. With tender billets-doux he lights the pire, And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r, The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. Close by those meads, for ever crowned with flow'rs Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, There stands a structure of majestic frame, Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home; Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea. Hither our nymphs and heroes did resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; In various talk the cheerful hours they passed, Of who was bit, or who capotted last; This speaks the glory of the British queen, And that describes a charming Indian screen; A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; At ev'ry word a reputation dies. Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. Now when, declining from the noon of day, The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; When hungry judges soon the sentence sign, And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; When merchants from th' Exchange return in peace, And the long labours of the toilet cease, The board's with cups and spoons, alternate, crowned, The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; The silver lamp, and fiery spirits blaze: From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide. At once they gratify their smell and taste, While frequent cups prolong the rich repast. Coffee (which makes the politician wise, And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! But when to mischief mortals bend their mind, How soon fit instruments of ill they find! Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edged weapon from her shining case: So ladies, in romance, assist their knight, Present the spear, and arm him for the fight; He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends; This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. He first expands the glitt'ring forfex wide T' enclose the lock; then joins it, to divide; One fatal stroke the sacred hair does sever From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! The living fires come flashing from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks by dames to heav'n are cast, When husbands die, or lapdogs breathe their last; Or when rich china vessels, fall'n from high, In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie! "Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," The victor cried, "the glorious prize is mine! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, Or in a coach and six the British fair, As long as Atalantis shall be read, Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, While visits shall be paid on solemn days, When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze, While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!" What time would spare, from steel receives its date, And monuments, like men, submit to fate! Steel did the labour of the gods destroy, And strike to dust th' aspiring tow'rs of Troy; Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, And hew triumphal arches to the ground. What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel? But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed, And secret passions laboured in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, Not ardent lover robbed of all his bliss, Not ancient lady when refused a kiss, Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinned awry, E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair. While her racked soul repose and peace requires, The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires. "O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cried, (And Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied) "Was it for this you took such constant care Combs, bodkins, leads, pomatums to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound? For this with tort'ring irons wreathed around? Oh had the youth been but content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these! Gods! shall the ravisher display this hair, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine Ease, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex resign. Methinks already I your tears survey, Already hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast, And all your honour in a whisper lost! How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heightened by the diamond's circling rays, On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow, And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!" She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane, With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuff-box opened, then the case, And thus broke out--"My lord, why, what the devil! Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil! Plague on't! 'tis past a jest--nay, prithee, pox! Give her the hair."--He spoke, and rapped his box. "It grieves me much," replied the peer again, "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain: But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair; Which never more its honours shall renew, Clipped from the lovely head where once it grew) That, while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honours of her head. But see! the nymph in sorrow's pomp appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half drowned in tears; Now livid pale her cheeks, now glowing red, } On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, } Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she said: } "For ever cursed be this detested day, Which snatched my best, my fav'rite curl away; Happy! ah ten times happy had I been, If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, By love of courts to num'rous ills betrayed. O had I rather unadmired remained In some lone isle, or distant northern land, Where the gilt chariot never marked the way, Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam? O had I stayed, and said my pray'rs at home! 'Twas this the morning omens did foretell, Thrice from my trembling hand the patchbox fell; The tott'ring china shook without a wind, Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! See the poor remnants of this slighted hair! My hands shall rend what ev'n thy own did spare: This in two sable ringlets taught to break, Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands." She said: the pitying audience melt in tears; But fate and Jove had stopped the baron's ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain, While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. "To arms, to arms!" the bold Thalestris cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. All side in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, And bass and treble voices strike the skies; No common weapons in their hands are found, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage, 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms, And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perished in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song. "O cruel nymph; a living death I bear," Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"--was his last. Thus on Maeander's flow'ry margin lies Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. As bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But at her smile the beau revived again. Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. See fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, She with one finger and a thumb subdued: Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. "Now meet thy fate," th' incensed virago cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. "Boast not my fall," he said, "insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low; Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind; All that I dread is leaving you behind! Rather than so, ah let me still survive, And still burn on, in Cupid's flames, alive." "Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around "Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain, In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blessed, So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest? Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all that man e'er lost is treasured there. There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. But trust the muse--she saw it upward rise, Though marked by none but quick poetic eyes: (Thus Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confessed in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The skies bespangling with dishevelled light. This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, } As through the moonlight shade they nightly stray, } And hail with music its propitious ray; } This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock the muse shall consecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. tenderness; nor has Pope produced any poem in which the sense circumstance Pope alludes in one of his letters.--WARTON. remarkable that Caryll asks the question in two letters, but Pope Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs, her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your bless'd abodes, The glorious fault of angels and of gods! That once had beauty, _titles_, wealth and fame. 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be. There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow; or perhaps exclaim, as upon another occasion, _Incredulus odi_. There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, &c. The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more.--ROSCOE. fictions and blunders. This wretched book-maker has merely turned In 1806, Bowles promulgated a tradition which contradicts the The biographers and editors who went about enquiring after the unfortunate lady had no suspicion that she might be altogether a commemorated the suicide of the unfortunate lady. It follows that propping up and perpetuating the petty fraud. It beckoned him to go away with it As if it some impartment did desire To him alone. A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. phantoms. Pope's beckoning ghost was not of this class of "dire" The paragraph, "So peaceful rests," was much admired by the exercise, skies, and ghosts had faded from his thoughts, and his What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored? Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your bless'd abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warmed the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeled, "And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield." Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe. What can atone, oh ever-injured shade! Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned! What though no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polished marble emulate thy face? What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dressed, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more! Written by Mr. POPE. The second edition, 8vo. O Abelard ill-fated youth! Thy fate will justify this truth; But well I weet, thy cruel wrong Adorns a nobler poet's song: Dan Pope, for thy misfortune grieved, With kind concern and skill has weaved A silken web, and ne'er shall fade Its colours; gently has he laid The mantle o'er thy sad distress, And Venus shall the texture bless. He o'er the weeping nun has drawn Such artful folds of sacred lawn, That Love, with equal grief and pride, Shall see the crime he strives to hide, And softly drawing back the veil, The god shall to his vot'ries tell Each conscious tear, each blushing grace That decked dear Eloisa's face. composition of the same kind. The mixture of religious hope and Qui les moeurs feminins savoit Car tres-tous en soi les avoit. eternal.--WARTON. everything exquisite in poetry if I did not except the Epistle to It lives, it breathes, it speaks what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires; and as long as the English language remains, it will Call down tears through every age. How oft, when pressed to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which love has made! The authenticity of the Latin letters has usually been taken for I say she never did invent these letters, This is a man's invention, and his hand. When the first shock of disgrace was past, the lovers disregarded produced a treatise on the Trinity, which he asserts solved every monodramatic poem which turns upon a single conflict of feeling In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns, What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love!--From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name! rest ever unrevealed, Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed: Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies: O write it not, my hand--the name appears Already written--wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns, shagged with horrid thorn! Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not heaven's while Abelard has part; Still rebel nature holds out half my heart; Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear! Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear. I tremble too, where'er my own I find, Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, Led through a sad variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom, Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! There stern religion quenched th' unwilling flame, There died the best of passions, love and fame. Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away; And is my Abelard less kind than they? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare; Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r; No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banished lover, or some captive maid; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, The virgin's wish without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, When love approached me under friendship's name; My fancy formed thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind, Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray, Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day; Guiltless I gazed; heav'n listened while you sung; And truths divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like those, what precept failed to move? Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love: Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, Nor wished an angel whom I loved a man. Dim and remote the joys of saints I see: Nor envy them that heav'n I lose for thee. How oft, when pressed to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, August her deed, and sacred be her fame; Before true passion all those views remove; Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love? The jealous god, when we profane his fires, Those restless passions in revenge inspires, And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, Who seek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great master fall, Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all; Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove; No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free, More fond than mistress, make me that to thee. Oh! happy state! when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature, law: All then is full, possessing and possessed, No craving void left aching in the breast: Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This sure is bliss, if bliss on earth there be, And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas, how changed! what sudden horrors rise! A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, Her poniard, had opposed the dire command. Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; The crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more; by shame, by rage suppressed, Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest. Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? As with cold lips I kissed the sacred veil, The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale: Heav'n scarce believed the conquest it surveyed, And saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, Not on the cross my eyes were fixed, but you; Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all. Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; Those still at least are left thee to bestow. Still on that breast enamoured let me lie, Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be pressed; Give all thou canst--and let me dream the rest. Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view set all the bright abode, And make my soul quit Abelard for God. Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r; From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You raised these hallowed walls; the desert smiled, And Paradise was opened in the wild. No weeping orphan saw his father's stores Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors: No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here bribed the rage of ill-requited heav'n: But such plain roofs as piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise. In these lone walls (their day's eternal bound), These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crowned, Where awful arches make a noon-day night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light, Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brightened all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others' pray'rs I try, O pious fraud of am'rous charity! But why should I on others' pray'rs depend? Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move, And all those tender names in one, thy love! The darksome pines that, o'er yon rocks reclined, Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. Yet here for ever, ever must I stay; Sad proof how well a lover can obey! Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain; Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. Ah wretch! believed the spouse of God in vain, Confessed within the slave of love and man. Assist me, heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r? Sprung it from piety, or from despair? Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view, Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; Now turned to heav'n, I weep my past offence, Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis sure the hardest science to forget! How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence? How the dear object from the crime remove, Or how distinguish penitence from love? Unequal task! a passion to resign, For hearts so touched, so pierced, so lost as mine. Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often must it love, how often hate! How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal, disdain,--do all things but forget. But let heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fired; Not touched, but rapt; not wakened, but inspired! Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself--and you. Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee. How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot: Eternal sun-shine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resigned; Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; "Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;" Desires composed, affections ever even; Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heav'n. Grace shines around her, with serenest beams, And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams. For her, th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes, For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring, For her white virgins hymeneals sing, To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away, And melts in visions of eternal day. Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy: When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance snatched away, Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. Oh cursed, dear horrors of all-conscious night! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! Provoking demons all restraint remove, And stir within me ev'ry source of love. I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms. I wake:--no more I hear, no more I view, The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud; it hears not what I say: I stretch my empty arms; it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes; Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise; Alas, no more!--methinks we wand'ring go Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe, Where round some mould'ring tow'r pale ivy creeps, And low-browed rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, And wake to all the griefs I left behind. For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; Thy life a long dead calm of fixed repose; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows; Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n, And mild as op'ning gleams of promised heav'n. Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands checked; religion disapproves; Ev'n thou art cold--yet Eloisa loves. Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn. What scenes appear where'er I turn my view? The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me, Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight; In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye, While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul: Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art! Oppose thyself to heav'n; dispute my heart: Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies; Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs; Snatch me, just mounting, from the bless'd abode; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God! No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise alps between us! and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks, (which yet I view!) Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu! Oh grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! Fresh-blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky! And faith, our early immortality! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest: Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest. See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propped on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watched the dying lamps around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. "Come, sister, come! (it said, or seemed to say). "Thy place is here, sad sister, come away; "Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and prayed, Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: But all is calm in this eternal sleep; Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep, Ev'n superstition loses every fear: For God, not man, absolves our frailties here." I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs; Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow: Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day: See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! Ah no--in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, The hallowed taper trembling in thy hand, Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-loved Eloisa see! It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the transient roses fly! See the last sparkle languish in my eye! 'Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; And ev'n my Abelard be loved no more. Oh death all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we doat on, when 'tis man we love. Then too, when fate shall thy fair fame destroy, (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy) In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drowned, Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine. May one kind grave unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; Then sadly say, with mutual pity moved, "Oh may we never love as these have loved!" From the full choir when loud hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, Amid that scene if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heav'n, One human tear shall drop, and be forgiv'n. And sure if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, Condemned whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more; Such if there be, who loves so long, so well; Let him our sad, our tender story tell; The well-sung woes will sooth my pensive ghost; He best can paint them who shall feel them most. Corrected by the Author. London, etc. Folio. The second Epistle appeared about April, 1733. London: Printed by W. BOWYER for M. COOPER, at the Globe, in frequently at Twickenham, without his appearing to understand it embellishments must all be Pope's. These principles it is not my liberty. combinations, and at once exerted the powers of the scholar, the "SIR,--I have just received from Mr. R[obinson] two more of your letters. It is in the greatest hurry imaginable that I write so good an one. I can only say you do him too much honour, and me glorified. I am sure I like it better than I did before, and so will every man else. I know I meant just what you explain; but I did not explain my own meaning so well as you. You understand me as well as I do myself; but you express me better than I could express myself. Pray accept the sincerest acknowledgments. I cannot but wish these letters were put together in one book, and intend, with your leave, to procure a translation of part, at step without your consent and opinion, etc." By this fond and eager acceptance of an exculpatory comment, Pope Bolingbroke, when Pope's uneasiness incited him to desire an thousand pounds. O! had he pressed his theme, pursued the track Which opens out of darkness into day! O! had he mounted on his wing of fire, Soared when I sink, and sung immortal man. It must be confessed, unfair as Johnson's criticism is, it is not virtues." These four cardinal virtues,--justice, temperance, Epistle 1.--With respect to the Universe. " 3.--With respect to Society. " 4.--With respect to Happiness. An infidel who hated divines and divinity with all his heart, had Warburton reversed the parts. The "seven or eight sheets," which conversations" with Pope. This statement Warburton was dishonest enough to suppress, and deliberately turned a half truth into a falsehood. The ungarbled expressions of Bolingbroke confirm the Bolingbroke's hands,"--a dupe who adopted Bolingbroke's insidious interpretations which the Richardsons put on the Essay on Man. One of the articles of Bolingbroke's deistical creed is said by Warburton reports Hooke to have said, that Bolingbroke's "notions them." The first statement Bolingbroke would have allowed to be Bolingbroke's views on the moral attributes of the Deity were the There is more, and conclusive evidence, that Bolingbroke had not occasionally written," and the whole must already have passed intelligence they are adapted to the human," and the last line of philosophical intimate, who frankly avowed his own deism in the immediately proceeds to show how reason can "rectify" the ruling Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new, If not God's image, yet his shadow drew: Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is man. The poet and his "guide" agreed in repudiating christianity. They principles, nor saw to what they naturally tended." Pope did not intend to proclaim openly to the world the deism he undecided the question of the immortality of the soul: _If_ to be perfect in a certain state, What matter, here or there, or soon or late? overthrew his meaning." christian in his system, from man up to seraphim." Caryll was not Delineated, and there he had seen how inevitably a christian, who water." He had never intended at any time to risk an attack from authors," and that the doctrines were "rank atheism." He did were careful to circulate his asperities, and Pope assisted the exposure of the Essay on Man. interpretations which his commentator often fathered upon him, he Pope would have been glad "to dwell in ambiguities for ever." In accepting the advocacy of Warburton he was obliged to abandon his revealing his own unbelief. "I have been a martyr of faction in had inspired should be wrested to a meaning he disowned, that his Sans doute qu'a ces mots, des bords de la Tamise, Quelque abstrait raisonneur, qui ne se plaint de rien, Dans son flegme anglican repondra, "Tout est bien." pre-established harmony till I found it in M. Crousaz's book." Leibnitz took for granted, in their greatest latitude, the power, Hume's spokesman enforces his view by an instance which was the Leibnitz divided evil into moral evil or sin, physical evil or explanation. Either, he said, such visitations are "rational chastisements," or they are "the mere effects, natural though arrangements of the Almighty, and overruled his designs. The There were errors enough in Pope's doctrine without the The second epistle treats of man "with respect to himself as an determined to limit his investigations to man. The amount of knowledge possessed by the horse and ox is not Man has certain implanted tendencies, physical, intellectual, and selfishness. The degree of selfishness must be determined by our coalesce. There is a second part to Pope's system. He has told us that the greater. Reason, which lately mixed the passions in their proper The ruling passion, be it what it will, The ruling passion conquers reason still. thenceforward to grow with our growth, must be permanent and corrupt." On Pope's theory, to make the tree good is impossible. religion. "Sloth" supplies us with "philosophy," or the apathetic scheme." He repeated the criticism in a suppressed passage of the The contradictions are not at an end. Pride, folly, "even mean themselves is to enjoin the deaf to hear, and the blind to see. life." Pope refuses to ascribe our evil passions to the abuse of friend," which overthrows his theory that the ruling is our only kindly law," is the "plaything" of the "child," so "beads and preparation,--the prelude to a holy and happy eternity. For forms of government let fools contest, Whate'er is best administered is best. importance to religious beliefs: For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right. superintending Providence. The real intention of the "guide, philosophy to the infidelity of Bolingbroke. These considerations are not affected by the question of the innumerable appearances, and Pope endeavoured to evade them by contending that happiness is not placed in "externals." "Virtue's conscience or complete felicity. In the first sense it cannot be Pope's reason for his opinion is weaker than the opinion itself. say." Here we have an instance of the failing. His proposition is He had no sooner resolved happiness into "health, peace, and competent to the task assigned them than the hope and fear he had Hitherto Pope has argued that our virtue is the measure of our assertions,--the first that virtue never brings upon us "ills and conscience, hated by God because he lacks a thousand a year. He insufficient to make bad men happy. He comes to the instance of circumstance that they are "above life's weakness." important is whether the end we propose to ourselves should be self-interest or virtue. Pope adopted the selfish system without happiness, and which binds him by its intrinsic sacredness, and independent authority. He dares not overrule it by his passing inclinations, and endures all things rather than be guilty of a understood the best, and hence we may estimate the extent of his qualifications for dismissing every previous ethical theory with principles, he took credit for "steering betwixt the extremes of De Quincey thought that the "formal exposure of Pope's right." The remark is but a slight exaggeration of the truth. The The error of Byron was akin to the misconception of the office of inherent, prosaic element preponderated, and the Arts of Poetry, Criticism, Translating Verse, etc. are for the most part dreary compositions which afford as little delight as instruction. The man who could discover transcendent poetry in the Essay on pictures of the Indian and the lamb, which are exceptions to the worthless. delineated in the charts which are to follow. Consequently, these effects, may be a task more agreeable. creatures to man. The gradations of sense, instinct, thought, reflection, reason; that reason alone countervails all the other Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings. Let us, since life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die, Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan; A wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot; Or garden tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield; The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore, Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate the ways of God to man. What can we reason but from what we know? Of man, what see we but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer? Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He, who through vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, What other planets circle other suns, What varied being peoples ev'ry star, May tell why heav'n has made us as we are. But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, The strong connections, nice dependencies, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Looked through, or can a part contain the whole? Is the great chain that draws all to agree, And drawn supports, upheld by God or thee? Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind? First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less? Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade! Or ask of yonder argent fields above Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove! Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed That wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must full or not coherent be, And all that rises rise in due degree, Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain, There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man: And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has placed him wrong. Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, though laboured on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; Yet serves to second too some other use. So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. When the proud steed shall know why man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend His actions', passions', being's, use and end; Why doing, suff'ring, checked, impelled; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not man's imperfect, heav'n in fault; Say rather man's as perfect as he ought: His knowledge measured to his state and place, His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The bless'd to-day is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago. All but the page prescribed, their present state; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know; Or who could suffer being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleased to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. O blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle marked by heav'n: Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher death, and God adore. What future bliss he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never is, but always to be blessed. The soul, uneasy, and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n, Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire; He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Weigh thy opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fanci'st such, Say, Here he gives too little, there too much! Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, If man's unhappy, God's unjust; If man alone ingross not heav'n's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the god of God. In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere and rush into the skies! Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods if angels fell, Aspiring to be angels men rebel: And who but wishes to invert the laws Of order, sins against th' Eternal Cause. Earth for whose use, Pride answers, "'Tis for mine! For me kind nature wakes her genial pow'r, Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flow'r; Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; For me the mine a thousand treasures brings; For me health gushes from a thousand springs; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My footstool earth, my canopy the skies!" But errs not nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? "No," 'tis replied, "the first Almighty Cause Acts not by partial but by gen'ral laws: Th' exceptions few; some change since all began; And what created perfect?"--Why then man? If the great end be human happiness, Then nature deviates; and can man do less? As much that end a constant course requires Of show'rs and sunshine, as of man's desires: As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, As men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not heaven's design, Why then a Borgia or a Catiline? Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms; Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? From pride, from pride our very reas'ning springs; Account for moral, as for nat'ral things: Why charge we heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both to reason right is to submit. Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind; That never passion discomposed the mind. But all subsists by elemental strife; And passions are the elements of life. The gen'ral order, since the whole began, Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. And little less than angel, would be more! Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use, all creatures if he call, Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all: Nature to these without profusion kind, The proper organs, proper pow'rs assigned; Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force: All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: Is Heav'n unkind to man, and man alone? Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleased with nothing, if not blessed with all? The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, man is not a fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonize at ev'ry pore? Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? If nature thundered in his op'ning ears, And stunned him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that heav'n had left him still The whisp'ring zephyr, and the purling rill? Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies? The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass; What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, To that which warbles through the vernal wood! The spider's touch how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew? How instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, Compared, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine! 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier! For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! Remembrance and reflection how allied; What thin partitions sense from thought divide; And middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? The pow'rs of all subdued by thee alone, Is not thy reason all these pow'rs in one? All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of being! which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No glass can reach; from infinite to thee, From thee to nothing. On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours: Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed: From nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And if each system in gradation roll Alike essential to th' amazing whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly, Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, Being on being wrecked, and world on world; Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, And nature tremble to the throne of God! All this dread order break--for whom? for thee? Vile-worm!--O madness! pride! impiety! Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head? What if the head, the eye, or ear repined To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this gen'ral frame: Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains The great directing Mind of all ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul; That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, heav'n bestows on thee. Submit: in this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blessed as thou canst bear; Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art unknown to thee, All chance, direction which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good; And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. stronger, and why, ver. 67, &c. Their end the same, ver. 81, &c. near, yet the things separate and evident: what is the office of reason, ver. 202 to 216. V. How odious vice in itself, and how we The proper study of mankind is man. Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a god or beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little or too much; Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused, or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled; The glory, jest, and riddle of the world! Go, wondrous creature! mount where science guides, Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, Correct old Time, and regulate the sun; Go, soar with Plato to th' empyreal sphere, To the first good, first perfect, and first fair; Or tread the mazy round his follow'rs trod; And quitting sense call imitating God; As eastern priests in giddy circles run, And turn their heads to imitate the sun. Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule-- Then drop into thyself, and be a fool! Superior beings, when of late they saw A mortal man unfold all nature's law, Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, And showed a Newton, as we show an ape. Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind, Describe or fix one movement of his mind? Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, Explain his own beginning or his end? Alas! what wonder! man's superior part Unchecked may rise, and climb from art to art; But when his own great work is but begun, What reason weaves, by passion is undone, Trace science then, with modesty thy guide; First strip off all her equipage of pride; Deduct what is but vanity or dress, Or learning's luxury, or idleness; Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain, Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain; Expunge the whole, or lop th' excrescent parts Of all our vices have created arts; Then see how little the remaining sum, Which served the past, and must the times to come! necessary.] Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain; Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, Each works its end to move or govern all: And to their proper operation still Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill. Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul; Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. Man, but for that, no action could attend, And, but for this, were active to no end: Fixed like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot; Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, Destroying others, by himself destroyed. Most strength the moving principle requires; Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires; Sedate and quiet, the comparing lies, Formed but to check, delib'rate, and advise. Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh: Reason's at distance, and in prospect lie: That sees immediate good by present sense; Reason, the future and the consequence. Thicker than arguments, temptations throng, At best more watchful this, but that more strong. The action of the stronger to suspend, Reason still use, to reason still attend. Attention, habit and experience gains; Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, More studious to divide than to unite; And grace and virtue, sense and reason split, With all the rash dexterity of wit. Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. Self-love and reason to one end aspire, Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire; But greedy that, its object would devour, This taste the honey, and not wound the flow'r: Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good. 'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all: But since not ev'ry good we can divide, And reason bids us for our own provide, Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair, List under reason, and deserve her care; Those, that imparted, court a nobler aim, Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name. In lazy apathy let stoics boast Their virtue fixed; 'tis fixed as in a frost; Contracted all, retiring to the breast; But strength of mind is exercise, not rest: The rising tempest puts in act the soul, Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale; Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storms, and walks upon the wind. Passions, like elements, though born to fight, Yet, mixed and softened, in his work unite: These, 'tis enough to temper and employ; But what composes man, can man destroy? Suffice that reason keep to nature's road, Subject, compound them, follow her and God. Love, hope, and joy, fair pleasure's smiling train, Hate, fear, and grief, the family of pain, These mixed with art, and to due bounds confined, Make and maintain the balance of the mind: The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife Gives all the strength and colour of our life. Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes; And when in act they cease, in prospect rise: Present to grasp, and future still to find, The whole employ of body and of mind. All spread their charms, but charm not all alike; On diff'rent senses diff'rent objects strike; Hence diff'rent passions more or less inflame, As strong or weak the organs of the frame; And hence one master passion in the breast, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath, Receives the lurking principle of death; The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength: So, cast and mingled with his very frame, The mind's disease, its ruling passion, came; Each vital humour which should feed the whole, Soon flows to this, in body and in soul: Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head, As the mind opens, and its functions spread, Imagination plies her dang'rous art, And pours it all upon the peccant part. Nature its mother, habit is its nurse; Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse; Reason itself but gives it edge and pow'r; As heav'n's bless'd beam turns vinegar more sour. We, wretched subjects, though to lawful sway, In this weak queen some fav'rite still obey; Ah! if she lend not arms as well as rules, What can she more than tell us we are fools? Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend, A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend! Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade The choice we make, or justify it made; Proud of an easy conquest all along, She but removes weak passions for the strong. So when small humours gather to a gout, The doctor fancies he has driv'n them out. Yes, nature's road must ever be preferred; Reason is here no guide, but still a guard; 'Tis hers to rectify, not overthrow, And treat this passion more as friend than foe: A mightier pow'r the strong direction sends, And sev'ral men impels to sev'ral ends: Like varying winds, by other passions tossed, This drives them constant to a certain coast. Let pow'r or knowledge, gold or glory, please, Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease; Through life 'tis followed, ev'en at life's expense; The merchant's toil, the sage's indolence, The monk's humility, the hero's pride, All, all alike find reason on their side. ascertaining our virtue.] Th' Eternal Art, educing good from ill, Grafts on this passion our best principle: 'Tis thus the mercury of man is fixed, Strong grows the virtue with his nature mixed; The dross cements what else were too refined, And in one int'rest body acts with mind. As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care, On savage stocks inserted learn to bear, The surest virtues thus from passions shoot, Wild nature's vigour working at the root. What crops of wit and honesty appear From spleen, from obstinacy, hate or fear! See anger, zeal and fortitude supply; Ev'n av'rice, prudence; sloth, philosophy; Lust, through some certain strainers well refined, Is gentle love, and charms all womankind; Envy, to which th' ignoble mind's a slave, Is emulation in the learn'd or brave; Nor virtue, male or female, can we name, But what will grow on pride, or grow on shame. Thus nature gives us (let it check our pride) The virtue nearest to our vice allied; Reason the bias turns to good from ill, And Nero reigns a Titus if he will. The fiery soul abhorred in Catiline, In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine: The same ambition can destroy or save, And makes a patriot as it makes a knave. This light and darkness in our chaos joined, What shall divide? The god within the mind. Extremes in nature equal ends produce, In man they join to some mysterious use; Though each by turns the other's bound invade, As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade, And oft so mix, the diff'rence is too nice Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice. Fools! who from hence into the notion fall, That vice or virtue there is none at all. If white and black blend, soften, and unite A thousand ways, is there no black or white? Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain; 'Tis to mistake them costs the time and pain. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. But where th' extreme of vice, was ne'er agreed: Ask where's the North? at York, 'tis on the Tweed; In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there, At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where. No creature owns it in the first degree, But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he; Ev'n those who dwell beneath its very zone, Or never feel the rage, or never own; What happier natures shrink at with affright, The hard inhabitant contends is right. Virtuous and vicious ev'ry man must be, Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree: The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise; And ev'n the best, by fits, what they despise. 'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill; For, vice or virtue, self directs it still; Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal; But heav'n's great view is one, and that the whole. That counterworks each folly and caprice; That disappoints th' effect of ev'ry vice; That, happy frailties to all ranks applied, Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, To kings presumption, and to crowds belief: That virtue's ends from vanity can raise, Which seeks no interest, no reward but praise; And build on wants, and on defects of mind, The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. Heav'n forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common int'rest, or endear the tie. To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here; Yet from the same we learn, in its decline, Those joys, those loves, those int'rests to resign: Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, To welcome death, and calmly pass away. Whate'er the passion,--knowledge, fame, or pelf,-- Not one will change his neighbour with himself. The learn'd is happy nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more; The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n, The poor contents him with the care of heav'n. See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The starving chemist in his golden views Supremely blessed, the poet in his muse. See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend, And pride bestowed on all, a common friend: See some fit passion ev'ry age supply, Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. Behold the child, by nature's kindly law Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw: Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite: Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And beads and pray'r-books are the toys of age: Pleased with this bauble still, as that before; Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. Mean while opinion gilds with varying rays Those painted clouds that beautify our days; Each want of happiness by hope supplied, And each vacuity of sense by pride: These build as fast as knowledge can destroy; In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy; One prospect lost, another still we gain; And not a vanity is giv'n in vain; Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine, The scale to measure others' wants by thine. See, and confess, one comfort still must rise; 'Tis this, though man's a fool, yet God is wise! Acts to one end, but acts by various laws." In all the madness of superfluous health, The trim of pride, the impudence of wealth, Let this great truth be present night and day: But most be present if we preach or pray. Look round our world, behold the chain of love Combining all below and all above. See plastic nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place Formed and impelled its neighbour to embrace. See matter next with various life endued, Press to one centre still, the gen'ral good. See dying vegetables life sustain, See life dissolving vegetate again: All forms that perish other forms supply, (By turns we catch the vital breath and die) Like bubbles on the sea of matter born, They rise, they break, and to that sea return. Nothing is foreign; parts relate to whole; One all-extending, all-preserving soul Connects each being, greatest with the least; Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; All served, all serving: nothing stands alone; The chain holds on, and where it ends unknown. Has God, thou fool! worked solely for thy good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For him as kindly spreads the flow'ry lawn: Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride, Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? The birds of heav'n shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer; The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all. Know, nature's children all divide her care; The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear. While man exclaims, "See all things for my use!" "See man for mine!" replies a pampered goose: And just as short of reason he must fall, Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. Grant that the pow'rful still the weak control; Be man the wit, and tyrant of the whole: Nature that tyrant checks; he only knows, And helps, another creature's wants and woes. Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings? Man cares for all: to birds he gives his woods, To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods. For some his int'rest prompts him to provide, For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride: All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy Th' extensive blessing of his luxury. That very life his learned hunger craves, He saves from famine, from the savage saves; Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast, And, till he ends the being, makes it blessed, Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain, Than favoured man by touch ethereal slain. The creature had his feast of life before; Thou too must perish, when thy feast is o'er! To each unthinking being, heav'n, a friend, Gives not the useless knowledge of its end: To man imparts it; but with such a view As, while he dreads it, makes him hope it too; The hour concealed, and so remote the fear, Death still draws nearer, never seeming near. Great standing miracle! that heav'n assigned Its only thinking thing this turn of mind. individual.] Know, all enjoy that pow'r which suits them best: To bliss alike by that direction tend, And find the means proportion'd to their end. Say, where full instinct is th' unerring guide, What pope or council can they need beside? Reason, however able, cool at best, Cares not for service, or but serves when pressed, Stays till we call, and then not often near; But honest instinct comes a volunteer, Sure never to o'ershoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short is human wit; Sure by quick nature happiness to gain, Which heavier reason labours at in vain. This too serves always, reason never long; One must go right, the other may go wrong. See then the acting and comparing pow'rs One in their nature, which are two in ours; And reason raise o'er instinct as you can, In this 'tis God directs, in that 'tis man. Who taught the nations of the field and flood To shun their poison, and to choose their food? Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand? Who made the spider parallels design, Sure as Demoivre, without rule or line? Who bid the stork, Columbus-like, explore Heav'ns not his own, and worlds unknown before? Who calls the council, states the certain day, Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way? Its proper bliss, and sets its proper bounds: But as he framed a whole, the whole to bless, On mutual wants built mutual happiness: So from the first, eternal order ran, And creature linked to creature, man to man. Whate'er of life all-quick'ning ether keeps, Or breathes through air, or shoots beneath the deeps, Or pours profuse on earth, one nature feeds The vital flame, and swells the genial seeds. Not man alone, but all that roam the wood, Or wing the sky, or roll along the flood, Each loves itself, but not itself alone, Each sex desires alike, till two are one. Nor ends the pleasure with the fierce embrace: They love themselves a third time in their race. Thus beast and bird their common charge attend, The mothers nurse it, and the sires defend; The young dismissed to wander earth or air, There stops the instinct, and there ends the care: The link dissolves, each seeks a fresh embrace, Another love succeeds, another race. A longer care man's helpless kind demands; That longer care contracts more lasting bands: Reflection, reason, still the ties improve, At once extend the int'rest, and the love; With choice we fix, with sympathy we burn; Each virtue in each passion takes its turn; And still new needs, new helps, new habits rise, That graft benevolence on charities. Still as one brood, and as another rose, These nat'ral love maintained, habitual those: The last scarce ripened into perfect man, Saw helpless him from whom their life began: Mem'ry and forecast just returns engage, That pointed back to youth, this on to age; While pleasure, gratitude, and hope combined, Still spread the int'rest, and preserved the kind. The state of nature was the reign of God: Self-love and social at her birth began, Union the bond of all things, and of man. Pride then was not; nor arts, that pride to aid; Man walked with beast joint tenant of the shade; The same his table, and the same his bed; No murder clothed him, and no murder fed. In the same temple, the resounding wood, All vocal beings hymned their equal God: The shrine with gore unstained, with gold undressed, Unbribed, unbloody, stood the blameless priest: Heav'n's attribute was universal care, And man's prerogative to rule, but spare. Ah! how unlike the man of times to come! Of half that live the butcher and the tomb; Who, foe to nature, hears the gen'ral groan, Murders their species, and betrays his own. But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds; The fury-passions from that blood began, And turned on man a fiercer savage, man. See him from nature rising slow to art! To copy instinct then was reason's part; Thus then to man the voice of nature spake-- "Go, from the creatures thy instructions take: Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield; Learn from the beasts the physic of the field; Thy arts of building from the bee receive; Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave; Learn of the little nautilus to sail, Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. Here too all forms of social union find, And hence let reason, late, instruct mankind: Here subterranean works and cities see; There towns aerial on the waving tree. Learn each small people's genius, policies, The ants' republic, and the realm of bees: How those in common all their wealth bestow, And anarchy without confusion know; And these for ever, though a monarch reign, Their sep'rate cells and properties maintain. Mark what unvaried laws preserve each state, Laws wise as nature, and as fixed as fate. In vain thy reason finer webs shall draw, Entangle justice in her net of law, And right, too rigid, harden into wrong; Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong. Yet go! and thus o'er all the creatures sway, Thus let the wiser make the rest obey; And for those arts mere instinct could afford, Be crowned as monarchs, or as gods adored." Cities were built, societies were made: Here rose one little state; another near Grew by like means, and joined through love or fear. Did here the trees with ruddier burdens bend, And there the streams in purer rills descend? What war could ravish, commerce could bestow, And he returned a friend who came a foe. Converse and love mankind might strongly draw, When love was liberty, and nature law. Thus states were formed: the name of king unknown, Till common int'rest placed the sway in one. 'Twas virtue only (or in arts or arms, Diffusing blessings, or averting harms), The same which in a sire the sons obeyed, A prince the father of a people made. King, priest, and parent of his growing state; On him, their second Providence, they hung, Their law his eye, their oracle his tongue. He from the wond'ring furrow called the food, Taught to command the fire, control the flood, Draw forth the monsters of th' abyss profound, Or fetch th' aerial eagle to the ground, Till drooping, sick'ning, dying they began Whom they revered as god to mourn as man: Then, looking up from sire to sire, explored One great first Father, and that first adored; Or plain tradition, that this all begun, Conveyed unbroken faith from sire to son; The worker from the work distinct was known, And simple reason never sought but one. Ere wit oblique had broke that steady light, Man, like his Maker, saw that all was right; To virtue, in the paths of pleasure trod, And owned a father when he owned a God. Love all the faith, and all th' allegiance then, For nature knew no right divine in men, No ill could fear in God; and understood A sov'reign being but a sov'reign good. True faith, true policy, united ran, That was but love of God, and this of man. Who first taught souls enslaved, and realms undone, Th' enormous faith of many made for one; That proud exception to all nature's laws, T' invert the world, and counterwork its cause? Force first made conquest, and that conquest, law; Till superstition taught the tyrant awe, Then shared the tyranny, then lent it aid, And gods of conqu'rors, slaves of subjects made: She, midst the lightning's blaze, and thunder's sound, When rocked the mountains, and when groaned the ground, She taught the weak to bend, the proud to pray, To pow'r unseen, and mightier far than they: She, from the rending earth and bursting skies, Saw gods descend, and fiends infernal rise: Here fixed the dreadful, there the bless'd abodes; Fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods; Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, Whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust; Such as the souls of cowards might conceive, And, formed like tyrants, tyrants would believe. Zeal then, not charity, became the guide; And hell was built on spite, and heav'n on pride. Then sacred seemed th' ethereal vault no more; Altars grew marble then, and reeked with gore: Then first the Flamen tasted living food; Next his grim idol smeared with human blood; With heav'n's own thunders shook the world below, And played the god an engine on his foe. So drives self-love, through just, and through unjust, To one man's pow'r, ambition, lucre, lust: The same self-love, in all, becomes the cause Of what restrains him, government and laws. For what one likes, if others like as well, What serves one will, when many wills rebel? How shall he keep, what, sleeping or awake, A weaker may surprise, a stronger take? His safety must his liberty restrain: All join to guard what each desires to gain. Forced into virtue thus by self-defence, Ev'n kings learned justice and benevolence: Self-love forsook the path it first pursued, And found the private in the public good. 'Twas then the studious head or gen'rous mind, Foll'wer of God, or friend of human-kind, Poet or patriot, rose but to restore The faith and moral nature gave before; Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new; If not God's image, yet his shadow drew: Taught pow'r's due use to people and to kings; Taught not to slack, nor strain its tender strings, The less, or greater, set so justly true, That touching one must strike the other too; Till jarring int'rests of themselves create Th' according music of a well-mixed state. Such is the world's great harmony, that springs From order, union, full consent of things; Where small and great, where weak and mighty made To serve, not suffer, strengthen, not invade; More pow'rful each as needful to the rest, And in proportion as it blesses, bless'd; Draw to one point, and to one centre bring Beast, man, or angel, servant, lord, or king. For forms of government let fools contest; Whate'er is best administered is best; For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right: In faith and hope the world will disagree, But all mankind's concern is charity: All must be false that thwart this one great end; And all of God, that bless mankind, or mend. Man, like the gen'rous vine, supported lives; The strength he gains is from th' embrace he gives. On their own axis as the planets run, Yet make at once their circle round the sun, So two consistent motions act the soul, And one regards itself, and one the whole. Thus God and nature linked the gen'ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same. O Happiness! our being's end and aim, Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name: That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die; Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlooked, seen double by the fool and wise: Plant of celestial seed! if dropped below, Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reaped in iron harvests of the field? Where grows!--where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil: Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere, 'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where: 'Tis never to be bought, but always free; And, fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with thee. Ask of the learn'd the way! The learn'd are blind; This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind; Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these; Some sunk to beasts find pleasure end in pain; Some swelled to gods confess e'en virtue vain; Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all. Who thus define it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness? Take nature's path, and mad opinion's leave; All states can reach it, and all heads conceive; Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell; There needs but thinking right, and meaning well; And mourn our various portions as we please, Equal is common sense, and common ease. Remember, man, "the Universal Cause Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws;" And makes what happiness we justly call, Subsist, not in the good of one, but all. There's not a blessing individuals find, But some way leans and hearkens to the kind; No bandit fierce, no tyrant mad with pride, No caverned hermit rests self-satisfied: Who most to shun or hate mankind pretend, Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend. Abstract what others feel, what others think, All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink: Each has his share; and who would more obtain, Shall find the pleasure pays not half the pain. Order is heav'n's first law; and this confessed, Some are, and must be, greater than the rest, More rich, more wise; but who infers from hence That such are happier, shocks all common sense. Heav'n to mankind impartial we confess, If all are equal in their happiness: But mutual wants this happiness increase; All nature's diff'rence keeps all nature's peace. Condition, circumstance is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king, In who obtain defence, or who defend, In him who is, or him who finds a friend: Heav'n breathes through ev'ry member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul. But fortune's gifts if each alike possessed, And each were equal, must not all contest? If then to all men happiness was meant, God in externals could not place content. Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, And these be happy called, unhappy those; But heav'n's just balance equal will appear, While those are placed in hope, and these in fear: Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, But future views of better, or of worse. O sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise, By mountains piled on mountains, to the skies? Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. Know, all the good that individuals find, Or God and nature meant to mere mankind, Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence. But health consists with temperance alone; And peace! O virtue! peace is all thy own. The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain; But these less taste them, as they worse obtain. Say, in pursuit of profit or delight, Who risk the most, that take wrong means or right? Of vice or virtue, whether blessed or cursed, Which meets contempt, or which compassion first? Count all th' advantage prosp'rous vice attains, 'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains: And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want, which is to pass for good. O blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe! Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, Best knows the blessing, and will most be blessed. But fools the good alone unhappy call, For ills or accidents that chance to all. See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! See god-like Turenne prostrate on the dust! See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! Was this their virtue, or contempt of life? Say, was it virtue, more though heav'n ne'er gave, Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave? Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire? Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath, When nature sickened, and each gale was death? Or why so long (in life if long can be) Lent heav'n a parent to the poor and me? What makes all physical or moral ill? There deviates nature, and here wanders will. God sends not ill, if rightly understood, Or partial ill is universal good, Or change admits, or nature lets it fall Short, and but rare, till man improved it all. We just as wisely might of heav'n complain, That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, As that the virtuous son is ill at ease When his lewd father gave the dire disease. Think we, like some weak prince, th' Eternal Cause, Prone for his fav'rites to reverse his laws? Shall burning AEtna, if a sage requires, Forget to thunder, and recall her fires? On air or sea new motions be impressed, O blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast? When the loose mountain trembles from on high, Shall gravitation cease if you go by? Or some old temple nodding to its fall, For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall? But still this world, so fitted for the knave, Contents us not. A better shall we have? A kingdom of the just then let it be: But first consider how those just agree. The good must merit God's peculiar care; But who, but God, can tell us who they are? One thinks on Calvin heav'n's own Spirit fell; Another deems him instrument of hell; If Calvin feel heav'n's blessing, or its rod, This cries there is, and that, there is no God. What shocks one part will edify the rest, Nor with one system can they all be blessed. The very best will variously incline, And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. Whatever is, is right. This world, 'tis true, Was made for Caesar, but for Titus too: And which more bless'd? who chained his country, say, Or he whose virtue sighed to lose a day? "But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed." What then? Is the reward of virtue bread? That vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil; The knave deserves it when he tills the soil, The knave deserves it when he tempts the main, Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. The good man may be weak, be indolent; Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. But grant him riches, your demand is o'er? "No--shall the good want health, the good want pow'r?" Add health, and pow'r, and ev'ry earthly thing: "Why bounded pow'r? why private? why no king? Nay, why external for internal giv'n? Why is not man a god, and earth a heav'n?" Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive God gives enough while he has more to give: Immense the pow'r, immense were the demand; Say, at what part of nature will they stand? What nothing earthly gives or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy, Is virtue's prize. A better would you fix? Then give humility a coach and six, Justice a conqu'ror's sword, or truth a gown, Or public spirit its great cure, a crown. Weak, foolish man! will heav'n reward us there, With the same trash mad mortals wish for here? The boy and man an individual makes, Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? Go, like the Indian, in another life Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife, As well as dream such trifles are assigned, As toys and empires, for a god-like mind: Rewards, that either would to virtue bring No joy, or be destructive of the thing: How oft by these at sixty are undone The virtues of a saint at twenty-one! To whom can riches give repute or trust, Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? Judges and senates have been bought for gold, Esteem and love were never to be sold. O fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, The lover and the love of human kind, Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. "What differ more," you cry, "than crown and cowl?" I'll tell you, friend; a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunella. Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with strings, Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race, In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece: But by your fathers' worth if yours you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, Go! and pretend your family is young; Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. Look next on greatness; say where greatness lies. "Where but among the heroes and the wise!" Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede; The whole strange purpose of their lives to find, Or make, an enemy of all mankind! Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise; All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes: Men in their loose unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat, 'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great: Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. What's fame? a fancied life in others' breath, A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death. Just what you hear, you have, and what's unknown The same, my lord, if Tully's, or your own. All that we feel of it begins and ends In the small circle of our foes or friends; To all beside as much an empty shade An Eugene living, as a Caesar dead; Alike, or when or where they shone or shine, A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod; An honest man's the noblest work of God. Fame but from death a villain's name can save, As justice tears his body from the grave; When what t' oblivion better were resigned, Is hung on high, to poison half mankind. All fame is foreign, but of true desert; Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart: One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels, Than Caesar with a senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage lies? Tell, for you can, what is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known; To see all others' faults, and feel our own; Condemned in bus'ness or in arts to drudge, Without a second or without a judge: Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand. Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. Bring then these blessings to a strict account; Make fair deductions; see to what they 'mount: How much of other each is sure to cost; How each for other oft is wholly lost; How inconsistent greater goods with these; How sometimes life is risked, and always ease. Think, and if still the things thy envy call, Say would'st thou be the man to whom they fall? To sigh for ribbons if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy. Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife. If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind: Or ravished with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell, damned to everlasting fame! If all, united, thy ambition call, From ancient story learn to scorn them all. There, in the rich, the honoured, famed, and great, See the false scale of happiness complete! In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay, How happy those to ruin, these betray! Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows, From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose; In each how guilt and greatness equal ran, And all that raised the hero sunk the man: Now Europe's laurel on their brows behold, But stained with blood, or ill-exchanged for gold: Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease, Or infamous for plundered provinces. O wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame! What greater bliss attends their close of life? Some greedy minion, or imperious wife, The trophied arches, storied halls invade, And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade. Alas! not dazzled with their noon-tide ray, Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day; The whole amount of that enormous fame, A tale, that blends their glory with their shame! Know then this truth, enough for man to know, "Virtue alone is happiness below." The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill; Where only merit constant pay receives, Is blessed in what it takes, and what it gives; The joy unequalled, if its end it gain, And if it lose, attended with no pain: Without satiety, though e'er so blessed, And but more relished as the more distressed: The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears, Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears: Good, from each object, from each place acquired, For ever exercised, yet never tired; Never elated, while one man's oppressed; Never dejected, while another's blessed; And where no wants, no wishes can remain, Since but to wish more virtue is to gain. hereafter.] See the sole bliss heav'n could on all bestow! Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know; Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, The bad must miss; the good, untaught, will find; Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through nature up to nature's God; Pursues that chain which links th' immense design, Joins heav'n and earth, and mortal and divine; Sees, that no being any bliss can know, But touches some above and some below; Learns from this union of the rising whole, The first, last purpose of the human soul; And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, All end, in love of God, and love of man. For him alone hope leads from goal to goal, And opens still, and opens on his soul; Till lengthened on to faith, and unconfined, It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. He sees why nature plants in man alone Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown: (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind Are giv'n in vain, but what they seek they find;) Wise is her present: she connects in this His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss; At once his own bright prospect to be blessed, And strongest motive to assist the rest. Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine, Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine. Is this too little for the boundless heart? Extend it, let thy enemies have part: Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense, In one close system of benevolence: Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, And height of bliss but height of charity. God loves from whole to parts: but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; His country next; and next all human race; Wide and more wide th' o'erflowings of the mind Take ev'ry creature in, of ev'ry kind; Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blessed, And heav'n beholds its image in his breast. Come then, my friend! my genius! come along, O master of the poet and the song! And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends, To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, Teach me, like thee in various nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise; Formed by thy converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe; Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please. Oh! while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame; Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; For wit's false mirror held up nature's light; Showed erring pride, whatever is, is right; That reason, passion, answer one great aim; That true self-love and social are the same; That virtue only makes our bliss below; And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know. should not find the "disjecti membra poetae."--BOWLES. send." The Essay teaches us that the moral law of mankind is Father of all! in ev'ry age, In ev'ry clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Thou Great First Cause, least understood! Who all my sense confined To know but this, that thou art good, And that myself am blind; Yet gave me in this dark estate, To see the good from ill: And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heav'n pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives: T' enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span The goodness let me bound, Or think Thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round: Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land On each I judge thy foe. If I am right, thy grace impart Still in the right to stay: If I am wrong, oh teach my heart To find that better way. Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has denied, Or aught thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me. Mean though I am, not wholly so, Since quickened by thy breath: Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go, Through this day's life or death. This day be bread and peace my lot: All else beneath the sun, Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, And let thy will be done. To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, One chorus let all being raise; All nature's incense rise! The poet tells us next, line 16, with what design he wrote, viz. To vindicate the ways of God to man. Can tell why heav'n has made us as we are. question, Whether God has placed him wrong? attributes? Therefore, Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown. 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. He sees, why nature plants in man alone Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown: Nature, whose dictates to no other kind Are giv'n in vain, but what they seek they find. illusion. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, &c. Has God, thou fool! worked solely for thy good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For him as kindly spreads the flow'ry lawn. Then nature deviates; and can man do less? Of this frame, the bearings and the ties, The strong connexions, nice dependencies, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look'd through? or can a part contain the whole? Own therefore, says he, that From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; Account for moral, as for nat'ral things: Why charge we heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right, is to submit. Ver. 165. _Better for us, &c._] But, secondly, to strengthen the That never air or ocean felt the wind; That never passion discomposed the mind. Contracted all, retiring to the breast: But health of mind is exercise, not rest. The gen'ral order, since the whole began, Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. Th' eternal art educes good from all. What if the foot, &c. (All nature is but art, unknown to thee,) nor yet the fortuitous result of Epicurean atoms, (All chance, direction, which thou canst not see): reason,--in all other sciences the understanding is unchecked and Ver. 79. _Attention, &c._] But it would be objected, that if this Nor God alone in the still calm we find; He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind. powerful inciters, we should neglect, and sink into a senseless indolence. Now happiness is the end of our creation; and this excitement, the means to that end; therefore, these movers, the A mightier pow'r the strong direction sends, And sev'ral men impels to several ends. Let pow'r or knowledge, gold or glory, please, &c. See anger, zeal and fortitude supply, &c. 'Tis thus the mercury, &c. Reason the bias turns to good from ill, And Nero reigns a Titus, if he will. Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain; 'Tis to mistake them, costs the time and pain. This is an error of speculation, which leads men so foolishly to conclude, that there is neither vice nor virtue. For, vice or virtue, self directs it still. Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal, leads the author to observe, That heav'n's great view is one, and that the whole. passions, with regard to the more confined circle of our friends, individual, even in their illusions; the imaginary happiness they Opinion gilds with varying rays Those painted clouds that beautify our days, &c. One prospect lost, another still we gain; And not a vanity is giv'n in vain. Though man's a fool, yet God is wise. conclusion of the second Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine, The scale to measure others' wants by thine, maketh the introduction to the third: Here then we rest: 'The Universal Cause Acts to one end, but acts by various laws.' elsewhere, that Each individual seeks a several goal. On mutual wants built mutual happiness. Connects each being, greatest with the least; Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; All served, all serving, that chain of love Combining all below and all above: beneficence, by obliging him to provide for the support of other Thus then to man the voice of nature spake: "Go, from the creatures thy instructions take, &c., And for those arts mere instinct could afford, Be crowned as monarchs, or as Gods adored." True faith, true policy united ran; That was but love of God, and this of man. Accordingly Mr. Pope, from ver. 244 to 269, together with corrupt Superstition taught the tyrant awe. His safety must his liberty restrain; All join to guard what each desires to gain. Ver. 283. _'Twas then, the studious head, &c._] The poet hath now 'Twas then, the studious head, or generous mind, Follow'r of God, or friend of human kind, Poet or patriot, rose but to restore The faith and moral, nature gave before; &c. 'Twas then, the studious head, &c. Ver. 295. _Such is the world's great harmony, &c._] Having thus Such is the world's great harmony, that springs From order, union, full consent of things. Ver. 311. _Man, like the generous vine, &c._] Having thus largely On their own axis as the planets run, Yet make at once their circle round the sun; So two consistent motions act the soul; And one regards itself, and one the whole. Thus God and nature linked the general frame, And bade self-love and social be the same. Oh happiness! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name. Plant of celestial seed! if dropped below, Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shrine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reaped in from harvests of the field? Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere 'Tis no where to be found, or every where. Ask of the learn'd the way? The learn'd are blind; This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind: Some place the bliss in action, some in ease; Those call it pleasure, and contentment these. Who thus define it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness? inseparably attended with fear; the want of them with hope; which Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise, By mountains piled on mountains, to the skies? Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. But health consists with temperance alone; And peace, oh virtue! peace is all thy own. One head yet remained to be spoken to, namely, competence. In the Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence. But health consists with temperance alone; And peace, oh virtue! peace is all thy own. Ver. 93. _Oh blind to truth, &c._] Our author having thus largely Oh blind to truth! and God's whole scheme below, &c. Say, was it virtue, more though heav'n ne'er gave, Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave? Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire? We just as wisely might of heav'n complain That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, As that the righteous son is ill at ease, When his lewd father gave the dire disease. Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires, &c. profligate complainers, from ver. 130 to 149: But still this world, so fitted for the knave, &c. This world, 'tis true, Was made for Caesar, but for Titus too: And which more bless'd? who chained his country? say! Or he whose virtue sighed to lose a day? What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize, delusions; though, as he proves in an exact review of the most Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, The lover and the love of human-kind, Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, Because he wants a thousand pounds a year! Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part; there all the honour lies. What power then has fortune over the man? None at all; for as her Fortune in men has some small difference made; One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade. monopolize that quality) do, after all their bustle, if they want Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. Ver. 329. _Yet poor with fortune, &c._] The poet then, with some To look through nature up to nature's God, For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal, And opens still, and opens on his soul; Till lengthened on to faith, and unconfined, It pours thy bliss that fills up all the mind. descends from whole to parts; but that the human must rise from Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, is important. Rochefoucault, Esprit, and their coarse and wordy Of human nature, wit its worst may write; We all revere it in our own despite, selfishness into its very opposite; and therefore teacheth that Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake: and thus hath vindicated the dignity of human nature, and the philosophic truth of the christian doctrine. Ver. 7, 8. _A wild,--Or garden,_] The wild relates to the human opportunity, on this subject, to exercise their virtue. Ver. 16. _Vindicate the ways of God to man._] Milton's phrase, explaining the ways of God; this idea, the word justify precisely Ver. 19, 20. _Of man, what see we but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer?_] If plagues and earthquakes break not heav'n's design, Why then a Borgia or a Catiline? Who knows, but he whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? Ver. 35 to 42.] In these lines the poet has joined the beauty of Ver. 41. _Or ask of yonder, &c._] On these lines M. Voltaire thus Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade; Or ask of yonder argent fields above, Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. Such is the world's great harmony, that springs From order, union, full consent of things: Where small and great, where weak and mighty, made Ver. 97. _from home,_] The construction is,--The soul, uneasy and Il ne desire point cette celeste flamme Qui des purs Seraphins devore, et nourrit l'ame. Ver. 150. _Then Nature deviates; &c._] "While comets move in very Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all.--Ver. 51. How does the poet enforce it? If you will believe this critic, in Jusqu'a l'homme, ce chef, ce roi de l'univers. So man; who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown. equilibre. The workman from the work distinct was known? All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul; &c. Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him, no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. Dans un homme ignore sous une humble chaumiere, Que dans le seraphin, rayonnant de lumiere. Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown; Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal: 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good; And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, whatever is, is right. Man hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest. Now he tells us it is man's duty to act, not rest, as the stoics Fixed as in a frost, Contracted all, retiring to the breast: But strength of mind is exercise, not rest. Now hear the translator, who is not for mincing matters: Seroit-il en naissant au travail condamne? Aux douceurs du repos seroit-il destine? In doubt to deem himself a God, or beast. immortality, as the poet himself teaches, when he speaks of the omnipresence of God: Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part.--Epist. i. 275. Tantot de son esprit admirant l'excellence, Il pense qu'il est Dieu, qu'il en a la puissance; Et tantot gemissant des besoins de son corps, Il croit que de la brute, il n'a que les ressorts. Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err. The translator turns this fine and sober thought into the most outrageous scepticism: Ce n'est que pour mourir, qu'il est ne, qu'il respire; Et toute sa raison n'est presque qu'un delire. Too much knowledge for the sceptic side. propriety of sentiment. Des celestes esprits la vive intelligence Regarde avec pitie notre foible science; Newton, le grand Newton, que nous admirons tous, Est peut-etre pour eux, ce qu'un singe est pour nous. succession which approaches to co-existence, they will not be relished." What pity is it, that the poet should here confute the On peut etre a la fois et pompeux et plaisant; Et je hais un sublime ennuyeux et pesant. Ver. 37. _Who saw its fires here rise, &c._] Sir Isaac Newton, in Ver. 48. _Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain;_] _i.e._ when Ver. 49. _Expunge the whole, or lop th' excrescent parts Of all our vices have created arts;_] collects the future; and by argumentation, the consequence. The translator turns it thus: Dieu lui-meme, Dieu sort de son profond repos. Ver. 109. _Nor God alone, &c._] These words are only a simple The action of the stronger to suspend, Reason still use, to reason still attend. character of Cotta: Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth. What though (the use of barb'rous spits forgot) His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot? If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more Than bramins, saints, and sages did before. To the first good, first perfect, and first fair, A mightier pow'r the strong direction sends, And several men impels to several ends; What makes all physical and moral ill? There deviates nature, and here wanders will: Ver. 253. _Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common interest, &c._] What partly pleases, totally will shock: I question much, if Toland would be Locke. Dans le sein du bonheur, ou de l'adversite. Vois du sein du Chaos eclater la lumiere, Chaque atome ebranle courir pour s'embrasser, &c. insensible parts is as necessary as that quality so equally and Sort du neant, y rentre, et reparoit au jour. Ver. 22. _One all-extending, all-preserving soul,_] Which, in the Ver. 23. _greatest with the least;_] As acting more strongly and In this 'tis God directs. innocence, and full of the great ideas of those Chains of love Combining all below and all above, Which to one point, and to one centre bring, Beast, man, or angel, servant, lord, or king; Subjected these to those, and all to thee. philosophize himself into an opinion that these animals were mere Heav'n's attribute was universal care, And man's prerogative to rule, but spare. M. du Resnel has translated the lines thus: La nature indignee alors se fit entendre; Va, malheureux mortel, va, lui dit-elle, apprendre; Heav'n's attribute was universal care, And man's prerogative to rule, but spare, Ah! how unlike the man of times to come, Of half that live the butcher and the tomb, &c. Ver. 199. _observant men obeyed;_] The epithet is beautiful, as fatality of contradicting his original, whenever he attempts to Par ces mots la nature excita l'industrie, Et de l'homme feroce enchaina la furie. What war could ravish, commerce could bestow, And he returned a friend who came a foe. impossible that there should be quarrels in it. He had said, So drives self-love through just and through unjust. Then, looking up from sire to sire, &c. This, I am afraid, is but too true a representation of humanity. Jaloux d'en conserver les traits et la figure, Leur zele industrieux inventa la peinture. Leurs neveux, attentifs a ces hommes fameux, Qui par le droit du sang avoient regne sur eux, Trouvent-ils dans leur suite un grand, un premier pere, Leur aveugle respect l'adore et le revere. describing those men who To virtue, in the paths of pleasure trod, And owned a father, where they own'd a God! Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, &c. The ancient pagan gods are here very exactly described. This fact superstition; for if these phantasms were first raised in the Amuse th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. Th' according music of a well-mixed state. Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new. Taught pow'r's due use to people and to kings, Taught not to slack, nor strain its tender strings; The less, or greater, set so justly true, That touching one must strike the other too; Till jarring interests of themselves create Th' according music of a well mixed state. For nature knew no right divine in men. For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal, And opens still, and opens on his soul: Till, lengthened on to faith, and unconfined, It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new, If not God's image, yet his shadow drew: mischievous squabble between Waterland and Jackson, on a point controversy that required another management. Clear sense, severe once well laughed at, and then, forgotten. Time. This short history, as insignificant as the subjects of it Ver. 21, 23. _Some place the bliss in action,-- Some sunk to beasts, &c._] calmness of mind, which they call [Greek: Euthymia]; such as the Ver. 35. _Remember, man, "the Universal Cause "Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws:"_] Une loi generale Determine toujours la cause principale; L'ordre, cet inflexible et grand legislateur, Qui des decrets du ciel est le premier auteur. Le charme seducteur, dont s'enivrant les sens, Les plaisirs de l'esprit, encore plus ravissans; providential care of those whom he led to war, in which he was so extraordinary dispensations to mankind. Ver. 142. After ver. 142 in some editions: Give each a system, all must be at strife; What different systems for a man and wife! Zeal, not charity, became the guide, And hell was built on spite, and heav'n on pride. They err who count it glorious to subdue By conquest far and wide, to over-run Large countries, and in field great battles win, Great cities by assault. What do these worthies, But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave Peaceable nations, neighb'ring or remote, Made captive, yet deserving freedom more Than those their conqu'rors; who leave behind Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove, And all the flourishing works of peace destroy? Then swell with pride, and must be titled gods; Till conqu'ror death discovers them scarce men, Rolling in brutish vices and deformed, Violent or shameful death their due reward.--Par. Reg. b. iii. mischievous. 'Tis never to be bought, but always free, And fled from monarchs, St. John! dwells with thee. acquirement, can make him happy here. The most plausible rival of Those painted clouds that beautify our days, &c. Or ravished with the whistling of a name,_] Ver. 309. _Know then this truth, enough for man to know, "Virtue alone is happiness below."_] M. du Resnel translates the line thus: Apprend donc, qu'il n'est point ici bas de bonheur, Si la vertu no regle et l'esprit et le coeur. Virtue alone is happiness below: And so ought a faithful translator to have said after him. Ev'n while it seems unequal to dispose, And chequers all the good man's joys with woes, 'Tis but to teach him to support each state, With patience this, with moderation that; And raise his base on that one solid joy, Which conscience gives, and nothing can destroy. affliction. companion, which fills his heart with joy, and is the support and Come then, my friend! my genius! come along; O master of the poet, and the song! And while the muse now stoops, and now ascends, To man's low passions, or their glorious ends. Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise; Formed by thy converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe; Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please. Oh! while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? That urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art, From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; For wit's false mirror held up nature's light. Shew'd erring pride, whatever is, is right; That reason, passion, answer one great aim; That true self-love and social are the same; That virtue only makes our bliss below; And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know. Ver. 29. _If I am right, thy grace impart,-- I am wrong, O teach my heart_] As the imparting of grace, on the Christian system, is a stronger Johnson's Works, ed. Murphy, vol. ii. p. 354. Warton's Pope, vol. i. p. xviii. Remarks upon Mr. Pope's Dunciad, p. 39. Dennis's Reflections, p. 29. Imitations of Horace, bk. ii. Sat. 1, ver. 75. Dennis's Reflections, p. 22. Wakefield's Works of Pope, p. 168. Essay on the Genius of Pope, 5th ed. vol. i. p. 108. Dryden's Virgil, ed. Carey, vol. ii. p. xxxii., lxxxviii. Pope's Poetical Works, ed. Elwin, vol. i. p. 9. Poetical Works of Dryden, ed. Robert Bell, vol. i. p. 75. Temple of Fame, ver. 505. Essay on the Genius of Pope, vol. i. p. 195. Works of Edward Young, ed. Doran, vol. ii. p. 578. Hazlitt's Lectures on the English Poets, p. 145. De Quincey's Works, vol. xv. p. 142. De Quincey's Works, vol. viii. p. 14. Pope's Poetical Works, ed. Elwin, vol. i. p. 7. Dryden's Epilogue to All for Love: This difference grows, Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose. An extravagant assertion. Those who can appreciate, are beyond Qui scribit artificiose, ab aliis commode scripta facile Between ver. 25 and 26 were these lines, since omitted by the author: Many are spoiled by that pedantic throng, Who with great pains teach youth to reason wrong. Tutors, like virtuosos, oft inclined By strange transfusion to improve the mind, Draw off the sense we have, to pour in new; Which yet, with all their skill, they ne'er could do.--POPE. For fools are doubly fools endeav'ring to be wise. Dryden's Medal: The wretch turned loyal in his own defence. Those hate as rivals all that write; and others But envy wits as eunuchs envy lovers. Dryden's Prologue to the Second Part of the Conquest of Granada: They who write ill, and they who ne'er durst write, Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite. Though such with reason men of sense abhor; Fool against fool is barb'rous civil war. Though Maevius scribble and the city knight, &c. Who would be poets in Apollo's spite. "I am confident," says Dryden in the dedication of his Virgil, The diction of this line is coarse, and the construction defective.--WAKEFIELD. The omission of "them" after "call" exceeds the bounds of poetic licence. Dryden's Persius, v. 36: For this a hundred voices I desire To tell thee what an hundred tongues would tire. "I have often thought," says the author of the Supplement to the This is a palpable imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry, 38: Sumite materiam vestris, qui scribitis, aequam Viribus; et versate diu, quid ferre recusent, Quid valeant humeri.--WAKEFIELD. remarkable for their knowledge. But when the milder beams of mercy play.--WAKEFIELD. defective.--WARTON. This position seems formed from the well-known maxim of Roscommon's Essay: Truth still is one: Truth is divinely bright; No cloudy doubts obscure her native light.--WAKEFIELD. Translation of Boileau's Art of Poetry by Sir William Soame and Dryden, canto i. Love reason then, and let whate'er you write Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light. In the early editions, That art is best which most resembles her, Which still presides, yet never does appear. Inspires, and feeds, and animates the whole.--WAKEFIELD. So Ovid, exactly, Metam. iv. 287: causa latet; vis est notissima.--WAKEFIELD. Duke of Buckingham's Essay on Poetry: A spirit which inspires the work throughout, As that of nature moves the world about; Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown. In all editions before the quarto of 1743, it was, There are whom heav'n has blest with store of wit, Yet want as much again to manage it. "Ever are at strife," was the reading till the quarto of 1743. We shall destroy the beauty of the passage by introducing a most Direct us how to back the winged horse, Favour his flight, and moderate his force.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's preface to Troilus and Cressida: "If the rules be well It was "monarchy" until the edition of 1743. Translation of Boileau's Art of Poetry, by Dryden and Soame: And afar off hold up the glorious prize.--WAKEFIELD. Nec enim artibus editis factum est ut argumenta inveniremus, sed This seems to have been suggested by a couplet in the Court How are these blessings thus dispensed and giv'n? To us from William, and to him from heav'n. Set up themselves, and drove a sep'rate trade.--WAKEFIELD. A feeble line of monosyllables, consisting of ten low The prescription of the physician was formerly called his bill. him who took the doctor's bill, And swallowed it instead of the pill. Soame and Dryden's Translation of Boileau's Art of Poetry: Keep to each man his proper character; Of countries and of times the humours know; From diff'rent climates diff'ring customs grow. In the first edition, You may confound, but never criticise, which was an adaptation of a line from Lord Roscommon: You may confound, but never can translate. The author, after this verse, originally inserted the following, Zoilus, had these been known, without a name Had died, and Perrault ne'er been damned to fame; The sense of sound antiquity had reigned, And sacred Homer yet been unprophaned. None e'er had thought his comprehensive mind } To modern customs, modern rules confined;} Who for all ages writ, and all mankind. } Be his great works, &c.--POPE. vos exemplaria Graeca Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. Tate and Brady's version of the first psalm: But makes the perfect law of God His business and delight; Devoutly reads therein by day, And meditates by night.--WAKEFIELD. And upward follow Fame's immortal spring.--WAKEFIELD. Lord Roscommon's Essay on Translated Verse: Consult your author with himself compared. When first young Maro sung of kings and wars, Ere warning Phoebus touched his trembling ears. Cum canerem reges et praelia, Cynthius aurem Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears. When first his voice the youthful Maro tried, Ere Phoebus touched his ear and checked his pride. And did his work to rules as strict confine.--POPE. "Arms and the Man," then rung the world around, And Rome commenced immortal at the sound When Pope supposes Virgil to have properly "checked in his bold As if the Stagyrite o'erlooked each line, Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.--DR. AIKIN. The argument of Pope is sophistical and inconsistent. It is Dryden's Aurengzebe: Mean soul, and dar'st not gloriously offend!--STEEVENS. So Soame and Dryden of the Ode, in the Translation of Boileau's Her generous style at random oft will part, And by a brave disorder shows her art. And again: A generous Muse, When too much fettered with the rules of art, May from her stricter bounds and limits part.--WAKEFIELD. This allusion is perhaps inaccurate. The shapeless rock, and hanging precipice do not rise out of nature's common order. These Another couplet originally followed here: But care in poetry must still be had; It asks discretion ev'n in running mad: And though, &c. "Their" means "their own."--WARTON. Dryden in his dedication to the AEneis: "Virgil might make this Pope's manuscript supplies two omitted lines: The boldest strokes of art we may despise, Viewed in false lights with undiscerning eyes. Pope took his imagery from Horace, Ars Poet., 361: Ut pictura, poesis erit: quae, si propius stes, Te capiat magis; et quaedam, si longius abstes: Haec amat obscurum; volet haec sub luce videri. Each object must be fixed in the due place, And diff'ring parts have corresponding grace. It may be pertinent to subjoin Roscommon's remark on the same subject: ----Far the greatest part Of what some call neglect is studied art. When Virgil seems to trifle in a line, 'Tis but a warning piece which gives the sign, To wake your fancy and prepare your sight To reach the noble height of some unusual flight.--WARTON. Modeste, et circumspecto judicio de tantis viris pronunciandum For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods, Make some suspect he snores as well as nods.--WAKEFIELD. Pope originally wrote in his manuscript, Nor Homer nods so often as we dream, which was followed by this couplet: In sacred writ where difficulties rise, 'Tis safer far to fear than criticise. So Roscommon's epilogue to Alexander the Great: Secured by higher pow'rs exalted stands Above the reach of sacrilegious hands.--WAKEFIELD. The poet here alludes to the four great causes of the ravage amongst ancient writings. The destruction of the Alexandrine and cloisters.--WARBURTON. I like the original verse better-- Destructive war, and all-devouring age,-- as a metaphor much more perspicuous and specific.--WAKEFIELD. A couplet in Cooper's Hill suggested the couplet of Pope: Now shalt thou stand, though sword, or time, or fire, Or zeal more fierce than they, thy fall conspire. Thus in a poem on the Fear of Death, ascribed to the Duke of ----There rival chiefs combine To fill the gen'ral chorus of her reign.--WAKEFIELD. Cowley on the death of Crashaw: Hail, bard triumphant. Magnanimi heroes! nati melioribus annis.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's Religio Laici: Those giant wits in happier ages born. From Pope's manuscript it appears that he had originally written: Hail, happy heroes, born in better days. In a note he gave the line from Virgil of which his own was a translation. An imitation of Cowley, David. ii. 833: Round the whole earth his dreaded name shall sound And reach to worlds that must not yet be found.--WAKEFIELD. Oldham's Elegies: What nature has in bulk to me denied. Pope is commonly considered to have laid down the general In the early editions, Fired with the charms fair science does impart. Nor need we tempt those heights which angels keep.--WAKEFIELD. The proper word would have been "beyond." Our sight less trusting as we see more clear.] So pleased at first the tow'ring Alps to try, Filled with ideas of fair Italy, The traveller beholds with cheerful eyes The less'ning vales, and seems to tread the skies.--POPE. This is, perhaps, the best simile in our language--that in which All as a pilgrim who the Alps doth pass, Or Atlas' temples crowned with winter's glass, The airy Caucasus, the Apennine, Pyrene's cliffs where sun doth never shine, When he some heaps of hills hath overwent, Begins to think on rest, his journey spent, Till mounting some tall mountain he doth find More heights before him than he left behind.--WARTON. Diligenter legendum est ac paene ad scribendi solicitudinem: nec The Bible never descends to the mean colloquial preterites of English.--DE QUINCEY. Boileau's Art of Poetry by Dryden and Soame, canto i.: A frozen style, that neither ebbs or flows, Instead of pleasing makes us gape and doze. Much in the same strain Garth's Dispensary, iv. 24: So nicely tasteless, so correctly dull.--WAKEFIELD. This is an adaptation of a couplet in Dryden's Eleonora: Nor this part musk, or civet can we call, Or amber, but a rich result of all. An impropriety of the grossest kind is here committed. Grammar requires "appears."--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's translation of Ovid's Met. book xv. Greater than whate'er was, or is, or e'er shall be.--HOLT WHITE. Epilogue to Suckling's Goblins: Things that ne'er were, nor are, nor ne'er will be.--ISAAC REED. Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis. The incident is taken from the Second Part of Don Quixote, first In all editions till the quarto of 1743, As e'er could D----s of the laws o' th' stage. In the manuscript the reply of the knight is continued through another couplet: In all besides let Aristotle sway, But knighthood's sacred, and he must give way. This had been the practice of some artists. "Their heroes," says Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each part; That shows more cost than art. Rather than all things wit, let none be there. Naturam intueamur, hanc sequamur: id facillime accipiunt animi Pope's account of wit is undoubtedly erroneous; he depresses it Light "sweetly recommended" by shades, is an affected form of Justly to think, and readily express, A full conception, and brought forth with ease. "Let us," says Mr. Webb, in a passage quoted by Warton, "Take upon content" for "take upon trust" was a form of speech prepossessed and charmed by his action." Nothing can be more just, or more ably and eloquently expressed Dryden's preface to All for Love: "Expressions are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are for our Opus est, ut verba a vetustate repetita neque crebra sint, neque See Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour.--POPE. If Pope's maxim was universally obeyed no new word could be Quis populi sermo est? quis enim? nisi carmina molli Nunc demum numero fluere, ut per laeve severos Effundat junctura ungues: scit tendere versum Harsh words, though pertinent, uncouth appear; None please the fancy who offend the ear. "There" is a feeble excrescence to force a rhyme. "Low" in contradistinction to lofty. The phrase would now mean coarse and vulgar words. O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens and shades of death. How successfully does this range of little words represent to our The growing labours of the lengthened way.--WAKEFIELD. "It is pronounced by Dryden," says Johnson, "that a line of His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines, With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave. ye birds, That singing up to heaven gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. Atterbury's Preface to Waller's Poems: "He had a fine ear, and Hopkins's translation of Ovid's Met., book xi.: No tame nor savage beast dwells there; no breeze Shakes the still boughs, or whispers thro' the trees: Here easy streams with pleasing murmurs creep, At once inviting and assisting sleep.--WAKEFIELD. Pope took the idea from Boileau: Si je louois Philis "en miracles feconde," Je trouverois bientot, "a nulle autre seconde;" Si je voulois vanter un objet "nonpareil," Je mettrois a l'instant, "plus beau que le soleil;" Enfin, parlant toujours d' "astres" et de "merveilles," De "chefs-d'oeuvres des cieux," de "beautes sans pareilles." Dryden in his Annus Mirabilis, stanza 123: So glides the trodden serpent on the grass, And long behind his wounded volume trails.--WAKEFIELD. Boileau's Art of Poetry translated by Soame and Dryden: Those tuneful readers of their own dull rhymes. Sufficient justice is not done to Sandys, who did more to polish Writers who seem to have composed with the greatest ease have Lord Roscommon says: The sound is still a comment to the sense.--WARBURTON. Atque ideo si quid geritur molimine magno, Adde moram et pariter tecum quoque verba laborent At mora si fuerit damno, properare jubebo, &c. Vida, ib. Our poet here endeavours to fasten on Virgil a most insufferable The verse intended to represent the whisper of the vernal breeze Wakefield says that "the tripping word _labours_, in ver. 371, is tripping and lyrical lightness." See Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music; an Ode by Mr. This resembles a line in Hughes's Court of Neptune: Beholds th' alternate billows all and rise.--WAKEFIELD. And now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. Dryden.--WAKEFIELD. Pope confounds vocal and instrumental with poetical harmony. Creech's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry: men of sense retire, The boys abuse, and only fools admire. In all editions before the quarto of 1743, "Some the French writers." This was directed against Pope's co-religionists, and greatly The word "enlights" is, I believe, of our poet's coinage, analogically formed from "light," as "enlighten" from Sir Robert Howard's poem against the Fear of Death: And neither gives increase, nor brings decay. There is very little poetical expression from this line to ver. "Joins with quality" for "joins with men of rank" is a vulgar colloquialism. In sing-song Durfey, Oldmixon or me, was the original reading of the manuscript. This couplet is succeeded by two more lines in the manuscript: And while to thoughts refined they make pretence, Hate all that's common, ev'n to common sense. If this couplet is interpreted by the grammatical construction, St. Thomas Aquinas died in 1274. Scotus, who died in 1308, disputed the doctrines of his predecessor, and their respective disciples divided for a century the theological world.--CROKER. A place where old and second-hand books were sold formerly, near Between this and verse 448: The rhyming clowns that gladded Shakespear's age, No more with crambo entertain the stage. Who now in anagrams their patron praise, Or sing their mistress in acrostic lays? Ev'n pulpits pleased with merry puns of yore; Now all are banished to th' Hibernian shore! Conveyed by Sw----y to his native air. There, languishing awhile, prolong its breath, Till like a swan it sings itself to death.] Thus leaving what was natural and fit, The current folly proved their ready wit: And authors thought their reputation safe, Which lived as long as fools were pleased to laugh.--POPE. An additional couplet follows in the manuscript: To be spoke ill of, may good works befall, But those are bad of which none speak at all. Dryden himself, Virg. Geor. iv. 729: But she returned no more to bless his longing eyes.--WAKEFIELD. Into the melting pot when Dryden comes What horrid stench will rise, what noisome fumes! How will he shrink when all his lewd allay And wicked mixture shall be purged away! When once his boasted heaps are melted down, A chestful scarce will yield one sterling crown. Wouldst thou be soon dispatched, and perish whole? Trust Maurus with thy life, and Milbourne with thy soul. Pope's line in the first edition was New Bl----s and new M----s must arise. Boileau's Art of Poetry, translated by Soame and Dryden: Let mighty Spenser raise his reverend head, Cowley and Denham start up from the dead. A beautiful and poetical illustration. Pope has the art of The passage originally stood thus in the manuscript: Wit, as the sun, such pow'rful beams displays, It draws up vapours that obscures its rays, But, like the sun eclipsed, makes only known The shadowing body's grossness, not its own; And all those clouds that did at first invade The rising light, and interposed a shade, When once transpierced with its prevailing ray Reflect its glories, and augment the day. His instance refuted his position that "bare threescore" was the The treach'rous colours in few years decay.--POPE. The next line is from Addison: And all the pleasing landscape fades away. Like some fair flow'r that in the spring does rise.--POPE. The Duke of Buckingham's Vision: The dearest care that all my thought employs. Thus in the first edition: The more his trouble as the more admired, Where wanted scorned, and envied where acquired. 'Tis most our trouble when 'tis most admired, The more we give, the more is still required. In the first edition, Maintained with pains, but forfeited with ease; and in the second edition, The fame with pains we gain, but lose with ease. Another couplet follows in the manuscript: Learning and wit were friends designed by heav'n; Those arms to guard it, not to wound, were giv'n. Dryden's Prologue to the University of Oxford: Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well, And, where you judge, presumes not to excel. aspire to gain renown By standing up and pulling others down. Boileau's Art of Poetry, translated by Soame and Dryden: Never debase yourself by treach'rous ways Nor by such abject methods seek for praise. In the margin of the manuscript Pope has written the passages of quid non mortalia pectora cogis Auri sacra fames? Nec tibi regnandi veniat tam dira cupido, which Dryden translates, Nor let so dire a thirst of empire move. No one has expressed himself upon this subject so pithily as 'tis just The author blush, there where the reader must. And duller shoulds't thou be than the fat weed.--BOWLES. Wits, says he, in Charles the Second's reign had pensions, when "The young lords who had wit in the court of Charles II. were," says Dennis, "Villiers Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Mulgrave, He must mean in everyday life. There was no use for the "modest The cancelled couplet was as follows: Then first the Belgian morals were extolled, We their religion had, and they our gold. contained impious doctrines against the Holy Trinity, and other In this line he had Kennet in view, who was accused of having The published sermons of the reign of William III. do not answer Lurida praeterea fiunt quaecunque tuentur Besides, whatever jaundice-eyes do view, Looks pale as well as those, and yellow too.--Creech. This notion of the transfusion of the colour to the object from a everything looked yellow to him in the reign of William III. In the first edition, Speak when you're sure, yet speak with diffidence. Dennis objected that a man when sure should speak "with a modest Warton praises Pope for practising the precept in correcting the This picture was taken to himself by John Dennis, a furious old And though his face be as ill As theirs, which in old hangings whip Christ, still He strives to look worse.--WAKEFIELD. The privilege is now abolished. Duke of Buckingham's Essay on Satire, But who can rail so long as he can sleep? But t'other day I heard this rhyming fop Say critics were the whips, and he the top: For as a top spins best the more you baste her, So ev'ry lash you give, he writes the faster, Dryden's Aurengzebe: The dregs and droppings of enervate love.--STEEVENS. It has been suggested that he alludes to Wycherley.--WARTON. patronage.--BOWLES. But if incorrigible bards we view, Know there are mad, &c. And the alteration turned an unappropriated description into a authority of Pope alone. In allusion to this class of pedants Gray said, "Learning never A common slander at that time in prejudice of that deserving forgotten.--POPE. There is an ellipse of "that" after "sacred," and of "it" after The propriety of the specification in this proverbial remark is Between this and ver. 624-- In vain you shrug and sweat and strive to fly: These know no manners but in poetry. They'll stop a hungry chaplain in his grace, To treat of unities of time and place.--POPE. This stroke of satire is literally taken from Boileau: Gardez-vous d'imiter ce rimeur furieux, Qui, de ses vains ecrits, lecteur harmonieux, Aborde en recitant quiconque le salue, Et poursuit de ses vers les passants dans la rue. Il n'est temple si saint, des anges respecte, Qui soit contre sa muse un lieu de surete. Which lines allude to the impertinence of a French poet called Du Wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch. Excursusque breves tentant. Nor forage far, but short excursions make. Dryden.--WAKEFIELD. "Humanly" is improperly put for humanely. The only authorised sense of the former is belonging to man; of the latter, kindly, compassionately.--DR. GEORGE CAMPBELL. "Love to praise" means "a love of bestowing praise," but, as This is followed by two additional lines in the manuscript: Such did of old poetic laws impart, And what till then was fury turned to art. That bold Columbus of the realms of wit, Whose first discovery's not exceeded yet. Led by the light of the Maeonian star, He steered securely, and discovered far. He, when all nature was subdued before, Like his great pupil, sighed and longed for more; Fancy's wild regions yet unvanquished lay, A boundless empire, and that owned no sway. Hoist sail, bold writers! search, discover far; You have a compass for a polar star.--WAKEFIELD. After ver. 648, in the first edition, came this couplet: Not only nature did his laws obey, But fancy's boundless empire owned his sway. The obvious interpretation of this passage would be that poets, The longest tyranny that ever swayed Was that wherein our ancestors betrayed Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite, And made his torch their universal light. Had we still paid that homage to a name, Which only God and nature justly claim, The western seas had been our utmost bound, Where poets still might dream the sun was drowned, And all the stars that shine in southern skies Had been admired by none but savage eyes. Each strain a graceful negligence does wear.--WAKEFIELD. "Before he goes ten lines further," said Dennis, "he forgets He judged with spirit as he sung with fire. Dennis notices that this couplet is borrowed from Roscommon's Thus make the proper use of each extreme, And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. Dionysius of Halicarnassus.--POPE. Compare each phrase, examine ev'ry line, Weigh ev'ry word, and ev'ry thought refine. criticism.--WARTON. In the early editions, Nor thus alone the curious eye to please, But to be found, when need requires, with ease. The Muses sure Longinus did inspire.--POPE. The taste and sensibility of Longinus were exquisite; but his He, monarch-like, gave those his subjects law; And is that nature, which they paint and draw.--WAKEFIELD. "Felt" is a flat, insipid word in this place.--WAKEFIELD. "The superstition of some ages after the subversion of the Roman All was believed, but nothing understood.--POPE. Between ver. 690 and 691, the author omitted these two: Vain wits and critics were no more allowed, When none but saints had licence to be proud.--POPE. Here he forms the tenses wrong.--WAKEFIELD. The "glory" from his own greatness, the "shame" from the rancour On Butler, who can think without just rage, The glory and the scandal of the age.--WAKEFIELD. If the restoration of learning consisted in recovering the works Genius is here personified, and this person is said by Pope to For the expression in the last half of this verse, Wakefield quotes Addison on sculpture in the letter from Italy, Or teach their animated rocks to live. Or various atoms, interfering dance, Leaped into form. He like Amphion makes those quarries leap Into fair figures from a confused heap. M. Hieronymus Vida, an excellent Latin poet, who writ an Art of Poetry in verse. He flourished in the time of Leo X.--POPE. contradistinction to poets, by any but this ingenious author." "Mantua, vae miserae, nimium vicina Cremonae." Virg.--WARBURTON. This application is made in Kennet's edition of Vida.--WARTON. To say that the birth-place of Vida would be next in fame to the This, Warburton says, refers to the sack of Rome by the Duke of The "born to serve" is a sarcasm on the readiness with which the May I be pardoned for declaring it as my opinion, that Boileau's Alexandrine lines will admit, the exactness of his method, the The comparison fails. The Romans of old subdued the Britons, and Essay on Poetry, by the Duke of Buckingham. Our poet is not the The Tyber now no courtly Gallus sees, But smiling Thames enjoys his Normanbys; The muse's friend, Himself a muse. In Sanadrin's debate True to his prince, but not a slave of state. Our author was more happy; he was honoured very young with his The Duke of Buckingham, in his Essay, has followed the method of Boileau, in discoursing on the various species of poetry in their Such learn'd and modest, not more great than good, With manners gen'rous as his noble blood, E'er saints impatient snatched him to the sky, Roscommon was, and such is Normanby. Rochester's Poems: to her was known Every one's fault or merit but her own.--CUNNINGHAM. Such late was Walsh--nor can'st thou, Muse, offend, Next these to name the Muse's judge and friend; Who free from envious censure, partial praise, Showed ancient candour in malicious days To frailties mild, &c. Pope fell into the prevalent vice of uttering extravagant, The hint for the first verse in this couplet seems to have been supplied by Dryden's conclusion of the Religio Laici: Yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear. Joyful to live yet not afraid to die. These concluding lines bear a great resemblance to Boileau's conclusion of his Art of Poetry, but are perhaps superior: Censeur un peu facheux, mais souvent necessaire; Plus enclin a blamer, que savant a bien faire.--WARTON. Warburton's remarks on the quotation from Addison's paper in the The author of this work, in which some of Warburton's opinions Upton published Critical Observations upon Shakespeare, and says The objector was Warton. He justly intimated that the character In his Observations on the Poetic character of Pope, Bowles appearances of nature." "The small edition of Pope," writes Warburton to Hurd, June 30, Rape of the Lock, cant. i. ver. 3; Singer's Spence, p. 147. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, ed. Cunningham, vol. iii., p. 19; Warburton's Pope, vol. iv. p. 26. Dennis's Remarks on Pope's Rape of the Lock, preface, p. ix.; Pope's Correspondence, vol. i. p. 400. The disclaimer of Addison Pope's Correspondence, vol. i. p. 398. De Quincey's Works, vol. xv. p. 116. Hazlitt's Lectures on the English Poets, 3rd ed., p. 140. Remarks on Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, p. 27. Ruffhead's Life of Pope, p. 113. Dennis's Remarks, p. 24. Dennis's Remarks, p. 40. Dennis's Remarks, Preface, p. v. vii. Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. ii. p. 221. Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, ed. 1847, vol. i. p. 39. Lives of the Poets, vol. i. p. 74. Historical Rhapsody on Mr. Pope, 2nd ed., p. 89. De Quincey's Works, vol. xii. p. 17. Midsummer Night's Dream, Act ii. sc. 1. Moore's Life of Byron, p. 696. Bowles's Pope, vol. x. p. 363; Bowles's Letters to Campbell, 2nd Campbell's Specimens of British Poets, 1 vol. ed., p. lxxxvii. Moore's Life of Byron, p. 693. Moore's Life of Byron, p. 693. Moore's Life of Byron, p. 694. Moore's Life of Byron, p. 697. Warburton's Pope, vol. iv. p. 16. Warton's Essay on the Genius of Pope, 5th ed., vol. ii. p. 404; Bowles's Letters to T. Campbell, 2nd ed., p. 28. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, vol. iii. p. 116; Cowper to Unwin, Pope's Poetical Works, vol. i. p. 4. Prologue to the Satires, ver. 28, 342; Essay on Man, Ep. i. ver. The Grounds of Criticism in Poetry, chap. 3. The title of Mrs. continued in Pope's early time to be applied Pope never, I think, is so unsuccessful as when he is writing to C---- or C----l in all the impressions which appeared in Pope's Or Gallus song, so tender and so true, As e'en Lycoris might with pity view.--WAKEFIELD. This is formed from Virgil, Geor. iv. 6. Sedley's version of the The subject's humble, but not so the praise, If any muse assists the poet's lays. Dryden's Translation: Slight is the subject, but the praise not small If heav'n assist, and Phoebus hear my call.--WAKEFIELD. "_Compel_," says Dennis, "is a botch for the sake of the rhyme. Sherwin.--WARTON. ----tantaene animis coelestibus irae? And dwell such passions in coelestial minds?--WAKEFIELD. It was in the first editions: And dwells such rage in softest bosoms then, And lodge such daring souls in little men?--POPE. Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul. Verse 13, &c., stood thus in the first edition: Sol through white curtains did his beams display, And ope'd those eyes which brighter shine than they: Shock just had giv'n himself the rousing shake, And nymphs prepared their chocolate to take; Thrice the wrought slipper knocked against the ground, And striking watches the tenth hour resound.--POPE. Belinda rung a hand-bell, which not being answered, she knocked All the verses from hence to the end of this canto were added afterwards.--POPE. The frequenters of the court appeared in clothes of unusual "The silver token" alludes to the silver pennies which fairies The drive in Hyde Park is still called the ring, though the site The box at the theatre, and the ring in Hyde Park, are frequently Wilt thou still sparkle in the box Or ogle in the ring. How lately did this celebrated thing Blaze in the box, and sparkle in the ring. Epilogue to Dryden's Tyrannick Love: For after death we sprites have just such natures We had, for all the world, when human creatures.--STEEVENS. Quae gratia currum Armorumque fuit vivis, quae cura nitentes Pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos. To Dryden's version of which passage our poet was indebted: The love of horses which they had alive, And care of chariots, after death survive.--WAKEFIELD. The realms of ocean and the fields of air.--WAKEFIELD. And all those airy shapes you now behold Were human bodies once, and clothed with earthly mould. For spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.... ... In what shape they choose, Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure, Can execute their aery purposes, And works of love or enmity fulfill. Parody of Homer.--WARBURTON. Dryden, Hind and Panther, 3rd part: Immortal pow'rs the term of conscience know, But int'rest is her name with men below.--HOLT WHITE. That is, too sensible of their beauty.--WARBURTON. The gnomes who prompt the disdain of the nymphs predestined to disappointment.--CROKER. Jam clypeus clypeis, umbone repellitur umbo. Ense minax ensis, pede pes, et cuspide cuspis, &c. Statius.--WARBURTON. "Claim thy protection" signifies "I claim to be protected by thee," whereas the sense here is, "I claim to protect thee." The language of the Platonists, the writers of the intelligible world of Spirits, &c.--POPE. It cannot be that Belinda then saw for the first time a Ancient traditions of the Rabbis relate, that several of the A comparison pressed too far loses its beauty in departing from Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily, everyone feels the matchless charm of the allusion. From hence the poem continues, in the first edition, to ver. 46: "The rest, the winds dispersed in empty air;" all after, to the end of this Canto, being additional.--POPE. Wakefield remarks, that this line is marred by the abbreviation, Look on her face and _you_ forget them all. Sandys's Paraphrase of the Song of Solomon, 1641: One hair of thine in fetters ties. Buchanan, Epigram, lib. i. xiv.: Et modo membra pilo vinctus miser abstrahoruno.--STEEVENS. She knows her man, and when you rant and swear, Can draw you to her with a single hair. An imitation, or a translation rather, of AEneid, ii. 390: ----dolus, an virtus, quis in hoste requirat?--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's Translation: Apollo heard, and granting half his pray'r, Shuffled in winds the rest, and tossed in empty air. So Dryden's version of Ceyx & Alcyone, Ovid. _Met._ x.: This last petition heard of all her pray'r The rest dispersed by winds were lost in air.--WAKEFIELD. the moon was bright And the sea trembled with her silver light.--HOLT WHITE. Pope, says Wakefield, has put "tides" in the plural "merely to Dryden's Virgin Martyr: And music dying in remoter sounds.--STEEVENS. A parody on the beginning of the second and tenth books of the All night the chiefs before their vessels lay, And lost in sleep the labours of the day: All but the king; with various thoughts oppressed His country's cares lay rolling in his breast. ----The fine nets which oft we woven see Of scorched dew. Milton of the wings of Raphael, Par. Lost, v. 283: And colours dipped in heav'n; Sky-tinctured grain.--WAKEFIELD. The comets. "Did you ever," says Dennis, "hear before that the planets were In the first edition: Hover, and catch the shooting stars by night. Dryden's Flower and Leaf: At other times we reign by night alone, And posting through the skies pursue the moon. A compliment to Queen Anne, whom he lavishly commends in his Windsor Forest.--WAKEFIELD. The angel in Addison's Rosamond, Act 3, says, In hours of peace, unseen, unknown I hover o'er the British throne. Sir T. Browne, Relig. Med. Part I. 31; "I do think that many mysteries ascribed to our own inventions have been the courteous revelations of spirits; for those noble essences in heaven bear a That is, her ear-drops set with brilliants.--WAKEFIELD. To crisp in our earlier writers is a common word for curl, from the Latin _crispo_.--WAKEFIELD. "This," says Warburton, in a manuscript note, "was a fine stroke relation." Ovid, Met. xiii, 2: Clypei dominus _septemplicis_ Sandys's Translation: Uprose the master of the seven-fold Shield. The hoop petticoat, in spite of the notion of Addison, that "a touch of his pen would make it contract itself like the sensitive Then drooped the fading flow'rs, their beauty fled, And rivelled up with heat, lay dying in their bed.--WAKEFIELD. Chocolate was made in a kind of mill.--CROKER. The anonymous translator of Ariadne to Theseus: And trembling at the waves which roll below.--WAKEFIELD. The first edition continues from this line to ver. 24 of this The modern portion of Hampton Court, and the East and South Originally in the first edition, In various talk the cheerful hours they passed, Of who was bit, or who capotted last.--POPE. While thus in talk the flying hours they pass. Ne'er chuse a screen, and never touch a fan, The snuff-box of the beau, and the fan of the woman of fashion, The fifth Pastoral of A. Philips: The sun now mounted to the noon of day Began to shoot direct his burning ray. From Congreve.--WARTON. And the long labours of your voyage end.--WAKEFIELD. All that follows of the game at ombre, was added since the first Sudden the board with cups and spoons is crowned.--POPE. The game could be played with two, three, or five; but three was From the Spanish _matador_, a murderer, because the matadors in Knave was the old term for a servant, and Wakefield remarks that The ombre had the privilege of deciding which suit should be trumps. The whole idea of this description of a game at ombre is taken from Vida's description of a game at Chess in his poem intitled _Scacchia Ludus_.--WARBURTON. Spadillio is from _Espadilla_, the Spanish term for the ace of Dryden's MacFlecknoe: The hoary prince in majesty appeared. Pam, the highest card in loo, is the knave of clubs. These lines are a parody of several passages in Just in the gate, and in the jaws of hell.--WAKEFIELD. Unless hearts were trumps the ace of hearts ranked after king, queen, and knave. With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky, Woods, hills, and valleys to the voice reply. Nescia mens hominum fati sortisque futurae; Et servare modum, rebus sublata secundis! Turno tempus erit magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta; et cum spolia ista diemque Oderit. Virg.--WARBURTON. Dryden's Translation, x. 698: O mortals! blind of fate; who never know To bear high fortune, or endure the low! The time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain, Shall wish untouched the trophies of the slain: Shall wish the fatal belt were far away; And curse the dire remembrance of the day.--WAKEFIELD. From hence the first edition continues to ver. 134.--POPE. Coffee it seems was then not only made but ground by the ladies, supposed that they roasted it also.--CROKER. A sarcastic allusion to the pretentious talk of the would-be Vide Ovid's Metamorphoses, viii.--POPE. And thus the purple hair is dearly paid. Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel: But when to sin our blessed nature leans The careful devil is still at hand with means. In the first edition it was thus, As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.--Ver. 134. First he expands the glitt'ring forfex wide T' inclose the lock; then joins it to divide; The meeting points the sacred hair dissever, From the fair head, for ever, and for ever.--Ver. 154. All that is between was added afterwards.--POPE. This repetition is formed on similar passages in As, for instance, Dryden's AEn. vi. 950: Then thrice around his neck his arms he threw; And thrice the flitting shadow slipped away. See Milton, lib. vi. 330, of Satan cut asunder by the Angel But th' ethereal substance closed Not long divisible. Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit, Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt. Virg.--POPE. A famous book written about that time by a woman: full of court Ladies in those days sometimes received visits in their So long thy honoured name and praise shall last. Your honour, name, and praise shall never die!--WAKEFIELD. So Juvenal exactly, x. 146: Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.--WAKEFIELD. Addison of Troy in his poem to the king: And laid the labour of the gods in dust.--WAKEFIELD. Addison's translation of Horace, Ode iii. 3: Thrice should my favourite Greeks his works confound, And hew the shining fabric to the ground.--WAKEFIELD. Ille quoque eversus mons est, &c. Quid faciant crines, cum ferro talia cedant? Catull. de Com. Berenices.--POPE. But anxious cares already seized the queen; She fed within her veins a flame unseen. Dryden's Transl.--WAKEFIELD. The thought and turn of these lines is imitated from the Dispensary, Canto iii.: Not beauties fret so much if freckles come, Or nose should redden in the drawing-room. All the lines from hence to the 94th verse, that describe the While her racked soul repose and peace requires, The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires. And continued at the 94th verse of this Canto.--POPE. Garth in the Dispensary, canto iv.: The bat with sooty wings flits through the grove. Spleen was thought to be engendered by the east wind. Cowper, in the unhealthful east That breathes the spleen. Protinus Invidiae nigro squallentia tabo Tecta petit. Domus est imis in vallibus antri Abdita, sole carens, non ulli pervia vento. Shut from the winds and from the wholesome skies, In a deep vale the gloomy dungeon lies; Dismal and cold, where not a beam of light Invades the winter, or disturbs the night. Addison's Trans.--WAKEFIELD. For "Megrim," the first edition has "Languor." "Wait" for "wait on" or "by" is a very harsh ellipse, though it has the sanction of Dryden. Hypochondriacal disorders, under the name of vapours or spleen, Oldham had expressed the same idea in The Dream: Not dying saints enjoy such ecstacies When they in visions antedate their bliss. creations of the imagination which are mistaken for realities. In the last century the word "machine" was currently employed to machines" is meant angels interposing on behalf of mankind. In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas Of bodies changed to various forms I sing. --Dryden's Trans.--WAKEFIELD. See Hom. Iliad, xviii., of Vulcan's walking tripods.--POPE. The fanciful person, here alluded to, was Dr. Edward Pelling, This is adopted from the Loyal Subject of Beaumont and Fletcher.--STEEVENS. In imitation of the golden branch which AEneas carried as a They're fair, 'tis true, they're cheerful, and they're green, But I, though sad, procure a gladsome mien. Bishop Lowth notices Pope's frequent violation of grammar in O thou my voice inspire Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire, Thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours, and disposes much All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine. Citron-water was a cordial distilled from a mixture of spirit of Takes a large dram of citron-water. That is, at whose shrine all our sex resign ease, pleasure, and virtue. "Honour" means female reputation. A parody of Virgil, Ecl. i. 60.--WAKEFIELD. Garth, Dispensary, Canto iii.: The tow'ring Alps shall sooner sink to vales, And leeches in our glasses swell to whales; Or Norwich trade in instruments of steel, And Bromingham in stuffs and druggets deal. This is one instance out of many in which Pope took unwarrantable description "was the very picture of the man." A cane diversified with darker spots.--WAKEFIELD. brandishes it in the air, or hangs it on a button." In allusion to Achilles's oath in Homer, Il. i.--POPE. But by this scepter solemnly I swear Which never more green leaf or growing branch shall bear. Dryden's Trans.--WAKEFIELD. If yet he lives and draws this vital air. Borrowed from Dryden's Epistle to Mr. Granville: The long contended honours of the field.--HOLT WHITE. These two lines are additional; and assign the cause of the A parody of Virg. AEn. iv. 657: Felix heu nimium felix! si litora tantum Nunquam Dardaniae tetigissent nostra carinae.--WAKEFIELD. Pope originally wrote: 'Twas this the morning omens did foretell. Butler, the poet, says that the object of black patches was to Some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen Whose dusk set off the whiteness of his skin. Prior's Henry and Emma: No longer shall thy comely tresses break In flowing ringlets on thy snowy neck.--WAKEFIELD. Sir William Bowles on the Death of Charles II.: And in their rulers fate bewail their own. Translated from Virgil, AEn. iv. 440: Fata obstant, placidasque viri deus obstruit aures. The entreaties to stay which Dido's sister, Anna, addressed to unshaken. Pope's couplet supposes that he inwardly wavered. A new character introduced in the subsequent editions, to open more clearly the moral of the poem, in a parody of the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus in Homer.--POPE. thirty-seven: To arms, to arms! the bold Thalestris cries. Why boast we, Glaucus! our extended reign, Where Xanthus' streams enrich the Lycian plain; Our num'rous herds that range each fruitful field, And hills where vines their purple harvest yield; Our foaming bowls with gen'rous nectar crowned, Our feasts enhanced with music's sprightly sound; Why on those shores are we with joy surveyed, Admired as heroes, and as gods obeyed; Unless great acts superior merit prove, And vindicate the bounteous pow'rs above? 'Tis ours, the dignity they give, to grace; The first in valour, as the first in place: That while with wond'ring eyes our martial bands Behold our deeds transcending our commands, Such, they may cry, deserve the sov'reign state, Whom those that envy, dare not imitate. Could all our care elude the greedy grave, Which claims no less the fearful than the brave, For lust of fame I should not vainly dare In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war. But since, alas! ignoble age must come, Disease, and death's inexorable doom; The life which others pay, let us bestow, And give to fame what we to nature owe; Brave though we fall, and honoured if we live, Or let us glory gain, or glory give.--WARBURTON. Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel: The young men's vision, and the old men's dream.--WAKEFIELD. Denham, in his version of the speech of Homer parodied by our poet: Why all the tributes land and sea affords?-- As gods behold us, and as gods adore.--WAKEFIELD. Nor shall side-boxes watch my restless eyes, And, as they catch the glance in rows arise With humble bows; nor white-gloved beaux approach In crowds behind to guard me to my coach.--WAKEFIELD. It is a verse frequently repeated in Homer after any speech, ----So spoke--and all the heroes applauded.--POPE. From hence the first edition goes on to the conclusion, except a ----ferit aethera clamor. Their shouting strikes the skies.--WAKEFIELD. This verse is an improvement on the original, AEneid. viii. 246: ----trebidentque immisse lumine manes. And the ghosts tremble at intruding light.--WAKEFIELD. Who pale with fear the rending earth survey And startle at the sudden flash of day. These four lines added, for the reason before mentioned.--POPE. Minerva in like manner, during the battle of Ulysses with the suitors in the Odyssey, perches on a beam of the roof to behold Like the heroes in Homer when they are spectators of a This idea is borrowed from a couplet in the Duke of Buckingham's _dramatis personae_ in the reign of Charles II. Or else like bells, eternally they chime They sigh in simile, and die in rhyme. Wakefield quotes passages from Sir Philip Sidney, Drummond, and Milton, in which the phrase "living death" occurs. The words of a song in the Opera of Camilla.--POPE. Sic ubi fata vocant, udis abjectus in herbis, Ad vada Maeandri concinit albus olor. Vid. Homer, Il. viii. and Virg. AEn. xii.--POPE. These two lines added for the above reason.--POPE. Pins to adorn the hair were then called bodkins, and Sir George A diamond bodkin in each tress, The badges of her nobleness, For every stone, as well as she, Can boast an ancient pedigree. "Who," asked Dennis, "ever heard of a dead man that burnt in Cupid's flames?" Pope had originally written, And still burn on, in Cupid's flames, alive. Dryden's Alexander's Feast: A present deity! they shout around: A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.--STEEVENS. Vide Ariosto, Canto xxxiv.--POPE. The alms would not be "lost on earth," however unprofitable they Dryden's Oedipus, act 2: The smiles of courtiers, and the harlot's tears, The tradesman's oaths, and mourning of an heir, Are truths, to what priests tell.--HOLT WHITE. Denham, in Cooper's Hill, gave him a hint: their airy shape All but a quick poetic sight escape.--WAKEFIELD. Flammiferumque trahens spatioso limite crinem Stella micat. Ovid.--POPE. Descends, and draws behind a trail of light.--WAKEFIELD. These two lines added, for the same reason, to keep in view the machinery of the poem.--POPE. And as it flew A train of following flames ascending drew; Kindling they mount, and mark the shiny way Across the skies, as falling meteors play. John Partridge was a ridiculous stargazer, who in his almanacks Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye. The compliment was meant to be serious, but is marred by its extravagance. "Millions" is too hyperbolical. Spenser in his 75th Sonnet: Not so, quoth I: let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your virtues rare shall eternise, And in the heavens write your glorious name. And Cowley, in his imitation of Horace, Ode iv. 2: He bids him live and grow in fame Among the stars he sticks his name.--WAKEFIELD. Wakefield says "there is an affectation and ambiguity in this The Memoirs by Ayre appeared in 1745, without the name of the "Pray in your next," writes Caryll to Pope, July 16, 1717, "tell Dr. Morell, in his notes to Seneca's Epistles, says, "I remember A belief akin to that which grew up in deserts prevailed in And beck'ning woos me, from the fatal tree To pluck a garland for herself or me. Elements of Criticism, 6th ed., vol. i. p. 477. Ben Jonson's Elegy on the Marchioness of Winchester: What gentle ghost besprent with April dew, Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew? And beck'ning woos me?--WARTON. the battle swerved With many an inroad gored. The third Elegy of Crashaw: And I, what is my crime, I cannot tell, Unless it be a crime t' have loved too well.--STEEVENS. Shakespeare, Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2: Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition; By that sin fell the angels. And where imprisoned in so sweet a cage A soul might well be pleased to pass an age. Cowley has a couplet not unlike his, Davideis, i. 80: Where their vast court the mother-waters keep, And undisturbed by moons in silence sleep.--WAKEFIELD. Duke's translation of Juvenal, Sat. iv.: Without one virtue to redeem his fame.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden, Ovid's Amor. ii. 19: But thou dull husband of a wife too fair.--WAKEFIELD. Love-darting eyes or tresses like the morn.--WAKEFIELD. Rolling eyes are contrary to the English idea of feminine Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll. Wakefield mentions that the phrase "unknowing how to yield" is The furies that relentless breast have steeled And cursed thee with a heart that cannot yield. The soul by pure religion taught to glow At others' good, or melt at others' woe.--WAKEFIELD. Nor was I near to close his dying eyes, To wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies.--WAKEFIELD. The anonymous translator of Ariadne to Theseus: Poor Ariadne! thou must perish here, Breathe out thy soul in strange and hated air, Nor see thy pitying mother shed one tear; Want a kind hand, which thy fixed eyes may close, And thy stiff limbs may decently compose. What pious care my ghastful lid shall close? What decent hand my frozen limbs compose.--WAKEFIELD. inaccurately for "thy limbs were composed decently." How light would lie the turf upon my breast. A. Philips in his third Pastoral: The flow'ry turf lie light upon thy breast. This thought was common with the ancients.--WAKEFIELD. Of silver wings he took a shining pair Fringed with gold.--WAKEFIELD. indiscreetly what has been said by others.--LORD KAMES. When Pope describes the retribution which is to fall upon the imperious relatives of the unfortunate lady, he says, Thus unlamented pass the proud away; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be. You are the queen all flow'rs among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.--WAKEFIELD. Dean Milman, in his History of Latin Christianity, says that The sentiments which Warton imagined to be borrowed from Madame M. Remusat, who accepts the letters without misgiving, Essai Historique sur Abailard et Heloise, ed. 1861, p. xxvi. Essai Historique, p. lxiii. History of Latin Christianity, vol. iii. p. 363. Introduction to the Literature of Europe, 5th ed. vol. i. p. 33. Mason's Life of Whitehead, p. 35. The letter which Abelard addressed to his friend, and which had fallen into the hands of Eloisa. Dryden's Don Sebastian: And when I say Sebastian, dear Sebastian! I kiss the name I speak.--STEEVENS. Clear Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore My soul-shrined saint, my fair idea lies.--WAKEFIELD. Claudian, De Nupt. Honor. et Mar. ver. 9: Nomenque beatum Injussae scripsere manus.--WAKEFIELD. Drayton's Heroical Epistle of Rosamond to Henry: My hapless name with Henry's name I found-- Then do I strive to wash it out with tears, But then the same more evident appears.--HOLT WHITE. This is borrowed from Milton's Comus, ver. 428: By grots and caverns shagged with horrid shades.--WAKEFIELD. A suspected poem of the Duke of Wharton on the Fear of Death: Where feeble tapers shed a gloomy ray And statues pity feign; Where pale-eyed griefs their wasting vigils keep.--WAKEFIELD. A writer in the Gentleman's Magazine for October, 1836, quotes a parallel couplet from a poem by the Duke of Wharton: Where kneeling statues constant vigils keep, And round the tombs the marble cherubs weep. He followed Milton in the Penseroso: Forget thyself to marble.--WAKEFIELD. In every edition till that of Warburton the reading was, Heav'n claims me all in vain while he has part. Heloisa to Abelard: "By that melancholy relation to your friend you have awakened all my sorrows." A day for ever sad, for ever dear.--WAKEFIELD. Heloisa to Abelard: "Shall my Abelard be never mentioned without Heloisa to Abelard: "I met with my name a hundred times. I never For sure that flame is kindled from below Which breeds such sad variety of woe.--WAKEFIELD. Now warm in love, now with'ring in the grave.--WAKEFIELD. Fame is not a passion.--WARTON. Ambition is the passion, and fame is the object of the passion. Heloisa to Abelard: "Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you. I would know everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Heloisa to Abelard: "We may write to each other. Let us not lose Heloisa to Abelard: "Tell me not by way of excuse you will spare To live and die is all we have to do.--WAKEFIELD. Prior's Celia to Damon: And these poor eyes No longer shall their little lustre keep, And only be of use to read and weep. Heloisa to Abelard: "Be not then unkind, nor deny me that little Heloisa to Abelard: "Letters were first invented for comforting such solitary wretches as myself." Otway's translation of Phaedra to Hippolytus: Thus secrets safe to farthest shores may move: By letters foes converse, and learn to love.--WAKEFIELD. This is the most exquisite description of the first commencement Prior's Celia to Damon: In vain I strove to check my growing flame, Or shelter passion under friendship's name. The Divinity himself. Dryden, in his 12th Elegy: So faultless was the frame, as if the whole Had been an emanation of the soul.--WAKEFIELD. Heloisa to Abelard: "That life in your eyes which so admirably She says herself, "You had, I confess, two qualities in great He was her preceptor in philosophy and divinity.--POPE. The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's Oedipus, end of Act iii.: And backward trod the paths I sought to shun. Thy holy precepts and the sanctity of thy character had made me Dryden, Ovid's Met. x.: And own no laws but those which love ordains.--WAKEFIELD. Love will not be confined by maisterie: When maisterie comes, the lord of Love anon Flutters his wings, and forthwith is he gone. Hudibras, Part iii. Cant. i. 553: Love that's too generous to abide To be against its nature tied, Disdains against its will to stay, But struggles out and flies away.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's Aurengezebe: 'Tis true of marriage bands I'm weary grown, Love scorns all ties but those that are his own.--STEEVENS. The passage cited by Pope from Chaucer is in the Franklin's Tale. Heloisa to Abelard: "It is not love but the desire of riches and Heloisa to Abelard: "This restless tormenting Heloisa to Abelard: "How often I have made protestations that it Heloisa to Abelard: "Though I knew that the name of wife was Heloisa to Abelard: "We are called your sisters, and if it were possible to think of any expressions which would signify a dearer Denham, Cooper's Hill: Happy when both to the same centre move, When kings give liberty, and subjects love.--CUNNINGHAM. Heloisa to Abelard: "If there is anything which may properly be A dying lover pale and gasping lies.--WAKEFIELD. Heloisa to Abelard: "Where was I? where was your Heloise then? Careless readers may misapprehend the sense. "Pain" here means punishment, _poena_.--HOLT WHITE. Like a verse of Drummond's: The grief was common, common were the cries.--WAKEFIELD. Heloisa to Abelard: "Oh whither does the excess of passion hurry A writer in the Gentleman's Magazine quotes Settle's Empress of _Empress._--Let my tears and blushes speak the rest. The altar of Paraclete, says Mr. Berrington, did not then exist. Argenteuil, the other at St. Denys.---WARTON. Her kissing the veil with "cold lips" strongly marks her want of Prior, in Henry and Emma, has a verse of similar pauses, and similar phraseology: Thy lips all trembling, and thy cheeks all pale.--WAKEFIELD. Abelard to Heloisa: "I saw your eyes when you spoke your last Heloisa to Abelard: "You may see me, hear my sighs, and be a Concannen's Match at Football, Canto iii.: And drank in poison from her lovely eye. Creech, at the beginning of his Lucretius: Where on thy bosom he supinely lies, And greedily drinks love at both his eyes.--WAKEFIELD. Smith's Phaedra and Hippolytus, Act i.: Drank gorging in the dear delicious poison.--STEEVENS. "If thou canst forget me, think at least upon thy flock," says He founded the monastery.--POPE. So Dryden says of Absalom, And Paradise was opened in his face. The original of the image in the text is in Isaiah li. 3: He will make her wilderness like Eden, And her desert like the garden of Jehovah. Whence Milton derived it, Par. Reg. i. 7: And Eden raised in the waste wilderness.--WAKEFIELD. The writer in the Gentleman's Magazine quotes Boileau, Le Moine: La les salons sont peints, les meubles sont dores Des larmes et du sang des pauvres devores. Heloisa to Abelard: "These cloisters owe nothing to public There were no benefactors whose praises were celebrated in the Our author imitates Milton: And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden had said of his Good Parson: His eyes diffused a venerable grace.--WAKEFIELD. And kindling glories brighten all the skies.--WAKEFIELD. By pretending that she desires Abelard to visit the Paraclete in Heloisa to Abelard: "But why should I entreat you in the name of From the superscription of Heloisa's letter to Abelard: "To her Our poet is indebted to a translation of the Virgilian cento of Ausonius in Dryden's Miscellanies, vi. p. 143: My love, my life, And every tender name in one, my wife.--WAKEFIELD. Mr. Mills, a clergyman, who visited the Paraclete about the year Addison's translation of book iii, of the AEneis: The hollow murmurs of the winds that blow. The little river Ardusson glittered along the valley of the Paraclete.--MILLS. Philips, in his fourth Pastoral: Nor dropping waters which from rocks distil, And welly grots with tinkling echoes fill.--WAKEFIELD. Milton's Penseroso: When the gust hath blown his fill Ending on the rustling leaves.--WAKEFIELD. When western winds on curling waters play. Most upbraid The madness of the visionary maid.--WAKEFIELD. Milton's Penseroso: To arched walks of twilight groves.--WAKEFIELD. Waller's version of AEneid iv.: A death-like quiet, and deep silence fell. Dryden's Astraea Redux: A dreadful quiet felt.--WAKEFIELD. Charles Bainbrigg on the death of Edward King: Terribilis requies et vasta silentia cingant.--STEEVENS. Fenton in his version of Sappho to Phaon: With him the caves were cool, the grove was green, But now his absence withers all the scene.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's Theodore and Honoria: With deeper brown the grove was overspread.--STEEVENS. The Trojan from the main beheld a wood, Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood.--WAKEFIELD. In allusion to this sacrifice of herself at his will she says in Abelard to Heloisa: "I hope you will be contented when you have Heloisa to Abelard: "Among those who are wedded to God I serve a I know I ought to hate you for the fault; But oh! I cannot do the thing I ought.--WAKEFIELD. Heloisa to Abelard: "I am here a sinner, but one, who far from Abelard to Heloisa: "To forget in the case of love is the most necessary penitence, and the most difficult." Dryden's Cymon and Iphigenia: Then impotent of mind, with altered sense She hugged th' offender, and forgave th' offence.--WAKEFIELD. Heloisa to Abelard: "A heart which has been so sensibly affected Heloisa to Abelard: "God has a peculiar right over the hearts of Heloisa to Abelard: "Yes, Abelard, I conjure you teach me the Heloisa to Abelard: "When I shall have told you what rival hath Oblitusque meorum, obliviscendus et illis. My friends forgetting, by my friends forgot.--WAKEFIELD. Taken from Crashaw.--POPE. A hasty portion of prescribed sleep; Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep. The idea of the "wings of seraphs shedding perfumes" is from AEthereal music did her death prepare, Like joyful sounds of spousals in the air; A radiant light did her crowned temple gild, And all the place with fragrant scents was filled; Of charming notes we heard the last rebounds, And music dying in remoter sounds. Adapted from Dryden's Britannia Redivivus: As star-light is dissolved away And melts into the brightness of the day. Dryden's Cinyras and Myrrha, translated from Ovid: For guilty pleasure gives a double gust. Heloisa to Abelard: "I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure I have in my retirement. After having passed the day in Dryden, AEneis, iv. 677, supplied the idea: She seems, alone, To wander in her sleep through ways unknown, Guideless and dark; or in a desert plain To seek her subjects, and to seek in vain. No more severely kind affect to put That lovely anger on. Dryden's Ovid, Met. i.: Then, with a breath, he gave the winds to blow, And bade the congregated waters flow.--WAKEFIELD. Sir William Davenant's Address to the Queen: Smooth as the face of waters first appeared, Ere tides began to strive, or winds were heard; Kind as the willing saints, and calmer far Than in their sleeps forgiven hermits are.--WAKEFIELD. Cut from the root my perished joys I see, And love's warm tide for ever stopped in thee. Love in your heart as idly burns As fire in antique Roman urns To warm the dead, and vainly light Those only that see nothing by 't.--WAKEFIELD. business." Abelard to Heloisa: "In spite of severe fasts your image appears Sedley's verses on Don Alonzo: The gentle nymph, Drops tears with every bead.--WAKEFIELD. Smith's Phaedra and Hippolytus, Act i.: All the idle pomp, Priests, altars, victims swam before my sight.--STEEVENS. How finely does this glowing imagery introduce the transition, While prostrate here, &c.--BOWLES. The whole of this paragraph is from Abelard's letter to Heloisa: Abelard to Heloisa: "Let me remove far from you, and obey the apostle who hath said, fly." Wakefield quotes the lines of Hopkins to a lady, where, speaking Drive 'em somewhere, as far as pole from pole; Let winds between us rage, and waters roll. Abelard to Heloisa: "It will always be the highest love to show "Low-thoughted care" is from Milton's Comus.--WARTON. This resembles a passage in Crashaw: Fair hope! our earlier heaven.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's Palamon and Arcite: And issuing sighs that smoked along the wall.--WAKEFIELD. Addison's translation of a passage from Claudian: Oft in the winds is heard a plaintive sound Of melancholy ghosts that hover round. Fenton's translation of Sappho to Phaon: Here, while by sorrow lulled to sleep I lay, Thus said the guardian nymph, or seemed to say.--WAKEFIELD. Hark! you are called: some say, the Genius so Cries, "Come!" to him that instantly must die. Pope owes much throughout this poem to the character of Dido as Oft when she visited this lonely dome Strange voices issued from her husband's tomb: She thought she heard him summon her away, Invite her to his grave, and chide her stay. Hinc ego me sensi noto quater ore citari: Ipse sono tenui dixit, "Elissa, veni!" Nulla mora est; venio; venio, tibi debita conjux.--WAKEFIELD. It is well contrived that this invisible speaker should be a person that had been under the very same kind of misfortunes with Dryden's version of the latter part of the third book of But all is there serene in that eternal sleep.--WAKEFIELD. In the first edition: I come ye ghosts.--WAKEFIELD. Ogilby, Virg. AEn. xi.: And to the dead our last sad duties pay. Perform the last sad office to the slain.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden's Aurengezebe at the commencement of Act iv.: I thought before you drew your latest breath, To sooth your passage, and to soften death. Oldham's translation of Bion on the death of Adonis: Kiss, while I watch thy swimming eye-balls roll, Watch thy last gasp, and catch thy springing soul. While I in death Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath. And in his Cleomenes, the end of Act iv.: ----sucking in each other's latest breath.--WAKEFIELD. Rowe's ode to Delia: When e'er it comes, may'st thou be by, Support my sinking frame, and teach me how to die.--WAKEFIELD. And from her cheeks the rosy colour flies. Cause of my new grief, cause of new joy.--WAKEFIELD. Abelard and Eloisa were interred in the same grave, or in Dryden, in his translation of Canace to Macareus: I restrained my cries And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes.--WAKEFIELD. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced choir below. "Dreadful sacrifice" is the ritual term. So in the History of Warton says that the eight concluding lines of the Epistle "are The last line is imitated from Addison's Campaign. Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright-- Raised of themselves their genuine charms they boast, And those who paint them truest, praise them most. Roscoe supposes Richardson to have asserted that there was an Thomas Catesby, Lord Paget, son of the Earl of Uxbridge, died Anti-heroics. "The former," says Horace Walpole, "is written in The first treatise of Crousaz was translated by Miss Carter, and Theobald's Shakespeare was published in 1733, the same year with Warburton's first letter in vindication of Pope appeared in The This was done in 1740, when the five letters were expanded into Ruffhead's Life of Pope, p. 219. Warton states that Dobson relinquished the undertaking from the impossibility of preserving in Latin verse the conciseness of the By "his friend," Johnson means Warburton, not Dobson. This sort of burlesque abstract, which may be so easily but so declamation.--BOWLES. Bowles himself had a low opinion of the "system of philosophy" Warton's Essay on the Genius of Pope, 5th ed. vol. ii. p. 149. But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, The strong connections, nice dependencies, Gradations just, &c. What appeared a defect to Lord Kames will seem to many persons an Letters by Eminent Persons, 2nd ed. vol. ii. p. 48. Warburton's Works, vol. xii. p. 335. Warburton's Works, vol. xii. p. 336. Grimouard, Essai sur Bolingbroke, quoted by Cooke, Memoirs of Chesterfield's Works, ed. Mahon, vol. ii. p. 445. Ruffhead, Life of Pope, p. 219. The manuscript of this passage Warburton's Works, vol. xii. p. 91. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iv. p. 320. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iv. p. 111. Warburton's Works, vol. xii. p. 335. Warburton's Works, vol. xii. p. 88. Warburton's Works, vol. xii. p. 336. Warburton, Note on Epist. ii. ver. 149. Warburton, Note on Epist. iii. ver. 303. Warburton, Note on Epist. iii. ver. 303. Warburton's Works, vol. xii. p. 335. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iv. p. 436. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iv. pp. 333, 366. "The imperfection of Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iii. p. 41. Pope's Correspondence, ed. Elwin, vol. i. p. 339. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iv. p. 262. Watson's Life of Warburton, p. 15. Warburton's Letters to Hurd, p. 224. Prior's Life of Malone, p. 430. Warton's Pope, vol. i. p. xlv. Warburton's Commentary on Mr. Pope's Essay on Man, ed. 1742, p. Warburton's Pope, Essay on Man, Epist. ii. ver. 31. Warburton's Commentary on Mr. Pope's Essay on Man, p. 121. Warburton's Letters to Hurd, p. 224. Illustrations of Literary History, vol. ii. p. 816. Warburton's Vindication of Mr. Pope's Essay on Man, 1740, p. 83. Nichols, Illustrations of Literary History, vol. ii. p. 113. Warburton's Pope, Epist. iv. ver. 394. Nichols, Illustrations of Lit. Hist., vol. ii. p. 53. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iii. p. 53. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iii. p. 457. Oeuvres de Louis Racine, tom. i. p. 451. Oeuvres de Louis Racine, tom. i. p. 442. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iii. p. 62. Epist. ii. ver. i. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iii. p. 52. Phillimore's Life of Lord Lyttelton, vol. i. p. 304. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iv. p. 366. Voltaire, Oeuvres, tom. xlvii. p. 98. Warburton's Commentary, Epist. ii. ver. 53. Madame de Stael, De l'Allemagne, Part iii., Chap. 16. A man may eat from principle, which often happens with the sick Crousaz's Commentary on Pope's Essay, translated by Johnson, p. Fable of the Bees, ninth edition, vol. i. p. 137. Bolingbroke, Works, vol. iv. p. 154. Epist. iv. ver. 310. Argument to Epist. iv. Wollaston, Religion of Nature Delineated, 7th ed., p. 192. Bolingbroke's Works, vol. iii. p. 286. Rasselas, chap. xxii. Butler, Sermons, Preface, pp. vii., xi. Bolingbroke, Works, vol. iv. p. 430. De Quincey, Works, vol. viii. p. 44. Johnson, Lives of the Poets, vol. iii. p. 105. De Quincey, Works, vol. xii. p. 32. Dugald Stewart, Works, ed. Hamilton, vol. vii. p. 133. De Quincey, Works, vol. viii. p. 42. Life of Byron by Moore, 1 vol. ed. p. 696. Bolingbroke, Works, vol. iii. p. 44. De Quincey, Works, vol. viii. p. 50. De Quincey, Works, vol. viii. p. 51. Taine, Histoire de la Litterature Anglaise, 2nd ed. tom. iii. p. This prefatory notice only appeared in the first edition of the first epistle. "Whose" is by some authors made the possessive case of "which," and applied to things as well as persons.--LOWTH. Two "Epistles to Mr. Pope concerning the Authors of the Age," by "The Design" was prefixed in 1735, when Pope inserted the four Epistles of the Essay on Man in his works. The early editions have "forming out of all." Pope's manuscript supplies various readings of this line: puzzled to flattered puzzling to blustering grovelling low-thoughted To working statesmen and ambitious kings. Since life, my friend, can, etc. Learn to live well, that thou may'st die so too: To live and die is all we have to do: In the first edition, A mighty maze of walks without a plan. The 6th verse alludes to the subject of this first Epistle--the Alludes to the subject of the fourth Epistle,--of man's various pursuits of happiness or pleasure.--POPE. The 10th, 13th, and 14th verses allude to the subject of the second Epistle of the second book,--the characters of men and The 11th and 12th verses allude to the subject of the first Epistle of the second book,--the limits of reason, learning, and ignorance.--POPE. This Epistle was never written, but some part of the matter was incorporated into the fourth Book of the Dunciad. Of all that blindly creep the tracts explore, And all the dazzled race that blindly soar. Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel, Part ii.: while he with watchful eye Observes, and shoots their treasons as they fly.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden, Aurengzebe, Act iii.: Youth should watch joys and shoot 'em as they fly. These metaphors, drawn from the field sports of setting and meanness.--BOWLES. "Candid" here bears the unusual sense of "lenient and favourable Alludes to the subject which runs through the whole design,--the And justify the ways of God to men.--WARTON. Through endless worlds His endless works are known, But ours, etc. He who can all the flaming limits pierce, Of worlds on worlds that form one universe. "And what" was the reading of all editions till that of 1743. What other habitants in ev'ry star. This was the reading of the first edition which Pope ultimately restored, but in the edition of 1735 the line stands thus: May tell why heav'n made all things as they are. First edition: "And centres." Pascal's Thoughts, translated by Dr. Kennet, 2nd ed., 1727, p. An allusion to the golden chain of Homer, which the poet Wakefield quotes Milton, Par. Lost, iii. 460, where the phrase "those argent fields" is applied to the heavens. This word is commonly pronounced in prose with the e mute in the Pope says that we cannot tell why Jupiter's satellites are less Warburton, to evade Voltaire's criticism, put a strained and Pope did not generally condescend to the artificial inversion Bolingbroke, Fragment 43: "Since infinite wisdom not only There must be no interval, that is, between the parts, or they will not cohere. Bolingbroke, Fragment 43: "It might be determined in the divine Is but if God has placed his creature wrong. Bolingbroke, Fragment 50: "The seeming imperfection of the parts The sentence quoted by Wakefield was copied by Bolingbroke from Bolingbroke, Fragments 43 and 63: "We labour hard, we complicate Bolingbroke, Fragments 43: "We ought to consider the world no We see but here a part, etc. Since the monarchy of the universe is a dominion unlimited in When the proud steed shall know why man now reins His stubborn neck, now drives, etc. In the former editions, Pope may mean that we cannot tell with respect to the general The expression, "as he ought," is imperfect for "ought to Bolingbroke, Frag. 50: "The nature of every creature is adapted to his state here, to the place he is to inhabit." This line is the application to man of the language which the Lord of a span, and hero of a day, In one short scene to strut and pass away, What then, imports it whether here or there? If to be perfect in a certain state, What matter here or there, or soon or late? And he that's bless'd to-day as fully so, As who began ten thousand years ago. Omitted in the subsequent editions.--POPE. The man as much to all intents is dead Who dies to-day, and will as long be so, As he who died a thousand years ago. See this pursued in Epist. iii. ver. 66, etc., ver. 79, This resembles Phaedrus, Fab. v. 15: Ipsi principes Illam osculantur, qua sunt oppressi, manum.--WAKEFIELD. Pope, in the MS., had expanded the idea, and added this couplet: No great, no little; 'tis as much decreed That Virgil's Gnat should die as Caesar bleed. Systems like atoms into ruin hurled. What bliss above he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy bliss below. Pope has frequently contradicted this line, and allowed that men All editions till that of 1743 had "at" for "from." The home of Seeks God in clouds or on the wings of wind. Out of the solar walk and heaven's highway.--HURD. The ancient opinion that the souls of the just went thither. See Shakespeare, Tempest, Act iv. Sc. 1. "The cloud-capped towers." From that dire deluge through the wat'ry waste.--WAKEFIELD. This hope kind nature's flattery has giv'n, Behind his cloud-topp'd hills he builds a heav'n; Some happier world which woods on woods infold, Where never christian pierced for thirst of gold. Where gold ne'er grows, and never Spaniards come, Where trees bear maize, and rivers flow with rum. Exiled or chained he lets you understand Death but returns him to his native land; Or firm as martyrs, smiling yields the ghost, Rich of a life that is not to be lost. But does he say the Maker is not good, Till he's exalted to what state he would: Himself alone high heav'n's peculiar care, Alone made happy when he will and where? There is an earlier form of the last couplet: He waits for bliss in a remoter sphere Nor proudly claims it when he will and where. So in Homer, at the funeral of Patroclus, xxiii. 212, of our poet's translation: Of nine large dogs, domestic at his board, Fall two, selected to attend their lord.--WAKEFIELD. "Sense" is put for "the senses," and Pope exclaims against the folly of censuring the government of God on the strength of the imperfect information which the senses supply. Bolingbroke, Fragment 25: "This is to weigh his own opinion conceptions of the savage, which Pope supposed to be false. "Our First edition: Pronounce He acts too little or too much. Yet if unhappy think tis He's unjust, which is the reading of the first edition, except that "thou" is substituted for "if." The meaning cannot be that the caviller complained that other The "balance" in which qualities are weighed; the "rod" with which offences are chastised. Divines maintained that there must be a future state, or that The first edition reads "In pride, my friend, in pride," and the Verbatim from Bolingbroke: "Men would be angels, and we see in Milton that angels would be gods."--WARTON. Men would be tyrants, tyrants would be gods."--HURD. Lord Bacon's Advancement of Learning, ed. Montagu, p. 267: Piety must equally answer with grateful adoration that all these For me young nature decks her vernal bow'r, Suckles each bud, and pencils ev'ry flow'r. His couch a trench, his canopy the skies.--WAKEFIELD. or when oceans When earth quick swallows, inundations sweep. "A nation" in the first edition. The expression is hyperbolical. Where now the throng That pressed the beach, and hasty to depart, Looked to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, A prince with half his people. Pope says, that "earthquakes swallow towns _to_ one grave, whole First edition: Blame we for this the wise Almighty Cause; No, 'tis replied, he acts by gen'ral laws. "Some change" for "there has been some change," is bad English. The assertion is monstrous that we cannot be expected to control To draw a parallel between things of a nature entirely different Shortly after his father, Alexander VI., ascended the papal God does not "pour ambition into Caesar's mind," or the all-perfect being would be the author of sin. The aberrations of ambition are the acts of the ambitious man. Alexander the Great. He made a pilgrimage to the temple of The four lines, ver. 157-160, first appeared in the edition of From whence all physical or moral ill? 'Tis nature wand'ring from the eternal will. See this subject extended in Epist. ii. from ver. 100 to ver. Pope uses almost the very words of Bolingbroke: "To think This is Pope's summary of his weak defence of moral evil. Moral Psalm viii. 5: "Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour."--WARBURTON. The inversion is harsh; and when the words are ranged in their proper order, "If he call all creatures made for his use," is but Shaftesbury's Moralists, Part ii. Sect. 4: "Nature has managed It is a certain axiom in the anatomy of creatures, that in First edition: So justly all proportioned to each state. That is, in its own state or condition. First edition: Each beast, each insect, happy as it can, Is heav'n unkind to nothing but to man? Shall man, shall reasonable man alone Be or endowed with all, or pleased with none? First edition: No self-confounding faculties to share, No senses stronger than his brain can bear. First edition: What the advantage if his finer eyes Study a mite, not comprehend the skies. The second edition has some further variations: Why has not man a microscopic sight? For this plain reason, man is not a mite: Say what th' advantage of so fine an eye? T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the sky. The abbreviated language of the last four lines, which are not Locke, Essay on the Human Understanding, bk. ii. chap. 23, sect. Her voice, the music of the spheres, So loud, it deafens mortal ears.--WAKEFIELD. First edition: Through gen'ral life, behold the scale arise Of sensual and of mental faculties! Vast range of sense from man's imperial race To the green myriads, etc. The manner of the lions hunting their prey in the deserts of smell the stupid ass Degrees of scent the vulgar brute between. It was formerly a common belief that fish were deaf; but Pope Dryden, Marriage-a-la-mode, Act ii.: And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tender'st touch.--WAKEFIELD. The house-spider conceals itself in a cell, which is constructed When the nectar of flowers is poisonous, the bee has not the At first it ran, How instinct varies! What a hog may want Compared with thine, half-reasoning elephant.--WARTON. Great wits are sure to madness near allied And thin partitions do their bounds divide. Pope is illustrating his proposition that there must be grades of The idea is in Locke's Essay, bk. iii. chap. 6, sect. 12, which Ethereal essence, spirit, substance, man.--POPE. Has any seen The mighty chain of beings, lessening down From infinite perfection, to the brink Of dreary nothing.--WARTON. All that can be said of a scale of beings is to be found in the Suffer men, says Pope, to encroach upon superior powers, and in nature what it hates, a void; Or leave a gap in the creation void; The scale is broken if a step destroyed. Great nature, break thy chain, that links together The fabric of this globe, and make a chaos. Yet more ev'n systems in gradation roll. Bolingbroke, Fragment 42: "We cannot doubt that numberless worlds, and systems of worlds, compose this amazing whole, the universe." And earth self-balanced on her centre hung. I like the reading of earlier editions better; Planets and suns _rush_ lawless through the sky.--WAKEFIELD. After Pope's death "tremble" was misprinted "trembles," and the These six lines, ver. 251-256, are added since the first Plotinus, translated by Cudworth, Intellectual System, ed. Bolingbroke, Fragment 66: "Nothing can be more absurd than the Vid. the prosecution and application of this in Epist. iv. ver. The worker from the work distinct was known. Every ear must feel the ill effect of the monotony in these lines. The cause is obvious. When the pause falls on the fourth Our poet is certainly indebted to the following verses of Mrs. He's all in all: his wisdom, goodness, pow'r, Spring in each blade, and bloom in ev'ry flow'r; Smile o'er the meads, and bend in ev'ry hill, } Glide in the stream, and murmur in the rill: } All nature moves obedient to his will. } Where'er thou art, he is: th' eternal mind Acts through all places, is to none confined; Fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above, And through the universal mass does move.--WAKEFIELD. "Our mortal part," is put in opposition to "soul," and the Dugald Stewart observes that everyone must be displeased with First edition: As the rapt Seraphim that sings and burns. And those eternal burning Seraphims Which from their faces dart out fiery light. These are lines of a marvellous energy and closeness of expression.--WARTON. The concluding lines appear to be a false jingle of words which The "order" is the gradation of beings, and "what we blame" is Cease then, nor order imperfection call On which depends the happiness of all. Reason, to think of God when she pretends, Begins a censor, an adorer ends. See and confess, this just, this kind degree Of blindness, etc. Pope would not express a "sure and certain hope in a blessed In the same hand, the same all-plastic pow'r. "Nature is the art whereby God governs the world," says Sir T. Browne, Relig. Med. Part i. 16: "In brief all things are artificial; for nature is the art of God." Art, in the sense of design, is manifest in nature, and has been From Fontenelle: "Everything is chance, provided we give this name to an order unknown to us."--WARTON. Feltham's Resolves: "The world is kept in order by discord, and This line ran thus in the first edition: And spite of pride, and in thy reason's spite. Pope afterwards, says Johnson, discovered, or was shown, that the Learn we ourselves, not God presume to scan, But know the study, etc. The only science of mankind is man. The proper study, etc.--POPE. From Cowley, who says of life, in his ode on Life and Fame: Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up betwixt two eternities.--WARTON. Kennet's Pascal, p. 160: "We have an idea of truth, not to be effaced by all the wiles of the sceptic." The stoic took his stand upon virtue, and with a stern faith in Johnson, in his translation of Crousaz, says he cannot determine First edition: To deem himself a part of God or beast. Man is not born only to die, but death has the present life on "Such is the reason of man that he is equally ignorant whether, From Kennet's Pascal, p. 180: "If we think too little of a thing Kennet's Pascal, p. 162: "What a chimaera then is man! What a confused chaos! What a subject of contradiction!" "Abused" here means "deceived," a sense of the word which was From Kennet's Pascal, p. 162: "A professed judge of all things, After ver. 18 in the MS.: For more perfection than this state can bear In vain we sigh; heav'n made us as we are. Pray hard ye monkies, and ye may be men.] As wisely sure a modest ape might aim To be like man, whose faculties and frame He sees, he feels, as you or I to be An angel thing we neither know nor see. Observe how near he edges on our race; What human tricks! how risible of face! "It must be so--why else have I the sense Of more than monkey charms and excellence? Why else to walk on two so oft essayed? And why this ardent longing for a maid?" So Pug might plead, and call his gods unkind, Till set on end, and married to his mind. Go, reas'ning thing! assume the Doctor's chair, As Plato deep, as Seneca severe: Fix moral fitness, and to God give rule, Then drop, etc.--WARBURTON. Observe his love of tricks, his laughing face; An elder brother, too, to human race. Go, reas'ning man, go mount, etc. Instruct erratic planets where to run. Warburton says that the phrase "correct old Time" refers to Sir Show by what rules the wand'ring planets stray, Correct old Time, and teach the sun his way.--POPE. Bolingbroke, Fragment 58: "They soar up on Platonic wings to the And proudly rave of imitating God. So Eastern madmen in a circle run. Plutarch tells us, in his Life of Numa, that the followers of Of moral fitness fix th' unerring rule. Angels themselves, I grant it, when they saw One mighty man, etc. Admired an angel in a human shape. Simia coelicolum, risusque jocusque deorum est Abdita naturae scrutari, arcanaque divum.--WARTON. panegyric.--BOWLES. Ah, turn the glass! it shows thee all along As weak in conduct, as in science strong. Ed. 4: The whirling comet.--POPE. Could he who taught each planet where to roll, Describe or fix one movement of the soul? Who marked their points to rise or to descend, Explain his own beginning or his end?--POPE. Who saw the stars here rise, and here descend?--POPE. Or more of God, or more of man can find, Than this that one is good, and one is blind? "Alas," says Pope, "what wonder" that Newton should be unable to Unchecked may mount thy intellectual part From whim to whim,--at best from art to art. Joins truth to truth, or mounts There mounts unchecked, and soars from art to art. An allusion to the web of Penelope in Homer's Odyssey.--WAKEFIELD. That is, of all the studies which are dictated by the vices of pride and vanity. He followed Bolingbroke, who wrote long tirades This paragraph first appeared in the edition of 1743. In the Two different principles our nature move; One spurs, one reins; this reason, that self-love. Cicero's Offices, i. 28: "The powers of the mind are twofold; one The MS. goes on thus: Of good and evil gods what frighted fools, Of good and evil, reason puzzled schools, Deceived, deceiving taught, to these refer; Know both must operate, or both must err.--WARBURTON. "Acts," in the signification of "incites to action" was formerly Self-love the spring of action lends the force; Reason's comparing balance states the course: The primal impulse, and controlling weight To give the motion, and to regulate. Without self-love, that is, man would be like "a plant," and Meteors may flame lawless through empty space, but man could not The objects, that is, of reason lie at a distance. MS.: Self-love yet stronger as its objects near; Reason's diminished as remote appear. From Lord Bacon: "The affections carry ever an appetite to good "The sensual man," says Crousaz in illustration of the principle, Bolingbroke, Fragment 6: "Self-love is the original spring of MS.: "nature." "Grace" here signifies the Divine assistance signification, was the equivalent of what Pope calls "self-love." Let metaphysics common reason split. In the MS. this couplet follows: Too nice distinctions honest sense will shun, Know pleasure, good, and happiness are one. Both fly from pain, to pleasure both aspire, With one aversion, and with one desire. end,--pleasure." But the pleasure sought by reason and self-love Reason itself more nicely shares in all. Passions whose ends are honest, means are fair. "List," which would probably now be thought a vulgarism, was in "Passions that court an aim" is surely a strange expression.--WARTON. For "court" Pope had at first written "boast." The "imparted" or sympathetic passions are the benevolent That is, in cold insensibility. Lady Chudleigh's dialogue on the Honour is ever the reward of pain: A lazy virtue no applause will gain.--WAKEFIELD. The stoic aimed at inner perfection, and trusted to the serenity A couplet is added in the MS.: Virtue dispassioned naked meets the fight, Comes without arms, and conquers but by flight. Passions like tempests put in act the soul. Spectator, June 18, 1712. No. 408: "Passions are to the mind as Tate's paraphrase from Simonides, Dryden's Miscellanies, vol. v. On life's wide ocean diversely launched out, Our minds alike are tossed on waves of doubt, Holding no steady course, or constant sail, But shift and tack with ev'ry veering gale.--WAKEFIELD. In the mariner's compass the paper on which the points of the compass are marked is called "the card." Carew's Poems: A troop of deities came down to guide Our steerless barks in passion's swelling tide, By virtue's card.--WAKEFIELD. After ver. 108 in the MS.: A tedious voyage! where how useless lies The compass, if no pow'rful gusts arise!--WARBURTON. Psalm civ. 3: "Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters, and walketh upon the wings of the wind."--BOWLES. Dryden's Ceyx and Alcyone: And now sublime she rides upon the wind.--WARTON. After ver. 112 in the MS.: The soft, reward the virtuous or invite; The fierce, the vicious punish or affright.--WARBURTON. How, that is, can the stoic succeed in destroying passions which With all the num'rous family of death. And all the faded family of care.--WAKEFIELD. Warton remarks that the group of allegorical personages are here To blend them well, and harmonise their strife Makes all etc. In plain prose thus: "To grasp present pleasures and to find Present to seize, or future to obtain The whole employ of body and of brain. On stronger senses stronger passions strike. Hence passions rise, and more or less inflame, Proportioned to each organ of the frame, Nor here internal faculties control, Nor soul on body acts, but that on soul. strength, which finally absorbs all other passions. The metaphor is taken from the casting of metal. The "mind's One, with cruel art, Makes Colon suffer for the peccant part.--WAKEFIELD. The "faculties" are not a class of powers distinct from "wit, By inventing arguments in its justification, as Pope explains at Taken from Bacon, De Calore.--WARTON. In the MS. this couplet is added: Its own best forces lead the mind astray, Just as with Teague his own legs ran away. The ruling passion, be it what it will, The ruling passion conquers reason still. And we who vainly boast her rightful sway In our weak etc. Can reason more etc. Cowley's poem on the late civil war: The plague, we know, drives all diseases out.--WAKEFIELD. This bias nature to our temper lends. The couplet was not in the first edition. The particular application of this to the several pursuits of men, and the general good resulting thence, falls also into the succeeding book.--POPE. From Rochefoucauld, Maxim 266: "It is a mistake to believe that Th' Eternal Art that mingles good with ill. Caryll's Hypocrite in Dryden's Miscellanies, iv. p. 312: Hypocrisy at last should enter in, And fix this floating mercury of sin.--WAKEFIELD. The noblest fruits the planter's hope may mock, Which thrive inserted on the savage stock. He argues that our primitive tendencies are too various to be Ver. 184 is followed by this couplet in the MS.: As dulcet pippins from the crabtree come, As sloes' rough juices melt into a plum. catalogue he must have been thinking of the moral ends it might subserve. Vain-glory, courage, justice can supply. Envy, in critics and old maids the devil, Is emulation in the learn'd and civil. Pope speaks after Mandeville, who says that shame and pride are As Pope supposes shame to be "a disease of the mind," he could After ver. 194 in the MS.: How oft with passion, virtue points her charms! Then shines the hero, then the patriot warms. Peleus' great son, or Brutus who had known But virtues opposite to make agree, That, reason, is thy task, and worthy thee. Hard task, cries Bibulus, and reason weak, "Make it a point, dear Marquess, or a pique. Once for a whim, persuade yourself to pay A debt to reason, like a debt at play. For right or wrong have mortals suffered more? Whose self-denials nature most control? His who would save a sixpence, or his soul. Web for his health, a Chartreux for his sin, Contend they not which soonest shall grow thin? What we resolve we can: but here's the fault, We ne'er resolve to do the thing we ought."--WARBURTON. There is another version of the last couplet but one in the MS.: Which will become more exemplary thin, W[eb] for his health, De Rance for his sin? Yet in the previous couplet we are informed that there is hardly Thus every ruling passion of the mind Stands to some virtue and some vice inclined. The MS. has two other versions of this line: Check but its force or compass short of ill. Turn but the bias from the side of ill. But not by grafting temperance and humanity upon his ruling Catiline hemmed in by superior forces died fighting with the And either makes a patriot or a knave. Divide, before the genius of the mind. 'Tis reason's task to sep'rate in the mind. Extremes in man concur to gen'ral use. "Great purposes," says Warburton in explanation of this passage, morals,--shadows in a picture to hatred, avarice, and so on. Too nice, that is, to permit us to distinguish where ends, etc. The lines from ver. 207 to 214 are versified from Clarke's pleading the impossibility of drawing a line between the two. Here follows in the MS.: To strangle in its birth each rising crime Requires but little,--just to think in time. In ev'ry vice, at first, in some degree We see some virtue, or we think we see. Our vices thus are virtues in disguise, Wicked but by degrees, or by surprise. Of the last couplet there is a second version: Thus spite of all the Frenchman's witty lies Most vices are but virtues in disguise. Dryden's Hind and Panther, Part i.: For truth has such a face and such a mien, As to be loved needs only to be seen.--WAKEFIELD. The lines from ver. 217 to 221 are thus varied in the MS.: Vice all abhor, the monster is too foul; Naked, indeed, she shocks us to the soul; But dressed too well, with tempting time and place, That but to pity her is to embrace. Where art thou, Vice? 'twas never yet agreed, etc. The word is inappropriate. Men do not become sensual out of pity These two omitted in the subsequent editions.--POPE. B[lun]t but does K---- brings matters on; Rogues but do business; spies but serve the crown; Sid has the secret, Chartres H[e]r[ve]y the court, and Huggins knows the town; Kind-hearted Peter helps the rich in want, Nero's a wag, and Messaline gallant. The last couplet assumed a second form: Nero's a wag, Faustina some suspect Of gallantry, and Sutton of neglect. Newmarket fame, and judgment in a bet; and the phrase, "Sid has the secret" is an insinuation that his After ver. 226 in the MS.: The Col'nel swears the agent is a dog; The scriv'ner vows th' attorney is a rogue; Against the thief th' attorney loud inveighs, For whose ten pound the county twenty pays; The thief damns judges, and the knaves of state, And dying mourns small villains hanged by great.--WARBURTON. The agent of whom the Colonel complained was the army agent. The Ev'n those who dwell in Vice's very zone. Addison, Spectator, No. 183: "There was no person so vicious who This couplet follows ver. 234 in the MS.: Some virtue in a lawyer has been known, Nay in a minister, or on a throne. Complete virtue, and complete vice, says Pope, are both hostile to self-interest, a plain confession that his selfish system was He is far from saying that good effects naturally rise from vice That draws a virtue out of ev'ry vice. And public good extracts from private vice. Each frailty wisely to each rank applied. The sense of shame in virgins is not a frailty to be ranked with There is another side to the picture. The ends of vice are also That is, "heaven can build," the "can" being supplied from "can Shaftesbury's Moralists: "Is not both conjugal affection and The MS. adds this couplet: What partly pleases, totally will shock; Nor Ross would be Argyle, nor Toland I question much if Toland would be Locke. The Duke of Argyle and General Ross were both soldiers, both The learn'd are blessed such wonders to explore. The chemist's happy in his golden views, Payn in his madness, Welsted in his muse. From La Rochefoucauld, Maxim 36: "Nature seems to have bestowed pride on us, on purpose to save us the pain of knowing our own imperfections."--WARTON. Bolingbroke, Frag. 50: "Hope, that cordial drop, which sweetens every bitter potion, even the last."--WAKEFIELD. With ev'ry age of man new passions rise, Hope travels through nor quits him when he dies. The lines, ver. 275-282, first appeared in the edition of 1743. Children at toys as men at titles aim, And in effect both covet but the same, This Philip's son proved in revolving years, And first for rattles, then for worlds shed tears. When Pope used the phrase "a little louder," he was thinking of the "rattle," and forgot the "straw." The "garters" refer to the badge of the order of the garter. "Scarf," in the sense of a badge of honour, was in Pope's day Clergymen, "procured him a scarf from my lord." Addison in the Small balls of glass or pearl, or other substance, strung upon a At last he sleeps, and all the care is o'er. Observant then, how from defects of mind Spring half the bliss, or rest of humankind! How pride rebuilds what reason can destroy, &c. Of certainty by faith, of sense by pride. These still repair what wisdom would destroy. Through life's long dream new prospects entertain. Life's prospects alter ev'ry step we gain, And Nature gives no vanity in vain. See further of the use of this principle in man, Epist. 3, ver. Confess one comfort ever will arise. Bolingbroke, Fragment 53: "God is wise and man a fool." In several editions in quarto, Learn, Dulness, learn! "The Universal Cause," etc.--WARBURTON. The "one end" is the good of the whole. Must act by gen'ral not by partial laws. Look nature through, and see the chain of love. See lifeless matter moving to one end.--POPE. "Embrace" is an inappropriate word. The particles of matter do not clasp. They are not even in contact, but only contiguous. Press to one centre of commutual good. Shaftesbury's Moralists, Part i. Sect. 3: "The vegetables by Pope is speaking in the context of plants and animals, which are "Connects," that is, "the greatest with the least." Pope, in his Another couplet follows in the MS.: More pow'rful each as needful to the rest, Each in proportion as he blesses blessed. The passage is indebted to Fenton, in his Epistle to Southerne: Who winged the winds, and gave the streams to flow, And raised the rocks, and spread the lawns below.--WAKEFIELD. Think'st thou for thee he feeds the wanton fawn And not as kindly spreads for him the lawn? Think'st thou for thee the sky-lark mounts and sings? Apart from the metre the proper order of the words would be, "loves and raptures of his own swell the note." MS.: "gracefully." The reading Pope substituted is not much better, for the generality of men are not absurd enough to ride This description of the hog as living on the labours of the lord MS.: "Sir Gilbert," which meant Sir Gilbert Heathcote, a rich Know, Nature's children with one care are nursed; What warms a monarch, warmed an ermine first. After ver. 46 in the former editions: What care to tend, to lodge, to cram, to treat him! All this he knew; but not that 'twas to eat him, As far as goose could judge he reasoned right; But as to man, mistook the matter quite.--WARBURTON. All creatures the Creator said were thine: No creature but might since say, "Man is mine." The snail looks round on flow'r and tree, And cries, "All these were made for me."--WAKEFIELD. reflections.--WARTON. Bolingbroke, Fragment 43: "The hypothesis that assumes the world That is, "Let it be granted that man is the intellectual lord;" 'Tis true the strong the weaker still control, And pow'rful man is master of the whole: Him therefore nature checks; he only knows, etc. What an exquisite assemblage is here, down to ver. 70, of deep That is, varying with her position, and the different angles in which the reflected light strikes upon the eye.--WAKEFIELD. Turns he his ear when Philomela sings? Admires her eye the insect's gilded wings? Pope starts with the intimation that mankind extend their Borrowed from Milton's Samson Agonistes, ver. 549: Wherever fountain or fresh current flowed Against the eastern ray, translucent, pure With touch ethereal of heav'n's fiery rod, I drank.--WAKEFIELD. Several of the ancients, and many of the Orientals since, Plutarch mentions that persons struck with lightning were held in "View" is "prospect,"--a vision of future bliss. Pope repeats in this paragraph the argument he uses Epist. i. This is the true principle from which Pope immediately departs, The roman catholic council, which claims to be infallible. After ver. 84 in the MS.: While man with op'ning views of various ways Confounded, by the aid of knowledge strays: Too weak to choose, yet choosing still in haste, One moment gives the pleasure and distaste.--WARBURTON. In Pope's wide sense of the term, reason adapts means to ends, Pope says, ver. 79, that whether blessed with reason or instinct This is a mistake. Instinct is often imperfect with reference to One in their act to think and to pursue, Sure to will right, and what they will to do. Reason prefer to instinct if you can. Addison, Spectator, No. 121; "To me instinct seems the immediate ambition into Caesar's mind." "Wood" in all editions, though designated as an erratum by Pope This instinct is not invariable. Animals eat food poisoned artificially, and sometimes feed greedily upon poisonous natural The halcyon or king-fisher was reputed by the ancients "to build The cramp-fish, remora what secret charm To stop the bark, arrest the distant arm? The geometric, or garden-spider, makes a web of concentric An eminent mathematician.--POPE. Through air's vast oceans see the storks explore, Columbus-like, a world unknown before. From Le Spectacle de la Nature of the Abbe Pluche: "Who informed The MS. has the lines which follow: Boast we of arts? a bee can better hit The squares than Gibbs, the bearings than Sir Kit. To poise his dome a martin has the knack, While bold Bernini lets St. Peter's crack. Bolingbroke, Fragment 51: "We are designed to be social, not Ether was reputed to be an element finer than air, and to fill Our fond begetters who would never die, Love but themselves in their posterity. The lines from ver. 115 to ver. 124 are varied in the MS.: Quick with this spirit new-born nature moved, Itself each creature in its species loved; Each sought a pleasure not possessed alone, Each sex desired alike till two were one. This impulse animates; one nature feeds The vital lamp, and swells the genial seeds: All spread their image with like ardour stung, All love themselves, reflected in their young. misapprehended, the parental feeling. Pope's division of duties is not the law of creation. In a Till taught to range the wood, or wing the air, There instinct ends its passion and its care. Locke, Civil Government, book ii. chap. vii. sect. 79: "The conjunction between male and female ought to last so long as is Bolingbroke, Fragment 3: "Reason improved sociability, extended it to relations more remote, and united several families into one That is, man becomes constant from choice. And ev'ry tender passion takes its turn. He means that the latest brood, being young children, love their Scarce had the last the parents' care outgrown Before they saw those parents want their own. Dryden, Palamon and Arcite, Book iii.: and issuing into man, Grudges their life from whence his own began. Stretch the long interest, and support the line. The MS. goes on thus: She spake, and man her high behests obeyed; Harmless amidst his fellow-beasts he strayed; For pride was not; joint tenant of the shade He shared with beasts his table and his bed; No murder etc. "Union" is put for voluntary union, the union of social affection, in contrast to the bonds of fear, coercion, and the So Hall, Satires, Book iii. Sat. 1: Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise, And man grew greedy, discordous, and nice. Now man that erst hail-fellow was with beast, Woxe on to ween himself a god at least.--WAKEFIELD. Dryden, Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book xv.: The woolly fleece that clothed her murderer. Virgil, Ecl. x. 58: "lucos sonantes;" Dryden, "sounding He called on heav'n for blessing, they for food. Unstained with gore the grassy altar grew, Priests yet were temperate, yet no passions knew; Nor yet would glutton zeal devoutly eat, Nor faithful av'rice hugged his god in plate. Ah how unlike the living is the dead.--WAKEFIELD. Of half that live himself the living tomb. Who, foe to nature, other kinds o'erthrown Restless he seeks dominion o'er his own. Who deaf to nature's universal groan, Murders all other kinds, betrays his own. Pope probably meant that man was a "fiercer savage" than the animals of which he shed the blood, but as the "blood" only is mentioned, there is no proper positive to the comparative. Dryden in his version of the speech of Pythagoras in Ovid, Met. Book xv., which our poet doubtless had in view through this whole Th' essay of bloody feasts on brutes began, And after forged the sword to murder man.--WAKEFIELD. While nature, strict the injury to scan, Left man the only beast to prey on man. In early times when man aspired to art. 'Twas then the voice of mighty nature spake. It is a caution commonly practised amongst navigators, when See Pliny's Nat. Hist. Lib. viii. cap. 27, where several The instances are all fanciful or fabulous. Montaigne, Essays, Book ii. Chap. 12: "Democritus held and The MS. adds: Behold the rabbit's fortress in the sands, The beaver's storied house not made with hands. Oppian, Halicut. Lib. i., describes this fish in the following There, too, each form of social commerce find, So late by reason taught to human kind. Behold th' embodied locust rushing forth In sabled millions from th' inclement north; In herds the wolves, invasive robbers, roam, In flocks, the sheep pacific, race at home. What warlike discipline the cranes display, How leagued their squadron, how direct their way. The Guardian, No. 157: "Everything is common among ants." "Anarchy without confusion" is a contradiction in terms, The Guardian, No. 157: "Bees have each of them a hole in their An adaptation of the Latin proverb, mentioned by Cicero, Off. i. unrestrained injustice. The letter contravenes the spirit. The imagery of the passage is derived from an observation of a Who for those arts they learned of brutes before, As kings shall crown them, or as gods adore.--POPE. Roscommon's version of Horace's Art of Poetry: Cities were built, and useful laws were made.--WAKEFIELD. In the MS. thus: The neighbours leagued to guard their common spot, And love was nature's dictate, murder not. For want alone each animal contends; Tigers with tigers, that removed, are friends. Plain nature's wants the common mother crowned, She poured her acorns, herbs, and streams around. No treasure then for rapine to invade, What need to fight for sunshine, or for shade? And half the cause of contest was removed, When beauty could be kind to all who loved.--WARBURTON. Of the first couplet there are two other versions in the MS.: Fear would forbid th' unpractised to engage, And nature's dictate love, not blood and rage. Unpractised man, that knew no murd'ring skill, And nature's dictate was to love, not kill. Commerce, convenience, change might strongly draw. These two lines added since the first edition.--POPE. These states had lords 'tis true, but each its own, Not all subjected to the rule of one, Unless where from one lineage all began, And swelled into a nation from a man. "Sons," that is, "obeyed a sire" on account of his "virtue," and Locke, Civil Government, bk. ii. chap. vi. sect. 74: "It is A finer example can perhaps scarce be given of a compact and He crowned the wond'ring earth with golden grain, Taught to command the fire, control the main, Drew from the secret deep the finny drove, And fetched the soaring eagle from above. The first couplet is again varied: He taught the arts of life, the means of food, To pierce the forest, and to stem the flood. Till weak, and old, and dying they began. Saw his shrunk arms, pale cheeks, and faded eye, Beheld him bend, and droop, and sink, and die. Men are said by the poet to have been awakened by the death of Pope ought to have written "began." He has improperly put the A belief, that is, in the unity of God was the original faith, and polytheism a later corruption. This couplet follows in the MS.: 'Twas simple worship in the native grove, Religion, morals, had no name but love. The divine right of kings to their throne, and the unlawfulness The "cause" here signifies the purpose or motive manifested in many,--the prince for the people. Wicked rulers, terrified by an evil conscience, became the dupe Split the huge oak, and rocked the rending ground. From op'ning earth showed fiends infernal nigh, And gods supernal from the bursting sky. Horace, Ode iii. bk. iii., translated by Addison: An umpire, partial, and unjust, And a lewd woman's impious lust. The native wood seemed sacred now no more. Bolingbroke, Fragment 24: "God was appeased provided his altars The "flamen" was a priest attached exclusively to the service of The glutton priest first tasted living food. First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood Of human sacrifice, and parent's tears, Though for the noise of drums and timbrels loud Their children's cries unheard, that passed through fire To his grim idol. The image is derived from the old engines of war, such as the In the MS. there is this couplet after ver. 272: For say what makes the liberty of man? 'Tis not in doing what he would but can. The lines were intended to give the reason why law is not an When the proprietor is asleep the weak rob him by stealth, and when he is awake the strong rob him by violence. Bolingbroke, Fragment 6: "Private good depends on the public." The inspired strains of the Hebrew Scriptures are the only christianity. The term "patriot" is commonly applied to political Pope breaks down in his comparison of a mixed government to a The deduction and application of the foregoing principles, with "Consent" is now limited to mental consent, and the word is obsolete in the sense of "consent of things." From Denham's Cooper's Hill: Wisely she knew the harmony of things, As well as that of sounds, from discord springs.--HURD. "Where the small and weak" are "made to serve, not suffer," "the Cowley's verses on the death of Crashaw: His path, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right. The position is demonstrably absurd in both poets. All conduct Prefer we then the greater to the less, For charity is all men's happiness. But charity the greatest of the three. The MS. adds this couplet: Th' extended earth is but one sphere of bliss To him, who makes another's blessing his. At the same time. "Nature" is not a power coordinate with God, but only the means by which he acts. Bolingbroke, Fragment 51: "A due use of our reason makes self-love and social coincide, or even become in effect the subordinate, to happiness. Overlooked in the things which would yield it, and in other None think the great unhappy but the great. Pope personified happiness at the beginning, but seems to have O happiness! to which we all aspire, Winged with strong hope, and borne with full desire; That good, we still mistake, and still pursue, Still out of reach, yet ever in our view; That ease, for which in want, in wealth we sigh, That ease, for which we labour and we die; Tell me, ye sages, (sure 'tis yours to know), Tell in what mortal soul this ease may grow. "Is there," asks Mr. Croker, "any other authority for shine as a An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.--WAKEFIELD. "Say in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow," is the These lines follow in the MS.: Heav'n plants no vain desire in human kind, But what it prompts to seek, directs to find, From whom, so strongly pointing at the end, To hide the means it never could intend. Now since, whatever happiness we call, Subsists not in the good of one, but all, And whosoever would be blessed must bless, Virtue alone can form that happiness. "Sincere" in its present use is the opposite of "disingenuous," And none can boast sincere felicity. Epicureans.--POPE. Epicureans.--POPE. One grants his pleasure is but rest from pain; One doubts of all; one owns ev'n virtue vain. One trusts the senses, and one doubts of all. Sceptics.--POPE. Pope's complaint, that the directions of the ancient moralists insisted. Pope has here adopted the sentiments of the Grecian sage who For opinion creates the fantastic wants of fashion and luxury. He means that happiness does not "dwell" in any "extreme" of True happiness, 'tis sacred truth I tell, Lies but in thinking, &c. "The common sense" and "common ease" of which all the world have The MS. adds: In no extreme lies real happiness, Not ev'n of good or wisdom in excess. That is, all which can "justly" or rightly be termed happiness. The image is drawn from a person leaning towards another, and And though it in the centre sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. The MS. goes on thus: 'Tis not in self it can begin and end, The bliss of one must with another blend: The strongest, noblest pleasures of the mind All hold of mutual converse with the kind. Can sensual lust, or selfish rapine, know Such as from bounty, love, or mercy flow? Of human nature wit its worst may write, We all revere it in our own despite. This couplet follows in the MS.: To rob another's is to lose our own, And the just bound once passed the whole is gone. inference if you make, That such are happier, 'tis a gross mistake. Say not, "Heav'n's here profuse, there poorly saves, And for one monarch makes a thousand slaves;" You'll find when causes and their ends are known, 'Twas for the thousand heav'n has made that one. Ev'n mutual want to common blessings tends, One labours, one directs, and one defends, While double pay benevolence receives, Is blessed in what it takes, and what it gives. In what (heav'n's hand impartial to confess) Need men be equal but in happiness. The bliss of all, if heav'n's indulgent aim, He could not place in riches, pow'r or fame. In these suppose it placed, one greatly blessed, Others were hurt, impoverished, or oppressed; Or did they equally on all descend, If all were equal must not all contend? After ver. 66 in the MS. Tis peace of mind alone is at a stay: The rest mad fortune gives or takes away: All other bliss by accident's debarred, But virtue's, in the instant, a reward; In hardest trials operates the best, And more is relished as the more distressed.--WARBURTON. There is still another couplet in the MS.: Virtue's plain consequence is happiness, Or virtue makes the disappointment less. The exemplification of this truth, by a view of the equality of Sir W. Temple, Works, vol. iii. p. 531: "Whether a good How widely then at happiness we aim By selfish pleasures, riches, pow'r or fame! Increase of these is but increase of pain, Wrong the materials, and the labour vain. He had in his mind Virgil's description, borrowed from Homer, of mountains," from Dryden's translation, Geor. i. 374. "Still" is repeated to give force to the remonstrance. "Attempt still to rise, and Heaven will still survey your vain toil with laughter." An allusion to Psalm ii. 1, 4: "Why do the heathen rage, and the The gods with laughter on the labour gaze, And bury such in the mad heaps they raise. "Nature" is a name for the second causes, or instruments, by By "mere mankind" Pope means man in his present earthly From Bolingbroke, Fragment 52: "Agreeable sensations, the series tranquillity of mind, and a competency of wealth." The MS. adds, Behold the blessing then to none denied But through our vice, by error or by pride; Which nothing but excess can render vain, And then lost only when too much we gain. The sense of this ill-expressed line is, that bad men taste the The good, the bad may fortune's gifts possess; The bad acquire them worse, enjoy them less. "That" is put improperly for "those that." Secure to find, ev'n from the very worst, If vice and virtue want, compassion first. But are not the one frequently mistaken for the other? How many profligate hypocrites have passed for good?--WARTON. After ver. 92 in the MS.: Let sober moralists correct their speech, No bad man's happy: he is great, or rich.--WARBURTON. That is, "who fancy bliss allotted to vice." Lord Falkland was killed by a musket ball at the battle of The Hon. Robert Digby, who died, aged 40, April 19, 1726. Pope wrote his epitaph. Brave Sidney falls amid the martial strife, Not that he's virtuous, but profuse of life. Not virtue snatched Arbuthnot's hopeful bloom, And sent thee, Craggs, untimely to the tomb. Say not 'tis virtue, but too soft a frame, That Walsh his race, and Scud'more ends her name. Think not their virtues, more though heav'n ne'er gave, Unites so many Digbys in a grave. Fierce love, not virtue, Falkland, was thy doom, Her grief, not virtue, nipped Louisa's bloom. William, fifth Lord Digby, was 74 when this fourth Epistle was published in 1734, and he lived to be 92. He died December 1752. M. de Belsunce, was made bishop of Marseilles in 1709. In the Some anonymous verses in Dryden's Miscellanies, vi. p. 76: When nature sickens, and with fainting breath Struggles beneath the bitter pangs of death.--WAKEFIELD. O Rhoebus! we have lived too long for me, If life and long were terms that could agree.--WAKEFIELD. Yet hemmed with plagues, and breathing deathful air, Marseilles' good bishop still possess the chair; And long kind chance, or heav'n's more kind decree, Lends an old parent, etc. How change can admit, or nature let fall any evil, however short God sends not ill, 'tis nature lets it fall, Or chance escape, and man improves it all. Of every evil, since the world began The real source is not in God, but man. This comparison of the favourites of the Almighty to the Warburton says that Pope alluded to Empedocles. The story ran conceited madman, legends are not a proper illustration of God's dealings with mankind. Pope had originally written, T' explore Vesuvius if great Pliny aims, Shall the loud mountain call back all its flames? The forgetfulness to thunder supposes unconscious obliviousness, restrain it. Wollaston, Religion of Nature, sect. v. prop. 18: "If a man's Warton tells us in a note on one of Pope's letters to Bethel, Or shall some ruin, as it nods to fall, For Chartres' brains reserve the hanging wall? No,--in a scene far higher heav'n imparts Rewards for spotless hands, and honest hearts. Christians have never raised the objection. They only say that since this world is not a kingdom of the just, reason, as well as Bolingbroke, Fragment 57: "Christian divines complain that good This way, I fear, your project too must fall, Will just what serves one good man serve 'em all? After ver. 142 in some editions: Give each a system, all must be at strife; What diff'rent systems for a man and wife?--WARBURTON. Young, Universal Passion, Sat. iii. 61. The very best ambitiously advise. The best in habits variously incline. E'en leave it as it is; this world, etc. Justice gives way to force: the conquered world Is Caesar's; Cato has no business in it. And Act v. Sc. 1: This world was made for Caesar. Unquestionably it must be one of the rewards if Pope is right in Can God be just if virtue be unfed? Why, fool, is the reward of virtue bread? 'Tis his who labours, his who sows the plain, 'Tis his who threshes, or who grinds the grain. The MS. has two readings: Where madness fights for tyrants or for gain. Where folly fights for kings or drowns for gain. "Why no king?" is equivalent to "why is he not any king?" The proper form would be "why not a king?" Then give him this, and that, and everything: Still the complaint subsists; he is no king. Outward rewards for inward worth are odd: Why then complain not that he is no god? In a work of so serious a cast surely such strokes of levity, of But come, for virtue the just payment fix, For humble merit say a coach and six, For justice a Lord Chancellor's awful gown, &c. After ver. 172 in the MS.: Say, what rewards this idle world imparts, Or fit for searching heads or honest hearts.--WARBURTON. Heaven in this line has either improperly the double sense of a person and a place,--the God of heaven, and the kingdom of the These eight succeeding lines were not in former editions; and The "boy and man makes an individual" is not grammar. Thus till the edition of 1743: For riches, can they give, but to the just, His own contentment, or another's trust? We see in the world, alas! too many examples of riches giving repute and trust, content and pleasure to the worthless and profligate.--WARTON. Let honour and preferment go for gold, But glorious beauty isn't to be sold. The MS. adds: Were health of mind and body purchased here, 'Twere worth the cost; all else is bought too dear. The man, that is, who is the lover of human kind, and the object No rational believer in Providence ever did suppose that to have This seems not to be proper; the words "flaunt" and "flutter" might with more propriety have changed places.--JOHNSON. garment.--WAKEFIELD. Oft of two brothers one shall be surveyed Flutt'ring in rags, one flaunting in brocade. This must be understood as if Pope had written, "The cobbler is aproned." What differs more, you cry, than gown and hood? A wise man and a fool, a bad and good. The miserable rhyme in the text had the authority of a pun in Why what a peevish fool was that of Crete That taught his son the office of a fowl? And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drowned. He alluded to Philip V. of Spain, who resigned his crown to his _Cordon_ is the French term for the ribbon of the orders of To kings or to the favourites of kings.--HURD. In the MS. thus: The richest blood, right-honourably old, Down from Lucretia to Lucretia rolled, May swell thy heart and gallop in thy breast, Without one dash of usher or of priest: Thy pride as much despise all other pride As Christ-church once all colleges beside.--WARBURTON. A bad rhyme to the preceding word "race." It is taken from Et si leur sang tout pur, ainsi que leur noblesse, Est passe jusqu'a vous de Lucrece en Lucrece.--WARTON. Thy boasted blood, a thousand years or so May from Lucretia to Lucretia flow. Hall, Sat. iii.: Or tedious bead rolls of descended blood, There are two other versions of this couplet in the MS.: But to make wits of fools, and chiefs of cowards, What can? not all the pride of all the Howards. But make one wise, or loved, or happy man, Not all the pride of all the Howards can. Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain, "Think nothing gained," he cries, "till nought remain." There is something so familiar, nay even vulgar, in these two lines as renders them very unworthy of our author.--RUFFHEAD. That is, "the politic and wise" are "no less alike" than the heroes, of whom he had said, ver. 219, that they had all the same Shakespeare, Richard II. Act i. Sc. 3: "The sly, slow hours." Marcus Aurelius, who regulated his life by the lofty principles Considering the manner in which Socrates was put to death, the word "bleed" seems to be improperly used.--WARTON. This is said to Bolingbroke. Celebrated men are aware that their reputation spreads wide, and The men of renown,--the Shakespeares, Bacons, and Newtons,--can Wakefield says that "but for his political bias Pope would have "Honest" was formerly used in a less confined sense than at Pope has hitherto spoken of all fame. He now speaks of bad fame, He alludes to the disinterment of the bodies of Cromwell, Marcellus was an opponent of Caesar, and a partisan of Pompey. And more contentment honest Sh[ippen] feels Than W[alpole] with a senate at his heels. More loved, more praised, more envied in his doom, Than Caesar trampling on the rights of Rome.--WAKEFIELD. Which does not hinder our advancing with delight from truth to In the interests of charity, humility, and self-improvement, it were to be wished that this was the universal result of superior intelligence. Pope objects that wise men are "condemned to drudge," which is The allusion is to Bolingbroke's patriotic pretensions, and To a person that was praising Dr. Balguy's admirable discourses This line is inconsistent with ver. 261-2. A man who feels "Call" for "call forth." Mr. Croker suggests that Gripus and his wife may be Mr. Wortley Montagu and Lady Mary. Pope accused them both of greed for money. The greatest, bravest, wittiest of mankind.--BOWLES. Charmed with the foolish whistlings of a name.--HURD. This resembles some lines in Roscommon's Essay: That wretch, in spite of his forgotten rhymes, Condemned to live to all succeeding times.--WAKEFIELD. Pope's examples would not bear out his language unless Bacon and In one man's fortune, mark and scorn them all. contrivance to ruin or betray" James II. While, however, he was a In the MS. "great * * grows," that is, great Churchill or One equal course how guilt and greatness ran. This couplet and the next have a view to his supposed peculation account.--WAKEFIELD. Let gathered nations next their chief behold, How blessed with conquest, yet more blessed with gold: Go then, and steep thy age in wealth and ease, Stretched on the spoils of plundered provinces. "Acts of fame" are not the best means of "sanctifying" wealth. True charity is unostentatious. Wakefield quotes Horace, Od. ii. 2, or, as Creech puts it in his Unless a moderate use refine, A value give, and make it shine. But called it marriage, by that specious name To veil the crime, and sanctify the shame.--WAKEFIELD. Originally, "Ambition, avarice, and th' imperious" etc., for Marlborough was never the dupe of a "greedy minion." "Storied halls" are halls painted with stories or histories, as in Milton, Il Penseroso, ver. 159: And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light. Addison's Verses on the Play-House: A lofty fabric does the sight invade, And stretches o'er the waves a pompous shade.--WAKEFIELD. Pope may mean that nothing affords happiness which infringes "It" in this couplet and the next stands for virtuous "merit." it is twice blessed; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. After ver. 316 in the MS.: Ev'n while it seems unequal to dispose, And chequers all the good man's joys with woes, 'Tis but to teach him to support each state, With patience this, with moderation that; And raise his base on that one solid joy, Which conscience gives, and nothing can destroy.--WARBURTON. This is the Greek expression, [Greek: platus gelos], broad or More pleasing, then, humanity's soft tears Than all the mirth unfeeling folly wears. Which not by starts, and from without acquired, Is all ways exercised, and never tired. Is it so impossible that a "wish" should "remain" when Pope has "The good" is singular, and stands for "the good man," as is But if you ask me now what sect I own, I swear a blind obedience unto none.--WAKEFIELD. Bolingbroke's Letters to Pope: "The modest enquirer follows nature, and nature's God."--WAKEFIELD. Let us, my S[t. John], this plain truth confess, Good nature makes, and keeps our happiness; And faith and morals end as they began, All in the love of God, and love of man. He hopes, indeed, for another life, but he does not from hence The "other kind" is the animal creation, which, says Pope, has not been given any abortive instinct. Nature, which furnishes the gratification. The meaning of this couplet comes out clearer in the prose "His greatest virtue" is benevolence; "his greatest bliss" the Pope exalts the duty of "benevolence," which, ver. 371, causes "earth to smile with boundless bounty blessed." But bounty cannot happiness is independent of externals. Warton remarks that this simile, which is copied from Chaucer, A love so unconfined With arms extended would embrace mankind. Self-love would cease, or be dilated, when We should behold as many selfs as men.--WAKEFIELD. To rise from individuals to the whole Is the true progress of the god-like soul. The first impression the soft passions make, Like the small pebble in the limpid lake, Begets a greater and a greater still, The circle widening till the whole it fill; Till God and man, and brute and reptile kind All wake, all move, all agitate his mind; Earth with his bounteous overflows is blessed; Heav'n pleased beholds its image in his breast. Parent or friend first touch the virtuous mind, His country next, and next all human kind. In the MS. thus: And now transported o'er so vast a plain, While the winged courser flies with all her rein, While heav'n-ward now her mounting wing she feels, Now scattered fools fly trembling from her heels, Wilt thou, my St. John! keep her course in sight, Confine her fury, and assist her flight?--WARBURTON. "scattered fools flew trembling" from its crushing power. "Stoops to man's low passions or ascends to the glorious ends" for which those passions have been given. "Did he rise with temper," asks the writer of A Letter to Mr. Boileau's Art of Poetry, translated by Soame and Dryden, Cantos Happy, who in his verse can gently steer From grave to light, from pleasant to severe.--WAKEFIELD. And while the muse transported, unconfined, Soars to the sky, or stoops among mankind, Teach her like thee, through various fortune wise, With dignity to sink, with temper rise; Formed by thy converse, steer an equal flight From grave to gay, from profit to delight Artful with grace, and natural to please, Intent in business, elegant in ease. immensae veluti connexa carinae Cymba minor, cum saevit hyems, pro parte, furentes Parva receptat aquas, et eodem volvitur austro.--HURD. immortality--CROUSAZ. An unfortunate prophecy. Posterity has more than confirmed the contempt in which Bolingbroke's character was held by his contemporaries. "Pretend" is used in the old and literal sense "to stretch out before any one." Its exact synonym in Pope's line is "proclaim." Pope professes to believe that all his poetry up to the Essay on In the MS. thus: That just to find a God is all we can, And all the study of mankind is man.--WARBURTON. The MS. has another version of the couplet in the text: And all our knowledge, all our bliss below, To love our neighbour, and ourselves to know. Voltaire, Oeuvres, tom. xiv. p. 169. Archbishop Whately, Bacon's Essays, p. 145, quotes this stanza, and says that it is strange that Pope, and those who use similar ignorant of the holiness of the Supreme Being; and Pope himself, Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, Whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust. It ought to be "confinedst" or "didst confine," and afterwards "gavedst" or "didst give" in the second person.--WARTON. This may mean that the Deity was beneficent, or holy, or both, First edition: Left conscience free and will. acquaintance had discovered: Can sins of moments claim the rod Of everlasting fires? And that offend great nature's God Which nature's self inspires There is something elevated in the idea and expression, Or think Thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round; but the conclusion is a contrast of littleness, And deal damnation round the land.--BOWLES. involves himself in the full criminality of his error.--CROLY. I have often wondered that the same poet who wrote the Dunciad Estne Dei sedes, nisi terra, et pontus, et aer, Et coelum, et virtus?--WAKEFIELD. Erudition and acuteness are not the only requisites of a good commentary, and letting the text speak for itself--AIKIN. Lord Kames, Elements of Criticism, vol. i. p. 377. Soame Jenyns, who published in 1757 a Free Enquiry into the All three were republicans who flourished at the period of the In the Commentary on ver. 303. A false pretence. Waterland expressed his disapproval of Tindal, who was a deist, published in 1730 his well-known work, Waterland published a sermon called, A familiar discourse upon Nothing was ever more unfortunate than these five examples of sublimity, all of which, as Dr. Warton observes, prove the contrary.--BOWLES.

Various

Appletons' Popular Science Monthly, November 1899 Volume LVI, No. 1

I give you this, the bitter and the sweet. It holds my heart, can you not hear it beat? So poor a gift to put within your hand-- Apples and Herbs!--but you will understand. _Acknowledgment is made to Messrs. Harper & Bros., the Century Company, The Metropolitan Magazine, and Collier's Weekly, for courteous permission to reproduce certain of the verses included in this volume._ Neighbor Life, I love you well, Have you any goods to sell? Let me buy or let me borrow Joy, to tide me o'er the morrow; I will give you in exchange Baskets full of thoughts that range, Bright utensils of my brain; Coins of feeling you shall gain. All I ask in equal measure Is your store of joy and pleasure. Neighbor Life, I love you well, Have you any joy to sell? In the wood the dead trees stand, Dead and living, hand to hand, Being Winter, who can tell Which is sick and which is well? Standing upright, day by day Sullenly their hearts decay Till a wise wind lays them low, Prostrate, empty, then we know. So thro' forests of the street, Men stand dead upon their feet, Corpses without epitaph; God withholds his wind of wrath, So we greet them, and they smile, Dead and doomed a weary while, Only sometimes thro' their eyes We can see the worm that plies. Up a little road with the morning in my arms, Drenched with dew and tipsy with the madness of the May, Leafy fingers on my face, I stop not for your charms! Love is waiting round the turn, to be my Love to-day. Shouting as I ride on the springing ringing sod, Ah! my pony knows the goal to which his course is laid, Galloping thro' dawn he knows he bears a little god Bacchus-mad with happiness who burns to meet his maid. I, whose totem was a tree In the days when earth was new, Joyous leafy ancestry Known of twilight and of dew, Now within this iron wall Slave of tasks that irk the soul, To my parents send one call-- That they give me of their dole. Thro' the roar of alien sound Grimy noise of work-a-day, Secretly a voice, half drowned, Whispers thro' the evening's grey, "Child, we know the path you tread, Ghost and manes, we are true; Cedar spirits, long since dead, Calm and sweet abide with you." Deep as the permanent earth is deep, Fierce as its central fire, Man is his own conclusion, Woman her great desire. She was so light, so frail a thing, She had no wisdom but her face, Which caught men's fancy like the Spring Yet held them but a moment's space. She is the youngest of the dead, And so the great lean round her feet; They strive to learn from her fair head Why far-forgotten life was sweet. For now she knows what Plato knows, And lapped in languor she agrees With Kant, and as her soft hair blows, Smiling, she flouts Demosthenes. Others furnish bread and meat, Busy hucksters on the street, They will give you what you need, All the facts your life to feed. Mine are not these wares of earth, I can give my love but mirth; Let, oh let this part be mine, I would be your salt and wine. What if to-day, when I have made so sure That love is utterly and wholly mine, What if I found that faith should not endure And all my trust in you I should resign; That when I send my thoughts like homing birds To your dear heart they find no resting place, But all misunderstood, far, foreign words, They die away like strangers at your face. Love, make me certain, make the circuit true, And when I wonder, give the faith I seek Perfectly trusting, let me end in you Heart against heart, and cheek upon your cheek. Where is bright Cathay? These are lands where we should go To live and love to-day. Miles of glistening beaches Over all the sun, Tropic, spicy-laden breeze To lull when day is done. With the tides we'd rove; We be natives of no land Save the land of love. You and you only!--By the Western gate That fronts the falling sun I shade my face And watch for you. As one who's lost the race Tries to demand no further gift from Fate Lest he be hurled more low, so I, who wait And want you, ask no pity of your grace On my defeat, I only long to trace My lost heart; come to me, my need is great. I see the young men with their crystal eyes, They stand about my door, their hearts, I know Are breaking in the poppies that they bring. I cannot love them for I am not wise; Ah, come, or else forever let me go, I grow so tired with waiting in the Spring. The Indian Summer and Love have fled, Oh, red, red lips like a crimson rose, Oh, slender hands with the tips of red, You are lost in the land of Nobody-knows. The sweet breeze blows but it comes not back, The water flows in a silver stream, But never returns on its moon-white track, They are gone, past recall, like a lovely dream. Ah, crimson lips like a tilted flower, Where sweetest honey awaits the bee; Come back, come back for a single hour, Dear Love, my Summer, come back to me. The little one who loved the sun Who only lived for play, Ah, why was she the one condemned To dark and dreams for aye! The perfect perfume of her life Was as a rose's breath, And now she treads eternally The gusty walks of Death. From what far spicery derives your hair The sweet faint fragrance that enslaves my sense? What subtle love trick taught you to be fair With overt lure and covert reticence? Madonna Eve, you bear upon your breast A hungry emerald like the desiring sea, But warm upon your heart lie pearls of rest What man could exorcise such witchery? "Laddy, leave your pedant's task, Rove the world with me. Fields and towns and pretty lands Together we would see. There be workers everywhere, You would not be missed. Come, ah come, and take for yours The mouth you never kissed!" "Lady, I am fain for play, So I may not go. Only those who hate to toil The true enjoyment know; But could you love a larrikin Whose task he'd so resign?" "Yes!--I'd love a larrikin If only he were mine." Be brave about yourselves, you little ones, With the insistence of determined suns, Shine, being true and modest in your dream. If to the peace of nature you respond Draw from her breast your milk, nor weep the high Duties for lack of which you now despond, Made for historic planets thro' the sky. Knowing yourself a gay and careless weed, Be you courageous in your light despair; Sure that you fill a space of unknown need, Idle and green in the bright coat you wear. Strive to the uttermost to find your worth, Filling with perfect cheer your place on earth, So shall the tapestry of Time be whole. So I have lost you. When the utter ache Shall fade at length to mere despondency What will the answer to this problem be? They say that nothing dies, that all we stake Brings some unknown return; what then shall make An adequate exchange for love, to see Your hand held out in friendship?--as for me The episode is ended, for life's sake. You want me still for that small joy I gave, But now it ends for you. I am not brave To love you seared; I have no happy days To brood upon at dusk, and so I claim, As all the wager that good fortune pays, Complete obliteration of your name. I tire of the struggle, the search for the ultimate I, There hangs the chalice of sapphire, the infinite sky, Why thro' the space of despair should my spirit be hurled Seeking for truth, when beneath lies this pearl of a world? Seers may direct us thro' pain to discover the soul, Comforting joy may not give us the absolute whole, But if the seers should be wrong, may the truth not be ours Thanking dear Life for its light and its beautiful hours? Motes of the city dust, could this thing be That midst your myriad particles for me Might come one atom out of Ispahan, One spiced far memory of caravan. Indrawn upon my breath I'd know an urge To dissipate monotony, and purge The spirit of its spleen; one with the man Who takes the sun blue air of Ispahan. I had a friend whose soul was very fair, His word was wisdom and his strength was sure; His courage in the ills he had to bear Made others strong and able to endure. I asked no love, no tribute of the sense For his companionship was recompense. I thought I was beloved, but did not care, He smiled on me as he on others smiled, But one grey day a chill was in the air And then to prove that I was Nature's child, He spoke--"I do not love you very much--" And all my friendship shattered at the touch. Seated among the shards of Potiphar I pondered. Shall we still strive on? forsooth There is no better, that is good as Best, There is no truer that is true as Truth. She was more beautiful than tropic night, Luring, compelling as the smile of Fate; Like a poor wastrel, I for her delight Squandered my soul and gained her idle hate. Peacock and paroquet!--at last I know The sorriest songsters make the bravest show. The joy is in the making. While we sow Our dream is wonderful with flowers, we name The purlieus of our garden and the aim Is worth the effort, yet we cannot know The garden will be just a garden, so The dream is heaven. This way mothers frame The child's high dedication to its fame, Repaid for all reality may show. God knows this, so He lets us have the best, The vast anticipation, rugged man Joys in the struggle, triumphs over throes, Vanquished a thousand times he still finds zest In hope and all his pleasure in a plan To be fulfilled at length in Heaven?--who knows. Half way to happiness, The whole way back again, Stumbling up the stubborn hill From the luring lane. Little sunset House of Hearts Standing all alone, I could come and sweep the leaves From your stepping stone. I, and he, could light your fires Laughing at the rain But O it's far to Happiness, A short way back again. Not what I ask, but what I do not ask, O my Beloved, proves my love for you. And love can set to love no harder task Than wistful silence, reticence to sue. I lock my lips, I force a wise content With all my being wailing for a sign. Ah, if men knew what woman's smiling meant When fierce and hard the heart cries out "He's mine." Mothers of men are we, we barren ones Who say "Be happy, dear, and play your part." What matter how we yearn, you are our sons Whose every footfall breaks a woman's heart. Gold fish, rose and red As lady Lillith's hair, Mauve and blue as curling smoke And water-sapphires there. At the fountain's brim I built a little dream, As a goldsmith cunningly I made it flash and gleam. I wrought a maiden shape, I colored it with love, Scarlet mouth and breast of pearl And eyes of turtle dove. Thro' hours of moony dark, I woo'd her for my bride But ah! I could not build her soul, So with the dawn she died. How shall we build it curiously well, Our house to live and love in?--Shall it be Only significant to you and me, Or shall it be a palace where may dwell Those whom our spirits notice? May we tell An architect to loose his fancy free To toss up towers in soaring ecstasy With Doric dignity or temple bell? Or shall we build it with our hands, alone, Working together over wood and stone To learn an art we never knew, and strive, Patient, to raise with faith and trust and love, Fashioned so cunningly it must survive, A secret cottage in a silent grove? Crafty Chieftain, where you lie You can see the clouds drift by, Waiting in the dusky fern For your enemy's return. Does the beauty of that place Never tell you of my face, I, you left, to plot and plan For the ending of a man?-- You had better sought my aid, I have met him unafraid, We have wandered all alone Underneath a yellow moon. We have found the end of strife Is the waking up to life-- Therefore you, who forced my vow, Take my all of wisdom now. Love has taught me but one truth-- Love is merry, love is youth, We be children, he and I. Where is your sagacity? I wonder if the store of joy And love is limited, And if because my heart is glad Some other heart has bled. Believing this, a balance just Of recompense, I pray That my beloved gained the joy I did not have to-day. Did I allure you?--I only meant to love you, I only meant to be so dear you could not let me go. I held you close against my heart, bending down above you, As mothers brood above their babes, I loved you, loved you so. 'T was passion that moved you, called to you and caught you; You never felt my tenderness full launched on your desire. You never knew the friendship and sympathy I brought you. Ah, Mary pity women when their veins are filled with fire. And so I have lost you, I who never won you; You thought me but a siren by your crafty arts beguiled. I hate myself and scorn you for the honor I have done you. I leave you, bitter woman, and I came to you a child. Now am I sacred, for that holy thing, Your touch, has made me as a god; to-day I am magnificent, I am a king To whom my fellow men must cringe and pray. Such is taboo; but when to-morrow comes I may look once upon the sun and you; Then, thro' the dawn, with wailing and sad drums I pay the utter price.--Such is taboo! Seated in my ingle nook With Duty by my side, How I strove to see her charms And take her for my bride! "Sweet," I said, "I love you so"-- And suddenly I heard The laughing call of Beauty's voice And all my soul was stirred. Once again she cried my name And gone was every doubt, For who could stay at Duty's side When Beauty calls without? I only wanted room to be alone. I saw the days like little silver moons Cool and restrained shine forth; there were no noons To make me glad with glory, to atone. I dreamed of solitude. When one has known Ardent and eager verity, the tunes Of semi-truths are sweet, as subtle runes Attest the bud more dear than flower full blown. To be alone, to watch the dusk and weep For beauty's face that is so veiled, to know How exquisite the earth breaths come and go, To feel my life a silent, empty room Where lovely thoughts might take new shape and bloom,-- This is the dream that is more dear than sleep. I said that men were cowards, I thought that men were brave, I said that women gained no faith For all the love they gave. Beneath a mask of scorning I wore a heart of trust, But laughed in all my lovers' eyes And vowed their vows were dust. Time showed my words were true ones, My thoughts have proved no test, But still beneath my mask, I say I know my dreams were best. Hewn from basalt, black as sin, Blind eyes staring, hands on knees,-- This is Thoth, who shall survive All your fair divinities. Mars and Venus, piping Pan, White Diana, Cupid sweet,-- All their beauty, all their pride, Lie like ashes round his feet. Vast and calm and ultimate Ere this orb dissolves in space Life's last glimpse to man shall be Thoth, with his impassive face. O little dancer, slim as a new moon, A candle flame blown by the wind--how soon Will all this be forgotten! Do you care The pagan poppies dying in your hair; Do you despair to think that even as they Your lovely life will tarnish in a day? How can we keep you, butterfly!--O must Such lovely grace resolve itself in dust? We must believe that some day when you lie Hid from the lights, beneath the open sky The trees will bend more perfectly above you, The flowers dance gayer for they'll know and love you, And we will mind a little less the cold, Remembering your grace when we are old. If it be educational to breast Salt lipped the wave that is the woe of Earth, Who could be called a fool? There is no rest From sorrow in this island of re-birth. And yet, ringed 'round with shadow as we are, In the penumbra we may all discern Glowing and gay the promise of a star For the adventurer with faith to yearn. Watch me, eyes of the wind and rain, See if I come to the dusk with stain, Search me, eyes of the soaring sun, See what mischief my hands have done. If there be beauty of word or deed, If there be truth or a scorn of greed, Give me the peace of your dark, sweet hours, Let me be still as your moon and flowers. If there be harm to a heart that trusts, If there be pander to sordid lusts, Curse and condemn me to wide-eyed pain, Judge, and pay me, eyes of the rain. "What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,-- Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy? Brave little cuttings of laughter and light? Then shall our Summer be flowery and bright." "Nay!--You are wrong in your planting," said he, "Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree? Why should we water and weary away For sake of a flower that lives but a day!" So she made gardens which he would not dig, Tended her apricot, apple and fig. Then, when one morning he chanced to appear, Sadly he noticed--"No trespassing here." "How do you do," I said; the yellow coat She wore was like a golden serpent's skin. I took her white gloved hand, my voice grew thin As tho' her hand were tight about my throat. The air was green with heat, a flaccid note I did not fail to see, for heat might win My cause; her weary soul looked from within And saw the white sails flapping on my boat. "Coolness and rest" my eyes were whispering, In Isles where morn grows never afternoon, Where Passion buds forever with the Spring, Nor wanes with shifting tides of sea and moon, But--"How are you?" she said, and that was all, And tho' she smiled, she passed beyond recall. Such help I have for singing! The little winds a-stir Touch gently on the lisping leaves Like dainty dulcimer. The sights and scents of April-- What dreams, what themes they bring-- While gaunt crows cry their gasconade Down all the ways of Spring. Such happy help for singing! And round, below, above The air is thrilling with my joy Of love, love, love. Upon the silence of my unconcern The little noise that was your name falls dead. I can remember how your mouth was red, In the lost years, but tho' the senses yearn For some unguessed desire, they never turn To that vitality, your face!--We sped So swiftly thro' our burning hour. We said Drink deep, 't will never end; too late we learn That lovely passion's face so soon is grey, That after the high climax crowns a day The dusk seems long and empty. We who come To taste again Life's feast, why must it be We meet such ghosts to chill our revelry? Wishful of many honors, He was too lame to climb, And so he sat to wait for Death, Forgetting to be brave. He never saw the windfalls, From off the trees of Time, Drop down in mellow chance to him The while he digged his grave. The Romany has gone, he has taken all my kisses, I knew I could not keep him, so I laughed and let him go. I do not know the road where his freedom and his bliss is, I will find my life serene, I will wed a pleasant lover, I may think no more of perfume and the lingering in the lane; I will rear me sturdy children, and my soul I will discover, For I will not love a Romany in all this world again. If one grew blind thro' gazing Wide-eyed upon the sun, What matter when such memoried light Would last till life were done. If one should die of loving, Divinely wild, and brave, What matter with such dreams to dream Within the quiet grave. Ah, we weary so with kisses, Weary so with your caresses, As the hooded hawk returning To its tinkling bells and jesses, So we flutter to the prison Of your arms, in meek surrender, And we grieve when you are angry, And we smile when you are tender, But our souls, untamed, are soaring Where no blandishments can teach them, Free our hearts, and free our spirits, Where your hands can never reach them. If you were mine--(for all the little flowers That see you, weary of their innocence)-- If prayers that have been pale with penitence Grew purple with our passion, all the hours From sun to sun would be unique with bliss, Little red mouth that is not mine to kiss! You are not mine and you will never be, And so I am magnanimous, I give My love and you to Time, and you shall live Bride of his avid passion. I will see The moon of all this lure and beauty set, And I will turn from you and quite forget. She spread her atlas petticoat So rare, so fine to see. Her bonnet was of Tuscan straw, Her shawl was Turkey red. She peacocked gay before men's eyes, This lady of degree, On slippered tiny feet, and ah! She wished that she were dead. At every ball, at every rout She was the toast of town; But no one knew who called her cold What cruel wound had she. The laughing gallant that she loved Had scorned her high renown, And now another bore his babe, And held it on her knee. How may we be released from memories? One dreads each green renewal of the grain, Reviving ancient life. If but the brain Might be made clean of last year's withered lies, Blown like brown leaves across the April skies In hateful resurrection, and retain Only the springs of promise, fine and sane, And a kind, leading hand to make us wise. If with the running sap a royal birth Each year might be accomplished, strong and free With the sweet prescience of virginity, Then were we true inheritors of earth, And the large lonely stars no more should see The age worn phoenix-lives that make our dearth. Did you see the rascal with the rain-grey eyes? He robbed me of my happiness before I knew its worth. He stole into my garden and took it by surprise, When midnight hid his wicked ways upon the sleeping earth. How shall I arrest him, for he took away my Spring, Took away my April 'neath his cloak of steaming rain. Tho' he left his Summer and a choir of birds that sing, Nothing will content me for I want my Spring again. I will write letters to my friend the grass, I will sing all my songs to lilac flowers Gather the spices in the airs that pass, And wrap my heart close shrouded in the hours. I dread man's huge impertinence; he creeps Thro' the inviolate silences of Spring Like a marauder, waking that which sleeps To gather strength for lyric blossoming. I will write all my letters to the grass. The world shall be resolved into a cry Faint as a little voice that cries Alas! And I will laugh alone beneath the sky. We need demand no further gift from Heaven, We might dispense with documents and creeds, If but this one great grace to us were given-- The strength to follow where our reason leads. Beauty will crumble with tasking, Love rarely lasts for a year, Virtue is sold for the asking, Bravery fades before fear. Youth never lives till the morrow, One thing of all is alive, Joy cannot quench it, or sorrow, Folly alone shall survive. Folly, from cradle to burning, Toys for the great and the small, None shall escape her by learning-- Folly has rattles for all! Always to suffer so, to want and weep With woe that groweth every day more deep; To don the green robe of tormented scorn, And ever curse the hour that love was born! Furies, my Sisters! have you no surcease For me to whom no death shall bring release? They name me Jealous One. They hate my name, The ages hold me high to endless shame; How, if I suffer so, does no one care And pity, for the wrath that I must bear? Gods! let me go, your service wrecks and sears, The vase must break that holds so many tears. He's dead, I watched him die. He cast a spell on my mate, They loved, and the moon whirled 'round the sky, They mocked at my rage and hate. Blood red from the burning sea The sun rose, and I knew! My soul whined wild little songs to me, I did what I had to do. I have taken the bone of his thigh, I have fashioned it into a horn; And I sing my soul's song, shrill and high, And curse the day he was born. Where a woman's love might lie Warm and sheltered, your prize and song, As you wander beneath the sky? No, for you say, "I'll carry no weight, I must be free, be free; To make a drag for me." Little you know, then, love is the cloak That shelters you from the storm; Love is your coat so warm. Though you take no purse and you take no staff You cannot escape the load Of a woman's longing and woman's love That follows you down the road. There is no danger in disdain, No grief in perfidy; The meek they are who taste of pain And matchless misery. The hearts who give, and giving, die, Could they but learn the way To take, and laugh and then deny, They still might live their day. Brown boy running on a wide wet beach, Free as the water and the wind are free; Eyes of an odalisque and skin of a peach, O for such a playmate to play with me!-- Drenched with the sunshine of the long brave hours, How we would tumble in the white wild spray; Then, drowsy children, fall asleep like the flowers, And wake keen and merry to a new clean day. You know how I came to you, World beaten, tossed aside; Ready for death at a hangman's hand, Stript of all hope or pride. Leaning, you gathered me up Close to your great sweet heart, Lulled me and told me to be a man, Taught me your wonderful art. Now I am very wise, Proud with your love's true vow; Glorious with power,--I am more than a man, What will you do with me now! Ah, Heaven! How soon my body will be old! I powder and I perfume and I tire With the long wasting of my one desire. I choose fair colors, furs, and antique gold To draw men's eyes and hands, and yet how cold, How careless are their eyes. I see the fire Flame from my neighbor, and I can aspire To only friendship. I have tried the bold, The luring attitude, the timid mien, The boyish, wise, or simple, all in vain. I know the women laugh at me, but oh, How can I let my dreamed perfection go? I am a woman, I must have a man Only to ratify my nature's plan. They say I'm mad because I stare And look as tho' they were not there, Because I only speak when aught Occurs to me by way of thought. Instead of serving Fashion's creeds, I cut my coat to fit my needs. I laugh at grief and only weep When noisy life disturbs my sleep. My dreams are delicate and wild; Was ever wise man so beguiled?-- Mad, am I mad!--then pray that you May some day hope for madness too! From what sweet masters have I fathomed doubt, What love and laughter taught me to be blind; How patient did they point the letters out Latin and Greek to my bewildered mind. Now I am very wise, I know the 'a' The little 'a' of doubt's first faint distress Then, letter perfect, I recall the way Thro' all the alphabet of bitterness. Coerced by Furies who persuaded me That life was imminent with idleness, Their jibes made mad, their lashes aided me To grasp the accident of bitterness. Come storm! I cried, come passion and despair, For calm inhibits growth!--I called on fire To sear my comfortable days, and wear The nights to wastes of torment and desire. Then pausing breathless, in a little wood I met with Wisdom laughing in the sun; She said, "Lie still, for idleness is good, And grow in peace as I myself have done." Once I had wings--I had no heart to fly, They put me in a cage, I did not die. They tamed me, taught me tricks and bade me sing; I waited, bore it patiently; one thing I knew, that some day it might be The cage would open and I should be free. I waited endlessly,--at last the day! Faint with delight I thought to fly away, Ah, but the mockery of that open door!-- My wings were powerless, I could fly no more. Not all those women you have loved and left, O my Beloved, can stir my jealousy; Not the light loves which you forgot for me, For my heart's fingers made by life most deft Have mended all the rents their arrows cleft And from their old enchantments set you free. But one is my despair, and only she, The one who loved you, hopeless and bereft. How can I give as much, who hold your heart As she, unloved who gave with scorn of gain? So do the angels; at her name I smart And feel a sordid bargainer who gives For fair exchange; I cannot heal the pain, I am defeated by her while she lives. Some take comfort from a star, Thro' the slow grey surge of Time, Some take joy from ruddy war, Lust of conflict, heat of crime. In these days of codes and creeds, Gods may wander newly born, Every day for each man's needs Bringing blessings thro' the morn. I will take a happy word, Open heart and hand for play, And a song which none have heard For my altar of the day. UNIFORM EDITION. 3 vols. Cloth. 12 mo. $4.00 net per set. cents. _Sold separately as follows_ Portrait. Postage and packing 20 cents. The lover of poetry cannot fail to rejoice in this handsome edition.--_Philadelphia Press._ A glow of inspiration that merits better than that of any living poet the high adjective, Vergilian.--_New York Work which will live, one may venture to say, as long as the language.--_Philadelphia Public Ledger._ "To the Invincible Republic" is full of a generous and admiring appreciation. All of these poems are explicit, strong, and interesting.--_New York Sun._ _Times_--William Watson is, above all things, an artist who is proud of his calling and conscientious in every syllable that he writes. To appreciate his work you must take it as a whole, for he is in line with the high priests of poetry, reared, like Ion, in the shadow of the Delphic presences and memories, and weighing every word of his utterance before it is given to the world. _Athenaeum_--His poetry is a "criticism of life," and, viewed as such, it is magnificent in its lucidity, its elegance, its dignity.... We revere and admire Mr. Watson's pursuit of a splendid ideal; and we are sure that his artistic self-mastery will be rewarded by a secure place in the ranks of our poets.... We may express our belief that Mr. Watson will keep his high and honorable station when many showier but shallower reputations have withered away, and must figure in any representative anthology of English poetry.... "Wordsworth's Grave" is, in our judgment, Mr. Watson's masterpiece ... its music is graver and deeper, its language is purer and clearer, than the frigid droning and fugitive beauties of the "Elegy in a Country SABLE AND PURPLE. $1.25 net. Postage 10 cents. _Boston Transcript_--Still the poet whose inspirational fantasy gives distinction to modern English Literature. _Spectator_--A great artist, "Sable and Purple" is of a high excellence. INDIA'S LOVE LYRICS, including "The Garden of Kama." net. Postage 10 cents. Half morocco, $4.00 net. Uniform Edition. 3 volumes. In box. net. Postage 50 cents. Illustrated from photographs by Mrs. Eardsley Wilmot. contribution to poetry that the season has as yet brought forth. A volume of passionate love poems written by a true poet. It is still a question whether these are direct translations or The author is imbued with the glowing passion of Eastern romance. BY KATRINA TRASK. Author of "Night and Morning," "Mors et English national heart, but as a work of art.... The author is MILLS ALDEN, _The New York Times Saturday Review_. The living Alfred lives in this gracious play, for the author has DOUGLAS, _The Star_, London. One of the truest poets that modern England owns.--_Bookman._ Belongs to the class that Rossetti does, with a touch of Herrick, and something which is Dowson, and Dowson alone.--DR. TALCOTT WILLIAMS in _Book News_. In this volume we have a welcome gathering together of the principal poems issued by Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson during the past sixteen years.... In this new form his poems should make new friends.--_London Daily Telegraph._ A collection of poems by this well-known author of Italian, Irish and American verse. The volume contains all of the most popular verses from "Canzoni," in addition to many new ones of equal appeal. Postage 10 cents. 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New Edition. Cloth, 16mo. $1.00 net. Postage 4 cents. Half morocco, $3.00 net; postage 5 cents. Translation by HENRY THORNTON WHARTON. Illustrated in Photogravure. New Edition. $2.00 net. Postage 10 cents. PHILLIPS. New Edition with Photogravure Frontispiece after the painting by G. F. WATTS, R. A. _New York Times_--Nothing finer has come to us from an English pen in the way of a poetic and literary play since the appearance of Taylor's "Philip van Artevelde." _Brooklyn Daily Eagle_--It is not too much to say that "Paolo and Francesca" is the most important example of English dramatic poetry that has appeared since Browning died. _Philadelphia Press_--"Paolo and Francesca" has beauty, passion, and power.... The poem deserves a wide reading on account of its intrinsic merit and interest. _Times_--Here, then, is a noble work of dramatic imagination dealing greatly with great passions; multicolored and exquisitely musical. Mr. Stephen Phillips is not only a poet, but that still rarer thing, a dramatic poet. MR. WILLIAM ARCHER (in _The World_)--The elder Dumas speaking with the voice of Milton. _Athenaeum_--Not unworthy of the author of "The Duchess of POEMS. By STEPHEN PHILLIPS. Including "Marpessa" _Times_--Mr. Phillips is a poet, one of the half dozen men of the younger generation, whose writings contain the indefinable quality which makes for permanence. _Spectator_--In his new volume Mr. Stephen Phillips more than sustains the promise made by his "Christ in Hades"; here is real poetic achievement--the veritable gold of song. _Literature_--No such remarkable book of verse as this has appeared for several years. Cloth, 50 cents net Leather, 75 cents net WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS--Tennyson at his age had not done better. NEW POEMS. Including "Iole: A Tragedy in One Act"; "Launcelot and Guinevere," "Endymion," and many other hitherto unpublished poems. _The Nation_--An uncommonly masculine volume. _Chicago Record-Herald_--What every admirer of this virile poet _Athenaeum_--There is urgent need for a collected edition of Mr. _Times_--There are not more than two or three living writers of _Daily Graphic_--This delightful volume.

Gilbert Abbott À Beckett

The Comic History Of England

1811

'He jests at Scars, who never felt a Wound' _I shall, I trust, be acquitted of any servile view, when, in _I have the honour to be, With the greatest respect, Your most obedient Servant,_ Starting to join his Regiment _To face the Title_ Getting into his Billet " Smells powder for the first time " Johnny writes an account of the Action to his Mother, which afterwards appears in the _Star_ " Learning to Smoke and drink Grog " Poor Johnny on the sick List " Johnny safe returned to his Mama " Dash'd with his Suite for Santarem that Johnny on Duty with his Chief " On Ludgate Hill, a traveller may see John _Newcome_, Grocer, No. Fifty-three; Now, sober reader, don't turn up your nose, But profit by the truths I shall disclose. The _Newcome_ family, you may believe, Straitways descended from good Madam Eve; Adam, a _Newcome_, when in Paradise, The wily serpent did Dame Eve entice To touch forbidden fruit; and to his shame, Poor Adam _Newcome_ slily did the same: For this, from Paradise they soon were hurl'd, And thus Cain _Newcome_ came into the World. 'Twould be an endless job were I to trace All the descendants of the _Newcome_ race: Let it suffice that I curtail my rhymes, To scenes connected with the present Times. Widely extended is the _Newcome_ Name, Some scoff'd for Folly, some renown'd for Fame; Did we in Foreign Courts but look askance, We find they've play'd the very Devil in France. Each in his turn assum'd the Sovereign Sway, 'Till Boney _Newcome_ drove them all away; Mighty in deeds, his Mighty power evinces, And makes his tribes of _Newcomes_ Kings and Princes. Louis to Holland went with State Regalia, And silly Jerome king'd it at Westphalia: Poor foolish Joe went slily into Spain, But Paddy _Newcome_ whipt him out again. Ah! Honey, that's a _Newcome_, if you please, Makes Boney tremble in his Thuilleries. His fame--but, let me onward with my story, My humble rhymes would only mock his Glory. In London _Newcomes_ every where are seen, _Newcome's_ a Lord, a General, Knight or Dean-- _Newcomes_, where'er you go, you're sure to meet, The Park, the Playhouse, or St. James's Street. Amongst our Quality, you'll find a few, And Carlton House has got its _Newcome_ too. At both the Universities you find 'em, But in such numbers that they never mind 'em. Lots in the Line, and many in the Guards. This leads me to the subject of my story, Tho' first I thought it right to lay before ye, By way of preface, or of introduction, Or, if you please, a smattering of instruction; Go as you will, no matter when, or where, You're sure to see a Johnny _Newcome_ there. Now this same Grocer was a man of weight, Eat turtle soup, and talked of Church and State,-- For twenty years had bustled well through life, Blest with one son by Doll his loving Wife: The Youth, a lankey, awkward, shuffling Blade, Bred by the old ones to pursue the Trade, School'd by Mamma, who thought all learning stuff, 'Young John will have the Cash, and that's enough.' By Martial ardour fired, John scorn'd to stop And retail sugar in his father's Shop! In spite of Daddy's wrath, and Mother's tears, But the good souls were quickly reconcil'd In admiration of their darling Child. Old Johnny seem'd afraid he'd be too rash, But Mother doated on the Sword, and Sash. Soon Johnny grew ambitious of renown, And sigh'd to flourish in some Country Town; In some Militia Corps, at distant Quarters, Act the Lothario with the Wives and Daughters. Money, or Interest, never-failing friends, Soon did the job, and Johnny gain'd his ends. Translated then to a Militia Beau, Dear, lively Captain _Newcome_'s all the go! Damns smokey London, and the frowsy Cits; With ardour talks of Marches, Camps, and Fight; Such scenes as these would be his soul's delight. At length, one day, his spirits flush'd with Wine, Johnny resolved to go into the Line; Writes to Mamma a coaxer to Petition She'd make his Father buy him a Commission. The doating Mother dwells with anxious pause, Ere she could send her darling to the Wars. But as she'd ne'er refused him what he wanted, She paid the Cash, and his request was granted: Soon now the Official letter made it known That Ensign _Newcome_, Fourth or the King's Own, Would on receipt immediately go, And quick present himself at the Depot. What thrilling tumults in his bosom came To see amongst the Regulars his name! So dash'd away in wondrous haste and pother, To take a flying leave of Dad and Mother. A soldier bold, now Johnny vaunts and vapours, Anticipates his name in London papers. 'From admiration we cannot refrain, 'The gallant Ensign _Newcome_'s going to Spain; 'To shew our gratitude we don't dissemble, 'Heroes like him must make Massena tremble.' Or, should a Battle ease him of his breath, His Name's recorded in the list of Death; The _Mortuum Caput_ then they thus would fill, 'Died Ensign _Newcome_, late of Ludgate Hill-- 'Of twenty wounds receiv'd in an attack, 'All in his front, he scorn'd to turn his back. 'This sad event will be a grievous blow, Sir, Young John was well aware to what extent To purchase fame a golden guinea went; At all the Shops where characters were sold, He could be made a Hero for his gold; A valiant Hero then at any rate, Our John resolv'd to be or soon, or late. An Order now arriv'd at the Depot, 'That Ensign _Newcome_ should to Hilsea go.' Altho' John relish'd not these hasty ways, He bolted off to Hilsea in a chaise; And then a Note was handed to our Spark, 'That without loss of time he should embark.' 'Upon my soul,' says John, 'this is no jest, 'They won't allow a man a little rest.' Boxes and trunks were cramm'd into a Boat, And Johnny _Newcome_ found himself afloat. John star'd with wonder when he got on Board, To see himself surrounded by the Flood. The rapid movements so confused his head, He knew not what he did, nor what he said; Had not his appetite, which never fail'd him, With certain griping, knawing hints assail'd him: For John to certain forms was true, and steady, So eager ask'd when dinner would be ready? 'Dinner I'll warrant,' says a churlish Elf, 'If you want dinner, pray provide yourself; 'You'll get no dinner here, 'tis not the fashion, 'We only find you Cabin, Berth, and Ration!' 'Damme,' says John, 'is this your Transport way? 'What starve a body?--rot me if I stay!' John's resolution now began to shake; Did he for this his happy home forsake? A brother Sub seeing Johnny so distrest, Said, 'Come, Sir, let us council for the best; 'Money you have no doubt, and as 'tis fine 'Let us together go on shore to dine-- 'Buy what we want, and send it to the Ship, 'Nor ask a favour of this Savage Rip.' John liked the offer--shook him by the hand-- Jump'd in the Boat, and off they made for Land; Din'd, drank their Bottle, and in merry glee Purchas'd their Stock, and went next day to Sea. But now friend John, when tossing on the Ocean, Felt his poor bowels in a strange commotion; Grew serious, then grew sick, and hung his head, Reach'd, grunted, groan'd, and stagger'd to his bed; A prey to sorrow, sickness, and dejection, Restless he lay, imbitter'd with reflection-- Curs'd his own folly--had he but his will, He'd sooner retail figs on Ludgate Hill. Poor John thus lay, till by propitious blast, The ready Anchor's in the Tagus cast. Now motionless the Ship, the sickness flew, His wondering eyes successive objects drew. Saw the proud Tagus in smooth torrent Flow, Greeting fair Lisbon, with its breast of Snow; Saw Churches, Convents, o'er each other rise, With stern devotion tow'ring to the Skies. Our youthful Hero now we introduce, Deck'd off in Uniform, and fiercely spruce, With Hat of Wellington, stuck fore, and aft, And crimson sash tied carelessly abaft. Black Stock, Reg'mental Sword, and natty Spurs-- Without the latter there's no Hero stirs. Spurs to a gallant youth are things of course, To make folks fancy he has got a Horse; But as in this, opinions may divide, Yet all must think the gallant Youth can ride; Thus gay equipt, his bosom proudly swelling, Seeks the Town-Major's Office, or his Dwelling. Now see him strutting through the sultry Streets, Staring with all his eyes, at all he meets; Bald-headed Friars, Ladies, hid in Veils, Postboys with huge cock'd Hats, and monstrous Tails. John thought they seem'd a motley group of quizzes, With lankey jaws, black brows, and dingy phizzes. Now reach'd the Office, in he boldly bounc'd, And with erected front himself announc'd; When a Staff-Officer, with a stately look, A sort of frowning survey of him took: 'Pray who are you?' was pompously demanded: 'I'm Ensign _Newcome_, and from England landed.' 'To Belem go, where orders you'll receive; 'Write down your Name, Sir, and then Lisbon leave.' John bolted out, saying 'Damme what a Beast, 'I reckon he's a General at least: 'O rot this Soldier's life, the Devil's in it, 'They will not let a body rest a minute; 'I'm fairly sick of it, and so I'll tell 'em. 'I say, my friend, is this the way to Belem?' '_Senhor_,' with shoulders shrugged, _'no, no, intende_.' 'No, in ten day! if I go there,' says John, 'the Devil mend me.' A British Soldier, who was near at hand Said, 'Sir, our Lingo he don't understand: ''Tis but three Miles, strait forward if you please, 'There's no use axing them there Portuguese.' John travell'd on--but soon he slack'd his pace, The scorching Sun came full upon his face. 'O d----n their Climate, here's a pretty rig,-- 'Curse me if I'm not sweating like a Pig. 'Could I but once get home, they soon should see, 'The Devil might have all Portugal for me.' Grumbling and Mopping, John at length contrives, And at the Belem Barracks he arrives. But Johnny's spirit now was softened down, He tremulously ask'd for Captain Brown; Announc'd himself once more, and begg'd to know What were his Orders? where was he to go? The Commandant observing John was heated, Mildly requested that 'he would be seated.' John's spirits had been sinking in the wane, But thus encouraged soon revived again. 'Why really, Sir, this service in the Line, 'At home we reckon to be monstrous fine; 'But since I was Gazetted, I'll declare 'A single moment I've not had to spare.' The Captain smil'd to see poor John so sore, And kindly said, 'You'll dine with me at four: 'In the mean time, as things to you are new, 'The Adjutant will tell you what to do. 'Here, Orderly! step to the barrack-yard, 'And say I wish to speak with Mr. Ward. 'But cool yourself, and then your Billet seek; 'I mean to keep you here at least a Week.' John's heart was soft--thus taken by surprize, He felt a sort of twinkling in his eyes; He falter'd, stammer'd, felt himself distrest, In vain his gratitude would have exprest; When busy, bustling Ward attends his chief, Broke up the conference, to John's relief. Ward introduced, did Johnny kindly greet (His was a heart we do not often meet); Now arm in arm, they travell'd down the Stairs, John found his spirits, and forgot his cares. Tho' truly kind was Ward, yet be it known He was himself a Sub in the King's Own. A Billet got, the Serjeant mark'd the Door, They took a Boat, and brought the Trunks on Shore. 'So now,' says Ward, 'I always work by rule, 'The first thing you must purchase is a Mule; 'And if you're flush of cash, why then, of course, 'The next thing you must purchase is a Horse.' 'A Servant have you got?' John answered, 'No.' 'Well, well,' says Ward, 'there's one I think I know; 'An honest fellow, who 'twixt you and me, 'Is just the sort of Man, you will agree. 'A D----n'd good Fellow, but I rather think, 'He now, and then, will take a drop of drink; 'But otherwise, good-humour'd, sharp, and civil, 'John Bull will drink, but fight like any Devil;-- 'Paddy, and Sawney Scot are just the same-- 'Here, Serjeant, tell me what's the Fellow's name? ''Tis Teague O'Connor, him I recommend, 'He'll suit you famously, my worthy Friend.' So Teague was then install'd Valet, and Groom, And sent to set to rights his Master's Room. As dinner-time approach'd, Ward bid him stay, He'd home to dress, and take him on his way; And John, rigg'd out in his Best Coat and Feather, Waited for Ward, and off they went together. The Commandant, with every wish to please, Scouted those chilling forms that banish'd ease; Tho' plac'd in Power, Dignity, and Trust, Was kind to all, and to the Service Just. The dinner o'er, the festive glass did flow, John found himself a little queer or so; Felt too, a sort of swimming in his head, So stole away, resolved to go to bed. When oft to write a Book we undertake, If from the subject we a circuit make, Some apt allusions may our minds engage, Perchance for profit, to swell out our Page; The little I may venture to intrude, I introduce, by way of Interlude. Your mercy then, good Critics, I entreat, Mine is a sort of stuffing to my Meat; Something of Foreign matter I must tell, Or this my tale will not go down so well. In every Country there are customs known, Which they preserve exclusively their own. The Portuguese, by some odd whims infected, Have Cloacina's temple quite rejected; How they arrange _their Worship_, we shall know, By the disaster that befel our Beau. Our Hero gaily sporting out a Song, And cutting angles as he glid along, Some Damsel, heedlessly, from upper floor, Pandora's incense on his head did pour. Drench'd, buffeted, he had no time to think, Saluted by a compound of such Stink; Smother'd all over by the filthy souse, He reach'd his heart up, ere he reach'd his House. Teague, by his Master's nasty figure struck, Dryly, 'He wished him joy of his good luck'; Then seiz'd a Tub, and with assiduous care, With water wash'd the ordure from his hair. 'Here, prythee, ease me of my Hat and Coat; 'O C----t! the filthy stuff's gone down my throat. 'O curse them, and their beastly, D----n'd emulsions; 'O Lord! my wretched guts are in convulsions! 'Give me a Dram. 'Od rot the nasty Vixen, 'She's ruined my best Coat, with her d----n'd Mixen.' Now scour'd, and sweeten'd, Johnny whining said, 'O Teague, I'm horrid sick, shew me to Bed.' Teague spread the folded Blanket in a crack, And for a Pillow, placed his own Knapsack. Astonished John his Servant's conduct viewing, In trem'lous accents ask'd what he was doing? 'O, no great matter, Sir,' replies O'Connor, 'I'm making up your Bed, an' plase your honour.' 'A Bed for me!' says John, half chok'd with rage, Says Teague, 'You'll soundly sleep there, I'll engage.' Poor John, exhausted now, and sighing deep, In sadness stretch'd himself, and groan'd to sleep. Scarce had the Sun arose in all his glory, Ere Johnny flew to Ward to tell his story. 'Alas! dear Ward, 'tis fact what now I tell ye, 'My wretched bones are jumbled to a jelly. 'Then there's my best Reg'mentals all bedevil'd 'By that D----n'd Stink-pot which at me was levell'd.' Ward felt an interest in his friend's behalf, But for his soul could not restrain a laugh. So bid him Breakfast, and forget his cares, And then he'd try to manage his affairs. So said, so done. 'And now,' says honest Ward, 'If I can't set you right, it is D----n'd hard: 'At B----'s Hotel you will get ev'ry comfort, ''Tis true he'll make you pay a lumping sum for't.' 'O D----n the expence,' says John, ''tis all as well'; So sent Teague, Trunks and all, to the Hotel. With Teague, John went next day to buy his stud, A Mule for baggage, and a bit of Blood. Now see him in the Fair, with anxious face, Trying this Dobbin's metal, t' other's pace. 'I say, you Whiskers, what do you ask for that? 'A Horse you call it--much more like a Rat.' 'How many Guineas, Mister?--what a bore he's!' 'No _Senhor_, no Guineas, _no Senhor, no say_.' 'Why how the Devil then am I to pay?' But getting Dollars, he the Dobbin bought, When something passing, his attention caught. 'Here, stop that Fellow, Teague, don't let him pass; 'I say, you Quiz, what ask you for that Ass?' 'By Ja--s, Sir,' says Teague, 'you're in a wrong Key, 'It is a thumping Mule, and not a Donkey.' 'What!' retorts John, 'do you think I am a fool? 'What! don't I know a Donkey from a Mule?' But Teague was right, and so his master found, And for the Beast, John offered Thirty Pound. 'No,' says the Owner, 'but perhaps you will 'Give Thirty-five, and I will take your Bill.' 'My Bill,' says John, 'a match, Sir; it is done, 'To touch old Daddy's pockets, no bad fun.' The Beasts thus bought, by Teague were taken Home; So having time, John thought he'd take a roam. Strolling along, he saw the Portuguese, Instead of hand, return a hugging squeeze. What beasts! thinks John. I'm very sure no true man Would hug a Fellow, as we do loved Woman; In my dear country, Women are delightful-- None here I've seen as yet, but what are frightful. Now Smith's Repository came in view, 'Ah! ah!' says John, 'I've something there to do.' The stairs he quick ascended with a skip, His eyes were first attracted by a Whip; For John observ'd a Whip was most essential To make a Martial Hero consequential. For other matters he would then be jobbing, A bridle, and a saddle for his Dobbin,-- Canteens, Pack-saddle, and an oil-skin Cloak; Smith wisely said, 'the Rain here is no joke'; He then a small Portmanteau did propose: 'That thing,' says John, 'won't hold the half my cloaths.' 'True, Sir,' said Smith, 'but you'll have much to spare; 'Of Forage you will get but half a share.' Such are the Orders; you may not have seen 'em; Two Subs are but allow'd one Mule between 'em. 'Is that the case?' says John, 'then there's some danger, 'That my poor Beasts must live upon the Manger. 'No matter, 'gad I'll keep them while I can, 'And when I join, I then can change my plan.' So every thing being purchased to his will, He settled all by draft on Ludgate Hill. This day to bus'ness he did give up solely, And went to buy his Stock from Cavigole. 'Pray, Sir,' says John, 'do you sell Hams, and Cheese?' '_Si Senhor_, I do sell all vat you please; John crack'd his Whip, and swore 'twas all the dandy. 'Tea, Sugar, Salt, and vat of all most nice is, 'Pickles and Soda, good Segars and Spices.' 'Well said, my Hearty! now I'll tell you what, 'Pack some of all, but in a separate lot.' John now another Draft on Daddy drew, Gave his address and off to Belem flew. His time now pass'd with pleasure, and delight, Loitering all day, and getting drunk at night. In scenes like these, John found the week had past, And to his Reg'ment he must go at last: A Route receiv'd to travel off next Day, And march to Sacavem without delay; And thus by daily journies was to go, Until he reach'd the Santarem Depot. Next morn, on Dobbin, off friend Johnny started; Teague led the Mule, and so they both departed. John's legs from Dobbin nearly scrap'd the road, The Mule close following, tott'ring 'neath its load. Poor Teague, esteem'd by all a hearty fellow, With parting Glass had got a little mellow: A trifling failing here I must disclose, Teague swore 'twas for the honour of his Nose, Whose lovely size, and colour, to his thinking, Could only be maintained by hearty drinking. Heedless he went, unmindful as he past, The poor Mule stumbled, and the load was cast. 'Thunder & Turf! are those your tricks?' says Teague, 'What! tired you Spalpeen, and come but a League!' John now dismounted, and with horror stood; They'd told him of Banditti in the Wood. 'O, Teague! dear Teague! as we are only two, 'If the curst thieves should come, what shall we do?' 'Thieves! is it thieves you fear, Sir, G--d confound 'em! 'Teague and your Honour surely can surround 'em; 'By Ja--s, I would bodder half a score.' } And then with anxious look pursued his Road. As Sacavem came now full right in view, He then enquired of Teague 'what he should do?' ''Tis him that sarves the Billet,' Teague replies. 'O, well!' says John, and to the Juis hies. The Billet got, they travel to explore The House was found, but wanting Door or Casement, 'Is this the place?' says John in wild amazement. 'Is it to such D----n'd sties as these they send us? 'A pretty way they treat their Brave Defenders!' Entering, at length, he saw a squalid Wench, Begrimed with dirt, and luxury of stench; Then, in a filthy room, and almost dark, Three wretched women squatted round a spark. With out stretch'd hand his Billet he presents, And stopp'd his nose t' escape the beastly scents. A croaking voice exclaims, '_Aqui Senhor?_' Teague, sober grown, now offer'd his advice, 'A Soldier, plase your honour, mayn't be nice. 'Becase your honour must consider; as why, 'There's a good Roof between us and the Sky: 'I'll first go out, and steal the Beasts some Food, 'And then I'll cook your honour something good.' Alas! poor John; he wanted consolation, Wrapp'd in the misery of meditation; So bolting out in anguish to the Street, A Sign suspended did his optics greet; When in he rush'd, and to a room was led, With Table, Chair, and something like a Bed. Now from his Canteen culled sufficient fare, The Brandy swallowed, and forgot his care, In four days' time he reach'd the first Depot, And at the Commandant's himself did show. This was a Hero great, who treated Subs As little better than a pack of Scrubs. Himself from Ranks had risen by his merit, But those advantages did not inherit That in the best societies you find Arising from a cultivated mind; Imperiously made all beneath him feel His rod of Power and his wond'rous zeal, 'Here, Sir, you Ensign, mind, on no pretext 'Must you neglect to call day after next. 'There, get you gone! for you I've nothing more,' And with his finger pointed to the Door. John travelled out, repeating, 'Nothing more! 'D----n me if e'er I met so rude a Bore!' But by experience knew that to complain Against such Brutal manners would be vain. Accustom'd now, he quickly stirr'd about, First to obtain, then make his Billet out. This settled to his heart's content, That Day and Night he comfortably spent; Next morning call'd, and so without delay, To reach the next Depot he bent his Way. The intention of government was no doubt to consult as much as With respect to the Officers at Lisbon, who were there either on 'No intende,' in Portuguese, signifies 'don't understand.' The Barracks at Belem were assigned as a general receptacle for unfortunately, the least necessary, a Provost-Marshal. At the commencement of the Campaign on the Peninsula, the The opening of the Odoriferous Sluices generally commences about English Guineas, at that time, had no attraction. The Dollar, or horribly offensive. The scarcity of forage rendered it necessary to curtail the The Juis de Fero is the Magistrate. The soldiers contracted the The Subaltern Officers, in the Portuguese service, were taken No disrespect is intended, but until one can 'make a Silk Purse Now once on their Way we see the Pair, When John, as passing, did around him stare; Though flat the Country, oft he got a peep At the smooth Tagus in its mazy sweep; Whose Banks well covered by the richest soil, Yielding abundant Crops, with scanty Toil. ''Tis a fine Country, Teague, one needs must say, 'But thousands should not tempt me here to stay.' 'I'd not live here,' says Teague, 'among the Craters; 'Give me dear Ireland, Whiskey and Paraters.' Thus time beguil'd in social chat was past, When John reflected he'd not broke his Fast. When from the Road a narrow path he took, And gain'd a Rocky Bank, hard by a Brook. For now friend Sol had his meridian got-- John felt uneasy, 'twas so scorching hot. With eager look a survey round he made, To take advantage of some friendly Shade. Alas! no friendly Bough would interpose A shadow large enough to screen his nose, So, near the spot at which his Dobbins drank, He crept beneath the shelving of the Bank; Whilst Teague, regardless of the Sultry ray, Unpack'd the load, and let the Dobbins stray: Then spread the Breakfast, which, to John's relief, Proved a good store of Biscuit, Ham, and Beef. John, now refresh'd, still closer in did creep, With Brandy quench'd his thirst, and fell asleep. Teague hearing now his Master snore profound, With great composure squatted on the ground; Then with the Brandy filled the largest Cup-- 'Here's to good luck!' said he, then drank it up. Again replenish'd, down again it goes,-- 'And that's,' said Teague, 'in honour of my Nose.' Another filled, Teague thought it mighty clever, Though last, not least, 'twas 'Ireland for ever.' Then cast a look around, to see all right, Fell on his back, and wish'd himself good Night. When now the Sun had three parts clear'd his Course, Teague started up, and look'd for Mule and Horse; Pack'd up and loaded, and with gentle stroke, Touching his Master's shoulder, he awoke; ''Tis time to March, Sir, and more cool the weather.' John was content, so off they went together; Reach'd Gallega that night; Punhete next day. Poor John knock'd up, began to curse the Way. 'O plase you, Sir,' said Teague, 'do just be asy; 'By Ja--s 'tis a turnpike, let me tell ye, 'To what you'll meet with at that Villa Velhe.' John interrupted Teague in his Oration, To know, was not Abrantes the next Station? 'Faith, and it is,' said Teague, 'there is no doubt; 'Is it not mintioned in your Honour's Route?' 'O! D----n the Route,' said John; 'I want to know, 'I'm so curst tired, how far we have to go!' Abrantes Castle now came full in sight, Much to John's consolation and delight. A T----r was its Juiz; as folk say, If not belied, and in the Frenchman's pay, A Brutish Coxcomb--rough, and most uncivil, Who slily wish'd our Army at the Devil; On all occasions, it was his delight, On British Officers to vent his spite; Kept John, with Teague and Baggage, at his Door, Kicking their heels for full three hours and more. John fumed and fretted--but 'twas all in vain; Till tired to death, his Billet did obtain. But such a filthy, loathsome, beastly Hut Mud walls, Mud floor, besmear'd with Slime & Smut! 'O L--d!' says John, 'pray how shall I contrive, 'In this D----n'd hole, to keep myself alive?' A half-starved Taylor, vamping up old breeches, Cried, '_Viva, Senhor!_' and pursu'd his stitches. 'This horrid place will put me in a Fever.' Then with Grimaces, Sighs, and Groans, and Shrugs, Explor'd this den of Lice, and Fleas, and Bugs. It is a fact well known, the Portuguese Cherish voluptuously both Lice and Fleas; Some Bramin-like, are influenc'd by Piety, But mostly for Amusement, and Society; For Females oft in parties will carouse, Scratching each other's Heads, t' entrap a Louse, Whilst on their skins, the Fleas will Skip, & Scramble, And wanton Lice through all their ringlets ramble. Not that these Gamesome Merriments we find, As in some Countries, to the Poor confin'd; Here does their influence undisputed Reign, From Courtly Nobles, to the humble Swain. But to resume, poor John, as it was late, Sadly submitted to his wretched fate; Rejected Food, on Canteens stretch'd he lay, And sullen watch'd for the returning Day. Teague fed his Animals, then took his Dose, And soon resign'd himself to his repose. Restless poor John now pass'd the tedious Night, Each minute starting from a greedy Bite; With outstretch'd neck, his eyes he cast aloof, Reliev'd at length by Day-light through the Roof, Set Teague to work, and so without delay, Saddled his Dobbins, and went on his way. Now eagerly he sniffed the fragrant Gale, The Tagus crossed, and travell'd in the Dale. Govina, Niza, now left in their Rear, When Dobbin stopped, and bristled up with fear. 'God rot the beast!' says John in some amaze, Rose in his stirrups, and did round him gaze: A sight beheld, that gave his nerves a shock, A mangled human Body on the Rock. Transfix'd, he stared with horror and affright, And roared to hasten Teague with all his might. Teague unconcerned, with shrug of nonchalance, Said, 'O, by Ja--s! you'll ne'er get to France! 'He's a Frenchman, Master, that lies sprawling, 'The Wolves have given him a pretty mauling.' 'What, Teague,' said John, who felt another dread, 'Is't Wolves that have upon this Carcase fed?' Again with horror did around him peer; 'Won't they attack us, Teague?' they must be near. 'Attack,' says Teague, 'your honour need not fright; 'If we were dead, and Travelling here, they might.' John tired, and anxious, now began to grumble, The cursed, rugged Road, made Dobbin stumble; Some sad mishap his senses now forebodes, When Teague exclaims, 'These are the Devil's own Roads!' Now from a Cliff they view'd a Gulph below, Where Tagus sternly midst the Rocks did flow, A narrow path they follow'd, jam'd with stones, John, Dobbin led, and trembled for his bones: Scrambling, & straggling, step from Ridge to Ridge; At length, the danger passed, they reach'd the Bridge. Now on their Route we find them each day gaining, But, wearied out, poor Johnny ceas'd complaining; Grown used to suffer Insolence and Pillage In every beastly town and dirty Village; To see Religion made the tool of Knaves; To crush morality, and nourish Slaves. As now to Salamanca near John drew, Pleas'd that to Portugal he'd bid adieu, Was told to hasten--there might be a Fight, The Hostile foes were in each other's sight: With British ardour thrilling thro' each vein; Urged by an impulse nothing could restrain. John's soul was meek, but he felt in truth With all the bashful modesty of Youth; From his blest native Soil he did inherit A bold, determined mind, and active spirit; Nought could his zealous energy oppose, He'd join his Reg'ment, and he'd face its Foes-- Boldly push'd on to share in the Attack, And found the brave King's Own in _Bivouac_. All here to John appear'd both strange, and new, He knew not what to say, nor what to do; Which way to turn, nor whom he should accost,-- Poor John amidst the motley Crew was lost. Here groupes of Soldiers, in light converse stood, Some he saw cooking, others fetching Wood. And here, and there, were seen a huddled heap, In spite of scorching Sun, all fast asleep. And now a crowd of Officers he sees, On Rocky fragments sitting at their ease. John went to seek the Officer Commanding: An Officer replied, 'Sir, there he's standing.' John now with modesty reveal'd his Name, Told him the Rank he held, and how he came. The Officer his aid now friendly lent him, Proposing to the Colonel to present him. To this John readily gave his assent, And arm in arm they sociably went. Arriv'd, the Officer first stepped before, 'I'm very glad to see you, Mr. _Newcome_; ''Tis charming weather: pray from whence do you come?' 'Uncommon hot, Sir! but I push'd my Cattle, 'In hopes I should in time be for the Battle.' 'O! you're in famous time, you need not fear: 'But you must send your Baggage to the Rear.' 'The Devil!' quoth John, 'this is a queer beginning, 'So sweating Hot, and not a change of Linen.' And then in modest accents did intreat, He might reserve his Canteens and his Meat. 'By no means, Sir, just now, we Sons of Mars, 'Are glad to live on Brandy and Segars. 'In anxious times like these, it is our plan, 'To satisfy our hunger as we can; 'The Ground our Bed, where we contented lie, 'Nought interposes 'twixt us and the Sky. 'We first must drub yon Saucy Vapouring Elves, 'Then get our Baggage, and enjoy ourselves.' John listen'd, scrap'd, and bow'd, and then retir'd: (Not that the Colonel's speech he much admir'd.) 'Come,' said his Friend, 'cheer up, & don't be glum. 'I've got a Biscuit, and a little Rum.' 'No, no,' said John, 'I'll from my Canteens borrow, 'We'll feast to-day, altho' we starve to-morrow. 'Then hand out, Teague, whatever is to spare, 'And let us all the Prog amongst us share.' Now see him careless stretch'd upon the ground, Viewing with silent wonder all around. His brother Officers so oddly drest, Their ragged Jacket, and their purple Vest; Reg'mental Great Coats, batter'd, bare, and old; And Forage Caps that once were blue, and gold. Shirts of whose proper colour were no trace. Mustachios, Whiskers, that disguised their face. Yet all was lively, frolicsome, and gay, Full of their laughter--full of fun and play. And now John's Hams and Tongues were all paraded, And by his hungry Friends were soon invaded; The flowing Cup they to each other bandy, They ate his Prog, and drank up all his Brandy. In course of conversation there arose A question, as to number of their Foes. One said there's Twenty Thousand; others swore There were, they thought, _at least_ as many more: As many more at least they would maintain-- Look at their Columns stretching o'er the Plain. John started up, astonish'd to descry The Hostile Army just below them lie. 'O bless my heart!' said John, 'what lots of Foes, 'They're scattered all about as thick as Crows.' He view'd them with a keen, astonish'd eye, Felt rather queer to find they were so nigh. But snugly kept his thoughts within his breast, Fearful they'd turn his ignorance to jest. Now evening closed, and cast a silent gloom; 'Come,' says his friend, 'lay down, we'll make you room: 'Here take this Blanket, and beneath you spread, 'And here's a Stone, as Pillow for your Head.' John thankfully conformed to his advice, And, like the rest, was snoring in a trice. Now the bold Leader of each Hostile Band, Manoeuvred for the 'vantage of the Land. At length great Wellington, with his Allies, Completely took the Frenchmen by surprize,-- Boldly descended in the midst of Day, Attack'd the French as they supinely lay; His Light troops skirmishing, began the Battle, Then thundering Cannon thro' the Ranks did rattle. Divisions to Divisions then oppose, But British valour soon overwhelm'd its Foes. Then burst the Cavalry with heroic speed, Charging their Squares, and every where succeed. Trust all to flight, and scamper from the Field. Thus the brave British, German, Portuguese, Fought, Conquer'd, Triumph'd at th' Arepiles; And I, to deck my story, fain would sing, How all the Salamanca Bells did ring; How Peasants unconcerned, th' ensuing Day, Plough'd thro' the honour'd soil where Heroes lay. But no--content I'll to my story keep, And so return to John I left asleep; Who, wrapt in slumber, care forgetting, lies, The Long roll Beat--he started, rubb'd his eyes. 'Why, what's the matter?--surely it is dark.' 'Aye,' says his friend, 'we rise before the Lark. 'Our Orders are to fall in every Morn, 'And stand to Arms an hour before the Dawn; 'Come, rouse my honest Fellow, don't be slack, 'At break of day the Frenchmen may attack.' John rose, but grumbled out, 'If I'd been told, 'They'd start me up thus shivering in the Cold; 'To go Campaigning, I would ne'er been led. 'But stuck to my own Corps, and Feather-Bed.' The Adjutant did now friend Johnny fix, To Captain Bull's division, Number Six; In Captain Buckett's company, when 'Lo!' Says John, 'I think I Captain Buckett know; 'His uncle's Tub the Brewer, I've no doubt,-- 'Old Buckett lives in Faringdon Without.' Soon recogniz'd--the Morn began to break; His Captain begg'd he'd half a biscuit take: 'Eat it, my boy, and mind what I shall say, 'I'm sure we shall have pepp'ring work to Day; 'And drink this Rum, for I'm apt to think 'We shall have more to do than eat and drink.' And he was right; in truth they soon did hear-- A sort of busy Hum came from the Rear. An Order from the General, to say, 'The Column was to move without delay.' John to his Captain stuck, but was perplex'd To think of what the deuce was coming next. Now for three hours they March'd with steady pace, Till they descended to the Mountain's base. The Column halted--stood in close Array; The Light Troops forward push'd to feel the way. The Muskets' prittle prattle soon commences, Along the Front, from Ditches, Walls, and Fences. Now, 'scaping from a distant patch of Smoke, Shells from the Frenchmen's Mortars round them broke. And now their Field-Guns at the Column aiming, Shot, after Shot, in peals of thunder coming. When John this skirmishing did first behold, He thought the Little Light bobs desperate bold. But when stray Bullets whistled by his Ear, John rather shrunk--but 'twas not done through fear; 'Twas his first trial, he could not disguise A natural impulse, taken by surprise. Now Bullets, Balls, and Shells around them flew, As to th' embattled Foe they nearer drew. Now to its Right the Column did incline,-- Gain'd its Position, forming into Line; With slow, but bold, intrepid pace, advance The Battle soon with death-like fury rag'd. John's mind, his Eye, his every thought engag'd. Around him Slaughter dwelt with ruthless Blow, And Heroes' blood did in sad torrents flow, When Johnny suddenly receiv'd command, He in his Captain's place should take his stand. Struck by the fragments of a Broken Shell, Fighting his country's cause, the Hero fell. Undaunted, undismayed, our gallant John Took the Command, and bravely led them on. And now by British valour close assail'd (For British valour every where prevail'd), Three piercing shouts their Hostile Bands invade, When desperately the British charge was made. O'erthrown, disorder'd, down their arms they threw, Whilst British Victors every where pursue. Thousands lay drench'd in gore upon the plain, Thousands led Captive in the Conqueror's train. The Battle o'er, the foe now put to flight, Chac'd by the Victors till the close of night. The Gallant Bands to neighbouring heights retire, In groupes collected, nestle round the Fire; The conflicts of the day by turns relate,-- Count o'er the slaughtered, and lament their fate. Stretch'd on the ground, they lay in sound repose, Nor rous'd from slumber, till the Sun arose. With melancholy zeal John bent his way To seek the spot where his brave Captain lay-- Fain would I stop, but truth I must impart, And spread a gloom o'er every British heart; As slow his searching eye survey'd the ground, Bestrew'd with Mangled Carcases around, He saw, when speechless, horror-struck he stood, The naked Body weltering in its Blood. 'Alas!' says John, with indignation heated, 'Is this the way a gallant Hero's treated?' And now the Body to the earth he gave, And with a friendly tear bedew'd the Grave. When Johnny did a Letter home Indite, To tell his mother all about the Fight. 'In few words I will contrive 'To let you know that I am safe alive. 'I know, dear Mother, it will give you joy-- 'The Colonel said, I was a gallant Boy. 'But truly, Mother, my poor pen can't tell 'How we were Pepper'd by the Shots and Shell. 'Poor Buckett too, you know, old Buckett's son, 'Was kill'd, and fell before we made them run. 'And now, dear Mother, I'm sure for joy you'll cry, 'To know who led his Soldiers to the charge? but I. 'Our glorious General too, he lives as hard 'But I've no time, though much I have to say, 'We're order'd to March off without delay. 'I don't know where to give you my direction, 'So give my loving Father my affection. 'We shall have Peace, and then go home again, 'So I most dutifully do remain, The Rations now arriv'd, each took his share, And eagerly devour'd the scanty Fare; And scanty Fare it was, consisting chief Of flinty Biscuit, tough, and stinking Beef, Tho' Teague's report at first made John look glum-- ''Tis only half allowance, and no Rum.' 'O Damn those Commissaries! what a disaster, 'They've brought us down, you see, to Lath & Plaster. 'But, "Vive la guerre," 'tis useless to repine.' So on they March, and in the pursuit join. Now rapidly they on the vanquish'd prest, Snatching at intervals a hasty rest. Day after Day, and frequently all Night, They speed to check the Frenchmen in their flight: When luckily for John, an order came To Halt--for John was wearied, & poor Dobbin lame. Close to Medina now their Stations took, Amidst the standing Barley, near a Brook. Knock'd up was John, his spirits quite forsook him, So to his Hospital the Doctor took him. 'Come cheer, my friend; come rally and be gay;-- 'I've got some Lads to Dine with me to-day.' John fain would rally, but was sick at heart; Though at the dinner tried to play his part. 'Come,' says the Doctor, 'here's Rum and Segars; 'This is the way we carry on our Wars. 'Here, smoke, my boy, I know 'twill do you good; 'And try this Country wine, 'twill cool your Blood.' John smoked, & drank, & drank, & smoked again, But nought upon his Stomach would remain. His head turn'd round--he tried to gain the door, But miss'd his mark, and sp--d upon the floor. 'O Ja--s,' says a lively Irish Blade, 'I ne'er before saw such a grand Cascade.' Holding his Nose, exclaim'd a chubbly Lad, 'Give me some Rum, or I shall be as bad.' 'True,' says a third, and winking as he spoke, 'Though well he stood the Fire, he can't the Smoke.' 'Aye,' says the Doctor, sagely, 'it a fact is, 'Tobacco fumes corrode for want of practice; 'Coming in contact with the Mesentery, 'Sickness produce, and sometimes Dysentery.' 'Aye,' says another, cramming up his Snuff, 'One at a time, the Cascade's quite enough.' 'Come, _Newcome_,' says the Doctor, 'once more try; 'Of this you'll get the better bye and bye.' But now against the wall, John held his head, And drawling out, 'Ah, no! I'm almost dead.' So, on a Blanket stretch'd, in wretched plight, And, parch'd with fever, groan'd away the Night. Next morn the Doctor came, his Friend to seek, And found poor Johnny, feverish, and weak. 'Ah! Sir,' says John, 'it is to me quite clear, 'That I'm a dead man, if they keep me here.' The Doctor felt his Pulse, and gave a shrug; The Constitution could not stand the Tug. 'Your health, poor _Newcome_, does so bad appear, 'That I shall send you straightways to the Rear. 'To Salamanca first, and when you're there, 'You will be ordered Home for change of Air. 'The Board of Surgeons will, I'm well assur'd, 'At once decide that here you can't be cured.' Next Morn, by times, John in a cart was laid, Follow'd by Teague, and to the Rear convey'd; Dragg'd in the midst of Donkies, Mules, and Carts, With sick, and wounded, Johnny now departs,-- Expos'd to jolting Roads, to Dust, and Heat-- Expos'd for hours, in some vile Road or Street; The livelong Day, no comfort, food, or rest, Waking all Night, by sad disease opprest: Around him anguish speaks in languid tones, And wounded Heroes, stifling in their groans. But from such dismal scenes I must refrain,-- The dreadfull retrospect gives only pain, As 'tis my wish, in this my humble measure, To give my gentle Reader only pleasure; Tho' in this story of one Vent'rous Youth, _I give the truth, and nothing but the truth._ At length to Salamanca John was taken, His mind afflicted; frame and body shaken. And once more Housed, in temporary dose, His worn-out, wearied Carcase sought repose, The Surgeons found, as Dissolution border'd, That he to England must straightways be order'd. By easy journies, (tho' estrang'd from ease), He once more travell'd in the land of Fleas. Onward was dragg'd o'er many a weary League, His only comfort left was honest Teague. Silent and sad he lay, and scarcely spoke, But '_Oh Patron, oh! sparum, sparum poke_. 'Oh, mind the Rascal, Teague, don't let him spill me; 'The horrid Brute I'm sure's resolv'd to kill me.' And, now when many a tedious Day had past, Half-dead at Lisbon, he arriv'd at last. His piteous case was now by Teague convey'd, And in due form before the General laid. A Fleet of Transports in the Tagus lay, And was to Sail for England the next day. The General kindly sent poor Johnny word-- A Birth was order'd; he might go on Board; With kind indulgence, and which did him honour, Permission gave that he might take O'Connor. Teague's honest joy now kindled in his heart, When from his Master he was not to part. 'He'd been his Friend, his Nurse, his Consolation; 'No braver Lad,' says Teague, 'lives in the Nation; 'I'll get him snug on Board, and then I think, 'I'll to my Friends, and to take a hearty drink.' Now John by Teague was safely stow'd on Board, And Teague got staggering drunk to keep his word. Next morn by times, to Johnny's great surprize, Teague had a broken Nose, and two Black Eyes. Teague thought by some excuse to make amends-- 'I _tuck_ a Drink, your Honour, with some Friends.' 'With Friends,' said John, 'no, Teague, you mean your Foes; 'The Devil's in't, if Friends would break your Nose.' 'Ah no, your Honour,' says Teague, ''twas Friends for _sartin_-- 'We drank like Friends, _but had a fight at parting_.' 'O! aye,' said John, 'you Paddies like a joke, 'So friendly-like, you took a parting Stroke.' Blue Peter hoisted, and the Wind was fair; John much refresh'd inhal'd the saline air. Stretch'd on the Deck, he oft did take his Station, His empty stomach offer'd no oblation: His wand'ring thoughts would retrospective cast, Dwelling on all the Scenes that he had pass'd; And fancy oft would pleasurably roam To his lov'd Parents, and his happy Home. Now passing Ushant from the Bay of Biscay, 'Don't I,' said Teague, 'smell Ireland & Whiskey?' 'Why, Teague,' said John, 'I think we're drawing near 'The coast of Ireland, that is called Cape Clear. 'Here, take the Spy-Glass--look with all your might.' 'I see't, by Ja--s, 'tis Clear out of sight.' As to the Northward now the Wind did veer, They trimm'd the Sails, and up the Channel steer; Smoothly they ran, and, by the Convoy led, They shortly cast their Anchor at Spithead. Tho' weak was John, and trembled at each joint, He took a Boat, and landed at the point; Popp'd Teague and Baggage in a Chaise and Four, And quickly travell'd to his Father's Door. The honest Grocer was in daily use, When he had din'd, to take a quiet snooze; Whilst his good Dame, whose anxious mind was fill'd With dread her dearest Johnny might be kill'd, Sat pensively, lamenting her sad case-- In burst her Son, and flew to her embrace: She sigh'd, she sobb'd, and press'd him to her breast, And all the Mother's fondest love exprest. The honest Grocer, waking in amaze, Rubbing his eyes, did on our Hero gaze,-- 'Why dang it now, do my old eyes tell true? 'Is it my boy,--dear Johnny, is it you? 'When did you come? how got you leave, my Boy? 'Zounds! I'm so glad, I can't contain my joy!' John now explain'd how England he did reach; Th' enraptur'd Parents hung upon his speech. His anxious Mother sadly now survey'd The alteration that disease had made; Saw his pale look, his sunk, and languid Eye, Then gently said (with a Maternal sigh), 'I see you're ill, my Son, with pain, and grief: 'What shall we do to give our John relief?' 'Ah, Dame! your slops and stuffs I see no good in-- 'Give him a belly-full of beef and pudding; 'The Boy's half-starv'd--o'drat that cursed Spain: 'Thank God! my child's come back alive again.' Our John 'tween Dad and Mother took a Chair, And now more tranquil grew the happy pair; Related what he'd seen, and how he felt When first in action he the powder smelt: Then prattled on until old Dad was yawning-- When tucked up by Mamma, he slept till morning. And now strange thoughts pervaded Johnny's brain,-- He'd seen enough of Fighting, and of Spain; So, after dinner, with his honest Sire, With good old Port, and near a blazing Fire, 'I think,' says John, 'Campaigning is no joke 'With us poor _Subs_, it only ends in smoke: 'For my own part, I've got a sort of notion, 'That I, by other means, may get Promotion.' 'How's that?' says Dad, 'dear Johnny don't be rash.' 'Father, I mean by interest, or by Cash.' 'O aye, my Son, aye, now I think I take you-- 'If Cash will do't, I'll soon a Colonel make you.' 'True, Sir,' says John; 'when the Gazette I read, 'There's many by that way I see succeed.' 'If that's your way,' again replies the Dad, 'I'll soon promote you, never fear my lad. 'I'll tell you what, dear John, since off you ran, 'A Banker I'm become, and Alderman: 'And what's still better, as you will agree, 'I represent the City, an M.P.' 'An M.P., dear Dad--that's devilish well, 'Campaign at Carlton House--is't that you say?' 'Aye, aye, dear Dad, you take me--that's the way. 'Who gets Promotion now? tell me who hears? 'Do the poor Subs who've fought so many Years? 'A Captain, now and then, may make a shift 'By some odd accident to get a lift. 'I know a man of whom 'tis truly said 'He bravely twice a Storming party led; 'And Volunteer'd both times--now here's the rub, '+The gallant fellow still remains a Sub+.' 'That's cruel hard, my boy, there is no doubt, 'Enough to break a heart, tho' e'er so stout; 'But never mind, +I've Cash at my Command+.' 'They've touch'd it somewhere. Eh! you understand.' 'If that's your Plan, gadzooks! I'll bet a wager 'I soon shall see you Captain! aye! and Major.' It was shocking to behold the number of dead bodies (chiefly of In the Portuguese language various meanings are attached to the It is a _general observation_, 'that One Campaign at St. James's Lieutenant Dyas, of 51st Light Regiment. Friends, Fashion, Fortune, will deceptive veer, Like fickle Seasons, in the varying Year. A sad it is, but melancholy Truth, How small, how slippery is the path of Youth: Many, no doubt, incautious, weak, and blind, Betraying want of prudence, want of mind, Impetuously advance, nor look before-- They unlamented sink--to rise no more: Others again, by observation guided, Step firmly on, determined, and decided; One solid Object steadily pursue, Nor e'er lose sight of what they have in view. Such was our Youth. If truly we him scan, He knew the World, and was a Worldly man; For deep intrigue, or artifice was fit, Endued with ample store of Mother wit: Apt was his mind, and his perception keen, To meditate on what he'd heard and seen. Tho' few years converse with the World he'd held, He saw how much by folly 'twas impell'd; Saw to their passions that Mankind were Slaves, The dupes to flattery, and the sport of Knaves; Saw exultation, which no art could smother, Greedy enjoy the downfall of each other; Saw honest poverty, by pride opprest, And worthless Scoundrels for their wealth carest; Saw titled Miscreants, to all feeling lost, Disgrace the noble Pedigree they boast; Saw Wealth and Honours shamefully misplac'd, Fortune's best gifts flagitiously disgrac'd: So much he saw--he found he could insure The Road to Wealth, and Honours quite secure. The first was in his grasp, he knew old John Was wond'rous rich, and he an only Son;-- And for the next, he could, some how, or other, Arrange that too, with aid of his good Mother. The Plan now laid, he open'd his approach, 'Mother,' says he, 'you ought to keep a Coach. 'In that, dear Mother, I should feel a pride.' (Johnny well knew his Mother's weakest side.) 'See Lady Jane Tobacco's gay Parade-- 'She drives about, tho' her good Man's in Trade.' 'Ah! my dear John, all this is very true,-- 'But how to manage it? what must I do?' 'O! as to that, I'll put it in a Train; 'You know, dear Mother, Dad's a little vain: 'So now between ourselves I will disclose 'A famous scheme, which I have to propose: 'Old Dad is rich enough, as you can tell-- 'He first must be, a Banker in Pall Mall; 'And having once, dear Mother, fixed him there, 'We'll have a Mansion in St. James's Square;-- 'Then at the Ministers old Dad shall set, 'To make a Lord of him, or Baronet: 'Then Lady _Newcome's_ Equipage so neat, 'With two smart Footmen rattling in the Street; 'And with your Routs, your grandeur to evince, 'Have half a score of Lords, and perhaps a Prince. 'What, tho' the great may exercise their wit, 'Themselves are Scions from some honest Cit! 'Then here again am I, whom no one knows, 'A Grocer's Son, among our City Beaux. 'I in the Wars who have obtained some credit.' 'It shall be done, dear John, and I have said it.' John's picture he so artfully had drest, Ambition's flame now kindled in her breast. It is an apt old adage, known of course, 'The Grey Mare often proves the better Horse.' Her end she gain'd; but how, I'm not to name, For many thrifty Wives have done the same. True to her text, the prudent Dame was right, Our honest Grocer soon was dubb'd a Knight; Soon in the West, establish'd in his Bank, My Lady too, which is not vastly rare, She had her Mansion in St. James's Square. Now Cards of invitation flew about, Sir John's gay Dinners, and my Lady's Rout. The Fashionable World would not decline To touch her Guineas, and to drink his Wine. Thus in gay Circles lavishly they sport, And Lady _Newcome_'s introduced at Court. John's turn now came to enter on the Stage; John had perceived how much on wealth depends; He was surrounded by an Host of Friends: His lively skiff on Fashion's surface floated, 'Twas but to ask, and Johnny was promoted. His Game in hand, so well he play'd his Cards, Renounc'd the Line, and glitter'd in the Guards; In fashion's sportive ring set all agoing-- Deep at Newmarket, and at Brookes's knowing. In love affairs John managed well his part, He had a golden rule to reach the heart. In the gay vortex now you see him dash, Lively, and volatile, but far from rash; Where dissipation led was always ready, But to his interest firm, and ever steady. Panting to shine in Military fame, For valourous Enterprize to get a Name, He with this feeling mingled with the bevy, And paid his humble duty at the Levee: He knew full well the miserable chance _Subs_ in the Line had ever to advance; He had strong claims to urge in his behalf, A Captain now, he look'd for Higher Rank, And knew th' influence of his Father's Bank. But all in vain, the odious Regulation That fix'd the time of service to each Station, His object check'd; altho' in his behest Sir John push'd forward all his interest. All would not do, nor interest, nor wealth, Nor all the wily stratagem of stealth, (Altho' no doubt there was much deep finesse By some employed, unknown to his Highness), Could move the Duke, who, to his applause, Would not infringe the Military Laws: 'If Captain _Newcome_'s ardour and his zeal 'Panted for Honour, or his Country's weal, 'The Road to all was evident and plain.' 'Why then,' says John, 'I'll to the Wars again. 'And so, dear Dad, go speak in my behalf, 'A word from you will get me on the Staff.' Sir John was proud to see his boy high-mettled, So made his Bow, and every thing was settled. 'Go then, my Son, rejoin that valiant Host, 'Led by Old England's pride, and Erin's boast; 'For him does every heart's best wishes flow, 'Who taught the Allies how to beat the Foe.' Now once more Johnny greets the Azure Main, Four gallant Chargers flourish in his Train; Canteens, with Plate, and Prog completely stor'd, To form an elegant and sumptuous board. A Valet, and two Grooms, his Route attends, Teague was gone dead, carousing with his Friends; For scarce was John well settled at his home, When Teague soon felt a secret wish to roam: Long'd for his Native Cot, his Country dear, So Friends, and Whiskey, finish'd his career. As now Sir John in the first Circle rolls, Important objects his great mind unfolds. The Ministers he counted as his own, And got a thumping portion of the Loan. The Livery now harangued with bold Oration, Extoll'd the prosperous credit of the Nation; The laughter, scoffs, and hisses could receive-- Sir John laugh'd too--but it was in his sleeve. Let him who loses laugh, in spite of dins, Laugh those that will, he'll surely laugh that wins. Tho' W--n, W--d, and Q--n would snarl and bite-- Sir John, like others, knew 'twas merely spite: With all their hustlings, hoaxings, and grimaces, They only bellow'd for a change of places. Patriots, no doubt a useful appellation, A treacherous Figure to mislead a Nation,-- Are flaming Patriots--if out of Place; No doubt 'tis useful in some way, or other, And serves one wily Rogue to oust his Brother. Sir John and Lady _Newcome_ now agree He should attend his Son down to the Sea. Sir John had mighty matters to relate About their present, and their future state; Much to consult about, much to advise-- Sir John had suddenly grown wond'rous wise; And Lady _Newcome's_ fashionable friends, For her dear Johnny's absence made amends. Now in a Chaise and Four they onwards travell'd, When thus Sir John his sentiments unravell'd: 'D'ye see, my Son, as it has been my fate 'I'm rich enough, no doubt, all that is true, 'But then the Minister--he knows who's who. 'Financial knowledge I'll not yield to Necker-- 'Full well they know my value at th' Exchequer. 'And you, my Son, I mean when next we meet, 'Shall at St. Stephen's Chapel take a Seat. 'In the mean time, dear John, it would be wise 'That you in every thing should scrutinize; 'Transmit your observations in a Note-- 'They may be useful by and bye, to quote; 'At present 'tis our plan, you will agree-- 'All's right and proper, we no fault must see: 'But, should a change take place, our Party out, 'We then shall see most diff'rently, no doubt. 'Let nothing, John, your observation pass, 'Purveyors, Commissaries, all that Class; 'As for the Staff, there's nothing now to blame, 'The Duke's wise measures have cut up that Game. 'In former Wars we heard of Depredation, 'A sort of Military Peculation, 'But now, indeed, 'tis quite a diff'rent story, 'They nought pursue but Honour, Fame, and Glory. 'And as in Arms Old England's proudly grown, 'The Honour, Fame, and Glory's all their own.' To this address John deep attention paid; There was much policy in what he said: For the advice, his gratitude exprest, And in his mind he treasur'd up the rest. Thus mutually on future prospects counting, They Portsmouth reach, and rattle to the Fountain. A Chaise and Four creates a famous bustle-- Landlords and Waiters 'gainst each other hustle. Obsequiously the Landlord bows the way-- Expensive work, for every Bow you pay. But more of that anon--all things arrang'd; The Dinner order'd, and apparel chang'd. John said, 'Dear Dad, we first must pay our Court 'To the great Naval Chieftain of the Port'; And slily whispering, 'It is my drift 'On board a Man-of-War to get a lift.' 'You must, my Boy; I fancy there are few come 'With so much wealth and power as Sir John _Newcome_.' The Admiral was civil and polite, And courteously receiv'd the worthy Knight. The Card announc'd his dignity full well, The Admiral grew sociable and free, And very much increas'd his courtesy. 'My Son, a Captain of the Guards, intends 'Once more in Portugal to see his Friends: 'I would not suffer him to take this trip, 'You know, dear Admiral, in a common Ship.' 'Oh, by no means, Sir John, I'm pleased, I own; 'A Frigate soon will sail; 'tis the Pomone. 'Your Son on board can go when he has leisure, 'Carteret I'm sure'll receive him with great pleasure; 'He'll find in him, you safely may depend, 'A thorough Seaman, Gentleman, and Friend.' Sir John express'd his hopes some future Day He might his kind civility repay. Should the good Admiral to Town repair, He hoped to see him in St. James's Square; Or should he some small object have in hand, His little interest was at his Command. The time now pass'd in viewing every Sight, The Dock-yards, Ramparts, and the Isle of Wight. Our Knight, to help his memory, now wrote His observations down, by way of Note. The Lines, and Ramparts his attention takes, } Then o'er the Dock-yard eagerly he pores, Surveys around the Barrels, Masts, and Stores. The Anchors, Rope-house, and the Piles of Staves; Note--'I'm sure these Fellows are a pack of Knaves. 'Sad Peculation here midst great and small, 'There's waste of Hemp enough to hang them all.' The Shoals of Vessels too, that lay in Ordinary, Our honest Knight considered most extraordinary. While of our Ships, the French did Prizes make, And at our Harbours' mouth our Vessels take. Note--'Something here was very much amiss; 'And were they not our _Friends_, should swing for this.' Not at this time a word he meant to say, But snugly kept it for some future Day. While Dad was gravely making each remark, John saw his Nags and Baggage safe embark; Saw the dexterity with which they whip The horse with Tackle safely in the Ship. So firmly managed, yet with so much care, Rais'd from the ground, suspended in the air, The astonish'd Animal without a check Is gently lower'd till he gains the Deck. John found the Knight, whose head now chiefly run On the sad way the Nation's work was done; When having Dined, and o'er the social Glass, He said--'Dear Boy, strange things may come to pass, ''Tis right, as now our Party has the sway, 'All must be right they do, and all they say. 'But, should the Minister get his dismission, 'Our Party then will be in Opposition; ''Tis then for us to Badger, and to vex 'em-- 'I've got some ticklers here, that will perplex 'em. 'Interest now tells us it would be absurd 'Of these vile Rogueries, to say a word, 'But if they oust us, then without a doubt 'Our bounden Duty is to tell it out; 'For should my Friends so shamefully be treated, 'I'll let the Nation know how it is cheated.' Next morn a Midshipman by times brought word That Captain _Newcome_ must repair on Board; The Captain's compliments, to let him know The Wind was fair, the Ship to Sea must go. The Knight his Son saw ready to depart, Affectionately press'd him to his heart: 'Adieu! dear Johnny! I shall be in pain 'Until I see you safe return again; 'Adieu! dear Son! my happiness enfold you, 'But pray remember all that I have told you: 'Write to me, John, whenever you are able, 'Disguise your meaning, wrap it up in Fable. 'You understand me, John'--then squeez'd his hand; John in the Boat was quickly row'd from Land-- Soon reach'd the Frigate, which without delay Her Topsails haul'd, and gently bore away. And now our Knight with solitary pace Did to the Fountain Inn his way retrace; Tired of himself, he there express'd his will-- 'To have his Chaise and Four, and have his Bill.' The bill produced; 'What's this I see? why Zounds! 'For three days' living, six and fifty pounds! 'Myself, and Son, two Servants, and no more-- 'A Bill like this I never saw before.' ''Twas true, Sir John, but _meat_, Sir John, was dear; 'It was, Sir John, a bad time of the Year.' 'Aye, aye, 'tis plain, egad! I see it now, 'You charge D----d dear, my friend, for every Bow.' In Carriage seated--paid; but swore he meant 'To lay the Bill before the Parliament.' To London went Post-haste, with thoughtful cares, Brisk was the Gale, with clear, uncloudy Weather; Brisk was John's heart, for he was in high Feather. His rising Prospects, as he looked around-- What limits now could his Ambition bound? In Fortune, Fashion, Rank, conspicuous shone, At Starting Posts, with Note-book, took his stand, Or, midst the gaping throng, drove Four in hand-- He'd gamed with Princes, drank with Duke and Peer, Was foremost in the Field in Leicestershire. All this, 'tis true, conspired to give a claim, A _Newcome_ Title to notorious Fame; And was, no doubt, most grateful to his Vanity-- Ardent he longed with gallant Hosts to Muster, And by Achievement gain a Warlike lustre. He wish'd 'mongst Heroes to be rank'd and known, An Emanation from himself alone. Alert and active, stretched is every Sail, To catch the impulse from the ready Gale; The Frigate glides with smooth and steady sweep O'er the wide surface of th' unfathomed Deep. In elegance and ease they pass'd each Day, The willing Breeze impell'd them on their Way. The Rock of Lisbon, towering in height-- St. Julian's Castle open'd to their Sight. With press of Sail the Tagus now explore, And Johnny greets the Lusitanian Shore. His thanks return'd for this most pleasant Trip, With glowing spirits soon he left the Ship. With all the Guardsman's Nonchalance and Grace, First to the Envoy's he directs his pace. A kind reception he should meet he knew, A Guardsman's Costume is, a _passe par tout_. Besides from People in the highest Station He'd Letters too of strongest commendation. The Envoy was a Man of shrewd discerning, Perused the Letters, said, in Friendly way, 'You'll make my House your home, Sir, while you stay; 'For you must know this Casa where I dwell, 'Is by the Quizzers called, the Guards' Hotel.' Our Hero thanked him for the Friendly offer-- It was a pleasing and a flattering proffer. Sir Charles possessed, with elegance and ease, The power of pleasing, and the will to please. Our John was pleas'd--such offers don't offend, A sumptuous Table, with a lively Friend. All this arranged, John thought it right he now Should on the General wait, and make his Bow; A Guardsman too, and strictly to his tether, Adhered to the Old adage, 'Birds of a Feather,' John, as a Guardsman soon had his _entre_, Greeted, and closeted without delay. For Men in power great etiquette observe (A necessary caution, and reserve), Not that I would insinuate that here There was more exercised than should appear. The General was obliging, courteous, kind, A Man of much urbanity of Mind; But, Guardsman like, as I have said before, Felt, as a Guardsman, the _Esprit du corps_. One observation I must introduce By way of hint, it perhaps may be of use; A grateful system by the Duke observ'd, That he who first arrives, the first is serv'd. An honour to his head and heart eternal, The Ensign's often seen before the Colonel. I'm warranted in this my Postulatum, For it, by general sanction, _est Probatum_. John seated, now did Anecdotes relate Who lost at Boodles--who supposed the winner-- In Fashionable life, who went astray-- Whose Daughter slipped--whose Wife had ran away; Who was the reigning beauty--who the Toast-- Who at a certain House now ruled the Roast; Whose gay Barouche was sporting in the Park-- What was become of W----l and Ma'am C----k; What Wolf in patriot clothing went disguis'd-- What Machinations 'gainst the State devis'd; Who of our Army systems made a Route-- Who talked of Things, which they knew nought about. The General listen'd, and enjoy'd the jokes (He'd herded too with Fashionable Folks); Shook Johnny by the hand, express'd his sorrow 'He was engaged to-day, but hoped to-morrow 'The Captain would at half-past five repair 'To meet some Friends, and take his homely Fare.' 'Twas late, but Johnny nicked it to a T, The Envoy's dinner hour was half-past Three. John heartily enjoy'd the good Repast, And Bumpers fill'd when e'er the Bottle pass'd. At Envoys' Tables, and some others, I think They give full time to Eat, but not to Drink. I know not that to Wine they have a loathing, Perhaps 'tis a custom, something like their Clothing: For I've observ'd at all their Routes and Balls Legation Gentry put on Reg'mentals. At early hour our Envoy did insist Our noble Captain should cut in at Whist Before he went to bed--he rose a Winner; Then with the General next day took his Dinner. By times in Morn, again he travell'd down To Belem, purposely to call on B----n. No change had driven from his grateful Mind The former conduct--gentle, mild, and kind; Nor Wealth, nor Grandeur could his heart controul, His was the impulse of an honest soul. 'Feeling!' could Johnny now expose that vulgar passion, 'Exploded, obsolete, so out of Fashion': But Johnny was not spoiled in that particular, Old Friends to meet erect, and Perpendicular; So flew with rapture to the Barrack-yard, To seek his former Chum, kind-hearted Ward. His hand thrust out, when his Friend he espies, With honest pleasure sparkling in his Eyes. 'How are you, Ward? by Jove, I'm glad to meet you; 'Give me your Fist--I with much pleasure greet you. 'How fat you're grown! I say, you lively Varlet, 'You're still a stickler for the bit of Scarlet. 'I'll tell you what it is, you D----d old Sinner, 'I purposely came down to Storm your Dinner-- 'Parade your Beef, my Boy, and don't be fine. 'I say, Friend Ward, how stands your stock of Wine?' Then whispered in his Ear, of Men in power; Dinners D----d fine, but Wine for half an Hour. Ward was delighted, charm'd, and gratified, To find Friend John, without a spark of pride; He thought his former Friends would off be thrown, When, for the Guards, he'd quitted the King's Own. 'And I,' said Ward, 'dear _Newcome_, for my part, 'Am glad to see you back, with all my heart. 'But come along--I do not boast variety, 'The poorest fare's a Feast with good Society. 'We will reverse the thing, for at my Treat, 'We'll drink like Fishes, tho' no Fish to eat. ''Tis thus we Soldiers live, it can't be worse, 'Always on Beef, and with an empty Purse.' 'Of honest Beef,' says John, 'pray don't speak slighting; ''Tis thought, you know, our stimulant to Fighting: 'Its loss to Britons is the worst of Evils-- 'Give them but Beef enough, they'll fight like Devils. 'But this I know,' says John, 'at our great Battle 'Our Commissaries really had no Cattle; 'And though our Lads had scarcely aught to Eat, 'The Enemy in famous style they Beat.' An Officer observed, 'Now where's the wonder? 'The hardy Vagabonds, smelt out the Plunder: 'I've seen the Rogues dash to the very Muzzle, 'Come, come,' says John, 'now that a mere pretence is, 'Tho' drunk the Foe, we Fight in sober senses. 'For if a Drunkard Fights, they can't do less to him-- 'First beat him, then get Drunk, Drinking success to him.' The Commandant now took up the debate: 'Our Troops no doubt at first were in sad state; 'All Ranks and all Departments were the same; 'The Chief harsh censures was obliged to frame: 'The way I estimate a British Soldier-- 'He's stouter than a Frenchman, and is bolder; 'But such a set of wanton idle Knaves! 'You're forced, by G--d! to treat them all like Slaves. 'It shocks one's nature, outrages one's feeling, 'Compell'd to use such rough and rigorous dealing.' 'Idle,' says one, 'see them on out-post planted, 'A cold and frosty Night, and firing wanted; 'Tho' merely for their comfort and their good, 'No man will Volunteer to fetch in wood. 'Orders I've given, and very often Rum for't-- 'You're forced to coax them, to consult their comfort. 'Look at the French; those active lively Elves 'Are always Devilish careful of themselves. 'John Bull will Fight, and take their Post by Storm, 'Then coolly round their Fires have a warm.' The Toast went round, & then with brimmers flowing, The Guests were getting wiser, and more knowing. 'Here come, my friends,' says Ward, 'each take your Potion, 'Here's to a speedy and a quick Promotion!' 'Aye,' says another, 'that's all mere derision; 'Promotion's one thing--give me the provision. 'What signifies the Rank; with truth I say, 'Some Generals have but half a pound a Day;-- 'High Rank no doubt is merely but a Cheat, 'Unless with it we something get to eat. 'Men who have interest rise, there is no doubt; 'The Rich get all--the poor Man goes without.' 'Merit,' says B--n, 'it is my fixed belief, 'Leads merely to Promotion with our Chief. 'Some instances, I candidly must own, 'That don't originate with Him alone. 'Others are oft indulged to recommend '(A small convenience to serve a Friend); 'And when for folly, interest makes a Push, 'The Chief assents, no doubt, but with a Blush.' 'Ah, well! some rise, we know, without _Achievance_. 'You know, Friend B--n, we've every one our Grievance. 'Come, push about the Glass, and drown Hostilities-- 'Men who have interest rise, D--n their Abilities.' 'True, honest Ward,' says John; 'I'm one I know it: 'Give us a Song, my Boy! a good one--go it!' Now Song and Glass, and Glee alternate roll, Reason now left it to the flow of Soul. At length, good Night! and John got in his Chaise; He'd not forgot the Feast of former Days. The Fleet arriv'd, his Equipage on Shore, As John considered purchasing a Bore. His Groom four Mules had bought, for he was heedful, With all the Tackle, every thing was needful. John took his leave, with all things in good plight, Dashed with his Suite, for Santarem that Night. It is certainly a gross imposition on the Public, but falls particularly heavy on the Naval and Military departments. The Officer whose gallantry took a praam in Boulogne Harbour, in A _true_ Bill. Many 'wise Men have come from the East,' of late Years. The custom was introduced by H.R.H. the Duke of York, and is as A similar system is observed at the Offices of the Adjutant and I am afraid I expose my ignorance in making this remark; but, as This has happened in a variety of instances; but particularly at The handsome addition of Pay to General Officers is highly I am but a poor Poet, and if I have taken the advantage in the In respect to the term Grievance, I conceive it does not require explanation in our Military classes. John lost no time, saw Guarda, and Almeida, Then rattled 'cross the Mountains to Freinada; In haste repaired to the great Chieftain's Hall, To give his Letters, and to make his Call. John enter'd in, and in that temper found him, Diffusing ease and pleasure all around him. 'Your ardour, _Newcome_, much deserves requiting, 'To leave St. James's Square and share our Fighting. 'Here, Aylmer! in next Orders let there be '_Newcome_'s appointment, extra A. D. C. 'Well, what's the fancy now, and what's the Hoax? 'Our list of broken heads may please the Folks? 'If we're successful, then 'tis mighty well; 'If not--by God! they send us all to Hell.' 'Why, true, my Lord!' says John, 'it is well known 'That any small reverse will cast them down; 'But by success crown'd, our City Stumpers 'Will, with their Venison, swallow us in Bumpers. 'To talk of War, and Blood, no doubt is fine 'In a whole Skin--and that Skin full of Wine.' 'Why don't they hand us out their Goods & Chattles? 'We should with much more pleasure Fight their Battles. 'But, as it is, I trust the next Campaign 'I shall drive all the Rascals out of Spain. '_Newcome_, remember you're attached to me: 'Good Morning now--you'll find your way at Three.' Thus spoke the Noble Chief; in whom combin'd A sportive fancy, an immortal Mind-- Who Pomp repell'd, and Pageantry of Show, And scorn'd the Homage, which from thence did flow; Simply attir'd, he sought th' embattled Plain, } This was an Honour rather unexpected, And John's acknowledgments were not neglected. Congratulations flowed from all around-- Such follows favour, whensoe'er it's found. What ever Way he did his Footsteps bend, Johnny was sure to meet a hearty Friend. I'm High in Luck, such Friendships do accrue me-- 'But when I was Sub, why no one knew me.' For John full well knew where the secret lay-- Those were the Friendships of a Prosperous Day. Prosperity, like Poverty, you'll find. Holds a strange influence o'er the Human Mind. On Memory's Compass are so adverse set, Remember, and, Remember to forget. John knew his Friends, & at what price he bought 'em, So nods, and How d'ye's, gave to all that sought 'em. Now smiling Spring (such are Poetic Styles) Saluted John with her effulgent Smiles: This led him to commence his Operations, To make, as Dad advised, his Observations. Though for an A. D. C. the Chief did take him, Neither his sense, or judgment did forsake him. When his Bucephoelus he got astride 'Twas for more purposes than merely ride; Something picks up, which ever way he Steers, Making a proper use of Eyes, and Ears. Some Men have Eyes, and Ears, and yet you find They merely see the Day, and hear the Wind; But ask them, and 'tis plain they do not know What causes Light of Day, or Wind to Blow. John was a famous Horseman, and oft went With various Orders, by the Chieftain sent; Eager, and bold, he round the Country rode, True cut of Leicestershire, and Cattle good. At various times, with various Parties mixt, On different Objects his attention fixt; Saw all the Stations in his varying Courses, Artillery, Hospitals, Forage-yards, and Stores, Made it his Business, took much pains and care To ascertain the State in which each were: Dined with the Great, and mingled with their Minions, Treasur'd their observations, and opinions. As in the World those know each other best Where much familiarity's the Test, A shallow Rogue may secret up a Comment, Or free expression of unguarded Moment; But urged by vanity, he can't be Mute, And blabs to shew he's Clever and Acute. Then wiser Folks, with very little Pains, Will undermine his Head, and pick his Brains. John angled well, and to his fullest Wish, Lured with the small, and took the largest Fish: Nor slacked his search, nor object did forget, 'Till with rich Stores he'd fairly fill'd his Net. Sir John had often made a resolution, To speechify about the Constitution. He with the Livery stood in some repute, 'That there's,' 'as how's,' 'd'ye see's,' did just them suit. And then each day in Speech he bolder grew, And 'midst their Broils, shoved in a word, or two. But in the House, when he to speak arose, And would the labours of his mind disclose, When all was silent, every Muzzle Mum-- He could not make a Speech--who made a Plum. But Johnny's turn had kindled fresh his hopes, He'd now in Figures flourish, and in Tropes. This secret in his heart he'd closely pent; This it was led him wholly to consent, When John express'd his ardent wish again To join Lord Wellington the next Campaign; This led him all his influence to use, That John might go, to send him Home the News; This led to giving John his strict directions To bid him earnestly take special care To see the Troops, and write him what they were: Meaning on this to make a grand Oration, Both to astonish, and amaze the Nation. His adverse system too had not forgot-- His Speech should hit like double-headed Shot. If seated snugly on the Treasury Bench, 'This mighty Force,' yet did his friends _Retrench_; But if on t' other side he took his Post, 'This mighty Force,' _th' enormous sums it Cost_. He culled high-sounding words too, for th' occasion, Yet poor Sir John, tho' much he'd heard, and read, Felt still aware how treacherous was his Head; Tho' yet he laboured like a Brewer's Dray-Horse, 'Twas but to Bother, and increase the Chaos. Tho' battled hard some fixt idea to gain, No, not one particle would ere remain. A sudden brilliant thought, just then occurred, Which to accomplish he'd not be deterred. Then anxious on this darling object bent, Thus reinforc'd, he'd take up his Position-- Johnny could give him Stores of Ammunition, And if deserted by his treacherous Mind, Johnny might snugly prompt him from behind. Our Knight now with redundancy of Joy His thoughts communicated to his Boy, In haste indites a Letter to Sir John, Explaining every thing he would have done; Hoped with his aid, his object he'd complete-- Wished him all happiness in his new Seat. 'Write, my dear John, as often as you can, 'But as we're circumstanced, pursue this Plan,-- 'The prying Folks my object now to pose is, 'So frame your Letter in a metamorphosis. 'One Letter you can straight direct to me-- 'Another send to Ludgate, as the Key. 'That by this means we shall our secret smother, 'One can't be understood, without the other.' 'Twas odd enough that Johnny in his mind Was working at a plan of similar kind. Dad's welcome News his spirits did elate, New hopes were busy in his sanguine breast, Perhaps by th' Speaker he might be addrest. Should he by chance some Gallant deed Achieve, He might th' Honourable Speaker's thanks receive. 'Twas usual that, when Heroes took their Seat, A flowery flow of grateful thanks to meet. Whate'er John thought, he'd not point out a Flaw, The Speaker surely'd not offend the Law. Tho' often just--it flatter'd each one's Vanity. Now in true earnest set about his Task, Followed old Dad's advice and took the Mask. He knew in Martial Life that Truth no jest is, Their Courts of Honour were their Courts of Justice. He would, if possible, the Truth relate, Devoid of malice, naught extenuate. Dad would his secret keep, he could depend; As for himself, he meant not to offend: But should perchance his secret be let out, 'Twas a mere Bagatelle to laugh about. Should he in Metaphoric style transpose Men into Beasts, or Parsons into Crows-- Those who could be displeased he should disarm, His was mere trifling, really meant no harm; If, tho' in his delineation free, It would be seen, 'twas mere necessity. At length his ardent object to pursue, A Schedule of his means he briefly drew, All that had come within his observation, And thus proceeded on with his Narration. 'By way of Introduction, you must know, 'It was, I think, but a few Years ago 'The Widow's intellects here were at a stand; 'Her Son then took to Farming of the Land. 'If there's bad management, it always shows, ''Twas out of Heart, and overrun with Crows. 'Such a D----n'd flight of Crows did shocking harm-- 'A few, we know, are useful to a Farm. 'The Squire, 'tis said, did naught but Eat, & Pray, 'Fearing his precious Soul might go astray. 'The Farm tho' bad, and in such piteous case, 'Was situated in a lovely Place. 'The Air was charming, and the Soil was sound-- 'No wonder Neighbours hanker'd for the Ground. 'So Foreign Ants, and Locusts left their Station, 'With other Vermin from a distant Nation, 'Advanced in Hosts, and soon without controul, 'With little trouble occupied the whole. 'Fled to a Ship, the Squire the Canvas fills, 'But he, before he boldly ventured forth, 'Trusting he would without delay determine 'To send some clever Chap to kill the Vermin: 'When that was done, he should return again, 'And so his loving Cousin did remain. 'The honest Man to whom he sent his Letter, 'A wealthy Farmer was, none could be better; 'He'd famous Implements, and famous Stock, 'And truly was a Father to his Flock. 'Were all well chosen, capitally good: 'His Stock at times with wild vagaries tired him, 'But in their hearts they honour'd and admir'd him; 'One here and there would not from mischief keep-- 'You find in every Flock, a few bad Sheep. 'This Letter gave the Farmer much alarm-- ''Twas like enough they might infest his Farm. 'He'd send a Shepherd, who with little labour, 'Should clear the Lands of his poor frighten'd neighbour. 'So sent a Stock best suited for the Soil, 'Led by a Shepherd from a Neighbouring Isle; 'Who wisely at the first a footing got, 'Then drove the Vermin from around that Spot; 'Would, as 'tis said, completed soon the job,-- 'Spite, like a Thief, did from his Laurels rob. 'Two elder Shepherds came--and what was hard, 'With their D----n'd nonsense all his projects mar'd. 'If they were sent his active powers to fetter, 'Of those who did it, less that's said the better. 'Ere since that time he's toil'd both Night and Day, 'And from this Farm the Vermin clear'd away. 'Pre-eminently now he stands alone, 'Lov'd, and obey'd by all as Chief Patrone; 'In manners easy, wonderful in Mind, 'Jocose, familiar with the humblest Hind. 'But that's so wisely temper'd, so superior, 'Commanding due respect from each Inferior. 'His Shepherds tho' have caused him much anxiety, 'Such numbers sent from Home, and such variety; 'Some from all Countries, German, Irish, British-- 'Some staid enough, but many Cursed skittish: 'Many from Envy--rancorous, and jealous, 'Esteem'd themselves most mighty clever Fellows, 'Would mar the Scheme that he'd so ably planned, 'Had he not held them with a steady Hand. 'Some swore he always studied to insult them, 'There peep'd the Cloven foot--he'd not consult them. 'He wisely judged, and smiled at the attack-- 'He knew the whole concern was on his Back: 'Had things gone wrong, he knew so well their trim, 'Done what he would, they'd shoved the Blame on Him. 'Lots of Young Shepherds came, and it a fact is, 'Some Prudence wanted, but all wanted Practice. 'So proud to tend a Flock, they'd scorn denial, 'The Patron therefore took them all on Trial: 'Kept those with him he thought most apt to learn, 'The others recommended to return. 'Now, my good Friend, 'tis thus the matter stands, 'No farmer can produce more able Hands. 'One more Patron also, there will be found 'Who Farms exclusively this Bit of Ground. 'Of him I cannot speak, I know him not, 'You'll get his Character from Walter Scott: 'Of his pretensions I am in the Dark, 'But Folks pronounce him a D----n'd lucky Spark. 'That wond'rous Poet's praise I can't him grudge, 'As Mr. Scott must be a better judge. 'A largish Family our Chief attends, 'Two, or three Shepherds, he retains his Friends. 'One that inspects the Roads, the Lands Survey, } 'Corrects the Bills, and adds up the Amounts: 'A third, his Private matters does indite,-- 'They're both extremely Clever, and Polite. 'Then he's a numerous Gang of Shepherd Boys, 'Some go on errands, others kept as Toys. 'One Youth amidst this lively Group appears, 'Victim to Miscreants in his early Years, 'Nobly came forth to act an humble part, 'T' obtain a knowledge of the Farming Art: 'Fearless encounters Danger and Disaster, 'To be the Pupil of so great a Master. 'A Youth like him to every virtue prone, 'Britannia's lovely Gem must make her own. 'Then shoals of Salesmen, travelling in all Weathers, 'You know them by their Spur, long Swords, and Feathers. 'Smuggling, 'tis said, is grown to such a Pitch, 'That all these Feather'd Rogues are getting Rich. 'But Folks say any thing for the sake of chatter-- 'I don't believe a word about the matter: 'If in their course of Duty, and Employment, 'A Hare pick up, by way of some enjoyment, 'That's quite enough to give the Rogues a Name-- '"See, these D----n'd Salesmen! why, they live on Game!" 'Then here's a swarm of Butchers, great and small, 'Some for the Carcase, others for the Stall. 'One Master Butcher o'er the rest presides, 'And with the Patron usually resides: 'Distributed among each Flock and Pen. ''Tis wisely done to have them on the Spot, 'To keep them free from Murrain, and the Rot: 'Dexterous they are, and in their judgment sound, 'To amputate a Limb, and cure a Wound. 'Our Worthy, good Patron, with grief it fills 'To send the Farmer Home their Monstrous Bills. 'Much as he likes the Chase--it does him shock 'To see so many worried of his Flock. 'In their Profession admirably skilled; 'That Arm, no doubt, could not be better filled. 'Skilful as they extract, and Bleed, and Cup, 'I hope my worthy Friends won't Cut me up. 'Our Patron too, has got a Lot of Dogs 'To clear the Woods and Fences, Fields and Bogs: 'They're chiefly Pointers, but of various sorts-- 'Some Guard the Flocks, others for Field Sports. 'They're wond'rous docile, so well Broke, and Tame, 'Whene'er they point, they're certain of their Game. 'Many attach'd to Herds--but all have Marks, 'The Deep-toned, Wide-mouth'd ones are kept in Parks. 'Steady, and staunch, whene'er the Huntsman calls, 'They follow up the Game, nor heed Stone Walls. 'The Master Huntsman is a Man well known 'To be in favour with the great Patron. 'And then his underlings of every sort, 'Are Keen, and able Fellows for the Sport. 'Added to these, should Flocks or Herds run riot, 'There's Whippers-in enough to keep them quiet. 'The various Stock is parcelled with precision, 'So many Herds are put in each Division. 'Distinguished are by Marks upon their Coats. 'The Mules are in one Drove, and altogether, 'They're chiefly Stalled, or fastened to a Tether: 'Tho' famous Animals, it does appear 'They rather wildish ran the latter Year; 'Their Grooms were careless, so 'tis given out, 'Or knew not, really, what they were about. 'The Mules, it seems, were after Forage lurking, 'And so, to fill their Paunch, avoided working, 'I'll only this observe, as all is past, 'It was a general fault, from first to last. 'A few pick'd Shepherds too, 'tis fair to Name, 'Tho' all are good, not good alike the same. 'The First who stands upon our Patron's Book 'For Foreign Parts, he early Home forsook-- 'Good-humoured, gay, yet one can well descry 'There's much intelligence marked in his Eye; 'He's oft detached with largish Flocks, and Droves 'To take advantage of the neighbouring Groves: 'I have not room his qualities to tell, 'He does his business, and he does it well; 'From sturdy Stem of Shropshire he's a Limb, 'The proud Salopians may be proud of Him. 'Then there's a rich old Shepherd, fra' the North, 'A braver Man ne'er stept on this side Forth. 'Tho' master of a Farm, and oldish grown, 'He slighted all to serve with our Patron; 'Lively, and brisk, and, tho' good-temper'd, rough-- 'Scott's praise of Him is scarcely praise enough. 'Here's too a gaudy Shepherd, come from Cheshire, 'Much like the rest I think, but rather fresher. 'The little I shall say needs no apology, 'The Speaker has, I know, pronounc'd his Eulogy. 'He manages the Mules, mark'd Red and Blue, 'Doing it well, he has enough to do. 'Then there's another Roister, also, fra' the North, 'And like his Countryman, as High in worth; 'I know him well, and my opinion's such, 'Say what I will, I cannot say too much. 'With Southern Farmers, this may cause a Smile, 'The Scots are Farmers in superior Style. 'Another Shepherd also in request 'Is very justly placed amongst the Best; 'Ardent, and Brave, for Glory does aspire, 'And such a sentiment one must admire. 'If any trifling fault we to him lay, 'He's anxious over-much--for so they say. 'Here's a brisk Irish Lad too, Devil a better, 'Who at the Vermin is a rattling Setter; 'Connected with the great Patron, 'tis true, 'But his Abilities will bear him through. 'Fain would I now describe in Epigram 'A bold descendant of Sir David Gam. 'Connected to this Taffy blood, we find 'A noble Soul, and an expansive Mind; 'In Fields of Glory he such progress made, 'His Laurels now afford him ample Shade. 'Another too, a lively Irish Fellow, 'Time, perhaps, may soften down, and render mellow; 'Impetuous by Nature, often Rash, 'But Stout, and Sturdy, famous at a Dash. 'And one more fra' the North, that I must mention, 'Who's influenc'd no doubt by just intention; 'For Zeal, and Ardour he to none may yield, 'And thought an active Fellow in the Field. 'One more I'll mention, as I think it fair, 'That where there's merit, it should have its share; 'Liked by his charge, from Herdsman to the Peasant. 'There's Lots of others too, most Gallant Spirits, 'Volumes would not do justice to their merits; 'Suffice it must to say, their Country's weal 'Can never be sustain'd by nobler Zeal. 'I'll now describe how is arrang'd the Stock, 'The distribution of each Herd, and Flock: 'A Master Shepherd is attach'd to each, 'The whole to manage, ignorant to teach. 'A Junior to each Flock, Clerk, Surveyor, 'A Whipper-in also, to catch the Strayer,-- 'Herdsmen and Salesmen--perhaps two Dogs or more, 'To scare away the Vermin with their Roar; 'These, well dispos'd, and parcell'd o'er the Land, 'At once pourtrays the able Master's Hand. 'All are so excellent, and in such Heart, 'Thirsting for Glory, panting for the Start. 'Some Flocks there are, the produce of those Lands, 'Whose Shepherds were not reckon'd able Hands: ''Twas evident their Stock should be new moulded, 'And under skilful Hands, fresh Penn'd, and Folded. 'An Irish Shepherd, now a Patron named, 'Who for Interior management was famed, 'Was bid to put, and in good order keep, 'This Lot of loose, disorder'd, scurvy Sheep. 'It was an arduous job, with danger fraught, 'And justly so describ'd by Mr. Scott. 'But, ere he could this business undertake, 'Some Shepherds, Herdsmen, Hinds, was forced to make, 'Many from Britain, most from Ireland chose, 'Interest, they say, in this did interpose. 'There's something always blameable appears, 'Whate'er's the job, where interest interferes; 'But in this case, amongst the Numbers sent, 'Saving a Few, the rest were excellent,-- 'Who by their Skill, and active perseverance, 'Soon gave the Flocks a different appearance,-- 'And in small Herds, now Brousing with the rest, 'Are estimated as the Second best. 'Their Herdsmen too, once ignorant no doubt, 'Seem now to understand what they're about. 'There's also come, I'm told, some Fam'd Borachios, 'With shortish Tails, but monstrous large Mustachios; 'One really would suppose, from their D----d braying, 'No Vermin in the Country dare be staying. 'They're wondrous favourites with the Squire, I've heard,-- 'Some think their Trappings foolish, and absurd. 'Their Herdsman too, tho' he so often blunders, 'At home has got the Name for doing wonders. 'Be that as't may--tho' this Drove came the latest, 'They're much the finest Asses, and the Greatest: 'But really I do think, when forward Straying, 'They'll in a Gallant Style make good their Braying. 'From Lisbon, also, on the Road to join, 'Is a prime Lot of Large, and Royal Swine; 'They're no great Favourites with the Farmer's Heir, 'And that He'd sell them all did oft declare. 'He's of a different turn, and rests his Basis 'On rearing up a famous Breed of Asses. 'As for these Swine, I'm told they're large, and good, 'At first were much averse to foreign Food. 'Such a wild Row was kick'd up by the Brutes, ''Twas all dismay, disasters, and disputes: 'As for dismay each bristled up his Chine, 'Grunted for finest Wheat, and then for Wine, 'Then for disaster, their Swineherds pretend, 'They chose to Roam, refused to be close Penn'd. 'Disputes they had, no doubt, one with another, 'The Swine, and Swineherds grunted at each other. 'No wonder that these Animals play'd tricks, 'Their Senior Swineherds all, they say, are Sticks. 'A drove from Oxford too, are with the rest, 'And judges say, are much by far the Best. 'Loose as they are, the Patron has no doubt, 'Bold as the best, they'll route the Vermin out. 'I've now to tell you, that in all Directions 'Dry Forage is amassed in vast Collections, 'That when by heat, or cold the Grass is dead, ''Tis from these Stores the Flocks & Droves are fed. 'Warerooms of Medicine, kept with the intent 'To cure those Sick, or hurt by accident. 'In short, my Friend, without exaggeration, 'The whole reflects much credit on the Nation. 'A nobler Stock, more healthy and complete, 'Travel where'er you will, you'll scarcely meet. 'No doubt Material has been well supplied; 'But in your judgment you will soon decide, 'That raw Materials, spoil without the aid 'Of Workmen highly eminent in Trade,-- 'So, the perfection of this Stock alone 'Springs from the genius of our great Patron.' 'One word, or two I merely wish to say, 'A trifling circumstance, about the Pay: 'If an Artificer a Work engages, 'He contracts to receive a certain Wages; 'If that's withheld, he strikes--but here 'tis clear, 'Our's daily strike, tho' paid but once a Year. 'They only Strike, 'tis true; but when we need 'em, 'Then not for Lucre, but their Country's freedom. 'Grumble they don't, but yet it would be best, 'To have, no doubt, some little in the Chest.' John having thus transcrib'd all he'd Collected, The Letter sent, as honest Dad directed. The Summer Solstice did with strides advance-- The Chief jocosely said, 'Prepare for France,' The joke passed on, but yet it will appear, There was more meaning lurk'd than met the Ear. His wond'rous projects now might be effected, Success must crown where'er his power directed. Tho' in Field-sports he join'd for recreation His Nobler pursuits kept in reservation. A Gallant Army, in the finest state, Panting for glory, did his nod await. The toils, and labours of the late Campaigns, His great exertions, all his cares, and Pains, Were well repaid--for now he could fulfil The boldest object of his Mighty Will. Now busy rumour of anticipation Whispers the general movement from each Station. And now the Staff, with air of consequence, A question cannot solve on no pretence-- 'When do we move? you know; come, tell us, pray.' You move him not--he gravely moves away; His chill reserve, his cold repulsive mien, But hides the mighty nothings of his brain. 'Here, _Newcome_'s in the secret; he will tell us.' 'No, D--n me if I can, my honest Fellows. 'I'll tell you what, my Boys, 'tis my belief, 'There's no one in the secret but our Chief, 'The advantages of secresy he knows, 'No one can tell, what no one can disclose.' As for John's part, whether 'twere False, or True, He freely told the trifle that he knew; It was a littleness he did despise, The poor conceit of being suspected Wise; But with the World he saw, that was the rule, The resource, and refuge, of each Fool. 'Twas now the middle of the Month of May, When o'er the Hills the Warlike Hosts display-- The Colours waving in the flitting Wind, The lengthened Columns tailing far behind. Now the steep Mountain-cliff their steps assail, Again descending, Wind into the Vale. The undulating Columns o'er the Plain Proclaim a Host in motion once again. Fain would my Muse depict the Warlike scenery, The awful Grandeur of the vast Machinery; Fain make familiar to imagination Th' effect of moving War by combination; Fain teach unletter'd Minds to understand, The nice cohesion of the Warlike band-- With diffidence, this object to obtain, I'll try the subject in my humble Strain. Full Eighty thousand Men, in partial Bands, Extending wide in Quarters o'er the Lands; All well equipp'd, by Winter's preparation, In order most complete to quit each Station. Cheerful, Repose, and Luxury they yield, Following their Mighty Chieftain to the Field; And thus in part the Warlike arts display'd This numerous force, so skilfully array'd. In various Bodies, Marching to one Point, Communication kept, and no disjoint; Parallel move--so uniformly Led, None deviate, no Column shoots a-head. So well preserve the distance from each other, Contiguous Columns flanking one another. Day, after Day, this rigidly maintain O'er the rude Mountain, or extended Plain. Then Glittering Herds of Cavalry appear, So form'd, so organiz'd, this Mighty Host, All know their Station, every Man his Post. Can ought be seen more wond'rous, more Sublime, This great Machine in motion at one time; So well dispos'd, and all so closely cling, Receiving impulse from one active Spring? 'Twas thus our Army open'd the Campaign, And Lusitania left, to burst on Spain. Thus our great Captain led his gallant Band, O'er the wide Plains of Leon's fertile Land; Directed by Gazon, and great King Joe, Spread o'er the Country round, in varied Route, Bewilder'd in perplexity, and doubt: When t'wards the South their eager looks addrest, The Allied Troops surpriz'd them from the West; With all their Force array'd on Douro's Bank, Our skilful Hero took them on the Flank; From Salamanca bravely chased them forth, And drove them in dismay towards the North. Burgos blown up, Pencorva forc'd to yield, Nor check'd their flight 'till reach'd Vittoria's Field. Whilst o'er the Mountains, Bands of Spaniards prowl, With little order, and with less controul; While desolation o'er their Country spread, The High-toned Blood, the Warlike soul was fled; Whate'er the Cause, the Motive, or the Reason, Whilst Hosts on Hosts did in succession grow, Judge from events, they merely were for Show; With other Troops they hold no sort of Rivalry, Cervantes quizz'd them out of all the Chivalry. Now all the Gallic force suspends its Flight, Joe, and Gazon had check'd its volitation, And in array the Army round it Station. Both Imbecile, and Vain, they treat with slight The Hero and his Troops who'd caus'd their Flight. Puff'd with conceit, they Espionage neglected, So got a visit, sooner than expected. Tho' he in Leon had their minds astonish'd, Joe, and his Chum were not to be admonish'd. For Joe was heard amidst his Dames to say, 'That our great Lord should Dine with him that Day. 'And when he had prepar'd Ragouts and Soups, 'He'd take the noble Lord, and Route his Troops.' Forgetting he'd to deal with one so arch, Who on the Vaunter neatly stole a March. Then reconnoitring how they were dispos'd, To all his Generals his mind disclos'd-- The one great object, anxious to obtain, 'To drive the Rascals fairly out of Spain.' On twenty-first of June, made Disposition To force the Enemy from their Position. Full Sixty thousand Men, arrang'd in Sight (But more inclin'd, I think, to run than Fight), Tho' seeming bent his progress to dispute, Receiv'd his Visit with a grand Salute. First on our right the great, the gallant Hill, Obedient to our noble Chieftain's will, The Enemy, tho' strongly posted found, Their Left drove in--they quickly left the Ground. Dalhousie, Picton, then the conflict enter, Intrepidly advance against the Centre: This forc'd, they hastily commenced the flight, For Graham, boldly press'd upon their Right. Tho' Cannon, Mortars, play'd from every part Sufficient to appal the bravest heart-- Tho' show'rs of Bullets whizzing from each Spot (The French are rather partial to long Shot), Not for one moment check'd them on their Way; But Slow and Firm, progressively they move, And from each Post, the Hostile miscreants Drove. In vain th' embattl'd Foe, with Warlike Band, Bristled with Cannon, could the Charge withstand. Slaughter, and Death, on every side they meet, And only find their safety in Retreat. The fact was this, the Fellows ran away, Commenc'd their Flight so early in the Day; In haste the Road to Pampeluna took, And Ladies, Baggage, Cannon, all forsook; Fighting gave up, and had recourse to Cunning-- They're sure to beat us if it comes to Running. This I've observ'd, whene'er we Battle make, We overcome, but seldom overtake. And tho' our Gallant Cavalry would fain Have shar'd the Glory of th' ensanguin'd Plain, Their anxious wishes could not be effected, 'Twas so by Ditches, and Ravines, protected. Joe, and Gazon, as Generals, must be scouted-- First out Manoeuvred, then completely Routed. But of their Conduct, what we most upbraid is, They wanted Courage to protect their Ladies. Secure themselves, the Devil take the hindmost, And now it was the Hussars got their share, Not of their Gallantry I would speak slighting, No Troops, I'm sure, can beat them at fair Fighting. This was the Day on which our Gallant John Would crown his Fame, as he had told upon: Being by Order of his Chief dispatch'd-- Bent on his purpose, he th' occasion watch'd; Eager in search of Glory, and Renown, Dash'd, with some Hussars, boldly into Town. Joe, who had heard of the Hussars' approach, Had with his Ladies hustled to his Coach; There, finding they were close upon his Back, Quickly bounc'd out, and jump'd upon a Hack; In wild disorder, and in strange dismay, Spurr'd thro' the Crowd, in hopes to steal away. Our Hero, in mean time, dash'd to and fro, By accident o'ertook poor scampering Joe-- And with his Sabre lent him such a Lick, 'Twas lucky that poor Joe's skull was Thick, Who, to avoid the Blow, was stooping down-- The Sabre from his Hat, cut off the Crown. Whilst hapless Joe, escaping, tho' full sad, He'd lost that Day the only Crown he had, But felt consol'd, when at a distance fled, His Crown had lost, but still had got his Head. John, in the bustle, thought Joe's Head had tumbled, And 'mongst the Ladies furbelows was jumbled. The poor Madames, arrested in their flight, Were sprawling in the Street, in woeful plight-- Screaming, and fainting, prostrate sought protection, 'Midst Hussars pillaging in all direction, Such struggling, rifling, squeezing, 'mongst the Folks, When John, in eager search, fell oddly flat on Madame Gazon, with Marshal Jourdon's Baton; This charming Woman, tho' a General's Wife, Would much give up, in hopes to save her Life; And tho' a careful Guardian of her honour, Freely resign'd whate'er John found upon her. Who rais'd the fair, and saw where she had sat, Not Joey's Head, 'tis true, but bit of Hat. John, who had long on Glory anxious bent, This Day succeeded to his heart's content: Honour, renown, he fairly now bespoke, For this Day's job had been a lucky Stroke. Joe's Head was gone, no doubt--but what of that? He'd got the Baton, and the bit of Hat; So from the noise, and tumult in the Street, He led the lovely Lady, and her Suite; And in full hopes by politesse to win her, Gave Her poor Joey's Bed, and Joey's Dinner. The Battle o'er, the French to flight resign'd 'em, } Whilst I of other matters shall relate. The Victory gain'd, the Chieftain sought repose, When John in modest accents did disclose His great exploits, the wond'rous Feats he'd done-- The Trophies that he had so nobly won. The Chief, astonish'd, look'd with much amaze on The noble Chief in contemplation Sat, Admir'd the Dame, and archly touch'd the Hat: Tho' at her charms in secret look'd askance, He, great, like Scipio, sent her back to France. And then, his humble duty to evince, Would send the Hat, and Baton, to the Prince. The Baton would be, in his Country's Eyes, Deem'd both a noble, and a glorious Prize; And, p'rhaps, in spite of rumour, and of Chat, Some Folks might like a bit of Royal Hat. '_Newcome_ should have the honour to present, 'Relate of Cannon taken, and the Pelf, 'The Victory would best explain itself.' And now, almost as quick as I can tell, John found himself once more in dear Pall Mall. But, as he'd not from usual custom vary, In Chaise and Four, called on the Secretary. The Minister, with admiration struck, Soon advertised his Friends of their good Luck; This Victory, with all its consequences, Would seat them firmly on the Treasury Benches. Read the Dispatch--wrote off to the Lord Mayor, Who to the Cits should the great News declare; And they, Rich, Lusty Rogues, without alloy, As usual, Ate and Drank, to shew their joy. And now what hearty peals of exclamation, What Cannon firing, and what Conflagration; Such shouts, such grinning, 'mongst all Ranks of Men, You'd thought they ne'er would shut their mouths again. Such horizontal stretching of each Muzzle, Such Drinking healths, such roaring, and such Guzzle. But should some small mishap be buzz'd auricular, The horizontal would be perpendicular. John, who in most things had his share of Nouse, His humble duty left at Carlton House; And was inform'd, with certain pompous gravity (At Courts one seldom stumbles upon suavity), Should be presented early in the Week; It was the R----t's will, at sights so pleasant, The Q----n, and all her Ladies, should be present. Down to the ground our Hero made his bow, And to the Knight and Lady, off he flew. 'So, my dear John, you made poor Joey truckle'; Whilst at the Hat he slily gave a chuckle. My Lady, too, the Baton did explore-- 'She'd never seen so fine a thing before.' Johnny then told them of his feats of Arms, Of Joe's escape, and Madame Gazon's charms. 'Come, John,' says Dad, 'from truth you cannot screen us; 'You were her Mars, my Boy, and she your Venus.' John now at every House was in request, And every where receiv'd a welcome Guest. He thought he ne'er should finish with his Glory, So often pester'd to repeat the story. We give him credit there for a pretence, He rather lik'd being made of Consequence. The Battle, Trophies, Folks were so much wrapt in, They made a mighty bustle 'bout the Captain. Captain no more--for in the next Gazette, Tho' envious ones did vastly fume and fret, In recompence for wonderous Renown, Who seiz'd a Baton, and cut off a Crown: As C----n for a precedent was quoted, Lieutenant Colonel was at once Promoted. And now the Day arriv'd, as deem'd expedient, John should present the Trophies to the R----t. Th' illustrious R----t sat in Regal State, The Lords and Ladies did around him wait. John made his Triple Bows, and kneeling down, Humbly presented the Baton, and Crown. It so fell out, perhaps no one could say why, The Noble Prince, in his great self collected, He first the Baton from the Hat selected. In manners dignified, and all his own, He thus his R----l sentiments made known-- 'This Baton, Sir, is in my firm belief, 'The noblest Gift a Sovereign can receive; 'And when so merited, we all must know, 'The noblest Gift a Sovereign can bestow. 'Here! take this back, with gratitude I yield it,-- 'His is the only Arm that's fit to Wield it. 'As for this French Machine, with its obliquities, 'T----r shall find it room with my Antiquities.' Then graceful fingering the bit of Felt, His condescending smiles around him dealt-- 'Tho' this poor Crown is something worn and Flat, 'Still 'tis a precious morsel of old Hat; 'And as to aged relics I am partial, ''Twill suit my purpose better than the Marshal. 'You, gallant Colonel, shall appointed be, } The Baton struck the Dames with much surprise, They all admir'd the painting, shape, and size: 'It was a Stick, no doubt, 'twas made of Oak; 'And heavy too--'twould give a monstrous Stroke.' As for the Hat, as round about they dealt it, When each great Lord, & noble Knight had felt it-- 'For such a Prize 'twas not worth while to Roam, 'They all could boast a better one at Home.' John now of his new Dignities felt proud, So quietly withdrew from out the Crowd. And thus quite happy, and elate with joy, The Knight and Lady hugg'd their darling Boy. The Lady's head could nothing run upon, The Knight, who'd long been brooding on his Speech, With Prop, and Prompter close within his reach, Now told his Son, Sir John, 'twas his intent 'To make a flaming speech in Parliament. 'Your Letter too, dear John--Sir John, your pardon; 'I've in my vacant hours labour'd hard on. 'I'm well prepar'd--but you must be so kind, 'Should I forget, to prompt me from behind; 'But first, my Son, Sir John, it will be mete, 'That you in Parliament should take your Seat: 'Having so done, we then can at our pleasures, 'Together both consult, about my measures.' And now our Hero, without more delay, Went with his Dad, to make his first Entre. The Ceremony o'er, and in his place, The S----r, with much Gravity, and Grace, His right Hand on his Chair he gently press'd, And thus our Hero solemnly address'd: 'I'm to observe, that here are very few come 'With such distinguished honours to their Name-- 'So high in Glory, and so great in Fame; 'Your active Vigour, and your gallant Feats 'In Arms, when in Vittoria's Streets 'Your weapon boldly flourish'd 'mongst the Fair, 'Joe's Crown cut off, and every thing left bare; 'Drove the poor King from Town, without his Hat on, 'Seiz'd Madam Gazon, and the Marshal's Baton. 'The C----ns, Sir, out of their high regard 'For deeds of Valour, grant this proud Reward 'For your Exploits, so Great, and so Magnanimous, 'Thro' me present their hearty thanks unanimous.' Albeit, unused to speaking, John arose, In first attempt determin'd not to prose; Resolv'd that no one should his sense impeach, By drawling out a long, and labour'd Speech: Then said, 'Sir, if from great Example, 'I in some late affairs have shewn my Sample; ''Tis to the Hero whose Dispatch I bring, 'So great, so wonderful in every thing. 'His be the praise, who Foe, and Fair disarms, 'All yield to his Celebrity in Arms.' Some further honours too did John await, Which caus'd with him and Dad, a small debate. 'A Badge of Merit, my dear Boy d'ye see, 'Is a fine Ornament, 'twixt you and me; ''Twill look so grand, you know, hung at your button, 'When you Reg'mentals condescend to put on.' 'Such Ornaments, dear Dad, I'd fain not reap, 'Desert, and Interest no distinction keep; 'That bane to Justice, we must all deplore, 'Merit does much, but interest does much more.' And now friend John more Honours did obtain, The gratitude of Portugal and Spain; Family be as follows: A bit of old Hat, supported by two The thermometer of Mr. John Bull's spirits is so delicately Another instance of effect on Memory: how many young Men have we Our most gracious Sovereign. It was supposed the intention of Buonaparte, after having Sir A. Wellesley was sent to Portugal with a small force. The A----s d-- C---- to the Commander of the Forces on the Return of killed and wounded. Great guns and mortars, &c. &c. affection, I may call it, for the noble animal that bears them. A German Soldier will sell his Bread to feed his Horse--a British Officers taken from the British and German regiments. The H----ld T----ps.--In respect of those fine Regiments, much, very much, should be considered in their favour. Unaccustomed to Foreign service--unaccustomed to any duty but F----d O----rs, Gold and Silver Sticks in the Court Regalia. The pay of the Army is six months in arrear; the Contingent allowance Ten months. However formidable the Spanish Armies are on Paper, what we have It was ascertained as fact, that King Joe was so certain of beating the Allied Army, it was his and Gazon's intention to have The Hussars made a gallant charge through the Town, and in their King Joe, or, as the Spaniards properly style him, the Intruder, Madame, the Countess Gazon, a charming woman, was taken by the The numerous Carriages of all descriptions, and Tumbrils, so promoted in the same Gazette, Major and Lieut.-Colonel. A Badge of Merit is a most honourable Distinction, as the reward

Jean Héroard

Journal de Jean Héroard - Tome 2 Sur l'enfance et la jeunesse de Louis XIII (1610-1628)

1551

"Mrs. Leary got her living by selling milk; she had five cows, and kept them in her barn on De Koven street, on the west side of the river. A neighbor woman called on her for a pint of milk at nine o'clock Sunday night, October 8th, and Mrs. Leary, having spirited animal, became indignant at the attempt, kicked over the lamp, setting the barn on fire, and thus inaugurated the greatest fire the world has ever seen."] |THIS is the Cow, at the Leary back gate, Where she stood on the night of October the 8, With her old crumpled horn and belligerent hoof, Warning all "neighbor women" to keep well aloof. Ah! this is the cow with the crumpled horn That kicked over the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago! |THIS is Chicago, all blasted and burned, The Paradise whither insurance men turned; But from which they now bring sad faces away, Sorely vexed with the losses they're called on to pay, Since the fire-fiend encircled the city that day. And they swear at the cow with the crumpled horn That kicked over the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago! |THIS is the Frame Range of best northern pine, The banquet on which hungry flames love to dine, Which agents so oft manage _not_ to decline, But write (in their slop-bowls) a "moderate line," Because--don't you see--the commish is so fine. Ha! this is the range which delighted to carry The passenger flames o'er the devil's own ferry, And utilize mischief by spreading it faster Than men could compete with the fearful disaster. How sad and how strange are the memories now Which hang round the heels of that old Leary cow-- That wretched old cow with the crumpled horn That kicked over the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago! |THIS is the Company, gloomy and glum, Which admits that it has some few (?) losses, yes _some!_ But its officers think their best motto is "mum," While inside they are praying, "Good Lord, please deliver Our souls from the fear of old Miller's receiver." And they view with the most acrimonious hate That regurgitant cow at O'Leary's back gate, As she stood on the night of October the 8, When she kicked at the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago! |THIS is the Statement the Company made: (Directors and Officers thickly arrayed, To soften the jar as they strike the up grade, Where the millions of losses will have to be paid.) "Our agency records, we deeply regret, Are burned at Chicago, are out in the wet, Or else there is, h--m, there is some slight impediment, Some something-or-other, some sand or some sediment Has got in the keyhole, disordered the lock, Or razeed the dividends, watered the stock, Or some trifling thing not yet quite in sight; But the _Company_, sir, is all right, is all right; Our surplus is safe, and our stock is intact, Our losses are all reinsured--why, in fact, We never, in all our official career, Felt more gay and festive, more full of good cheer. Just put up the rates and go on with the biz, These losses will all be arranged with a whiz. The thing we will have straightened out in a jiffy, And the next that you'll hear will be ten per cent, divvy." But you ought to have seen them when, in the back room, They poured out anathemas like a mill-flume On that old Leary cow with the crumpled horn That kicked over the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago! |THIS is November, a month from the fire; And the ascertained losses reach higher and higher. As the figures go up the long faces go down, Till the month-ago-boaster appears like a clown. The trick of deception is voted a sham; The people say _fraud_, and the agents say --------, And the grim old receivers call round for the keys, The assets, the papers, the books, if you please. Of all unwelcome things that this world ever saw, The bitterest is a compulsory _craw_. For a large-swelling dignity, proud and high born, Who claims that his status is bright as the morn, To get down and meekly acknowledge the corn, And squeeze himself through the small end of a horn, Suggests that a little less premature crowing, A little more system, a little more knowing, Some better kept books and more accurate showing, Are best, in the long run, for our underwriters, To save them the sneers and the jeers of backbiters, The scoffs of the public, the quips of the writers, And a toss from the cow with the crumpled horn That kicked over the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago! |THIS is the Claimant, so pure and so mild, With his heart and his manners as bland as a child, Whose amiability never is riled, And whose modest demands with his loss proofs are filed. His property cost, as he shows from his deeds, A sum which ten thousand times over exceeds The mite of insurance for which he now pleads. His goods, to be sure, they were mostly sold out; His building within was a shell, and without Was veneered with cheap stone, or thin iron, or grout; But _his word_, bless my soul! who could harbor a doubt, Its truthfulness or its exactness about? So he pockets his funds, and he rolls up his eyes, This mild-mannered man, with a cheerful surprise; And he rubs his two hands with an innocent glee, Which would do, I am sure, your heart good for to see, As he _blesses_ the cow with the crumpled horn That kicked over the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago! |THIS is an Adjuster! Now open your eyes. A man who the trade of rapacity plies! He will cut down your claims, he will cut up your proofs, He will riddle your case through its warps and its woofs. And search all your houses from cellars to roofs For a sliver by which he may fasten a quibble And curtail your claim to a bite or a nibble. And then when you think he is ready for payment He will make you regret you were ever a claimant, By charging you discount for those sixty days, Or vexing you further with needless delays. These awful adjusters! they should be ashamed To ply a vocation so loudly defamed. "What's the good of insurance if not to pay losses? And why all these questions, and bothers and crosses? And why are we hampered and why are we checked? Insurers can claim (if you'll only reflect) No rights which it is not _our_ right to reject; No rights which the people are bound to respect. They must smile and be patient, and out with their purses, And take what we give them, our kicks or our curses; Bow down to the cow with the old crumpled horn That kicked over the lamp that set fire to the barn That caused the Great Fire in Chicago!" |THIS is Insurance. Now, satire, farewell! For the woes which the fire-stricken city befel, Must have rung like the clang of a destiny knell, Through the years of prostration and clog and delay, Which would drag unsupportable all the sad way, Through which her redemption and rising must lay, Had Insurance not sped, like an angel that brings Relief in her hands and delight on her wings. All honor we give to the craft that we love; It has for its motto the word from above; The word spoken erst by omnipotent love. _The burdens of each_ in Insurance we bear, And its benefits all its participants share.

Andrew Forrester

Secret Service or Recollections of a City Detective

Come pretty Cat! Come here to me! I want to pat You on my knee. Go, naughty Tray! By barking thus You'll drive away My pretty Puss. O Dear! what a beautiful Doll My sister has bought at the fair! She says I must call it "Miss Poll," And make it a bonnet to wear. O, pretty new Doll! it looks fine; Its cheeks are all covered with red But, pray, will it always be mine? And, pray, may I take it to bed? How kind was my sister to buy This Dolly with hair that will curl Perhaps if you want to know why, She'll tell you, I've been a good girl. _The good Boy._ When Philip's good mamma was ill, The servant begg'd he would be still, Because the doctor and the nurse Had said, that noise would make her worse. At night, when Philip went to bed, He kiss'd mamma, and whisp'ring said, "My dear mamma, I never will Make any noise when you are ill." Sister Frances is sad, Because Henry is ill; And she lets the dear lad Do whatever he will. Left her own little chair, And got up in a minute, When she heard him declare That he wish'd to sit in it. Now, from this we can tell, He will never more tease her; But, when he is well, He will study to please her. _The giddy Girl._ Miss Helen was always too giddy to heed What her mother had told her to shun; For frequently, over the street in full speed, She would cross where the carriages run. And out she would go, to a very deep well, To look at the water below; How naughty! to run to a dangerous well, Where her mother forbade her to go! One morning, intending to take but a peep, Her foot slipt away from the ground; Unhappy misfortune! the water was deep And giddy Miss Helen was drown'd. _The good Scholar._ Joseph West had been told, That if, when he grew old, He had not learnt rightly to spell, Though his writing were good, 'Twould not be understood, And Joe said, "I will learn my task well." And he made it a rule To be silent at school, And what do you think came to pass? Why, he learnt it so fast, That, from being the last, He soon was the first in the class. _Dressed or undressed._ When children are naughty, and will not be drest, Pray, what do you think is the way? Why, often I really believe it is best To keep them in night-clothes all day! But then they can have no good breakfast to eat, Nor walk with their mother and aunt; At dinner they'll have neither pudding nor meat, Nor any thing else that they want. Then who would be naughty and sit all the day In night-clothes unfit to be seen! And pray who would lose all their pudding and play For not being dress'd neat and clean? As Peggy was crying aloud for a cake. Which her mother had said she should fetch from the wake, A gentleman knock'd at the door; He entered the parlour, and show'd much surprise, That it really was Peggy who made all the noise, For he never had heard her before. Miss Peggy, asham'd, and to hide her disgrace, Took hold of her frock, and quite covered her face, For she knew she was naughty just then; And, instantly wiping the tears from her eyes, She promis'd her mother to make no more noise, And kiss'd her again and again. Get up, little boy! you are sleeping too long, Your brother is dress'd, he is singing a song, And Tom must be waken'd, O fie Come, open the curtains, and let in the light, For children should only be sleepy at night, When stars may be seen in the sky. Come hither, little dog, to play, And do not go so far away, But stand and beg for food; And if your tail I chance to touch, You must not snarl so very much, Pray, Pompey, be not rude. The dog can eat, and drink, and sleep, And help to fetch the cows and sheep: O, see how Pompey begs; Hark! hark! he says, bow wow! bow wow! But run away, good Pompey, now, You'll tire your little legs. Good little boys should never say "I will," and "Give me these;" O, no! that never is the way, But, "Mother, if you please." And, "If you please," to sister Ann, Good boys to say are ready; And, "Yes, Sir," to a gentleman, And "Yes, Ma'am," to a lady. _Come when you are called._ Where's Susan, and Kitty, and Jane? Where's Billy, and Sammy, and Jack? O! there they are, down in the lane, Go, Betty, and bring them all back. But Billy is rude and won't come, And Sammy is running too fast; Come, dear little children, come home, Oh Billy is coming at last. I'm glad he remembers what's right, For though he likes sliding on ice, He should not be long out of sight, And never want sending for twice. Had each a new Dolly, With rosy-red cheeks and blue eyes; Dress'd in ribbons and gauze: And they quarrel'd because The dolls were not both of a size! O silly Miss Jenny! To be such a ninny, To quarrel and make such a noise! For the very same day Their mamma sent away Their dolls with red cheeks and blue eyes. Tom and Charles once took a walk, To see a pretty lamb; And as they went, began to talk Of little naughty Sam, Who beat his younger brother, Bill, And threw him in the dirt; And when his poor mamma was ill, He teased her for a squirt. And "I," said Tom, "wont play with Sam, Although he has a top;" But here the pretty little lamb To talking put a stop. _The dizzy Girl._ As Frances was playing, and turning around, Her head grew so giddy, she fell to the ground; 'Twas well that she was not much hurt: But O, what a pity! her frock was so soil'd! That had you beheld the unfortunate child, You had seen her all covered with dirt. Her mother was sorry, and said, "Do not cry, And Mary shall wash you, and make you quite dry, If you'll promise to turn round no more." "What, not in the parlour?" the little girl said, "No, not in the parlour; for lately I read Of a girl who was hurt with the door. "She was playing and turning, until her poor head Fell against the hard door, and it very much bled, And I heard Dr. Camomile tell, That he put on a plaister, and covered it up, Then he gave her some tea, that was bitter to sup, Or perhaps it had never been well." Do you see that old beggar who stands at the door? Do not send him away,--we must pity the poor; Oh! see how he shivers!--he's hungry and cold! For people can't work when they grow very old. Go, set near the fire a table and seat; And Betty shall bring him some bread and some meat. I hope my dear children will always be kind Whenever they meet with the aged or blind. Maria was a careless child, And griev'd her friends by this: Where'er she went, Her clothes were rent, Her hat and bonnet spoil'd, A careless little miss. Her gloves and mits were often lost, Her tippet sadly soil'd; You might have seen Where she had been, For toys all round were toss'd, O, what a careless child. One day her uncle bought a toy, That round and round would twirl, But when he found The litter'd ground, He said, "I don't tee-totums buy For such a careless girl." A very young lady, With Susan the maid, Who carried the baby, Were one day afraid. They saw a Cow feeding, Quite harmless and still; Yet scream'd without heeding Who, seeing the flutter, Said, "Cows do no harm; But give you good butter And milk from the farm." Miss Sophy, one fine sunny day, Left her work and ran away; When soon she reach'd the garden gate, Which finding barr'd, she would not wait, But tried to climb and scramble o'er A gate as high as any door! But little girls should never climb, And Sophy wont another time, For, when upon the highest rail, Her frock was caught upon a nail. She lost her hold, and, sad to tell, Was hurt and bruis'd--for down she fell! Quite poor, at a door, And Ann had a pretty new penny; Now this the kind Miss Threw pat in his hat, Although she was left without any. She meant, as she went, To stop at a shop, Where cakes she had seen a great many; And buy a fruit-pie, Or take home a cake, By spending her pretty new penny. But well I can tell, When Ann gave the man Her money, she wish'd not for any: He said, "I've no bread," She heard, and preferr'd To give him her pretty new penny. Mary had a little bird, With feathers bright and yellow, Slender legs,--upon my word, He was a pretty fellow! Sweetest notes he always sung, Which much delighted Mary; Often where his cage was hung, She sat to hear Canary. Crumbs of bread and dainty seeds She carried to him daily, Seeking for the early weeds, She deck'd his palace gaily. This, my little readers, learn, And ever practice duly; Songs and smiles of love return To friends who love you truly. Miss Lucy was a charming child, She never said, "I wont!" He took her waxen doll one day, And bang'd it round and round, Then tore its legs and arms away, And threw them on the ground. His good Mamma was angry quite, And Lucy's tears ran down; And since has better grown. When Jacky drown'd our poor cat Tib, He told a very naughty fib; And said he had not drown'd her; But truth is always soon found out; No one but Jack had been about The place where Thomas found her. And Thomas saw him with the cat, (Though Jacky did not know of that) And told papa the trick; He saw him take a slender string, A very heavy brick. His parents being very sad To find they had a boy so bad, To say what was not true; Determin'd to correct him then, And never was he known again, Such naughty things to do. The babe was in the cradle laid, And Tom had said his prayers; When Frances told the nursery maid She would not go up stairs, She cried so loud her mother came To ask the reason why; And said, "O Frances, fie for shame! O fie! O fie! O fie!" But Frances was more naughty still, And Betty sadly nipp'd; Until her mother said, "I will, I must have Frances whipp'd." For, O how naughty 'tis to cry, But worse, much worse to fight! Instead of running readily, And calling out good night. Maria's aunt, who liv'd in town, Once wrote a letter to her niece; And sent, wrapp'd up, a new half-crown, Besides a pretty pocket-piece. Maria jump'd with joy, and ran To tell her sister the good news; She said, "I mean to buy a fan, Come, come along with me to chuse." They quickly tied their hats, and talk'd Of yellow, lilac, pink, and green; But far the sisters had not walk'd Before the saddest sight was seen! Upon the ground a poor lame man, Helpless and old, had tumbled down! She thought no more about the fan, But gave to him her new half-crown. Miss Kitty was rude at the table one day, And would not sit still on her seat; Regardless of all that her mother could say, From her chair little Kitty kept running away, All the time they were eating the meat. As soon as she saw that the beef was remov'd, She ran to her chair in great haste; But her mother such giddy behaviour reprov'd, By sending away the sweet pudding she lov'd, Without giving Kitty one taste. Sweep, sweep! sweep, sweep! cries little Jack, With brush and bag upon his back, And black from head to foot; While daily as he goes along, Sweep, sweep! sweep, sweep! is all his song Beneath his load of soot. But then he was not always black: O no; he once was pretty Jack, And had a kind papa: But, silly child! he ran to play, Too far from home, a long, long way, And did not ask mamma. So he was lost, and now must creep Up chimneys, crying Sweep! sweep! sweep! "Dear Mother," said a little boy, "This rose is sweet and red; Then tell me, pray, the reason why I heard you call it dead? "I did not think it was alive, I never heard it talk, Nor did I ever see it strive, To run about or walk!" "My dearest boy," the mother said, "This rose grew on a tree: But now its leaves begin to fade, And all fall off, you see. "Before, when growing on the bough, So beautiful and red, We say it liv'd; but, with'ring now, We say the rose is dead." As Tommy and his sister Jane Were walking down a shady lane, They saw some berries, bright and red, That hung around and over head; And soon the bough they bended down, To make the scarlet fruit their own; And part they ate, and part, in play, They threw about, and flung away. But long they had not been at home Before poor Jane and little Tom Were taken, sick and ill, to bed, And since, I've heard, they both are dead. Alas! had Tommy understood That fruit in lanes is seldom good, He might have walk'd with little Jane Again along the shady lane. Poor Peter was burnt by the poker one day, When he made it look pretty and red! For the beautiful sparks made him think it fine play, To lift it as high as his head. But, somehow it happen'd, his finger and thumb Were terribly scorch'd by the heat; And he scream'd out aloud for his mother to come, And stamp'd on the floor with his feet! Now if Peter had minded his mother's command, His fingers would not have been sore; And he promis'd again, as she bound up his hand, To play with hot pokers no more. Who knocks so loudly at the gate? The night is dark, the hour is late, And rain comes pelting down! O, 'tis a stranger gone astray! That calls to ask the nearest way To yonder little town. Why, tis a long and dreary mile For one o'ercome with cold and toil; Go to him, Charles, and say, "Good stranger! here repose to-night, And with the morning's earliest light, We'll guide you on your way." O Lord! my infant voice I raise, Thy holy name to bless! In daily songs of thanks and praise, For mercies numberless. For parents, who have taught me right, That thou art good and true; And though unseen by my weak sight, Thou seest all I do. Let all my thoughts and actions rise From innocence and truth; And thou, O Lord! wilt not despise The prayer of early youth. As through thy power I live and move, And say, "Thy will be done;" O keep, in mercy and in love, The work thou hast begun. _New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 153-157 Fifth Avenue._ Ideas of Children from Four to Eight Years Old. 1807. Re-prints of this laughter-laden little book, written by Mrs. ELIZABETH TURNER, followed each other right up to about 1850: With a view to greater profit, the publisher discarded the pretty author of that much-admired little work, entitled THE DAISY. _It is intended to continue this Illustrated Shilling Series of_ hundred illustrations; five hundred pages, handsomely bound, top One hundred large paper copies at a Guinea, net.

B. H. (Brigham Henry) Roberts

The Gospel: An Exposition of its First Principles Revised and Enlarged Edition

1857

Dans la treve desolee de cette matinee, ces hommes qui avaient ete tenailles par la fatigue, fouettes par la pluie, bouleverses par toute une nuit de tonnerre, ces rescapes des volcans et de l'inondation entrevoyaient a quel point la guerre, aussi hideuse au moral qu'au physique, non seulement viole le bon sens, avilit les grandes idees, commande tous les crimes--mais ils se rappelaient combien elle avait developpe en eux et autour d'eux tous les mauvais instincts sans en excepter un seul; la mechancete jusqu'au sadisme, l'egoisme jusqu'a la ferocite, le besoin de jouir jusqu'a la folie. Of these 64 poems, 12 are now published for the first time. The remainder are selected from two previous volumes. Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky Haggard and hopeless. They, who have beaten down The stale despair of night, must now renew Their desolation in the truce of dawn, Murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, Can grin through storms of death and find a gap In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky That hastens over them where they endure Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. O my brave brown companions, when your souls Flock silently away, and the eyeless dead Shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, Death will stand grieving in that field of war Since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; The unreturning army that was youth; The legions who have suffered and are dust. Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows; In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train. Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep: There, with much work to do before the light, We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, And droning shells burst with a hollow bang; We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one. Darkness: the distant wink of a huge gun. I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, And lit the face of what had been a form Floundering in mirk. He stood before me there; I say that he was Christ; stiff in the glare, And leaning forward from his burdening task, Both arms supporting it; his eyes on mine Stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask Of mortal pain in Hell's unholy shine. No thorny crown, only a woollen cap He wore--an English soldier, white and strong, Who loved his time like any simple chap, Good days of work and sport and homely song; Now he has learned that nights are very long, And dawn a watching of the windowed sky. But to the end, unjudging, he'll endure Horror ancf pain, not uncontent to die That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure. He faced me, reeling in his weariness, Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear. I say that he was Christ, who wrought to bless All groping things with freedom bright as air, And with His mercy washed and made them fair. Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, While we began to struggle along the ditch; And some one flung his burden in the muck, Mumbling: "O Christ Almighty, now I'm stuck!" Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right Rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare Of flickering horror in the sectors where We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, Or crawling on their bellies through the wire. "What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?" Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire: Why did he do it?... Starlight overhead-- Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead. "Pass it along, the wiring party's going out"-- And yawning sentries mumble, "Wirers going out." Unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled thud, They toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood. The Boche sends up a flare. Black forms stand rigid there, Stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts Stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare Ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts Gleams desolate along the sky, night's misery ended. Young Hughes was badly hit; I heard him carried away, Moaning at every lurch; no doubt he'll die to-day. But _we_ can say the front-line wire's been safely mended. There seemed a smell of autumn in the air At the bleak end of night; he shivered there In a dank, musty dug-out where he lay, Legs wrapped in sand-bags,--lumps of chalk and clay Spattering his face. Dry-mouthed, he thought, "To-day We start the damned attack; and, Lord knows why, Zero's at nine; how bloody if I'm done in Under the freedom of that morning sky!" And then he coughed and dozed, cursing the din. Was it the ghost of autumn in that smell Of underground, or God's blank heart grown kind, That sent a happy dream to him in hell?-- Where men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find Some crater for their wretchedness; who lie In outcast immolation, doomed to die Far from clean things or any hope of cheer, Cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims And roars into their heads, and they can hear Old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns. He sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts). He's riding in a dusty Sussex lane In quiet September; slowly night departs; And he's a living soul, absolved from pain. Beyond the brambled fences where he goes Are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves, And tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale; Then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-cock crows; And there's a wall of mist along the vale Where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves. He gazes on it all, and scarce believes That earth is telling its old peaceful tale; He thanks the blessed world that he was born ... Then, far away, a lonely note of the horn. They're drawing the Big Wood! Unlatch the gate, And set Golumpus going on the grass: _He_ knows the corner where it's best to wait And hear the crashing woodland chorus pass; The corner where old foxes make their track To the Long Spinney; that's the place to be. The bracken shakes below an ivied tree, And then a cub looks out; and "Tally-o-back!" He bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,-- All the clean thrill of autumn in his blood, And hunting surging through him like a flood In joyous welcome from the untroubled past; While the war drifts away, forgotten at last. Now a red, sleepy sun above the rim Of twilight stares along the quiet weald, And the kind, simple country shines revealed In solitudes of peace, no longer dim. The old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, Then stretches down his head to crop the green. All things that he has loved are in his sight; The places where his happiness has been Are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good. Hark! there's the horn: they're drawing the Big Wood. Three hours ago he blundered up the trench, Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. He couldn't see the man who walked in front; Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet Stepping along the trench-boards,--often splashing Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. Voices would grunt, "Keep to your right,--make way!" When squeezing past the men from the front-line: White faces peered, puffing a point of red; And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore Because a sagging wire had caught his neck. A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread And flickered upward, showing nimble rats, And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain; Then the slow, silver moment died in dark. The wind came posting by with chilly gusts And buffeting at corners, piping thin And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots Would split and crack and sing along the night, And shells came calmly through the drizzling air To burst with hollow bang below the hill. Three hours ago he stumbled up the trench; Now he will never walk that road again: He must be carried back, a jolting lump Beyond all need of tenderness and care; A nine-stone corpse with nothing more to do. He was a young man with a meagre wife And two pale children in a Midland town; He showed the photograph to all his mates; And they considered him a decent chap Who did his work and hadn't much to say, And always laughed at other people's jokes Because he hadn't any of his own. That night, when he was busy at his job Of piling bags along the parapet, He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet, And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. He thought of getting back by half-past twelve, And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep, In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes Of coke, and full of snoring, weary men. He pushed another bag along the top, Craning his body outward; then a flare Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire; And as he dropped his head the instant split His startled life with lead, and all went out. I'd been on duty from two till four. I went and stared at the dug-out door. Down in the frowst I heard them snore. "Stand-to!" Somebody grunted and swore. Dawn was misty; the skies were still; Larks were singing, discordant, shrill; _They_ seemed happy; but _I_ felt ill. Deep in water I splashed my way Up the trench to our bogged front line. Rain had fallen the whole damned night. O Jesus, send me a wound to-day, And I'll believe in Your bread and wine, And get my bloody old sins washed white! So Davies wrote: "This leaves me in the pink." Then scrawled his name: "Your loving sweetheart, Willie." With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. Winter was passing; soon the year would mend. He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear The simple, silly things she liked to hear. And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, And everything but wretchedness forgotten. To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. And still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why. "Jack fell as he'd have wished," the Mother said, And folded up the letter that she'd read. "The Colonel writes so nicely." Something broke In the tired voice that quavered to a choke. She half looked up. "We mothers are so proud Of our dead soldiers." Then her face was bowed. Quietly the Brother Officer went out. He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies That she would nourish all her days, no doubt. For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy, Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy. He thought how "Jack," cold-footed, useless swine, Had panicked down the trench that night the mine Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried To get sent home; and how, at last, he died, Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care Except that lonely woman with white hair. Music of whispering trees Hushed by the broad-winged breeze Where shaken water gleams; And evening radiance falling With reedy bird-notes calling. O bear me safe through dark, you low-voiced streams. I have no need to pray That fear may pass away; I scorn the growl and rumble of the fight That summons me from cool Silence of marsh and pool, And yellow lilies islanded in light. O river of stars and shadows, lead me through the night. The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass And halt, but never see them; yet they're here-- A patient crowd along the sodden grass, Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. The road goes crawling up a long hillside, All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, Stare up at caverned darkness winking white. You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on, Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream could mock Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. You did not feel her arms about your knees, Her blind caress, her lips upon your head: Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, The road would serve you well enough for bed. Trudging by Corbie Ridge one winter's night, (Unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight), Along the pallid edge of the quiet sky He watched a nosing lorry grinding on, And straggling files of men; when these were gone, A double limber and six mules went by, Hauling the rations up through ruts and mud To trench-lines digged two hundred years ago. Then darkness hid them with a rainy scud, And soon he saw the village lights below. But when he'd told his tale, an old man said That _he'd_ seen soldiers pass along that hill; "Poor, silent things, they were the English dead Who came to fight in France and got their fill." Moonlight and dew-drenched blossom, and the scent Of summer gardens; these can bring you all Those dreams that in the starlit silence fall: Sweet songs are full of odours. While I went Last night in drizzling dusk along a lane, I passed a squalid farm; from byre and midden Came the rank smell that brought me once again A dream of war that in the past was hidden. Up a disconsolate straggling village street I saw the tired troops trudge: I heard their feet. The cheery Q.M.S. was there to meet And guide our Company in ... I watched them stumble Saw them file inward, slipping from their backs Rifles, equipment, packs. On filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face Bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace, I'm looking at their blistered feet; young Jones Stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded; Out of his eyes the morning light has faded. Old soldiers with three winters in their bones Puff their damp Woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes They can still grin at me, for each of 'em knows That I'm as tired as they are ... Can they guess The secret burden that is always mine?-- Pride in their courage; pity for their distress; And burning bitterness That I must take them to the accursed Line. I cannot hear their voices, but I see Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea, And soon they'll sleep like logs. Ten miles away The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife. And I must lead them nearer, day by day, To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life. Down in the hollow there's the whole Brigade Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. Crouched among thistle-tufts I've watched the glow Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; And I'm content. To-morrow we must go To take some cursed Wood.... O world God made! "_Fall in! Now, get a move on!_" (Curse the rain.) We splash away along the straggling village, Out to the flat rich country green with June ... And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage, Blazing with splendour-patches. Harvest soon Up in the Line. "_Perhaps the War 'll be done_ _By Christmas-time. Keep smiling then, old son!_" Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. "_Lead on there by platoons_." The Line's a-glare With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle Of rifles and machine-guns. "_Fritz is there!_ _Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?_" More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. "There's overhead artillery," some chap grumbles. "_What's all this mob, by the cross-road?_" (The guides) ... "_Lead on with Number One_." (And off they go.) "_Three-minute intervals_." ... Poor blundering files, Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know If death will catch them in those two dark miles? (More rain.) "_Lead on, Headquarters_." (That's the lot.) "_Who's that? O, Sergeant-major; don't get shot!_ _And tell me, have we won this war or not?_" Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen cold Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head. _You are too young to fall asleep for ever;_ _And when you sleep you remind me of the dead._ Groping along the tunnel, step by step, He winked his prying torch with patching glare From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air. Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know, A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; And he, exploring fifty feet below The rosy gloom of battle overhead. Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug, And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. "I'm looking for headquarters." No reply. "God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep,) "Get up and guide me through this stinking place." Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap, And flashed his beam across the livid face Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore Agony dying hard ten days before; And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound. Alone he staggered on until he found Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair To the dazed, muttering creatures underground Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. At last, with sweat of horror in his hair, He climbed through darkness to the twilight air, Unloading hell behind him step by step. I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still: When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead. And my slow heart said, "You must kill; you must kill: Soldier, soldier, morning is red." On the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace I stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... "O lad that I loved, there is rain on your face, And your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain." I stood with the Dead.... They were dead; they were dead; My heart and my head beat a march of dismay: And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns ... "Fall in!" I shouted; "Fall in for your pay!" I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed and glum With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go. At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glowering sun Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesu, make it stop! We'd gained our first objective hours before While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, Pallid, unshaved ind thirsty, blind with smoke. Things seemed all light at first. We held their line, With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed, And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps And trunks, face downward in the sucking mud, Wallowed like trodden and bags loosely filled; And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, Bulged, clotted heads, slept in the plastering slime. And then the rain began,--the jolly old rain! A yawning soldier knelt against the bank, Staring across the morning blear with fog; He wondered when the Allemands would get busy; And then, of course, they start'd with five-nines Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, Sick for escape,--loathing the strangled horror And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. An officer came blundering down the trench: "Stand-to and man the fire-step!" On he went ... Gasping and bawling, "Fire-step ... counter-attack!" Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right Down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; And stumbling figures looming out in front. "O Christ, they're coming at us!" Bullets spat, And he remembered his rifle ... rapid fire ... And started blazing wildly ... then a bang Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans. Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed. "The effect of our bombardment was terrific. One man told me he had never seen so many dead before." "_He'd never seen so many dead before_." They sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore And gasped and lugged his everlasting load Of bombs along what once had been a road. "_How peaceful are the dead_." Who put that silly gag in some one's head? "_He'd never seen so many dead before_." The lilting words danced up and down his brain, While corpses jumped and capered in the rain. No, no; hfc wouldn't count them any more ... The dead have done with pain: They've choked; they can't come back to life again. Flapping along the fire-step like a fish, After the blazing crump had knocked him flat ... "_How many dead? As many as ever you wish_. _Don't count 'em; they're too many_. _Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?_" Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows Each flash and spouting crash,--each instant lit When gloom reveals the streaming rain. He goes Heavily, blindly on. And, while he blunders, "Could anything be worse than this?"--he wonders, Remembering how he saw those Germans run, Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees: Green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one Livid with terror, clutching at his knees.... Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs.... "O hell!" He thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds." Quietly they set their burden down: he tried To grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side. He gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed, "O put my leg down, doctor, do!" (He'd got A bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot Horribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemed So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying, "You _must_ keep still, my lad." But he was dying. His wet, white face and miserable eyes Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell His troubled voice: he did the business well. The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining, "It's time to go; O Christ, and what's the good?-- We'll never take it; and it's always raining." I wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout, I fell asleep ... next morning he was dead; And some Slight Wound lay smiling on his bed. The Bishop tells us: "When the boys come back They will not be the same; for they'll have fought in a just cause: they lead the last attack On Anti-Christ; their comrade's blood has bought New right to breed an honourable race. They have challenged Death and dared him face to face." "We're none of us the same!" the boys reply. "For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find A chap who's served that hasn't found _some_ change." And the Bishop said: "The ways of God are strange!" If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath, I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base, And speed glum heroes up the line to death. You'd see me with my puffy petulant face, Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, Reading the Roll of Honour. "Poor young chap," I'd say--"I used to know his father well; Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap." And when the war is done and youth stone dead, I'd toddle safely home and die--in bed. I found him in a guard-room at the Base. From the blind darkness I had heard his crying And blundered in. With puzzled, patient face A sergeant watched him; it was no good trying To stop it; for he howled and beat his chest. And, all because his brother had gone West, Raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief Moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling Half-naked on the floor. In my belief Such men have lost all patriotic feeling. "Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the Line, Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack. Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns. The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns: He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name. You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste. He seemed so certain "all was going well," As he discussed the glorious time he'd had While visiting the trenches. "One can tell You've gathered big impressions!" grinned the lad Who'd been severely wounded in the back In some wiped-out impossible Attack. "Impressions? Yes, most vivid! I am writing A little book called _Europe on the Rack_, Based on notes made while witnessing the fighting. I hope I've caught the feeling of 'the Line,' And the amazing spirit of the troops. By Jove, those flying-chaps of ours are fine! I watched one daring beggar looping loops, Soaring and diving like some bird of prey. And through it all I felt that splendour shine Which makes us win." The soldier sipped his wine. "Ah, yes, but it's the Press that leads the way!" The boys came back. Bands played and flags were flying, And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street To cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying, And hear the music of returning feet. Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought, This moment is the finest." (So they thought.) Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob, Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel. At last the boys had found a cushy job. I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal; And with my trusty bombers turned and went To clear those Junkers out of Parliament. You told me, in your drunken-boasting mood, How once you butchered prisoners. That was good! I'm sure you felt no pity while they stood Patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should. How did you do them in? Come, don't be shy: You know I love to hear how Germans die, Downstairs in dug-outs. "Camerad!" they cry; Then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly. And you? I know your record. You went sick When orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick And lie, you wangled home. And here you are, Still talking big and boozing in a bar. Snug at the club two fathers sat, Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat. One of them said; "My eldest lad Writes cheery letters from Bagdad. But Arthur's getting all the fun At Arras with his nine-inch gun." "Yes," wheezed the other, "that's the luck! My boy's quite broken-hearted, stuck In England training all this year. Still, if there's truth in what we hear, The Huns intend to ask for more Before they bolt across the Rhine." I watched them toddle through the door-- These impotent old friends of mine. The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; "We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!" I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls, Lurching to rag-time tunes, or "Home, sweet Home,"-- And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume. You love us when we're heroes, home on leave, Or wounded in a mentionable place. You worship decorations; you believe That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. You make us shells. You listen with delight, By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. You crown our distant ardours while we fight, And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. You can't believe that British troops "retire" When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. _O German mother dreaming by the fire_, _While you are knitting socks to send your son_ _His face is trodden deeper in the mud_. He's got a Blighty wound. He's safe; and then War's fine and bold and bright. She can forget the doomed and prisoned men Who agonize and fight. He's back in France. She loathes the listless strain And peril of his plight. Beseeching Heaven to send him home again, She prays for peace each night. Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere They die; War bleeds us white. Mothers and wives and sweethearts,--they don't care So long as He's all right. Does it matter?--losing your legs?... For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When the others come in after football To gobble their muffins and eggs. Does it matter?--losing your sight?... There's such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light. Do they matter?--those dreams from the pit?... You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won't say that you're mad; For they'll know that you've fought for your country, And no one will worry a bit. No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. Of course they're "longing to go out again,"-- These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk, They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,-- Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ... Men who went out to battle, grim and glad; Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells To the green-vista'd gladness of the past That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells To a joyful chime; but let it be the last. What means this metal in windy belfries hung When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells. Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim That "if our Lord returned He'd fight for us." So let our bells and bishops do the same, Shoulder to shoulder with the motor-bus. Young Croesus went to pay his call And, though his wound was healed and mended, He hoped he'd get his leave extended. The waiting-room was dark and bare. He eyed a neat-framed notice there Above the fireplace hung to show Disabled heroes where to go For arms and legs; with scale of price, And words of dignified advice How officers could get them free. Elbow or shoulder, hip or knee,-- Two arms, two legs, though all were lost, They'd be restored him free of cost. Then a Girl-Guide looked in to say, "Will Captain Croesus come this way?" When I'm among a blaze of lights, With tawdry music and cigars And women dawdling through delights, And officers at cocktail bars,-- Sometimes I think of garden nights And elm trees nodding at the stars. I dream of a small firelit room With yellow candles burning straight, And glowing pictures in the gloom, And kindly books that hold me late. Of things like these I love to think When I can never be alone: Then some one says, "Another drink?"-- And turns my living heart to stone. To these I turn, in these I trust; To his blind power I make appeal; I guard her beauty clean from rust. He spins and burns and loves the air, And splits a skull to win my praise; But up the nobly marching days She glitters naked, cold and fair. Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this; That in good fury he may feel The body where he sets his heel Quail from your downward darting kiss. He primmed his loose red mouth, and leaned his head Against a sorrowing angel's breast, and said: "You'd think so much bereavement would have made Unusual big demands upon my trade. The War comes cruel hard on some poor folk-- Unless the fighting, stops I'll soon be broke." He eyed the Cemetery across the road-- "There's scores of bodies out abroad, this while, That should be here by rights; they little know'd How they'd get buried in such wretched style." I told him, with a sympathetic grin, That Germans boil dead soldiers down for fat; And he was horrified. "What shameful sin! O sir, that Christian men should come to that!" Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald; Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls; A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stooked field, With sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls. And he'd come home again to find it more Desirable than ever it was before. How right it seemed that he should reach the span Of comfortable years allowed to man! Splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife, Safe with his wound, a citizen of life. He hobbled blithely through the garden gate, And thought: "Thank God they had to amputate!" _A lady watches from the crowd,_ _Enthusiastic, flushed, and proud._ "Oh! there's Sir Henry Dudster! Such a splendid leader! How pleased he looks! What rows of ribbons on his tunic! "Here's the next carriage!... Jack was once in Leggit's Corps; That's him!... I think the stout one is Sir Godfrey Stoomer. They must feel sad to know they can't win any more Hullo! here's my platoon, the lot I had last year. "The War 'll be over soon." "No bloody fear!" Then, "Number Seven, 'shun! All present and correct." They're standing in the sun, impassive and erect. Young Gibson with his grin; and Morgan, tired and white; Jordan, who's out to win a D.C.M. some night: And Hughes that's keen on wiring; and Davies ('79), Who always must be firing at the Boche front line. "Old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!" That's what they used to sing along the roads last spring; That's what they used to say before the push began; That's where they are to-day, knocked over to a man. Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you'd say, Because I'd like to know that you're all right. Tell me, have you found everlasting day, Or been sucked in by everlasting night? For when I shut my eyes your face shows plain; I hear you make some cheery old remark-- I can rebuild you in my brain, Though you've gone out patrolling in the dark. You hated tours of trenches; you were proud Of nothing more than having good years to spend; Longed to get home and join the careless crowd Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend. That's all washed out now. You're beyond the wire; No earthly chance can send you crawling back; You've finished with machine-gun fire-- Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack. Somehow I always thought you'd get done in, Because you were so desperate keen to live: You were all out to try and save your skin, Well knowing how much the world had got to give. You joked at shells and talked the usual "shop," Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: With "Jesus Christ! when _will_ it stop? Three years.... It's hell unless we break their line." So when they told me you'd been left for dead I wouldn't believe them, feeling it _must_ be true. Next week the bloody Roll of Honour said "Wounded and missing"--(That's the thing to do When lads are left in shell-holes dying slow, With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, Moaning for water till they know It's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!) Good-bye, old lad! Remember me to God,. And tell Him that our Politicians swear They won't give in till Prussian Rule's been trod Under the Heel of England.... Are you there?... Yes ... and the War won't end for at least two years; But we've got stacks of men.... I'm blind with tears, Staring into the dark. Cheero! I wish they'd killed you in a decent show. When I'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,-- They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead. While the dim charging breakers of the storm Bellow and drone and rumble overhead, Out of the gloom they gather about my bed. They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine. "Why are you here with all your watches ended? From Ypres to Frise we sought you in the Line." In bitter safety I awake, unfriended; And while the dawn begins with slashing rain I think of the Battalion in the mud. "When are you going out to them again? Are they not still your brothers through our blood?" I am banished from the patient men who fight. They smote my heart to pity, built my pride. Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side, They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light. Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight They went arrayed in honour. But they died,-- Not one by one: and mutinous I cried To those who sent them out into the night. The darkness tells how vainly I have striven To free them from the pit where they must dwell In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel. Love drives me back to grope with them through hell; And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven. October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves For battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown Along the westering furnace flaring red. O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, The burden of your wrongs is on my head. Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; What silly beggars they are to blunder in And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-- No, no, not that,--it's bad to think of war, When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts That drive them out to jabber among the trees. Now light your pipe; look, w'hat a steady hand. Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, And you're as right as rain.... Why won't it rain?... I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night, With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, And make the roses hang their dripping heads. Books; what a jolly company they are, Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green And every kind of colour. Which will you read? Come on; O _do_ read something; they're so wise. I tell you all the wisdom of the world Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, And listen to the silence: on the ceiling There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; And in the breathless air outside the house The garden waits for something that delays. There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,-- Not people killed in battle,--they're in France,-- But horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died Slow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls, Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins. You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; You'd never think there was a bloody war on!... O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. Hark! Thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease-- Those whispering guns--O Christ, I want to go out I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns. Splashing along the boggy woods all day, And over brambled hedge and holding clay, I shall not think of him: But when the watery fields grow brown and dim, And hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire, I know that he'll be with me on my way Home through the darkness to the evening fire. He's jumped each stile along the glistening lanes His hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; Hearing the saddle creak, He'll wonder if the frost will dome next week. I shall forget him in the morning light; And while we gallop on he will not speak: But at the stable-door he'll say good-night. Not much to me is yonder lane Where I go every day; But when there's been a shower of rain And hedge-birds whistle gay, I know my lad that's out in France With fearsome things to see Would give his eyes for just one glance At our white hawthorn tree. Not much to me is yonder lane Where _he_ so longs to tread; But when there's been a shower of rain I think I'll never weep again Until I've heard he's dead. They are gathering round ... Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand, Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound,-- The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum ... Drawn by a lamp, they come O sing us the sopgs, the songs of our own land, You warbling ladies in white. Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces, This wall of faces risen out of the night, These eyes that keep their memories of the places So long beyond their sight. Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, He rattles the keys... some actor-bloke from town... "_God send you home_"; and then "_A long, long trail_"; Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one. We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done. Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand. Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand. Out in the blustering darkness, on the deck A gleam of stars looks down. Long blurs of black, The lean Destroyers, level with our track, Plunging and stealing, watch the perilous way Through backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray. One sentry by the davits, in the gloom Stands mute; the boat heaves onward through the night. And sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boom And crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders ... doom. Now something at my feet stirs with a sigh; And slowly growing used to groping dark, I know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length, Is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength,-- Blanketed soldiers sleeping. In the stark Danger of life at war, they lie so still, All prostrate and defenceless, head by head ... And I remember Arras, and that hill We are going home. The troop-ship, in a thrill Of fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls. We are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls. Here I'm sitting in the gloom Of my quiet attic room. France goes rolling all around, Fledged with forest May has crowned. And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, Thinking how the fighting started, Wondering when we'll ever end it, Back to Hell with Kaiser send it, Gag the noise, pack up and go, Clockwork soldiers in a row. I've got better things to do Than to waste my time on you. Robert, when I drowse to-night, Skirting lawns of sleep to chase Shifting dreams in mazy light, Somewhere then I'll see your face Turning back to bid me follow Where I wag my arms and hollo, Over hedges hasting after Crooked smile and baffling laughter, Running tireless, floating, leaping, Down your web-hung woods and valleys, Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys, Where the glowworm stars are peeping, Till I find you, quiet as stone On a hill-top all alone, Staring outward, gravely pondering Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. You and I have walked together In the starving winter weather. We've been glad because we knew Time's too short and friends are few. We've been sad because we missed One whose yellow head was kissed By the gods, who thought about him Till they couldn't do without him. Now he's here again; I've seen Soldier David dressed in green, Standing in a wood that swings To the madrigal he sings. He's come back, all mirth and glory, Like the prince in a fairy story. Winter called him far away; Blossoms bring him home with May. Well, I know you'll swear it's true That you found him decked in blue Striding up through morning-land With a cloud on either hand. Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches Arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; Hides all night in hilly nooks, Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. Yet, it's certain, here he teaches Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. And I'm sure, as here I stand, That he shines through every land, That he sings in every place Where we're thinking of his face. Robert, there's a war in France; Everywhere men bang and blunder, Sweat and swear and worship Chance, Creep and blink through cannon thunder. Rifles crack and bullets flick, Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. Bones are smashed and buried quick. Yet, through stunning battle storms, All the while I watch the spark Lit to guide me; for I know Dreams will triumph, though the dark Scowls above me where I go. _You_ can hear me; _you_ can mingle Radiant folly with my jingle. War's a joke for me and you While we know such dreams are true! When you are standing at your hero's grave, Or near some homeless village where he died, Remember, through your heart's rekindling pride, The German soldiers who were loyal and brave. Men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done: And you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind. But in that Golgotha perhaps you'll find The mothers of the men who killed your son. Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight (Under Lord Derby's scheme). I died in hell-- (They called it Passchendaele); my wound was slight, And I was hobbling back, and then a shell Burst slick upon the duck-boards; so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. In sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare; For though low down upon the list, I'm there: "In proud and glorious memory"--that's my due. Two bleeding years I fought in France for Squire; I suffered anguish that he's never guessed; Once I came home on leave; and then went west. What greater glory could a man desire? He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep,-- Silence and safety; and his mortal shore Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. Some one was holding water to his mouth. He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot The opiate throb and ache that was his wound. Water--calm, sliding green above the weir; Water--a sky-lit alley for his boat, Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers And shaken hues of summer: drifting down, He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept. Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes. Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; Fragrance and passionless music woven as one; Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace Gently and slowly washing life away. He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. But some one was beside him; soon he lay Shuddering because that evil thing had passed. And Death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared. Light many lamps and gather round his bed. Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. He's young; he hated war; how should he die When cruel old campaigners win safe through? But Death replied: "I choose him." So he went, And there was silence in the summer night; Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. Then, far away, the thudding of the guns. _Have you forgotten yet?_... For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, Like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city ways: Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. _But the past is just the same,--and War's a bloody game_.... _Have you forgotten yet?_... _Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,-- The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? Do you remember the rats; and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,-- And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?" Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,-- Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads,--those ashen-grey Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? _Have you forgotten yet?_... _Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll never In fifty years, when peace outshines Remembrance of the battle lines, Adventurous lads will sigh and cast Proud looks upon the plundered past. On summer morn or winter's night, Their hearts will kindle for the fight, Reading a snatch of soldier-song, Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong; And through the angry marching rhymes Of blind regret and haggard mirth, They'll envy us the dazzling times When sacrifice absolved our earth. Some ancient man with silver locks Will lift his weary face to say: "War was a fiend who stopped our clocks Although we met him grim and gay." And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive, Marvelling that any came alive Out of the shambles that men built And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt. But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, Will think, "Poor grandad's day is done." And dream of lads who fought in France and lived in time to share the fun. Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark green fields; on; on; and out of sight. Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted, And beauty came like the setting sun. My heart was shaken with tears and horror Drifted away ... O but every one

Bracebridge Hemyng

The Slave of the Mine or, Jack Harkaway in 'Frisco

1841

Author of "Tails with a twist" and "The Duke of Berwick" |THE placid Pug that paces in the Park, `Harnessed in silk and led by leathern lead, Lives his dull life, and recks not of the Shark `In distant waters. Lapped in sloth and greed, He fails in strenuous life to make a mark, The placid Pug that paces in the park.= Round the slow circle of his nights and days `His life revolves in calm monotony. Not unsusceptible to casual praise, `And mildly moved by the approach of "tea," No forked and jagged lightning leaps and plays Round the slow circle of his nights and days.= He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes, `To mark the mood of animals or men. His joy is limited to mild surmise `When a new biscuit swims into his ken. And when athwart his gaze a Rabbit flies, He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes.= And all the while the Shark in Southern seas `Pursues the paths of his pulsating quest, Though the thermometer at fierce degrees `Might well admonish him to take a rest, The Pug at home snores in ignoble ease. (And all the while the Shark in Southern seas!)= If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea `And forced to swim long miles to find their food, Tutored to front the Hake's hostility, `And beard the Lobster in his dangerous mood, Would not their lives more sane, more useful be, If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea?= The placid Pug still paces in the park, `Untouched by thoughts of all that might have been. Undreaming that he might have "steered his bark" `Through many a stirring sight and stormy scene. But being born a Pug and not a Shark The placid Pug still paces in the park.= |BISHOPS and others who inhabit The mansions of the blest on earth, Grieved by decline of infant birth, Have drawn attention to the rabbit. Not by design these good men work To raise that beast to heights contested, But by comparison, suggested, With those who procreation shirk.= For if a nation's moral status Be measured by prolific habit, Between man and the meanest rabbit There is an evident hiatus.= Each year, by lowest computations, Six times the rabbit rears her young, And frequent marriages among The very closest blood relations In very tender years ensure A constant stream of "little strangers," Who, quickly grown to gallant rangers, See that their families endure.= Not theirs to shirk paternal cares, Moved by considerations sordid, A child can always "be afforded"; The same applies to Belgian hares.= These noble brutes, pure Duty's pendants, May live to see their blood vermilion Coursing through something like a billion Wholly legitimate descendants.= Knowledge's path is hard and stony, And some may read who unaware are That rabbit brown and Belgian hare are Both members of the genus Coney.= The common hare, who lives in fields And never goes into a hole, (In this inferior to the mole) In all things to the Belgian yields.= He will, immoral brute, decline To multiply domestic "pledges," The family he rears in hedges Is often limited to nine.= Such shocking want of _savoir faire_, Might goad a Bishop to profanity Were it not for the Belgian hare.= |THE Lion laps the limpid lake, `The Pard refuses wine, The sinuous Lizard and the Snake, `The petulant Porcupine, Agree in this, their thirst to quench Only with Nature's natural "drench."= In vain with beer you tempt the Deer, `Or lure the Marmozet; The early morning Chanticleer, `The painted Parroquet, Alike, on claret and champagne Gaze with unfaltering disdain.= No ale or spirit tempts the Ferret, `No juice of grape the Toad. In vain towards the "Harp and Merit" `The patient Ox you goad; Not his in rapture to extol The praises of the flowing bowl.= The silent Spider laughs at cider, `The Horse despises port; The Crocodile (whose mouth is wider `Than any other sort) Prefers the waters of the Nile To any of a stronger style.= The Rabbit knows no "private bar," `The Pelican will wander Through arid plains of Kandahar, `Nor ever pause to ponder Whether in that infernal clime The clocks converge to "closing time."= True "bona-fide traveller" `Urging no sophist plea, How terrible must seem to her `Man's inebriety; She who in thirsty moments places Her simple trust in green oases.= With what calm scorn the Unicorn, `In his remote retreat, Must contemplate the fervour born Conceive the feelings of the Sphinx Confronted with Columbian drinks!= And oh! if all this solemn truth `Were dinned into its mind From earliest years, might not our youth `Regenerate mankind, Aspire to climb the Heights, and dare To emulate the Belgian hare?= |THE staunch and strenuous Serpent spends his time `In the safe field of serpentine pursuits, Rightly considering it a social crime `To parody the ways of other brutes.= Scorning the fraud of alien aspirations, `The snobbishness that apes another class, Proud, and yet conscious of his limitations, `He bites the dust and grovels in the grass.= The moral food that keeps him down is Force, `Force to confine his fancies to their beds. Makes him the laughing-stock of quadrupeds.= No weak attempt to carol like the Lark, `Fore-doomed to failure and to ridicule, Troubles his life; he does not wish to bark, `Has no desire to amble like a Mule.= Having no legs he does not try to walk, `But keeps contentedly his native crawl; Having no voice he does not strive to talk, `Much less to bellow or to caterwaul.= Mark the inevitably reached result: `To balance the advantages he missed, In three departments he may yet exult `To be the only perfect specialist.= Three arts are his: to writhe, to hiss, to creep. `The Toad's tenacity, the Wombat's wiles, Or the keen cunning of the crafty Sheep `(And all are artists in their various styles),= Would vainly challenge them. He reigns supreme `In these the fields of his activity, And reigning so defies the envious Bream, Type of the wise, who roar but never foam `(If they can help it) at the mouth, except When night and morn they brush their teeth at home `With pallid powder for that purpose kept.= |SINCE Dr. Watts in frenzy fine `Extolled the "busy Bee," The patience of the Porcupine, `The Newt's fidelity, The calm contentment of the Pike, Have stirred our hearts and brain alike.= Lives there a man so lost, so low, `That he has never found Some lesson in the Buffalo, `Some precept in the Hound? Few who have won Victoria's cross Owe _nothing_ to the Albatross.= These pleasant thoughts must turn our minds, `In meditation quiet, Towards the moral law that binds `The principles of diet. Since 'tis a maxim none disputes, That we should imitate the brutes.= As has been shown in former verse, `The animal creation Does not in its own nature nurse `Inebriate inclination; Nor is it formed by Heaven to pant For alcoholic stimulant.= That being so, our path is plain, `We must eschew all drinks; If we are anxious to attain `To the celestial brinks, The meanest Hippopotamus Will make our duty clear to us.= But in the search for Natural guides `To moral food-restrictions, We are assaulted on all sides `By patent contradictions. Thus, while the Lion lives on meat, The Pheasant is content with wheat.= Who then, when beasts do not agree, `Shall venture to decide? Some will adopt the Chimpanzee `And some the Fox as guide, Nature allows the fullest scope.= |WHO that has sailed upon the ocean's face, `Or walked beside the sea along the sand, Has not felt envy for the piscine race, Comparing its domain, where noise is banned, To the infernal racket that takes place On land?= While up above the billows rage and roar And make a most unnecessary noise, And shallow Shrimps, who live too near the shore, Are harassed by the shouts of girls and boys, Who find the beach a place convenient for Their toys,= The happy members of the Fishy clan Pursue in peace their various pursuits, All undisturbed by bell of muffin-man, Or bellow of purveyor of fresh fruits, Who at each "Pub" his voice republican The harmless Herring gambols with his young, And heeds but hears not their impulsive play. (His heart is with their mother who was flung, Kippered to feed a clerk's bank-holiday, Into the salting-tub and passed unsung Now, had this Herring been of human breed, And lived in London or some other town, Fate would have made him _hear_ as well as heed His offspring as it gambolled up and down, Making a noise that's very hard indeed To drown.= Moreover, organ-grinders would have ground, And yowls from both "employed" and "unemployed"; Hoarse howls from those who had "salvation" found, And bawls from those whose faith had been destroyed, Would have combined to keep his sense of sound Who would not therefore rather be a Whale, Than linger in this sad uncertain vale (Here where men sit and hear each other yell)? Better to go, if other places fail, |THE dreadful Dragon and the Unicorn, `Accustomed to be treated with respect, `And much annoyed by present-day neglect, Have sometimes wished they never had been born, `At least in any world so "unselect."= Their non-existence being now a "fact" `Accepted by mankind's majority, `They naturally feel quite "up a tree." They don't know what to do to counteract `These damned delusions of Democracy.= Although they often walk out in the sun, `And show themselves in all important streets, `Although in fact they have their "regular beats," They're hardly ever seen by any one, `And get no notice in the "daily sheets."= Although as signs they hang on various inns, `They find themselves irrevocably "out."= In vain they prance and caracole about, Even the tribute of "derisive grins" `Is now denied them in their final rout.= Mere non-belief in his existence may `Seem, to one emptying a festive flagon `In the interior of the "Wasp and Wagon," A very trifling matter any way. `But it is most annoying to the Dragon.= The subject may appear beneath contempt `To one who holds the world's applause in scorn, `Preferring in a cloister to adorn "Illumined scrolls in heavenly colours dreamt," `But it is galling to the Unicorn. |SEEN in the mirror of the poet's dream, (Exclusively reserved for the "elect"), Each animal supplies us with a theme For wondering-admiration and respect. Thus, to those men who truly modest seem The Bee performs all sorts of useful things When she is gathering honey for the hive, She fertilises flowers and plants, and brings Food to keep necessary Drones alive. Unless annoyed she very seldom stings, The Dove extols and cherishes his mate, And coos and woos all through the summer day. H is life is blamelessly immaculate, And though his wings enable him to stray, He seldom does. He never comes home late. The Crow displays a splendid scorn of pelf, Backed by invulnerable self-restraint. All specious arts he lays upon the shelf, And, being free from every primal taint, He keeps himself entirely to himself. The Stork _compels_ our admiration, he Will stand for several hours in the same place And on one leg, instead of two (or three), Thus practising economy of space. A grand example of stability! The self-repressive Cod, on his own beat, Swims in elaborately-studied curves. He keeps below, not wishing to compete With surface-swimming fishes, though his nerves Are sometimes tried by lack of air, and heat. |THE Crab walks sideways, not because his build `Precludes the possibility of walking straight, And not (as some have thought) that he is filled `With strange and lawless theories on gait; Still less that he is foolishly self-willed `And prone to show off or exaggerate.= No serious student of his life and ways `Will venture to impugn his common sense; His tact and moderation win high praise `Even from those whose faculties are dense And blind to the false issues which they raise `When they accuse him of malevolence.= "But, ah!" these shallow hide-bound pedants cry, `"If to the Crab all virtues you concede, If his intentions are not evil, why `This sidelong walk, `These flanking steps that lead To no advancement of Humanity, `No exaltation of the mortal breed?= "Why not go forward as the Sword-fish goes? `Or move straight backward, like the jibbing Horse Why this absurd and pitiable pose `That takes delight in any devious course? Why this dislike to 'following the nose' `Which all the best authorities endorse?"= Insensate fools. Swims not the Cod in curves? `Does not the running Roebuck leap and bound If in his flight the Capercailzie swerves, `Shall he be mocked by every Basset-hound Who, having neither feathers, wings, nor nerves, `Has not the pluck to rise up from the ground?= Peace, peace, the Crab adopts a side-long walk, `For reasons still impossible to see. And if his pride permitted him to talk `To any one who did not do as he, His instinct would be, probably, to balk `The hopes of vulgar curiosity.= And while the schoolmen argue and discuss, `And fill the air with "whats," and "whens," and "whys," And demonstrate as: thus, and thus, and thus, `The crab will pulverise their theories, And put an end to all this foolish fuss `By walking sideways into Paradise. |IN the abysses of the ocean deeps, `Fathoms removed from men and mortal strife, The unexpectant Oyster smiles and sleeps `Through the calm cycle of his peaceful life.= What though above his head the steamboat plies, `And close at hand he hears the fume and fuss Of the impetuous Halibut that flies `The mad embraces of the Octopus.= Though the fierce tails of Whales like flails descend `Upon the water lashed to furious foam, And the Sea-serpents writhe and twist and bend `All round the purlieus of his ocean home,= He still preserves his philosophic calm, `His high detachment from material things, And lays to his untroubled soul the balm `Of that contentment oft denied to kings.= Not far off, on the shore, men fume and fret, `And prowl and howl and postulate and preach, The Baby bellows in the bassinet, `And the Salvation Army on the beach.= The unsuccessful "Artist" of the "Halls" `Has blacked his face with cork, and now he sings Of moons and coons and comic funerals `And the enchantment that the cake-walk brings.= And on the pier the "milingtary band" `Poisons the air with beastly brazen sound, While cockney couples wander hand in hand, `And dismal tourists tour, And bounders bound.= And donkey-boys allure to donkey rides `The sitters on the sand beside the sea, And touts sell "guides" to all the town provides, `From theatres to "painless dentistry."= To all this noise the Oyster lends no ear, `Partly because he has no ear to lend, Partly because he hates to interfere, `Chiefly because these rhymes must have an end.=

Arthur Griffiths

The Chronicles of Newgate, v. 2/2

1838

O the splendour of our joy, woven of gold in the silken air! Here is our pleasant house and its airy gables, and the garden and the orchard. Here is the bench beneath the apple-trees, whence the white spring is shed in slow, caressing petals. Here flights of luminous wood-pigeons, like harbingers, soar in the clear sky of the countryside. Here, kisses fallen upon earth from the mouth of the frail azure, are two blue ponds, simple and pure, artlessly bordered with involuntary flowers. O the splendour of our joy and of ourselves in this garden where we live upon our emblems. Although we saw this bright garden, wherein we pass silently, flower before our eyes, it is rather in us that grows the pleasantest and fairest garden in the world. For we live all the flowers, all the plants and all the grasses in our laughter and our tears of pure and calm happiness. For we live all the transparencies of the blue pond that reflects the rich growths of the golden roses and the great vermilion lilies, sun-lips and mouths. For we live all joy, thrown out in the cries of festival and spring of our avowals, wherein heartfelt and uplifting words sing side by side. Oh! is it not indeed in us that grows the pleasantest and the gladdest garden in the world? This barbaric capital, whereon monsters writhe, soldered together by the might of claw and tooth, in a mad whirl of blood, of fiery cries, of wounds, and of jaws that bite and bite again, This was myself before you were mine, you who are new and old, and who, from the depths of your eternity, came to me with passion and kindness in your hands. I feel the same deep, deep things sleeping in you as in me, and our thirst for remembrance drink up the echo in which our pasts answer each to each. Our eyes must have wept at the same hours, without our knowing, during childhood, have had the same terrors, the same happinesses, the same flashes of trust; For I am bound to you by the unknown that watched me of old down the avenues through which my adventurous life passed; and, indeed, if I had looked more closely, I might have seen, long ago, within its eyes your own eyes open. The sky has unfolded into night, and the moon seems to watch over the sleeping silence. All is so pure and clear; all is so pure and so pale in the air and on the lakes of the friendly countryside, that there is anguish in the fall from a reed of a drop of water, that tinkles and then is silent in the water. But I have your hands between mine and your steadfast eyes that hold me so gently with their earnestness; and I feel that you are so much at peace with everything that nothing, not even a fleeting suspicion of fear, will overcast, be it but for a moment, the holy trust that sleeps in us as an infant rests. Each hour I brood upon your goodness, so simple in its depth, I lose myself in prayers to you. I came so late towards the gentleness of your eyes, and from so far towards your two hands stretched out quietly over the wide spaces. I had in me so much stubborn rust that gnawed my confidence with its ravenous teeth. I was so heavy, was so tired, I was so old with misgiving. I was so heavy, I was so tired of the vain road of all my footsteps. I deserved so little the wondrous joy of seeing your feet illuminate my path that I am still trembling and almost in tears, and humble, for ever and ever, before my happiness. Sometimes you wear the kindly grace of the garden in early morning that, quiet and winding, unfolds in the blue distances its pleasant paths, curved like the necks of swans. And, at other times, you are for me the bright thrill of the swift, exalting wind that passes with its lightning fingers through the watery mane of the white pond. At the good touch of your two hands, I feel as though leaves were caressing me lightly; and, when midday burns the garden, the shadows at once gather up the dear words with which your being trembled. Thus, thanks to you, each moment seems to pass in me divinely; so, at the hour of wan night, when you hide within yourself, shutting your eyes, you feel my gentle, devout gaze, humbler and longer than a prayer, thank yours beneath your closed eyelids. Oh! let the passing hand knock with its futile fingers on the door; our hour is so unique, and the rest--what matters the rest with its futile fingers? Let dismal, tiresome joy keep to the road and pass on with its rattles in its hand. Let laughter swell and clatter and die away; let the crowd pass with its thousands of voices. The moment is so lovely with light in the garden about us; the moment is so rare with virgin light in our heart deep down in us. Everything tells us to expect nothing more from that which comes or passes, with tired songs and weary arms, on the roads, And to remain the meek who bless the day, even when night is before us barricaded with darkness, loving in ourselves above all else the idea that, gently, we conceive of our love. As in the simple ages, I have given you my heart, like a wide-spreading flower that opens pure and lovely in the dewy hours; within its moist petals my lips have rested. The flower, I gathered it with fingers of flame; say nothing to it: for all words are perilous; it is through the eyes that soul listens to soul. The flower that is my heart and my avowal confides in all simplicity to your lips that it is loyal, bright and good, and that we trust in virgin love as a child trusts in God. Leave wit to flower on the hills in freakish paths of vanity; and let us give a simple welcome to the sincerity that holds our two true hearts within its crystalline hands; Nothing is so lovely as a confession of souls one to the other, in the evening, when the flame of the uncountable diamonds burns like so many silent eyes the silence of the firmaments. Young and kindly spring who clothes our garden with beauty makes lucid our voices and words, and steeps them in his limpidity. The breeze and the lips of the leaves babble, and slowly shed in us the syllables of their brightness. But the best in us turns away and flees material words; a mute and mild and simple rapture, better than all speech, moors our happiness to its true heaven: The rapture of your soul, kneeling in all simplicity before mine, and of my soul, kneeling in gentleness before yours. Come with slow steps and sit near the gardenbed, whose flowers of tranquil light are shut by evening; let the great night filter through you: we are too happy for our prayer to be disturbed by its sea of dread. Above, the pure crystal of the stars is lit up; behold the firmament clearer and more translucent than a blue pond or the stained-glass window in an apse; and then behold heaven that gazes through. The thousand voices of the vast mystery speak around you; the thousand laws of all nature are in movement about you; the silver bows of the invisible take your soul and its fervour for target, But you are not afraid, oh! simple heart, you are not afraid, since your faith is that the whole earth works in harmony with that love that brought forth in you life and its mystery. Clasp then your hands tranquilly, and adore gently; a great counsel of purity floats like a strange dawn beneath the midnights of the firmament. How readily delight is aroused in her, with her eyes of fiery ecstasy, she who is gentle and resigned before life in so simple a fashion. This evening, how a look surprised her fervour and a word transported her to the pure garden of gladness, where she was at once both queen and servant. Humble of herself, but aglow with our two selves, she vied with me in kneeling to gather the wondrous happiness that overflowed mutually from our hearts. We listened to the dying down in us of the violence of the exalting love imprisoned in our arms, and to the living silence that said words we did not know. At the time when I had long suffered and the hours were snares to me, you appeared to me as the welcoming light that shines from the windows on to the snow in the depths of winter evenings. The brightness of your hospitable soul touched my heart lightly without wounding it, like a hand of tranquil warmth. Then came a holy trust, and an open heart, and affection, and the union at last of our two loving hands, one evening of clear understanding and of gentle calm. Since then, although summer has followed frost both in ourselves and beneath the sky whose eternal flames deck with gold all the paths of our thoughts; And although our love has become an immense flower, springing from proud desire, that ever begins anew within our heart, to grow yet better; I still look back on the small light that was sweet to me, the first. And what matters the wherefores and the reasons, and who we were and who we are; all doubt is dead in this garden of blossoms that opens up in us and about us, so far from men. I do not argue, and do not desire to know, and nothing will disturb what is but mystery and gentle raptures and involuntary fervour and tranquil soaring towards our heaven of hope. I feel your brightness before understanding that you are so; and it is my gladness, infinitely, to perceive myself thus gently loving without asking why your voice calls me. Let us be simple and good--and day be minister of light and affection to us; and let them say that life is not made for a love like ours. In my dreams, I sometimes pair you with those queens who slowly descend the golden, flowered stairways of legend; I give you names that are married with beauty, splendour and gladness, and that rustle in silken syllables along verses built as a platform for the dance of words and their stately pageantries. But how quickly I tire of the game, seeing you gentle and wise, and so little like those whose attitudes men embellish. Your brow, so shining and pure and white with certitude, your gentle, childlike hands peaceful upon your knees, your breasts rising and falling with the rhythm of your pulse that beats like your immense, ingenuous heart, Oh! how everything, except that and your prayer, oh! how everything is poor and empty, except the light that gazes at me and welcomes me in your naked eyes. I dedicate to your tears, to your smile, my gentlest thoughts, those I tell you, those also that remain undefined and too deep to tell. I dedicate to your tears, to your smile, to your whole soul, my soul, with its tears and its smiles and its kiss. See, the dawn whitens the ground that is the colour of lees of wine; shadowy bonds seem to slip and glide away with melancholy; the water of the ponds grows bright and sifts its noise; the grass glitters and the flowers open, and the golden woods free themselves from the night. Oh! what if we could one day enter thus into the full light; oh, what if we could one day, with conquering cries and lofty prayers, with no more veils upon us and no more remorse in us, oh! what if we could one day enter together into lucid love. I drown my entire soul in your two eyes, and the mad rapture of that frenzied soul, so that, having been steeped in their gentleness and prayer, it may be returned to me brighter and of truer temper. O for a union that refines the being, as two golden windows in the same apse cross their differently lucent fires and interpenetrate! I am sometimes so heavy, so weary of being one who cannot be perfect, as he would! My heart struggles with its desires, my heart whose evil weeds, between the rocks of stubbornness, rear slyly their inky or burning flowers; My heart, so false, so true, as the day may be, my contradictory heart, my heart ever exaggerated with immense joy or with criminal fear. To love with our eyes, let us lave our gaze of the gaze of those whose glances we have crossed, by thousands, in life that is evil and enthralled. The dawn is of flowers and dew and the mildest sifted light; soft plumes of silver and sun seem through the mists to brush and caress the mosses in the garden. Our blue and marvellous ponds quiver and come to life with shimmering gold; emerald wings pass under the trees; and the brightness sweeps from the roads, the garths and the hedges the damp ashen fog in which the twilight still lingers. In the garden of our love, summer still goes on: yonder, a golden peacock crosses an avenue; petals--pearls, emeralds, turquoises --deck the uniform slumber of the green swards. Our blue ponds shimmer, covered with the white kiss of the snowy water-lilies; in the quincunxes, our currant bushes follow one another in procession; an iridescent insect teases the heart of a flower; the marvellous undergrowths are veined with gleams; and, like light bubbles, a thousand bees quiver along the arbours over the silver grapes. The air is so lovely that it seems rainbow-hued; beneath the deep and radiant noons, it stirs as if it were roses of light; while, in the distance, the customary roads, like slow movements stretching their vermilion to the pearly horizon, climb towards the sun. Indeed, the diamonded gown of this fine summer clothes no other garden with so pure a brightness. And the unique joy sprung up in our two hearts discovers its own life in these clusters of flames. May your bright eyes, your eyes of summer, be for me here on earth the images of goodness. Let our enkindled souls clothe with gold each flame of our thoughts. May my two hands against your heart be for you here on earth the emblems of gentleness. Let us live like two frenzied prayers straining at all hours one towards the other. May our kisses on our enraptured mouths be for us here on earth the symbols of our life. Tell me, my simple and tranquil sweetheart, tell me how much an absence, even of a day, saddens and stirs up love, and reawakens it in all its sleeping scalds? I go to meet those who are returning from the wondrous distances to which at dawn you went; I sit beneath a tree at a bend of the path, and, on the road, watching their coming, I gaze and gaze earnestly at their eyes still bright with having seen you. And I would kiss their fingers that have touched you, and cry out to them words they would not understand; and I listen a long while to the rhythm of their steps towards the shadow where the old evenings hold night prone. During those hours wherein we are lost so far from all that is not ourselves, what lustral blood or what baptism bathes our hearts that strain towards all love? Clasping our hands without praying, stretching out our arms without crying aloud, but with earnest and ingenuous mind worshipping something farther off and purer than ourselves, we know not what, how we blend with, how we live our lives in, the unknown. How overwhelmed we are in the presence of those hours of supreme existence; how the soul desires heavens in which to seek for new gods. Oh! the torturing and wondrous joy and the daring hope of being one day, across death itself, the prey of these silent terrors. Oh! this happiness, sometimes so rare and frail that it frightens us! In vain we hush our voices, and make of all your hair a tent to shelter us; often the anguish in our hearts flows over. But our love, being like a kneeling angel, begs and supplicates that the future give to others than ourselves a like affection and life, so that their fate may not be envious of ours. And, too, on evil days, when the great evenings extend to heaven the bounds of despair, we ask forgiveness of the night that kindles with the gentleness of our heart. Let us, in our love and ardour, let us live so boldly our finest thoughts that they interweave in harmony with the supreme ecstasy and perfect fervour. Because in our kindred souls something more holy than we and purer and greater awakens, let us clasp hands to worship it through ourselves. It matters not that we have only cries or tears to define it humbly, and that its charm is so rare and powerful that, in the enjoyment of it, our hearts are nigh to failing us. Even so, let us remain, and for ever, the mad devotees of this almost implacable love, and the kneeling worshippers of the sudden God who reigns in us, so violent and so ardently gentle that he hurts and overwhelms us. So soon as our lips touch, we feel so much more luminous together that it would seem as though two Gods loved and united in us. We feel our hearts to be so divinely fresh and so renewed by their virgin light that, in their brightness, the universe is made manifest to us. In our eyes, joy is the only ferment of the world that ripens and becomes fruitful innumerably on our roads here below; as in clusters spring up among the silken lakes on which sails travel the myriad blossoms of the stars above. Order dazzles us as fire embers, everything bathes us in its light and appears a torch to us: our simple words have a sense so lovely that we repeat them to hear them without end. We are the sublime conquerors who vanquish eternity without pride and without a thought of trifling time: and our love seems to us always to have been. To prevent the escape of any part of us from our embrace that is so intense as to be holy, and to let love shine clear through the body itself, we go down together to the garden of the flesh. Your breasts are there like offerings and your two hands are stretched out to me; and nothing is of so much worth as the simple provender of words said and heard. The shadow of the white boughs travels over your neck and face, and your hair unloosens its bloom in garlands on the swards. The night is all of blue silver; the night is a lovely silent bed--gentle night whose breezes, one by one, will strip the great lilies erect in the moonlight. Although autumn this evening along the paths and the woods' edges lets the leaves fall slowly like gilded hands; Although autumn this evening with its arms of wind harvests the petals and their pallor of the earnest rose-trees; We shall let nothing of our two souls fall suddenly with these flowers. But before the flames of the golden hearth of memory, we will both crouch and warm our hands and knees. To guard against the sorrows hidden in the future, against time that makes an end of all ardour, against our terror and even against ourselves, we will both crouch near the hearth that our memory has lit up in us. And if autumn involves the woods, the lawns and the ponds in great banks of shadow and soaring storms, at least its pain shall not disturb the inner quiet garden where the equal footsteps of our thoughts walk together in the light. The gift of the body when the soul is given is but the accomplishment of two affections drawn headlong one towards the other. You are only happy in your body that is so lovely in its native freshness because in all fervour you may offer it to me wholly as a total alms. And I give myself to you knowing nothing except that I am greater by knowing you, who are ever better and perhaps purer since your gentle body offered its festival to mine. Love, oh! let it be for us the sole discernment and the sole reason of our heart, for us whose most frenzied happiness is to be frenzied in our trust. Was there in us one fondness, one thought, one gladness, one promise that we had not sown before our footsteps? Was there a prayer heard in secret whose hands stretched out gently over our bosom we had not clasped? Was there one appeal, one purpose, one tranquil or violent desire whose pace we had not quickened? And each loving the other thus, our hearts went out as apostles to the gentle, timid and chilled hearts of others; And by the power of thought invited them to feel akin to ours, and, with frank ardours, to proclaim love, as a host of flowers loves the same branch that suspends and bathes it in the And our soul, as though made greater in this awakening, began to celebrate all that loves, magnifying love for love's sake, and to cherish divinely, with a wild desire, the whole world that is summed up in us. The lovely garden blossoming with flames that seemed to us the double or the mirror of the bright garden we carried in our hearts is crystallized in frost and gold this evening. A great white silence has descended and sits yonder on the marble horizons, towards which march the trees in files, with their blue, immense and regular shadow beside them. No puff of wind, no breath. Alone, the great veils of cold spread from plain to plain over the silver marshes or crossing roads. The stars appear to live. The hoar-frost shines like steel through the translucent, frozen air. Bright powdered metals seem to snow down, in the infinite distances, from the pallor of a copper moon. Everything sparkles in the stillness. And it is the divine hour when the mind is haunted by the thousand glances that are cast upon earth by kind and pure and unchangeable eternity towards the hazards of human wretchedness. If it should ever happen that, without our knowledge, we became a pain or torment or despair one to the other; If it should come about that weariness or hackneyed pleasure unbent in us the golden bow of lofty desire; If the crystal of pure thought must fall in our hearts and break; If, in spite of all, I should feel myself vanquished because I had not bowed my will sufficiently to the divine immensity of goodness; Then, oh! then let us embrace like two sublime madmen who beneath the broken skies cling to the summits even so--and with one flight and soul ablaze grow greater in death. Step by step, day by day, age has come and placed his hands upon the bare forehead of our love, and has looked upon it with his dimmer eyes. And in the fair garden shrivelled by July, the flowers, the groves and the living leaves have let fall something of their fervid strength on to the pale pond and the gentle paths. Here and there, the sun, harsh and envious, marks a hard shadow around his light. And yet the hollyhocks still persist in their growth towards their final splendour, and the seasons weigh upon our life in vain; more than ever, all the roots of our two hearts plunge unsatiated into happiness, and clutch, and sink deeper. Oh! these hours of afternoon girt with roses that twine around time, and rest against his benumbed flanks with cheeks aflower and aflame! And nothing, nothing is better than to feel thus, still happy and serene, after how many years? But if our destiny had been quite different, and we had both been called upon to suffer--even then!--oh! I should have been happy to live and die, without complaining, in my stubborn love. Roses of June, you the fairest with your hearts transfixed by the sun; violent and tranquil roses, like a delicate flock of birds settled on the branches; Roses of June and July, upright and new, mouths and kisses that suddenly move or grow still with the coming and going of the wind, caress of shadow and gold on the restless garden; Roses of mute ardour and gentle will, roses of voluptuousness in your mossy sheaths, you who spend the days of high summer loving each other in the brightness; Fresh, glowing, magnificent roses, all our roses, oh! that, like you, our manifold desires, in our dear weariness or trembling pleasure, might love and exalt each other and rest! If other flowers adorn the house and the splendour of the countryside, the pure ponds shine still in the grass with the great eyes of water of their mobile face. Who can say from what far-off and unknown distances so many new birds have come with sun on their wings? In the garden, April has given way to July, and the blue tints to the great carnation tints; space is warm and the wind frail; a thousand insects glisten joyously in the air; and summer passes in her robe of diamonds and sparks. The darkness is lustral and the dawn iridescent. From the lofty branch whence a bird flies, the dew-drops fall. A lucid and frail purity adorns a morning so bright that prisms seem to gleam in the air. A spring babbles; a noise of wings is heard. Oh! how beautiful are your eyes at that first hour when our silver ponds shimmer in the light and reflect the day that is rising. Your forehead is radiant and your blood beats. Intense and wholesome life in all its divine strength enters your bosom so completely, like a driving happiness, that to contain its anguish and its fury, your hands suddenly take mine, and press them almost fearfully against your heart. I bring you this evening, as an offering, my joy at having plunged my body into the silk and gold of the frank and joyous wind and the gorgeous sun; my feet are bright with having walked among the grasses; my hands sweet with having touched the heart of flowers; my eyes shining at having felt the tears suddenly well up and spring into them before the earth in festival and its eternal strength. Space has carried me away drunken and fervent and sobbing in its arms of moving brightness; and I have passed I know not where, far away in the distance, with pent-up cries set free by my footsteps. I bring you life and the beauty of the plains breathe them on me in a good, frank breath; the marjoram has caressed my fingers, and the air and its light and its perfumes are in my flesh. Let us both sit down on the old worm-eaten bench near the path; and let my hand remain a long while within your two steadfast hands. With my hand that remains a long while given up to the sweet consciousness of being on your knees, my heart also, my earnest, gentle heart, seems to rest between your two kind hands. And we share an intense joy and a deep love to feel that we are so happy together, without one over-strong word to come trembling to our lips, or one kiss even to go burning towards your brow. And we would prolong the ardour of this silence and the stillness of our mute desires, were it not that suddenly, feeling them quiver, I clasp tightly, without willing it, your thinking hands; Your hands in which my whole happiness is hidden, and which would never, for anything in the world, deal violently with those deep things we live by, although in duty we do not speak of them. Gently, more gently still, cradle my head in your arms, my fevered brow and my weary eyes; Gently, more gently still, kiss my lips, and say to me those words that are sweeter at each dawn when your voice repeats them, and you have surrendered, and I love you still. The day rises sullen and heavy; the night was crossed by monstrous dreams; the rain and its long hair whip our casement, and the horizon is black with clouds of grief. Gently, more gently still, cradle my head in your arms, my fevered brow and my weary eyes; you are my hopeful dawn, with its caress in your hands and its light in your sweet words; See, I am re-born, without pain or shock, to the daily labour that traces its mark on my road, and instils into my life the will to be a weapon of strength and beauty in the golden grasp of an honoured life. In the house chosen by our love as its birth-place, with its cherished furniture peopling the shadows and the nooks, where we live together, having as sole witnesses the roses that watch us through the windows, Certain days stand out of so great a consolation, certain hours of summer so lovely in their silence, that sometimes I stop time that swings with its golden disc in the oaken clock. Then the hour, the day, the night is so much ours that the happiness that hovers lightly over us hears nothing but the throbbing of your heart and mine that are brought close together by a sudden embrace. The pleasant task with the window open and the shadow of the green leaves and the passage of the sun on the ruddy paper, maintains the gentle violence of its silence in our good and pensive house. And the flowers bend nimbly and the large fruits shine from branch to branch, and the blackbirds, the bullfinches and the chaffinches sing and sing, so that my verses may burst forth clear and fresh, pure and true, like their songs, their golden flesh and their scarlet petals. And I see you pass in the garden, sometimes mingled with the sun and shadow; but your head does not turn, so that the hour in which I work jealousy at these frank and gentle poems may not be disturbed. In the depth of our love dwells all faith; we bind up a glowing thought together with the least things: the awakening of a bud, the decline of a rose, the flight of a frail and beautiful bird that, by turns, appears or disappears in the shadow or the light. A nest falling to pieces on the mossy edge of a roof and ravaged by the wind fills the mind with dread. An insect eating the heart of the hollyhocks terrifies: all is fear, all is hope. Though reason with its sharp and soothing snow may suddenly cool these charming pangs, what matters! Let us accept them without inquiring overmuch into the false, the true, the evil or the good they portend; Let us be happy that we can be as children, believing in their fatal or triumphant power, and let us guard with closed shutters against too sensible people. Dawn, darkness, evening, space and the stars; that which the night conceals or shows between its veils is mingled with the fervour of our exalted being. Those who live with love live with eternity. It matters not that their reason approve or scoff, and, upright on its high walls, hold out to them, along the quays and harbours, its bright torches; they are the travellers from beyond the Far off, farther than the ocean and its black floods, they watch the day break from shore to shore; fixed certainty and trembling hope present the same front to their ardent gaze. Happy and serene, they believe eagerly; their soul is the deep and sudden brightness with which they burn the summit of the loftiest problems; and to know the world, they but scrutinize themselves. They follow distant roads chosen by themselves, living with the truths enclosed within their simple, naked eyes, that are deep and gentle as the dawn; and for them alone there is still song in paradise. This is the holy hour when the lamp is lit: everything is calm and comforting this evening; and the silence is such that you could hear the falling of feathers. This is the holy hour when gently the beloved comes, like the breeze or smoke, most gently, most slowly. At first, she says nothing--and I listen; and I catch a glimpse of her soul, that I hear wholly, shining and bursting forth; and I kiss her on the eyes. This is the holy hour when the lamp is lit, when the acknowledgment of mutual love the whole day long is brought forth from the depths of our deep but transparent heart. And we each tell the other of the simplest things: the fruit gathered in the garden, the flower that has opened between the green mosses; and the thought that has sprung from some sudden emotion at the memory of a faded word of affection found at the bottom of an old drawer on a letter of yesteryear. The dead kisses of departed years have put their seal on your face, and, beneath the melancholy and furrowing wind of age, many of the roses in your features have faded. I see your mouth and your great eyes glow no more like a morning of festival, nor your head slowly recline in the black and massive garden of your hair. Your dear hands, that remain so gentle, approach no more as in former years with light at their finger-tips to caress my forehead, as dawn the mosses. Your young and lovely body that I adorned with my thoughts has no longer the pure freshness of dew, and your arms are no longer like the bright branches. Alas! everything falls and fades ceaselessly; everything has changed, even your voice; your body has collapsed like a pavise, and let fall the victories of youth. But nevertheless my steadfast and earnest heart says to you: what are to me the years made heavier day by day, since I know that nothing in the world will disturb our exalted life, and that our soul is too profound for love still to depend on beauty? For fifteen years our thoughts have run together, and our fine and serene ardour has vanquished habit, the dull-voiced shrew whose slow, rough hands wear out the most stubborn and the strongest love. I look at you and I discover you each day, so intimate is your gentleness or your pride: time indeed obscures the eyes of your beauty, but it exalts your heart, whose golden depths peep open. Artlessly, you allow yourself to be probed and known, and your soul always appears fresh and new; with gleaming masts, like an eager caravel, our happiness covers the seas of our desires. It is in us alone that we anchor our faith, to naked sincerity and simple goodness; we move and live in the brightness of a joyous and translucent trust. Your strength is to be infinitely pure and frail; to cross with burning heart all dark roads, and to have preserved, in spite of mist or darkness, all the rays of the dawn in your childlike soul. I thought our joy benumbed for ever, like a sun faded before it was night, on the day that illness with its leaden arms dragged me heavily towards its chair of weariness. The flowers and the garden were fear or deception to me; my eyes suffered to see the white noons flaming, and my two hands, my hands, seemed, before their time, too tired to hold captive our trembling happiness. My desires had become no more than evil weeds; they bit at each other like thistles in the wind; I felt my heart to be at once ice and burning coal and of a sudden dried up and stubborn in forgiveness. But you said the word that gently comforts, seeking it nowhere else than in your immense love; and I lived with the fire of your word, and at night warmed myself at it until the dawn of The diminished man I felt myself to be, both to myself and all others, did not exist for you; you gathered flowers for me from the window-sill, and, with your faith, I believed in health. And you brought to me, in the folds of your gown, the keen air, the wind of the fields and forests, and the perfumes of evening or the scents of dawn, and, in your fresh and deep-felt kisses, the sun. Everything that lives about us in the fragile and gentle light, frail grasses, tender branches, hollyhocks, and the shadow that brushes them lightly by, and the wind that knots them, and the singing and hopping birds that swarm riotously that lives in the fine ruddy garden loves us artlessly, and we--we love everything. We worship the lilies we see growing; and the tall sunflowers, brighter than the Nadir-- circles surrounded by petals of flames--burn our souls through their glow. The simplest flowers, the phlox and the lilac, grow along the walls among the feverfew, to be nearer to our footsteps; and the involuntary weeds in the turf over which we have passed open their eyes wet with dew. And we live thus with the flowers and the grass, simple and pure, glowing and exalted, lost in our love, like the sheaves in the gold of the corn, and proudly allowing the imperious summer to pierce our bodies, our hearts and our two wills with its full brightness. Because you came one day so simply along the paths of devotion and took my life into your beneficent hands, I love and praise and thank you with my senses, with my heart and brain, with my whole being stretched like a torch towards your unquenchable goodness and charity. Since that day, I know what love, pure and bright as the dew, falls from you on to my calmed soul. I feel myself yours by all the burning ties that attach flames to their fire; all my body, all my soul mounts towards you with tireless ardour; I never cease to brood on your deep earnestness and your charm, so much so that suddenly I feel my eyes fill deliciously with unforgettable tears. And I make towards you, happy and calm, with the proud desire to be for ever the most steadfast of joys to you. All our affection flames about us; every echo of my being responds to your call; the hour is unique and sanctified with ecstasy, and my fingers are tremulous at the mere touching of your forehead, as though they brushed the wing of your thoughts. On days of fresh and tranquil health, when life is as fine as a conquest, the pleasant task sits down by my side like an honoured friend. He comes from gentle, radiant countries, with words brighter than the dews, in which to set, illuminating them, our feelings and our thoughts. He seizes our being in a mad whirlwind; he lifts up the mind on giant pilasters; he pours into it the fire that makes the stars live; he brings the gift of being God suddenly. And fevered transports and deep terrors-- all serves his tragic will to make young again the blood of beauty in the veins of the world. I am at his mercy like a glowing prey. Therefore, when I return, though wearied and heavy, to the repose of your love, with the fires of my vast and supreme idea, it seems to me--oh! but for a moment--that I am bringing to you in my panting heart the heart-beat of the universe itself. Out of the groves of sleep I came, somewhat morose because I had left you beneath their branches and their braided shadows, far from the glad morning sun. Already the phlox and the hollyhocks glisten, and I wander in the garden dreaming of verses clear as crystal and silver that would ring in the light. Then abruptly I return to you with so great a fervour and emotion that it seems to me as though my thought suddenly has already crossed from afar the leafy and heavy darkness of sleep to call forth your joy and your awakening. And when I join you once more in our warm house that is still possessed by darkness and silence, my clear, frank kisses ring like a dawn-song in the valleys of your flesh. Alas! when the lead of illness flowed in my benumbed veins with my heavy, sluggish blood, with my blood day by day heavier and more sluggish; When my eyes, my poor eyes, followed peevishly on my long, pale hands the fatal marks of insidious malady; When my skin dried up like bark, and I had no longer even strength enough to press my fiery lips against your heart, and there kiss our happiness; When sad and identical days morosely gnawed my life, I might never have found the will and the strength to hold out stoically, Had you not, each hour of the so long weeks, poured into my daily body with your patient, gentle, placid hands the secret heroism that flowed in yours. Our bright garden is health itself. It is squandered in its brightness from the thousand hands of the branches and leaves as they wave to and fro. And the pleasant shade that welcomes our feet after the long roads pours into our tired limbs a quickening strength, gentle as the garden's mosses. When the pond plays with the wind and the sun, a ruddy heart seems to dwell in the depths of the water, and to beat, ardent and young, with the ripples; and the tall, straight gladioli and the glowing roses that move in their splendour hold out their golden goblets of red blood at the end of their living stalks. Our bright garden is health itself. It was June in the garden, our hour and our day, and our eyes looked upon all things with so great a love that the roses seemed to us to open gently, and to see and love us. The sky was purer than it had ever been: the insects and birds floated in the gold and gladness of an air as frail as silk, and our kisses were so exquisite that they gave an added beauty to the sunshine and the birds. It was as though our happiness had suddenly become azure, and required the whole sky wherein to shine; through gentle openings, all life entered our being, to expand it. And we were nothing but invocatory cries, and wild raptures, and vows and entreaties, and the need, suddenly, to recreate the gods, in order to believe. The gift of yourself no longer satisfies you; you are prodigal of yourself: the rapture that bears you on to ever greater love springs up in you ceaselessly and untiringly, and carries you ever higher towards the wide heaven of perfect love. A clasp of the hands, a gentle look impassions you; and your heart appears to me so suddenly lovely that I am afraid sometimes of your eyes and your lips, and that I am unworthy and that you love me too much. Ah! these bright ardours of an affection too lofty for a poor human being who has only a poor heart, all moist with regrets, all thorny with faults, to feel their passing and dissolve in tears. Oh! the calm summer garden where nothing moves! Unless it be, near the middle of the bright and radiant pond, the goldfish like tongues of fire. They are our memories playing in our thoughts that are calm and stilled and limpid, like the trustful and restful water. And the water brightens and the fishes leap at the abrupt and marvellous sun, not far from the green irises and the white shells and stones, motionless about the ruddy edges. And it is sweet to watch them thus come and go in the freshness and splendour that touches them lightly, careless and without fear that they will bring from the depths to the surface other regrets than fleeting. As with others, an hour has its ill-humour: the peevish hour or a malevolent humour has sometimes stamped our hearts with its black seals; and yet, in spite of all, even at the close of the darkest days, never have our hearts said the irrevocable words. A radiant and glowing sincerity was our joy and counsel, and our passionate soul found therein ever new strength, as in a ruddy flood. And we recounted each to the other our wretchedest woes, telling them like some harsh rosary, as we stood facing one another, with our love rising in sobs; and our two mouths, at each avowal, gently and in turn kissed our faults on the lips that uttered them aloud. Thus, very simply, without baseness or bitter words, we escaped from the world and from ourselves, sparing ourselves all grief and gnawing cares, and watching the rebirth of our soul, as the purity of glass and gold of a window-pane is reborn after the rain, when the sun warms it and gently dries it. The golden barks of lovely summer that set out, riotous for space, are returning sad and weary from the blood-stained horizons. With monotonous strokes of the oars, they advance upon the waters; they are as cradles in which sleep autumn flowers. Stalks of lilies with golden brows, you all lie overthrown; alone, the roses struggle to live beyond death. What matters to their full beauty that October shine or April: their simple and puerile desire drinks all light until the blood comes. Even on the blackest days, when the sky dies, they strive towards Christmas, beneath a harsh and haggard cloud, the moment the first ray darts through. You, our souls, do as they; they have not the pride of the lilies; but within their folds they guard a holy and immortal ardour. Ardour of senses, ardour of hearts, ardour of souls, vain words created by those who diminish love; sun, you do not distinguish among your flames those of evening, of dawn, or of noon! You walk blinded by your own light in the torrid azure under the great arched skies, knowing nothing, unless it be that your strength is all-powerful and that your fire labours at the divine mysteries. For love is an act of ceaseless exaltation. O you whose gentleness bathes my proud heart, what need to weigh the pure gold of our dream? I love you altogether, with my whole being. The still beauty of summer evenings on the greenswards where they lie outspread holds out to us, without empty gesture or words, a symbol of rest in gladness. Young morning and its tricks has gone away with the breezes; noon itself and the velvet skirts of its warm winds, of its heavy winds, no longer sweeps the torrid plain; and this is the hour when, without a branch's moving or a pond's ruffling its waters, the evening slowly comes from the tops of the mountains and takes its seat in the garden. O the infinite golden flatness of the waters, and the trees and their shadows on the reeds, and the calm and sumptuous silence in whose still presence we so greatly delight that we desire to live with it always or to die of it and revive by it, like two imperishable hearts tirelessly drunken with brightness. You said to me, one evening, words so beautiful that doubtless the flowers that leaned towards us suddenly loved us, and one among them, in order to touch us both, fell upon our knees. You spoke to me of a time nigh at hand when our years like over-ripe fruit would be ready for the gathering, how the knell of destiny would ring out, and how we should love each other, feeling ourselves growing old. Your voice enfolded me like a dear embrace, and your heart burned so quietly beautiful, that at that moment I could have seen without fear the beginning of the tortuous roads that lead to the tomb. "Hours of bright morning," "Hours of afternoon," hours that stand out superbly and gently, whose dance lengthens along our warm garden-paths, saluted at passing by our golden rose-trees; summer is dying and autumn coming in. Hours girt with blossom, will you ever return? Yet, if destiny, that wields the stars, spares us its pains, its blows and its disasters, perhaps one day you will return, and, before my eyes, interweave in measure your radiant steps; And I will mingle with your glowing, gentle dance, winding in shade and sun over the lawns --like a last, immense and supreme hope--the steps and farewells of my "hours of evening." Dainty flowers, like a froth of foam, grew along the borders of our paths; the wind fell and the air seemed to brush your hands and hair with plumes. The shade was kindly to us as we walked in step from a village, and filled all the infinite. Our ponds were outspread in their autumn splendour under the guard of the long reeds, and the lofty, swaying crown on the woods' fine brow was mirrored in the waters. And both knowing that our hearts were brooding together on the same thought, we reflected that it was our calmed life that was revealed to us in this lovely evening. For one supreme moment, you saw the festival sky deck itself out and say farewell to us; and for a long, long while you gave it your eyes filled to the brim with mute caresses. If it were true that a garden flower or a meadow tree could keep some memory of lovers of other times who admired them in their bloom or their vigour, our love in this hour of long regret would come and entrust to the rose or erect in the oak, before the approach of death, its sweetness or its strength. Thus it would survive, victor over funereal care, in the tranquil godship conferred on it by simple things; it would still enjoy the pure brightness cast on life by a summer dawn and the soft rain hanging to the leaves. And if on a fine evening, out of the depths of the plain, a couple came along, holding hands, the oak would stretch out its broad and powerful shade like a wing over their path, and the rose would waft them its frail perfume. The wistaria is faded and the hawthorn dead; but this is the season of the heather in flower, and on this calm and gentle evening the caressing wind brings you the perfumes of poor Campine. Love them and breathe them in while brooding over its fate; its soil is bare and harsh and the wind wars on it; pools make their holes in it; the sand preys on it, and the little left to it, it yet gives. Once in autumn, we lived with it, with its plain and its woods, with its rain and its sky, even to December when the Christmas angels crossed its legend with mighty strokes of their wings. Your heart became more steadfast there, simpler and more human; we loved the people of its old villages, and the women who spoke to us of their great age and of spinning-wheels fallen from use, worn out by their hands. Our calm house on the misty heath was bright to look upon and ready in its welcome; and dear to us were its roof and its door and its threshold and its hearth blackened by the smoky peat. When night spread out its total splendour over the vast and pale and innumerable somnolence, the silence taught us lessons, the glow of which our soul has never forgotten. Because we felt more lonely in the vast plain, the dawns and the evenings sank more deeply into us; our eyes were franker, our hearts were gentler and filled to the brim with the fervour of the world. We found happiness by not asking for it; even the sadness of the days was good for us, and the few sun-rays of that end of autumn gladdened us all the more because they seemed weak and tired. The wistaria is faded and the hawthorn dead; but this is the season of the heather in flower. This evening, remember, and let the caressing wind bring you the perfumes of poor Campine. Draw up your chair near mine, and stretch your hands out towards the hearth that I may see between your fingers the old flame burning; and watch the fire quietly with your eyes that fear no light, that they may be for me still franker when a quick and flashing ray strikes to their depths, illuminating them. Oh! how beautiful and young still our life is when the clock rings out with its golden tone, and, coming closer, I brush you lightly and touch you, and a slow and gentle fever that neither desires to allay leads the sure and wondrous kiss from the hands to the forehead and from the forehead to the lips. How I love you then, my bright beloved, in your welcoming, gently swooning body, that encircles me in its turn and dissolves me in its gladness! Everything becomes dearer to me--your mouth, your arms, your kindly breasts where my poor, tired forehead will lie quietly near your heart after the moment of riotous pleasure that you grant me. For I love you still better after the sensual hour, when your goodness, still more steadfast and maternal, makes for me a soft repose, following sharp ardour, and when, after desire has cried out its violence, I hear approaching our regular happiness with steps so gentle that they are but silence. Be once more merciful and cheering to us, light, pale brightness of winter that will bathe our brows when of an afternoon we both go into the garden to breathe in one last warmth. We loved you long ago with so great a pride, with so great a love springing from our hearts, that one supreme and gentle and kindly flame is due to us at this hour when grief awaits us. You are that which no man ever forgets, from the day when you first struck his victorious arms, and when, on the coming of evening, you slept in his eyes with your dead splendour and vanquished strength. And for us you were always the visible fervour that, being everywhere diffused and shining in fevers of deep and stinging ardour, seemed to start for the infinite from our heart. Alas! the days of the crimson phlox and of the proud roses that brightened its gates are far away, but however faded and withered it may be--what matters!--I love our garden still with all my heart. Its distress is sometimes dearer and sweeter to me than was its gladness in the burning summer days. Oh! the last perfume slowly rendered up by its last flower on its last mosses! I wandered this evening among its winding pathways, to touch with my earnest fingers all its plants; and falling on my knees amid the trembling grasses, I gave a long kiss to its damp and heavy soil. And now let it die, and the mist and night come and spread over all; all my being seems to have entered into our garden's ruin, and, by understanding its death, I shall learn to know my The evening falls, the moon is golden. Before the day ends, go gaily into the garden and pluck with your gentle hands the few flowers that have not yet bowed sadly towards the earth. Though their leaves may be wan, what matters! I admire them and you love them, and their petals are beautiful, in spite of all, on the stalks that bear them. And you went away into the distance among the box-trees, along a monotonous path, and the nosegay that you plucked trembled in your hand and suddenly quivered; and then your dreaming fingers devoutly gathered together these glimmering autumn roses and wove them with tears into a pale and bright and supple crown. The last light lit up your eyes, and your long step became sad and silent. And slowly in the twilight you returned with empty hands to the house, leaving not far from our door, on a damp, low hillock, the white circle that your fingers had formed. And I understood then that in the weary garden wherethrough the winds will soon pass like squadrons, you desired for the last time to adorn with flowers our youth that lies there dead. When your hand, on an evening of the sluggish months, commits to the odorous cupboards the fruits of your orchard, I seem to see you calmly arranging our old perfumed and sweet-tasting memories. And my relish for them returns, as it was in former years in the gold and the sun and with the wind on my lips; and then I see a thousand moments done and gone, and their gladness and their laughter and their cries and their fevers. The past reawakens with so great a desire to be the present still, with its life and strength, that the hardly extinguished fires suddenly burn my body, and my heart rejoices to the point of swooning. O beautiful luminous fruits in these autumn of russet summer, splendours that light up our monotonous hours, what a ruddy and spacious awakening you stir up in us! And now that the lofty leaves have fallen, that kept our garden sheltered beneath their shade, through the bare branches can be seen beyond them the roofs of the old villages climbing towards the horizon. So long as summer poured out its gladness, none of us saw them grouped so near our door; but now that the flowers and the leaves are withered, we often brood on them with gentle thoughts. Other people live there between stone walls, behind a worn threshold protected by a coping, having as sole friends but the wind and the rain and the lamp shining with its friendly light. In the darkness at the fall of evening, when the fire awakens and the clock in which time swings is hushed, doubtless, as much as we, they love the silence, to feel themselves thinking through their eyes. Nothing disturbs for them or for us those hours of deep and quiet and tender intimacy wherein the moment that was is blessed for having been, and of which the coming hour is always the best. Indeed, how they also clench the old happiness, made up of pain and joy, within their trembling hands; they know each other's bodies that have grown old together, and each other's looks worn out by the same sorrows. The roses of their life, they love them faded, with their dead glory and their last perfume and the heavy memory of their dead brightness falling away, leaf by leaf, in the garden of the years. Against black winter, like hermits, they stay crouching within their human fervour, and nothing disheartens them and nothing leads them to complain of the days they no longer possess. Oh! the quiet people in the depths of old villages! Indeed, do we not feel them neighbours of our heart! And do we not find in their eyes our tears and in their courage our strength and ardour! They are there beneath their roof, seated around fires, or lingering sometimes at their window-sill; and on this evening of spacious, floating wind, perhaps they have thought of us what we think of them. When the starry sky covers our dwelling, we hush for hours before its intense and gentle fire, so that we may feel a greater and more fervent stirring within us. The great silver stars follow their courses high up in the heavens; beneath the flames and the gleams, night spreads out its depths, and the calm is so great that the ocean listens! But what matters even the hushing of the sea, if in the brightness and immensity of space, full of invisible violence, our hearts beat so strongly that they make all the silence? With the same love that you were for me long ago a garden of splendour whose wavering coppices shaded the long grass and the docile roses, you are for me in these black days a calm and steadfast sanctuary. All is centred there: your fervour and your brightness and your movements assembling the flowers of your goodness; but all is drawn together closely in a deep peace against the sharp winds piercing the winter of the world. My happiness keeps warm there within your folded arms; your pretty, artless words, in their gladness and familiarity, sing still with as great a charm to my ears as in the days of the white lilac or of the red currants. Oh! I feel your gay and shining cheerfulness triumphing day by day over the sorrow of the years, and you yourself smile at the silver threads that slip their waving network into your glossy hair. When your head bends to my deep-felt kiss, what does it matter to me that your brow is furrowed, and that your hands are becoming ridged with hard veins when I hold them between my two steadfast hands! You never complain, and you believe firmly that nothing true dies when love receives its meed, and that the living fire on which our soul feeds consumes even grief to increase its flame. The flowers of bright welcome along the wall await us no longer when we go indoors, and our silken ponds whose smooth waters chafe lie outstretched no more beneath pure, soft skies. All the birds have fled our monotonous plains, and pallid fogs float over the marshes. O those two cries: autumn, winter! winter, autumn! Do you hear the dead wood falling in the forest? No more is our garden the husband of light, whence the phlox were seen springing towards their glory; our fiery gladioli are mingled with the earth, and have lain down in their length to Everything is nerveless and void of beauty; everything is flameless and passes and flees and bends and sinks down unsupported. Oh! give me your eyes lit up by your soul that I may seek in them in spite of all a corner of the old sky. In them alone our light lives still, the light that covered all the garden long ago, when it exulted with the white pride of our lilies and the climbing ardour of our hollyhocks. When the fine snow with its sparkling grains silts over our threshold, I hear your footsteps wander and stop in the neighbouring room. You withdraw the bright and fragile mirror from its place by the window, and your bunch of keys dances along the drawer of the beech-wood wardrobe. I listen, and you are poking the fire and arousing the embers; and you are arranging about the silent walls the silence of the chairs. You remove the fleeting dust from the workbasket with the narrow feet, and your ring strikes and resounds on the quivering sides of a wine-glass. And I am more happy than ever this evening at your tender presence, and at feeling you near and not seeing you and ever hearing you. If fate has saved us from commonplace errors and from vile untruth and from sorry shams, it is because all constraint that might have bowed our double fervour revolted us. You went your way, free and frank and bright, mingling with the flowers of love the flowers of your will, and gently lifting up towards yourself its lofty spirit when my brow was bent towards fear or doubt. And you were always kind and artless in your acts, knowing that my heart was for ever yours; for if I loved--do I now know?--some other woman, it is to your heart that I always returned. Your eyes were then so pure in their tears that my being was stirred to sincerity and truth; and I repeated to you holy and gentle words, and your weapons were sadness and forgiveness. And in the evening I lulled my head to sleep on your bright bosom, happy at having returned from false and dim distances to the fragrant spring that bore sway in us, and I remained a captive in your open arms. No, my heart has never tired of you. In the time of June, long ago, you said to me: "If I knew, friend, if I knew that my presence one day might be a burden to you-- with my poor heart and sorrowful thoughts, I would go away, no matter where." And gently your forehead rose towards my kiss. And you said to me again: "Bonds loosen always and life is so full, and what matters if the chain is golden that ties to the same ring in port our two human barks!" And gently your tears revealed to me your grief. And you said and you said again: "Let us separate, let us separate before the evil days; our life has been too lofty to drag it trivially from fault to fault." And you fled and you fled, and my two hands desperately held you back. No, my heart has never tired of you. How happy we are still and proud of living when the least ray of sunshine glimpsed in the heavens lights up for a moment the poor flowers of rime that the hard and delicate frost engraved on our window-panes. Rapture leaps in us and hope carries us away, and our old garden appears to us again, in spite of its long paths strewn with dead branches, living and pure and bright and full of golden gleams. Something shining and undaunted, I know not what, creeps into our blood; and in the quick kisses that, ardently, frantically, we give each other, we re-embody the immensity and fulness of summer. Shall we suffer, alas! the dead weight of the years until at length we are no more than two quiet people, exchanging the harmless kisses of children at evening when the fire flames in the hollow of the chimney? Shall our dear furniture see us drag ourselves with slow steps from the hearth to the beechen chest, support ourselves by the wall to reach the window, and huddle our tottering bodies on heavy seats? If our wreck is to appear one day in such guise, while numbness deadens our brains and our arms, we shall not bemoan, in spite of evil fate, and we shall hold our tears pent up in our breasts. For even so, we shall still keep our eyes with which to gaze on the day that follows night, and to see the dawn and the sun shed their radiance on life, and make a wonderful object of the earth. The small happenings, the thousand nothings, a letter, a date, a humble anniversary, a word said once again as in days long ago uplift your heart and mine in these long evenings. And we celebrate for ourselves these simple things, and we count and recount our old treasures, so that the little of us that we still keep may remain steadfast and brave before the sullen hour. And more than is fitting, we show ourselves solicitous of these poor, gentle, kindly joys that sit down on the bench near the flaming fire with winter flowers on their thin knees. And they take from the chest where their goodness hides it the bright bread of happiness that was allotted to us, and of which Love in our house has so long eaten that he loves it even to the crumbs. Come even to our threshold, scattering your white ash, O peaceful, slowly falling snow: the lime-tree in the garden holds all its branches bowed, and the light calandra dissolves in the sky no longer. O snow, who warm and protect the barely rising corn with the moss and wool that you spread from plain to plain! Silent snow, the gentle friend of the houses asleep in the calm of morning: Cover our roof and lightly touch our windows, and suddenly enter by the door over the threshold with your pure flakes and your dancing flames, O snow, luminous through our soul, snow, who also warm our last dreams like the rising corn! When our bright garden was gay with all its flowers, the regret at having shrunk our hearts sprang from our lips in moments of passion; and forgiveness, offered but deserved always, and the exaggerated display of our wretchedness and so many tears moistening our sad, sincere eyes uplifted our love. But in these months of heavy rain, when everything huddles together and makes itself small, when brightness itself tires of thrusting back shadow and night, our soul is no longer vibrant and strong enough to confess our faults with rapture. We tell them in slow speech; in truth, with affection still, but at the fall of the evening and no longer at dawn; sometimes even we count them on our ten fingers like things that we number and arrange in the house, and to lessen their folly or their number we debate them. With my old hands lifted to your forehead, during your brief sleep by the black hearth this evening, I part your hair, and I kiss the fervour of your eyes hidden beneath your long lashes. Oh! the sweet affection of this day's end! My eyes follow the years that have completed their course, and suddenly your life appears so perfect in them that my love is moved by a touching respect. And as in the time when you were my betrothed, the desire comes back to me again in all its ardour to fall on my knees, and with fingers as chaste as my thoughts to touch the place where your gentle heart beats. If our hearts have burned in uplifting days with a love as bright as it was lofty, age now makes us slack and indulgent and mild before our faults. You no longer make us greater, O youthful will, with your unsubdued ardour, and our life is coloured now with gentle calm and pale kindliness. We are at the setting of your sun, love, and we mask our weakness with the common-place words and Oh! how sad and shameful would the future be for us if from our winter and our mistiness there did not break out like a torch the memory of the high-spirited souls we once were. In this rugged winter when the floating sun founders on the horizon like a heavy wreck, I love to say your name, with its slow, solemn tone, as the clock echoes with the deep strokes of time. And the more I say it, the more ravished is my voice, so much so that from my lips it descends into my heart and awakens in me a more glowing happiness than the sweetest words I have spoken in my life. And before the new dawn or the evening falling to sleep, I repeat it with my voice that is ever the same, but oh! with what strength and supreme ardour shall I pronounce it at the hour of death! Perhaps, when my last day comes, perhaps, if only for a moment, a frail and quavering sun will stoop down at my window. My hands then, my poor faded hands, will even so be gilded once again by his glory; he will touch my mouth and my forehead a last time with his slow, bright, deep kiss; and the pale, but still proud flowers of my eyes will return his light before they close. Sun, have I not worshipped your strength and your brightness! My torrid, gentle art, in its supreme achievement has held you captive in the heart of my poems; like a field of ripe wheat that surges in the summer wind, this page and that of my books confers life on you and exhalts you: O Sun, who bring forth and deliver, O immense friend of whom our pride has need, be it that at the new, solemn and imperious hour when my old human heart will be heavy under the proof, you will come once more to visit it and witness. Oh! how gentle are your hands and their slow caress winding about my neck and gliding over my body, when I tell you at the fall of evening how my strength grows heavy day by day with the lead of my weakness! You do not wish me to become a shadow and a wreck like those who go towards the darkness, even though they carry a laurel in their mournful hands and fame sleeping in their hollow chest. Oh! how you soften the law of time for me, and how comforting and generous to me is your dream; for the first time, with an untruth you lull my heart, that forgives you and thanks you for it, Well knowing, nevertheless, that all ardour is vain against all that is and all that must be, and that, by finishing in your eyes my fine human life, may perhaps be found a deep happiness. When you have closed my eyes to the light, kiss them with a long kiss, for they will have given you in the last look of their last fervour the utmost passionate love. Beneath the still radiance of the funeral torch, bend down towards the farewell in them your sad and beautiful face, so that the only image they will keep in the tomb may be imprinted on them and may endure. And let me feel, before the coffin is nailed up, our hands meet once again on the pure, white bed, and your cheek rest one last time against my forehead on the pale cushions. And let me afterwards go far away with my heart, which will preserve so fiery a love for you that the other dead will feel its glow even through the compact, dead earth!

Harold Peake

The Bronze Age and the Celtic World

Essay on Satire; addressed to Charles, Earl of Dorset The Fifth Satire of Persius, inscribed to the Rev. Preface to the Pastorals, with a short defence of The wishes and desires of all good men, which have attended your lordship from your first appearance in the world, are at length I will not attempt, in this place, to say any thing particular of age, and will be the envy of the next. The subject of this book Fame is in itself a real good, if we may believe Cicero, who was In the mean time, as a counsellor bred up in the knowledge of the Thus I might safely confine myself to my native country; but if I I wish I could as easily remove that other difficulty which yet remains. It is objected by a great French critic, as well as an This, my lord, I confess, is such an argument against our modern It is this, in short--that Christian poets have not hitherto been Testament as they ought, they might there have found the machines Now, what these wicked spirits cannot compass, by the vast _Ne, fortè, pudori Sit tibi Musa lyræ solers, et cantor Apollo._ Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret, Ausus idem._ And, besides all this, it is your lordship's particular talent to But, after all these advantages, an heroic poem is certainly the French critics, which I want leisure here to recommend. In a word, what I have to say in relation to this subject, which Juvenal, maintain the latter. If we take satire in the general _Agricolæ prisci, fortes, parvoque beati, Condita post frumenta, levantes tempore festo Corpus, et ipsum animum spe finis dura ferentem, Cum sociis operum, et pueris, et conjuge fidâ, Tellurem porco, Silvanum lacte piabant; Floribus et vino Genium memorem brevis ævi. Fescennina per hunc inventa licentia morem Versibus alternis opprobria rustica fudit._ Our brawny clowns, of old, who turned the soil, Content with little, and inured to toil, At harvest-home, with mirth and country cheer, Restored their bodies for another year; Refreshed their spirits, and renewed their hope Of such a future feast, and future crop. Then, with their fellow-joggers of the ploughs, Their little children, and their faithful spouse, A sow they slew to Vesta's deity, And kindly milk, Silvanus, poured to thee; With flowers, and wine, their Genius they adored; A short life, and a merry, was the word. From flowing cups, defaming rhymes ensue, And at each other homely taunts they threw. _Libertasque recurrentes accepta per annos Lusit amabiliter; donec jam sævus apertam In rabiem verti coepit jocus, et per honestas Ire domos impune minax: doluere cruento Dente lacessiti; fuit intactis quoque cura Conditione super communi: quinetiam lex, Poenaque lata, malo quæ nollet carmine quenquam Describi: vertere modum, formidine fustis Ad benedicendum delectandumque redacti._ Thespis, or whoever he were that invented tragedy, (for authors Thus, my lord, I have at length disengaged myself from those Virgil has mentioned these sacrifices in his "Georgics:" _Lancibus et pandis fumantia reddimus exta_: During the space of almost four hundred years, since the building and unpolished, as all other operations of the soul are in their Andronicus, thus become a freeman of Rome, added to his own name The people, says he, ran in crowds to these new entertainments of Here we have Dacier making out that Ennius was the first satirist graceful turn, and endeavoured to imitate more closely the _vetus ----_Quid? cum est Lucilius ausus Primus in hunc, operis componere carmina morem_,-- he is only thus to be understood; that Lucilius had given a more graceful turn to the satire of Ennius and Pacuvius, not that he commended for his illustrations of him, yet he is still obscure: whether he affected not to be understood, but with difficulty; or Thus far, my lord, you see it has gone very hard with Persius: I A man who is resolved to praise an author, with any appearance of courage against the assaults of fortune; to esteem as nothing the therefore I wonder not that the present Bishop of Salisbury has by both, I am pleased with both; but I owe more to Horace for my _Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico Tangit, et admissus circum præcordia ludit._ ----_non tu, in triviis, indocte, solebas Stridenti, miserum, stipulâ, disperdere carmen?_ Thus in English: "Augustus was the first, who under the colour of magnâ curâ redarguit. Ac ne requisitis quidem auctoribus, id modo loquendo, à quâ nec ipse exemptus fuit. Nam suo nomine compescere From hence I may reasonably conclude, that Augustus, who was not _Ense velut stricto, quoties Lucilius ardens Infremuit, rubet auditor, cui frigida mens est Criminibus, tacitâ sudant præcordia culpa_. have heard honest Mr Swan make many a better, and yet have had the grace to hold my countenance. But it may be puns were then in in either of them, for the preference of him to Juvenal, than the It is easy to observe, that Dacier, in this noble similitude, has "In these two books of satire, it is the business of Horace to instruct us how to combat our vices, to regulate our passions, to ----_Tres præmia primi Accipient, flavâque caput nectentur olivâ._ _Primus equum phaleris insignem victor habeto._ Let Juvenal ride first in triumph; _Alter Amazoniam pharetram, plenamque sagittis Threiciis, lato quam circumplectitur auro Balteus, et tereti subnectit fibula gemmâ._ _Tertius Argolico hoc clypeo contentus abito._ ----_Nomen famâ tot ferre per annos, Tithoni primâ quot abest ab origine Cæsar._ _Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas, Gaudia, discursus, nostri est farrago libelli._ This is that in which I have made bold to differ from Casaubon, The quickness of your imagination, my lord, has already prevented _Nec tibi diva parens, generis nec Dardanus auctor, Perfide; sed duris genuit te cautibus horrens Caucasus; Hyrcanæque admorûnt ubera tigres_: Non, ton pere a Paris, ne fut point boulanger: Et tu n'es point du sang de Gervais, l'horloger: Ta mere ne fut point la maitresse d'un coché; Caucase dans ses flancs te forma d'une roché: Une tigresse affreuse, en quelque antre écarté, Te fit, avec son lait, succer sa cruauté. _Admiranda tibi levium spectacula rerum, Magnanimosque duces, totiusque ordine gentis Mores et studia, et populos, et proelia dicam._ And again: _At genus immortale manet; multosque per annos Stat fortuna domus, et avi numerantur avorum;_-- master-piece. _Heu! quantum scelus est, in viscera, viscera condi! Congestoque avidum pinguescere corpore corpus; Alteriusque animantem animantis vivere leto._ _Tum jam nulla viro juranti fæmina credat; Nulla viri speret sermones esse fideles; Qui, dum aliquid cupiens animus prægestit apisci, Sed simul ac cupidæ mentis satiata libido est, Dicta nihil metuere, nihil perjuria curant._ An extraordinary turn upon the words, is that in Ovid's "Epistolæ _Si, nisi quæ formâ poterit te digna videri, Nulla futura tua est, nulla futura tua est._ _Cùm subita incautum dementia cepit amantem; Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere Manes._ I will not burthen your lordship with more of them; for I write to a master who understands them better than myself. But I may And if we are not altogether so faithful to our author, as our They who will not grant me, that pleasure is one of the ends of _Pulverulenta putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum._ Here is the difference of no less than seven syllables in a line, Thus, my lord, having troubled you with a tedious visit, the best Your Lordship's Most obliged, most humble, And most obedient servant, Alluding to Rochester's well-known couplet: For pointed satire I would Buckhurst chuse; The best good man, with the worst-natured muse. _Allusion to Horace's 10th Satire, Book I._ Probably meaning Sir Robert Howard, with whom our author was now The First Satire of Persius is doubtless levelled against bad censuring freedoms used with private characters. The four sceptres were placed saltier-wise upon the reverse of guineas, till the gold coinage of his present majesty. _Sic Maro nec Calabri tentavit carmina Flacci, Pindaricos posset cum superare modos; Et Vario cessit Romani laude cothurni, Cum posset tragico fortius ore loqui._ MART. _lib. VIII. epig. XVIII._ "Would it be imagined," says Dr Johnson, "that, of this rival effusions of a man of wit; gay, vigorous, and airy." Epic poems by Le Moyne, Chapelain, and Scuderi; of which it This passage is certainly inaccurate in one particular, and commenced. For, in a dialogue written by Bryskett, as Mr Malone After so long a race as I have run Through Faery Land, which those six books compile, Give leave to rest me, being half foredonne, And gather to myself new breath awhile; Then, as a steed refreshed after toyle, Out of my prison will I break anew, And stoutly will that second work assoyle, With strong endevour, and attention due. Mr Rymer, who was pleased to call himself a critic, had promised _Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum Reddiderit junctura novum_---- This resolution our author fortunately did not adhere to. In the beginning of the 12th chapter, as well as in the passage I shall imitate my predecessor, Mr Malone, in presenting the "La troisiéme différence entre ces mêmes Satires et les piéces _Non ego mordaci distrinxi carmine quemquam, Nec meus ullius crimina versus habet._ Horace, in the beginning of the Fourth Satire of his First Book, _Hinc omnis pendet Lucilius, hosce secutus, Mutatis tantum pedibus numerisque; facetus, Emunctæ naris, durus componere versus. Nam fuit hoc vitiosus: in hora sæpe ducentos, Ut magnum, versus dictabat stans pede in uno. Cum flueret lutulentus, erat quod tollere velles; Garrulus, atque piger scribendi ferre laborem; Scribendi recte; nam ut multum, non moror._-- ----_fuerit Lucilius, inquam, Comis et urbanus; fuerit limatior idem, Quam rudis, et Græcis intacti carminis auctor, Quamque poetarum seniorum turba: Sed ille, Si foret hoc nostrum fato dilatus in ævum, Detereret sibi multa: recideret omne, quod ultra Perfectum traheretur: et in versu faciendo Sæpe caput scaberet, vivos et roderet ungues._ The original runs thus: "_Et tamen in illis veteribus nostris quæ Menippum imitati, non interpretati, quadam hilaritate antiquitatum proæmiis, philosophice scribere voluimus si modo accomplish his purpose. From this classification we may infer, that Dryden's idea of adornavit, ut nihil Horatio, nihil Juvenali præter indignationem reliquisse videatur; hic verò Horatium curiosè considerando tam admirabilem esse docuit, ut plerisque jam in Persio nimia Stoici supercilii morositas jure displiceat. Juvenalis ingenium ambo quidem certè laudaverunt, sic tamen ut in eo sæpe etiam Rhetoricæ Satyram esse pronunciaverunt._ North has left the following account of this great lawyer's Casaubon published an edition of "Persius," with notes, and a This is a strange mistake in an author, who translated Persius entirely, and great part of Juvenal. The satires of Persius were written during the reign of Nero, and those of Juvenal in that of David Wedderburn of Aberdeen, whose edition of "Persius," with a Persius died in his 30th year, in the 8th year of Nero's reign. Lucan died before he was twenty-seven. Casaubon's edition is accompanied, "_Cum Persiana Horatii imitatione_." A Stoic philosopher to whom Persius addresses his 5th Satire. The famous Gilbert Burnet, the Buzzard of our author's "Hind and The abuse of personal satires, or lampoons, as they were called, Wycherley, author of the witty comedy so called. The precise dates of Juvenal's birth and death are disputed; but The learned Barten Holyday was born at Oxford, in the end of the Sir Robert Stapylton, a gentleman of an ancient family in I presume, this celebrated finisher of the law, who bequeathed This is a strange averment, considering the "Reflections upon Absalom and Achitophel, by a Person of Honour," in composing and _Persius exclamat, Per magnos, Brute, deos te Oro, qui regis consueris tollere, cur non Hunc Regem jugulas? Operum hoc mihi crede tuorum est._ HOR. Satire 8. Lib. I. This gentleman, who was as great a gambler as a punster, regaled Mr Lewis Maidwell, the author of a comedy called "The Generous Who dares be witty now, and with just rage Disturb the vice and follies of the age? With knaves and fools, satire's a dangerous fault; They will not let you rub their sores with salt: Else _Rose street ambuscades_ shall break your head, And life in verse shall lay the poet dead. The Roman exclamation of high contentment at a recitation, like our _bravo! bravissimo!_ Scarron's _Virgile Travesti_. In illustration of Holyday's miserable success in his desperate attempt, we need only take the lines with which he opens: Shall I be still an auditor, and ne'er Repay that have so often had mine eare Vexed with hoarse Codrus Theseads? shall one sweat While his gownd comique sceane he does repeat, Another while his elegies soft strain The reader? and shall not I vex them again? Shall mighty Telephus be unrequited, That spends a day in being all recited? Or volume-swoln Orestes, that does fill The margin of an ample booke; yet still, As if the book were mad too, is extended Upon the very back, nor yet is ended. _The Poet gives us first a kind of humorous reason for his writing: that being provoked by hearing so many ill poets rehearse their works, he does himself justice on them, by giving them as bad as they bring. But since no man will rank himself with ill writers, it is easy to conclude, that if such wretches could draw an audience, he thought it no hard matter to excel them, and gain a greater esteem with the public. Next, he informs us more openly, why he rather addicts himself to satire than any other kind of poetry. And here he discovers, that it is not so much his indignation to ill poets as to ill men, which has prompted him to write. He, therefore, gives us a summary and general view of the vices and follies reigning in his time. So that this first satire is the natural ground-work of all the rest. Herein he confines himself to no one subject, but strikes indifferently at all men in his way. In every following satire he has chosen some particular moral which he would inculcate; and lashes some particular vice or folly, (an art with which our lampooners are not much acquainted). But our poet being desirous to reform his own age, and not daring to attempt it by an overt-act of naming living persons, inveighs only against those who were infamous in the times immediately preceding his, whereby he not only gives a fair warning to great men, that their memory lies at the mercy of future poets and historians, but also, with a finer stroke of his pen, brands even the living, and personates them under dead men's names._ _I have avoided, as much as I could possibly, the borrowed learning of marginal notes and illustrations, and for that reason have translated this satire somewhat largely; and freely own, (if it be a fault,) that I have likewise omitted most of the proper names, because I thought they would not much edify the reader. To conclude, if in two or three places I have deserted all the commentators, it is because I thought they first deserted my author, or at least have left him in so much obscurity, that too much room is left for guessing._ Still shall I hear, and never quit the score, Stunned with hoarse Codrus' Theseid, o'er and o'er? Shall this man's elegies and t'other's play Unpunished murder a long summer's day? Huge Telephus, a formidable page, Cries vengeance; and Orestes' bulky rage, Unsatisfied with margins closely writ, Foams o'er the covers, and not finished yet. No man can take a more familiar note Of his own home, than I of Vulcan's grott, Or Mars his grove, or hollow winds that blow From Ætna's top, or tortured ghosts below. I know by rote the famed exploits of Greece, The Centaurs' fury, and the Golden Fleece; Through the thick shades the eternal scribbler bawls, And shakes the statues on their pedestals. The best and worst on the same theme employs His muse, and plagues us with an equal noise. Provoked by these incorrigible fools, I left declaiming in pedantic schools; Where, with men-boys, I strove to get renown, Advising Sylla to a private gown. And tread the path which famed Lucilius trod, Attend the causes which my muse have led:-- When sapless eunuchs mount the marriage-bed; Astride on horseback hunts the Tuscan boar; When all our lords are by his wealth outvied, Whose razor on my callow beard was tried; When I behold the spawn of conquered Nile, Crispinus, both in birth and manners vile, Pacing in pomp, with cloak of Tyrian dye, Changed oft a-day for needless luxury; And finding oft occasion to be fanned, Ambitious to produce his lady-hand; Charged with light summer-rings his fingers sweat, Unable to support a gem of weight: Such fulsome objects meeting every where, 'Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear. To view so lewd a town, and to refrain, What hoops of iron could my spleen contain! When pleading Matho, borne abroad for air, With his fat paunch fills his new-fashioned chair, And after him the wretch in pomp conveyed, Whose evidence his lord and friend betrayed, They send their prostituted wives for bail: When night-performance holds the place of merit, And brawn and back the next of kin disherit; (For such good parts are in preferment's way,) The rich old madam never fails to pay Her legacies, by nature's standard given, One gains an ounce, another gains eleven: A dear-bought bargain, all things duly weighed, For which their thrice concocted blood is paid. With looks as wan, as he who in the brake At unawares has trod upon a snake; Or played at Lyons a declaiming prize, For which the vanquished rhetorician dies. Too foul to name, too fulsome to be read! When he who pilled his province 'scapes the laws, And keeps his money, though he lost his cause; His fine begged off, contemns his infamy, Can rise at twelve, and get him drunk ere three; Enjoys his exile, and, condemned in vain, Leaves thee, prevailing province, to complain. Such villanies roused Horace into wrath; And tis more noble to pursue his path, Or fluttering perish with his foolish boy. With what impatience must the muse behold The wife, by her procuring husband sold? For though the law makes null the adulterer's deed Of lands to her, the cuckold may succeed, Who his taught eyes up to the ceiling throws, And sleeps all over but his wakeful nose. When he dares hope a colonel's command, Whose coursers kept, ran out his father's land; Would it not make a modest author dare To draw his table-book within the square, And fill with notes, when, lolling at his ease, Mecænas-like, the happy rogue he sees Borne by six wearied slaves in open view, Who cancelled an old will, and forged a new; Made wealthy at the small expence of signing With a wet seal, and a fresh interlining? The lady, next, requires a lashing line, Who squeezed a toad into her husband's wine: So well the fashionable medicine thrives, That now 'tis practised even by country wives; Poisoning, without regard of fame or fear, And spotted corpse are frequent on the bier. Wouldst thou to honours and preferments climb? Be bold in mischief, dare some mighty crime, Which dungeons, death, or banishment deserves; For virtue is but dryly praised, and starves. His son's corrupted wife, and hope to sleep? Or that male-harlot, or that unfledged boy, Eager to sin, before he can enjoy? If nature could not, anger would indite Such woful stuff as I or Sh----ll write. Count from the time, since old Deucalion's boat, Raised by the flood, did on Parnassus float, And, scarcely mooring on the cliff, implored An oracle how man might be restored; When softened stones and vital breath ensued, And virgins naked were by lovers viewed; What ever since that golden age was done, What human kind desires, and what they shun; Rage, passions, pleasures, impotence of will, Shall this satirical collection fill. What age so large a crop of vices bore, Or when was avarice extended more? When were the dice with more profusion thrown? The well-filled fob not emptied now alone, But gamesters for whole patrimonies play; The steward brings the deeds which must convey The lost estate: what more than madness reigns, When one short sitting many hundreds drains, As on seven dishes at a private meal? Clients of old were feasted; now, a poor Divided dole is dealt at the outward door; Which by the hungry rout is soon dispatched: The paltry largess, too, severely watched, Ere given; and every face observed with care, That no intruding guest usurp a share. The freedman jostles, and will be preferred; First come, first served, he cries; and I, in spite Of your great lordships, will maintain my right; Though born a slave, though my torn ears are bored, 'Tis not the birth, 'tis money makes the lord. The rents of five fair houses I receive; What greater honours can the purple give? The poor patrician is reduced to keep, In melancholy walks, a grazier's sheep: Not Pallus nor Licinius had my treasure; Then let the sacred tribunes wait my leisure. Once a poor rogue, 'tis true, I trod the street, And trudged to Rome upon my naked feet: Gold is the greatest God; though yet we see No temples raised to money's majesty; No altars fuming to her power divine, Such as to valour, peace, and virtue shine, And faith, and concord; where the stork on high } To what their sordid begging vails amount, Judge what a wretched share the poor attends, Whose whole subsistence on those alms depends! Their household fire, their raiment, and their food, Prevented by those harpies; when a wood Of litters thick besiege the donor's gate, And begging lords and teeming ladies wait The promised dole; nay, some have learned the trick To beg for absent persons; feign them sick, No, sir, 'tis pity to disturb her sleep. Such fine employments our whole days divide: The salutations of the morning tide Call up the sun; those ended, to the hall We wait the patron, hear the lawyers bawl; Fit to be pissed against, and somewhat more. The great man, home conducted, shuts his door. Old clients, wearied out with fruitless care, Dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair; Though much against the grain, forced to retire, Buy roots for supper, and provide a fire. Meantime his lordship lolls within at ease, Pampering his paunch with foreign rarities; Both sea and land are ransacked for the feast, And his own gut the sole invited guest. Such plate, such tables, dishes dressed so well, That whole estates are swallowed at a meal. Even parasites are banished from his board; (At once a sordid and luxurious lord;) Prodigious throat, for which whole boars are drest; (A creature formed to furnish out a feast.) But present punishment pursues his maw, When, surfeited and swelled, the peacock raw He bears into the bath; whence want of breath, Repletions, apoplex, intestate death. His fate makes table-talk, divulged with scorn, And he, a jest, into his grave is borne. No age can go beyond us; future times Can add no farther to the present crimes. Sufficient strength for such a spacious field? From whence can be derived so large a vein, Bold truths to speak, and spoken to maintain, When godlike freedom is so far bereft The noble mind, that scarce the name is left? Ere _scandalum magnatum_ was begot, No matter if the great forgave or not; The streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night. Shall they, who drenched three uncles in a draught Of poisonous juice, be then in triumph brought, 'Tis defamation but to say, That's he! Against bold Turnus the great Trojan arm, Amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm: Achilles may in epic verse be slain, And none of all his myrmidons complain: Hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry, Not if he drown himself for company; But when Lucilius brandishes his pen, And flashes in the face of guilty men, A cold sweat stands in drops on every part, And rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart. Muse, be advised; 'tis past considering time, When entered once the dangerous lists of rhime; Since none the living villains dare implead, Arraign them in the persons of the dead. Codrus, or it may be Cordus, a bad poet, who wrote the life and The name of a tragedy. Another tragedy. Some commentators take this grove to be a place where poets were That is, the best and the worst poets. This was one of the themes given in the schools of rhetoricians, Mævia, a name put for any impudent or mannish woman. Juvenal's barber, now grown wealthy. The Romans were grown so effeminate in Juvenal's time, that they Matho, a famous lawyer, mentioned in other places by Juvenal and Lyons, a city in France, where annual sacrifices and games were made in honour of Augustus Cæsar. Here the poet complains, that the governors of provinces being Horace, who wrote satires; it is more noble, says our author, to Nero married Sporus, an eunuch; though it may be, the poet meant Mecænas is often taxed by Seneca and others for his effeminacy. The meaning is, that the very consideration of such a crime will Shadwell, our author's old enemy.--E. Deucalion and Pyrrha, when the world was drowned, escaped to the The ears of all slaves were bored, as a mark of their servitude; Perhaps the storks were used to build on the top of the temple dedicated to Concord. He calls the Roman knights, &c. harpies, or devourers. In those to demand their shares of the largess; and thereby prevented, and The meaning is, that noblemen would cause empty litters to be The poet here tells you how the idle passed their time; in going A poet may safely write an heroic poem, such as that of Virgil, _The story of this satire speaks itself. Umbritius, the supposed friend of Juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving Rome, and retiring to Cumæ. Our author accompanies him out of town. Before they take leave of each other, Umbritius tells his friend the reasons which oblige him to lead a private life, in an obscure place. He complains, that an honest man cannot get his bread at Rome; that none but flatterers make their fortunes there; that Grecians, and other foreigners, raise themselves by those sordid arts which he describes, and against which he bitterly inveighs. He reckons up the several inconveniences which arise from a city life, and the many dangers which attend it; upbraids the noblemen with covetousness, for not rewarding good poets; and arraigns the government for starving them. The great art of this satire is particularly shown in common-places; and drawing in as many vices, as could naturally fall into the compass of it._ Where, far from noisy Rome, secure he lives, And one more citizen to Sybil gives; The road to Baiæ, and that soft recess Which all the gods with all their bounty bless; Though I in Prochyta with greater ease Could live, than in a street of palaces. Than thousand padders, is the poet's curse; Rogues, that in dog-days cannot rhyme forbear, But without mercy read, and make you hear. Now while my friend, just ready to depart, Was packing all his goods in one poor cart, He stopt a little at the Conduit-gate, Where Numa modelled once the Roman state, In mighty councils with his nymph retired; Though now the sacred shades and founts are hired In a small basket, on a wisp of hay; Yet such our avarice is, that every tree Pays for his head, nor sleep itself is free; Nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held, From their own grove the muses are expelled. Into this lonely vale our steps we bend, I and my sullen discontented friend; The marble caves and aqueducts we view; But how adulterate now, and different from the true! How much more beauteous had the fountain been Embellished with her first created green, Where crystal streams through living turf had run, Contented with an urn of native stone! Then thus Umbritius, with an angry frown, And looking back on this degenerate town:-- Since noble arts in Rome have no support, And ragged virtue not a friend at court, No profit rises from the ungrateful stage, My poverty encreasing with my age; 'Tis time to give my just disdain a vent, And, cursing, leave so base a government. Where Dædalus his borrowed wings laid by, To that obscure retreat I chuse to fly: Now, now 'tis time to quit this cursed place, And hide from villains my too honest face: Here let Arturius live, and such as he; Such manners will with such a town agree. Knaves, who in full assemblies have the knack Of turning truth to lies, and white to black, Can hire large houses, and oppress the poor By farmed excise; can cleanse the common-shore, Were once the minstrels of a country show; Followed the prizes through each paltry town, By trumpet-cheeks and bloated faces known. But now, grown rich, on drunken holidays, At their own costs exhibit public plays; Where, influenced by the rabble's bloody will, With thumbs bent back, they popularly kill. From thence returned, their sordid avarice rakes In excrements again, and hires the jakes. Why hire they not the town, not every thing, Since such as they have fortune in a string, Who, for her pleasure, can her fools advance, And toss them topmost on the wheel of chance? What's Rome to me, what business have I there? I who can neither lie, nor falsely swear? Nor praise my patron's undeserving rhymes, Nor yet comply with him, nor with his times? Unskilled in schemes by planets to foreshow, Like canting rascals, how the wars will go: I neither will, nor can, prognosticate To the young gaping heir, his father's fate; Nor in the entrails of a toad have pried, Nor carried bawdy presents to a bride: For want of these town-virtues, thus alone I go, conducted on my way by none; Like a dead member from the body rent, Maimed, and unuseful to the government. Who now is loved, but he who loves the times, Conscious of close intrigues, and dipt in crimes, Labouring with secrets which his bosom burn, Yet never must to public light return? They get reward alone, who can betray; For keeping honest counsels none will pay. He who can Verres when he will accuse, The purse of Verres may at pleasure use: But let not all the gold which Tagus hides, And pays the sea in tributary tides, Be bribe sufficient to corrupt thy breast, Or violate with dreams thy peaceful rest. Great men with jealous eyes the friend behold, Whose secrecy they purchase with their gold. I haste to tell thee,--nor shall shame oppose,-- What confidents our wealthy Romans chose; And whom I must abhor: to speak my mind, I hate, in Rome, a Grecian town to find; To see the scum of Greece transplanted here, Received like gods, is what I cannot bear. Nor Greeks alone, but Syrians here abound; Obscene Orontes, diving under ground, Conveys his wealth to Tyber's hungry shores, Hither their crooked harps and customs come; All find receipt in hospitable Rome. 'Stilling sweet oil; his neck enchained with gold; Aping the foreigners in every dress, Which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less. Meantime they wisely leave their native land; From Sycion, Samos, and from Alaband, And Amydon, to Rome they swarm in shoals: So sweet and easy is the gain from fools. Poor refugees at first, they purchase here; And, soon as denizened, they domineer; Grow to the great, a flattering, servile rout, Work themselves inward, and their patrons out. Quick-witted, brazen-faced, with fluent tongues, Patient of labours, and dissembling wrongs. Riddle me this, and guess him if you can, Who bears a nation in a single man? And bid him go to heaven, to heaven he goes. In short, no Scythian, Moor, or Thracian born, But in that town which arms and arts adorn. Shall he be placed above me at the board, In purple clothed, and lolling like a lord? Of being born a citizen of Rome! The Greeks get all by fulsome flatteries; A most peculiar stroke they have at lies. They make a wit of their insipid friend, His blubber-lips and beetle-brows commend, His long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise,-- You'd think they were describing Hercules. A creaking voice for a clear treble goes; Though harsher than a cock, that treads and crows. We can as grossly praise; but, to our grief, No flattery but from Grecians gains belief. Besides these qualities, we must agree, They mimic better on the stage than we: In such a free, and such a graceful way, That we believe a very woman shown, And fancy something underneath the gown. Return it louder than an ass can bray; Begin but you to shiver, and they shake; In frost and snow, if you complain of heat, They rub the unsweating brow, and swear they sweat. We live not on the square with such as these; Such are our betters who can better please; Who day and night are like a looking-glass, Still ready to reflect their patron's face; The panegyric hand, and lifted eye, Prepared for some new piece of flattery. Even nastiness occasions will afford; They praise a belching, or well-pissing lord. Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free From bold attempts of their rank lechery. They with the walls and very floors commit. They search the secrets of the house, and so Are worshipped there, and feared for what they know. Turned evidence, and murdered on his oath. What room is left for Romans in a town Where Grecians rule, and cloaks controul the gown? Some Diphilus, or some Protogenes, Look sharply out, our senators to seize; Engross them wholly, by their native art, And fear no rivals in their bubbles' heart: One drop of poison in my patron's ear, One slight suggestion of a senseless fear, Infused with cunning, serves to ruin me; Disgraced, and banished from the family. In vain forgotten services I boast; My long dependence in an hour is lost. Look round the world, what country will appear, Where friends are left with greater ease than here? At Rome (nor think me partial to the poor) All offices of ours are out of door: In vain we rise, and to the levees run; My lord himself is up before, and gone: The prætor bids his lictors mend their pace, Lest his colleague outstrip him in the race. The childless matrons are, long since, awake, 'Tis frequent here to see a free-born son On the left hand of a rich hireling run; Because the wealthy rogue can throw away, For half a brace of bouts, a tribune's pay; But you, poor sinner, though you love the vice, And, frighted with the wicked sum, forbear To lend a hand, and help her from the chair. Produce a witness of unblemished life, Holy as Numa, or as Numa's wife, Or him who bid the unhallowed flames retire, And snatched the trembling goddess from the fire; The question is not put how far extends His piety, but what he yearly spends; Quick, to the business; how he lives and eats; How largely gives; how splendidly he treats; How many thousand acres feed his sheep; What are his rents; what servants does he keep? The account is soon cast up; the judges rate Our credit in the court by our estate. Swear by our gods, or those the Greeks adore, Thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor: And will be monstrous witty on the poor; For the torn surtout and the tattered vest, The wretch and all his wardrobe, are a jest; The greasy gown, sullied with often turning, Gives a good hint, to say,--The man's in mourning; Or, if the shoe be ripped, or patches put,-- He's wounded! see the plaister on his foot. Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool, And wit in rags is turned to ridicule. Pack hence, and from the covered benches rise, (The master of the ceremonies cries,) This is no place for you, whose small estate Is not the value of the settled rate; For, by the Roscian law, the poor can claim no seat.-- Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed, The man that polled but twelve pence for his head? Who ever named a poor man for his heir, Or called him to assist the judging chair? The poor were wise, who, by the rich oppressed, Withdrew, and sought a secret place of rest. Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn; But had done better, never to return. Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie Plunged in the depth of helpless poverty. Where none but only dead men wear a gown; On theatres of turf, in homely state, Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate; The same rude song returns upon the crowd, And, by tradition, is for wit allowed. The mimic yearly gives the same delights; And in the mother's arms the clownish infant frights. The country bumpkin the same livery wears. But here attired beyond our purse we go, For useless ornament and flaunting show; We take on trust, in purple robes to shine, And poor, are yet ambitious to be fine. This is a common vice, though all things here Are sold, and sold unconscionably dear. What will you give that Cossus may but view Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you; May take your incense like a gracious God, And answer only with a civil nod? To please our patrons, in this vicious age, We make our entrance by the favourite page; Shave his first down, and when he polls his hair, The consecrated locks to temples bear; Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells, And with our offerings help to raise his vails. Who fears in country-towns a house's fall, Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall? But we inhabit a weak city here, Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear; And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling, To keep the world's metropolis from falling, And, for one night, secure his lord's repose. At Cumæ we can sleep quite round the year, Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear; While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly, And the pale citizens for buckets cry. Thy neighbour has removed his wretched store, Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor; Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine, Art drenched in fumes of undigested wine. For if the lowest floors already burn, Cock-lofts and garrets soon will take the turn, Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred, Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled. Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot, That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out; His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers graced, Beneath them was his trusty tankard placed; And, to support this noble plate, there lay A bending Chiron cast from honest clay; His few Greek books a rotten chest contained, Whose covers much of mouldiness complained; Where mice and rats devoured poetic bread, And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed. 'Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast, And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost; Begged naked through the streets of wealthy Rome, And found not one to feed, or take him home. But, if the palace of Arturius burn, The nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn; Some to condole, and some to bring supplies. One sends him marble to rebuild, and one White naked statues of the Parian stone, The work of Polyclete, that seem to live; While others images for altars give; One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast; Another bags of gold, and he gives best. Childless Arturius, vastly rich before, Thus, by his losses, multiplies his store; Suspected for accomplice to the fire, That burnt his palace but to build it higher. But, could you be content to bid adieu To the dear playhouse, and the players too, A shallow well, that rises in your yard, That spreads his easy crystal streams around, And waters all the pretty spot of ground. There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate, And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat; 'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground, In which a lizard may, at least, turn round. When even the rich can scarce afford to sleep? So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome, And hence the sources of diseases come. The drover, who his fellow-drover meets In narrow passages of winding streets; The waggoners, that curse their standing teams, Would wake even drowsy Drusus from his dreams. And yet the wealthy will not brook delay, But sweep above our heads, and make their way, In lofty litters borne, and read and write, Or sleep at ease, the shutters make it night; Yet still he reaches first the public place. The press before him stops the client's pace; The crowd that follows crush his panting sides, And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides. One elbows him, one jostles in the shole, A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole; Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear; Yet they must walk upright beneath the load, Nay run, and, running, blow the sparkling flames abroad. Their coats, from botching newly brought, are torn. Unwieldy timber-trees, in waggons borne, Stretched at their length, beyond their carriage lie, That nod, and threaten ruin from on high; But a mashed heap, a hotchpotch of the slain; One vast destruction; not the soul alone, But bodies, like the soul, invisible are flown. Meantime, unknowing of their fellow's fate, The servants wash the platter, scower the plate, Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake; Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face, New to the horrors of that uncouth place, His passage begs, with unregarded prayer, And wants two farthings to discharge his fare. Return we to the dangers of the night.-- And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height; Unless thou first hast settled thy estate; As many fates attend thy steps to meet, As there are waking windows in the street. Bless the good Gods, and think thy chance is rare, To have a piss-pot only for thy share. The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight Before his bed-time, takes no rest that night; Passing the tedious hours in greater pain Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain; 'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal, A bully cannot sleep without a brawl. Yet, though his youthful blood be fired with wine, He wants not wit the danger to decline; Is cautious to avoid the coach and six, And on the lacquies will no quarrel fix. His train of flambeaux, and embroidered coat, May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot; But me, who must by moon-light homeward bend, Or lighted only with a candle's end, Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where He only cudgels, and I only bear. He stands, and bids me stand; I must abide, For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside. Where did you whet your knife to-night, he cries, And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise? Whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and where Have your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar? With what companion-cobler have you fed, On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head? Before my foot salutes you with a kick. Say, in what nasty cellar, under ground, Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be found?-- Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same, He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame. Before the bar for beating him you come; This is a poor man's liberty in Rome. You beg his pardon; happy to retreat With some remaining teeth, to chew your meat. Nor is this all; for when, retired, you think To sleep securely, when the candles wink, When every door with iron chains is barred, And roaring taverns are no longer heard; The ruffian robbers, by no justice awed, And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad; Those venal souls, who, hardened in each ill, To save complaints and prosecution, kill. Our iron mines exhausted and destroyed In shackles; for these villains scarce allow Goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the plough. Oh, happy ages of our ancestors, Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers! One jail did all their criminals restrain, Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain. More I could say, more causes I could show For my departure, but the sun is low; The waggoner grows weary of my stay, And whips his horses forwards on their way. What joys your fountains and cool shades afford. Then, to assist your satires, I will come, And add new venom when you write of Rome. Baiæ, another little town in Campania, near the sea: a pleasant place. The poets in Juvenal's time used to rehearse their poetry in We have a similar account of the accommodation of these vagabond Her goods a basket, and old hay her bed; She strolls, and telling fortunes, gains her bread.--EDITOR. Dædalus, in his flight from Crete, alighted at Cumæ. Lachesis is one of the three destinies, whose office was to spin In a prize of sword-players, when one of the fencers had the Verres, præter in Sicily, contemporary with Cicero, by whom Tagus, a famous river in Spain, which discharges itself into the Athens, of which Pallas, the Goddess of Arms and Arts, was patroness. Publius Egnatius, a stoick, falsely accused Bareas Soranus, as Tacitus tells us. Grecians living in Rome. Lucius Metellus, the high priest, who, when the temple of Vesta was on fire, saved the Palladium. Roscius, a tribune, ordered the distinction of places at public shows, betwixt the noblemen of Rome and the plebeians. Alluding to the secession of the Plebeians to the Mons Sacer, writers would have us believe. EDITOR. The meaning is, that men in some parts of Italy never wore a Any wealthy man. The Romans used to breed their tame pigeons in their garrets. Codrus, a learned man, very poor: by his books, supposed to be a Herbs, roots, fruits, and sallads. Corbulo was a famous general, in Nero's time, who conquered The birth-place of Juvenal. _This Satire, of almost double length to any of the rest, is a bitter invective against the fair sex. It is, indeed, a common-place, from whence all the moderns have notoriously stolen their sharpest railleries. In his other satires, the poet has only glanced on some particular women, and generally scourged the men; but this he reserved wholly for the ladies. How they had offended him, I know not; but, upon the whole matter, he is not to be excused for imputing to all, the vices of some few amongst them. Neither was it generously done of him, to attack the weakest, as well as the fairest, part of the creation; neither do I know what moral he could reasonably draw from it. It could not be to avoid the whole sex, if all had been true which he alleges against them; for that had been to put an end to human kind. And to bid us beware of their artifices, is a kind of silent acknowledgment, that they have more wit than men; which turns the satire upon us, and particularly upon the poet, who thereby makes a compliment, where he meant a libel. If he intended only to exercise his wit, he has forfeited his judgment, by making the one half of his readers his mortal enemies; and amongst the men, all the happy lovers, by their own experience, will disprove his accusations. The whole world must allow this to be the wittiest of his satires; and truly he had need of all his parts, to maintain, with so much violence, so unjust a charge. I am satisfied he will bring but few over to his opinion; and on that consideration chiefly I ventured to trans late him. Though there wanted not another reason, which was, that no one else would undertake it; at least, Sir C. S., who could have done more right to the author, after a long delay, at length absolutely refused so ungrateful an employment; and every one will grant, that the work must have been imperfect and lame, if it had appeared without one of the principal members belonging to it. Let the poet, therefore, bear the blame of his own invention; and let me satisfy the world, that I am not of his opinion. Whatever his Roman ladies were, the English are free from all his imputations. They will read with wonder and abhorrence the vices of an age, which was the most infamous of any on record. They will bless themselves when they behold those examples, related of Domitian's time; they will give back to antiquity those monsters it produced, and believe, with reason, that the species of those women is extinguished, or, at least, that they were never here propagated. I may safely, therefore, proceed to the argument of a satire, which is no way relating to them; and first observe, that my author makes their lust the most heroic of their vices; the rest are in a manner but digression. He skims them over, but he dwells on this; when he seems to have taken his last leave of it, on the sudden he returns to it: It is one branch of it in Hippia, another in Messalina, but lust is the main body of the tree. He begins with this text in the first line, and takes it up, with intermissions, to the end of the chapter. Every vice is a loader, but that is a ten. The fillers, or intermediate parts, are--their revenge; their contrivances of secret crimes; their arts to hide them; their wit to excuse them; and their impudence to own them, when they can no longer be kept secret. Then the persons to whom they are most addicted, and on whom they commonly bestow the last favours, as stage-players, fiddlers, singing-boys, and fencers. Those who pass for chaste amongst them, are not really so; but only, for their vast doweries, are rather suffered, than loved, by their own husbands. That they are imperious, domineering, scolding wives; set up for learning, and criticism in poetry; but are false judges: Love to speak Greek, (which was then the fashionable tongue, as French is now with us). That they plead causes at the bar, and play prizes at the bear-garden: That they are gossips and newsmongers; wrangle with their neighbours abroad, and beat their servants at home: That they lie-in for new private, and paint and dress in public for their lovers: That the arts of miscarrying and barrenness; buy children, and produce them for their own; murder their husbands' sons, if they stand in their way to his estate, and make their adulterers his heirs. From hence the poet proceeds to show the occasions of all these vices, their original, and how they were introduced in Rome by peace, wealth, and luxury. In conclusion, if we will take the word of our malicious author, bad women are the general standing rule; and the good, but some few exceptions to it._ In Saturn's reign, at Nature's early birth, There was that thing called Chastity on earth; When in a narrow cave, their common shade, The sheep, the shepherds, and their gods were laid; (Affected nymphs, with new-affected names,) The Cynthias, and the Lesbias of our years, Who for a sparrow's death dissolve in tears, Those first unpolished matrons, big and bold, Gave suck to infants of gigantic mould; Rough as their savage lords, who ranged the wood, And, fat with acorns, belched their windy food. For when the world was buxom, fresh, and young, Her sons were undebauched, and therefore strong; And whether born in kindly beds of earth, Or struggling from the teeming oaks to birth, Or from what other atoms they begun, No sires they had, or, if a sire, the sun. Some thin remains of chastity appeared Even under Jove, but Jove without a beard; Before the servile Greeks had learnt to swear By heads of kings; while yet the bounteous year Her common fruits in open plains exposed; Ere thieves were feared, or gardens were inclosed. At length uneasy Justice upwards flew, And both the sisters to the stars withdrew; From that old æra whoring did begin, So venerably ancient is the sin. Adulterers next invade the nuptial state, And marriage-beds creaked with a foreign weight; All other ills did iron times adorn, Yet thou, they say, for marriage dost provide; Is this an age to buckle with a bride? They say thy hair the curling art is taught, The wedding-ring perhaps already bought; A sober man like thee to change his life! What fury would possess thee with a wife? Art thou of every other death bereft, No knife, no ratsbane, no kind halter left? (For every noose compared to her's is cheap.) Is there no city-bridge from whence to leap? Would'st thou become her drudge, who dost enjoy A better sort of bedfellow, thy boy? He keeps thee not awake with nightly brawls, Nor, with a begged reward, thy pleasure palls; Nor, with insatiate heavings, calls for more, When all thy spirits were drained out before. But still Ursidius courts the marriage-bait, Longs for a son to settle his estate, And takes no gifts, though every gaping heir Would gladly grease the rich old bachelor. What revolution can appear so strange, As such a lecher such a life to change? To thrust his neck into the marriage-noose? He who so often, in a dreadful fright, Had, in a coffer, 'scaped the jealous cuckold's sight; That he, to wedlock dotingly betrayed, Should hope, in this lewd town, to find a maid!-- The man's grown mad! to ease his frantic pain, Run for the surgeon, breathe the middle vein; But let a heifer, with gilt horns, be led To Juno, regent of the marriage-bed; Few matrons there, but curse the tedious night; Few whom their fathers dare salute, such lust Their kisses have, and come with such a gust. With ivy now adorn thy doors, and wed; Such is thy bride, and such thy genial bed. Think'st thou one man is for one woman meant? She sooner with one eye would be content. And yet, 'tis noised, a maid did once appear In some small village, though fame says not where. 'Tis possible; but sure no man she found; 'Twas desart all about her father's ground. And yet some lustful God might there make bold; Are Jove and Mars grown impotent and old? Many a fair nymph has in a cave been spread, And much good love without a feather-bed. Whither would'st thou, to chuse a wife, resort, The park, the mall, the playhouse, or the court? Which way soever thy adventures fall, Secure alike of chastity in all. One sees a dancing-master capering high, And raves, and pisses, with pure extacy; Another does with all his motions move, And gapes, and grins, as in the feat of love; A third is charmed with the new opera notes, Admires the song, but on the singer dotes. Their memories to refresh, and cheer their hearts, In borrowed breeches, act the players' parts. The poor, that scarce have wherewithal to eat, Will pinch, to make the singing-boy a treat; The rich, to buy him, will refuse no price, And stretch his quail-pipe, till they crack his voice. Tragedians, acting love, for lust are sought, Though but the parrots of a poet's thought. The pleading lawyer, though for counsel used, In chamber-practice often is refused. Still thou wilt have a wife, and father heirs, The product of concurring theatres. Perhaps a fencer did thy brows adorn, And a young swordsman to thy lands is born. Thus Hippia loathed her old patrician lord, And left him for a brother of the sword. To wondering Pharos with her love she fled, To show one monster more than Afric bred; She could the playhouse and the players leave. Born of rich parentage, and nicely bred, She lodged on down, and in a damask bed; Yet daring now the dangers of the deep, On a hard mattress is content to sleep. Ere this, 'tis true, she did her fame expose; But that great ladies with great ease can lose. The tender nymph could the rude ocean bear, So much her lust was stronger than her fear. But had some honest cause her passage prest, The smallest hardship had disturbed her breast. Each inconvenience makes their virtue cold; But womankind in ills is ever bold. Were she to follow her own lord to sea, What doubts and scruples would she raise to stay? Her stomach sick, and her head giddy grows, The tar and pitch are nauseous to her nose; But in love's voyage nothing can offend, Women are never sea-sick with a friend. What youth, what beauty, could the adulterer boast? What was the face, for which she could sustain To be called mistress to so base a man? Stood high upon the handle of his face: His blear-eyes ran in gutters to his chin; His beard was stubble, and his cheeks were thin. But 'twas his fencing did her fancy move; 'Tis arms, and blood, and cruelty, they love. But should he quit his trade, and sheath his sword, Her lover would begin to be her lord. This was a private crime; but you shall hear What fruits the sacred brows of monarchs bear: The good old sluggard but began to snore, She, who preferred the pleasures of the night To pomps, that are but impotent delight, Strode from the palace, with an eager pace, To cope with a more masculine embrace. Muffled she marched, like Juno in a cloud, Of all her train but one poor wench allowed; One whom in secret-service she could trust, The rival and companion of her lust. With heaving breasts, and with desiring eyes. Still as one drops, another takes his place, And, baffled, still succeeds to like disgrace. At length, when friendly darkness is expired, And every strumpet from her cell retired, She lags behind and, lingering at the gate, With a repining sigh submits to fate; All filth without, and all a fire within, Tired with the toil, unsated with the sin. Old Cæsar's bed the modest matron seeks, The steam of lamps still hanging on her cheeks In ropy smut; thus foul, and thus bedight, She brings him back the product of the night. Now, should I sing what poisons they provide, With all their trumpery of charms beside, And all their arts of death,--it would be known, Lust is the smallest sin the sex can own. His tongue is tied in golden fetters fast: He sighs, adores, and courts her every hour; Who would not do as much for such a dower? She writes love-letters to the youth in grace, Nay, tips the wink before the cuckold's face; And might do more, her portion makes it good; Wealth has the privilege of widowhood. These truths with his example you disprove, Who with his wife is monstrously in love: But know him better; for I heard him swear, 'Tis not that she's his wife, but that she's fair. Let her but have three wrinkles in her face, Let her eyes lessen, and her skin unbrace, Soon you will hear the saucy steward say,-- Pack up with all your trinkets, and away; You grow offensive both at bed and board; Your betters must be had to please my lord. Meantime she's absolute upon the throne, And, knowing time is precious, loses none. She must have flocks of sheep, with wool more fine Than silk, and vineyards of the noblest wine; Whole droves of pages for her train she craves, And sweeps the prisons for attending slaves. In short, whatever in her eyes can come, Or others have abroad, she wants at home. When winter shuts the seas, and fleecy snows Make houses white, she to the merchant goes; Rich crystals of the rock she takes up there, Huge agate vases, and old china ware; Then Berenice's ring her finger proves, More precious made by her incestuous loves, And infamously dear; a brother's bribe, Even God's anointed, and of Judah's tribe; Where barefoot they approach the sacred shrine, And think it only sin to feed on swine. Dismissed their husbands' and their brothers' arms; Grant her, besides, of noble blood, that ran In ancient veins, ere heraldry began; Suppose all these, and take a poet's word, A black swan is not half so rare a bird. A wife, so hung with virtues, such a freight, What mortal shoulders could support the weight! Some country girl, scarce to a curtsey bred, Would I much rather than Cornelia wed; If supercilious, haughty, proud, and vain, She brought her father's triumphs in her train. Even her, who did her numerous offspring boast, As fair and fruitful as the sow that carried The thirty pigs, at one large litter farrowed. What beauty, or what chastity, can bear So great a price, if, stately and severe, She still insults, and you must still adore? Grant that the honey's much, the gall is more. Upbraided with the virtues she displays, Seven hours in twelve you loath the wife you praise. Some faults, though small, intolerable grow; For what so nauseous and affected too, As those that think they due perfection want, Who have not learnt to lisp the Grecian cant? In Greece, their whole accomplishments they seek: Their fashion, breeding, language, must be Greek; But, raw in all that does to Rome belong, They scorn to cultivate their mother-tongue. In Greek they flatter, all their fears they speak; Tell all their secrets; nay, they scold in Greek: Even in the feat of love, they use that tongue. Such affectations may become the young; But thou, old hag, of three score years and three, Is showing of thy parts in Greek for thee? #Zôê kai psychê!# All those tender words The momentary trembling bliss affords; The kind soft murmurs of the private sheets Are bawdy, while thou speak'st in public streets. Those words have fingers; and their force is such, They raise the dead, and mount him with a touch. But all provocatives from thee are vain; No blandishment the slackened nerve can strain. If then thy lawful spouse thou canst not love, What reason should thy mind to marriage move? Why all the charges of the nuptial feast, Wine and deserts, and sweet-meats to digest? The endowing gold that buys the dear delight, Given for thy first and only happy night? If thou art thus uxoriously inclined, To bear thy bondage with a willing mind, Prepare thy neck, and put it in the yoke; But for no mercy from thy woman look. For though, perhaps, she loves with equal fires, To absolute dominion she aspires, Joys in the spoils, and triumphs o'er thy purse; The better husband makes the wife the worse. By thy imperious wife thou art bereft A privilege, to pimps and panders left; Should the poor innocent be doomed to die? What proofs? For, when man's life is in debate, The judge can ne'er too long deliberate.-- Call'st thou that slave a man? the wife replies; Proved, or unproved, the crime, the villain dies. I have the sovereign power to save, or kill, And give no other reason but my will.-- Thus the she-tyrant reigns, till, pleased with change, Her wild affections to new empires range; Another subject-husband she desires; Divorced from him, she to the first retires, While the last wedding-feast is scarcely o'er, And garlands hang yet green upon the door. So still the reckoning rises; and appears In total sum, eight husbands in five years. The title for a tomb-stone might be fit, But that it would too commonly be writ. And, in her daughter's answer, mends the style. In vain the husband sets his watchful spies; She cheats their cunning, or she bribes their eyes. The doctor's called; the daughter, taught the trick, Pretends to faint, and in full health is sick. The panting stallion, at the closet-door, Hears the consult, and wishes it were o'er. Canst thou, in reason, hope, a bawd so known, Should teach her other manners than her own? Her interest is in all the advice she gives; 'Tis on the daughter's rents the mother lives. No cause is tried at the litigious bar, But women plaintiffs or defendants are; They try, and smear the naked limbs with oil; Against the post their wicker shields they crush, Flourish the sword, and at the flastron push. Of every exercise the mannish crew Fulfils the parts, and oft excels us too; Prepared not only in feigned fights to engage, But rout the gladiators on the stage. What sense of shame in such a breast can lie, Inured to arms, and her own sex to fly? All thy wife's magazine by auction sold! The belt, the crested plume, the several suits Of armour, and the Spanish leather boots! Yet these are they, that cannot bear the heat Of figured silks, and under sarcenet sweat. She stands in guard with her right foot before; Her coats tucked up, and all her motions just, She stamps, and then cries,--Hah! at every thrust; But laugh to see her, tired with many a bout, Call for the pot, and like a man piss out. The ghosts of ancient Romans, should they rise, Would grin to see their daughters play a prize. Besides, what endless brawls by wives are bred? The curtain-lecture makes a mournful bed. Then, when she has thee sure within the sheets, Her cry begins, and the whole day repeats. Conscious of crimes herself, she teazes first; She acts the jealous, and at will she cries; For womens' tears are but the sweat of eyes. Poor cuckold fool! thou think'st that love sincere, And sucks between her lips the falling tear; But search her cabinet, and thou shalt find Each tiller there with love-epistles lined. A mental reservation must allow; There's nothing bolder than a woman caught; Guilt gives them courage to maintain their fault. You ask, from whence proceed these monstrous crimes? Once poor, and therefore chaste, in former times Our matrons were; no luxury found room, In low-roofed houses, and bare walls of loam; Their hands with labour hardened while 'twas light, And frugal sleep supplied the quiet night; While pinched with want, their hunger held them straight, When Hannibal was hovering at the gate: But wanton now, and lolling at our ease, We suffer all the inveterate ills of peace, And wasteful riot; whose destructive charms, Revenge the vanquished world of our victorious arms. No crime, no lustful postures are unknown, Since Poverty, our guardian god, is gone; Pride, laziness, and all luxurious arts, Pour, like a deluge, in from foreign parts: Wine no distinction makes of tail or head. Who lewdly dancing at a midnight ball, For hot eringoes and fat oysters call: Full brimmers to their fuddled noses thrust, Brimmers, the last provocatives of lust; When vapours to their swimming brains advance, And double tapers on the table dance. Now think what bawdy dialogues they have, What Tullia talks to her confiding slave, At Modesty's old statue; when by night They make a stand, and from their litters light; The good man early to the levee goes, And treads the nasty paddle of his spouse. The secrets of the goddess named the Good, Are even by boys and barbers understood; Where the rank matrons, dancing to the pipe, Gig with their bums, and are for action ripe; With music raised, they spread abroad their hair, And toss their heads like an enamoured mare; Laufella lays her garland by, and proves The mimic lechery of manly loves. Ranked with the lady the cheap sinner lies; For here not blood, but virtue, gives the prize. Nothing is feigned in this venereal strife; 'Tis downright lust, and acted to the life. So full, so fierce, so vigorous, and so strong, That looking on would make old Nestor young. They cry, and let the lusty lovers in. And watermen, a race of strong-backed knaves. I wish, at least, our sacred rites were free From those pollutions of obscenity: But 'tis well known what singer, how disguised, A lewd audacious action enterprized; Into the fair, with women mixed, he went, Armed with a huge two-handed instrument; A grateful present to those holy choirs, Where the mouse, guilty of his sex, retires, And even male pictures modestly are veiled: Yet no profaneness in that age prevailed; No scoffers at religious rites were found, Though now at every altar they abound. I hear your cautious counsel; you would say, Keep close your women under lock and key:-- But, who shall keep those keepers? Women, nurst In craft; begin with those, and bribe them first. And mistresses and maids are both the same. The poor Ogulnia, on the poet's day, Will borrow clothes and chair to see the play; She, who before had mortgaged her estate, And pawned the last remaining piece of plate. Some are reduced their utmost shifts to try; But women have no shame of poverty. They live beyond their stint, as if their store The more exhausted, would encrease the more: Some men, instructed by the labouring ant, Provide against the extremities of want; But womankind, that never knows a mean, Down to the dregs their sinking fortune drain: Hourly they give, and spend, and waste, and wear, And think no pleasure can be bought too dear. There are, who in soft eunuchs place their bliss, To shun the scrubbing of a bearded kiss, And 'scape abortion; but their solid joy Is when the page, already past a boy, Is caponed late, and to the gelder shown, With his two-pounders to perfection grown; When all the navel-string could give, appears; All but the beard, and that's the barber's loss, not theirs. Seen from afar, and famous for his ware, He struts into the bath among the fair; The admiring crew to their devotions fall, And, kneeling, on their new Priapus call. Kerved for his lady's use, with her he lies; And let him drudge for her, if thou art wise, Rather than trust him with thy favourite boy; He proffers death, in proffering to enjoy. If songs they love, the singer's voice they force Beyond his compass, 'till his quail-pipe's hoarse. His lute and lyre with their embrace is worn; With knots they trim it, and with gems adorn; Run over all the strings, and kiss the case, And make love to it in the master's place. A certain lady once, of high degree, To Janus vowed, and Vesta's deity, That Pollio might, in singing, win the prize; Pollio, the dear, the darling of her eyes: She prayed, and bribed; what could she more have done For a sick husband, or an only son? With her face veiled, and heaving up her hands, The shameless suppliant at the altar stands; The forms of prayer she solemnly pursues, And, pale with fear, the offered entrails views. Answer, ye powers; for, if you heard her vow, Your godships, sure, had little else to do. This is not all; for actors they implore; An impudence unknown to heaven before. The Aruspex, tired with this religious rout, Is forced to stand so long, he gets the gout. But suffer not thy wife abroad to roam: If she loves singing, let her sing at home; Not strut in streets with Amazonian pace, For that's to cuckold thee before thy face. Their endless itch of news comes next in play; They vent their own, and hear what others say; Know what in Thrace, or what in France is done; The intrigues betwixt the stepdame and the son; Tell who loves who, what favours some partake, And who is jilted for another's sake; What pregnant widow in what month was made; How oft she did, and, doing, what she said. She first beholds the raging comet rise, Knows whom it threatens, and what lands destroys; Still for the newest news she lies in wait, And takes reports just entering at the gate. Wrecks, floods, and fires, whatever she can meet, She spreads, and is the fame of every street. This is a grievance; but the next is worse; A very judgment, and her neighbours' curse; For, if their barking dog disturb her ease, No prayer can bend her, no excuse appease. The unmannered malefactor is arraigned; But first the master, who the cur maintained, Must feel the scourge. By night she leaves her bed, By night her bathing equipage is led, That marching armies a less noise create; She moves in tumult, and she sweats in state. Meanwhile, her guests their appetites must keep; Some gape for hunger, and some gasp for sleep. And the sour savour nauseates every nose. She drinks again, again she spews a lake; Her wretched husband sees, and dares not speak; But mutters many a curse against his wife, And damns himself for choosing such a life. But of all plagues, the greatest is untold; The book-learned wife, in Greek and Latin bold; The prating pedant puts not in one word; The man of law is non-plust in his suit, Nay, every other female tongue is mute. Hammers, and beating anvils, you would swear, And Vulcan, with his whole militia, there. Tabors and trumpets, cease; for she alone Is able to redeem the labouring moon. Even wit's a burthen, when it talks too long; But she, who has no continence of tongue, Should walk in breeches, and should wear a beard, And mix among the philosophic herd. O what a midnight curse has he, whose side Is pestered with a mood and figure bride! Let mine, ye gods! (if such must be my fate,) No logic learn, nor history translate, But rather be a quiet, humble fool; I hate a wife to whom I go to school, Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows; Corrects her country-neighbour; and, a-bed, For breaking Priscian's breaks her husband's head. The gaudy gossip, when she's set agog, Goes flaunting out, and, in her trim of pride, Thinks all she says or does is justified. When poor, she's scarce a tolerable evil; But rich, and fine, a wife's a very devil. She duly, once a month, renews her face; Meantime, it lies in daub, and hid in grease. Those are the husband's nights; she craves her due, He takes fat kisses, and is stuck in glue. But to the loved adulterer when she steers, Fresh from the bath, in brightness she appears: Is opened, and restored to every grace; The crust removed, her cheeks, as smooth as silk, Are polished with a wash of asses milk; And should she to the farthest north be sent, A train of these attend her banishment. But hadst thou seen her plaistered up before, 'Twas so unlike a face, it seemed a sore. 'Tis worth our while, to know what all the day They do, and how they pass their time away; The page is stript, and beaten out of doors; The whole house suffers for the master's crime, And he himself is warned to wake another time. She hires tormentors by the year; she treats Her visitors, and talks, but still she beats; Beats while she paints her face, surveys her gown, Casts up the day's account, and still beats on: Tired out, at length, with an outrageous tone, She bids them in the devil's name be gone. Compared with such a proud, insulting dame, Sicilian tyrants may renounce their name. For, if she hastes abroad to take the air, Or goes to Isis' church, (the bawdy house of prayer,) She hurries all her handmaids to the task; Her head, alone, will twenty dressers ask. Psecas, the chief, with breast and shoulders bare, Trembling, considers every sacred hair; If any straggler from his rank be found, A pinch must for the mortal sin compound. Psecas is not in fault; but in the glass, The dame's offended at her own ill face. That maid is banished; and another girl, More dexterous, manages the comb and curl. The rest are summoned on a point so nice, And, first, the grave old woman gives advice; The next is called, and so the turn goes round, As each for age, or wisdom, is renowned: Such counsel, such deliberate care they take, As if her life and honour lay at stake: With curls on curls, they build her head before, And mount it with a formidable tower. A giantess she seems; but look behind, And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind. Duck-legged, short-waisted, such a dwarf she is, That she must rise on tip-toes for a kiss. Meanwhile, her husband's whole estate is spent! He may go bare, while she receives his rent. She minds him not; she lives not as a wife, But, like a bawling neighbour, full of strife: Near him in this alone, that she extends Her hate to all his servants and his friends. Bellona's priests, an eunuch at their head, About the streets a mad procession lead; The venerable gelding, large, and high, O'erlooks the herd of his inferior fry. His aukward clergymen about him prance, And beat the timbrels to their mystic dance; Guiltless of testicles, they tear their throats, And squeak, in treble, their unmanly notes. Meanwhile, his cheeks the mitred prophet swells, And dire presages of the year foretels; Unless with eggs (his priestly hire) they haste To expiate, and avert the autumnal blast; And add beside a murrey-coloured vest, Which, in their places, may receive the pest, And, thrown into the flood, their crimes may bear, To purge the unlucky omens of the year. The astonished matrons pay, before the rest; That sex is still obnoxious to the priest. Through ye they beat, and plunge into the stream, If so the God has warned them in a dream. A pilgrimage to Meroe's burning sand, Through deserts they would seek the secret spring, And holy water for lustration bring. How can they pay their priests too much respect, Who trade with heaven, and earthly gains neglect! With him domestic gods discourse by night; By day, attended by his choir in white, The bald pate tribe runs madding through the street, And smile to see with how much ease they cheat. The ghostly sire forgives the wife's delights, Who sins, through frailty, on forbidden nights, And tempts her husband in the holy time, When carnal pleasure is a mortal crime. The sweating image shakes his head, but he, With mumbled prayers, atones the deity. The pious priesthood the fat goose receive, And, they once bribed, the godhead must forgive. No sooner these remove, but full of fear, She strolls, and, telling fortunes, gains her bread: Farthings, and some small monies, are her fees; Yet she interprets all your dreams for these, Foretels the estate, when the rich uncle dies, And sees a sweetheart in the sacrifice. Such toys, a pigeon's entrails can disclose, Which yet the Armenian augur far outgoes; In dogs, a victim more obscene, he rakes; And murdered infants for inspection takes: For gain his impious practice he pursues; For gain will his accomplices accuse. More credit yet is to Chaldeans given; What they foretel, is deemed the voice of heaven. Their answers, as from Hammon's altar, come; And mankind, ignorant of future fate, Believes what fond astrologers relate. Of these the most in vogue is he, who, sent Beyond seas, is returned from banishment; His art who to aspiring Otho sold, And sure succession to the crown foretold; For his esteem is in his exile placed; The more believed, the more he was disgraced. No astrologic wizard honour gains, Who has not oft been banished, or in chains. He gets renown, who, to the halter near, But narrowly escapes, and buys it dear. From him your wife enquires the planets' will, When the black jaundice shall her mother kill; Her sister's and her uncle's end would know, But, first, consults his art, when you shall go; And,--what's the greatest gift that heaven can give,-- If after her the adulterer shall live. She neither knows, nor cares to know, the rest, If Mars and Saturn shall the world infest; Or Jove and Venus, with their friendly rays, Will interpose, and bring us better days. Beware the woman too, and shun her sight, Who in these studies does herself delight, By whom a greasy almanack is born, With often handling, like chaft amber worn: Not now consulting, but consulted, she Of the twelve houses, and their lords, is free. She, if the scheme a fatal journey show, Stays safe at home, but lets her husband go. If but a mile she travel out of town, The planetary hour must first be known, And lucky moment; if her eye but aches, Or itches, its decumbiture she takes; No nourishment receives in her disease, But what the stars and Ptolemy shall please. Her answers from the Brachman will receive; Skilled in the globe and sphere, he gravely stands, And, with his compass, measures seas and lands. The poorest of the sex have still an itch To know their fortunes, equal to the rich. The dairy-maid enquires, if she shall take The trusty tailor, and the cook forsake. Yet these, though poor, the pain of childbed bear, And without nurses their own infants rear: You seldom hear of the rich mantle spread For the babe, born in the great lady's bed. Such is the power of herbs, such arts they use To make them barren, or their fruit to lose. But thou, whatever slops she will have bought, Be thankful, and supply the deadly draught; Help her to make man-slaughter; let her bleed, And never want for savin at her need. For, if she holds till her nine months be run, Thou may'st be father to an Ethiop's son; A boy, who, ready gotten to thy hands, By law is to inherit all thy lands; One of that hue, that, should he cross the way, His omen would discolour all the day. I pass the foundling by, a race unknown, At doors exposed, whom matrons make their own; And into noble families advance A nameless issue, the blind work of chance. Indulgent fortune does her care employ, And, smiling, broods upon the naked boy: Her garment spreads, and laps him in the fold, And covers with her wings from nightly cold: Gives him her blessing, puts him in a way, Sets up the farce, and laughs at her own play. Him she promotes; she favours him alone, And makes provision for him as her own. The craving wife the force of magic tries, And filters for the unable husband buys; The potion works not on the part designed, But turns his brains, and stupifies his mind. The sotted moon-calf gapes, and, staring on, Sees his own business by another done: A long oblivion, a benumbing frost, Constrains his head, and yesterday is lost. Some nimbler juice would make him foam and rave, Like that Cæsonia to her Caius gave, Who, plucking from the forehead of the foal His mother's love, infused it in the bowl; The boiling blood ran hissing in his veins, Till the mad vapour mounted to his brains. The Thunderer was not half so much on fire, When Juno's girdle kindled his desire. What woman will not use the poisoning trade, When Cæsar's wife the precedent has made? Let Agrippina's mushroom be forgot, Given to a slavering, old, unuseful sot; And sent his godhead downward to the skies; But this fierce potion calls for fire and sword, Nor spares the commons, when it strikes the lord. So many mischiefs were in one combined; So much one single poisoner cost mankind. If step-dames seek their sons-in-law to kill, 'Tis venial trespass--let them have their will; But let the child, entrusted to the care Of his own mother, of her bread beware; Beware the food she reaches with her hand,-- The morsel is intended for thy land. Thy tutor be thy taster, ere thou eat; There's poison in thy drink and in thy meat. You think this feigned; the satire, in a rage, Struts in the buskins of the tragic stage; Forgets his business is to laugh and bite, And will of deaths and dire revenges write. Would it were all a fable that you read! But Drymon's wife pleads guilty to the deed. I, she confesses, in the fact was caught, Two sons dispatching at one deadly draught. What, two! two sons, thou viper, in one day! Yes, seven, she cries, if seven were in my way. Medea's legend is no more a lie, Our age adds credit to antiquity. Great ills, we grant, in former times did reign, And murders then were done, but not for gain. Less admiration to great crimes is due, Which they through wrath, or through revenge pursue; For, weak of reason, impotent of will, The sex is hurried headlong into ill; And like a cliff, from its foundations torn By raging earthquakes, into seas is borne. But those are fiends, who crimes from thought begin, And, cool in mischief, meditate the sin. They read the example of a pious wife, Redeeming, with her own, her husband's life; Yet if the laws did that exchange afford, Would save their lap-dog sooner than their lord. Where'er you walk the Belides you meet, And Clytemnestras grow in every street; But here's the difference,--Agamemnon's wife Was a gross butcher with a bloody knife; But murder now is to perfection grown, And subtle poisons are employed alone; Unless some antidote prevents their arts, And lines with balsam all the nobler parts. In such a case, reserved for such a need, Rather than fail, the dagger does the deed. When Jove had driven his father into banishment, the Silver Age began, according to the poets. The poet makes Justice and Chastity sisters; and says, that they When the Roman women were forbidden to bed with their husbands. He tells the famous story of Messalina, wife to the Emperor His meaning is, that a wife, who brings a large dowry, may do what she pleases, and has all the privileges of a widow. A ring of great price, which Herod Agrippa gave to his sister Cornelia was mother to the Gracchi, of the family of the He alludes to the known fable of Niobe, in Ovid. Amphion was her He alludes to the white sow in Virgil, who farrowed thirty pigs. Women then learned Greek, as ours speak French. The _Bona Dea_, or Good Goddess, at whose feasts no men were to be present. He alludes to the story of P. Clodius, who, disguised in the A famous singing boy. That such an actor, whom they love, might obtain the prize. He who inspects the entrails of the sacrifice, and from thence foretels the success of the prayer. The ancients endeavoured to help the moon, during an eclipse, by A woman-grammarian, who corrects her husband for speaking false Latin, which is called breaking Priscian's head. _i. e._ of the milk asses. Sicilian tyrants were grown to a proverb, in Latin, for their cruelty. Bellona's priests were a sort of fortune-tellers; and their high A garment was given to the priest, which he threw, or was Chaldeans are thought to have been the first astrologers. Otho succeeded Galba in the empire, which was foretold him by an Mars and Saturn are the two unfortunate planets; Jupiter and Venus the two fortunate. The Brachmans are Indian philosophers, who remain to this day; Juvenal's meaning is, help her to any kind of slops which may Agrippina was the mother of the tyrant Nero, who poisoned her The widow of Drymon poisoned her sons, that she might succeed to _The Poet's design, in this divine Satire, is, to represent the various wishes and desires of mankind, and to set out the folly of them. He runs through all the several heads, of riches, honours, eloquence, fame for martial achievements, long life, and beauty; and gives instances in each, how frequently they have proved the ruin of those that owned them. He concludes, therefore, that, since we generally choose so ill for ourselves, we should do better to leave it to the gods to make the choice for us. All we can safely ask of heaven, lies within a very small compass--it is but health of body and mind; and if we have these, it is not much matter what we want besides; for we have already enough to make us happy._ Look round the habitable world, how few Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue. How void of reason are our hopes and fears! What in the conduct of our life appears So well designed, so luckily begun, But when we have our wish, we wish undone? Whole houses, of their whole desires possest, Are often ruined at their own request. In wars and peace things hurtful we require, When made obnoxious to our own desire. In that presuming confidence was lost; But more have been by avarice opprest, And heaps of money crowded in the chest: Unwieldy sums of wealth, which higher mount Than files of marshalled figures can account; When virtue was a guilt, and wealth a crime, A troop of cut-throat guards were sent to seize The rich men's goods, and gut their palaces: The mob, commissioned by the government, Are seldom to an empty garret sent. The fearful passenger, who travels late, Charged with the carriage of a paltry plate, Shakes at the moonshine shadow of a rush, And sees a red-coat rise from every bush; The beggar sings, even when he sees the place Beset with thieves, and never mends his pace. Of all the vows, the first and chief request Of each, is--to be richer than the rest: And yet no doubts the poor man's draught controul, He dreads no poison in his homely bowl; Then fear the deadly drug, when gems divine Enchase the cup, and sparkle in the wine. Will you not now the pair of sages praise, Who the same end pursued by several ways? One pitied, one contemned, the woeful times; One laughed at follies, one lamented crimes. Laughter is easy; but the wonder lies, What stores of brine supplied the weeper's eyes. Democritus could feed his spleen, and shake His sides and shoulders, till he felt them ache; Though in his country town no lictors were, Nor rods, nor axe, nor tribune, did appear; Nor all the foppish gravity of show, Which cunning magistrates on crowds bestow. What had he done, had he beheld on high Our prætor seated in mock majesty; His chariot rolling o'er the dusty place, He moves, in the dull ceremonial track, With Jove's embroidered coat upon his back! A suit of hangings had not more opprest His shoulders, than that long laborious vest; A heavy gewgaw, called a crown, that spread About his temples, drowned his narrow head, And would have crushed it with the massy freight, But that a sweating slave sustained the weight; A slave, in the same chariot seen to ride, To mortify the mighty madman's pride. Add now the imperial eagle, raised on high, With golden beak, the mark of majesty; Trumpets before, and on the left and right A cavalcade of nobles, all in white; In their own natures false and flattering tribes, But made his friends by places and by bribes. In his own age, Democritus could find Sufficient cause to laugh at human kind: Learn from so great a wit; a land of bogs, With ditches fenced, a heaven fat with fogs, May form a spirit fit to sway the state, And make the neighbouring monarchs fear their fate. He laughs at all the vulgar cares and fears; At their vain triumphs, and their vainer tears: An equal temper in his mind he found, When fortune flattered him, and when she frowned. 'Tis plain, from hence, that what our vows request Are hurtful things, or useless at the best. Some ask for envied power; which public hate Pursues, and hurries headlong to their fate: Down go the titles; and the statue crowned, Is by base hands in the next river drowned. The guiltless horses, and the chariot wheel, The same effects of vulgar fury feel: The smith prepares his hammer for the stroke, While the lung'd bellows hissing fire provoke. Sejanus, almost first of Roman names, The great Sejanus crackles in the flames: Milk white, and large, lead to the Capitol; Sejanus with a rope is dragged along, The sport and laughter of the giddy throng! Good Lord! they cry, what Ethiop lips he has; How foul a snout, and what a hanging face! By heaven, I never could endure his sight! But say, how came his monstrous crimes to light? What is the charge, and who the evidence, (The saviour of the nation and the prince?) Nothing of this; but our old Cæsar sent A noisy letter to his parliament. Nay, sirs, if Cæsar writ, I ask no more; He's guilty, and the question's out of door. How goes the mob? (for that's a mighty thing,) When the king's trump, the mob are for the king: They follow fortune, and the common cry Is still against the rogue condemned to die. But the same very mob, that rascal crowd, Had cried Sejanus, with a shout as loud, Had his designs (by fortune's favour blest) Succeeded, and the prince's age opprest. But long, long since, the times have changed their face, The people grown degenerate and base; Not suffered now the freedom of their choice To make their magistrates, and sell their voice. Our wise forefathers, great by sea and land, Had once the power and absolute command; All offices of trust themselves disposed; Raised whom they pleased, and whom they pleased deposed: But we, who give our native rights away, And our enslaved posterity betray, Are now reduced to beg an alms, and go On holidays to see a puppet-show. There was a damned design, cries one, no doubt, For warrants are already issued out: I met Brutidius in a mortal fright, He's dipt for certain, and plays least in sight; I fear the rage of our offended prince, Who thinks the senate slack in his defence. Come, let us haste, our loyal zeal to show, And spurn the wretched corpse of Cæsar's foe: But let our slaves be present there; lest they Accuse their masters, and for gain betray.-- Such were the whispers of those jealous times, About Sejanus' punishment and crimes. Now, tell me truly, wouldst thou change thy fate, To be, like him, first minister of state? To have thy levees crowded with resort, Of a depending, gaping, servile court; Dispose all honours of the sword and gown, Grace with a nod, and ruin with a frown; To hold thy prince in pupillage, and sway That monarch, whom the mastered world obey? While he, intent on secret lusts alone, Lives to himself, abandoning the throne; Cooped in a narrow isle, observing dreams With flattering wizards, and erecting schemes! I well believe thou wouldst be great as he, For every man's a fool to that degree: All wish the dire prerogative to kill; Even they would have the power, who want the will: But wouldst thou have thy wishes understood, To take the bad together with the good? Wouldst thou not rather choose a small renown, To be the mayor of some poor paltry town; Bigly to look, and barbarously to speak; To pound false weights, and scanty measures break? Then, grant we that Sejanus went astray In every wish, and knew not how to pray; For he, who grasped the world's exhausted store, Yet never had enough, but wished for more, Raised a top-heavy tower, of monstrous height, Which, mouldering, crushed him underneath the weight. What did the mighty Pompey's fall beget, And ruined him, who, greater than the Great, The stubborn pride of Roman nobles broke, And bent their haughty necks beneath his yoke: What else but his immoderate lust of power, Prayers made and granted in a luckless hour? For few usurpers to the shades descend By a dry death, or with a quiet end. The boy, who scarce has paid his entrance down To his proud pedant, or declined a noun, (So small an elf, that, when the days are foul, He and his satchel must be borne to school,) Yet prays, and hopes, and aims at nothing less, To prove a Tully, or Demosthenes: But both those orators, so much renowned, In their own depths of eloquence were drowned: The hand and head were never lost of those Who dealt in doggrel, or who punned in prose. "Fortune foretuned the dying notes of Rome, Till I, thy consul sole, consoled thy doom." His fate had crept below the lifted swords, Had all his malice been to murder words. I rather would be Mævius, thrash for rhymes Like his, the scorn and scandal of the times, Than that Philippic, fatally divine, Which is inscribed the second, should be mine. Nor he, the wonder of the Grecian throng, Who drove them with the torrent of his tongue, Who shook the theatres, and swayed the state Of Athens, found a more propitious fate. Whom, born beneath a boding horoscope, His sire, the blear-eyed Vulcan of a shop, From Mars his forge, sent to Minerva's schools, To learn the unlucky art of wheedling fools. With itch of honour, and opinion vain, All things beyond their native worth we strain; The spoils of war, brought to Feretrian Jove, An empty coat of armour hung above The conqueror's chariot and in triumph borne, A streamer from a boarded galley torn, A chap-fallen beaver loosely hanging by The cloven helm, an arch of victory; On whose high convex sits a captive foe, And, sighing, casts a mournful look below;-- Of every nation each illustrious name, Such toys as these have cheated into fame; Exchanging solid quiet, to obtain The windy satisfaction of the brain. So much the thirst of honour fires the blood; So many would be great, so few be good: For who would Virtue for herself regard, Or wed, without the portion of reward? Yet this mad chace of fame, by few pursued, Has drawn destruction on the multitude; This avarice of praise in times to come, Those long inscriptions crowded on the tomb; Should some wild fig-tree take her native bent, And heave below the gaudy monument, Would crack the marble titles, and disperse The characters of all the lying verse. For sepulchres themselves must crumbling fall In time's abyss, the common grave of all. Great Hannibal within the balance lay, And tell how many pounds his ashes weigh; Whom Afric was not able to contain, Whose length runs level with the Atlantic main, And wearies fruitful Nilus, to convey His sun-beat waters by so long a way; Which Ethiopia's double clime divides, And elephants in other mountains hides. Spain first he won, the Pyreneans past, And steepy Alps, the mounds that nature cast; And with corroding juices, as he went, A passage through the living rocks he rent: Then, like a torrent rolling from on high, He pours his headlong rage on Italy, In three victorious battles over-run; Yet, still uneasy, cries,--There's nothing done, Till level with the ground their gates are laid, And Punic flags on Roman towers displayed. Ask what a face belonged to this high fame, His picture scarcely would deserve a frame: A sign-post dauber would disdain to paint The one-eyed hero on his elephant. Now, what's his end, O charming Glory! say, What rare fifth act to crown this huffing play? In one deciding battle overcome, He flies, is banished from his native home; Begs refuge in a foreign court, and there Attends, his mean petition to prefer; Repulsed by surly grooms, who wait before The sleeping tyrant's interdicted door. Are doomed to avenge the tedious bloody war; But poison, drawn through a ring's hollow plate, Must finish him--a sucking infant's fate. Go, climb the rugged Alps, ambitious fool, To please the boys, and be a theme at school. One world sufficed not Alexander's mind; Cooped up, he seemed in earth and seas confined, And, struggling, stretched his restless limbs about The narrow globe, to find a passage out: Yet entered in the brick-built town, he tried The tomb, and found the strait dimensions wide. Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, The mighty soul how small a body holds. Old Greece a tale of Athos would make out, Cut from the continent, and sailed about; Seas hid with navies, chariots passing o'er The channel, on a bridge from shore to shore: Rivers, whose depth no sharp beholder sees, Drunk at an army's dinner to the lees; With a long legend of romantic things, Which in his cups the bowsy poet sings. But how did he return, this haughty brave, Who whipt the winds, and made the sea his slave? So merciless a tyrant to obey! He had no mighty penn'worth of his prayer. Jove, grant me length of life, and years good store Heap on my bending back! I ask no more.-- Both sick and healthful, old and young, conspire In this one silly mischievous desire. Mistaken blessing, which old age they call, 'Tis a long, nasty, darksome hospital: A ropy chain of rheums; a visage rough, Deformed, unfeatured, and a skin of buff; A stitch-fallen cheek, that hangs below the jaw; Such wrinkles as a skilful hand would draw For an old grandame ape, when, with a grace, She sits at squat, and scrubs her leathern face. In youth, distinctions infinite abound; No shape, or feature, just alike are found; And gums unarmed to mumble meat in vain; Besides, the eternal drivel, that supplies The dropping beard, from nostrils, mouth, and eyes. His wife and children lothe him, and, what's worse, Himself does his offensive carrion curse! Flatterers forsake him too; for who would kill Himself, to be remembered in a will? His taste not only pall'd to wine and meat, But to the relish of a nobler treat. The limber nerve, in vain provoked to rise, Inglorious from the field of battle flies; With his blue head-piece, and his broken lance? Add, that, endeavouring still, without effect, A lust more sordid justly we suspect. Those senses lost, behold a new defeat, The soul dislodging from another seat. What music, or enchanting voice, can cheer A stupid, old, impenetrable ear? No matter in what place, or what degree Of the full theatre he sits to see; Cornets and trumpets cannot reach his ear; Under an actor's nose he's never near. His boy must bawl, to make him understand The hour o'the day, or such a lord's at hand; The little blood that creeps within his veins, Is but just warmed in a hot fever's pains. In fine, he wears no limb about him sound, With sores and sicknesses beleaguered round Ask me their names, I sooner could relate How many drudges on salt Hippia wait; What crowds of patients the town doctor kills, Or how, last fall, he raised the weekly bills; What provinces by Basilus were spoiled; What herds of heirs by guardians are beguiled; What lands and lordships for their owner know My quondam barber, but his worship now. One his legs fail, and one his shoulder pains: Another is of both his eyes bereft, And envies who has one for aiming left; A fifth, with trembling lips expecting stands As in his childhood, crammed by others hands; Expected food her fasting mother brings. His loss of members is a heavy curse, But all his faculties decayed, a worse. His servants' names he has forgotten quite; Knows not his friend who supped with him last night: Not even the children he begot and bred; Or his will knows them not; for, in their stead, In form of law, a common hackney jade, Sole heir, for secret services, is made: That she defies all comers at her door. Well, yet suppose his senses are his own, He lives to be chief mourner for his son: Before his face, his wife and brother burns; He numbers all his kindred in their urns. These are the fines he pays for living long, And dragging tedious age in his own wrong; Was longest lived of any two-legged thing. Blest, to defraud the grave so long, to mount His numbered years, and on his right hand count! Three hundred seasons, guzzling must of wine!-- But hold a while, and hear himself repine At fate's unequal laws, and at the clue Which, merciless in length, the midmost sister drew. When his brave son upon the funeral pyre He saw extended, and his beard on fire, He turned, and, weeping, asked his friends, what crime Had cursed his age to this unhappy time? Thus mourned old Peleus for Achilles slain, And thus Ulysses' father did complain. How fortunate an end had Priam made, Among his ancestors a mighty shade, While Troy yet stood; when Hector, with the race Amidst the tears of Trojan dames inurned, And by his loyal daughters truly mourned! Had heaven so blest him, he had died before The fatal fleet to Sparta Paris bore: But mark what age produced,--he lived to see His town in flames, his falling monarchy. In fine, the feeble sire, reduced by fate, To change his sceptre for a sword, too late, His last effort before Jove's altar tries, A soldier half, and half a sacrifice: Falls like an ox that waits the coming blow, Old and unprofitable to the plough. At least he died a man; his queen survived, To howl, and in a barking body lived. I hasten to our own; nor will relate Great Mithridates, and rich Croesus' fate; Whom Solon wisely counselled to attend The name of happy, till he knew his end. That Marius was an exile, that he fled, Was ta'en, in ruined Carthage begged his bread; All these were owing to a life too long: For whom had Rome beheld so happy, young? High in his chariot, and with laurel crowned, When he had led the Cimbrian captives round The Roman streets, descending from his state, In that blest hour he should have begged his fate; Then, then, he might have died of all admired, And his triumphant soul with shouts expired. Campania, Fortune's malice to prevent, To Pompey an indulgent fever sent; But public prayers imposed on heaven to give Their much loved leader an unkind reprieve; The city's fate and his conspired to save Cethegus, though a traitor to the state, And tortured, 'scaped this ignominious fate; And Sergius, who a bad cause bravely tried, All of a piece, and undiminished, died. To Venus, the fond mother makes a prayer, That all her sons and daughters may be fair: True, for the boys a mumbling vow she sends, But for the girls the vaulted temple rends: They must be finished pieces; 'tis allowed Diana's beauty made Latona proud, And pleased to see the wondering people pray To the new-rising sister of the day. And yet Lucretia's fate would bar that vow; And fair Virginia would her fate bestow On Rutila, and change her faultless make For the foul rumple of her camel back. But, for his mother's boy, the beau, what frights His parents have by day, what anxious nights! Form joined with virtue is a sight too rare; Chaste is no epithet to suit with fair. Suppose the same traditionary strain Of rigid manners in the house remain; Inveterate truth, an old plain Sabine's heart; Suppose that nature too has done her part, Infused into his soul a sober grace, And blushed a modest blood into his face, (For nature is a better guardian far Than saucy pedants, or dull tutors are;) Yet still the youth must ne'er arrive at man, (So much almighty bribes and presents can;) Even with a parent, where persuasions fail, Money is impudent, and will prevail. We never read of such a tyrant king, Who gelt a boy deformed, to hear him sing; Nor Nero, in his more luxurious rage, E'er made a mistress of an ugly page: To ills, nor think I have declared the worst; His form procures him journey-work; a strife Betwixt town-madams, and the merchant's wife: Guess, when he undertakes this public war, What furious beasts offended cuckolds are. Adulterers are with dangers round beset; Born under Mars, they cannot 'scape the net; And, from revengeful husbands, oft have tried Worse handling than severest laws provide: One stabs, one slashes, one, with cruel art, Makes colon suffer for the peccant part. But your Endymion, your smooth smock-faced boy, Unrivalled, shall a beauteous dame enjoy. Not so: one more salacious, rich, and old, Outbids, and buys her pleasure for her gold: Now, he must moil, and drudge, for one he lothes; She keeps him high in equipage and clothes; And thinks the workman worthy of his hire. In all things else immoral, stingy, mean, But, in her lusts, a conscionable quean. She may be handsome, yet be chaste, you say;-- Good observator, not so fast away; Did it not cost the modest youth his life, Who shunned the embraces of his father's wife? The ladies charged them home, and turned the tale; With shame they reddened, and with spite grew pale. 'Tis dangerous to deny the longing dame; She loses pity, who has lost her shame. Now Silius wants thy counsel, give advice; Wed Cæsar's wife, or die--the choice is nice. Her comet-eyes she darts on every grace, And takes a fatal liking to his face. Adorned with bridal pomp, she sits in state; The public notaries and Aruspex wait; She scorns to marry, but in form of law: In this moot case, your judgment to refuse Is present death, besides the night you lose: If you consent, 'tis hardly worth your pain, A day or two of anxious life you gain; Till loud reports through all the town have past, And reach the prince--for cuckolds hear the last. Indulge thy pleasure, youth, and take thy swing, For not to take is but the self-same thing; Inevitable death before thee lies, But looks more kindly through a lady's eyes. What then remains? are we deprived of will; Must we not wish, for fear of wishing ill? Receive my counsel, and securely move;-- Intrust thy fortune to the powers above; Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant What their unerring wisdom sees thee want: In goodness, as in greatness, they excel; Ah, that we loved ourselves but half so well! We, blindly by our head-strong passions led, Are hot for action, and desire to wed; That altars be not wholly built in vain, Forgive the gods the rest, and stand confined To health of body, and content of mind; A soul, that can securely death defy, And count it nature's privilege to die; Serene and manly, hardened to sustain The load of life, and exercised in pain; Guiltless of hate, and proof against desire, That all things weighs, and nothing can admire; That dares prefer the toils of Hercules, To dalliance, banquet, and ignoble ease. The path to peace is virtue: what I show, Thyself may freely on thyself bestow; Fortune was never worshipped by the wise, But, set aloft by fools, usurps the skies. Sejanus was Tiberius's first favourite; and, while he continued so, had the highest marks of honour bestowed on him. Statues and The island of Caprea, which lies about a league out at sea Julius Cæsar, who got the better of Pompey, that was styled, The Demosthenes and Tully both died for their oratory; Demosthenes gave himself poison, to avoid being carried to Antipater, one of The Latin of this couplet is a famous verse of Tully's, in which The orations of Tully against M. Antony were styled by him This is a mock account of a Roman triumph. Babylon, where Alexander died. Xerxes is represented in history after a very romantic manner: The ancients counted by their fingers; their left hands served The Fates were three sisters, who had all some peculiar business Whilst Troy was sacked by the Greeks, old king Priam is said to Hecuba, his queen, escaped the swords of the Grecians, and Mithridates, after he had disputed the empire of the world for Croesus, in the midst of his prosperity, making his boast to Pompey, in the midst of his glory, fell into a dangerous fit of Cethegus was one that conspired with Catiline, and was put to death by the senate. Sergius Catiline died fighting. Virginia was killed by her own father, to prevent her being Hippolytus, the son of Theseus, was loved by his mother-in-law, Phædria; but he not complying with her, she procured his death. Bellerophon, the son of King Glaucus, residing some time at the Messalina, wife to the emperor Claudius, infamous for her _The Poet in this satire proves, that the condition of a soldier is much better than that of a countryman; first, because a countryman, however affronted, provoked, and struck himself, dares not strike a soldier, who is only to be judged by a court-martial; and, by the law of Camillus, which obliges him not to quarrel without the trenches, he is also assured to have a speedy hearing, and quick dispatch; whereas, the townsman, or peasant, is delayed in his suit by frivolous pretences, and not sure of justice when he is heard in the court. The soldier is also privileged to make a will, and to give away his estate, which he got in war, to whom he pleases, without consideration of parentage, or relations, which is denied to all other Romans. This satire was written by Juvenal, though I think it not finished. And if it be well observed, you will find he intended an invective against a standing What vast prerogatives, my Gallus, are Accruing to the mighty man of war! Than mother Juno's recommending letter, Or Venus, when to Mars she would prefer My suit, and own the kindness done to her. See what our common privileges are; As, first, no saucy citizen shall dare To strike a soldier, nor, when struck, resent The wrong, for fear of farther punishment. Not though his teeth are beaten out, his eyes Hang by a string, in bumps his forehead rise, Shall he presume to mention his disgrace, Or beg amends for his demolished face. A booted judge shall sit to try his cause, Not by the statute, but by martial laws; Which old Camillus ordered, to confine The brawls of soldiers to the trench and line: A wise provision; and from thence 'tis clear, That officers a soldier's cause should hear; And taking cognizance of wrongs received, An honest man may hope to be relieved. So far 'tis well; but with a general cry, The regiment will rise in mutiny, The freedom of their fellow-rogue demand, And, if refused, will threaten to disband. Withdraw thy action, and depart in peace, The remedy is worse than the disease. This cause is worthy him, who in the hall Would for his fee, and for his client, bawl: But would'st thou, friend, who hast two legs alone, (Which, heaven be praised, thou yet may'st call thy own,) Would'st thou to run the gauntlet these expose To a whole company of hob-nailed shoes? Sure the good-breeding of wise citizens Should teach them more good-nature to their shins. Besides, whom canst thou think so much thy friend, Who dares appear thy business to defend? And saw thee mauled, appear within the list, To witness truth? When I see one so brave, The dead, think I, are risen from the grave; Our honest ancestors are come to take the air. Against a clown, with more security, A witness may be brought to swear a lie, Than, though his evidence be full and fair, To vouch a truth against a man of war. More benefits remain, and claimed as rights, Which are a standing army's perquisites. If any rogue vexatious suits advance Against me for my known inheritance, Enter by violence my fruitful grounds, Or take the sacred land-mark from my bounds, Those bounds, which with procession and with prayer, And offered cakes, have been my annual care; Or if my debtors do not keep their day, Deny their hands, and then refuse to pay; I must with patience all the terms attend, Among the common causes that depend, Till mine is called; and that long-looked-for day Is still encumbered with some new delay; Perhaps the cloth of state is only spread, Some of the quorum may be sick a-bed; That judge is hot, and doffs his gown, while this O'er night was bowsy, and goes out to piss: So many rubs appear, the time is gone For hearing, and the tedious suit goes on; But buft and beltmen never know these cares, No time, nor trick of law, their action bars: Their cause they to an easier issue put; They will be heard, or they lug out, and cut. For what their prowess gained, the law declares Is to themselves alone, and to their heirs: No share of that goes back to the begetter, But if the son fights well, and plunders better, Like stout Coranus, his old shaking sire Does a remembrance in his will desire, Inquisitive of fights, and longs in vain To find him in the number of the slain: But still he lives, and rising by the war, Enjoys his gains, and has enough to spare; For 'tis a noble general's prudent part To cherish valour, and reward desert; Sometimes be lousy, but be never poor. Juno was mother to Mars, the god of war; Venus was his mistress. Camillus, (who being first banished by his ungrateful countrymen The poet names a Modenese lawyer, whom he calls Vagellius, who The Roman soldiers wore plates of iron under their shoes, or stuck them with nails, as countrymen do now. Land-marks were used by the Romans, almost in the same manner The courts of judicature were hung, and spread, as with us; but The Roman soldiers had the privilege of making a will, in their _The design of the author was to conceal his name and quality. He lived in the dangerous times of the tyrant Nero, and aims particularly at him in most of his Satires. For which reason, though he was a Roman knight, and of a plentiful fortune, he would appear in this Prologue but a beggarly poet, who writes for bread. After this, he breaks into the business of the First Satire; which is chiefly to decry the poetry then in fashion, and the impudence of those who were endeavouring to pass their stuff upon the world._ I never did on cleft Parnassus dream, Nor taste the sacred Heliconian stream; Nor can remember when my brain, inspired, Was by the Muses into madness fired. My share in pale Pyrene I resign, And claim no part in all the mighty Nine. Statues, with winding ivy crowned, belong To nobler poets, for a nobler song; Who taught the parrot human notes to try, Or with a voice endued the chattering pye? 'Twas witty Want, fierce hunger to appease; Want taught their masters, and their masters these. Let gain, that gilded bait, be hung on high, The hungry witlings have it in their eye; Pyes, crows, and daws, poetic presents bring; You say they squeak, but they will swear they sing. _I need not repeat, that the chief aim of the author is against bad poets in this Satire. But I must add, that he includes also bad orators, who began at that time (as Petronius in the beginning of his book tells us) to enervate manly eloquence by tropes and figures, ill placed, and worse applied. Amongst the poets, Persius covertly strikes at Nero; some of whose verses he recites with scorn and indignation. He also takes notice of the noblemen, and their abominable poetry, who, in the luxury of their fortunes, set up for wits and judges. The Satire is in dialogue betwixt the author, and his friend, or monitor; who dissuades him from this dangerous attempt of exposing great men. But Persius, who is of a free spirit, and has not forgotten that Rome was once a commonwealth, breaks through all those difficulties, and boldly arraigns the false judgment of the age in which he lives. The reader may observe, that our poet was a Stoic philosopher; and that all his moral sentences, both here and in all the rest of his Satires, are drawn from the dogmas of that sect._ How anxious are our cares, and yet how vain The bent of our desires! Thy spleen contain; For none will read thy satires.? None, or, what's next to none, but two or three. 'Tis hard, I grant. 'Tis nothing; I can bear, That paltry scribblers have the public ear; That this vast universal fool, the town, Should cry up Labeo's stuff, and cry me down. They damn themselves; nor will my muse descend To clap with such, who fools and knaves commend: Their smiles and censures are to me the same; I care not what they praise, or what they blame. In full assemblies let the crowd prevail; I weigh no merit by the common scale. The conscience is the test of every mind; "Seek not thyself, without thyself, to find." But where's that Roman----Somewhat I would say, But fear----let fear, for once, to truth give way. Truth lends the Stoic courage; when I look On human acts, and read in Nature's book, From the first pastimes of our infant age, To elder cares, and man's severer page; When stern as tutors, and as uncles hard, We lash the pupil, and defraud the ward, Then, then I say--or would say, if I durst-- But, thus provoked, I must speak out, or burst. Once more forbear. I cannot rule my spleen; My scorn rebels, and tickles me within. First, to begin at home:--Our authors write In lonely rooms, secured from public sight; Whether in prose, or verse, 'tis all the same, The prose is fustian, and the numbers lame; All noise, and empty pomp, a storm of words, Labouring with sound, that little sense affords. Next, gargle well their throats; and, thus prepared, They mount, a God's name, to be seen and heard; From their high scaffold, with a trumpet cheek, And ogling all their audience ere they speak. The nauseous nobles, even the chief of Rome, With gaping mouths to these rehearsals come, And pant with pleasure, when some lusty line The marrow pierces, and invades the chine; At open fulsome bawdry they rejoice, And slimy jests applaud with broken voice. Base prostitute! thus dost thou gain thy bread? Thus dost thou feed their ears, and thus art fed? At his own filthy stuff he grins and brays, And gives the sign where he expects their praise. Why have I learned, sayst thou, if thus confined, I choke the noble vigour of my mind? Know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred, Will split the quarry, and shoot out the head. Fine fruits of learning! old ambitious fool, Darest thou apply that adage of the school, As if 'tis nothing worth that lies concealed, And "science is not science till revealed?" Oh, but 'tis brave to be admired, to see The crowd, with pointing fingers, cry,--That's he; That's he, whose wonderous poem is become A lecture for the noble youth of Rome! Who, by their fathers, is at feasts renowned, And often quoted when the bowls go round. Full gorged and flushed, they wantonly rehearse, And add to wine the luxury of verse. One, clad in purple, not to lose his time, Eats and recites some lamentable rhyme; Some senseless Phillis, in a broken note, Snuffling at nose, and croaking in his throat. Then graciously the mellow audience nod; Is not the immortal author made a god? Are not his manes blest, such praise to have? Lies not the turf more lightly on his grave? And roses (while his loud applause they sing) Stand ready from his sepulchre to spring? All these, you cry, but light objections are, Mere malice, and you drive the jest too far: For does there breathe a man, who can reject A general fame, and his own lines neglect? In cedar tablets worthy to appear, } In what I write, (and that's a chance indeed,) Know, I am not so stupid, or so hard, Not to feel praise, or fame's deserved reward; But this I cannot grant, that thy applause Is my work's ultimate, or only cause. Prudence can ne'er propose so mean a prize; For mark what vanity within it lies. Like Labeo's Iliads, in whose verse is found Nothing but trifling care, and empty sound; Such little elegies as nobles write, Who would be poets, in Apollo's spite. Them and their woeful works the Muse defies; Products of citron beds, and golden canopies. (For I love truth, nor can plain speech offend,) What says the world of me and of my muse? The poor dare nothing tell but flattering news; But shall I speak? Thy verse is wretched rhyme, And all thy labours are but loss of time. Thy strutting belly swells, thy paunch is high; Thou writ'st not, but thou pissest poetry. All authors to their own defects are blind; Hadst thou but, Janus-like, a face behind, To see the people, what splay-mouths they make; To mark their fingers, pointed at thy back; Their tongues lolled out, a foot beyond the pitch, But noble scribblers are with flattery fed, For none dare find their faults, who eat their bread. To pass the poets of patrician blood, What is't the common reader takes for good? The verse in fashion is, when numbers flow, Soft without sense, and without spirit slow; So smooth and equal, that no sight can find The rivet, where the polished piece was joined; So even all, with such a steady view, As if he shut one eye to level true. Whether the vulgar vice his satire stings, The people's riots, or the rage of kings, The gentle poet is alike in all; His reader hopes no rise, and fears no fall. Hourly we see some raw pin-feathered thing Attempt to mount, and fights and heroes sing; Who for false quantities was whipt at school But t'other day, and breaking grammar-rule; Whose trivial art was never tried above The bare description of a native grove; Whose shining plough-share was in furrows worn, Met by his trembling wife returning home, And rustically joyed, as chief of Rome: And some on antiquated authors pore; Rummage for sense, and think those only good Who labour most, and least are understood. When thou shalt see the blear-eyed fathers teach Their sons this harsh and mouldy sort of speech, Or others new affected ways to try, Of wanton smoothness, female poetry; One would enquire from whence this motley style Did first our Roman purity defile. But leap and catch at all that's obsolete. Others, by foolish ostentation led, When called before the bar, to save their head, Bring trifling tropes, instead of solid sense, And mind their figures more than their defence; Are pleased to hear their thick-skulled judges cry, Well moved, oh finely said, and decently! Theft (says the accuser) to thy charge I lay, O Pedius: what does gentle Pedius say? Studious to please the genius of the times, With periods, points, and tropes, he slurs his crimes: "He robbed not, but he borrowed from the poor, And took but with intention to restore." He lards with flourishes his long harangue; 'Tis fine, say'st thou;--what, to be praised, and hang? Effeminate Roman, shall such stuff prevail To tickle thee, and make thee wag thy tail? Say, should a shipwrecked sailor sing his woe, Wouldst thou be moved to pity, or bestow An alms? What's more preposterous than to see A merry beggar? Mirth in misery? He seems a trap for charity to lay, And cons, by night, his lesson for the day. But to raw numbers, and unfinished verse, Sweet sound is added now, to make it terse: "'Tis tagged with rhyme, like Berecynthian Atys, The mid-part chimes with art, which never flat is. The dolphin brave, that cuts the liquid wave, Or he who in his line can chine the long-ribbed Appennine." All this is doggrel stuff. What if I bring A nobler verse? "Arms and the man I sing." Why name you Virgil with such fops as these? He's truly great, and must for ever please: Not fierce, but aweful, is his manly page; Bold is his strength, but sober is his rage. What poems think you soft, and to be read With languishing regards, and bending head? "Their crooked horns the Mimallonian crew With blasts inspired; and Bassaris, who slew The scornful calf, with sword advanced on high, Made from his neck his haughty head to fly: Were any manly greatness left in Rome? Mænas and Atys in the mouth were bred, And never hatched within the labouring head; No blood from bitten nails those poems drew, But churned, like spittle, from the lips they flew. 'Tis fustian all; 'tis execrably bad; But if they will be fools, must you be mad? Your satires, let me tell you, are too fierce; The great will never bear so blunt a verse. Their doors are barred against a bitter flout; Snarl, if you please, but you shall snarl without. Expect such pay as railing rhymes deserve; You're in a very hopeful way to starve. Rather than so, uncensured let them be; All, all is admirably well, for me. My harmless rhyme shall 'scape the dire disgrace Of common-shoars, and every pissing-place. Two painted serpents shall on high appear; 'Tis holy ground; you must not urine here. This shall be writ, to fright the fry away, Who draw their little baubles when they play. Yet old Lucilius never feared the times, But lashed the city, and dissected crimes. Mutius and Lupus both by name he brought; He mouthed them, and betwixt his grinders caught. Unlike in method, with concealed design, Did crafty Horace his low numbers join; And, with a sly insinuating grace, Laughed at his friend, and looked him in the face; Would raise a blush where secret vice he found, And tickle while he gently probed the wound; With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled, But made the desperate passes when he smiled. Could he do this, and is my muse controuled By servile awe? Born free, and not be bold? At least, I'll dig a hole within the ground, And to the trusty earth commit the sound; The reeds shall tell you what the poet fears, "King Midas has a snout, and asses ears." This mean conceit, this darling mystery, Which thou think'st nothing, friend, thou shalt not buy; Nor will I change for all the flashy wit, That flattering Labeo in his Iliads writ. Thou, if there be a thou in this base town, Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown; He who, with bold Cratinus, is inspired With zeal, and equal indignation fired; Who at enormous villainy turns pale, And steers against it with a full-blown sail, Like Aristophanes, let him but smile On this my honest work, though writ in homely style; And if two lines or three in all the vein Appear less drossy, read those lines again. May they perform their author's just intent, Glow in thy ears, and in thy breast ferment! But from the reading of my book and me, Be far, ye foes of virtuous poverty; Who fortune's fault upon the poor can throw, Point at the tattered coat, and ragged shoe; Lay nature's failings to their charge, and jeer The dim weak eye-sight when the mind is clear; When thou thyself, thus insolent in state, Art but, perhaps, some country magistrate, Whose power extends no farther than to speak Big on the bench, and scanty weights to break. Him also for my censor I disdain, Who thinks all science, as all virtue, vain; Who counts geometry, and numbers toys, And with his foot the sacred dust destroys; Whose pleasure is to see a strumpet tear A cynick's beard, and lug him by the hair. Parnassus and Helicon were hills consecrated to the Muses, and Pyrene, a fountain in Corinth, consecrated also to the Muses. Before the shrine; that is, before the shrine of Apollo, in his temple at Rome, called the Palatine. Note III. Note VII. Note VIII. Note XII. Note XIII. Note XIV. Note XVI. Note XVII. _Should cry up Labeo's stuff, and cry me down._--P. 208. _They comb, and then they order every hair; A gown, or white, or scoured to whiteness, wear; Note III. _Know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred, Will split the quarry, and shoot out the head._--P. 209. _In cedar tablets worthy to appear._--P. 210. Writings of noblemen, whose bedsteads were of the wood of citron. _Hadst thou but, Janus-like, a face behind._--P. 211. Janus was the first king of Italy, who refuged Saturn when he was Note VII. _Where Romulus was bred, and Quintius born._--P. 212. He speaks of the country in the foregoing verses; the praises of Note VIII. _With periods, points, and tropes, he slurs his crimes._ P. 213. _'Tis tagged with rhyme, like Berecynthian Atys, The mid-part chimes with art, which never flat is._ P. 213. _Their crooked horns the Mimallonian crew Note XII. _Two painted serpents shall on high appear._--P. 215. Note XIII. Note XIV. _King Midas has a snout, and asses ears._--P. 215. The story is vulgar, that Midas, king of Phrygia, was made judge _Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown; He who, with bold Cratinus, is inspired Note XVI. _Who fortune's fault upon the poor can throw._--P. 216. The people of Rome, in the time of Persius, were apt to scorn the Note XVII. _Who counts geometry, and numbers toys, And with his foot the sacred dust destroys._--P. 216. _This Satire contains a most grave and philosophical argument, concerning prayers and wishes. Undoubtedly it gave occasion to Juvenal's tenth satire; and both of them had their original from one of Plato's dialogues, called the "Second Alcibiades." Our author has induced it with great mystery of art, by taking his rise from the birth-day of his friend; on which occasions, prayers were made, and sacrifices offered by the native. Persius, commending, first, the purity of his friend's vows, descends to the impious and immoral requests of others. The satire is divided into three parts. The first is the exordium to Macrinus, which the poet confines within the compass of four verses: the second relates to the matter of the prayers and vows, and an enumeration of those things, wherein men commonly sinned against right reason, and offended in their requests: the third part consists in showing the repugnances of those prayers and wishes, to those of other men, and inconsistencies with themselves. He shows the original of these vows, and sharply inveighs against them; and, lastly, not only corrects the false opinion of mankind concerning them, but gives the true doctrine of all addresses made to heaven, and how they may be made acceptable to the powers above, in excellent precepts, and more worthy of a Christian than a Heathen._ Let this auspicious morning be exprest With a white stone, distinguished from the rest, White as thy fame, and as thy honour clear, And let new joys attend on thy new added year. Indulge thy genius, and o'erflow thy soul, Till thy wit sparkle, like the cheerful bowl. Pray; for thy prayers the test of heaven will bear, Nor need'st thou take the gods aside to hear; While others, even the mighty men of Rome, Big swelled with mischief, to the temples come, And in low murmurs, and with costly smoke, Heaven's help to prosper their black vows, invoke: So boldly to the gods mankind reveal What from each other they, for shame, conceal. Give me good fame, ye powers, and make me just; Thus much the rogue to public ears will trust: In private then,--When wilt thou, mighty Jove; My wealthy uncle from this world remove? Or, O thou Thunderer's son, great Hercules, That once thy bounteous deity would please Of some vast treasure, hidden under ground! O were my pupil fairly knocked o' the head, I should possess the estate if he were dead! He's so far gone with rickets, and with the evil, That one small dose would send him to the devil. This is my neighbour Nerius his third spouse, Of whom in happy time he rids his house; But my eternal wife!--Grant, heaven, I may Survive to see the fellow of this day! Thus, that thou may'st the better bring about Thy wishes, thou art wickedly devout; In Tyber ducking thrice, by break of day, To wash the obscenities of night away. But, pr'ythee, tell me, ('tis a small request,) With what ill thoughts of Jove art thou possest? Wouldst thou prefer him to some man? Suppose I dipped among the worst, and Staius chose? Which of the two would thy wise head declare The trustier tutor to an orphan heir? Or, put it thus:--Unfold to Staius, straight, What to Jove's ear thou didst impart of late: He'll stare, and O, good Jupiter! will cry, Canst thou indulge him in this villainy? And think'st thou Jove himself with patience then Can hear a prayer condemned by wicked men? That, void of care, he lolls supine in state, And leaves his business to be done by fate, Because his thunder splits some burly tree, And is not darted at thy house and thee; Or that his vengeance falls not at the time, Just at the perpetration of thy crime, And makes thee a sad object of our eyes, Fit for Ergenna's prayer and sacrifice? What well-fed offering to appease the God, What powerful present to procure a nod, Hast thou in store? What bribe hast thou prepared, To pull him, thus unpunished, by the beard? Our superstitions with our life begin; The obscene old grandam, or the next of kin, The new-born infant from the cradle takes, And, first, of spittle a lustration makes; Then in the spawl her middle-finger dips, Anoints the temples, forehead, and the lips, Pretending force of magic to prevent, By virtue of her nasty excrement; Then dandles him with many a muttered prayer, That heaven would make him some rich miser's heir, Lucky to ladies, and in time a king; Which to ensure, she adds a length of navel-string. But no fond nurse is fit to make a prayer, And Jove, if Jove be wise, will never hear; Not though she prays in white, with lifted hands. A body made of brass the crone demands For her loved nursling, strung with nerves of wire, Tough to the last, and with no toil to tire; Unconscionable vows, which, when we use, We teach the gods, in reason, to refuse. Suppose they were indulgent to thy wish, Yet the fat entrails in the spacious dish Would stop the grant; the very over-care And nauseous pomp, would hinder half the prayer. Thou hop'st with sacrifice of oxen slain To compass wealth, and bribe the god of gain To give thee flocks and herds, with large increase; Fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease! And think'st that when the fattened flames aspire, Thou see'st the accomplishment of thy desire! Till his lank purse declares his money gone. Should I present them with rare figured plate, Or gold as rich in workmanship as weight; O how thy rising heart would throb and beat, And thy left side, with trembling pleasure, sweat! Thou measur'st by thyself the powers divine; Thy gods are burnished gold, and silver is their shrine. The puny godlings of inferior race, Whose humble statues are content with brass, Should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm, Foretel events, or in a morning dream; Even those thou would'st in veneration hold, And, if not faces, give them beards of gold. The priests in temples now no longer care For Saturn's brass, or Numa's earthen ware; Or vestal urns, in each religious rite; This wicked gold has put them all to flight. O souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found, Fat minds, and ever grovelling on the ground! We bring our manners to the blest abodes, And think what pleases us must please the gods. Of oil and cassia one the ingredients takes, And, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes; Another finds the way to dye in grain, And makes Calabrian wool receive the Tyrian stain; Or from the shells their orient treasure takes, Or for their golden ore in rivers rakes, Then melts the mass. All these are vanities, Yet still some profit from their pains may rise: But tell me, priest, if I may be so bold, What are the gods the better for this gold? The wretch, that offers from his wealthy store These presents, bribes the powers to give him more; As maids to Venus offer baby-toys, To bless the marriage-bed with girls and boys. But let us for the gods a gift prepare, Which the great man's great chargers cannot bear; A soul, where laws, both human and divine, In practice more than speculation shine; A genuine virtue, of a vigorous kind, Pure in the last recesses of the mind: When with such offerings to the gods I come, A cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb. Note III. Note VII. Note VIII. _Let this auspicious morning be exprest That once thy bounteous deity would please Of some vast treasure, hidden under ground._--P. 222. Note III. _In Tyber ducking thrice, by break of day, To wash the obscenities of night away._--P. 223. _Fit for Ergenna's prayer and sacrifice_.--P. 223. _Our superstitions with our life begin_.--P. 223. _Should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm, Foretel events, or in a morning dream._--P. 225. It was the opinion both of Grecians and Romans, that the gods, in Note VII. _The priests in temples, now no longer care Note VIII. _As maids to Venus offer baby-toys._--P. 225. _A cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb._--P. 226. A cake of barley, or coarse wheat-meal, with the bran in it. The _Our author has made two Satires concerning study, the first and the third: the first related to men; this to young students, whom he desired to be educated in the Stoic philosophy. He himself sustains the person of the master, or preceptor, in this admirable Satire, where he upbraids the youth of sloth, and negligence in learning. Yet he begins with one scholar reproaching his fellow-students with late rising to their books. After which, he takes upon him the other part of the teacher; and, addressing himself particularly to young noblemen, tells them, that, by reason of their high birth, and the great possessions of their fathers, they are careless of adorning their minds with precepts of moral philosophy: and, withal, inculcates to them the miseries which will attend them in the whole course of their life, if they do not apply themselves betimes to the knowledge of virtue, and the end of their creation, which he pathetically insinuates to them. The title of this satire, in some ancient manuscripts, was, "the Reproach of Idleness;" though in others of the scholiasts it is inscribed, "Against the Luxury and Vices of the Rich." In both of which, the intention of the poet is pursued, but principally in the former._ scholar at Westminster school, for a Thursday-night's exercise; and believe, that it, and many other of my exercises of this nature in English verse, are still in the hands of my learned master, the Rev. Dr Busby.] As filled with fumes of undigested wine. This grave advice some sober student bears, And loudly rings it in his fellow's ears. The yawning youth, scarce half awake, essays His lazy limbs and dozy head to raise; Then rubs his gummy eyes, and scrubs his pate, And cries,--I thought it had not been so late! My clothes, make haste!--why then, if none be near, He mutters, first, and then begins to swear; And brays aloud, with a more clamorous note, Than an Arcadian ass can stretch his throat. With much ado, his book before him laid, And parchment with the smoother side displayed, He takes the papers; lays them down again, And with unwilling fingers tries the pen. Some peevish quarrel straight he strives to pick, His quill writes double, or his ink's too thick; Infuse more water,--now 'tis grown so thin, It sinks, nor can the characters be seen. O wretch, and still more wretched every day! Are mortals born to sleep their lives away? Go back to what thy infancy began, Thou, who wert never meant to be a man; Eat pap and spoon-meat, for thy gewgaws cry; Be sullen, and refuse the lullaby. No more accuse thy pen; but charge the crime On native sloth, and negligence of time. Think'st thou thy master, or thy friends, to cheat? Fool, 'tis thyself, and that's a worse deceit. Beware the public laughter of the town; Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown; A flaw is in thy ill-baked vessel found; 'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound. Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command, Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand: Now take the mould; now bend thy mind to feel The first sharp motions of the forming wheel. But thou hast land; a country seat, secure By a just title; costly furniture; A fuming pan thy Lares to appease: What need of learning when a man's at ease? If this be not enough to swell thy soul, Then please thy pride, and search the herald's roll, And loudly call him cousin in the street. Such pageantry be to the people shown: There boast thy horse's trappings, and thy own. I know thee to thy bottom, from within Thy shallow centre, to the utmost skin: Dost thou not blush to live so like a beast, So trim, so dissolute, so loosely drest? But 'tis in vain; the wretch is drenched too deep, His soul is stupid, and his heart asleep; Fattened in vice, so callous, and so gross, He sins, and sees not, senseless of his loss. Down goes the wretch at once, unskilled to swim, Hopeless to bubble up, and reach the water's brim. Great father of the gods, when for our crimes Thou send'st some heavy judgment on the times; Some tyrant-king, the terror of his age, The type, and true vicegerent of thy rage; Thus punish him: set virtue in his sight, With all her charms, adorned with all her graces bright; But set her distant, make him pale to see His gains outweighed by lost felicity! Sicilian tortures, and the brazen bull, Are emblems, rather than express the full Of what he feels; yet what he fears is more: The wretch, who, sitting at his plenteous board, Looked up, and viewed on high the pointed sword Hang o'er his head, and hanging by a twine, Did with less dread, and more securely dine. Even in his sleep he starts, and fears the knife, And, trembling, in his arms takes his accomplice wife; Down, down he goes; and from his darling friend Conceals the woes his guilty dreams portend. When I was young, I, like a lazy fool, Would blear my eyes with oil, to stay from school: Averse from pains, and loth to learn the part Of Cato, dying with a dauntless heart; Though much my master that stern virtue praised, Which o'er the vanquisher the vanquished raised; And my pleased father came with pride to see His boy defend the Roman liberty. But then my study was to cog the dice, And dexterously to throw the lucky sice; And drive her giddy, till she fell asleep. Thy years are ripe, nor art thou yet to learn What's good or ill, and both their ends discern: Thou in the Stoic-porch, severely bred, Hast heard the dogmas of great Zeno read; Where on the walls, by Polygnotus' hand, The conquered Medians in trunk-breeches stand; Where the shorn youth to midnight lectures rise, Roused from their slumbers to be early wise; Where the coarse cake, and homely husks of beans, From pampering riot the young stomach weans; And where the Samian Y directs thy steps to run To Virtue's narrow steep, and broad-way Vice to shun. And yet thou snor'st, thou draw'st thy drunken breath, Sour with debauch, and sleep'st the sleep of death: Thy chaps are fallen, and thy frame disjoined; Thy body is dissolved as is thy mind. Hast thou not yet proposed some certain end, To which thy life, thy every act, may tend? Hast thou no mark, at which to bend thy bow? Or, like a boy, pursuest the carrion crow With pellets, and with stones, from tree to tree, A fruitless toil, and livest _extempore_? Watch the disease in time; for when within The dropsy rages, and extends the skin, In vain for hellebore the patient cries, And fees the doctor, but too late is wise; Too late, for cure he proffers half his wealth; Conquest and Guibbons cannot give him health. The wise Creator has ordained for thee; And all the offices of that estate Perform, and with thy prudence guide thy fate. Pray justly to be heard, nor more desire Than what the decencies of life require. Learn what thou owest thy country, and thy friend; What's requisite to spare, and what to spend: Learn this; and after, envy not the store Of the greased advocate, that grinds the poor; Fat fees from the defended Umbrian draws, And only gains the wealthy client's cause; To whom the Marsians more provision send, Than he and all his family can spend. Gammons, that give a relish to the taste, And potted fowl, and fish come in so fast, That ere the first is out, the second stinks, And mouldy mother gathers on the brinks. But here some captain of the land, or fleet, Stout of his hands, but of a soldier's wit, Cries,--I have sense to serve my turn in store, And he's a rascal who pretends to more. Damn me, whate'er those book-learned blockheads say, Solon's the veriest fool in all the play. Top-heavy drones, and always looking down, (As over ballasted within the crown,) Muttering betwixt their lips some mystic thing, Which, well examined, is flat conjuring; And miss the pleasures of a glorious meal? For this, in rags accoutered, are they seen, And made the may-game of the public spleen?-- Proceed, my friend, and rail; but hear me tell A story, which is just thy parallel:-- A spark, like thee, of the man-killing trade, Fell sick, and thus to his physician said,-- Methinks I am not right in every part; I feel a kind of trembling at my heart, My pulse unequal, and my breath is strong, Besides a filthy fur upon my tongue. The doctor heard him, exercised his skill, And after bade him for four days be still. Three days he took good counsel, and began To mend, and look like a recovering man; The fourth he could not hold from drink, but sends His boy to one of his old trusty friends, Will supple in the bath his outward skin: Whom should he find but his physician there, Who wisely bade him once again beware. Sir, you look wan, you hardly draw your breath; Drinking is dangerous, and the bath is death. 'Tis nothing, says the fool; but, says the friend, This nothing, sir, will bring you to your end. Do I not see your dropsy belly swell? Your yellow skin?--No more of that; I'm well. I've done, says the physician; take your course. The laughing sot, like all unthinking men, Bathes, and gets drunk; then bathes, and drinks again: His throat half throttled with corrupted phlegm, And breathing through his jaws a belching steam, Amidst his cups with fainting shivering seized, His limbs disjointed, and all o'er diseased, Of hireling mourners, for his funeral due. And there's an end of a luxurious fool. But what's thy fulsome parable to me? My body is from all diseases free; And thou shalt find me hale in every part. I grant this true; but still the deadly wound Is in thy soul, 'tis there thou art not sound. Say, when thou see'st a heap of tempting gold, Or a more tempting harlot dost behold; Then, when she casts on thee a side-long glance, Then try thy heart, and tell me if it dance. What, hast thou got an ulcer in thy mouth? Why stand'st thou picking? Is thy palate sore, That bete and radishes will make thee roar? Such is the unequal temper of thy mind, Thy passions in extremes, and unconfined; Thy hair so bristles with unmanly fears, As fields of corn, that rise in bearded ears; Thou say'st, and dost, in such outrageous wise, That mad Orestes, if he saw the show, Would swear thou wert the madder of the two. Note III. Note VII. Note VIII. Two learned physicians of the period. Dryden mentions Guibbons more than once, as a friend. Note XII. _And parchment with the smoother side displayed._--P. 231. The students used to write their notes on parchments; the inside, _A fuming-pan thy Lares to appease._--P. 232. Note III. _Drawn from the root of some old Tuscan tree._--P. 232. _Who, clad in purple, canst thy censor greet._--P. 232. _Sicilian tortures, and the brazen bull._--P. 233. _The wretch, who, sitting at his plenteous board, Looked up, and viewed on high the pointed sword._--P. 233. He alludes to the story of Damocles, a flatterer of one of those Note VII. _Thou in the Stoic-porch, severely bred._--P. 233. Note VIII. _Where on the walls, by Polygnotus' hand, The conquered Medians in trunk-breeches stand._--P. 233. _And where the Samian Y directs thy steps to run To Virtue's narrow steep, and broad-way Vice to shun._ P. 234. _Fat fees from the defended Umbrian draws._--P. 235. _His heels stretched out, and pointing to the gate._ P. 237. Note XII. return from the Trojan wars, was slain by Ægysthus, the adulterer _Our author, living in the time of Nero, was contemporary and friend to the noble poet Lucan. Both of them were sufficiently sensible, with all good men, how unskilfully he managed the commonwealth; and perhaps might guess at his future tyranny, by some passages, during the latter part of his first five years; though he broke not out into his great excesses, while he was restrained by the counsels and authority of Seneca. Lucan has not spared him in the poem of his Pharsalia; for his very compliment looked asquint, as well as Nero. Persius has been bolder, but with caution likewise. For here, in the person of young Alcibiades, he arraigns his ambition of meddling with state-affairs without judgment, or experience. It is probable, that he makes Seneca, in this satire, sustain the part of Socrates, under a borrowed name; and, withal, discovers some secret vices of Nero, concerning his lust, his drunkenness, find his effeminacy, which had not yet arrived to public notice. He also reprehends the flattery of his courtiers, who endeavoured to make all his vices pass for virtues. Covetousness was undoubtedly none of his faults; but it is here described as a veil cast over the true meaning of the poet, which was to satirize his prodigality and voluptuousness; to which he makes a transition. I find no instance in history of that emperor's being a Pathic, though Persius seems to brand him with it. From the two dialogues of Plato, both called "Alcibiades," the poet took the arguments of the second and third satires; but he inverted the order of them, for the third satire is taken from the first of those dialogues._ _The commentators before Casaubon were ignorant of our author's secret meaning; and thought he had only written against young noblemen in general, who were too forward in aspiring to public magistracy; but this excellent scholiast has unravelled the whole mystery, and made it apparent, that the sting of the satire was particularly aimed at Nero._ Whoe'er thou art, whose forward years are bent On state affairs, to guide the government; Hear first what Socrates of old has said To the loved youth, whom he at Athens bred. Tell me, thou pupil to great Pericles, Our second hope, my Alcibiades, What are the grounds from whence thou dost prepare To undertake, so young, so vast a care? Perhaps thy wit; (a chance not often heard, That parts and prudence should prevent the beard;) 'Tis seldom seen, that senators so young Know when to speak, and when to hold their tongue. Sure thou art born to some peculiar fate, When the mad people rise against the state, To look them into duty, and command An awful silence with thy lifted hand; Then to bespeak them thus:--Athenians, know Against right reason all your counsels go; This is not fair, nor profitable that, Nor t'other question proper for debate.-- But thou, no doubt, can'st set the business right, And give each argument its proper weight; Can'st punish crimes, and brand offending vice. Leave, leave to fathom such high points as these, Nor be ambitious, e'er thy time, to please, Unseasonably wise; till age and cares Have formed thy soul to manage great affairs. A good old woman would have said as much. But thou art nobly born: 'tis true; go boast Thy pedigree, the thing thou valuest most: Besides, thou art a beau; what's that, my child? A fop, well drest, extravagant, and wild: She that cries herbs, has less impertinence, And in her calling more of common sense. None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind; But every one is eagle-eyed, to see Another's faults, and his deformity. Say, dost thou know Vectidius?--Who? the wretch Whose lands beyond the Sabines largely stretch; Cover the country, that a sailing kite Can scarce o'er fly them in a day and night; Him dost thou mean, who, spite of all his store, Is ever craving, and will still be poor? Who cheats for half-pence, and who doffs his coat, To save a farthing in a ferry-boat? Ever a glutton at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost? Who eats and drinks with his domestic slaves, A verier hind than any of his knaves? Born with the curse and anger of the gods, And that indulgent genius he defrauds? At harvest-home, and on the shearing-day, When he should thanks to Pan and Pales pay, And better Ceres, trembling to approach The little barrel, which he fears to broach; He 'says the wimble, often draws it back, And deals to thirsty servants but a smack. To a short meal he makes a tedious grace, Before the barley-pudding comes in place: Then bids fall on; himself, for saving charges, A peeled sliced onion eats, and tipples verjuice.-- Thus fares the drudge: but thou, whose life's a dream Of lazy pleasures, takest a worse extreme. 'Tis all thy business, business how to shun; To bask thy naked body in the sun; Suppling thy stiffened joints with fragrant oil: Then, in thy spacious garden walk a while, To suck the moisture up, and soak it in; And this, thou think'st, but vainly think'st, unseen. But know, thou art observed; and there are those, Who, if they durst, would all thy secret sins expose; Thou tak'st the pleasure which thou canst not give. With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek, And then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek; Of these thy barbers take a costly care, While thy salt tail is overgrown with hair. Not all thy pincers, nor unmanly arts, Can smooth the roughness of thy shameful parts. Not five, the strongest that the Circus breeds, From the rank soil can root those wicked weeds, Though suppled first with soap, to ease thy pain; The stubborn fern springs up, and sprouts again. Thus others we with defamations wound, While they stab us, and so the jest goes round. Vain are thy hopes, to 'scape censorious eyes; Truth will appear through all the thin disguise: Thou hast an ulcer which no leach can heal, Though thy broad shoulder-belt the wound conceal. Say thou art sound and hale in every part, We know, we know thee rotten at thy heart. We know thee sullen, impotent, and proud: Nor canst thou cheat thy nerve, who cheat'st the crowd.-- But when they praise me in the neighbourhood, When the pleased people take me for a god, Shall I refuse their incense? Not receive The loud applauses which the vulgar give?-- If thou dost wealth with longing eyes behold, And greedily art gaping after gold; And bidst arise the lumpish pendulum; If thy lewd lust provokes an empty storm, And prompts to more than nature can perform; If, with thy guards, thou scour'st the streets by night, And dost in murders, rapes, and spoils delight; Please not thyself, the flattering crowd to hear, 'Tis fulsome stuff to feed thy itching ear. Reject the nauseous praises of the times; Give thy base poets back their cobled rhimes: Survey thy soul, not what thou dost appear, But what thou art, and find the beggar there. ----_Scelera ipsa nefasque Hac mercede placent_.---- Note III. Note VII. Note VIII. Socrates, whom the oracle of Delphos praised as the wisest man of _Tell me, thou pupil to great Pericles, Our second hope, my Alcibiades._--P. 243. Note III. The poet would say, that such an ignorant young man, as he here _When he should thanks to Pan and Pales pay, Note VII. _Not five, the strongest that the Circus breeds._--P. 246. Note VIII. _If, with thy guards, thou scour'st the streets by night, And dost in murders, rapes, and spoils, delight._--P. 247. Persius durst not have been so bold with Nero as I dare now; and _Not what thou dost appear, But what thou art, and find the beggar there._--P. 247. _The judicious Casaubon, in his proem to this Satire, tells us, that Aristophanes, the grammarian, being asked, what poem of Archilochus' Iambics he preferred before the rest; answered, the longest. His answer may justly be applied to this Fifth Satire; which, being of a greater length than any of the rest, is also by far the most instructive. For this reason I have selected it from all the others, and inscribed it to my learned master, Dr Busby; to whom I am not only obliged myself for the best part of my own education, and that of my two sons; but have also received from him the first and truest taste of Persius. May he be pleased to find, in this translation, the gratitude, or at least some small acknowledgment, of his unworthy scholar, at the distance of forty-two years from the time when I departed from under his tuition. This Satire consists of two distinct parts: The first contains the praises of the stoic philosopher, Cornutus, master and tutor to our Persius; it also declares the love and piety of Persius to his well-deserving master; and the mutual friendship which continued betwixt them, after Persius was now grown a man; as also his exhortation to young noblemen, that they would enter themselves into his institution. From hence he makes an artful transition into the second part of his subject; wherein he first complains of the sloth of scholars, and afterwards persuades them to the pursuit of their true liberty. Here our author excellently treats that paradox of the Stoics, which affirms, that the wise or virtuous man is only free, and that all vicious men are naturally slaves; and, in the illustration of this dogma, he takes up the remaining part of this inimitable Satire._ Of ancient use to poets it belongs, To wish themselves an hundred mouths and tongues: Whether to the well-lunged tragedian's rage They recommend their labours of the stage, Or sing the Parthian, when transfixed he lies, Wrenching the Roman javelin from his thighs. And why would'st thou these mighty morsels chuse, Of words unchewed, and fit to choke the muse? Let fustian poets with their stuff begone, And suck the mists that hang o'er Helicon; When Progne, or Thyestes' feast they write; And, for the mouthing actor, verse indite. Thou neither like a bellows swell'st thy face, As if thou wert to blow the burning mass Of melting ore; nor canst thou strain thy throat, Or murmur in an undistinguished note, Like rolling thunder, till it breaks the cloud, And rattling nonsense is discharged aloud. Soft elocution does thy style renown, And the sweet accents of the peaceful gown: Gentle or sharp, according to thy choice, To laugh at follies, or to lash at vice. Hence draw thy theme, and to the stage permit Raw-head and bloody-bones, and hands and feet, Ragouts for Tereus or Thyestes drest; 'Tis task enough for thee t' expose a Roman feast. 'Tis not, indeed, my talent to engage In lofty trifles, or to swell my page With wind and noise; but freely to impart, As to a friend, the secrets of my heart, And, in familiar speech, to let thee know How much I love thee, and how much I owe. To tell thee what an hundred tongues would tire, Yet never could be worthily exprest,-- How deeply thou art seated in my breast. When first my childish robe resigned the charge, And left me, unconfined, to live at large; When, with my wild companions, I could roll From street to street, and sin without controul; Just at that age, when manhood set me free, I then deposed myself, and left the reins to thee; On thy wise bosom I reposed my head, And by my better Socrates was bred. Then thy straight rule set virtue in my sight, The crooked line reforming by the right. My reason took the bent of thy command, Was formed and polished by thy skilful hand; Long summer-days thy precepts I rehearse, And winter-nights were short in our converse; One was our labour, one was our repose, One frugal supper did our studies close. Sure on our birth some friendly planet shone; And, as our souls, our horoscope was one: Whether the mounting Twins did heaven adorn, Or with the rising Balance we were born; Both have the same impressions from above. And both have Saturn's rage, repelled by Jove. What star I know not, but some star, I find, Has given thee an ascendant o'er my mind. Nature is ever various in her frame; Each has a different will, and few the same. The greedy merchants, led by lucre, run To the parched Indies, and the rising sun; From thence hot pepper and rich drugs they bear, Bartering for spices their Italian ware; The lazy glutton, safe at home, will keep, Indulge his sloth, and batten with his sleep: One bribes for high preferments in the state; A second shakes the box, and sits up late; Another shakes the bed, dissolving there, Till knots upon his gouty joints appear, And chalk is in his crippled fingers found; Rots, like a doddered oak, and piecemeal falls to ground; Then his lewd follies he would late repent, And his past years, that in a mist were spent. But thou art pale in nightly studies grown, To make the Stoic institutes thy own: Thou long, with studious care, hast tilled our youth, And sown our well-purged ears with wholesome truth. His lazy morrow will be like to-day. But is one day of ease too much to borrow? Yes, sure; for yesterday was once to-morrow. That yesterday is gone, and nothing gained, And all thy fruitless days will thus be drained; For thou hast more to-morrows yet to ask, And wilt be ever to begin thy task; Who, like the hindmost chariot-wheels, art curst, Still to be near, but ne'er to reach the first. O freedom, first delight of human kind! Not that which bondmen from their masters find, The privilege of doles; nor yet to inscribe Their names in this or t'other Roman tribe; That false enfranchisement with ease is found, Slaves are made citizens by turning round. How, replies one, can any be more free? Here's Dama, once a groom of low degree, Not worth a farthing, and a sot beside, So true a rogue, for lying's sake he lied; But, with a turn, a freeman he became, Now Marcus Dama is his worship's name. Good gods! who would refuse to lend a sum, If wealthy Marcus surety will become! Marcus is made a judge, and for a proof Of certain truth, "He said it," is enough. A will is to be proved;--put in your claim;-- 'Tis clear, if Marcus has subscribed his name. Not more to noble Brutus could belong. Hold, says the Stoic, your assumption's wrong: And left me freely at my own dispose, May I not live without controul or awe, Excepting still the letter of the law?-- Hear me with patience, while thy mind I free From those fond notions of false liberty: Nor give the reins to a lewd vicious life: As well he for an ass a harp might string, Which is against the reason of the thing; For reason still is whispering in your ear, Where you are sure to fail, the attempt forbear. And think all shame was lost in human kind. Tell me, my friend, from whence had'st thou the skill, So nicely to distinguish good from ill? Or by the sound to judge of gold and brass, What piece is tinkers' metal, what will pass? And what thou art to follow, what to fly, This to condemn, and that to ratify? When to be bountiful, and when to spare, But never craving, or oppressed with care? The baits of gifts, and money to despise, And look on wealth with undesiring eyes? When thou canst truly call these virtues thine, Be wise and free, by heaven's consent and mine. But thou, who lately of the common strain Wert one of us, if still thou dost retain The same ill habits, the same follies too, Glossed over only with a saint-like show, Then I resume the freedom which I gave; Still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave. Thou canst not wag thy finger, or begin "The least light motion, but it tends to sin." A man is wholly wise, or wholly is a fool." A heavy bumpkin, taught with daily care, Can never dance three steps with a becoming air. In spite of this, my freedom still remains. Free! what, and fettered with so many chains? Canst thou no other master understand Than him that freed thee by the prætor's wand? Should he, who was thy lord, command thee now, With a harsh voice, and supercilious brow, To servile duties, thou would'st fear no more; The gallows and the whip are out of door. But if thy passions lord it in thy breast, Art thou not still a slave, and still opprest? Whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap, When thou would'st take a lazy morning's nap, Up, up, says Avarice;--thou snor'st again, Stretchest thy limbs, and yawn'st, but all in vain; The tyrant Lucre no denial takes; At his command the unwilling sluggard wakes. What must I do? he cries:--What? says his lord; Why rise, make ready, and go straight aboard; With fish, from Euxine seas, thy vessel freight; Flax, castor, Coan wines, the precious weight 'Tis wholesome sin:--but Jove, thou say'st, will hear:-- Swear, fool, or starve; for the dilemma's even: A tradesman thou, and hope to go to heaven! Resolved for sea, the slaves thy baggage pack, Each saddled with his burden on his back; Thy other lord forbids, Voluptuousness: And he may ask this civil question,--Friend, What dost thou make a shipboard? to what end? Art thou of Bethlem's noble college free, Stark, staring mad, that thou would'st tempt the sea? Cubbed in a cabin, on a mattress laid, On a brown george, with lousy swobbers fed, Dead wine, that stinks of the borrachio, sup From a foul jack, or greasy maple-cup? Say, would'st thou bear all this, to raise thy store From six i'the hundred, to six hundred more? Indulge, and to thy genius freely give; For, not to live at ease, is not to live; Death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour Does some loose remnant of thy life devour. Live, while thou liv'st; for death will make us all A name, a nothing but an old wife's tale. Speak; wilt thou Avarice, or Pleasure, chuse To be thy lord? Take one, and one refuse. But both by turns the rule of thee will have, And thou betwixt them both wilt be a slave. Nor think when once thou hast resisted one, That all thy marks of servitude are gone: The struggling grey-hound gnaws his leash in vain; If, when 'tis broken, still he drags the chain. Says Phædria to his man, Believe me, friend, To this uneasy love I'll put an end: Shall I run out of all? My friends' disgrace, And be the first lewd unthrift of my race? Shall I the neighbours nightly rest invade At her deaf doors, with some vile serenade?-- Well hast thou freed thyself, his man replies, Go, thank the gods, and offer sacrifice.-- Ah, says the youth, if we unkindly part, Will not the poor fond creature break her heart?-- Weak soul! and blindly to destruction led! She break her heart! she'll sooner break your head. She knows her man, and when you rant and swear, Can draw you to her with a single hair.-- But shall I not return? Now, when she sues! Shall I my own and her desires refuse?-- Sir, take your course; but my advice is plain: Once freed, 'tis madness to resume your chain. Ay; there's the man, who, loosed from lust and pelf, Less to the prætor owes than to himself. But write him down a slave, who, humbly proud, With presents begs preferments from the crowd; That early suppliant, who salutes the tribes, And sets the mob to scramble for his bribes, On holidays may tell, that such a feat was done: In future times this will be counted rare. Thy superstition too may claim a share: When flowers are strewed, and lamps in order placed, And windows with illuminations graced, On Herod's day; when sparkling bowls go round, And tunny's tails in savoury sauce are drowned, Thou mutter'st prayers obscene; nor dost refuse Then a cracked egg-shell thy sick fancy frights, Besides the childish fear of walking sprites. Of o'ergrown gelding priests thou art afraid; The timbrel, and the squintifego maid Of Isis, awe thee; lest the gods for sin, Should with a swelling dropsy stuff thy skin: Unless three garlic heads the curse avert, Eaten each morn devoutly next thy heart. Preach this among the brawny guards, say'st thou, And see if they thy doctrine will allow: The dull, fat captain, with a hound's deep throat, Would bellow out a laugh in a bass note, And prize a hundred Zeno's just as much As a clipt sixpence, or a schilling Dutch. Note III. Note VII. Note VIII. Note XII. Note XIII. Note XIV. Note XVI. Note XVII. Note XVIII. A leathern pitcher, called a black jack, used by our homely ancestors for quaffing their ale. E. Note XIX. Note XXI. Note XXII. Thyestes and Atreus were brothers, both kings. Atreus, to revenge Note III. _When first my childish robe resigned the charge._--P. 253. _And my white shield proclaimed my liberty._--P. 253. _And by my better Socrates was bred._--P. 253. _Sure on our birth some friendly planet shone; And, as our souls, our horoscope was one._--P. 254. Astrologers divide the heaven into twelve parts, according to the Note VII. _And both have Saturn's rage, repelled by Jove._--P. 254. Note VIII. _Not that which bondmen from their masters find, ----_Nor yet to inscribe Their names in this or t'other Roman tribe._--P. 255. _Slaves are made citizens by turning round._--P. 255. Note XII. _Now Marcus Dama is his worship's name._--P. 256. Slaves had only one name before their freedom; after it they were Note XIII. _A will is to be proved;--put in your claim;-- 'Tis clear, if Marcus has subscribed his name._--P. 256. Note XIV. _What farther can we from our caps receive, Than as we please without controul to live._--P. 256. Note XVI. _Excepting still the letter of the law._--P. 256. Note XVII. _Virtue and vice are never in one soul; A man is wholly wise, or wholly is a fool._--P. 257. Note XIX. _But write him down a slave, who, humbly proud, With presents begs preferments from the crowd._--P. 260. Note XXI. The commentators are divided what Herod this was, whom our author Note XXII. _Then a cracked egg-shell thy sick fancy frights._--P. 260. The ancients had a superstition, contrary to ours, concerning In the play called "Bellamira, or the Mistress." _This Sixth Satire treats an admirable common-place of moral philosophy, of the true use of riches. They are certainly intended by the Power who bestows them, as instruments and helps of living commodiously ourselves; and of administering to the wants of others, who are oppressed by fortune. There are two extremes in the opinions of men concerning them. One error, though on the right hand, yet a great one, is, that they are no helps to a virtuous life; the other places all our happiness in the acquisition and possession of them; and this is undoubtedly the worse extreme. The mean betwixt these, is the opinion of the Stoics, which is, that riches may be useful to the leading a virtuous life; in case we rightly understand how to give according to right reason, and how to receive what is given us by others. The virtue of giving well, is called liberality; and it is of this virtue that Persius writes in this satire, wherein he not only shows the lawful use of riches, but also sharply inveighs against the vices which are opposed to it; and especially of those, which consist in the defects of giving, or spending, or in the abuse of riches. He writes to Cæsius Bassus, his friend, and a poet also. Enquires first of his health and studies; and afterwards informs him of his own, and where he is now resident. He gives an account of himself, that he is endeavouring, by little and little, to wear off his vices; and, particularly, that he is combating ambition, and the desire of wealth. He dwells upon the latter vice; and being sensible, that few men either desire, or use, riches as they ought, he endeavours to convince them of their folly, which is the main design of the whole satire._ Has winter caused thee, friend, to change thy seat, And seek in Sabine air a warm retreat? Say, dost thou yet the Roman harp command? Do the strings answer to thy noble hand? Great master of the muse, inspired to sing The beauties of the first created spring; The pedigree of nature to rehearse, And sound the Maker's work, in equal verse; Now sporting on thy lyre the loves of youth, Now virtuous age, and venerable truth; Expressing justly Sappho's wanton art Of odes, and Pindar's more majestic part. For me, my warmer constitution wants More cold, than our Ligurian winter grants; And therefore to my native shores retired, I view the coast old Ennius once admired; The port of Luna, says our learned bard; Who in a drunken dream beheld his soul The fifth within the transmigrating roll; And more secure of what the vulgar prate, Here I enjoy my private thoughts, nor care What rots for sheep the southern winds prepare; Survey the neighbouring fields, and not repine, When I behold a larger crop than mine: To see a beggar's brat in riches flow, Adds not a wrinkle to my even brow; Nor, envious at the sight, will I forbear My plenteous bowl, nor bate my bounteous cheer; Nor yet unseal the dregs of wine that stink Of cask, nor in a nasty flaggon drink; In the same sign, almost the same degree: He sprinkles pepper with a sparing hand. Yet will not turbots for my slaves prepare; Nor be so nice in taste myself to know If what I swallow be a thrush, or no. His riches in the Ionian main are lost, And he himself stands shivering on the coast; Where, destitute of help, forlorn and bare, He wearies the deaf gods with fruitless prayer. Their images, the relics of the wreck, Torn from the naked poop, are tided back By the wild waves, and, rudely thrown ashore, Lie impotent, nor can themselves restore; The vessel sticks, and shews her opened side, And on her shattered mast the mews in triumph ride. From thy new hope, and from thy growing store, Now lend assistance, and relieve the poor; Come, do a noble act of charity, A pittance of thy land will set him free. Let him not bear the badges of a wreck, Nor beg with a blue table on his back; Nor tell me, that thy frowning heir will say, 'Tis mine that wealth thou squander'st thus away: What is't to thee, if he neglect thy urn? Or without spices lets thy body burn? If odours to thy ashes he refuse, All these, the wiser Bestius will reply, Are empty pomp, and dead-men's luxury: We never knew this vain expence before The effeminated Grecians brought it o'er: Now toys and trifles from their Athens come, And dates and pepper have unsinewed Rome. Our sweating hinds their sallads now defile, Infecting homely herbs with fragrant oil. But to thy fortune be not thou a slave; For what hast thou to fear beyond the grave? And thou, who gap'st for my estate, draw near; For I would whisper somewhat in thy ear. Hear'st thou the news, my friend? the express is come, With laurelled letters, from the camp to Rome: Cæsar salutes the queen and senate thus:-- My arms are on the Rhine victorious. From mourning altars sweep the dust away, Cease fasting, and proclaim a fat thanksgiving-day. The goodly empress, jollily inclined, Is to the welcome bearer wonderous kind; And, setting her good housewifery aside, Prepares for all the pageantry of pride. The captive Germans, of gigantic size, Are ranked in order, and are clad in frize: The spoils of kings, and conquered camps we boast, Their arms in trophies hang on the triumphal post. Now for so many glorious actions done In foreign parts, and mighty battles won; For peace at home, and for the public wealth, I mean to crown a bowl to Cæsar's health. Besides, in gratitude for such high matters, Know I have vowed two hundred gladiators. Say, would'st thou hinder me from this expence? I disinherit thee, if thou dar'st take offence. Yet more, a public largess I design Of oil and pies, to make the people dine; Controul me not, for fear I change my will. And yet methinks I hear thee grumbling still,-- You give as if you were the Persian king; Your land does not so large revenues bring. Well, on my terms thou wilt not be my heir? If thou car'st little, less shall be my care. Were none of all my father's sisters left; Nay, were I of my mother's kin bereft; None by an uncle's or a grandame's side, Yet I could some adopted heir provide. Obscure, a foundling, and a son of earth-- Obscure! Why, pr'ythee, what am I? I know My father, grandsire, and great-grandsire too: If farther I derive my pedigree, I can but guess beyond the fourth degree. The rest of my forgotten ancestors Yet why should'st thou, old covetous wretch, aspire To be my heir, who might'st have been my sire? In nature's race, should'st thou demand of me My torch, when I in course run after thee? Think I approach thee, like the god of gain, With wings on head and heels, as poets feign: Thy moderate fortune from my gift receive; Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave. But take it as it is, and ask no more-- What, when thou hast embezzled all thy store? Where's all thy father left?--'Tis true, I grant, Some I have mortgaged to supply my want: The legacies of Tadius too are flown, All spent, and on the self-same errand gone.-- How little then to my poor share will fall!-- Little indeed; but yet that little's all. Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,-- Be careful still of the main chance, my son; Put out thy principal in trusty hands, Live on the use, and never dip thy lands: But yet what's left for me?--What's left, my friend! Ask that again, and all the rest I spend. Is not my fortune at my own command? Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand Upon my sallads, boy: shall I be fed With sodden nettles, and a singed sow's head? 'Tis holiday, provide me better cheer; 'Tis holiday, and shall be round the year. Shall I my household gods and genius cheat, To make him rich, who grudges me my meat, That he may loll at ease, and, pampered high, When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie, And, when his throbbing lust extends the vein, Shall I in homespun cloth be clad, that he His paunch in triumph may before him see? Go, miser, go; for lucre sell thy soul; Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole, That men may say, when thou art dead and gone, See what a vast estate he left his son! How large a family of brawny knaves, Well fed, and fat as Cappadocian slaves! Thy heap, where I shall put an end to mine. Note III. Note VII. Note VIII. Note XII. Note XIII. Note XIV. _Has winter caused thee, friend, to change thy seat, And seek in Sabine air a warm retreat._--P. 268. _Now sporting on thy lyre the loves of youth._--P. 268. Note III. _Who in a drunken dream beheld his soul The fifth within the transmigrating roll._--P. 269. _My friend is shipwrecked on the Brutian strand._--P. 270. _Compositum jus, fasque animi; sanctosque recessus Mentis, et incoctum generoso pectus honesto._ The others are those in this present satire, which are subjoined: ----_trabe rupta, Bruttia Saxa Prendit amicus inops, remque omnem, surdaque vota Condidit Ionio: jacet ipse in littore; et una Ingentes de puppe Dei: jamque obvia mergis _From thy new hope, and from thy growing store, Now lend assistance, and relieve the poor._--P. 270. _Nor beg with a blue table on his back._--P. 270. Note VII. _Or without spices lets thy body burn._--P. 270. Note VIII. _Cæsar salutes the queen and senate thus:-- My arms are on the Rhine victorious._--P. 271. Cæsonia, wife to Caius Caligula, who afterwards, in the reign of _The captive Germans, of gigantic size, Are ranked in order, and are clad in frize._--P. 271. He means only such as were to pass for Germans in the triumph, _Know, I have vowed two hundred gladiators._--P. 271. Note XII. ----_Shouldst thou demand of me My torch, when I in course run after thee._--P. 272. Note XIII. _Well fed, and fat as Cappadocian slaves._--P. 273. Note XIV. This great work was undertaken by Dryden, in 1694, and published, In 1709, Tonson published a second edition of Dryden's "Virgil," Will. Wardour, jun. Esq. Whene'er great Virgil's lofty verse I see, The pompous scene charms my admiring eye. There different beauties in perfection meet; The thoughts as proper, as the numbers sweet; And, when wild Fancy mounts a daring height, Judgment steps in, and moderates her flight. Wisely he manages his wealthy store, Still says enough, and yet implies still more: For, though the weighty sense be closely wrought, The reader's left to improve the pleasing thought. Hence we despaired to see an English dress Should e'er his nervous energy express; For who could that in fettered rhyme inclose, Which, without loss, can scarce be told in prose? But you, great Sir, his manly genius raise, And make your copy share an equal praise. Oh! how I see thee, in soft scenes of love, Renew those passions he alone could move! Here Cupid's charms are with new art exprest, And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest-- Than Mars himself, amidst the storms of war. Now his fierce eyes with double fury glow, And a new dread attends the impending blow: The Daunian chiefs their eager rage abate, And, though unwounded, seem to feel their fate. Long the rude fury of an ignorant age, With barbarous spite, profaned his sacred page. The heavy Dutchmen, with laborious toil, Wrested his sense, and cramped his vigorous style. No time, no pains, the drudging pedants spare, But still his shoulders must the burden bear; While, through the mazes of their comments led, We learn, not what he writes, but what they read. Yet, through these shades of undistinguished night, Appeared some glimmering intervals of light; Till mangled by a vile translating sect, Like babes by witches _in effigie_ rackt: Till Ogleby, mature in dulness, rose, And Holbourn doggrel, and low chiming prose, His strength and beauty did at once depose. But now the magic spell is at an end, Since even the dead, in you, have found a friend. You free the bard from rude oppressors' power, And grace his verse with charms unknown before. He, doubly thus obliged, must doubting stand, Which chiefly should his gratitude command-- Whether should claim the tribute of his heart, The patron's bounty, or the poet's art. Alike with wonder and delight we viewed The Roman genius in thy verse renewed: We saw thee raise soft Ovid's amorous fire, And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre: We saw new gall embitter Juvenal's pen, And crabbed Persius made politely plain. Virgil alone was thought too great a task-- What you could scarce perform, or we durst ask; A task, which Waller's Muse could ne'er engage; A task, too hard for Denham's stronger rage. Sure of success, they some slight sallies tried; But the fenced coast their bold attempts defied: With fear, their o'ermatched forces back they drew, Quitting the province Fate reserved for you. In vain thus Philip did the Persians storm; A work his son was destined to perform. O! had Roscommon lived to hail the day, And sing loud Pæans through the crowded way, When you in Roman majesty appear, Which none know better, and none come so near; The happy author would with wonder see, His rules were only prophecies of thee: And, were he now to give translators light, He'd bid them only read thy work, and write. For this great task, our loud applause is due; We own old favours, but must press for new: Th' expecting world demands one labour more; And thy loved Homer does thy aid implore, To right his injured works, and set them free From the lewd rhymes of grovelling Ogleby. Then shall his verse in graceful pomp appear, Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar: On those Greek cities we shall look with scorn, And in our Britain think the poet born. We read, how dreams and visions heretofore The prophet and the poet could inspire, And make them in unusual rapture soar, With rage divine, and with poetic fire. O could I find it now!--Would Virgil's shade But for a while vouchsafe to bear the light, To grace my numbers, and that Muse to aid, Who sings the poet that has done him right. It long has been this sacred author's fate, To lie at every dull translator's will: Long, long his Muse has groaned beneath the weight Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous quill. Dryden, at last, in his defence arose: The father now is righted by the son; And, while his Muse endeavours to disclose That poet's beauties, she declares her own. In your smooth pompous numbers drest, each line, Each thought, betrays such a majestic touch, He could not, had he finished his design, Have wished it better, or have done so much. You, like his hero, though yourself were free, And disentangled from the war of wit-- You, who secure might others' danger see, And safe from all malicious censure sit-- Yet, because sacred Virgil's noble Muse, O'erlaid by fools, was ready to expire, To risk your fame again, you boldly chuse, Or to redeem, or perish with your sire. Even first and last, we owe him half to you: For, that his Æneids missed their threatened fate, Was--that his friends by some prediction knew, Hereafter, who, correcting, should translate. But hold, my Muse! thy needless flight restrain, Unless, like him, thou could'st a verse indite: To think his fancy to describe, is vain, Since nothing can discover light, but light. 'Tis want of genius that does more deny; 'Tis fear my praise should make your glory less; And, therefore, like the modest painter, I Must draw the veil, where I cannot express. No undisputed monarch governed yet, With universal sway, the realms of wit: Nature could never such expence afford; Each several province owned a several lord. A poet then had his poetic wife, One Muse embraced, and married for his life. By the stale thing his appetite was cloyed, His fancy lessened, and his fire destroyed. But Nature, grown extravagantly kind, With all her treasures did adorn your mind; The different powers were then united found, And you wit's universal monarch crowned. Your mighty sway your great desert secures; And every Muse and every Grace is yours. To none confined, by turns you all enjoy: Sated with this, you to another fly, So, sultan-like, in your seraglio stand, While wishing Muses wait for your command; Thus no decay, no want of vigour, find: Sublime your fancy, boundless is your mind. Not all the blasts of Time can do you wrong-- Young, spite of age--in spite of weakness, strong. Time, like Alcides, strikes you to the ground; You, like Antæus, from each fall rebound. 'Tis said, that Phidias gave such living grace To the carved image of a beauteous face, That the cold marble might even seem to be The life--and the true life, the imagery. You pass that artist, Sir, and all his powers, Making the best of Roman poets ours, With such effect, we know not which to call The imitation, which the original. What Virgil lent, you pay in equal weight; The charming beauty of the coin no less; And such the majesty of your impress, You seem the very author you translate. 'Tis certain, were he now alive with us, And did revolving destiny constrain To dress his thoughts in English o'er again, Himself could write no otherwise than thus. His old encomium never did appear So true as now: "Romans and Greeks, submit! Something of late is in our language writ, More nobly great than the famed Iliads were." As flowers, transplanted from a southern sky, But hardly bear, or in the raising die, Missing their native sun,--at best retain But a faint odour, and but live with pain; Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies. Who then attempts to shew the ancients' wit, Must copy with the genius that they writ: Whence we conclude from thy translated song, So just, so warm, so smooth, and yet so strong, Thou heavenly charmer! soul of harmony! That all their geniuses revived in thee. Thy trumpet sounds: the dead are raised to light; New-born they rise, and take to heaven their flight; Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays, they shine, All glorified, immortal, and divine. As Britain, in rich soil abounding wide, Furnished for use, for luxury, and pride, Yet spreads her wanton sails on every shore, For foreign wealth, insatiate still of more; To her own wool, the silks of Asia joins, And to her plenteous harvests, Indian mines; So Dryden, not contented with the fame Of his own works, though an immortal name---- To lands remote he sends his learned Muse, The noblest seeds of foreign wit to chuse. Feasting our sense so many various ways, Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise, That, by comparing others, all might see, Who most excelled, are yet excelled by thee? greater difference of age than that of seven years, as appears by Without troubling the reader with needless quotations now, or At his foreseen approach already quake Assyrian kingdoms, and Mæotis' lake; Nile hears him knocking at his seven-fold gate. with Octavius against him, out of a grateful sense of some former _Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musæ, Quarum sacra fero ingenti percussus amore, Accipiant; cælique vias, et sidera, monstrent, Defectus Solis varios, Lunæque labores; Unde tremor terris_, &c. Whilst Virgil thus enjoyed the sweets of a learned privacy, the politic good end in it. The continued civil wars had laid Italy almost waste; the ground _Tinnitusque cie, et Matris quate cymbala circum, Ipsæ consident._ which seems to be the motive that induced Mæcenas to put him upon Cæsar, having now vanquished Sextus Pompeius, (a spring-tide of Cæsar, about this time, either cloyed with glory, or terrified by _Ac veluti, magno in populo, cum sæpe coorta est Seditio, sævitque animis ignobile vulgus, Jamque faces, et saxa volant; furor arma ministrat: Tum pietate gravem ac meritis si forte virum quem Conspexere, silent, arrectisque auribus adstant: Ille regit dictis animos, et pectora mulcet._ _Matre deâ monstrante viam._ ----_Confixum ferrea texit Telorum seges, et jaculis increvit acutis_-- _Limosoque lacu per noctem obscurus in ulvâ Those verses in the second book concerning Priam, ----_jacet ingens littore truncus, &c._ seem originally made upon Pompey the Great. He seems to touch the _Vendidit hic auro patriam, dominumque potentem _Lætasque vomunt duo tempora flammas._ _His dantem jura Catonem_---- _O nate, ingentem luctum ne quære tuorum, &c._ I sung flocks, tillage, heroes; Mantua gave Me life, Brundusium death, Naples a grave. He was of a very swarthy complexion, which might proceed from the ----_Medium nam plurima turba Hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit altis._ His sickliness, studies, and the troubles he met with, turned his None can the cause of these long wars despise; The cost bears no proportion to the prize: Majestic charms in every feature shine; Her air, her port, her accent, is divine. However, let the fatal beauty go, &c. _Tithoni croceum linquens Aurora cubile._ allusion to this original of his name in that passage, _Illo Virgilium me tempore dulcis alebat Where, in the void of heaven, a place is free, Betwixt the Scorpion and the maid, for thee-- indiscreet friend almost threw her into his arms. But however he stood affected to the ladies, there is a dreadful that accursed people, who infected the western world with endless _Nisus amore pio pueri_---- reasonably should have done, as when he attributes it to Pasiphaë #----Philos d' ên anthrôpoisi; Pantas gar phileesken.# Having therefore so little relish for the usual amusements of the world, he prosecuted his studies without any considerable interruption, during the whole course of his life, which one may the rest is none of his. There is great justice in this observation. The prevalence of a See _Suetonius_, Life of Octavius, chap. 94. Walsh might have found an hundred poets of his own time, who would have expressed themselves as warmly as Horace on a similar occasion. Our Dryden, for example: Tell good Barzillai, thou canst sing no more; And tell thy soul, she should have fled before. ancients at the expence of the moderns, Walsh only gives another instance of the cant which distinguishes his compositions. An affected Gallicism, for proud of the services. Certainly there was no age in Britain, where, if a prince chose Walsh seems to have been but a slender historian. Oliver's Many of these resemblances, and particularly the last, seem The critic should have considered, that Troy was not actually "Essay on Poetry," by Sheffield, Marquis of Normanby, originally The _sortes Virgilianæ_ were a sort of augury, drawn by dipping at random into the volume, and applying the line to which chance ----_Jacet ingens littore truncus, Avulsumque humeris caput, et sine nomine truncus._ Lord Faulkland drew an answer equally prophetic of his fate. _In medio duo signa: Conon, et quis fuit alter, Descripsit radio, totum qui gentibus orbem?_ He remembers only the name of Conon, and forgets the other on set ----_Si Pergama dextrâ Defendi possint, etiam hâc defensa fuissent._ But Spenser, being master of our northern dialect, and skilled in ----_Nec imbellem feroces Progenerant aquilæ columbam._ It being almost morally impossible for you to be other than you Your Lordship's Most humble and Most obedient servant, This was the son of Lord Treasurer Clifford, a member of the Dryden alludes to his religion and politics. I presume, Hugh, The well-known patrons of Virgil. It is disputed, which had the honour to present him to the emperor. One of the _Juvenilia_, or early poems, ascribed to Virgil. Manlius, contrary to the general orders of his father, Manlius Torquatus, engaged and slew the general of the Latins: his father The author alludes to the Piscatoria of Sannazarius. They were was quite otherways. Mr Fleury has severely remarked, that But there are some prints still left of the ancient esteem for Trojans and Latins was brought to him. Being therefore of such quality, they cannot be supposed so very _Magnæ spes altera Romæ._ Nor is it old Donatus only who relates this; we have the same well assured of his own abilities, before he attacks an author of _Rerum paulatim sumere formas_: _Jam durare solum, et discludere Nerea ponto._ _Rara per ignotos errent animalia montes._ #----eratê d' hoi hespeto phônê, Krainôn athanatous te theous, kai gaian eremnên, Hôs ta prôta genonto, kai hôs lache moiran hekastos#, &c. The first is, that an air of piety, upon all occasions, should be _Les Déesses, toûjours fières et méprisantes, Ne rassureroient point les bergères tremblantes Par d'obligeans discours, des souris gracieux. Mais tu l'as vu: cette auguste personne, Qui vient de paroître en ces lieux, Prend soin de rassurer au moment qu'elle étonne; Sa bonté descendant sans peine jusqu' à nous._ In short, she has too many divine perfections to be a deity, and _Cloris, as-tu vu des déesses Avoir un air si facile et si doux?_ _Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni_-- which Breboeuf has rendered so flatly, and which may be thus paraphrased: Heaven meanly with the conqueror did comply; But Cato, rather than submit, would die. It is an unpardonable presumption in any sort of religion, to compliment their princes at the expence of their deities. _Nec vox hominem sonat: O Dea certe!_ ----one sterling line, Drawn to French wire, would through whole pages shine. A fourth rule, and of great importance in this delicate sort of writing, is, that there be choice diversity of subjects; that the The Seventh, another poetical dispute, first composed at Mantua. He sets the Ninth after all these, very modestly, because it was particular to himself; and here he would have ended that work, if _Toûjours, toûjours de l'amour._ I shall add something very briefly, touching the versification of the first of the Georgics, _Quid faciat lætas segetes, quo sidere terram_-- _Arma, virumque cano, Trojæ qui primus ab oris._ _Vir, precor_, uxori, _frater succurre_ sorori, so that the principal ornament of modern poetry was accounted deformity by the Latins and Greeks. It was they who invented the different terminations of words, those happy compositions, those short monosyllables, those transpositions for the elegance of the _Super alta vectus Atys_, &c. _Hæc ubi dicta dedit, stringit gladium, cuneoque _Tous les jours ce grand roy, des autres roys l' exemple, S'ouvre un nouveau chemin au faîte de ton temple_, &c. The judicious Malherbe exploded this sort of verse near eighty épris trophée caché mépris Orphée cherché. Exact propriety of word and thought. _Cum mortuis non nisi larvæ luctantur._ There is a great deal of cant in this; there was just the same Hunting was as much an exercise of the Roman youths as of our This is indistinctly expressed; but if the critic means to say, Most readers will be of opinion, that Walsh has rendered this The victor was the care of partial Heaven, But to the conquered cause was Cato's suffrage given. _The occasion of the First Pastoral was this: When Augustus had settled himself in the Roman empire, that he might reward his veteran troops for their past service, he distributed among them all the lands that lay about Cremona and Mantua; turning out the right owners for having sided with his enemies. Virgil was a sufferer among the rest, who afterwards recovered his estate by Mæcenas's intercession; and, as an instance of his gratitude, composed the following Pastoral, where he sets out his own good fortune in the person of Tityrus, and the calamities of his Mantuan neighbours in the character of Meliboeus._ Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse. Round the wide world in banishment we roam, Forced from our pleasing fields and native home; While, stretched at ease, you sing your happy loves, And Amaryllis fills the shady groves. These blessings, friend, a deity bestowed; For never can I deem him less than God. The tender firstlings of my woolly breed Shall on his holy altar often bleed. He gave my kine to graze the flowery plain, And to my pipe renewed the rural strain. I envy not your fortune, but admire, That, while the raging sword and wasteful fire Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around, No hostile arms approach your happy ground. Far different is my fate; my feeble goats With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes: And this, you see, I scarcely drag along, Who, yeaning, on the rocks has left her young, The hope and promise of my failing fold. My loss, by dire portents, the gods foretold; For, had I not been blind, I might have seen:-- Yon riven oak, the fairest of the green, And the hoarse raven, on the blasted bough, By croaking from the left, presaged the coming blow. But tell me, Tityrus, what heavenly power Preserved your fortunes in that fatal hour? And so the great I measured by the less. But country towns, compared with her, appear Like shrubs, when lofty cypresses are near. What great occasion called you hence to Rome? Freedom, which came at length, though slow to come. Nor did my search of liberty begin, Till my black hairs were changed upon my chin; Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look, Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke. Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain, I sought not freedom, nor aspired to gain: Though many a victim from my folds was bought, And many a cheese to country markets brought, Yet all the little that I got, I spent, And still returned as empty as I went. We stood amazed to see your mistress mourn, Unknowing that she pined for your return; We wondered why she kept her fruit so long, For whom so late the ungathered apples hung. But now the wonder ceases, since I see She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee; For thee the bubbling springs appeared to mourn, And whispering pines made vows for thy return. What should I do?--While here I was enchained, No glimpse of godlike liberty remained; Nor could I hope, in any place but there, To find a god so present to my prayer. There first the youth of heavenly birth I viewed, For whom our monthly victims are renewed. He heard my vows, and graciously decreed My grounds to be restored, my former flocks to feed. And there the soil a stony harvest yields. Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, Nor fear a rot from tainted company. Behold! yon bordering fence of sallow trees Is fraught with flowers, the flowers are fraught with bees; The busy bees, with a soft murmuring strain, Invite to gentle sleep the labouring swain. While, from the neighbouring rock, with rural songs, The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs, Stock-doves and turtles tell their amorous pain, And, from the lofty elms, of love complain. The inhabitants of seas and skies shall change, And fish on shore, and stags in air, shall range, The banished Parthian dwell on Arar's brink, And the blue German shall the Tigris drink, Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth, Forget the figure of that godlike youth. But we must beg our bread in climes unknown, Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone; And some to far Oaxis shall be sold, Or try the Libyan heat, or Scythian cold; The rest among the Britons be confined, A race of men from all the world disjoined. O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn, Nor, after length of rolling years, return? Are we condemned by fate's unjust decree, No more our houses and our homes to see? Or shall we mount again the rural throne, And rule the country kingdoms, once our own? The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine. Farewell, my pastures, my paternal stock, My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock! No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb The steepy cliffs, or crop the flowery thyme! No more, extended in the grot below, Shall see you browzing on the mountain's brow The prickly shrubs; and after on the bare, Lean down the deep abyss, and hang in air. This night, at least, with me forget your care; Chesnuts, and curds and cream, shall be your fare: The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread, And boughs shall weave a covering for your head. For see yon sunny hill the shade extends, And curling smoke from cottages ascends. Virgil means Octavius Cæsar, heir to Julius, who perhaps had not _The commentators can by no means agree on the person of Alexis, but are all of opinion that some beautiful youth is meant by him, to whom Virgil here makes love, in Corydon's language and simplicity. His way of courtship is wholly pastoral: he complains of the boy's coyness; recommends himself for his beauty and skill in piping; invites the youth into the country, where he promises him the diversions of the place, with a suitable present of nuts and apples. But when he finds nothing will prevail, he resolves to quit his troublesome amour, and betake himself again to his former business._ Young Corydon, the unhappy shepherd swain, The fair Alexis loved, but loved in vain; And underneath the beechen shade, alone, Thus to the woods and mountains made his moan:-- Is this, unkind Alexis, my reward? And must I die unpitied, and unheard? Now the green lizard in the grove is laid, The sheep enjoy the coolness of the shade, And Thestylis wild thyme and garlic beats For harvest hinds, o'erspent with toil and heats; While in the scorching sun I trace in vain Thy flying footsteps o'er the burning plain. The creaking locusts with my voice conspire, They fried with heat, and I with fierce desire. How much more easy was it to sustain Proud Amaryllis, and her haughty reign, The scorns of young Menalcas, once my care, Though he was black, and thou art heavenly fair. Trust not too much to that enchanting face; Beauty's a charm, but soon the charm will pass. White lilies lie neglected on the plain, While dusky hyacinths for use remain. My passion is thy scorn; nor wilt thou know What wealth I have, what gifts I can bestow; What stores my dairies and my folds contain-- A thousand lambs, that wander on the plain; New milk, that all the winter never fails, And all the summer overflows the pails. Amphion sung not sweeter to his herd, When summoned stones the Theban turrets reared. Nor am I so deformed; for late I stood Upon the margin of the briny flood: The winds were still; and, if the glass be true, With Daphnis I may vie, though judged by you. O leave the noisy town! O come and see Our country cots, and live content with me! To wound the flying deer, and from their cotes With me to drive a-field the browzing goats; To pipe and sing, and, in our country strain, To copy, or perhaps contend with Pan. Pan taught to join with wax unequal reeds; Pan loves the shepherds, and their flocks he feeds. Nor scorn the pipe: Amyntas, to be taught, With all his kisses would my skill have bought. Of seven smooth joints a mellow pipe I have, Which with his dying breath Damoetas gave, And said,--"This, Corydon, I leave to thee; For only thou deserv'st it after me." His eyes Amyntas durst not upward lift; For much he grudged the praise, but more the gift. Besides, two kids, that in the valley strayed, I found by chance, and to my fold conveyed: They drain two bagging udders every day; And these shall be companions of thy play; Both fleck'd with white, the true Arcadian strain, Which Thestylis had often begged in vain: And she shall have them, if again she sues, Since you the giver and the gift refuse. Come to my longing arms, my lovely care! And take the presents which the nymphs prepare. White lilies in full canisters they bring, With all the glories of the purple spring. The daughters of the flood have searched the mead For violets pale, and cropp'd the poppy's head, The short narcissus and fair daffodil, Pancies to please the sight, and cassia sweet to smell; And set soft hyacinths with iron blue, To shade marsh marigolds of shining hue; Some bound in order, others loosely strowed, To dress thy bower, and trim thy new abode. Myself will search our planted grounds at home, For downy peaches and the glossy plum; And thrash the chesnuts in the neighbouring grove, Such as my Amaryllis used to love. The laurel and the myrtle sweets agree, And both in nosegays shall be bound for thee. Ah, Corydon! ah, poor unhappy swain! Alexis will thy homely gifts disdain: Nor, should'st thou offer all thy little store, Will rich Iolas yield, but offer more. What have I done, to name that wealthy swain? So powerful are his presents, mine so mean! The boar, amidst my crystal streams, I bring; And southern winds to blast my flowery spring. Ah, cruel creature! whom dost thou despise? The gods, to live in woods, have left the skies; And godlike Paris, in the Idæan grove, To Priam's wealth preferred OEnone's love. In cities, which she built, let Pallas reign; Towers are for gods, but forests for the swain. The greedy lioness the wolf pursues, The wolf the kid, the wanton kid the browze; Alexis, thou art chased by Corydon: All follow several games, and each his own. See, from afar, the fields no longer smoke; The sweating steers, unharnessed from the yoke, Bring, as in triumph, back the crooked plough; The shadows lengthen as the sun goes low; Cool breezes now the raging heats remove: Ah, cruel heaven, that made no cure for love! I wish for balmy sleep, but wish in vain; Love has no bounds in pleasure, or in pain. What frenzy, shepherd, has thy soul possessed? Thy vineyard lies half pruned, and half undressed. Quench, Corydon, thy long unanswered fire! Mind what the common wants of life require; On willow twigs employ thy weaving care, And find an easier love, though not so fair. That is, of short continuance. _Damoetas and Menalcas, after some smart strokes of country raillery, resolve to try who has the most skill at song; and accordingly make their neighbour, Palæmon, judge of their performances; who, after a full hearing of both parties, declares himself unfit for the decision of so weighty a controversy, and leaves the victory undetermined._ Ho, swain! what shepherd owns those ragged sheep? Ægon's they are: he gave them me to keep. Thou milk'st his ewes, and often twice an hour; Of grass and fodder thou defraud'st the dams, And of their mothers' dugs the starving lambs. Good words, young catamite, at least to men. We know who did your business, how, and when; Yes, when I cropt the hedges of the leys, Cut Micon's tender vines, and stole the stays! Or rather, when, beneath yon ancient oak, The bow of Daphnis, and the shafts, you broke, When the fair boy received the gift of right; And, but for mischief, you had died for spite. What nonsense would the fool, thy master, prate, When thou, his knave, canst talk at such a rate! Did I not see you, rascal, did I not, When you lay snug to snap young Damon's goat? His mongrel barked; I ran to his relief, And cried,--"There, there he goes! stop, stop the thief!" Discovered, and defeated of your prey, You skulked behind the fence, and sneaked away. An honest man may freely take his own: The goat was mine, by singing fairly won. Thou sing with him? thou booby!--Never pipe Was so profaned to touch that blubbered lip. Dunce at the best! in streets but scarce allowed To tickle, on thy straw, the stupid crowd. To bring it to the trial, will you dare Our pipes, our skill, our voices, to compare? My brinded heifer to the stake I lay; Two thriving calves she suckles twice a day, And twice besides her beestings never fail To store the dairy with a brimming pail. Now back your singing with an equal stake. That should be seen, if I had one to make. You know too well, I feed my father's flock; What can I wager from the common stock? A stepdame too I have, a cursed she, Who rules my hen-peck'd sire, and orders me. Both number twice a day the milky dams; And once she takes the tale of all the lambs. But, since you will be mad, and since you may Suspect my courage, if I should not lay, The pawn I proffer shall be full as good: Two bowls I have, well turned, of beechen wood; Both by divine Alcimedon were made; To neither of them yet the lip is laid. The lids are ivy; grapes in clusters lurk Beneath the carving of the curious work. And when to reap, and when to sow the grain? And I have two, to match your pair, at home; The wood the same; from the same hand they come, (The kimbo handles seem with bear's foot carved,) And never yet to table have been served; Where Orpheus on his lyre laments his love, With beasts encompassed, and a dancing grove. But these, nor all the proffers you can make, Are worth the heifer which I set to stake. No more delays, vain boaster, but begin! I prophesy before-hand, I shall win. Palæmon shall be judge how ill you rhyme: I'll teach you how to brag another time. Rhymer, come on! and do the worst you can; I fear not you, nor yet a better man. With silence, neighbour, and attention, wait; For 'tis a business of a high debate. Sing then; the shade affords a proper place, The trees are clothed with leaves, the fields with grass, The blossoms blow, the birds on bushes sing, And Nature has accomplished all the spring. The challenge to Damoetas shall belong; Menalcas shall sustain his under-song; Each in his turn your tuneful numbers bring, By turns the tuneful Muses love to sing. From the great father of the gods above My Muse begins; for all is full of Jove: To Jove the care of heaven and earth belongs; My flocks he blesses, and he loves my songs. Me Phoebus loves; for he my Muse inspires, And in her songs the warmth he gave requires. For him, the god of shepherds and their sheep, My blushing hyacinths and my bays I keep. To the dear mistress of my love-sick mind, Her swain a pretty present has designed: I saw two stock-doves billing, and ere long Will take the nest, and hers shall be the young. Ten ruddy wildings in the wood I found, And stood on tip-toes, reaching from the ground: I sent Amyntas all my present store; And will, to-morrow, send as many more. The lovely maid lay panting in my arms, And all she said and did was full of charms. Winds! on your wings to heaven her accents bear; Such words as heaven alone is fit to hear. Ah! what avails it me, my love's delight, To call you mine, when absent from my sight? I hold the nets, while you pursue the prey, And must not share the dangers of the day. I keep my birth-day; send my Phyllis home; At shearing-time, Iolas, you may come. The nightly wolf is baneful to the fold, Storms to the wheat, to buds the bitter cold; But, from my frowning fair, more ills I find, Than from the wolves, and storms, and winter-wind. The kids with pleasure browze the bushy plain; The showers are grateful to the swelling grain; To teeming ewes the sallow's tender tree; But, more than all the world, my love to me. Pollio my rural verse vouchsafes to read: A heifer, Muses, for your patron breed. My Pollio writes himself:--a bull be bred, With spurning heels, and with a butting head. Who Pollio loves, and who his Muse admires, Let Pollio's fortune crown his full desires. Let myrrh instead of thorn his fences fill, And showers of honey from his oaks distil. Who hates not living Bavius, let him be (Dead Mævius!) damn'd to love thy works and thee! The same ill taste of sense would serve to join Dog-foxes in the yoke, and shear the swine. Ye boys, who pluck the flowers, and spoil the spring, Beware the secret snake that shoots a sting. Graze not too near the banks, my jolly sheep; The ground is false, the running streams are deep: See, they have caught the father of the flock, Who dries his fleece upon the neighbouring rock. From rivers drive the kids, and sling your hook; Anon I'll wash them in the shallow brook. To fold, my flock!--when milk is dried with heat, In vain the milkmaid tugs an empty teat. How lank my bulls from plenteous pasture come! But love, that drains the herd, destroys the groom. My flocks are free from love, yet look so thin, Their bones are barely covered with their skin. What magic has bewitched the woolly dams, And what ill eyes beheld the tender lambs? Nay, tell me first, in what new region springs A flower, that bears inscribed the names of kings; And thou shalt gain a present as divine As Phoebus' self; for Phyllis shall be thine. So nice a difference in your singing lies, That both have won, or both deserved the prize. Rest equal happy both; and all who prove The bitter sweets, and pleasing pains, of love. Now dam the ditches, and the floods restrain; Their moisture has already drenched the plain. Phoebus, not Pan, is here called the god of shepherds. The poet _The Poet celebrates the birth-day of Saloninus, the son of Pollio, born in the consulship of his father, after the taking of Salonæ, a city in Dalmatia. Many of the verses are translated from one of the Sibyls, who prophesied of our Saviour's birth._ Sicilian Muse, begin a loftier strain! Though lowly shrubs, and trees that shade the plain, Delight not all; Sicilian Muse, prepare To make the vocal woods deserve a consul's care. The last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes, Renews its finished course: Saturnian times Roll round again; and mighty years, begun From their first orb, in radiant circles run. The base degenerate iron offspring ends; A golden progeny from heaven descends. O chaste Lucina! speed the mother's pains; And haste the glorious birth! thy own Apollo reigns! And crimes shall threat the guilty world no more. The son shall lead the life of gods, and be By gods and heroes seen, and gods and heroes see. The jarring nations he in peace shall bind, And with paternal virtues rule mankind. And lowing herds secure from lions feed. His cradle shall with rising flowers be crowned: The serpent's brood shall die; the sacred ground Shall weeds and poisonous plants refuse to bear; Each common bush shall Syrian roses wear. But when heroic verse his youth shall raise, And form it to hereditary praise, Unlaboured harvests shall the fields adorn, And clustered grapes shall blush on every thorn; The knotted oaks shall showers of honey weep; And through the matted grass the liquid gold shall creep. Yet, of old fraud some footsteps shall remain; The merchant still shall plough the deep for gain, Great cities shall with walls be compassed round, And sharpened shares shall vex the fruitful ground; Another Tiphys shall new seas explore; Another Argo land the chiefs upon the Iberian shore; Another Helen other wars create, And great Achilles urge the Trojan fate. But when to ripened manhood he shall grow, The greedy sailor shall the seas forego; No keel shall cut the waves for foreign ware, For every soil shall every product bear. With native purple, and unborrowed gold, Beneath his pompous fleece shall proudly sweat; And under Tyrian robes the lamb shall bleat. The Fates, when they this happy web have spun, Shall bless the sacred clue, and bid it smoothly run. Mature in years, to ready honours move, O of celestial seed! O foster-son of Jove! See, labouring Nature calls thee to sustain The nodding frame of heaven, and earth, and main! See to their base restored, earth, seas, and air; And joyful ages, from behind, in crowding ranks appear. To sing thy praise, would heaven my breath prolong, Infusing spirits worthy such a song, Not Thracian Orpheus should transcend my lays, Nor Linus crowned with never-fading bays; Though each his heavenly parent should inspire; The Muse instruct the voice, and Phoebus tune the lyre. Should Pan contend in verse, and thou my theme, Arcadian judges should their god condemn. Begin, auspicious boy! to cast about Thy infant eyes, and, with a smile, thy mother single out. Thy mother well deserves that short delight, The nauseous qualms of ten long months and travail to requite. Then smile! the frowning infant's doom is read; No god shall crown the board, nor goddess bless the bed. In Latin thus, _Incipe, parve puer, risu cognoscere matrem_, &c. _Nec Deus hunc mensâ, Dea nec dignata cubili est._ _Matri longa decem tulerunt fastidia menses_, as if the infant's smiling on his mother was a reward to her for _Torquatus, volo, parvolus, Matris e gremio suæ Porrigens teneras manus, Dulce rideat ad patrem_, &c. _Mopsus and Menalcas, two very expert shepherds at a song, begin one by consent to the memory of Daphnis, who is supposed by the best critics to represent Julius Cæsar. Mopsus laments his death; Menalcas proclaims his divinity; the whole eclogue consisting of an elegy and an apotheosis._ Since on the downs our flocks together feed, And since my voice can match your tuneful reed, Why sit we not beneath the grateful shade, Which hazles, intermixed with elms, have made? Whether you please that sylvan scene to take, Where whistling winds uncertain shadows make; Or will you to the cooler cave succeed, Whose mouth the curling vines have overspread? Your merit and your years command the choice; Amyntas only rivals you in voice. What will not that presuming shepherd dare, Who thinks his voice with Phoebus may compare? Begin you first; if either Alcon's praise, Or dying Phyllis, have inspired your lays; If her you mourn, or Codrus you commend, Begin, and Tityrus your flock shall tend. Or shall I rather the sad verse repeat, Which on the beeches bark I lately writ? I writ, and sung betwixt. Now bring the swain, Whose voice you boast, and let him try the strain. Such as the shrub to the tall olive shows, Or the pale swallow to the blushing rose; Such is his voice, if I can judge aright, Compared to thine, in sweetness and in height. No more, but sit and hear the promised lay; The gloomy grotto makes a doubtful day. The nymphs about the breathless body wait Of Daphnis, and lament his cruel fate. The trees and floods were witness to their tears; At length the rumour reached his mother's ears. The wretched parent, with a pious haste, Came running, and his lifeless limbs embraced. Of running waters brought their herds to drink. The thirsty cattle, of themselves, abstained From water, and their grassy fare disdained. And first with curling ivy dressed the spear. Daphnis did rites to Bacchus first ordain, And holy revels for his reeling train. As vines the trees, as grapes the vines adorn, As bulls the herds, and fields the yellow corn; So bright a splendour, so divine a grace, The glorious Daphnis cast on his illustrious race. When envious Fate the godlike Daphnis took, Our guardian gods the fields and plains forsook; Pales no longer swelled the teeming grain, Nor Phoebus fed his oxen on the plain; No fruitful crop the sickly fields return, But oats and darnel choke the rising corn; And where the vales with violets once were crowned, Now knotty burrs and thorns disgrace the ground. Come, shepherds, come, and strow with leaves the plain; Such funeral rites your Daphnis did ordain. With cypress-boughs the crystal fountains hide, And softly let the running waters glide. A lasting monument to Daphnis raise, With this inscription to record his praise:-- "Daphnis, the fields' delight, the shepherds' love, Renowned on earth, and deified above; Whose flock excelled the fairest on the plains, But less than he himself surpassed the swains." O heavenly poet! such thy verse appears, So sweet, so charming to my ravished ears, As to the weary swain, with cares opprest, Beneath the sylvan shade, refreshing rest; As to the feverish traveller, when first He finds a crystal stream to quench his thirst. In singing, as in piping, you excel; And scarce your master could perform so well. O fortunate young man! at least your lays Are next to his, and claim the second praise. Such as they are, my rural songs I join, To raise our Daphnis to the powers divine; For Daphnis was so good, to love whate'er was mine. How is my soul with such a promise raised! For both the boy was worthy to be praised, And Stimicon has often made me long To hear, like him, so soft, so sweet a song. Daphnis, the guest of heaven, with wondering eyes, Views, in the milky way, the starry skies, And far beneath him, from the shining sphere, Beholds the moving clouds, and rolling year. Nor bird's the springes fear, nor stags the toils; For Daphnis reigns above, and deals from thence His mother's milder beams, and peaceful influence. The mountain-tops unshorn, the rocks, rejoice; The lowly shrubs partake of human voice. Assenting Nature, with a gracious nod, Proclaims him, and salutes the new-admitted god. Be still propitious, ever good to thine! Behold! four hallowed altars we design; And two to thee, and two to Phoebus rise; On both is offered annual sacrifice. The holy priests, at each returning year, Two bowls of milk, and two of oil, shall bear; And I myself the guests with friendly bowls will cheer. Before the fire; by summer, in the shade. Damoetas shall perform the rites divine, And Lyctian Ægon in the song shall join. Alphesiboeus, tripping, shall advance, And mimic Satyrs in his antic dance. When to the nymphs our annual rites we pay, And when our fields with victims we survey; While savage boars delight in shady woods, And finny fish inhabit in the floods; While bees on thyme, and locusts feed on dew-- Thy grateful swains these honours shall renew. Such honours as we pay to powers divine, To Bacchus and to Ceres, shall be thine. Such annual honours shall be given; and thou Shalt hear, and shalt condemn thy suppliants to their vow. What present, worth thy verse, can Mopsus find? Not the soft whispers of the southern wind, That play through trembling trees, delight me more; Nor murmuring billows on the sounding shore, Nor winding streams, that through the valley glide, And the scarce-covered pebbles gently chide. Receive you first this tuneful pipe, the same That played my Corydon's unhappy flame; The same that sung Neæra's conquering eyes, And, had the judge been just, had won the prize. Accept from me this sheep-hook in exchange; The handle brass, the knobs in equal range. Is yours unasked, for you deserve it best. _Two young shepherds, Chromis and Mnasylus, having been often promised a song by Silenus, chance to catch him asleep in this Pastoral; where they bind him hand and foot, and then claim his promise. Silenus, finding they would be put off no longer, begins his song, in which he describes the formation of the universe, and the original of animals, according to the Epicurean philosophy; and then runs through the most surprising transformations which have happened in Nature since her birth. This Pastoral was designed as a compliment to Syron the Epicurean, who instructed Virgil and Varus in the principles of that philosophy. Silenus acts as tutor, Chromis and Mnasylus as the two pupils._ I first transferred to Rome Sicilian strains; Nor blushed the Doric Muse to dwell on Mantuan plains. But when I tried her tender voice, too young, And fighting kings and bloody battles sung, Apollo checked my pride, and bade me feed My fattening flocks, nor dare beyond the reed. Admonished thus, while every pen prepares To write thy praises, Varus, and thy wars, My pastoral Muse her humble tribute brings, And yet not wholly uninspired she sings; For all who read, and, reading, not disdain These rural poems, and their lowly strain, Stretched at his ease, their sire Silenus found. Borne by the tide of wine, and floating on the floor. His empty can, with ears half worn away, Was hung on high, to boast the triumph of the day. Invaded thus, for want of better bands, His garland they unstring, and bind his hands; For, by the fraudful god deluded long, They now resolve to have their promised song. Ægle came in, to make their party good-- The fairest Naïs of the neighbouring flood-- And, while he stares around with stupid eyes, His brows with berries, and his temples, dyes. He finds the fraud, and, with a smile, demands, On what design the boys had bound his hands. "Loose me," he cried, "'twas impudence to find A sleeping god; 'tis sacrilege to bind. To you the promised poem I will pay; The nymph shall be rewarded in her way." He raised his voice; and soon a numerous throng Of tripping Satyrs crowded to the song; And sylvan Fauns, and savage beasts, advanced; And nodding forests to the numbers danced. How seas, and earth, and air, and active flame, Fell through the mighty void, and, in their fall, Were blindly gathered in this goodly ball. The tender soil then, stiffening by degrees, Shut from the bounded earth the bounding seas. Then earth and ocean various forms disclose, And a new sun to the new world arose; And mists, condensed to clouds, obscure the sky; And clouds, dissolved, the thirsty ground supply. And how the world was lost, and how renewed; The reign of Saturn, and the golden age; Prometheus' theft, and Jove's avenging rage; The cries of Argonauts for Hylas drowned, With whose repeated name the shores resound; Then mourns the madness of the Cretan queen,-- Happy for her if herds had never been. What fury, wretched woman, seized thy breast? The maids of Argos, (though, with rage possessed, Their imitated lowings filled the grove,) Yet shunned the guilt of thy preposterous love, While on a flowery bank he chews the cud, Or sleeps in shades, or through the forest roves, And roars with anguish for his absent loves. "Ye nymphs, with toils his forest-walk surround, And trace his wandering footsteps on the ground. But, ah! perhaps my passion he disdains, And courts the milky mothers of the plains. We search the ungrateful fugitive abroad, While they at home sustain his happy load." He sung the lover's fraud; the longing maid, With golden fruit, like all the sex, betrayed; The sisters mourning for their brother's loss; Their bodies hid in barks, and furred with moss; How each a rising alder now appears, And o'er the Po distils her gummy tears: Then sung, how Gallus, by a Muse's hand, Was led and welcomed to the sacred strand; The senate rising to salute their guest; And Linus thus their gratitude expressed:-- "Receive this present, by the Muses made, The pipe on which the Ascræan pastor played; With which of old he charmed the savage train, And called the mountain-ashes to the plain. Sing thou, on this, thy Phoebus; and the wood Where once his fane of Parian marble stood: On this his ancient oracles rehearse, And with new numbers grace the god of verse." Why should I sing the double Scylla's fate? The first by love transformed, the last by hate-- A beauteous maid above; but magic arts With barking dogs deformed her nether parts: What vengeance on the passing fleet she poured, The master frighted, and the mates devoured. Then ravished Philomel the song exprest; The crime revealed; the sisters' cruel feast: And how in fields the lapwing Tereus reigns, The warbling nightingale in woods complains; While Procne makes on chimney-tops her moan, And hovers o'er the palace once her own. Whatever songs besides the Delphian god Had taught the laurels, and the Spartan flood, Silenus sung: the vales his voice rebound, And carry to the skies the sacred sound. And sudden night surprised the yet unfinished song. My Lord Roscommon's notes on this Pastoral are equal to his excellent translation of it; and thither I refer the reader. _Meliboeus here gives us the relation of a sharp poetical contest between Thyrsis and Corydon, at which he himself and Daphnis were present; who both declared for Corydon._ Beneath a holm, repaired two jolly swains, (Their sheep and goats together grazed the plains,) Both young Arcadians, both alike inspired To sing, and answer as the song required. Daphnis, as umpire, took the middle seat, And fortune thither led my weary feet; For, while I fenced my myrtles from the cold, The father of my flock had wandered from the fold. Of Daphnis I inquired: he, smiling, said, "Dismiss your fear;" and pointed where he fed: "And, if no greater cares disturb your mind, Sit here with us, in covert of the wind. Your lowing heifers, of their own accord, At watering time will seek the neighbouring ford. Here wanton Mincius winds along the meads, And shades his happy banks with bending reeds. And see, from yon old oak that mates the skies, How black the clouds of swarming bees arise." What should I do? nor was Alcippe nigh, Nor absent Phyllis could my care supply, To house, and feed by hand my weaning lambs, And drain the strutting udders of their dams. Great was the strife betwixt the singing swains; And I preferred my pleasure to my gains. Alternate rhyme the ready champions chose: These Corydon rehearsed, and Thyrsis those. Ye Muses, ever fair, and ever young, Assist my numbers, and inspire my song. With all my Codrus, O! inspire my breast; For Codrus, after Phoebus, sings the best. Or, if my wishes have presumed too high, And stretched their bounds beyond mortality, The praise of artful numbers I resign, And hang my pipe upon the sacred pine. Arcadian swains, your youthful poet crown With ivy-wreaths; though surly Codrus frown: Or, if he blast my Muse with envious praise, Then fence my brows with amulets of bays, Lest his ill arts, or his malicious tongue, Should poison, or bewitch my growing song. These branches of a stag, this tusky boar (The first essay of arms untried before) Young Micon offers, Delia, to thy shrine: But, speed his hunting with thy power divine; Thy statue then of Parian stone shall stand; Thy legs in buskins with a purple band. Thy marble statue shall be turned to gold. Fair Galatea, with thy silver feet, O, whiter than the swan, and more than Hybla sweet! Tall as a poplar, taper as the bole! Come, charm thy shepherd, and restore my soul! Come, when my lated sheep at night return, And crown the silent hours, and stop the rosy morn! May I become as abject in thy sight, As sea-weed on the shore, and black as night; Rough as a bur; deformed like him who chaws Sardinian herbage to contract his jaws; Such and so monstrous let thy swain appear, If one day's absence looks not like a year. Hence from the field, for shame! the flock deserves No better feeding while the shepherd starves. Ye mossy springs, inviting easy sleep, Ye trees, whose leafy shades those mossy fountains keep, Defend my flock! The summer heats are near, And blossoms on the swelling vines appear. With heapy fires our cheerful hearth is crowned; And firs for torches in the woods abound: We fear not more the winds, and wintry cold, Than streams the banks, or wolves the bleating fold. Our woods, with juniper and chesnuts crowned, With falling fruits and berries paint the ground; And lavish Nature laughs, and strows her stores around: But, if Alexis from our mountains fly, Even running rivers leave their channels dry. Parched are the plains, and frying is the field, Nor withering vines their juicy vintage yield: But, if returning Phyllis bless the plain, The grass revives, the woods are green again, And Jove descends in showers of kindly rain. The poplar is by great Alcides worn; The brows of Phoebus his own bays adorn; The branching vine the jolly Bacchus loves; The Cyprian queen delights in myrtle groves; The towering ash is fairest in the woods; In gardens pines, and poplars by the floods: But, if my Lycidas will ease my pains, And often visit our forsaken plains, To him the towering ash shall yield in woods, In gardens pines, and poplars by the floods. These rhymes I did to memory commend, When vanquished Thyrsis did in vain contend; Since when, 'tis Corydon among the swains: Young Corydon without a rival reigns. _This Pastoral contains the Songs of Damon and Alphesiboeus. The first of them bewails the loss of his mistress, and repines at the success of his rival Mopsus. The other repeats the charms of some enchantress, who endeavoured, by her spells and magic, to make Daphnis in love with her._ The mournful muse of two despairing swains, The love rejected, and the lovers' pains; To which the savage lynxes listening stood, The rivers stood on heaps, and stopped the running flood; The hungry herd the needful food refuse-- Of two despairing swains, I sing the mournful muse. Great Pollio! thou, for whom thy Rome prepares The ready triumph of thy finished wars, Whether Timavus or the Illyrian coast, Whatever land or sea, thy presence boast; Is there an hour in fate reserved for me, To sing thy deeds in numbers worthy thee? In numbers like to thine, could I rehearse Thy lofty tragic scenes, thy laboured verse, The world another Sophocles in thee, Another Homer should behold in me. Amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine: Thine was my earliest muse; my latest shall be thine. Scarce from the world the shades of night withdrew, Scarce were the flocks refreshed with morning dew, When Damon, stretched beneath an olive shade, And, wildly staring upwards, thus inveighed Against the conscious gods, and cursed the cruel maid: "Star of the morning, why dost thou delay? Come, Lucifer, drive on the lagging day, While I my Nisa's perjured faith deplore,-- Witness, ye powers, by whom she falsely swore! The gods, alas! are witnesses in vain; Yet shall my dying breath to heaven complain. Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain. "The pines of Mænalus, the vocal grove, Are ever full of verse, and full of love: They hear the hinds, they hear their god complain, Who suffered not the reeds to rise in vain Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain. "Mopsus triumphs; he weds the willing fair. When such is Nisa's choice, what lover can despair? Now griffons join with mares; another age Shall see the hound and hind their thirst assuage, Promiscuous at the spring. Prepare the lights, O Mopsus! and perform the bridal rites. Scatter thy nuts among the scrambling boys: Thine is the night, and thine the nuptial joys. For thee the sun declines: O happy swain! Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain. "O Nisa! justly to thy choice condemned! Whom hast thou taken, whom hast thou contemned? For him, thou hast refused my browzing herd, Scorned my thick eye brows, and my shaggy beard. "I viewed thee first, (how fatal was the view!) And led thee where the ruddy wildings grew, High on the planted hedge, and wet with morning dew. Then scarce the bending branches I could win; The callow down began to clothe my chin. I saw; I perished; yet indulged my pain. Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain. "I know thee, Love! in deserts thou wert bred, And at the dugs of savage tigers fed; Alien of birth, usurper of the plains! Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strains. "Relentless Love the cruel mother led The blood of her unhappy babes to shed: Love lent the sword; the mother struck the blow; Inhuman she; but more inhuman thou: Alien of birth, usurper of the plains! Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strains. "Old doting Nature, change thy course anew, And let the trembling lamb the wolf pursue; Let oaks now glitter with Hesperian fruit, And purple daffodils from alder shoot; Fat amber let the tamarisk distil, And hooting owls contend with swans in skill; Hoarse Tityrus strive with Orpheus in the woods, And challenge famed Arion on the floods. Or, oh! let Nature cease, and Chaos reign! Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain. "Let earth be sea; and let the whelming tide The lifeless limbs of luckless Damon hide: Farewell, ye secret woods, and shady groves, Haunts of my youth, and conscious of my loves! Now take your turns, ye Muses, to rehearse His friend's complaints, and mighty magic verse: "Bring running water; bind those altars round With fillets, and with vervain strow the ground: Make fat with frankincense the sacred fires, To re-inflame my Daphnis with desires. 'Tis done: we want but verse.--Restore, my charms, My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms. "Pale Phoebe, drawn by verse, from heaven descends; And Circe changed with charms Ulysses' friends. Verse breaks the ground, and penetrates the brake, And in the winding cavern splits the snake: Verse fires the frozen veins.--Restore, my charms, My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms. "Around his waxen image first I wind Three woollen fillets, of three colours joined; Thrice bind about his thrice-devoted head, Which round the sacred altar thrice is led. Unequal numbers please the gods.--My charms, Restore my Daphnis to my longing arms. "Knit with three knots the fillets; knit them strait; Then say, 'These knots to love I consecrate.' Haste, Amaryllis, haste!--Restore, my charms, My lovely Daphnis to my longing arms. "As fire this figure hardens, made of clay, And this of wax with fire consumes away; Such let the soul of cruel Daphnis be-- Hard to the rest of women, soft to me. Crumble the sacred mole of salt and corn: Next in the fire the bays with brimstone burn; And, while it crackles in the sulphur, say, 'This I for Daphnis burn; thus Daphnis burn away! This laurel is his fate.'--Restore, my charms, My lovely Daphnis to my longing arms. "As when the raging heifer, through the grove, Stung with desire, pursues her wandering love; Faint at the last, she seeks the weedy pools, To quench her thirst, and on the rushes rolls, Careless of night, unmindful to return; Such fruitless fires perfidious Daphnis burn, While I so scorn his love!--Restore, my charms, My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms. "These garments once were his, and left to me, The pledges of his promised loyalty, Which underneath my threshold I bestow: These pawns, O sacred earth! to me my Daphnis owe. As these were his, so mine is he.--My charms, Restore their lingering lord to my deluded arms. "These poisonous plants, for magic use designed, (The noblest and the best of all the baneful kind,) Old Moeris brought me from the Politic strand, And culled the mischief of a bounteous land. Smeared with these powerful juices, on the plain, He howls a wolf among the hungry train; And oft the mighty necromancer boasts, With these, to call from tombs the stalking ghosts, And from the roots to tear the standing corn, Which, whirled aloft, to distant fields is borne: Such is the strength of spells.--Restore, my charms, My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms. "Bear out these ashes; cast them in the brook; Cast backwards o'er your head; nor turn your look: Since neither gods nor godlike verse can move, Break out, ye smothered fires, and kindle smothered love. Exert your utmost power, my lingering charms; And force my Daphnis to my longing arms. "See while my last endeavours I delay, The walking ashes rise, and round our altars play! Run to the threshold, Amaryllis,--hark! Our Hylax opens, and begins to bark. Good heaven! may lovers what they wish believe? Or dream their wishes, and those dreams deceive? No more! my Daphnis comes! no more, my charms! He comes, he runs, he leaps, to my desiring arms." This Eighth Pastoral is copied by our author from two Bucolics _When Virgil, by the favour of Augustus, had recovered his patrimony near Mantua, and went in hope to take possession, he was in danger to be slain by Arius the centurion, to whom those lands were assigned by the Emperor, in reward of his service against Brutus and Cassius. This Pastoral therefore is filled with complaints of his hard usage; and the persons introduced are the bailiff of Virgil, Moeris, and his friend Lycidas._ Ho, Moeris! whither on thy way so fast? This leads to town. O Lycidas! at last The time is come, I never thought to see, (Strange revolution for my farm and me!) When the grim captain in a surly tone Cries out, "Pack up, ye rascals, and be gone." Your country friends were told another tale,-- That, from the sloping mountain to the vale, And doddered oak, and all the banks along, Menalcas saved his fortune with a song. Such was the news, indeed; but songs and rhymes Prevail as much in these hard iron times, As would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise Against an eagle sousing from the skies. And, had not Phoebus warned me, by the croak Of an old raven from a hollow oak, To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain, And Moeris not survived him, to complain. Now heaven defend! could barbarous rage induce The brutal son of Mars t'insult the sacred Muse? Who then should sing the nymphs? or who rehearse The waters gliding in a smoother verse? Or Amaryllis praise that heavenly lay, That shortened, as we went, our tedious way,-- "O Tityrus, tend my herd, and see them fed; To morning pastures, evening waters, led; And 'ware the Libyan ridgil's butting head." Or what unfinished he to Varus read:-- "Thy name, O Varus, (if the kinder powers Preserve our plains, and shield the Mantuan towers, Obnoxious by Cremona's neighbouring crime,) The wings of swans, and stronger-pinioned rhyme, Shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above-- The immortal gift of gratitude to Jove." Sing on, sing on; for I can ne'er be cloyed. So may thy swarms the baleful yew avoid; So may thy cows their burdened bags distend, And trees to goats their willing branches bend. Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made Me free, a member of the tuneful trade: At least the shepherds seem to like my lays; But I discern their flattery from their praise: I nor to Cinna's ears, nor Varus,' dare aspire, But gabble, like a goose, amidst the swan-like choir. 'Tis what I have been conning in my mind; Nor are they verses of a vulgar kind. "Come, Galatea! come! the seas forsake! What pleasures can the tides with their hoarse murmurs make? See, on the shore inhabits purple spring, Where nightingales their love-sick ditty sing: Let the wild surges vainly beat the shore." Or that sweet song I heard with such delight; The same you sung alone one starry night. The tune I still retain, but not the words. "Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old records, To know the seasons when the stars arise? See, Cæsar's lamp is lighted in the skies,-- The star, whose rays the blushing grapes adorn, And swell the kindly ripening ears of corn. Under this influence, graft the tender shoot; Thy children's children shall enjoy the fruit." The rest I have forgot; for cares and time Change all things, and untune my soul to rhyme. I could have once sung down a summer's sun; But now the chime of poetry is done: My voice grows hoarse; I feel the notes decay, As if the wolves had seen me first to-day. But these, and more than I to mind can bring, Menalcas has not yet forgot to sing. Thy faint excuses but inflame me more: And now the waves roll silent to the shore; Husht winds the topmost branches scarcely bend, As if thy tuneful song they did attend: Already we have half our way o'ercome; Far off I can discern Bianor's tomb. Here, where the labourer's hands have formed a bower Of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour. Rest here thy weary limbs; thy kids lay down: We've day before us yet to reach the town; Or if, ere night, the gathering clouds we fear, A song will help the beating storm to bear. And, that thou may'st not be too late abroad, Sing, and I'll ease thy shoulders of thy load. Cease to request me;, let us mind our way: Another song requires another day. When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice, And find a friend at court, I'll find a voice. In the Ninth Pastoral, Virgil has made a collection of many _Gallus, a great patron of Virgil, and an excellent poet, was very deeply in love with one Cytheris, whom he calls Lycoris, and who had forsaken him for the company of a soldier. The poet therefore supposes his friend Gallus retired, in his height of melancholy, into the solitudes of Arcadia, (the celebrated scene of pastorals,) where he represents him in a very languishing condition, with all the rural deities about him, pitying his hard usage, and condoling his misfortune._ Thy sacred succour, Arethusa, bring, To crown my labour, ('tis the last I sing,) Unmixed with briny seas, securely glide. Sing then my Gallus, and his hopeless vows; Sing, while my cattle crop the tender browze. The vocal grove shall answer to the sound, And echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound. Nor cleft Parnassus, nor the Aonian source: Nothing, that owns the Muses, could suspend Your aid to Gallus:--Gallus is their friend. For him the lofty laurel stands in tears, And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears. Blush not, sweet poet, nor the name despise. Along the streams, his flock Adonis fed; And yet the queen of beauty blest his bed. Menalcas, wet with beating winter mast. Wondering, they asked from whence arose thy flame. Yet more amazed, thy own Apollo came. Flushed were his cheeks, and glowing were his eyes: "Is she thy care? is she thy care?" he cries. Of fennel, and of nodding lilies, drown. Great Pan arrived; and we beheld him too, His cheeks and temples of vermilion hue. "Why, Gallus, this immoderate grief?" he cried, "Think'st thou that love with tears is satisfied? The meads are sooner drunk with morning dews, The bees with flowery shrubs, the goats with browze." Unmoved, and with dejected eyes, he mourned: He paused, and then these broken words returned:-- "'Tis past; and pity gives me no relief: But you, Arcadian swains, shall sing my grief, And on your hills my last complaints renew: So sad a song is only worthy you. How light would lie the turf upon my breast, If you my sufferings in your songs exprest! Ah! that your birth and business had been mine-- To pen the sheep, and press the swelling vine! Had Phyllis or Amyntas caused my pain, Or any nymph or shepherd on the plain, (Though Phyllis brown, though black Amyntas were, Are violets not sweet, because not fair?) Beneath the sallows and the shady vine, My loves had mixed their pliant limbs with mine: Phyllis with myrtle wreaths had crowned my hair, And soft Amyntas sung away my care. Come, see what pleasures in our plains abound; The woods, the fountains, and the flowery ground. As you are beauteous, were you half so true, Here could I live, and love, and die with only you. Now I to fighting fields am sent afar, And strive in winter camps with toils of war; Those are not limbs for icicles to tear. For me, the wilds and deserts are my choice; The Muses, once my care; my once harmonious voice. There will I sing, forsaken, and alone: The rocks and hollow caves shall echo to my moan. The rind of every plant her name shall know; And, as the rind extends, the love shall grow. Then on Arcadian mountains will I chase (Mixed with the woodland nymphs) the savage race; Nor cold shall hinder me, with horns and hounds To thrid the thickets, or to leap the mounds. And now methinks o'er steepy rocks I go, And rush through sounding woods, and bend the Parthian bow; As if with sports my sufferings I could ease, Or by my pains the god of love appease. My frenzy changes: I delight no more On mountain tops to chase the tusky boar: No game but hopeless love my thoughts pursue: Once more, ye nymphs, and songs, and sounding woods, adieu! Love alters not for us his hard decrees, Not though beneath the Thracian clime we freeze, Or Italy's indulgent heaven forego, And in mid-winter tread Sithonian snow; Or, when the barks of elms are scorched, we keep On Meroë's burning plains the Libyan sheep. In hell, and earth, and seas, and heaven above, Love conquers all; and we must yield to Love." My Muses, here your sacred raptures end: The verse was what I owed my suffering friend. This while I sung, my sorrows I deceived, And bending osiers into baskets weaved. The song, because inspired by you, shall shine; And Gallus will approve, because 'tis mine-- Gallus, for whom my holy flames renew, Each hour, and every moment rise in view; As alders, in the spring, their boles extend, And heave so fiercely, that the bark they rend. Now let us rise; for hoarseness oft invades The singer's voice, who sings beneath the shades.

Walter Scott

Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, Volume IV.

1771

Recent change in the estimate of Roman Poetry Want of originality As compared with Greek Poetry " " with Roman Oratory and History The most complete literary monument of Rome Partly imitative, partly original Imitative in forms " in metres Imitative element in diction " " in matter Original character, partly Roman, partly Italian National spirit Imaginative sentiment Moral feeling Italian element in Roman Poetry Personal element in Roman Poetry Character of each Niebuhr's theory of a Ballad-Poetry The Saturnian metre Prophetic verses Fescennine verses Gnomic verses Commemorative verses Inferences as to their character From early state of the language No public recognition of Poetry Roman story result of tradition and reflection Inferences from the nature of Roman religion From the character and pursuits of the people Roman Poetry of Italian rather than Roman origin Contact with Greece after capture of Tarentum First period of Roman literature Forms of Poetry during this period Cn. Naevius, his life Epic poem Notices of his life Influences affecting his career Italian birth-place Greek education Service in Roman army Historical importance of his age Intellectual character of his age Personal traits Description of himself in the Annals Intimacy with Scipio His enthusiastic temperament Religious spirit and convictions Miscellaneous works Idea by which it is animated Artistic defects Roman character of the work Contrast with the Greek Epic Contrast in its personages Contrast in supernatural element Description and imagery Rhythm and diction Chief literary characteristics of Ennius Energy of conception Patriotic and imaginative sentiment Moral emotion Practical understanding Estimate in ancient times Disparaging criticism of Niebuhr Popularity of early Roman Tragedy Partial adaptation of Athenian drama Inability to reproduce its pure Hellenic character Nearer approach to the spirit of Euripides than of Sophocles Grounds of popularity of Roman Tragedy Moral tone and oratorical spirit Causes of its decline M. Pacuvius, notices of his life Ancient testimonies His dramas Passages illustrative of his thought Of his moral and oratorical spirit Descriptive passages Drama on a Roman subject L. Accius, notices of his life His various works Fragments illustrative of his oratorical spirit " " of his moral fervour " " of his sense of natural beauty Conclusion as to character of Roman Tragedy How far any claim to originality? Disparaging judgment of later Roman critics Connection with earlier Saturae Naevius and Plautus popular poets Facts in the life of Plautus Attempt to fill up the outline from his works Familiarity with town-life Traces of maritime adventure Life of the lower and middle classes represented in his plays Love of good living Love of money Artistic indifference Influence of the spirit of his age Dramas adaptations of outward conditions of Athenian New Comedy Manner and spirit, Roman and original Indications of originality in his language " " in his Roman allusions and national characteristics Favourite plots of his plays Mode of dealing with his characters Moral and political indifference of his plays Value as a poetic artist Power of expression by action, rhythm, diction Comedy between the time of Plautus and Terence Conflicting accounts of life of Terence Order in which his Plays were produced His 'prologues' as indicative of his individuality Epicurean 'humanity' chief characteristic Sentimental motive of his pieces Minute delineations of character Diction and rhythm Influence on the style and sentiment of Horace Independent origin of Roman satire Essentially Roman in form and spirit " " in its political and censorial function Personal and miscellaneous character of early satire Critical epoch at which Lucilius appeared Question as to the date of his birth Fragments chiefly preserved by grammarians Miscellaneous character and desultory treatment of subjects Traces of subjects treated in different books Impression of the author's personality Political character of Lucilian satire Social vices satirised in it Intellectual peculiarities Literary criticism His style Grounds of his popularity Common aspects in the lives of poets in the second century B.C. Popular and national character of their works Political condition of the time reflected in its literature Defects of the poetic literature in form and style Other forms of literature cultivated in that age Oratory and history Familiar letters Critical and grammatical studies Summary of character of the first period Dearth of poetical works during the next half century Literary taste confined to the upper classes Great advance in Latin prose writing Influence of this on the style of Lucretius and Catullus Closer contact with the mind and art of Greece Effects of the political unsettlement on the contemplative life and thought " on the life of pleasure, and the art founded on it The two representatives of the thought and art of the time Little known of him from external sources Examination of Jerome's statement Inferences as to his national and social position Impression of the author to be traced in his poem Influence produced by the action of his age Minute familiarity with Nature and country life Spirit in which he wrote his work His consciousness of power and delight in his task His polemical spirit Influence of other Greek writers His interests speculative, not national His Roman temperament Three aspects of the poem General scope of the argument Analysis of the poem Question as to its unfinished condition What is the value of the argument? Weakness of his science Power of scientific reasoning, observation, and expression Connecting links between his philosophy and poetry " of change " of the infinite " of the individual " of the subtlety of Nature " of Nature as a living power General character of Greek epicureanism Prevalence at Rome in the last age of the Republic New type of epicureanism in Lucretius Forms of evil against which his teaching was directed Fear of death Passion of love Limitation of his ethical views His literary power as a moralist Artistic defects of the work " arising from the nature of the subject " from inequality in its execution Intensity of feeling pervading the argument Cumulative force in his rhythm Qualities of his style Freshness and sincerity of expression Imaginative suggestiveness and creativeness Use of analogies Pictorial power Poetical interpretation of Nature Energy of movement in his descriptions Poetic aspect of Nature influenced by his philosophy Poetical interpretation of life Modern interest of the poem Contrast to the poetry of Lucretius The poetry of youth Accidental preservation of his poems Principle of their arrangement Vivid personal revelation afforded by them Uncertainty as to the date of his birth Birth-place and social standing Influences of his native district Poems written between 61 and 57 B.C. Poems connected with his Bithynian journey Poems written between 56 and 54 B.C. Character of his poems, founded on the passion of love " " " on friendship and affection His short satirical pieces Other poems expressive of personal feeling Qualities of style in these poems " of rhythm " of form His longer and more purely artistic pieces The longer elegiac poems Rank of Catullus among the poets of the world Page xii, line 25 from top, _for_ Ampitryo _read_ Amphitryo. " 157, note 2, add the words, 'Terence, who was by birth a foreigner, was probably brought to Rome as a child.' " 194, line 25 from top, _for_ The Italian liveliness, &c., made them, _read_ Their liveliness, &c., made the Italians. " 194, third line from bottom, _for_ nisim _read_ nisam. " 213, line 12 from top, _for_ Æschylus _read_ Æschinus. " 215, note, _for_ debacehentur _read_ debacchentur. " 230, foot of the page, _for_ divitias _read_ divitiis. " 287, line 12 from top, _for_ arbonis _read_ arboris. " 343, line 7 from bottom, _for_ fungiferentis _read_ frugiferentis. " 413, note 1, add the words, 'Cicero also, in his letters to αὐτοδίδακτος δ᾽ εἰμί, θεὸς δέ μοι ἐν φρεσὶν οἴμας παντοίας ἐνέφυσεν. But their poetry, on the other hand, came to the Romans after their habits were fully formed, as an ornamental addition to their power,--κηπίον καὶ ἐγκαλλώπισμα πλούτου. Unlike the as unsuited to the gravity of his greatest work, the Roman poets the extent to which the taste of the later Romans was formed by the familiar study of a foreign language so much superior to the rude speech spoken by their fathers. The habitual study of any Quo magis aeternum da dictis, diva, leporem; Cetera, quae vacuas tenuissent carmina mentes, Omnia jam vulgata. thought, taste, and education. The poetry of Rome was, however, a earliest poet of the ancient world, there is a kind of promise of The poets of the latest age of the Republic alone express little Ut satius multo jam sit parere quietum Quam regere imperio res velle et regna tenere. Roman poetry is pervaded also by a peculiar vein of imaginative actions, and institutions of man. It is in their most serious and The love of natural scenery and of country life is certainly more Homer, and which is seen still characterising the most typical representatives of the race in the days of St. Paul. The Roman statesman, on the other hand, prized his _otium_ as the healthy Molle atque facetum Vergilio annuerunt gaudentes rure camenae. Roman poetry is also interesting as the revelation of personal Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim Credebat libris: neque si male cesserat, unquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene: quo fit, ut omnis Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella Vita senis. It thus appears that, over and above their higher and finer standard of conduct, their personal worth, and their strength of The poetry of each of these periods is distinctly marked in form, Magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo. Catullus, dying only a few years before the extinction of popular the end of the Augustan age. Under the continued pressure of the This review of Roman poetry will bring before us the origin and Haec finis Priami fatorum; hic exitus illum Sorte tulit, Troiam incensam et prolapsa videntem Pergama, tot quondam populis terrisque superbum Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artes Intulit agresti Latio. But it has been maintained, in recent times, that this was but the second birth of Roman poetry, and that a golden age of native Sic horridus ille Defluxit numerus Saturnius, et grave virus Munditiae pepulere. Quum neque musarum scopulos quisquam superarat Nec dicti studiosus erat. The irregularity of the metre may be inferred from a saying of an Nec non Ausonii, Troja gens missa, coloni Versibus incomptis ludunt risuque soluto. Enos, Lases, juvate. Ne veluerve, Marmar, sins incurrere in pleores. Satur fu, fere Mars. Limen sali. Sta berber. Semunis alternis advocapit concto. Enos, Marmar, juvato. Triumpe, triumpe, triumpe, triumpe, triumpe. The address to Mars 'Satur fu,' or, according to another reading, From the extreme antiquity of these ceremonial chants it may be Scripsere alii rem, Versibu' quos olim Fauni vatesque canebant, Amnem Trojugena Cannam Romane fuge, etc., suggest no more idea of poetical inspiration than the occasional notices, in Latin authors, of the oracles of the Sibylline books. Fescennina per hunc inventa licentia morem Versibus alternis opprobria rustica fudit; Libertasque recurrentes accepta per annos Lusit amabiliter, donec jam saevus apertam In rabiem coepit verti jocus et per honestas Ire domos impune minax. Doluere cruento Dente lacessiti; fuit intactis quoque cura Conditione super communi; quin etiam lex Poenaque lata, malo quae nollet carmine quemquam Describi; vertere modum, formidine fustis Ad bene dicendum delectandumque redacti. testimony of Horace, to have been in metrical dialogue. This rude unmistakably this primitive coarseness. probable etymology of the word _satura_ connects it in origin Besides the odes sung or recited at banquets, there were certain funeral poems, called _Naeniae_, originally chanted by the female The fact, however, remains, that the Romans did possess, in early possession of a great commonwealth--one most tenacious of every Iliad and the Odyssey--this early poetry could not have perished While, therefore, it appears that the actual notices of the early λησμοσύνην τε κακῶν ἄμπαυμά τε μερμηράων. Flerent divae Camenae Naevium poetam. notice, indeed, of a class of men who practised the profession of had learned, through long years of war and subsequent dependence, At rex sollicitus monstris, oracula Fauni, Fatidici genitoris adit. attached to minstrels in Scotland.] The historical event which first brought the Romans into familiar Serus enim Graecis admovit acumina chartis; Et post Punica bella quietus, quaerere coepit Quid Sophocles et Thespis et Aeschylus utile ferrent. The earliest period of Roman poetry extends from the close of the be incomplete. Yet these fragments are sufficient to produce a The two earliest authors who fill a period of forty years in the οὐ γὰρ ἔγωγέ τί φημι κακώτερον ἄλλο θαλάσσης ἄνδρα γε συγχεῦαι, εἰ καὶ μάλα καρτερὸς εἴη; are thus rendered:-- Namque nilum pejus Macerat hemonem, quamde mare saevom, viris quoi Sunt magnae, topper confringent importunae undae. Fato Metelli Romae fiunt consules; Dabunt malum Metelli Naevio poetae. that his poem on the First Punic War was composed in his old age. Mortales immortales flere si foret fas, Flerent divae Camenae Naevium poetam, Itaque postquam est Orcino traditus thesauro, Obliti sunt Romae loquier Latina lingua. Vos, qui regalis corporis custodias Agitatis, ite actutum in frundiferos locos, Ingenio arbusta ubi nata sunt, non obsita. He composed a number of comedies, and also some original plays, Quasi pila In choro ludens dadatim dat se, et communem facit: Alii adnutat, alii adnictat, alium amat, alium tenet; Alibi manus est occupata, alii percellit pedem; Alii spectandum dat annulum; a labris alium invocat; Cum alio cantat, attamen dat alii digito literas. destroyed your great commonwealth?' the pregnant answer is given, Proveniebant oratores novi, stulti adolescentuli. Quae ego in theatro hic meis probavi plausibus, Ea nunc audere quemquam regem rumpere? Quanto libertatem hanc his superat servitus? and this also:-- Semper pluris feci potioremque ego Libertatem habui multo quam pecuniam. Uxores noctu Troiade exibant capitibus Opertis, flentes abeuntes lacrimis cum multis. He represents Aeneas as having only one ship built by Mercury,--a Transit Melitam Romanus exercitus, insulam integram Urit, populatur, vastat, rem hostium concinnat. Naevius. 'Equidem quum audio socrum meam Laeliam (facilius enim Our knowledge of Naevius is thus, of necessity, very limited and The reading of the passage here adopted is that given by Munk.] Etiam qui res magnas manu saepe gessit gloriose, Cujus facta viva nunc vigent, qui apud gentes solus praestat, Eum suus pater cum pallio ab amica abduxit uno. The fragments of Ennius will repay a more minute examination than the deeper veins of sentiment latent in the national imagination. Nos sumu' Romani, qui fuvimus ante Rudini. Among the circumstances which prepared him to be the creator of a Ibant aequati numero regemque canebant. Ad patrios montes et ad incunabula nostra-- in the expression of Ovid,-- Calabris in montibus ortus-- and in the phrase of Silius,-- Hispida tellus Miserunt Calabri; Rudiae genuere vetustae the poet owed the 'Italian heart' the virtue of a race still uncorrupted and unsophisticated, the buoyant energy and freshness kind of local character, distinguishing them alike from the older who were widely spread among the Greeks of Southern Italy. The Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris oris; In dubioque fuere utrorum ad regna cadendum Omnibus humanis esset terraque marique. Though during that struggle the loyalty of some of the Italian Vincere Caecilius gravitate, Terentius arte, Poenico bello secundo Musa pinnato gradu Intulit se bellicosam in Romuli gentem feram. men's deepest convictions. Though the definite tenets of Stoicism Sicut fortis equus, spatio qui saepe supremo Vicit Olimpia, nunc senio confectu' quiescit. In none of his fragments is there any trace of that melancholy Ennius ipse pater nunquam, nisi potus, ad arma Prosiluit dicenda; and from the poet's own confession, Nunquam poetor, nisi si podager, Haece locutu' vocat quocum bene saepe libenter Mensam sermonesque suos rerumque suarum Congeriem partit, magnam cum lassu' diei Partem fuisset de summis rebu' regendis Cousilio, indu foro lato sanctoque senatu: Cui res audacter magnas parvasque jocumque Eloqueretur, cuncta simul malaque et bona dictu Evomeret, si qui vellet, tutoque locaret. Quocum multa volup ac gaudia clamque palamque: Ingenium cui nulla malum sententia suadet Ut faceret facinus levis aut malu', doctu', fidelis, Scitu', secunda loquens in tempore, commodu', verbum Paucum, multa tenens antiqua sepulta, vetustas Quem fecit mores veteresque novosque tenentem. Multorum veterum leges divumque hominumque; Prudenter qui dicta loquive tacereve possit. Hunc inter pugnas Servilius sic compellat. There are many touches in this picture, which suggest the kind of Hic est ille situs cui nemo civi' neque hostis Quivit pro factis reddere opis pretium; and this also, A sole exoriente supra Maeoti' paludes Nemo est qui factis me aequiperare queat. Si fas endo plagas coelestium ascendere cuiquam est, Mi soli caeli maxima porta patet. With many marked differences, which distinguish a man of active, Nil tamen hoc habuisse viro praeclarius in se, Nec _sanctum_ magis, et mirum carumque videtur. The inscription which Ennius composed for his own bust directly Aspicite, O cives, senis Enni imagini' formam, Hic vestrum panxit maxima facta patrum. Nemo me lacrimis decoret nec funera fletu Faxit. Cur? Volito vivu' per ora virum. Two lines from one of his satires-- Enni poeta salve qui mortalibus Versus propinas flammeos medullitus. Some of the greatest of modern poets, such as Dante, Milton, and Scripsere alii rem Versibu', quos olim Fauni vatesque canebant, Quum neque Musarum scopulos quisquam superarat Nec dicti studiosus erat. Another point in which there is some affinity between Ennius and Ego deum genus esse semper dixi et dicam caelitum, Sed eos non curare opinor, quid agat humanum genus; Nam si curent, bene bonis sit, male malis, quod nunc abest: Quo neque permaneant animae neque corpora nostra Sed quaedam simulacra modis pallentia miris, author of any prose writing. His version of the Sacred Chronicle One of his works in verse was a treatise on good living, called Quid turdum, merulam, melanurum umbramque marinam Praeterii, atque scarum, cerebrum Jovi' paene supremi? Nestoris ad patriam hic capitur magnusque bonusque. He wrote also a philosophical poem in trochaic septenarian verse, Istic est is Jupiter quem dico, quem Graeci vocant Aërem: qui ventus est et nubes; imber postea Atque ex imbre frigus: ventus post fit, aër denuo, Haece propter Jupiter sunt ista quae dico tibi, Quoniam mortalis atque urbes beluasque omnis juvat. Saturae, or Miscellanies, under which title Ennius composed four, Nunquam poetor, nisi si podager. Hoc erit tibi argumentum semper in promptu situm: Nequid expectes amicos, quod tute agere possies. Nam qui lepide postulat alterum frustrari, Quom frustrast, frustra illum dicit frustra esse. Nam qui se frustrari quem frustra sentit, Qui frustratur frustrast, si ille non est frustra. O Tite tute Tati tibi tanta tiranne tulisti, quoted from the Annals. Many of his fragments show indeed that he tragedians, will be examined in the following chapter. It is not titles of about twenty-five of his tragedies are known, and a few Attic dramatists. Cicero speaks of it, along with the Antiope of Pacuvius, as being translated word for word from the Greek; and a οἶδα γὰρ πολλοὺς βροτῶν σεμνοὺς γεγῶτας, τοὺς μὲν ὀμμάτων ἄπο τοὺς δ᾽ ἐν θυραίοις, being thus rendered in Latin,-- Multi suam rem bene gessere et publicam patria procul. Utinam ne in nemore Pelio securibus Caesa cecidisset abiegna ad terram trabes, Neve inde navis inchoandae exordium Coepisset, quae nunc nominatur nomine Argo, quia Argivi in ea dilecti viri Vecti petebant pellem inauratam arietis Colchis, imperio regis Peliae, per dolum; Nam nunquam era errans mea domo ecferret pedem Medea, animo aegra, amore saevo saucia. soldierly character. Cicero adduces the wounded Eurypylus as an example of the kind of fortitude and superiority to pain produced In the former of these scenes Cassandra, under the influence of Adest, adest fax obvoluta sanguine atque incendio: Multos annos latuit: cives ferte opem et restinguite. Iamque mari magno classis cita Texitur: exitium examen rapit. Advenit, et fera velivolantibus Navibus complevit manus litora. characterises his ordinary verse in the line, In scaenam missos cum magno pondere versus; and this slow and weighty movement seems to have been the general In two of his dramas, the Sabinae and Ambracia, he made use of Hic vestrum panxit maxima facta patrum: and again, apparently at the opening of the poem, he wrote,-- Latos per populos terrasque poemata nostra Clara cluebunt. Multa tenens, antiqua, sepulta, The poem was written in eighteen books. Of these books about six Quum veter occubuit Priamus sub marte Pelasgo, to the death and deification of Romulus; Romulus in caelo cum dis genitalibus aevum Quam prisci casci populi tenuere Latini. Fecerat et viridi fetam Mavortis in antro Procubuisse lupam: geminos huic ubera circum Ludere pendentes pueros, et lambere matrem Impavidos; illam terreti cervice reflexam Mulcere alternos, et corpora fingere lingua,-- At domus interior gemitu miseroque tumultu, etc. Ostia munita est; idem loca navibu' pulchris Munda facit; nautisque mari quaesentibu' vitam. This line also Postquam lumina sis oculis bonus Ancu' reliquit is familiar from its reappearance in one of the most impressive passages of Lucretius. Scripsêre alii rem, etc. a friend of Servilius Geminus, occurred in the seventh book. Two Flos delibatus populi suadaeque medulla, and the lines in honour of Q. Fabius Maximus, Insece Musa manu Romanorum induperator Quod quisque in bello gessit cum rege Philippo, treated of the Macedonian war, and of the deeds of T. Quintius Audire est operae pretium procedere recte Qui rem Romanam Latiumque augescere vultis; and this other line which Cicero compared to the utterance of an Moribus antiquis stat res Romana virisque. Quem fecit mores veteresque novosque tenentem. unaccompanied by beauty, grace, or symmetry. The creation of an and the Roman poet in their modes of representing human life and of Homer's Olympus and that outline which may still be traced in Unus erit quem tu tolles in caerula caeli they are introduced as debating, 'tectis bipatentibus,' on the Romanis coepit Juno placata favere. advancing these decrees, seem to be an artistic addition to this νιφάδεσσιν ἐοίκοτα χειμερίῃσι, Pellitur e medio sapientia, vi geritur res: Spernitur orator bonus, horridu' miles amatur: Haut doctis dictis certantes, sed maledictis Miscent inter sese inimicitiam agitantes; Non ex jure manu consertum, sed magi' ferro Rem repetunt, regnumque petunt, vadunt solida vi. Many lines of the Annals are evidently fragments of speeches. The Nec mi aurum posco, nec mi pretium dederitis: Non cauponantes bellum, sed belligerantes, Ferro non auro vitam cernamus utrique. Vosne velit an me regnare era quidve ferat Fors, Virtute experiamur. Et hoc simul accipe dictum: Quorum virtutei belli fortuna pepercit, Eorundem libertati me parcere certum est. Dono ducite, doque volentibu' cum magnis dis. Quo vobis mentes rectae quae stare solebant Antehac, dementes sese flexere viai. indu foro lato sanctoque senatu-- Flumina amem silvasque inglorius. Yet both in his illustrative imagery and in his narrative, he Et tum sic ut equus, qui de praesepibu' fartus, Vincla suis magnis animis abrupit, et inde Fert sese campi per caerula laetaque prata Celso pectore, saepe jubam quassat simul altam, Spiritus ex anima calida spumas agit albas. the silent expectation with which the assembled people watch the Expectant vel uti consul cum mittere signum Volt, omnes avidi spectant ad carceris oras, Quam mox emittat pictis e faucibu' currus. expression, which has been adopted by Virgil, 'stellis ingentibus Vertitur interea caelum cum ingentibu' signis. Et ripas raptare locosque novos; Quod per amoenam urbem leni fluit agmine flumen; Jupiter hic risit tempestatesque serenae Riserunt omnes risu Jovis omnipotentis. Corde capessere: semita nulla pedem stabilibat. Poste recumbite vestraque pectora pellite tonsis. Miscent inter sese inimicitiam agitantes. The quantity of syllables and the inflexions of words were so far Partem fuisset de summis rebu' regendis; and this, Noenum rumores ponebat ante salutem; Cives Romani tunc facti sunt Campani; and this Appius indixit Karthaginiensibu' bellum; Floralemque Falacrem et Pomonalem fecit Hic idem. Incedunt arbusta per alta, securibu' caedunt, Percellunt magnas quercus, exciditur ilex, Fraxinu' frangitur, atque abies consternitur alta. Pinus proceras pervortunt: omne sonabat Arbustum fremitu siluai frondosai. The diction also of the Annals is generally fresh and forcible, Noenum rumores ponebat ante salutem: Ergo plusque magisque viri nunc gloria claret. accomplished inscribed on the tombs of the Scipios. Aspectabat virtutem legioni' suai, Expectans, si mussaret, quae denique pausa Pugnandi fieret, aut duri fini' laboris. Musae quae pedibus magnum pulsatis Olympum. Transnavit cita per teneras caliginis auras. Postquam discordia taetra Belli ferratos postes portasque refregit. Quem super ingens Porta tonat caeli. Spiritus austri imbricitor. Naves velivolae, etc. etc. Ennius ut noster cecinit, qui primus amoeno Detulit ex Helicone perenni fronde coronam, Per gentes Italas hominum quae clara clueret; Excita cum tremulis anus attulit artubu' lumen, Talia commemorat lacrimans, exterrita somno. Eurudica prognata, pater quam noster amavit, Vires vitaque corpu' meum nunc deserit omne. Et ripas raptare locosque novos; ita sola Postilla, germana soror, errare videbar Corde capessere: semita nulla pedem stabilibat. Exin compellare pater me voce videtur His verbis: 'O gnata, tibi sunt ante ferendae Aerumnae, post ex fluvio fortuna resistet.' Haec ecfatu' pater, germana, repente recessit Nec sese dedit in conspectum, corde cupitus, Quanquam multa manus ad caeli caerula templa Tendebam lacrimans et blanda voce vocabam: Vix aegro cum corde meo me somnu' reliquit. Agit ipse furentem In somnis ferus Aeneas: semperque relinqui Sola sibi, semper longam incomitata videtur Ire viam, et Tyrios deserta quaerere terra. Another of the most impressive passages in the early books of the Among the modes of imaginative sentiment by which the poetry of affinity to Virgil in ancient, and to Scott in modern times. He Pectora ... tenet desiderium, simul inter Sese sic memorant, O Romule, Romule die Qualem te patriae custodem di genuerunt! O pater, O genitor, O sanguen dis oriundum! Tu produxisti nos intra luminis oras. Teque pater Tiberine tuo cum flumine sancto. and also in this fragment-- Postquam consistit fluvius qui est omnibu' princeps Qui sub caeruleo. The enumeration of the great warlike races in the line Marsa manus, Peligna cohors, Vestina virum vis, may recall the pride and enthusiasm which are kindled in the heart of Virgil by the names of the various tribes of Italy, and of places renowned for their fame in story, or their picturesque environment. This fond use of proper names recalling old It was seen in the introductory chapter that the Roman mind was Magnum pulsatis Olympum. Indu mari magno. Litora lata sonant. Latos per populos terrasque. Magnae gentes opulentae. Quis potis ingentis oras evolvere belli? Vertitur interea caelum cum ingentibu' signis; and again in the following-- Indu foro lato sanctoque senatu. Augusto augurio postquam incluta condita Roma est. Omnibu' cura viris uter esset induperator, and in the epithet which Cicero quotes as applied to cities-- Urbes magnas atque _imperiosas_. O pater, O patria, O Priami domus, Saeptum altisono cardine templum! Vidi ego te, astante ope barbarica, Tectis caelatis, lacuatis, Auro ebore instructum regifice! tenderness is found in union with the grave tones of Pacuvius and Ast animo superant atque aspera prima Volnera belli dispernunt; Ego cum genui tum morituros scivi, et ei rei sustuli: Praeterea ad Trojam cum misi ob defendendam Graeciam, Scibam me in mortiferum bellum, non in epulas mittere. The generosity and courage of a magnanimous nature are stamped upon the kingly speech which he puts into the mouth of Pyrrhus. A Eo ego ingenio natus sum, Aeque inimicitiam atque amicitiam in frontem promptam gero. ridiculed by the purism of Seneca: Is dictus 'st ollis popularibus olim Qui tum vivebant homines, atque aevum agitabant, Flos delibatus populi suadaeque medulla. Otioso in otio animus nescit quid velit; Hic itidem est: enim neque domi nunc nos neque militiae sumus, Imus huc, illuc hinc, cum illuc ventum est, ire illinc lubet; Incerte errat animus: praeter propter vitam vivitur,-- a fragment which might be compared with certain passages in the Exit saepe foras magnis ex aedibus ille Esse domi quem pertaesum 'st, subitoque revertit, Quippe domi nihilo melius qui sentiat esse,' etc. Eremites and friars White, black, and grey, with all their trumpery. Satin' vates verant aetate in agenda? Quod est ante pedes nemo spectat: caeli scrutantur plagas. Sed superstitiosi vates, impudentesque arioli, Aut inertes aut insani, aut quibus egestas imperat, Qui sibi semitam non sapiunt, alteri monstrant viam, Quibus divitias pollicentur, ab eis drachmam ipsi petunt. Philosophari est mihi necesse, at paucis: nam omnino haut placet. Such appear to be the chief attributes of genius and imaginative acknowledge their admiration. The strong testimony of Lucretius, the most imaginative poet and the most powerful thinker whom Rome Ennius, ingenio maximus, arte rudis. Ennius et sapiens et fortis et alter Homerus, Quo promissa cadant et somnia Pythagorea, The variety and extent of his works bear witness to remarkable ministerio.] Quid contraxistis frontem, quia tragoediam Dixi futuram hanc? βουλόμενος φησὶ μόνον ἄν Ὥμηρον ἐπαξίους ἐπαίνους εἰπεῖν Σκιπίωνος.--Aelian, as quoted by Suidas, vol. i. p. 1258. Ed. Cor jubet hoc Enni, postquam destertuit esse Maeonides, Quintus pavone ex Pythagoreo. Epicharmus of Megara, or rather had, at least for the most part, Quippe sine cura laetus lautus cum advenis Insertis malis, expedito bracchio Alacer, celsus, lupino expectans impetu, Mox cum alterius obligurias bona, Quid censes domino esse animi? pro divum fidem! Ille tristis cibum dum servat, tu ridens voras. Εἴθ᾽ ὤφελ᾽ Αργοῦς μὴ διαπτάσθαι σκάφος Κόλχων ἐς αἶαν κυανέας Συμπληγάδας, μηδ᾽ ἐν νάπαισι Πηλίου πεσεῖν ποτε τμηθεῖσα πεύκη, μηδ᾽ ἐρετμῶσαι χέρας ἀνδρῶν ἀριστέων, οἳ τὸ πάγχρυσον δέρος Πελίᾳ μετῆλθον· οὐ γὰρ ἂν δέσποιν᾽ ἐμὴ Μήδεια πύργους γῆς ἔπλευσ᾽ Ἰωλκίας ἔρωτι θυμὸν ἐκπλαγεῖσ᾽ Ἰάσονος. statement he is supposed to have derived from the _Cypria_.] me a ransom. Let us wage the war, not like hucksters, but like soldiers--with the sword, not with gold, putting our lives to the ὡς δ᾽ ὅτε τις στατὸς ἵππος, ἀκοστήσας ἐπὶ φάτνῃ δεσμὸν ἀπορρήξας θείῃ πεδίοιο κροαίνων, εἰωθὼς λούεσθαι εὐρρεῖος ποταμοῖο, κυδιόων· ὑψοῦ δὲ κάρη ἔχει, ἀμφὶ δὲ χαῖται ὤμοις ἀΐσσονται· ὁ δ᾽ ἀγλαΐηφι πεποιθώς, ῥίμφα ἑ γοῦνα φέρει μετά τ᾽ ἤθεα καὶ νομὸν ἵππων. Qualis ubi abruptis fugit praesepia vinclis Tandem liber equus, campoque potitus aperto Aut ille in pastus armentaque tendit equarum, Aut adsuetus aquae perfundi flumine noto Emicat, arrectisque fremit cervicibus alte Luxurians, luduntque jubae per colla, per armos. Olli subridens hominum sator atque deorum Voltu, quo caelum tempestatesque serenat.--Aen. i. 254. φησι . . . . δῆλον δὲ ὡς ἐτεθήπει τοῦ ποιητοῦ τὴν μεγαλόνοιαν καὶ Itur in antiquam silvam, stabula alta ferarum, Procumbunt piceae, sonat icta securibus ilex, Fraxineaeque trabes cuneis et fissile robur Scinditur, advolvunt ingentis montibus ornos. Quique altum Praeneste viri, quique arva Gabinae Junonis gelidumque Anienem et roscida rivis Hernica saxa colunt, quos dives Anagnia pascit, 'Undique conveniunt velut imber, tela tribuno,' etc. 'Ita sapere opino esse optimum, ut pro viribus Tacere ac fabulare tute noveris;' 'Ea libertas est quae pectus purum et firmum gestitat.' fortune-tellers, idle fellows, or madmen, or the victims of want, 'Ennius est lectus, salvo tibi, Roma, Marone.' expressed not with the subtlety and reflective genius of Greece, but in the plain and straightforward tones of the Roman Republic. The following questions suggest themselves as of most interest in The materials or substance of Roman tragedy were almost entirely ancient legends; but this was but one part, perhaps not the most important part, of their functions. They represented before the The contemplative and religious thought of Greek tragedy was thus fortunes amassed and the high consideration enjoyed by the actors Sestius, the same author says, 'amid a great variety of opinions occasional appeal to national and political feeling. orator. These instances, and the comments Cicero makes upon them, accomplishments which fitted men for public life at Rome. The testimony of later writers points to the conclusion that the Nam spirat tragicum satis et feliciter audet; ('virilitas et sanctitas), were to be studied in them. He states M. Pacuvius, nephew, by the mother's side, of Ennius, was born at Ambigitur quoties uter utro sit prior, aufert Pacuvius docti famam senis, Accius alti. Adolescens, tametsi properas, te hoc saxum rogat, Ut se aspicias, deinde quod scriptum est, legas, Hic sunt poetae Pacuvi Marci sita Ossa. Hoc volebam nescius ne esses. Vale. Nerei repandirostrum incurvicervicum pecus. Verum tristis contorto aliquo ex Pacuviano exordio. Hoc vide, circum supraque quod complexu continet Solisque exortu capessit candorem, occasu nigret, Id quod nostri caelum memorant, Graii perhibent aethera: Quidquid est hoc, omnia animat, format, alit, auget, creat, Sepelit recipitque in sese omnia, omniumque idem est pater, Indidemque eadem quae oriuntur, de integro aeque eodem incidunt. Fortunam insanam esse et caecam et brutam perhibent philosophi Saxoque instare in globoso praedicant volubili: Insanam autem esse aiunt, quia atrox, incerta, instabilisque sit: Sunt autem alii philosophi, qui contra fortunam negant Esse ullam, sed temeritate res regi omnis autumant. Id magis veri simile esse usus reapse experiundo edocet: Velut Orestes modo fuit rex, factu'st mendicus modo. Nam isti qui linguam avium intelligunt Plusque ex alieno jecore sapiunt quam ex suo, Magis audiendum quam auscultandum censeo; and this is to the same effect-- Nam si qui, quae eventura sunt, provideant, aequiparent Jovi. intuentes,' address this reproof to him, 'leviter gementi':-- Tu quoque Ulysses, quanquam graviter Cernimus ictum, nimis paene animo es Molli, qui consuetu's in armis Aevom agere! Conqueri fortunam adversam, non lamentari decet: Id viri est officium, fletus muliebri ingenio additus. Ego odi homines ignava opera et philosopha sententia. Omnes qui tam quam nos severo serviunt Imperio callent dominum imperia metuere. Men' servasse ut essent qui me perderent. Other passages again appear to be fragments of spirited dialogue, Cicero quotes from the Teucer of Pacuvius the reproach of Segregare abs te ausu's aut sine illo Salamina ingredi, Neque paternum aspectum es veritus, quom aetate exacta indigem Liberum lacerasti orbasti extinxti, neque fratris necis Neque ejus gnati parvi, qui tibi in tutelam est traditus--? Profectione laeti piscium lasciviam Intuentur, nec tuendi capere satietas potest. Interea prope jam occidente sole inhorrescit mare, Tenebrae conduplicantur, noctisque et nimbum occaecat nigror, Flamma inter nubes coruscat, caelum tonitru contremit, Grando mista imbri largifico subita praecipitans cadit, Undique omnes venti erumpunt, saevi existunt turbines, Fervit aestu pelagus. There are also, in the same style, these rough and graphic lines, Armamentum stridor, flictus navium, Strepitus fremitus clamor tonitruum et rudentum sibilus. Insequitur clamorque virum, stridorque rudentum. The effect of alliteration and assonance may be illustrated by a Cedo tamen pedem tuum lymphis flavis flavum ut pulverem Manibus isdem quibus Ulixi saepe permulsi abluam, Lassitudinemque minuam manuum mollitudine. Animaeque magnae Prodigum Paulum, superante Poeno, Neither the fragments nor the ancient notices of Pacuvius produce L. Accius (or Attius) was born in the year 170 B.C., of parentage He was much the most productive among the early tragic poets. The Disce puer virtutem ex me verumque laborem, Fortunam ex aliis, Virtuti sis par, dispar fortunis patris. The address of Latinus to Turnus-- O praestans animi juvenis, quantum ipse feroci Virtute exsuperas, tanto me impensius aequum est Consulere atque omnis metuentem expendere casus, Quanto magis te istius modi esse intelligo, Tanto, Antigona, magis me par est tibi consulere ac parcere. Tereus indomito more atque animo barbaro Conspexit in eam amore vecors flammeo, Depositus: facinus pessimum ex dementia Abducite intro; nam mihi miseritudine Commovit animum excelsa aspecti dignitas; Nam huius demum miseret, cuius nobilitas miserias Sein' ut quem cuique tribuit fortuna ordinem, Nunquam ulla humilitas ingenium infirmat bonum. Erat istuc virile, ferre advorsam fortunam facul. Nam si a me regnum fortuna atque opes Eripere quivit, at virtutem non quit. Nullum est ingenium tantum, neque cor tam ferum, Quod non labascat lingua, mitiscat malo. Nil credo auguribus, qui auris verbis divitant Alienas, suas ut auro locupletent domos. Rex, quae in vita usurpant homines, cogitant, curant, vident, Quaeque agunt vigilantes agitantque, ea si cui in somno accidunt Minus mirum est. a shepherd, who had never before seen a ship, announces the first Tanta moles labitur Fremebunda ex alto, ingenti sonitu et spiritu: Prae se undas volvit, vortices vi suscitat: Ruit prolapsa, pelagus respergit, reflat. Sub axe posita ad stellas septem, unde horrifer Aquilonis stridor gelidas molitur nives. Forte ante Auroram, radiorum ardentum indicem, Cum e somno in segetem agrestis cornutos cient, Ut rorulentas terras ferro rufidas Proscindant, glebasque arvo ex molli exsuscitent. Saxum id facit angustitatem, et sub eo saxo exuberans Scatebra fluviae radit ripam. The early expression of this kind of emotion seems to have been Hac ubi curvo litore latratu Unda sub undis labunda sonit. The following lines, quoted by Cicero (Tusc. Disp. i. 28) without Caelum nitescere, arbores frondescere, Vites laetificae pampinis pubescere, Rami bacarum ubertate incurviscere, Segetes largiri fruges, florere omnia, Fontes scatere, herbis prata convestirier. We note also many instances of plays on words, alliteration, and asyndeton, reminding us of similar modes of conveying emphasis in Pari dyspari, si impar esses tibi, ego nunc non essem miser. Pro se quisque cum corona clarum cohonestat caput. Egredere, exi, ecfer te, elimina urbe. 'Denique caelesti sumus omnes semine oriundi' etc. together of the ships, the uproar, the crash, the rattle of the thunder, and the whistling of the ropes.'] distinction to his misery.'] plough, and turn up the clods from the soft soil.'] The era in which Roman epic and tragic poetry arose was also the Ea tempestate flos poetarum fuit Qui nunc abierunt hinc in communem locum. of Plautus and in the prologues of Terence we infer that there Nam spirat tragicum satis et feliciter audet. The rhetorical character of Roman education and the rhetorical tendencies of the Roman mind secured favour for this kind of were not called upon to create a new taste, or to gratify a taste 'Cantica,' which were accompanied by music and gesticulation, and Quantus sit Dossennus edacibus in parasitis. evidence of his desire to use his position as a popular poet for was reduced to work as a hired servant in a mill; and while thus How far are we able to fill up this meagre outline by personal We find one reference to his birthplace, in the form of a bad pun He mentions other districts or towns in Italy in the tone of half-humorous, half-contemptuous indifference, which a Londoner of last, or a Parisian of the present century, might adopt to the Praeneste were especially regarded as butts by the wits of Rome. is contrast rather than analogy in the impression left upon their Neptune. The colloquial use of Greek phrases in many of his speculation:-- Navibus magnis mercaturam faciam: aput reges rex perhibebor. Post animi causa mihi navem faciam atque imitabor Stratonicum, Oppida circumvectitabor, ubi nobilitas mea erit clara, Oppidum magnum conmoenibo: ei ego urbi Gripo indam nomen. He shows much greater familiarity with the life of the lower and Pernam callum glandium sumen etc. find no place in the more fastidious gastronomy of our own times, been, till the sudden influx of luxury in his own time, described the return of their masters from abroad, the tastes which the Ennius ipse pater numquam nisi potus ad arma Prosiluit dicenda, Narratur et prisci Catonis Saepe mero caluisse virtus, Another criticism of Horace upon Plautus-- Gestit enim nummum in loculos demittere-- Balzac, and, to a certain extent, even Shakespeare. To the poets of Nature, or of the higher thought and emotions of men, the pure Securus cadat an recto stet fabula talo;-- and this criticism is to a great extent true. His object was to give the largest amount of immediate amusement. He was not a Set quasi poeta, tabulas quom cepit sibi, Quaerit quod nusquamst gentium, reperit tamen; and he speaks of the pleasure which he took in his play 'Epidicus.' Cicero also testifies to the joy which he derived from two of the works of his old age, the Pseudolus and the Truculentus. But his delight was that of a vigorous creator, not of a painstaking artist. Postremo in magno populo, in multis hominibus, Re placida atque otiosa, victis hostibus. Amare oportet omnes, qui quod dent habent. With this new sense of freedom and of fullness of life, the old restraints of religion and of the morality bound up with it were increased contact with the mind and life of the Greeks powerfully Desidiose agere aetatem lustrisque perire. Viscera magnarum domuum dominique futuri. Aebutius and the freedwoman Hispala Fecenia bring to mind those from any direct dealing with the delicate subject of Roman social witnessing a spectacle of Greek life. courtesy, and the like. The very fluency, copiousness, and verve familiar to Romans--towns in Italy, streets, markets, gates, in Rome; of Roman magistrates and other officials, Quaestors, Aediles, Praetors, Tresviri, Publicani; they allude to the public of foreign luxuries at the same time, the extreme frequency with the lex alearia, probably passed about this time to resist the Non matronarum officium est, sed meretricium, Viris alienis, mi vir, subblandirier-- obsidendi vias, et viros alienos appellandi?... An blandiores in publico quam in privato, et alienis quam vestris estis?' The Again, the great fertility of Plautus and his many-sided contact with life are apparent in the number and variety of his metaphors Viden hostis tibi adesse, tuoque tergo obsidium? Consule, Coge in obsidium perduellis, nostris praesidium para. Interclude conmeatum inimicis, tibi moeni viam, Qua cibatus conmeatusque ad te et legionis tuas Tuto possit pervenire. Hanc rem age: res subitariast. We are less able to speak of his originality in the selection of Hi senes nisi fuissent nihili jam inde ab adulescentia, Non hodie hoc tantum flagitium facerent canis capitibus, away by the apparition of his wife, and the wrathful and scornful Hic senex siquid clam uxorem suo animo fecit volup Neque novom neque mirum fecit nec secus quam alii solent. There are two or three other plays in which a father appears as the rival of his son. None of the characters in Plautus, not even Noli minitari: scio crucem futuram mihi sepulchrum: Ibi mei sunt maiores siti, pater, avos, proavos, abavos, Non possunt tuis minaciis hisce oculi mi ecfodiri. Securus cadat an recto stet fabula talo,-- is peculiarly applicable. No less suitable 'Deus ex machina' than Several other plays turn upon similar 'frustrationes.' Two of the affection. There are none of the baser or more brutal characters The 'Trinummus,' if less amusing than most of the other plays of Di divites sunt, deos decent opuleutiae Et factiones: verum nos homunculi Scintillula animae, quam quom extemplo emisimus, Aequo mendicus atque ille opulentissimus Censetur censu ad Acheruntem mortuos,-- 'Quist imperator divom atque hominum Iuppiter, Is nos per gentis hic alium alia disparat, Hominum qui facta, mores, pietatem et fidem Noscamus, ut quemque adjuvet opulentia. Manus mihi date, exurgite a pedibus ambae, Misericordior nulla mest feminarum; Tibi auscultamus et, Venus alma, ambae te opsecramus Aram amplexantes hanc tuam lacrumantes, genibus nixae, In custodelam nos tuam ut recipias et tutere, etc. Even the moral sentiment expressed is of a finer quality than the Isto tu's pauper, quom nimis sancte piu's-- O Gripe Gripe, in aetate hominum plurimae Fiunt transennae, [illi] ubi decipiuntur dolis. Atque edepol in eas plerumque esca inponitur, Quam siquis avidus poscit escam avariter, Decipitur in transenna avaritia sua. Ille qui consulte, docte atque astute cavet, Diutine uti ei bene licet partum bene. Mi istaec videtur praeda praedatum irier, Majore ut cum dote abeat hinc quam advenerit. Egone ut quod ad me adlatum esse alienum sciam Celem? minume istuc faciet noster Daemones. Semper cavere hoc sapientes aequissumum'st, Ne conscii sint ipsi maleficii suis. Ego nisi quom lusim nil morer ullum lucrum. Dum ne ob malefacta, peream: parvi id aestimo. Si ego hic peribo, ast ille, ut dixit, non redit, At erit mi hoc factum mortuo memorabile, Me meum erum captum ex servitute atque hostibus Reducem fecisse liberum in patriam ad patrem, Meumque potius me caput periculo Hic praeoptavisse quam is periret ponere-- enable us to feel that some of the glory of the older and nobler Quam non adstricto percurrat pulpita socco, Ita erae meae hodie contigit: nam ubi partuis deos sibi invocat, Strepitus, crepitus, sonitus, tonitrus: subito ut propere, ut valide tonuit. Ubi quisque institerat, concidit crepitu: ibi nescio quis maxuma Voce exclamat: 'Alcumena, adest auxilium, ne time: Et tibi et tuis propitius caeli cultor advenit. Exurgite' inquit 'qui terrore meo occidistis prae metu.' Ut iacui, exurgo: ardere censui aedis: ita tum confulgebant. Nor is there, perhaps, anywhere in ancient literature a nobler realisation of the virtue of womanhood than in the indignant vindication of herself by Alcmena,-- Non ego illam mihi dotem esse duco, quae dos dicitur, Set pudicitiam et pudorem et sedatum cupidinem, Deum metum et parentum amorem et cognatum concordiam, Tibi morigera atque ut munifica sim bonis, prosim probis. Non ventus fuit, verum Alcumena Euripidi. As in the case of other productive writers there is no absolute agreement as to which are the best of the Plautine plays. Without Salva res est: philosophatur quoque jam, non mendax modo'st Sed jam satis est philosophatum of Pseudolus. Yet to Tyndarus he attributes a sense of religious trust befitting both his character and situation-- Est profecto deus, qui quae nos gerimus auditque et videt, etc., Centum doctum hominum consilia sola haec devincit dea, Fortuna, etc. Probably the truth is that living in an age of active enjoyment and energy, he troubled himself very little about the 'problem of imply that he recognised in the growing ascendency of wealth an Nemo hinc prohibet nec vetat Quin quod palamst venale, si argentumst, emas. Nemo ire quemquam puplica prohibet via, Dum ne per fundum saeptum faciat semitam: Dum ted apstineas nupta vidua virgine Luventute et pueris liberis, ama quod lubet. Fui ego bellus, lepidus,--bonus vir nunquam neque frugi bonae Neque ero unquam. But the life of careless freedom and strong animal spirits which Plautus shaped with prodigal power into humorous scenes and representations for the holiday amusements of the mass of his Postquam est mortem aptus Plautus, comoedia luget, Scaena est deserta, dein risus, ludu' iocusque Et numeri innumeri simul omnes conlacrumarunt. Cervantes or Molière. Nor does he compensate for these defects by Plautus ad exemplar Siculi properare Epicharmi refers to the rapidity with which he hurries on to the dénouement But the largest endowment of Plautus, the truest note of his Illuc sis vide Quem ad modum astitit severo fronte curans, cogitans. Pectus digitis pultat: cor credo evocaturust foras. Ecce avortit: nisam laevo in femine habet laevam manum. Dextera digitis rationem conputat: fervit femur Dexterum, ita vehementer icit: quod agat, aegre suppetit. Concrepuit digitis: laborat, crebro conmutat status. Eccere autem capite nutat: non placet quod repperit. Quidquid est, incoctum non expromet, bene coctum dabit. Ecce autem aedificat: columnam mento suffigit suo. Apage, non placet profecto mihi illaec aedificatio: Nam os columnatum poetae esse indaudivi barbaro, Quoi bini custodes semper totis horis occubant. Euge, euscheme hercle astitit et dulice et comoedice. Quid hoc? sicine hoc fit? pedes, statin an non? An id voltis ut me hinc jacentem aliqui tollat? etc. His temptation was to exaggerate in this, as in other elements of It is characteristic of the liveliness of Plautus' temperament, that the lyrical and recitative parts of his plays occupy a place Multas res simitu in meo corde vorso, Multum in cogitando dolorem indipiscor. Egomet me coquo et macero et defatigo. Pessuli, heus pessuli, vos saluto lubens, Vos amo vos volo vos peto atque obsecro, Gerite amanti mihi morem amoenissumi: Fite caussa mea ludii barbari, Sussulite, obsecro, et mittite istanc foras, Quae mihi misero amanti exhibit sanguinem. Hoc vide ut dormiunt pessuli pessumi Nec mea gratia conmovent se ocius. they do, in a rude kind of way, show facility and native power in Haec, quom ego a foro revortar, facite ut offendam parata, Vorsa sparsa tersa strata lauta structaque omnia ut sint. Nam mi hodiest natalis dies: eum decet omnis vos concelebrare. Magnifice volo me viros summos accipere, ut rem mi esse reantur. execration, or bantering endearment. The mannerisms of his style, deviates from his Greek models, are not laboured efforts, but the is a Rabelaisian ebullition, stimulated by the novel contact with Rufus quidam, ventriosus, crassis suris, subniger. Magno capite, acutis oculis, ore rubicundo, ad modum Magnis pedibus; Cum hirquina barba; Adulescentem strenua facie, rubicundum, fortem; Harpax, in the same play, Recalvom ac silonem senem, statutum, ventriosum Tortis superciliis, contracta fronte, etc.-- Pol hic quidem fungino generest: capite se totum tegit. Illurica facies videtur hominis: eo ornatu advenit; and later-- Mira sunt Loca contemplat, circumspectat sese, atque aedis noscitat. Ubi portu eximus, homines remigio sequi, Neque aves neque venti citius, etc., or the account which Curculio gives of his encounter with the soldier, tersely, rapidly, and vividly, as if he were recalling writes letters with the forms of courtesy, and with the ease and 'Nugas theatri: verba quae in comoediis Solent lenoni dici, quae pueri sciunt.' 'Vt vobis victi Poeni poenas sufferant.' genuine, and also the speech of _Auxilium_ in the Cistellaria.] Spectavi ego pridem comicos ad istum modum Sapienter dicta dicere atque is plaudier, Quom illos sapientis mores monstrabant poplo. Set quom inde suam quisque ibant divorsi domum Nullus erat illo pacto ut illi iusserant. 'Quid tibi, malum, hic ante aedis clamitatiost? An ruri censes te esse? apscede ab aedibus.' Most. 6. 7. 'Quantus sit Dossennus edacibus in parasitis.' 'Horum causa haec agitur spectatorum fabula, Hi sciunt qui hic adfuerunt; vobis post narravero.' techinae, prothyme, basilicus, etc., etc.] 'Praesertim in re populi placida, atque interfectis hostibus, Non decet tumultuari.' 'Set sumne ego stultus qui rem curo publicam Ubi sint magistratus, quos curare oporteat?' Menander, is completely non-political.] 'Et tu vale. Iniuriam illic insignite postulat: Nostro sibi servire nos censet cibo. Verum ita sunt omnes isti nostri divites: Si quid bene facias, levior pluma est gratia; Si quid peccatum est, plumbeas iras gerunt.' 'Quom mi ipsum nomen eius Archidemides Clamaret dempturum esse si quid crederem.' Bacchid. 285. 'Propterea huic urbi nomen Epidamno inditumst Quia nemo ferme sine damno huc devortitur.' Menaech. 264. 'Non enim es in senticeto, eo non sentis.' Captivi, 857. 'Atque mores hominum moros et morosos efficit,' etc., etc. 'Laudem, lucrum, ludum, iocum, festivitatem, ferias.' 'Vorsa, sparsa, tersa, strata, lauta, structaque omnia ut sint.' 'Quid ego cesso Pseudolum Facere ut det nomen ad Molas coloniam.' Pseud. 1082. 'Non omnes possunt olere unguenta exotica.' Mostell. 42. 'Set, spectatores, vos nunc ne miremini Quod non triumpho: peruolgatumst, nil moror. Verum tamen accipientur mulso milites.' 'Mihi quod credideris, sumes ubi posiueris.' Trinum. 145. 'Nequaquam argenti ratio comparet tamen.' Ib. 418. Iovem se placare posse donis, hostiis: Et operam et sumptum perdunt: id eo fit quia Nihil ei accemptumst a periuris supplici,' etc.--22-5. dower, but chastity and modesty, and passion subdued, fear of the Gods, affection to my parents, amity with my kinsmen, a will to yield to thee, to be bountiful to the good, of service to the 'Nam, meo quidem animo, si idem faciant ceteri, Opulentiores pauperiorum filias Ut indotatas ducant uxores domum, Et multo fiat civitas concordior, Et invidia nos minore utamur, quam utimur.' respectable man I never was nor will be.'--Capt. 956-7.] Highlander,' and the lines in one of Burns' earliest songs-- 'And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel.' The names of five or six comic dramatists are known, who fill the space of eighteen years between the death of Plautus and the Vincere Caecilius gravitate, Terentius arte-- who often quotes from him, speaks of him as having written a bad style. He is also mentioned among those poets who 'powerfully moved the feelings.' He composed about forty plays. Most of them had Greek titles, and comedies by Menander. Two of the longest of his fragments express Serit arbores quae alteri saeclo prosint, quoted by Cicero in the Tusculan Questions, and this line-- Saepe est etiam sub palliolo sordido sapientia. enthusiasm for Greek art and letters of the older generation,--of He was born at Carthage in the year 185 B.C., and became the His art is so purely imitative, that for any knowledge of his circumstances and character we have to trust entirely to his Eum adiutare adsidueque una scribere: Quod illi maledictum vemens esse existumant. Eam laudem his ducit maxumam, quom illis placet, Qui vobis univorsis et populo placent, Quorum opera in bello, in otio, in negotio Suo quisque tempore usus't sine superbia. he charges his opponent with having, by his bad style and literal Qui bene vortendo et easdem scribendo male Ex Graecis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas. interests, any sense of duty, or any high aspirations. Terence is, accordingly, in substance and form, a 'dimidiatus might be taken as its motto. The idea of 'human nature,' in its weakness and in its sympathy with weakness, may be said to be the 'To step aside is human'-- The motive of all the pieces is love. There is generally a double conclusion of the 'Asinaria' and 'Bacchides.' personality which they had to the poet himself is implied in the Non te dignum, Chaerea, Fecisti: nam si ego digna hac contumelia Sum maxume, at tu indignus qui faceres tamen; Non adeo inhumano ingenio sum, Chaerea, Neque ita inperita, ut quid amor valeat, nesciam. credibility. Parmeno and Phaedria are natural embodiments of the analysis, though with less vigour than those of Pseudolus and characterised and distinguished from one another; and Phormio is himself a type of the parasite, as distinct from Gnatho, as he is Hinc illae lacrimae. Amantium irae amoris integratiost. Quot homines, tot sententiae. Tacent: satis laudant. Nosse omnia haec salus est adulescentulis. Cantilenam eandem canis--laterem lavem,--etc. etc. him to correct his own faults by observing other men must have been suggested by the conversation between Demea and Syrus in the Inspicere tamquam in speculum in vitas omnium Iubeo atque ex aliis sumere exemplum sibi. Again, the remonstrance of Micio to Demea, Sineres nunc facere, dum per aetatem licet, Dicitur Afrani toga convenisse Menandro. 'Si quisquamst, qui placere se studeat bonis Quam plurimis et minime multos laedere, In his poeta hic nomen profitetur suom.' 'Nolite sinere per vos artem musicam Recidere ad paucos.' 'Hic est vietus, vetus, veternosus senex,'-- 'Profundat, perdat, pereat, etc.;' discreditable.'] Of all the forms of Roman poetry, satire was least indebted to the works of the Greeks. Quintilian claims it altogether for his countrymen--'satira tota nostra est.' Horace characterises it as Satire was not only national in its intellectual and moral Primores populi arripuit populumque tributim. It endeavoured also, by acting on individual character, to effect Detrahere et pellem, nitidus qua quisque per ora Cederet, introrsum turpis. truest exponent of the character, pursuits, and interests of the Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim, etc., implies that Lucilius used his satire as a natural vehicle for The time at which he appeared was one of the most critical epochs Attamen et iustum poteras et scribere fortem Scipiadem ut sapiens Lucilius--; and the parallel there suggested between the relation of Lucilius Percrepa pugnam Popilli, facta Corneli cane, contrasts the defeat of M. Popillius Laenas in 138 B.C. with the criticism Lucilius dreaded. These and other passages must have Quo fit ut omnis Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella lose their point, unless _senis_ is to be understood in its usual under nineteen years of age. But with these admissions it is not His birth-place was Suessa Aurunca in Campania. Juvenal calls him His satires were written in thirty Books. The remaining fragments initiate a change in Roman literature. Garrulus atque piger scribendi ferre laborem, Quo me habeam pacto, tametsi non quaeri', docebo, Quando in eo numero mansti, quo in maxima nunc est Pars hominum, Ut periise velis quem visere nolueris, cum Debueris. Hoc nolueris et debueris te Si minu' delectat, quod τεχνίον Isocratium est, Ληρῶδέςque simul totum ac συμμειρακιῶδες, Non operam perdo. Mantica cantheri costas gravitate premebat-- The fragments however, when read collectively, bring out the main of the joy of escaping from the storms of life into a quiet haven and immunity from envy, and the superiority of plain living to luxury. Like Horace, while holding to his independence of life, he put a high value on friendship, and strove to fulfil its self-consciousness which accompanies that condition. On the whole the exercise of his art,--a warm friend and partisan, and a bold and uncompromising enemy,--not professing any austerity of life, of public duty and personal honour. those assailed by him on political grounds, L. Hostilius Tubulus, especially his devotion to Scipio--may have stimulated these animosities; but there were instances enough of incapacity in war, profligacy and extortion in the government of the provinces, satirised by Lucilius. Such passages as these-- Cenasti in vita numquam bene, quom omnia in ista Consumis squilla atque acipensere quum decumano. Hoc fit item in cena, dabis ostrea millibu' nummum Occidunt, Lupe, saperdae te et iura siluri. Vivite lurcones, comedones, vivite ventres. Illum sumina ducebant atque altilium lanx Hunc pontes Tiberinu' duo inter captu' catillo. Purpureo tersit tunc latas gausape mensas, etc. show the proportions already assumed by a form of sensuality, the Milia dum centum frumenti tolli medimnum, Vini mille cadum.-- Denique uti stulto nihil est satis, omnia cum sint.-- Rugosi passique senes eadem omnia quaerunt.-- Mordicus petere aurum e flamma expediat, e caeno cibum.-- Aquam te in animo habere intercutem. The following description of a miser seems to have suggested the beginning of one of Catullus' lampoons:-- Cui neque inmentumst nec servos nec comes ullus, Bulgam et quidquid habet nummum secum habet ipse, Cum bulga cenat, dormit, lavit; omnis in unast Spes homini bulga. Bulga haec devincta lacertost. In other passages he inculcates the lessons of good sense and The extravagance, airs, and vices of women, are another theme of Cum tecumist, quidvis satis est: visuri alieni Sint homines, spiras, pallam, redimicula promit. Another fragment-- Homines ipsi hanc sibi molestiam ultro atque aerumnam offerunt, to provide for the continued well-being of the world than for our Terriculas Lamias, Fauni quas Pompiliique Instituere Numae, tremit has, hic omnia ponit; Ut pueri infantes credunt signa omnia ahena Vivere, et esse homines; et sic isti omnia ficta Vera putant, credunt signis cor inesse in ahenis; Pergula pictorum, veri nihil, omnia ficta. Paenula, si quaeris, canteriu', servu', segestre, Utilior mihi, quam sapiens; Nondum etiam, qui haec omnia habebit, Formosus, dives, liber, rex solu' feretur, Graecum te, Albuci, quam Romanum atque Sabinum, Praeclarorum hominum ac primorum signiferumque, Maluisti dici. Graece ergo praetor Athenis, Id quod maluisti, te, cum ad me accedi,' saluto: Chaere, inquam, Tite. Lictores turma omni' cohorsque Chaere, Tite. Hinc hostis mi, Albucius, hinc inimicus. We learn from Cicero's account of the orators antecedent to, and The satire of Lucilius, besides its political, moral, and social function, assumed the part of a literary critic and censor. The testimony of Horace on this point,-- Nil comis tragici mutat Lucilius Acci? Non ridet versul Enni gravitate minores, Cum de se loquitur non ut maiore reprensis? confirmed by that of Gellius, is amply borne out by extant criticisms in the sneer of Persius,-- Est nunc Briseis quem venosus liber Acci, Sunt quos Pacuviusque et verrucosa moretur Antiopa, aerummis cor luctificabile fulta. Distichum, epistula item quaevis non magna; Virtus, Albine, est pretium persolvere verum, Queis in versamur, queis vivimu' rebu', potesse: Virtus est hominis, scire id quod quaeque habeat res. Virtus scire homini rectum, utile, quid sit honestum; Quae bona, quae mala item, quid inutile, turpe, inhonestum; Virtus quaerendae rei finem scire modumque: Virtus divitiis pretium persolvere posse: Virtus id dare quod re ipsa debetur honori: Hostem esse atque inimicum hominum morumque malorum, Contra defensorem hominum morumque bonorum, Hos magnifacere, his bene velle, his vivere amicum; Commoda praeterea patriae sibi prima putare, Deinde parentum, tertia jam postremaque nostra. Nunc vero a mane ad noctem, festo atque profesto, Toto itidem pariterque die, populusque patresque Iactare indu foro se omnes, decedere nusquam, Uni se atque eidem studio omnes dedere et arti, Verba dare ut caute possint, pugnare dolose, Blanditia certare, bonum simulare virum se Insidias facere, ut si hostes sint omnibus omnes. At dixi fluere hunc lutulentum. If we regard these passages as on the ordinary level of his style Terra abit in nimbos imbresque, Parcentis viribus atque Extenuantis eas consulto. acknowledges the guidance of his earliest master. In reading both But if we cannot altogether account for, we may yet partially Ridiculum acri Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res, But Lucilius had much more than this power of personal raillery, Hinc omnis pendet Lucilius, hosce secutus. His fragments show familiarity with Homer, with the works of the Greek physical and ethical philosophers, with the systems of the rhetoricians, and some acquaintance with the writings of Plato, Hominem pagina nostra sapit. Sicilians.' There was nothing about him of the fastidiousness and Scilicet uni aequus virtuti atque eius amicis. 'Publiu' Pavu' mihi [ ] quaestor Hibera In terra fuit, lucifugus, nebulo, id genu' sane.' 'Quo facetior videare et scire plus quam caeteri Pertisum hominem, non pertaesum dices.' 'Iucundasque puer qui lamberat ore placentas.' One of many lines imitated and almost reproduced by Horace.] 'Nunc mihi curto Ire licet mulo, vel, si libet, usque Tarentum, Mantica cui lumbos onere ulceret, atque eques armos.' 'Promontorium remis superamu' Minervae.-- Hinc media remis Palinurum pervenio nox,-- Tertius hic mali superat decumanis fluctibus--carchesia summa.' 'Haud ita pridem Galloni praeconis erat acipensere mensa 'Quo fit ut omnis Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella Vita senis.' 'Secuit Lucilius urbem-- Primores populi arripuit populumque tributim-- Non ridet versus Enni gravitate minores--?' 'Mihi quidem non persuadetur publiceis mutem meos. Publicanu' vero ut Asiae fiam scriptuarius Pro Lucilio, id ego nolo, et uno hoc non muto omnia.' Otia divitiis Arabum liberrima muto.' 'Quadque te in tranquillum ex saevis transfers tempestatibus.' 'Nam si quod satis est homini, id satis esse potisset Hoc sat erat; nam cum hoc non est, qui credimu' porro Divitias ullas animum mi explere potisse.' 'Nulli me invidere: non strabonem fieri saepius Deliciis me istorum.' 'O lapathe, ut jactare nec es sati cognitu' qui sis-- Quod sumptum atque epulas victu praeponis honesto.' 'Munifici comesque amicis nostris videamur viri-- Sic amici quaerunt animum, rem parasiti ac ditias.' 'Querquera consequitur capitisque dolores Infesti mihi.-- Si tam corpu' loco validum ac regione maneret. Scriptoris quam vera manet sententia cordi.' 'Verum haec ludus ibi susque omnia deque fuerunt, Susque et deque fuere, inquam, omnia ludu' iocusque.' 'Et saepe quod ante Optasti, freta Messanae, Regina videbis 'Quantum haurire animus Musarum ec fontibu' gestit.' 'Cum sciam nil esse in vita proprium mortali datum Jam qua tempestate vivo chresin ad me recipio.' Cf. 'Vitaque mancipio nulli datur, omnibus usu.'] 'Peccare impune rati sunt Posse et nobilitate procul propellere iniquos.' 'Hostiliu' contra Pestem permitiemque catax quam et Maniu' nobis.' eam causam minus quam volebat familiaris, sed tamen et doctus et perurbanus.' 'Aut laeso doluere Metello Famosisque Lupo cooperto versibus?' 'Secuit Lucilius urbem 'Sardines and fish-sauce are your death, O Lupus.' 'Long live, ye gluttons, gourmands, belly-gods.' 'Then he wiped the ample table with a purple cloth.' The two last passages are reproduced by Horace in the lines:-- 'Unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus, an alto Captus hiet, pontesne inter iactatus, an amnis 'Gausape purpureo mensam pertersit.'--Ib. ii. 8. 11. Cf. 'Crescit indulgens sibi dirus hydrops,' etc. 'Furei cui neque servus est neque arca,' etc. Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas, Nocturnos lemures portentaque Thessala rides?' Accordingly, I, as praetor of Athens, when you approach me, greet 'Ego enim contemnificus fieri et fastidire Agamemnona.-- Di monerint meliora, amentiam averruncassint tuam.-- Hic cruciatur fame, Frigore, inluvie, inperfundie, inbalnite, incuria.-- Nunc ignobilitas his mirum, taetrum, ac monstrificabile-- Dividant, differant, dissipent, distrahant.' 'Verum tristis contorto aliquo ex Pacuviano exordio.' And this from another book of Satires:-- 'Ransuro tragicus qui carmina perdit Oreste.' 'Hastis longis campus splendet et horret,'-- 'Tum late ferreus hastis Horret ager.' (1) 'Quantum haurire animus Musarum ec fontibu' gestit.' (2) 'Cum sciam nil esse in vita proprium mortali datum Jam quae tempestate vivo, chresin ad me recipio.' (3) 'Ut pueri infantes credunt signa omnia ahena Vivere et esse homines, sic istic omnia ficta Vera putant.' 'Detrahere et pellem nitidus qua quisque per ora Cederet, introrsum turpis.' habitually within the city. The taste for country life prevailing But perhaps the most important condition determining the original In this era, more than in any later age, the poetry of Rome, like law-courts. the settlers in a new country, who are spared the pains of exact Arido modo pumice expolitum. The style of the early poets was marked by haste, harshness, and redundance, occasionally by verbal conceits and similar errors of Historical composition also took its rise at Rome at this period. This era also saw the beginning of the critical and grammatical language into a more certain and uniform vehicle, and, comment on The existing works of the two great writers of Roman comedy have The accomplished art of the last age of the Republic and of the 'Quom illis placet, Qui vobis univorsis et populo placent, Quorum opera in bello, in otio, in negotio Suo quisque tempore usust sine superbia.' 'Ut pueris placeas et declamatio fias.' An interval of nearly half a century elapsed between the death of But Cicero is not to be ranked among the poets of Rome. He merely facility by translating passages from the Greek tragedians in his sacrifice of individual conviction or public sentiment to satisfy the immediate predecessors and contemporaries of Cicero. It was Perfection of style attained in one of the two great branches of a national literature cannot fail to react on the other. It was the peculiarity of Latin literature that this perfection or high accomplishment was reached in prose sooner than in poetry. The revived. Learned Greeks continued to flock to Rome and to attach Carmina, picturas, et daedala signa; Musaea mele per chordas organici quae Mobilibus digitis expergefacta figurant. The delicate appreciation of the paintings, statues, gems, vases, As the bent given to philosophical and literary studies developed Saecli incommoda, pessimi poetae,-- a countryman of his own, Tanusius Geminus, the author of a long While so much of the literature of that age has perished, we are Et cycnea mele Phoebeaque daedala chordis Carmina consimili ratione oppressa silerent. These lines point to the union of music and lyrical poetry.] It is in keeping with the isolated and independent position which prevented his speaking of himself and telling his own history as The well-known statement of Jerome is to this effect,--'The poet Lucretius was born in the year 94 B.C. He became mad from the some tragic circumstances in the poet's history, than as the idle it would have been quite in accordance with the principles of his Sed tua me virtus tamen et sperata voluptas Suavis amicitiae--. While Lucretius pays the tribute of admiration to the literary Nec Memmi clara propago Talibus in rebus communi deesse saluti-- This relation to Memmius is the only additional fact which an Quae belle tangere possunt Auris et lepido quae sunt fucata sonore. Sanguine civili rem conflant, etc.-- recall the thought and spectacle of crime and bloodshed vividly presented to him in the impressible years of his youth. Other Si non forte tuas legiones per loca campi, etc.-- have been noted as a probable allusion to the position actually Certare ingenio, contendere nobilitate, Noctes atque dies niti praestante labore Ad summas emergere opes rerumque potiri,-- have a resemblance to words directly applied by Cicero to Caesar, Thus the first general impression of Lucretius which we form from of action and social pleasure, deliberately chose the life of stage by the awnings of the theatre, of the works of art adorning well as the occasional use of such words as _vidi_, show that Palantis comites cum montis inter opacos Quaerimus et magna dispersos voce ciemus,-- Nam loca declarat sursum ventosa patere Res ipsa et sensus, montis cum ascendimus altos. Propter aquae rivum sub ramis arboris altae,-- 'Is fraught too deep with pain,' 'And thou hast pleasures too to share With those who come to thee, Balms floating on thy mountain air And healing sights to see.' Avia Pieridum peragro loca nullius ante Trita solo-- moved Virgil less powerfully in speaking of his humbler theme-- Sed me Parnassi deserta per ardua dulcis Raptat amor; and inspired the English poet in his great invocation:-- I thence Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose and rhyme. The sense of difficulty and the joy of overcoming it meet us with Ardua dum metuunt amittunt vera viai. Without disowning the passion for fame,--'laudis spes magna,'--so Conquisita diu dulcique reperta labore Digna tua pergam disponere carmina cura: Nunc age dicta meo dulci quaesita labore Tuisque ex, inclute, chartis, Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant, Omnia nos itidem depascimur aurea dicta. Multaque de rerum mixtura dicere callent Et sibi proporro quae sint primordia quaerunt; Nos agere hoc autem et naturam quaerere rerum Semper et inventam patriis exponere chartis. 'The human heart by which we live.' His high intellectual confidence, based on his firm trust in his Clarus ob obscuram linguam magis inter inanis Quamde gravis inter Graios qui vera requirunt. Deus ille fuit, deus, inclute Memmi. He speaks of his master throughout not only with the affection of His admiration for him springs from a deeper source of spiritual Nullam rem e nilo gigni divinitus unquam, was obviously taken from the lines of the old poem περὶ φύσεως-- ἐκ τοῦ γὰρ μὴ ἐόντος ἀμήχανόν ἐστι γενέσθαι τό τ᾽ ἐὸν ἐξόλλυσθαι ἀνήνυστον καὶ ἄπρηκτον. Nil tamen hoc habuisse viro praeclarius in se Nec sanctum magis et mirum carumque videtur. Carmina quin etiam divini pectoris eius Vociferantur et exponunt praeclara reperta, Ut vix humana videatur stirpe creatus. παῦρον δὲ ζωῆς ἀβίου μέρος ἀθρήσαντες ὡκύμοροι, καπνοῖο δίκην ἀρθέντες ἀπέπταν αὐτὸ μόνον πεισθέντες, ὅτῳ προσέκυρσεν ἕκαστος, παντοσ᾽ ἐλαυνόμενοι· τὸ δ᾽οὖλον ἐπεύχεται εὑρεῖν αὔτως. οὔτ᾽ ἐπιδερκτὰ τάδ᾽ ἄνδρασιν οὔτ᾽ ἐπάκουστα οὔτε νόῳ περιληπτά. Miscetur funere vagor Quem pueri tollunt visentis luminis oras: Nec nox ulla diem neque noctem aurora secutast Quae non audierit mixtos vagitibus aegris Ploratus mortis comites et funeris atri. Besides Epicurus and Empedocles Lucretius mentions Democritus and responses from the shrine of their own hearts with more holiness and truth than the Pythia from the tripod and laurel of Apollo.' Adde repertores doctrinarum atque leporum, Adde Heliconiadum comites; quorum unus Homerus Sceptra potitus eadem aliis sopitu' quietest. The passages in which Lucretius imitates him show how clearly he recognised his exact vision of outward things, and his true Per gentis Italas hominum quae clara clueret,-- Lumina sis oculis etiam bonus Ancu' reliquit,-- inde super terras fluit agmine dulci,-- Scipiadas, belli fulmen, Carthaginis horror,-- Nam neque nos agere hoc patriai tempore iniquo,-- 'Power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence.' But while by his silence on the subject of national glory and his 'Atque eadem nobis vigilantibus obvia mentes Terrificant atque in somnis, cum saepe figuras Contuimur miras simulacraque luce carentum, Quae nos horrifice languentis saepe sopore Excierunt, ne forte animas Acherunte reamur Effugere aut umbras inter vivos volitare.' Review, on 'Hallucination of the Senses,' suggests a possible explanation of the mental condition of Lucretius, during the προσαγωγότερον τῇ ἀκροάσει ἢ ἀληθέστερον.--Thuc. i. 21.] 'At non multa virum sub signis milia ducta Una dies dabat exitio,' etc.-- 'Ardua dum metuunt amittunt vera viai' 'Avia Pieridum peragro loca.' expressions occur.] 'His ibi me rebus quaedam divina voluptas Percipit adque horror.' professes to fulfil the three distinct offices of a philosophical Primum quod magnis doceo de rebus et artis Religionum animum nodis exsolvere pergo, Deinde quod obscura de re tam lucida pango Carmina, musaeo contingens cuncta lepore. which the permanent value of the poem depends. Thus, although the society,--would naturally have been treated immediately after the Hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque necessest Non radii solis neque lucida tela diei Discutiant, sed naturae species ratioque. Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans,-- the cause of ignorance, degradation, and misery,--are vividly personified and presented in close contrast with one another. The which alone remained permanent amid the changing aspects of the Nullam rem e nilo gigni divinitus unquam. The apprehension of this principle--a principle common to all the Materies quia rebus reddita certast Gignundis e qua constat quid possit oriri. The original substances out of which all things are produced, and Corporibus caecis igitur natura gerit res. Ergo praeter inane et corpora tertia per se Nulla potest rerum in numero natura relinqui. All material bodies are either elemental substances or compounded Sunt igitur solida primordia simplicitate Quae minimis stipata cohaerent partibus arte. Non ex illarum conventu conciliata, Sed magis aeterna pollentia simplicitate, Unde neque avelli quicquam neque deminui jam Concedit natura reservans semina rebus. elements that volition in living beings becomes possible. Unde ubi qua vi et quo pacto congressa coibunt Materiae tanto in pelago turbaque aliena? Sic aequo geritur certamine principiorum Ex infinito contractum tempore bellum. Further, the great diversity in Nature is to be accounted for by Immortalia si volumus subiungere rebus Fundamenta quibus nitatur summa salutis; Ne tibi res redeant ad nilum funditus omnes. Further, although they are the origin of all living and sentient of matter. These atoms, by virtue of their ultimate conditions, are capable only of certain combinations with one another. These combinations have been brought about by perpetual motion, through The third book treats of the nature of the mind, and of the vital Quod simul atque hominem leti secura quies est Indepta atque animi natura animaeque recessit, Nil ibi libatum de toto corpore cernas Ad speciem, nil ad pondus: mors omnia praestat Vitalem praeter sensum calidumque vaporem. Non modo enim ratio ruat omnis, vita quoque ipsa Concidat extemplo, nisi credere sensibus ausis. Morte obita quorum tellus amplectitur ossa,-- Nil ideo quoniam natumst in corpore ut uti Possemus, sed quod natumst id procreat usum. satirical power. The object of the fifth book is to explain the formation of our As the parts of our system,--earth, water, air, and heat,--are perishable, and constantly passing through processes of decay and First plants and trees, afterwards men and animals, were produced Et Venus inminuit viris puerique parentum Blanditiis facile ingenium fregere superbum. The last source of superstition is our ignorance of the causes of Praesertim rebus in illis Quae supera caput aetheriis cernuntur in oris. The practical purpose of the poem--the overthrow of Tu mihi supremae praescribta ad candida calcis, etc. Usque adeo largos haustus e fontibu' magnis Lingua meo suavis diti de pectore fundet;-- It was also part of the author's design to enunciate his deepest thoughts on the Gods, on Nature, and on human life in more highly underlies the special subject of the poem. Some of these passages The poem, though incomplete in regard to the arrangement of its illustrious modern critic has said, that 'the greatest didactic poem in any language was written in defence of the silliest and advent of physical science. But, as a means of throwing light on Invenies primis ab sensibus esse creatam Notitiam veri neque sensus posse refelli. But besides the direct action of outward things on the senses, he apprehension or intuition of the mind (iniectus animi) into things beyond the cognisance of sense. Thus there is no actual inconsistency with his principles in claiming the power of Omnis enim longe nostris ab sensibus infra Primorum natura iacet. Nam cur tam variae res possint esse requiro, Ex uno si sunt igni puroque creatae. At primordia gignundis in rebus oportet Naturam clandestinam caecamque adhibere. In his statement of the doctrine of the _Clinamen_, or slight or matters.' But, in common with the earlier enquirers of Greece, Undique quandoquidem per caulas aetheris omnis Et quasi per magni circum spiracula mundi Exitus introitusque elementis redditus extat. Of the growth of plants and herbage it is said-- Ut pluma atque pili primum saetaeque creantur Quadripedum membris et corpore pennipotentum, Sic nova tum tellus herbas virgultaque primum Sustulit, inde loci mortalia saecla creavit. Tam magis expressus salsus de corpore sudor Augebat mare manando camposque natantis. Quoniam nec venae perpetiuntur Quod satis est neque quantum opus est natura ministrat. As a necessary result of a system of natural philosophy based on assumptions, largely illustrated indeed, but not corroborated by Namque alid ex alio clarescet nec tibi caeca Nox iter eripiet quin ultima naturai Pervideas: ita res accendent lumina rebus, To the general reader there is another aspect, in which it is Impia te rationis inire elementa viamque Indugredi sceleris, show that scientific enquiry had to encounter the same prejudice in ancient as in modern times. The insufficiency and audacity of Immortalia mortali sermone notantes. The views of Lucretius as to the natural origin of life, and the and consequent denial of immortality,--and his utilitarianism in morals,--all present striking parallels to the opinions of one of Scilicet haec aliis praedae lucroque iacebant Indupedita suis fatalibus omnia vinclis, Donec ad interitum genus id natura redegit. The attempt to trace the origin of all supernatural belief to the But altogether apart from the truth and falsehood, the right and the 'vivida vis animi.' The freshness of feeling and vividness of Mente vigenti Avia Pieridum peragro loca, are as remarkable in the processes of his intellect as of his imagination. This vigour of understanding is displayed in many processes of His system cannot be called either purely inductive or purely deductive, though it is more of the former than of the latter. He E thuris glaebis evellere odorem Haud facile est quin intereat natura quoque eius. So also it is difficult to separate his faculty of clear, exact, Denique fluctifrago suspensae in litore vestes, curiosity of a naturalist, as well as the sympathetic feeling and Errant saepe canes itaque et vestigia quaerunt. How happily their characteristics are struck off in the line-- At levisomna canum fido cum pectore corda. Et validis cycni torrentibus ex Heliconis Cum liquidam tollunt lugubri voce querellam; and again-- Parvus ut est cycni melior canor ille gruum quam Clamor in aetheriis dispersus nubibus austri. The description of sea-birds, Mergique marinis Fluctibus in salso victum vitamque petentes, τανύγλωσσοί τε κορῶναι εἰνάλιαι τῇσίν τε θαλάσσια ἔργα μέμηλεν. His lively personal observation and active interest in the casual Cum lubrica serpens Exuit in spinis vestem; nam saepe videmus Illorum spoliis vepres volitantibus auctas. that overtakes the mind-- Adde furorem animi proprium atque oblivia rerum, Adde quod in nigras lethargi mergitur undas; the bodily waste, produced by long-continuous speaking-- Perpetuus sermo nigrai noctis ad umbram Aurorae perductus ab exoriente nitore; observation of a physician, as well as the profound thought of a moralist. Quam Grai memorant nec nostra dicere lingua Concedit nobis patrii sermonis egestas. Lucretius has occasionally to meet the first difficulty by the character appears in the links by which his argument is kept country, or the first unfolding of some illimitable prospect. Nullam rem e nilo gigni divinitus unquam, Unde refert nobis victor quid possit oriri, Quid nequeat, finita potestas denique cuique Quanam sit ratione atque alte terminus haerens. Following on his steps the poet himself professes to teach-- Quo quaeque creata Foedere sint, in eo quam sit durare necessum, Nec validas valeant aevi rescindere leges. In another place he says-- Et quid quaeque queant per foedera naturai Quid porro nequeant, sancitum quandoquidem extat. Certum ac dispositumst ubi quicquit crescat et insit. Libera continuo dominis privata superbis. Illud in his rebus videor firmare potesse, Usque adeo naturarum vestigia linqui Parvola, quae nequeat ratio depellere nobis Ut nil inpediat dignam dis degere vitam. From these high places of his philosophy,--'the "templa serena" well-bulwarked by the learning of the wise' he derives not only a Haud igitur penitus pereunt quaecumque videntur, Quando alid ex alio reficit natura nec ullam Rem gigni patitur nisi morte adiuta aliena? Sic aequo geritur certamine principiorum Ex infinito contractum tempore bellum. and life, support the existing creation in unceasing harmony. The Nunc hinc nunc illic superant vitalia rerum, Et superantur item. decay is no mere war of abstractions: it is the daily and hourly Cedit enim rerum novitate extrusa vetustas. runners in a race, pass on the torch of life'-- Inque brevi spatio mutantur saecla animantum Et quasi cursores vitai lampada tradunt. Sic alid ex alio numquam desistet oriri Vitaque mancipio nulli datur, omnibus usu. Hinc alitur porro nostrum genus atque ferarum, Hinc laetas urbes pueris florere videmus Frondiferasque novis avibus canere undique silvas. Inde super terras fluit agmine dulci Qua via secta semel liquido pede detulit undas. Denique tantopere inter se cum maxima mundi Pugnent membra, pio nequaquam concita bello, Nonne vides aliquam longi certaminis ollis Posse dari finem? vel cum sol et vapor omnis Omnibus epotis umoribus exsuperarint; Quod facere intendunt, neque adhuc conata patrantur. Et videas caelum summai totius unum Quam sit parvula pars et quam multesima constet Atque omne immensum peragravit mente animoque. Quis regere immensi summam, quis habere profundi Indu manu validas potis est moderanter habenas. Degitur hoc aevi quodcumquest, are called forth by the ever-present thought of the Infinite and Invenies tamen inter se differre figuris. the imagination of the poet seems, in some passages, to attach atheistic. But the sense of will, freedom, individual life, is so This new and more vital conception which supersedes the old Aeneadum genetrix, hominum divomque voluptas, The mysterious power there addressed is identified with the Alma addressed as a Power, present through all the world,-- Caeli subter labentia signa Quae mare navigerum quae terras frugiferentis She is not only omnipresent, but all-creative,-- Per te quoniam genus omne animantum and all-regulative-- Quae quoniam renum naturam sola gubernas, &c. Quo magis aeternum da dictis, diva leporem. ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν, οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν,-- and by the gift of a Power which he cannot command. Like Goethe, But still true to his philosophy, and remembering the Empedoclean Tibi rident aequora ponti Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine caelum;-- conscious of this joy.' Omnia suppeditat porro Natura,-- Quando omnibus omnia large Tellus ipsa parit Naturaque daedala rerum. Denique si vocem rerum Natura repente, etc. Usque adeo res humanas vis abdita quaedam Opterit et pulchros fascis saevasque secures Proculcare ac ludibrio sibi habere videtur. ἦμος δ᾽ οὔτ᾽ ἄρ πω ἠώς, ἔτι δ᾽ ἀμφιλύκη νύξ. associated, very little is known.] 'In quae corpora si nullus tibi forte videtur Posse animi iniectus fieri, procul avius erras.'--ii. 739-40. tidings of what may and what may not come into existence: on what firmament is of the whole sum of things, how small a fraction it They inculcated political quiescence as well as the abnegation of susceptibility, as well as to the ordinary temperament of men. It ἐξελαύνων, ἀφ᾽ ὧν πλεῖστος τὰς ψυχὰς καταλαμβάνει θόρυβος.' To a regulating life by an ideal standard afforded a broader aim and a 'The longing for confirmed tranquillity Inward and outward.' At bene non poterat sine puro pectore vivi. Nonne videre Nil aliud sibi naturam latrare, nisi ut, cui Corpore seiunctus dolor absit, mente fruatur Iucundo sensu cura semotu' metuque? This difference in the spirit, rather than the letter, of their Suave, mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis, etc. life was necessarily coloured by the action of his times; yet all The evils of life, for the cure of which Lucretius considers his philosophy available, appeared to him to spring not out of man's relation to Nature, but out of the weakness of his reason and the Intellegit ibi vitium vas efficere ipsum Omniaque illius vitio corrumpier intus, Quae conlata foris et commoda cumque venirent; Partim quod fluxum pertusumque esse videbat, Ut nulla posset ratione explerier umquam; Partim quod taetro quasi conspurcare sapore Omnia cernebat, quaecumque receperat, intus. Omnia suffundens mortis nigrore. Quid undas Arguit et liquidam molem camposque natantis. O genus infelix humanum, talia divis Cum tribuit facta atque iras adiunxit acerbas! Quantos tum gemitus ipsi sibi, quantaque nobis Volnera, quas lacrimas peperere minoribu' nostris! Nec pietas ullast velatum saepe videri Vertier ad lapidem atque omnis accedere ad aras Nec procumbere humi prostratum et pandere palmas Ante deum delubra nec aras sanguine multo Spargere quadrupedum nec votis nectere vota, Sed mage pacata posse omnia mente tueri. Nec delubra deum placido cum pectore adibis, Nec de corpore quae sancto simulacra feruntur In mentes hominum divinae nuntia formae Suscipere haec animi tranquilla pace valebis. Apparet divum numen sedesque quietae Quas neque concutiunt venti nec nubila nimbis Aspergunt neque nix acri concreta pruina Cana cadens violat semperque innubilus aether Integit, et large diffuso lumine rident. 'They reveal themselves to man in dreams and waking visions by At, credo, in tenebris vita ac maerore iacebat, Donec diluxit rerum genitalis origo. Si non ipsa dedit specimen natura creandi?' country. In regard to all his religious impressions his intensity The same strength of heart and mind characterises that passage of fortitude combating the suggestions of human weakness. First, we are made to realise the entire unconsciousness in death Non si terra mari miscebitur et mare caelo. Nec radicitus e vita se tollit et eicit Sed facit esse sui quiddam super inscius ipse. Nec quisquam expergitus exstat, Frigida quem semel est vitai pausa secuta. ἀλλὰ, φίλος, θάνε καὶ σύ· τίη ὀλοφύρεαι οὕτως; κάτθανε καὶ Πάτροκλος, ὅπερ σέο πολλὸν ἀμείνων-- Frigida quem semel est vitai pausa secuta;-- Cum summo gelidi cubat aequore saxi;-- Urgerive superne obtritum pondere terrae.-- Iam iam non domus accipiet te laeta, neque uxor Optima nec dulces occurrent oscula nati Praeripere et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent, Ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis, of the regal state of kings and emperors-- Inde alii multi reges rerumque potentes Occiderunt, magnis qui gentibus imperitarunt, Sic alid ex alio nunquam desistet oriri. The practical use of the study of Nature, according to Lucretius, Sed nil dulcius est, bene quam munita tenere Edita doctrina sapientum templa serena, Despicere unde queas alios passimque videre Errare atque viam palantis quaerere vitae, Certare ingenio, contendere nobilitate, Noctes atque dies niti praestante labore Ad summas emergere oper rerumque potiri. Quod si ridicula haec ludibriaque esse videmus, Re veraque metus hominum curaeque sequaces Nec metuunt sonitus armorum nec fera tela, Audacterque inter reges rerumque potentis Versantur neque fulgorem reverentur ab auro Nec clarum vestis splendorem purpureai, Quid dubitas quin omni' sit haec rationi' potestas? Omnis cum in tenebris praesertim vita laboret. The desire of power and station leads to the shame and misery of most sacred ties of Nature. While failure in the struggle is degradation, success is often only the prelude to the most sudden Quandoquidem sapiunt alieno ex ore petuntque Res ex auditis potius quam sensibus ipsis. Praesertim cum tempestas adridet et anni Tempora conspergunt viridantis floribus herbas. With fervid sincerity he announces the truth that 'to the man who Quod siquis vera vitam ratione gubernet, Divitiae grandes homini sunt vivere parce Aequo animo. Aeternumque daret matri sub pectore volnus;-- or such pictures, as that at iii. 469, of friends and relatives surrounding the bed of one who has sunk into a deep lethargy-- Ad vitam qui revocantes Circumstant lacrimis rorantes ora genasque,-- show how strong and real was his regard for the great elemental inscriptions of the Romans, of that 'fear of Acheron'-- Funditus humanam qui vitam turbat ab imo Omnia suffendens mortis nigrore neque ullam Esse voluptatem liquidam puramque reliquit. persecution, and to extreme forms of fanaticism in modern times, than to the tolerant spirit and the not unkindly superstition of Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum,-- The limitation of his philosophy is also apparent in his want of sympathy with the active duties and pursuits of life. He can see only different modes of evil in the busy interests of the world. Sed mage pacata posse omnia mente tueri-- he regards as the only true religion for man: the 'mute and Yet a modern reader, without accepting the conclusions of his The same 'vivida vis' with which he observes natural phenomena characterises his insight into human character and passion. He men seem objects of ridicule or scorn, but to restore them to the Aut cum conscius ipse animus se forte remordet Desidiose agere aetatem lustrisque perire, Aut quod in ambiguo verbum iaculata reliquit Quod cupido adfixum cordi vivescit ut ignis, Aut nimium iactate oculos aliumve tueri Quod putat in voltuque videt vestigia risus: Exit saepe foras magnis ex aedibus ille, Esse domi quem pertaesumst, subitoque revertit, Quippe foris nilo melius qui sentiat esse. Currit agens mannos ad villam praecipitanter, Auxilium tectis quasi ferre ardentibus instans; Oscitat extemplo, tetigit cum limina villae, Aut abit in somnum gravis atque oblivia quaerit, Aut etiam properans urbem petit atque revisit. Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum.-- Cur non ut plenus vitae conviva recedis?-- Vitaque mancipio nulli datur omnibus usu.-- Surgit amari aliquit quod in ipsis floribus angat.-- Nam verae voces tum demum pectore ab imo Eiciuntur et eripitur persona, manet res.-- Divitiae grandes homini sunt vivere parce Aequo animo. nervous energy, not without flashes of the vigorous wit, of Roman Cur etiam loca sola petunt frustraque laborant? Nam tibi praeterea quod machiner inveniamque, Quod placeat, nil est: eadem sunt omnia semper.-- 'Quantum Epicure tibi parvis suffecit in hortis.' 'Vidi ego multa saepe picta quae Acherunti fierent Cruciamenta: verum enimvero nulla adaequest Acheruns Atque ubi ego fui in lapicidinis.' 'Ergo hominum genus incassum frustraque laborat Semper et in curis consumit inanibus aevom, Nimirum quia non cognovit quae sit habendi Finis et omnino quoad crescat vera voluptas.' title of a poem. The work of Empedocles and the kindred works of with the imaginative fancies of the dawn of ancient enquiry. He professes to make both conducive to the practical purpose of Quoniam haec ratio plerumque videtur Tristior esse quibus non est tractata, retroque Volgus abhorret ab hac. Aeneadum genetrix, hominum divomque voluptas, etc.;-- and again the lines in the introduction to Book iii:-- Apparet divum numen sedesque quietae, etc. but akin to, the impulses of poetry. That marvellous intensity of Again, although his rhythm, even at its best, falls far short of In caeloque deum sedes et templa locarunt, Per caelum volvi quia nox et luna videtur, Luna dies et nox et noctis signa severa Noctivagaeque faces caeli flammaeque volantes. Nubila sol imbres nix venti fulmina grando Et rapidi fremitus et murmura magna minarum. Urgerive superne obtritum pondere terrae,-- at ii. 569-580, by the sad and solemn movement of the close,-- Ploratus mortis comites et funeris atri,-- and at i. 101, by the line of cardinal significance, which ends a Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum. The poetical style of Lucretius is, like his rhythm, a true and Usque adeo largos haustus e fontibu' magnis Lingua meo suavis diti de pectore fundet. Thus although the poetical style of Lucretius shows the traces of immediately reproduced in such lines as these:-- Caeli subter labentia signa Quae mare navigerum quae terras frugiferentis Denique per maria ac montis fluviosque rapacis Frondiferasque domos avium camposque virentis. Frondiferasque novis avibus canere undique silvas. Nam saepe in colli tondentes pabula laeta Lanigerae reptant pecudes quo quamque vocantes Invitant herbae gemmantes rore recenti. Nec tenerae salices atque herbae rore vigentis Fluminaque illa queunt summis labentia ripis. Quam fluitans circum magnis anfractibus aequor Ionium glaucis aspargit virus ab undis. Severa silentia noctis Undique cum constent. Ut nubes facile interdum concrescere in alto Cernimus et mundi speciem violare serenam Aera mulcentes motu. Pars etiam glebarum ad diluviem revocatur Imbribus et ripas radentia flumina rodunt. The changing face of Nature is to his spirit so full of power and Morte obita quorum tellus amplectitur ossa, Ossa dedit terrae proinde ac famul infimus esset. Ergo cum primum magnas invecta per urbis Munificat tacita mortalis muta salute. Aeternumque daret matri sub pectore volnus,-- tacito mussabat medicina timore,-- tacita pectus dulcedine tangent,-- His ibi me rebus quaedam divina voluptas Percipit adque horror.-- His language has the further power of producing a vague sense of Altitonans Volturnus et auster fulmine pollens. Nec fulmina nec minitanti Murmure compressit caelum. Murmura magna minarum, etc. Impendent atrae formidinis ora superne. Sustentata ruet moles et machina mundi. Aut cecidisse urbis magno vexamine mundi. Non si terra mari miscebitur et mare caelo. Avia Pieridum peragro loca nullius ante Trita solo; Volvere curarum tristis in pectore fluctus, Errare atque viam palantis quaerere vitae. A similar power of imagination is shown in his more elaborate use Sed quasi naufragiis magnis multisque coortis Disiectare solet magnum mare transtra guberna Antemnas proram malos tonsasque natantis, Per terrarum omnis oras fluitantia aplustra Ut videantur et indicium mortalibus edant, Infidi maris insidias virisque dolumque Ut vitare velint, neve ullo tempore credant, Subdola cum ridet placidi pellacia ponti, Sic tibi si finita semel primordia quaedam Constitues, aevom debebunt sparsa per omnem Disiectare aestus diversi materiari, Numquam in concilium ut possint compulsa coire Nec remorari in concilio nec crescere adaucta. Pinea semiferi capitis velamina quassans,-- Quae caput a caeli regionibus ostendebat Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans. It ver et Venus, et veris praenuntius ante Pennatus graditur zephyrus, vestigia propter Flora quibus mater praespargens ante viai Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet. But it is in describing actual scenes and actual aspects of human Quod in magnis bacchatur montibu' passim,-- In the descriptions of Lucretius, as in those of Homer, there is Nec validi possunt pontes venientis aquai Vim subitam tolerare: ita magno turbidus imbri Molibus incurrit validis cum viribus amnis. quoted,--and again, in these lines-- Denique nota vagi silvestria templa tenebant Nympharum, quibus e scibant umori' fluenta Lubrica proluvie larga lavere umida saxa, Umida saxa, super viridi stillantia musco, Et partim plano scatere atque erumpere campo. In this representation of the sea-shore-- Concharumque genus parili ratione videmus Pingere telluris gremium, qua mollibus undis Litoris incurvi bibulam pavit aequor harenam,-- λαΐγγας πότι χέρσον ἀποπλύνεσπε θάλασσα. Primum aurora novo cum spargit lumine terras Et variae volucres nemora avia pervolitantes Aera per tenerum liquidis loca vocibus opplent, Quam subito soleat sol ortus tempore tali Convestire sua perfundens omnia luce, Omnibus in promptu manifestumque esse videmus. Aurea cum primum gemmantis rore per herbas Matutina rubent radiati lumina solis Exhalantque lacus nebulam fluviique perennes, Ipsaque ut interdum tellus fumare videtur; Omnia quae sursum cum conciliantur, in alto Corpore concreto subtexunt nubila caelum. 'Upon the dark materials of the storm.' scenery. The lines at ii. 352-366, describing the cow searching Noscit humi pedibus vestigia pressa bisulcis;-- Nec tenerae salices atque herbae rore vigentes Fluminaque illa queunt summis labentia ripis;-- Nam saepe in colli tondentes pabula laeta,' etc.; Praeterea magnae legiones cum loca cursu Camporum complent belli simulacra cientes, Fulgor ibi ad caelum se tollit totaque circum Aere renidescit tellus supterque virum vi Excitur pedibus sonitus clamoreque montes Icti reiectant voces ad sidera mundi Et circumvolitant equites mediosque repente Tramittunt valido quatientes impete campos. The truth and fulness of life in this passage are immediately Et tamen est quidam locus altis montibus unde Stare videntur et in campis consistere fulgor. Summa etiam cum vis violenti per mare venti Induperatorem classis super aequora verrit Cum validis pariter legionibus atque elephantis, Non divom pacem votis adit ac prece quaesit Ventorum pavidus paces animasque secundas, etc. Tum porro puer, ut saevis proiectus ab undis Navita, nudus humi iacet, infans, indigus omni Vitali auxilio, cum primum in luminis oras Nixibus ex alvo matris natura profudit, Vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut aecumst Cui tantum in vita restet transire malorum. Iamque caput quassans grandis suspirat arator Crebrius incassum manuum cecidisse labores, Et cum tempora temporibus praesentia confert Praeteritis, laudat fortunas saepe parentis Et crepat, anticum genus ut pietate repletum Perfacile angustis tolerarit finibus aevom, Cum minor esset agri multo modus ante viritim. mixtos vagitibus aegris Ploratus mortis comites et funeris atri. imagination. His imagination, which depicts so forcibly the intimations of extra flammantia moenia mundi-- His excellencies are so different from those of Virgil that the 'Quaerentem dictis quibus et quo carmine demum Clara tuae possim praepandere lumina menti Res quibus occultas penitus convisere possis.' tossing flag-posts of ships, to warn mortals that they shun the 'The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,' etc. hedera iuvenalia vinctus Quae dulcem curis miscet amaritiem. The ultimate preservation of his poems depended on a single copy, Namque tu solebas Meas esse aliquid putare nugas, etc.-- This collection consists of about 116 poems, written in various to Diana,' receive a rude shock from the two intervening poems, In longum tamen aevum Manserunt hodieque manent vestigia ruris. There is some uncertainty as to the exact date of his birth and Vatinius. A line in the poem, immediately preceding that containing the allusion to the speech of Calvus,-- Per consulatum perierat Vatinius,-- was, till the appearance of Schwabe's 'Quaestiones Catullianae,' Quid est Catulle? quid moraris emori? in supposing that she was ten than that she was seven years older Veronae, mater amata meae; he speaks of one of his fellow-townsmen, as-- Quendam municipem meum. Salve, o venusta Sirmio, atque ero gaude; Gaudete vosque o vividae lacus undae-- shows that he derived keen enjoyment from the familiar loveliness impression made unconsciously on his imagination by the mountain scenery of Northern Italy. His native district afforded scope for the culture, which was the Sapphica puella Musa doctior,-- both with the 'Muse of Sappho,' and with the more laboured art of Tempore quo primum vestis mihi tradita pura'st, Iucundum cum aetas florida ver ageret, Multa satis lusi: non est dea nescia nostri, Quae dulcem curis miscet amaritiem. The early poems there referred to probably gained him his first reputation and attracted that notice of Cornelius Nepos, which is Quoi dono lepidum novum libellum. 'Vesper adest: invenes consurgite'--may have been written before Cui faveam potius? Caeli, tibi, nam tua nobis Per facta exhibitas't unica amicitia, Cum vesana meas torreret flamma medullas. that the lady addressed under that name was the notorious Clodia, Splendidaque a docto fama refulget avo. Lesbius est pulcher: quidni? quem Lesbia malit Quam te cum tota gente, Catulle, tua. Ille mi par esse deo videtur; and again Quo mea se molli candida diva pedem That the intrigue was carried on and had even reached its second stage--that of the 'amantium irae'--in the lifetime of Metellus, appears from the 83rd poem, Lesbia mi praesente viro mala plurima dicit, etc. Sed furtiva dedit mira munuscula nocte, Ipsius ex ipso dempta viri gremio-- clearly imply that these meetings occurred after the return of Nam unguentum dabo, quod meae puellae Visam te incolumem audiamque Hiberum Narrantem loca, facta, nationes-- Macedonia, it seems a not unwarranted conjecture that they were The first hint of any rift in the loves of Catullus and Clodia is Quare, quod scribis Veronae turpe Catullo, etc. Catullus had retired to Verona on hearing of the death of his Etsi me adsiduo confectum cura dolore Sevocat a doctis, Ortale, virginibus, etc. In his letter to Manlius, in which he excuses himself on the same somewhat later to Allius,-- Non possum reticere deae qua me Allius in re, etc.-- Quae tamen etsi uno non est contenta Catullo Rara verecundae furta feremus erae. tenderness. Afterwards, even though his passion from time to time The poems representing the second and third stage--that in which passion and scorn strive with one another--of the relations to O dulces comitum valete coetus.-- Varus me meus ad suos amores Visum duxerat e foro otiosum-- Disertissime Romuli nepotum Quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli-- Tanto pessimus omnium poeta Quanto tu optimus omnium patronus-- seems to point to some exercise of Cicero's special talent as an The poems written in the two last years of the poet's life do not Maestius lacrimis Simonideis. The lines-- Malest, me hercule, et est laboriose, Et magis magis in dies et horas-- might well have been drawn from him by the rapid advance of his Peliaco quondam prognatae, etc.-- Zymrna mei Cinnae nonam post denique messem Quam coepta'st nonamque edita post hiemem,-- Sed postquam tellus scelere est imbuta nefando, etc.-- But although longer life might have brought to Catullus a still higher rank among the poets of the world, the chief charm of the poems actually written by him arises from the strength and depth interpreters of Nature and of human life: none have expressed so directly and truthfully the great elemental affections, or have 'Odi et amo,' till at last he obtains his emancipation by the Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus, Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes, etc.,-- Miser, Catulle, desinas ineptire-- in which he recalls the bright days of the past-- Fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles,-- wounds, which had been partially healed, had broken out afresh,-- Si qua recordanti benefacta priora voluptas, etc.; Furi et Aureli comites Catullo,-- in which scornful irony is combined with an imaginative power and Si quicquam mutis gratum acceptumque sepulchris Accidere a nostro Calve dolore potest, Quo desiderio veteres renovamus amores Atque olim missas flemus amicitias Certe non tanto mors immatura dolori est Quintiliae, quantum gaudet amore tuo. Poetae tenero, meo sodali Velim Caecilio papyre dicas,-- Venistine domum ad tuos Penates Fratresque unanimos anumque matrem? Venisti. O mihi nuntii beati. Sed contra accipies meros amores Seu quid suavius elegantiusve. Haec amem necessest Ut Veraniolum meum et Fabullum. Certe tute iubebas animam tradere, inique, me Inducens in amorem, quasi tuta omnia mi forent. Inde nunc retrahis te ac tua dicta omnia factaque Ventos irrita ferre ac nebulas aerias sinis. These, and other poems, show that Catullus was quick to feel any coldness or neglect on the part of his friends, and exceedingly dependent for his happiness on their sympathy. But the tone of these poems is quite different from the resentment which he feels Pauca nuntiate meae puellae Non bona dicta. Si qua recordanti benefacta priora voluptas Est homini, cum se cogitat esse pium, Nec sanctam violasse fidem, nec foedere in ullo Divum ad fallendos numine abusum homines, etc. Another, and less admirable, side of the nature of Catullus is Quis hoc potest videre, quis potest pati. Nisi impudicus et vorax et aleo, etc.-- and in the less vigorous but much more offensive 57th poem. Catullus in these poems expresses the animosity which the 'boni' Et ille nunc superbus et superfluens Perambulabit omnium cubilia, etc. Irascere iterum meis iambis Inmerentibus, unice imperator,-- Nam castum esse decet pium poetam Ipsum, versiculos nihil necesse est. language. O Colonia, quae cupis ponte ludere magno,-- which has some touches of graceful poetry as well as of humourous Quoi cum sit viridissimo nupta flore puella (Et puella tenellulo delicatior haedo, Asservanda nigerrimis diligentius uvis),-- Munus hoc mihi maximi da, Colonia, risus-- Chommoda dicebat, si quando commoda vellet Dicere, et insidias Arrius hinsidias, etc. Just as the ears of men had recovered from this infliction-- Subito affertur nuntius horribilis, Ionios fluctus, postquam illuc Arrius isset, Iam non Ionios esse, sed Hionios. Like fastidious and irritable poets of other times (Horace, Pope, Dii magni, horribilem ac sacrum libellum. friends, who, though in other respects a man of sense, wit, and Plenam veneni et pestilentiae. About one half of the shorter poems, and more than half of the epigrams, are to be classed among his personal lampoons or light satiric pieces. Many of these show Catullus to us on that side of Iam ver egelidos refert tepores,-- Phaselus ille quem videtis, hospites,-- Iam mens praetrepidans avet vagari, with which a cultivated mind forecasts the pleasure of travelling Aut quam sidera multa, cum facet nox, Furtivos hominum vident amores,-- Velut prati Ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam Tactus aratro est;-- Nec sapit pueri instar Bimuli, tremula patris dormientis in ulna,-- Et puella tenellulo delicatior haedo, Adservanda nigerrimis diligentius uvis. But the great charm of the style in these shorter poems is its Miser Catulle desinas ineptire,-- Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,-- Acmen Septimius suos amores,-- Verani, omnibus e meis amicis,-- Iam ver egelidos refert tepores,-- Paene insularum Sirmio insularumque,-- Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire,-- we apprehend through a perfectly pure medium, and by a single Minister vetuli puer Falerni Inger mi calices amariores, etc. 'In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.' Ne diu taceat procax Fescennina locutio-- Quos Hamadryades deae Ludicrum sibi roscido Nutriunt humore,-- Alba parthenice velut Luteumve papaver-- the symbol of maidens-- 'Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale.' The grace of trees and the bloom of flowers were prized by him among the fairest things in Nature. The charm in woman which most the Epithalamium of Peleus and Thetis, he compares Ariadne in her Quales Eurotae progignunt flumina myrtos Aurave distinctos educit verna colores. Viden ut faces Splendidas quatiunt comas? The two pictures, further on in the poem, of a peaceful old age prolonged to the utmost limit of human life-- Usque dum tremulum movens Cana tempus anilitas Omnia omnibus annuit-- and of infancy, awakening into consciousness and affection,-- Torquatus volo parvulus Matris e gremio suae Porrigens teneras manus, Dulce rideat ad patrem Semihiante labello. Sit suo similis patri Manlio et facile insciis Noscitetur ab omnibus, Et pudicitiam suae Matris indicet ore. are drawn with the truest and most delicate hand. Idem cum tenui carptus defloruit ungui, Nulli illum pueri, nullae optavere puellae,-- οἵαν τὰν ὑάκινθον ἐν ὤρεσι ποίμενες ἄνδρες πόσσι καταστείβοισι, χάμαι δέ τε πόρφυρον ἄνθος. 'Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness;' Iam iam contingit summum radice flagellum,-- Sed ubi oris aurei Sol radiantibus oculis Lustravit aethera album, sola dura, mare ferum, Pepulitque noctis umbras vegetis sonipedibus. Everything is seen in those sharply-defined forms, which imprint imagination to produce the original which Catullus is supposed to Sed postquam tellus scelerest imbuta nefando, etc., O nimis optato saeclorum tempore nati Heroes, saluete, deum genus. (Illa rudem cursu prima imbuit Amphitriten), and when the Gods and Goddesses of Olympus, the mysterious Powers Emersere feri candenti e gurgite vultus Aequoreae monstrum Nereides admirantes,-- Quam tum saepe magis fulgore expalluit auri,-- and again, looking on the distant fleet-- Saxea ut effigies bacchantis,-- of the advent of Bacchus-- Cum thiaso Satyrorum et Nysigenis Silenis,-- Extenuata gerens veleris vestigia poenae,-- of the aged Parcae-- infirmo quatientes corpora motu-- Idomeneosne petam montes? a gurgite lato Discernens ponti truculentum ubi dividit aequor? Nam quoscumque ferunt campi, quos Thessala magnis Montibus ora creat, quos propter fluminis undas Aura parit flores tepidi fecunda Favoni, Hos indistinctis plexos tulit ipse corollis, Quo permulsa domus iucundo risit odore; Tempe quae silvae cingunt super inpendentes,-- planted before the vestibule of the palace. Lucretius, yet they do appear, as in the lines-- Peliaco quondam prognatae vertice pinus,-- Aut tereti tenues tinnitus aere ciebant,-- Putridaque infirmis variabant pectora palmis,--etc., etc. As in the Attis we find such word-formations as _sonipedibus_, Frigidulos udo singultus ore cientem, Languidulosque paret tecum coniungere somnos. familiar to the Greek idyl, of the recurring chime of the same or Vos ego saepe meo vos carmine compellabo;-- Cui Iupiter ipse Ipse suos divom genitor concessit amores;-- Sicine me patriis avectam, perfide, ab oris, Perfide, deserto liquisti in litore Theseu? Sicine discedens neglecto numine divom;-- Nulla fugae ratio, nulla spes; omnia muta Omnia sunt deserta, ostentant omnia mortem, etc. The phrases are to a much greater extent cast in a Greek mould. The words follow one another in a less natural order. Ornamental The four longer elegiac pieces which follow add little to our Quo tibi tum casu pulcherrima Laudamia, Ereptum est vita dulcius atque anima There is an exquisite picture of his own stolen meetings with his Et longe ante omnes mihi quae me carior ipso'st Lux mea qua viva vivere dulce mihi'st. In this poem too, although the application of the image is an incongruous adaptation of an old Homeric simile, we meet with a Qualis in aerii perlucens vertice montis Rivos muscoso prosilit e lapide Qui cum de prona praeceps est valle volutus Per medium sensim transit iter populi, Dulce viatori lasso in sudore levamen, Cum gravis exustos aestus hiulcat agros. the keenness of their satire, and their shrewd observation of the 'Ceu pulsae ventorum flamine nubes, Aerium nivei montis liquere cacumen.' 'Qualis in aerii perlucens vertice montis Rivos muscoso, prosilit e lapide,' etc. 'Flos Veronensum. .. iuvenum.' 'Quod mihi fortuna casuque oppressus acerbo'-- retractes munera neniae') with the lighter poetry of love.] 'Nunc te cognovi: quare etsi impensius uror, Multo mi tamen es vilior et levior. Qui potis est? inquis. Quia amantem iniuria talis Cogit amare magis, set bene velle minus.' 'Calvus, if those now silent in the tomb Can feel the touch of pleasure in our tears For those we loved, who perished in their bloom, And the departed friends of former years: Oh then, full surely thy Quintilia's woe. For the untimely fate that bade ye part, Will fade before the bliss she feels to know How very dear she is unto thy heart.'--Martin. 'Dii magni, salaputium disertum.' 'Neu me odisse putes hospitis officium.' 'Quintilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodes, Hoc aiebat et hoc'-- 'Litus ul longe resonante Eoa Tunditur unda.' 'Quam mater prope Deliam Deposivit olivam, Montium domina ut fores Silvarumque virentium Saltuumque reconditorum Amniumque sonantum.' 'Soon my eyes shall see, mayhap, Of his mother, as he stands Stretching out his tiny hands, And his little lips the while Half-open on his father's smile. 'And oh! may he in all be like Manlius his sire, and strike Strangers when the boy they meet As his father's counterfeit, And his face the index be, Of his mother's chastity.'--Martin. 'Neque Alexandrina beluata conchyliata tapetia.' 'Whate'er of loveliest decks the plain, whate'er The giant mountains of Thessalia bear, Whate'er beneath the west's warm breezes blow, Where crystal streams by flowery margents flow, These in festoons or coronals inwrought Of undistinguishable blooms he brought, Whose blending odours crept from room to room, Till all the house was gladdened with perfume.'--Martin. 'As some clear stream, from mossy stone that leaps, Far up among the hills, and, wimpling down By wood and vale, its onward current keeps To lonely hamlet and to stirring town, Cheering the wayworn traveller as it flows When all the fields with drought are parched and bare.'

W. Warde (William Warde) Fowler

Tales of the birds

1847